       
      



                   LOST IN THE TRANSLATION

                             by 

                          Joe Doe


A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG BANKING EXECUTIVE ENCOUNTERS A VERY DISSATISFIED 
FORMER CUSTOMER DURING A VISIT TO A MEXICAN BROTHEL DISTRICT.  
SHE'S SOON FACING A STRIP SEARCH AND A SURPRISING NEW CAREER....




As the loan director for a small bank in Texas, I don't often get 
the chance to go crazy.  So when my mild mannered husband suggested 
that we go across the river to see "Boys Town," a collection of 
seedy Mexican brothels a short drive away, I readily agreed.

I had heard about the place for years, and I had to admit that I 
was curious.  We decided to spend the night in Mexico and rented a 
motel room a few miles from the entertainment district.  I dressed 
conservatively, but not so conservatively as to appear ridiculously 
out of place.  I wore jeans, sneakers, and a plain white t-shirt.  
I left my purse in the safe in our hotel room in order to avoid 
becoming a target for thieves.

I wasn't expecting much, and I wasn't disappointed.  The place was 
a hole, filled with grubby bars and sleazy sex shows.  I stayed 
close to my husband, amazed at the seemingly endless supply of 
cheap women and watered-down booze.  Still the drunken truck 
drivers and horny conventioneers wandering up and down the streets 
of "Boys Town" all seemed to be having a great time.

We were sitting in a bar drinking tequila when I saw her.  She 
didn't see me at first, and, when I did call her name, she turned 
her face away from me as if to hide.  I knew that girl!  I actually 
knew one of the prostitutes sitting at the end of the bar.

Her name was Maria Sanchez, and, when I first met her, she had been 
a college student majoring in accounting.  She had been going to 
school part time, while helping her father run his business.  I 
remembered Maria as extremely bright, friendly, and very capable. 

Unfortunately, a few years ago a fire at her father's warehouse 
made it necessary to foreclose, and her father had been forced out 
of business.  He had complained bitterly at the time that I was 
destroying his life, and that he hadn't understood all of the terms 
of the loan when he had signed it, because he didn't speak English 
particularly well.  Although some of the terms of the loan were 
pretty draconian, I explained that his language problems were 
hardly my concern.  I heard that he committed suicide a few months 
later, but I hadn't thought much about it at the time.

I knew that Maria was going to have to drop out of school and get 
a job, but I had never imagined how quickly she would sink.  On the 
brighter side, her natural business and leadership skills had shown 
through even in this place, and she seemed to be in charge of 
managing the other girls at this seedy dive.

I could tell that I was the last person on earth she wanted to see, 
but she tried to be pleasant.  Unfortunately, I said a little too 
much, congratulating her on her "management role" at Boys Town and 
suggesting that her father's business problems might have been "for 
the best."  She didn't say anything, but the look of hatred that 
flashed through her eyes was so intense that I actually backed out 
of the bar. 

By the time we left a couple of hours later, I had forgotten about 
Maria, and, when I got to the gate, I was surprised to see her 
again.  The police officer was about to wave my husband and me 
through, but Maria told the officer that he should ask for our ID. 

"I theenk she a 'weekend warrior,'" Maria said with a smile.  "She 
come in ever' now and then an' pick up few pesos in the alley 
without havin' to pay her registration fee."

I protested that the charge was outrageous, and I was relieved that 
the police officer didn't seem to take it very seriously either.  
Nonetheless, he explained that Maria was right, and that 
technically all women leaving the district either had to present 
their prostitution registration card or their driver's license so 
that their names could be recorded in the ledger in case a question 
arose later on.

It was only when I reached for my purse that I realized my 
predicament.  I didn't HAVE any ID, since everything was in my 
purse, which was sitting back in the safe at our hotel. 

Maria cheerfully explained that, since I didn't have any ID, she 
would have to take me to get my "prostitution registration card."  
She had to be joking, right?

But she wasn't joking.  As the policeman led my now-frantic husband 
to the gate, he helpfully explained that my husband should return 
with my purse "as soon as humanly possible."  In the meantime, he 
would have to turn me over to Maria until this mix-up could be 
straightened out.

Maria smiled innocently, like a fox that had just been given the 
keys to the hen house.  She quickly led me away from the gate, away 
from freedom, and into the grimy building that served as police 
headquarters.

At first I just had to fill out some forms.  Fortunately, Maria was 
there to help me, because I didn't speak Spanish too well.  She 
even paid my 500 pesos registration fee, since I didn't have a 
penny or peso on me.

Once I had signed the forms, Maria's tone instantly transformed 
from helpful to dictatorial.  The bored matron at the desk stamped 
my forms with a notary's seal and gave me my card, telling me that 
I was free to go.  Maria immediately took my card and insisted 
that, as my sponsor, she wanted me to get a government-certified 
employment exam to make sure that I was "free from any deesgustin' 
deeseases" and "ready for work."  I blushed at the humiliating 
implications of her remark, but the matron smiled knowingly. 

