Boy's Town Fragment by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

Another story fragment from Joe. This is all he wrote!


We had been in Boy’s Town for nearly 3 hours that afternoon, and I think Alexis would have stayed the weekend if I had let her. My posh wife has long harbored a street hooker fantasy, and her journey over the border to explore the walled in, 4-block red light district had been a dream come true. But we had a long drive back to San Antonio, and as it was nearly sunset, I wanted to get back to the States.

It had been a long, albeit interesting, afternoon. Alexis insisted that we go into every seedy strip club, and walk past every barely dressed puta strutting her stuff, trying to attract gringos for a quick suck-&-fuck. She even went into the disgusting clubs, which featured “stage shows” that excited her only because they shocked her to her bones.

“How much for your woman, gringo?” a few of the pimps called out. They were teasing, of course. Alexis, in her smart-but-casual short Ralph Loren designer summer dress and absurdly expensive designer tongs, looked every bit like the $750 an hour corporate attorney she was. But I could tell the idea both frightened and excited her. Every taunt about her “nice tits” or “sexy legs” caused her to clutch my arm tighter, and lean in to me, brushing her hair and chest against my arm.

I was very much enjoying her nervousness, and I knew she was loving it, too. My wife is into power games, and as she makes quite a bit more money than I do, and keeps our finances separate, she often uses her advantage to lord it over me. However, she also has a deeply submissive side, and I could tell she was enjoying her vulnerability and dependence on me as we walked through this domain of macho power, where men were in charge and the putas spread their legs for what amounted to the price of a hamburger back in the states.

Alexis pleaded to stay longer, but I was firm. In truth, I was enjoying being the boss of her. Besides, we had seen everything, sometimes twice, and she had talked to at least a dozen girls. Since I was clearly in charge in this world, she got pouty, and punched me in the arm before dutifully trudging behind me to the exit.

There were several policemen at the exit gate, and two of them had machine guns slung over their shoulder. They waved me through, but stopped Alexis.

“May I see some identification?” the officer said to my wife.

My unflappable wife looked surprised. “I don’t have any identification. The concierge suggested I shouldn’t bring my purse in here,” she said.

“The concierge?” the officer said sarcastically, laughing. “There is no concierge here, little girl.” I could see Alexis tense as the other policemen joined in with the laughter.

“Look, officer… Korupto,” my wife said, struggling to read the name of the policeman’s nametag. “I’m an American citizen. I’m a lawyer. We are staying at the Grand Hyatt in San Antonio.”

“Oh, I see. The GRAND Hyatt!” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm as his men laughed at my wife’s unintentional pretension. “We are honored by your presence, gringa, but you are not an attorney here. You are in MY country. I need to see some identification.”

“Why?” I asked. I stepped forward, until one of armed officers used his machine gun to block my path.

Officer Korupto looked my pretty wife up and down in a way that caused her to blush, walking around her as he openly appraised her assets.

“I am curious why such a beautiful woman should wish to spend the entire day in a lowly brothel. You have been here all afternoon, have you not? I saw you talking to the girls. What were you asking them?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to know what life was like here,” my wife said.

“Why?”

“Uh…no reason. I’m just curious,” my wife said weakly, sounding very much like a little girl with her hand caught in the cookie jar.

The police captain was not satisfied. “Perhaps you know someone here? Perhaps you BELONG here?” he said suggestively.

“No, it’s nothing like that. I’m just kind of a nosey-parker, I guess,” she added nervously.

“A nosey-parker?” the Captain asked, furrowing his brow and the unfamiliar idiom.

“A snoop. Sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong, I guess!” she said, laughing nervously as she felt herself sinking deeper into her own verbal quagmire. My smart attorney wife was making the classic witness mistake of babbling in front of the authorities.

“You are curious about putas?” the officer said with a smile. “Curious about whoring? What is to know? The police sell the customers the tickets. The putas take their ticket, then spread their legs and HUMP. What about this confuses you?”

My wife, blushing, said nothing.

“Well, I am curious about who you are, and why you take such an interest in our business. Are you DEA, Miss Attorney?”

