I spent all day getting ready, and by the time you pull into the driveway I’m incredibly turned on. Being a cheap hooker is my ultimate bad girl fantasy, and the thought of slumming in the red-light district makes my pussy drip like a leaky faucet.
You're sitting on the couch, a beer in your hand and a frown on your face, as I sashay into the room, my hips swaying provocatively beneath the tight black fabric of my dress. "It’s my Tijuana hooker costume", I brag. “Do as I look as sexy as the girls I hear you talking to all your friends about when you think I’m not listening”
You shake your head. "Babe, you're not showing nearly enough skin to compete with those girls. You look like some Harvard freshman trying to get laid at Finals Club. You couldn’t earn bus fair in the red-light district looking like that."
I feel my face flush with anger and resentment. I can't believe you're mocking me like this. I'm a successful consultant, making $350,000 a year, and you're a fucking trucker. I'm the one with the power in this relationship, the one who makes all the decisions. But I know it’s not what either of us wants. Yes, I went to Harvard, and you dropped out of High School. But we both know I want to submit to you.
“I thought me dressing like a hooker might be a way for us to… have some fun,” I say, trying to explain. “You’d be the one in charge, Joe. Like we tried to do the other night.”
You frown. The other night was a disaster. It’s hard to play the submissive when you’ve spent all night telling your husband about your new $300 million dollar deal in London, and all the blue-collar workers you’re going to fire. “I thought if we tried a bit of role play, we could be different people, and reignite the spark.”
“Good idea, sweetie, but you always act like you just came out of the boardroom. 1,000 pesos says you’ll never be as sexy as the girls I see in the red-light district.”
“Bets on,” I say. I love a challenge, and I don’t like to lose.
My costume may not have been authentic, but I could tell you were as into hooker fantasy as I was. I suspected you went to the girls for the satisfaction I couldn’t give you, and I could tell even the hint of being in charge turned us both on. For the first time in years, we both enjoyed honeymoon sex, and you called me your “little Harvard whore.” We fucked like teenagers.
The next day, you sat on the couch like the King of the Truckers, sipping your beer while I showed off Hooker 2.0. I strutted back and forth in front of you dressed in a pink tube top that shows off my nipples and a short pink skirt, with cowboy boots. You raise an eyebrow at me, appraising my outfit. "Better," you grunt, "but your makeup is still too nice. You need to look like a real whore."
I roll my eyes, but I can feel my cheeks growing hot at the thought. "Fine," I mutter, heading back to the bathroom to redo my makeup. I put it on nice and thick, and make my lips bright red.
When I emerge, you nod in approval. “It’s a start,” you allow. I can tell you’re getting off on the power dynamic, slowly ratcheting things up, putting me through my paces as you transform me from Harvard to whore. Smiling, you reached into your trucker bag and pull out a cheap looking plastic perfume bottle. “I got this from one of the hookers in Tijuana today. It'll make you smell nice and cheap, like a real puta."
I take the bottle, and take a whiff. It’s awful! “You want me to put this on?” I say, scrunching up my nose at the thought. "This stuff smells like pussy juice and cum," I protest.
You lean back and take a sip of your beer. "Suit yourself, but if you don't wear it, I win the bet."
Again, my competitive streak takes over, and I grab the perfume, dousing myself in the foul-smelling liquid. I wrinkle my nose as the scent envelops me, but I can't deny the thrill that's coursing through my veins. My panties are getting wetter than ever, and it’s all I can do to not rub myself, or jump you.
Smiling, you play your final trump card, and produce a plastic zip lock bag. "Look what I found in Tijuana," you say, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Real hooker panties. I bought these off a real old pro. Though I have to warn you, she was scratching a lot. That’s why I chose her. They’re wet, and stained, and stinky, plus I think she might have crotch crickets."
“That’s disgusting,” I say. “I’m not putting those anywhere near me.”
“Whatsamatter? You’re 1%, Harvard pussy too good to put on your puta pants? Well, I guess that means I win.”
You smile triumphantly, enjoying the Mexican standoff as I glare at you. “You must be really pissed off at me,” I say. “Is having a wife who makes $350,000 a year that bad?”
“You’re the one who wanted to play,” you remind me. “You wanna go slumming? You wanna play puta? Fine. I’m just making it real.”
I can feel myself wavering, the thrill of the bet and the excitement of the competition coursing through my veins. "Fine," I mutter, snatching the panties from his hand and disappearing into the bathroom.