Maria led me into a curtained-off exam area in the rear of the 
station.  She curtly told me that I should take off my clothes, 
"ever' estitch," and wait for the doctor to check out my "beeg hot 
gringa poossy."  She then left to get the doctor.

I complied.  I mean, what else was I going to do?  I was in a 
foreign country, I was alone, I had no ID, and Maria was now 
clearly in charge.  I removed all of my clothing and neatly folded 
it on the chair in the corner, acutely aware of the fact that I was 
now absolutely stark naked in a busy police station.  The only 
thing that separated me from the 20 or so policemen and the 
occasional tourist asking directions was a thin white curtain. 

I looked at the old fashioned exam table.  It had "leg stirrups," 
and I knew that any girl placed on the table would be split wide 
open.  Maria was surely joking about checking me for "deesgustin' 
deeseases," right?

But I was more worried about the other people in the station than 
the exam itself, and I really just wanted to get the whole thing 
over with as soon as possible so I could go home.  I was actually 
relieved when the doctor, an old man who frankly seemed bored by 
the whole thing, finally arrived.  He quickly snapped on a pair of 
gloves and jokingly told me to "mount up."  I swallowed hard, and 
reluctantly climbed onto the table.  The stirrups spread me 
obscenely wide, and I blushed hotly as the doctor lovingly greased 
his rubber glove in preparation for my ordeal.

I was still splayed out on the exam table, hopelessly exposed, when 
I suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of the curtain being ripped 
open.  A smiling Maria explained that she "wanna watch," since she 
was my "esponsor" and paying for my exam.

Of course, I would have had little objection if Maria had just 
stepped inside the curtain, but instead she had pulled the curtain 
totally out of the way, which immediately exposed me to everyone in 
the station.  I was in the most shameful position imaginable, 
without so much as a bed sheet to cover my top or bottom.  When I 
shrieked for her to close the curtain, she calmly explained that 
she needed more light to "get a good look."  She went on to point 
out that, since she was my "owner," I was hardly in a position to 
complain about anything.

I couldn't argue with her about my position.  I soon attracted a 
small group of police officers around the exam table.  To my 
horror, a couple of the conventioneers who were exchanging currency 
at the front desk even came around behind the counter to "watch the 
show."  They had obviously concluded that the sight of a proud 
young American business executive sobbing softly through a shameful 
probing was more entertaining than any of the shows in the clubs.  
They were right.

Maria certainly did her best to provide maximum entertainment 
value.  She quickly took over the exam, directing the doctor in 
such a way as to ensure my abject and total humiliation.  She even 
insisted that he give me a thorough rectal exam.  When his greasy 
probing finger finally worked its way past my delicate rosebud, I 
whimpered as Maria's laughter burned in my ears.  The exam should 
have been over in minutes, but her insistence on checking "ever' 
nook and cranny," turned my humiliation into a major entertainment 
event.

The coup de grace was when she insisted that I be shaved.  She 
planned on working me hard, she explained, and my "estinkin' poossy 
hair" would just accumulate a lot of filth.  I sobbed quietly as 
the doctor used a pair of electric clippers and a straight razor to 
shear me smooth as a baby.

When the exam was over, Maria mercifully closed the curtain so 
that I could dress in some privacy.  It was only then that I 
realized that my clothes were gone!

Maria explained that, since she had paid for my registration fees 
and my exam, she was my sponsor, and she now "owned" me.  Over the 
next four weeks I would have to stay at Boys Town and work off my 
debt, with Maria as my supervisor.  Oh god!

She meant every word.  When I complained that my husband would soon 
be there to pay her back the money, she just laughed.  She had 
already told the police that my husband wasn't to be allowed back 
on the premises.  Although she did have the option of accepting the 
money under the employment agreement I had signed, she had decided 
that I should "earn" the money.  "You will pay me ever' peso you 
owe an' then some, flat on your back, with your long gringa legs 
kickin' in the air!"  When I protested that I hadn't even realized 
that I had signed an employment contract, Maria smiled.

"Your language problems are hardly MY concern," she said, in a 
patronizing voice.  They were the exact words that I had used when 
I had told her father that I was foreclosing.

Now it was my turn to experience the humiliation.  She handed me my 
new "uniform," and told me to hurry up and get dressed, so that she 
could put my "lazy gringa ass to work."  My outfit consisted of a 
hot pink tube top, a short red skirt that barely covered my crotch, 
and a pair of cheap sandals.  She didn't give me any panties, 
explaining that my customers would be able to buy me for as little 
as 10 minutes at a time, and having to put my panties on and off 
all day would just "cut into profits."  She took away my solid gold 
watch, and replaced my expensive earrings with two huge cheap 
plastic hoops, one pink and one blue.

Maria applied my makeup herself, putting on the rouge and powder 
nice and thick, so there would be no doubt about what I was.  By 
the time she was done, I had so much makeup on that I looked like 
Emmit Kelly's prostitute sister.  The final touch was a bottle of 
disgusting perfume that she doused me with to make me "estink like 
a whore."  It did.