“No! Nothing like that. I swear!”

Although my wife is cool and very much in charge in court, this was a foreign country, and I could see that Alexis was genuinely starting to panic.

“I have her passport in the car,” I said. “If it’s money you want…”

Alexis was a beautiful woman, and Captain Korrupto was clearly having his fun, playing with her like a cat plays with a trapped & terrified mouse. But at the mention of money he smiled and turned to me.

“Yes, she has no identification, so she maybe one of the girls, trying to escape. Most of the girls who work here owe their pimps money, and are working off their debts. Of course, If you paid me an exit fee, say, 300 pesos, I MIGHT be able to overlook it. Otherwise, I would have to register her.”

“Register me? As a puta?” Alexis said, thunderstruck.

It was clearly a routine Mexican shakedown, but not a bad one, and I was already reaching for my wallet. “I have cash. American. I can pay this and we can get out of here.”

My wife looked at me, annoyed. “KARL, your white male privilege is showing,” she said sharply, slapping me down with the male version of “Karen”. “This is Mexico, and they use pesos. Besides, I’m a lawyer, which means I follow the law.”

I knew my wife was in over her head, and didn’t understand how things worked in Mexico. But as I literally had a machine gun pointing at my chest I was in no position to start an argument. Besides, a part of me was annoyed at her arrogant dismissal of my attempts to help her.

Satisfied that I had been put in my place, Alexis returned her attention to the fat police captain who was smiling at my reprimand. “Captain, my husband and I have a no borrowing rule,” Alexis explained, waving me off with her hand. “What do mean “register” me? What would I have to do?”

The Captain smiled. “It would not be a pleasant process, Senorita. It is Friday, and the doctor will be in a few minutes, to check the girls for the weekend. You would need to shower, and scrub off that pretty perfume of yours.”

Alexis looked shocked. “Shower? HERE? Do you mean… the open aired showers, behind the police station?”

We had seen the showers on the tours. There were no stalls, was just a series of a dozen shower heads, with a bleachers setup so that the men could hoot at the putas as they bathed themselves.

I had actually joked about her using the showers when we had passed them. In her eagerness to get to one of the strip clubs, Alexis had actually stepped in a mud puddle, cursing as she coated her pretty bare feet and expensive tongs in mud, which had now dried to dirt. Pointing at her dirt caked feet I had said, “Want to wash those sexy feet of yours?” I teased.

“In front of 20 hooting Johns?” she said, punching my arm. “You’re terrible!” I laughed.

Alexis returned her attention to the police Captain. “But… if I shower there, everyone will see me. Naked…” the last word, spoken quietly, trailed off.

“Yes, we will. I will watch, of course, as it will be my job to supervise your registration. I will let your husband watch to. Given the way you speak to him, I am sure he will find it… amusing.”

Officer Corrupto winked at me, and I smiled back. Alexis glared at me contemptuously, condemning me for my male privilege and male gaze.

Her anger meant nothing to the police captain. “After your scrubbed yourself… thoroughly.. we would delouse you. Are you shaved?”

Alexis, looking shocked, did not answer, so the question was redirected to me.

“Mostly,” I said. She has a landing strip.”

Alexis glared at me again, covering her crotch with her hands as Captain Korupto smiled. “We would give you a good spray between your legs, to kill any crotch crickets you might have. Then you’d have to put your dainty little feet up in the stirrups, so the doctor could give you a good going-over. He’d be VERY thorough, since you’re a new girl.”

Alexis chewed her lip at the thought of putting her feet up into the stirrups. She looked flushed and humiliated, but I could tell from the way that she was squeezing her legs together and shifting her weight that she was also incredibly turned on. My lawyer wife was used to being in charge, but she was anything but in charge now.

“Would I have to use… would it be… the examination table by the bleachers?” she asked, almost pleading. The smiling police captain nodded.

We had seen the examination table on our tour. Alexis had returned to the table several times that afternoon, drawing closer each time. It was an old-fashioned metal table from the 1940’s, the padding long since worn away to almost nothing. The base was rusted, for the medical “office” was simply a tarp over the table, facing the bleachers. The metal stirrups weren’t rusted, and were raised, and spread, and ready for action.