When Maria proudly took me to the mirror, I couldn't believe the 
transformation.  The confident executive was gone, and in her place 
stood a seedy-looking whore, ready for a cheap trick or any 
perversion imaginable.  My nipples poked shamefully through my tube 
top, and, whenever I moved, I would expose the cheeks of my bottom 
or even my bald pussy under the shamefully short skirt.  Maria 
promised to "frizz out" my expensive hairdo first thing in the 
morning.  She said that the only thing still not right was the 
"defiant look in my eye," but she teased that I would soon lose 
that after a few days of "humpin' away." 

She led me to a cheap strip of motel rooms and told me to stand 
outside my room like the other girls and wait for a customer.  She 
had explained with a mischievous smile that this was the room they 
had first put her to work in, so that it had a lot of "sentimental 
value."
 
In the window of my room she put a big sign, "25 PESOS POR 10 
MINUTOS."  The sign worked, and, despite my clownish makeup, my 
cheap price ensured that I was a busy girl that first night.  Maria 
watched me the whole time, constantly giving me tips as customer 
after customer mounted me:

"Move that lazy ass of yours around on the bed.  He payin' good 
money to fock you!

"Don' jus' stan' there!  When a guy walk by, raise your skirt, an' 
eshow him you in beezness!

"You not Queen Bee at the bank anymore, you jus' another cheap 
puta.  When they say suck, you SUCK, beech!"

Despite her claims that I had to work hard to maintain profits, 
Maria priced me pitifully low.  Her goal, she explained with a sly 
smile, was "volume, volume, volume," and she had priced me to "gain 
market eshare and achieve MAXIMUM PENETRATION."  They were the same 
words I had used when I had talked to her father, but I didn't find 
the irony as amusing as Maria did.

I know that my idiot husband must have turned my purse with my 
address book over to Maria, because before long everyone from my 
neighborhood started mysteriously showing up at Boys Town.  On the 
second night, I was visited by my next door neighbor, Mr. McFeely, 
who, despite his 70 years of age, took me for a vigorous ride.  The 
next morning, Joe, the kid who lives three doors down, celebrated 
his 18th birthday on top of me, remarking how great it was that I 
paid him $5 to carry in groceries, but he had to pay less than half 
that to fuck me.  Joe didn't take the full 10 minutes, but he was 
a satisfied customer...and promised to bring all his friends. 

The Mexican ground crew that mows our lawn even held a bachelor 
party right in my grubby little room, and Maria let me dress in my 
old clothes, so that I could dance a striptease for the horny 
lowlifes.  They had a great time, joking about whether my "bush" 
would grow back.

Over the next few days, I was fucked by the milkman, the mailman, 
a dozen horny neighbors I had refused to have affairs with, and my 
husband's business partner.  "Share and share alike," he said, 
glibly, as I wiped his greasy sperm from my lips.  Since he was "an 
old friend," Maria had made me "blow him bareback" after he brought 
in the results of a blood test.

My least favorite was the angry black street person who hung out 
in our downtown area.  He said that, when he heard I was here, he 
saved up so that he could come down and "teach me a lesson."  He 
complained that I never even looked at him when he asked for money, 
and that I was a stuck-up bitch who needed to be "taught a lesson." 
He said that when he was done, I wouldn't be ABLE to look at him, 
but that I WOULD remember his name.  He was right; I'll never 
forget Rufus, and, after that day, I could never look him in the 
eye again.

My next least favorite client was Steve, a sleazy salesman type 
whom I had beaten out for a promotion at the bank.  He cheerfully 
informed me that he had told everyone where I was working now, and 
that my boss had immediately offered him my old job.  He suggested 
that it would be "appropriate" if we celebrated his good fortune 
with a nice, long, slow butt-fucking.  Steve even brought down some 
other guys from the bank the next night and made me the "guest of 
honor" at his "promotion party."

Steve must have given the bank records to Maria, because, before 
long, everyone I had ever turned down for a loan was showing up at 
Boys Town to fuck me.  Most were businessmen, but some were young 
couples who couldn't get mortgages for their homes.  Sometimes just 
the guys came, but the women came more often than not.  Most just 
watched, egging their husbands on as they put me through my 
humiliating paces. 

One woman insisted that her husband "butt-fuck" me so that I would 
"know what it feels like."  A few times the women insisted that I 
lick their pussies, one going so far as to say it was good for me 
to get "a taste of humility."

And, of course, there were nightly exams at the police station, and 
the frequent on-the-spot strip searches to make sure that I wasn't 
"estealin' from the customers."  Maria took great delight in these 
procedures, and always made sure that there were a few tourists or 
former acquaintances of mine around to enjoy my humiliation.

I'm not sure what Maria has planned for me next week, now that I've 
serviced everyone in my neighborhood, everybody I worked with, and 
every customer I have ever had or might ever have.  

But she did laughingly tell me that she's going to make me a "movie 
star." 



Edited by C. Lakewood
       
	