On our last two visits she felt the stirrups, running her fingers over them. She had even run her hands over one of the stirrups, wrinkling her nose as she complained that it was “cold”.

“You could put your feet in them and warm them up,” I suggested, laughing. She punched me in the arm.

“I can’t believe they make the girls put their feet into these stirrups. With all those horrible men watching! Men are PIGS!” she said accusingly.

I took her anger at my maleness in stride. “You had to cancel your physical last month, for a trial, remember?”, I teased. “Maybe you can get a physical here.”

The blood drained from her face as my pretty wife actually blanched. “With my legs spread wide, and all the hooting assholes in the stands looking straight up into my pussy?” she snapped. “You’re not a woman, so you don’t understand how humiliating it is to be… that naked. That exposed. No, thanks!”

But my wife’s reaction to Captain’ Korrupto’s lewd suggestion surprised me. Terrified, but turned on, she said under her breath, “If I had to… I mean.. if it was the law. I am overdue for an examination. And this would be free.”

“Not exactly. Your registration would cost 500 pesos.”

“How can the girls afford 500 pesos?” my wife asked, genuinely puzzled.

The Captain smiled. “They can’t. Their pimps, out of their kindness and generosity, pay it for them, and let the girls work off their debt in trade.”

“That seems fair,” my wife said, letting her right wing naivete show. “I don’t believe in welfare.”

“Indeed,” the Captain said. “This is workfair, or whore-fair, ha-ha! Of course, the pimps have to charge room and board, and take a percentage of their earnings, to cover expenses, and my salary, and share of the profits. Most of the girls are stupid and lazy, and fall deeper into debt. If the pimps didn’t strap their bottoms, they wouldn’t get any work out of them at all.”

Alexis grimaced a bit at that, and self-consciously moved her hands to cover her nicely rounded bottom, a reflective gesture. I think even she was realizing that a system where she had to compete against a hundred other whores, and get her ass strapped if she failed to lure in enough customers, while falling ever deeper in debt, might not be the ideal work situation!

“I can’t pay the registration fee…” my wife said, nervously clutching the top of her dress. “I mean, I can… if you let me go back to Austin, and I can get my purse…”

The Captain’s smile faded as he regarded my trembling wife coldly. “No. One of the pimps would pay your fee. We would get you something… appropriate to wear, and you would work off your debt. You will pay your debt to me with the silk purse between your legs, just like the other whores.”

Alexis looked over at one of the prostitutes, trolling for customers by the gate. Her “appropriate” attire consisted of a tube top and a wraparound skirt that barely covered her coochie.

Her arrogance gone, she turned to me. “Honey, I know we keep our finances separate, and I know we never break our strict no borrowing rule… but… but do you have 300 pesos?”

It was a curious phrasing. I took my time, and let her plea for help hang in the air, to give me a chance to read her paradoxical expression and body language, and for the sheer joy of making her sweat it out.

Alexis was perspiring, and trickles of flop sweat were running down her face, and the scoop opening of her dress. One hand was nervously working her fingers on the top button of her dress, as if she was desperate to hold onto it, while the other hand occasionally tugged on the hem, trying to make it longer as the Captain and his men looked her up and down like a piece of meat.

In her fidgeting, she actually had kicked off one of her dirty sandals. She had a lovely pedicure, and pink nail polish, but her feet were filthy, and now one of them was resting directly on the dirty Mexican soil. Seeing me looking at her feet, she picked up one sandal, and took the other one off, holding them up for the Captain’s inspection.

“If you put me to work, can I keep my sandals, at least?” she asked, smiling. “They cost me $600, and I don’t want to go barefoot.”

“No,” the Captain said, taking the Gucci sandals out of my surprised wife’s hands. At the loss of her shoes, her petulant pout returned, and I wondered why she had so foolishly offered the Captain such an expensive item to take.

Alexis looked back at me with pleading eyes, barefoot, penniless, and sexy as hell. She had pointedly asked me if I had 300 PESOS, which I clearly did not have, as we have never bothered to convert our money for the short trip across the border. And although she had referred to “never” breaking our “strict” no-borrowing rule, in fact we broke it all the time, and the rule really only applied to major items, like cars or golf clubs or her insanely expensive clothes.

“I know it’s this is your decision, and I have no right to ask you for the money you earned. But it’s not that much money, really,” she whined, pouting as she rubbed her dirty foot on the back of her foot. “PLLL-EEE-ZZZE?”

She was right, of course. 300 pesos was less than $15 American, and we both knew I could probably buy her way out of this with a quick $20. I knew that being turned out as a barefoot puta for less money than she spent on her pedicure was one of the things that was turning her on.

It was the moment of decision. I looked into her eyes. I know a part of her wanted to be rescued. But I could also tell she was turned on, and after spending all day slumming with barefoot putas, karma had provided her with the opportunity to make her dreams come true.

I watched as the guards waved an old man with white hair, a growth of beard, and a hole in his pants through the gate.

“The doctor is here, Chiquita. The stirrups are waiting for you.”

Swallowing hard, Alexis looked at me. The only question now was, what should I do?

[imreadonly2]

Classic Joe Doe story type. Haven't seen it in a while. You use to kick out three or four of those a month back in the day.
Have you considered a story where a couple pick up a girl on a road trip to Mexico, she's a hooker and documented as one in various places. She looks very much like the wife.
Something goes wrong and the hooker is ill or in a accident. She has no health insurance so the wife uses her's. She starts to recover but then dies suddenly.
The couple head back to the border for home but are stopped at the border. The wife is listed as dead, so they deny her entry. The only way she can get back to America is to assume the identity of the hooker.
Of course she doesn't get back home without spreading her legs and swallowing her pride among other things.

[orflash64]

There was even a movie made similar to that. Called "Better off Dead" staring Crystal Bernard and Tracy Lords back in the 90s.
Tracy had a different blood type that killed her or something like that.

[jeepster]

Love the classic Joe Doe stories!

[imreadonly2]

A possible reason they pick up the hooker is the car breaks down and the hooker is a motorhead growing up with brothers that work on cars. She saves them and shows them a great play to party in Mexico. They spend a week with her and becomes important to them. So when she gets sick (appendicitis or something) or she crashes a scooter bike and hits her head and goes to a hospital, the wife uses her medical plan card, as they look so much a like.

[orflash64]

Place to party. Damn autocorrect.

[Hooked6]

Brilliant stuff. The scenario was tailor-made for this curious $750 an hour attorney. As usual for Joe Doe, the mental imagery and visuals were perfect. I wish Joe would write more stories. He has such a talent.

Hooked6

[Scman493]

Love it. Hope she even loses her landing strip.

[imreadonly2]

A bit more to this story, from Joe:

ALEXIS’S STORY: Walter stared at me, useless, weak, and limp as ever. I needed him, as I couldn’t very well come here alone, but he had been a drag on me all day, warning me, patronizing, scolding me. “Don’t call them beaners. Don’t be so rude. You already talked to that girl three times.” Buzzkill!

What my dimwitted husband didn’t understand was that the danger was all part of the game. The sheer sleaze of the red-light district and the degradation of the girls is what made it such a hot fantasy for me. The lawyers who reported me all bowed and scraped as they entered my office, desperate for approval. But the girls who worked in this hellhole were desperate for tickets so their pimps would feed them and not beat their little brown bottoms. I felt no sympathy for them. Any girl who would allow herself to be treated that way deserved what she got. And if they didn’t like the fact that I got turned on listening to their stories, too bad for them. I had the money, honey.

Walter had failed every test I had given him. At the first sign of trouble he always interfered, as if I needed him to rescue me. When I joked that he might want to fuck one the girls, he had actually agreed, as I would ever allow that to happen. “You get some when I get some,” I told him, punching him in the arm.

I had gotten a bit nervous talking to the fat police Captain, and one of my sandals had fallen off my foot. My feet were FILTHY, because my idiot husband had stepped OVER a mud puddle without even bothering to warn me. And he had suggested I wash my feet in the whore’s shower, instead of bringing me a bucket of water and washing my feet himself, like a gentleman.

When I kicked off my sandal, I saw him staring at my dirty brown feet. Pervert!

But in truth, feeling my soft, bare foot, resting on the shitty, dried out, Mexican moonscape soil was a turn on. It was hot outside, but the clay soil felt cool beneath my feet, almost as if I was standing on cement. I shuffled around a little, and I could see the men staring at my grimy feet as I struggled to find a perch on the jagged pebbles.

Ah yes, the male gaze. Of the myriad way’s men attempt to control women, their eyes are the most insidious. They were looking me up and down, ogling me, imagining me naked, as if any of these miserable leaf-blowers actually had a chance dating a beautiful, rich, white girl like me. Pigs!

Yet, as much as they disgusted me, I relished being the center of their attention. I felt a strange sense of triumph. There were girls everywhere, most of them barefoot, like the poor whores they were. But all the men were all looking at me, and my dirty brown feet! Inspired, I kicked off the other shoe, and started to explain to the Captain that I had gotten them for $600 at the Paris Flagship Royale, which my personal shopper Mr. Champbeau assured me was a STEAL, as we purchased them at the Gucci store right by the Louvre and…

Can you believe the fat policeman ripped my sandals out of my hand before I could even finish my fabulous story about my expensive shoes? My useless husband stood there and did nothing, and watched him rob me, staring at my bare feet as I shifted my weight back and forth, struggling to find a place to stand, a task made infinitely harder by the fact that I was now totally barefoot. Walter and all the beaner cops were staring at me, and my little brown feet, dancing on the sawtooth rocks. It was humiliating, agonizing, and a total turn on.

Of course, if Walter had “done something”, and gotten my sandals back, I would have really let him have it. It would have been just like him to ride to the rescue and spoil my fun, denying me the pleasure of knowing, if only for a moment, what it might feel like to be barefoot girl in Boy’s Town.

Walter had failed miserably with the sandals test, but this would be his final exam. The Captain wanted 300 pesos, or he would register me as a prostitute. Can you imagine me, a millionaire lawyer, being registered as a hooker, a ho, a common puta? 300 pesos was less than $15. I had paid for this whole damn trip, including our suite at the Grand Hyatt and our first-class tickets, and now he couldn’t come up with a lousy $15? Bastard!

But what really pissed me off was the idea of him grandly reaching into his wallet and paying the greasy fat beaner who was shaking us down a bribe he didn’t even deserve. Like most men, my husband loved to play the hero!

The cop who was hassling us was short, and bald, and fat, and looked like refried version of Danny Devito. Did Walter really think I couldn’t handle him? No, despite appearances, I was still in charge.

I tried to use my toes to smooth the broken clay beneath my feet. Damn pebbles. I glared at my husband, daring him to make a mistake. I didn’t have my passport, or identification, or shoes, but I had my dignity. Using my best “I have you now” Perry Mason look, I stared Walter down, proud and defiant.

I regarded Alexis coldly. My carefully coiffed wife was stupidly shuffling her feet, sweaty, barefoot and penniless, and on the verge of being turned out as a whore. But there was an all too familiar arrogance in her expression, a contempt, and I saw that even now she hadn’t given an inch on her social justice warrior persona.

Alexis looked hot, but would look even hotter standing in a halter and short skirt, begging the passing Johns to let her suck their cocks.

“I don’t have any pesos,” I said utilizing her lawyer’s trick of answering the question literally but not truthfully.

The Captain immediately grabbed my wife by the scruff of the neck. She tried to break away, but he slapped her hard on the ass with one of her sandals, causing everyone to laugh. Pushing her forward, she stumbled barefoot to the showers, wincing at the pain from the Captain’s tight grip and the sensation of her tender bare feet walking over the sharp pebbles and jutting calcium rocks of the dried caliche soil.

[jeepster]

Love it! Hope it goes on and on but not thinking it will be much more!

[Scman493]

really enjoy this story line as she is on the verge of her self inflicted degradation and humiliation as a real puta.