I cake more makeup on, and douse myself with more “puta perfume.” I finger myself for a moment, relishing the humiliation. Then I try not to gag as I slide the wet, worn, well used red cotton bikini hooker panties up my legs. They are truly disgusting, but so am I, and I rub the crotch of them into my hot, wet twat.
When I emerged, you let out a low whistle. "Damn, babe. Now you look like a real pro. Smell like one, too."
I felt my cheeks growing hot at the thought, but I can't deny the thrill that's coursing through my veins. "Let's go," I say, grabbing my purse and heading for the door.
You raise an eyebrow at me. "Go where?"
I grinned back at you, my competitive streak shining through. "To Tijuana, of course. Let’s make it real. I want to see if I can compete in the red-light district."
You laugh, and I enjoy the surprise in his eyes. "You're on," you say, grabbing your keys and leading the way to the truck.
You make me ride in the back. After all, I stunk like a whore. I sit behind you, so I can finger myself as we drive. You pretend not to notice, and play mariachi band music and ROXANE to set the mood on the short drive.
As we drive to red light district, I can feel my heart thumping in my chest. I've never done anything like this before, and I can feel the excitement coursing through my veins. It’s only 30 minutes away, but it is in another world from San Diego. The women here are dressed in next to nothing, their bodies on display for all to see. I feel self-conscious in my hooker costume, but I push the thought aside.
I’m as good as them. In fact, I’m way better.
I sling my purse over my shoulder, but you grab my arm as I get out of the truck. “Purse stays here, Princess. Real putas don’t have passports, and Platinum credit cards. Time for you to experience the world as it really is.”
I swallow, but reluctantly surrender my purse. “You’re right, of course – not having $1,000 in my purse makes it real. Walking down the street without any ID or money, I feel more naked than ever.
You lean against the truck, watching me, those piercing eyes of yours locked onto my every move as I strut down the crowded Tijuana Street in my barely-there hooker getup. Your jealousy of my academic and business accomplishments is palpable. You always gripe about my success and the pay gap between us. I know you’re getting off on seeing me reduced to a common street whore. I can see the bulge in your pants, even from here. I'm a far cry from the buttoned-up consultant you're used to. My heart races, both from the thrill of this dirty adventure and the excitement of knowing how much it's turning you on.
"Strut yourself, Natalie," you catcall, a smirk playing on your lips. "Show ‘em the goods. Let’s see what you're worth, huh?"
I sashay past the seedy bars and strip clubs, hips swaying and tits bouncing in my tight pink tube top. The catcalls and whistles of the local men fill the air, but I ignore them, too focused on the thrill of playing this dangerous game. After all, I'm not really a hooker, this is just cosplay, a trick I’m playing on everyone for Halloween.
As I charge $500 an hour for my time as a consultant, I do a quick currency conversion and set my price at 20,000 pesos, twice my hourly rate. It’s enough to buy a used car in Mexico, and I’m confident that no one will pay such a steep fee. When I tell the men how much I cost, they get angry and hit the gas. The other hookers glare at me, annoyed by my presence and the way I'm driving away business. But I don't care, I'm just here for the fun of it.
"Hey, white girl, you looking to make some extra cash?" one of the men calls out to me.
"Maybe," I reply coyly, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. "But it'll cost you."
He laughs and offers me 500 pesos, but I turn him down with a flick of my wrist. "Sorry, sweetie, I'm worth much more than that. 20,000 pesos minimum." He flips me the bird and hits the gas.
The other hookers start to get angry, shouting at me to "go slum somewhere else, gringa.” I respond to them by telling them to “sell your dirty burritos and taco bell assess" elsewhere. Clearly, they have no idea who they are dealing with. I drink their tears, and continue my boob-bouncing stroll, turning myself on with every step. Looking back, I can see you leaning against the truck, smiling and shaking your head as I strut my stuff.
That's when Pedro, the pimp, shows up. He's a menacing figure, with a thick mustache and a dark look in his eyes. He is accompanied by a fierce looking German Shepard who glares at me like I’m in a prisoner of war movie.
Pedro demands that I "audition" to work on his street. I try to explain that I’m not really a hooker, and I’m a Harvard MBA, and this is just a Halloween game. I reach for my purse, thinking I can buy him off. That’s when I remember that you have my purse.
I look to you, hoping you will produce the money to save me. But you just smile and watch as I try to talk my way out of it. Pedro isn’t listening. As far as he’s concerned, I’m a weekend warrior who is trespassing on HIS turf. I know I don't have a choice. I'm caught up in this dangerous game, and I have to see it through to the end.
“I can pay you later,” I explain.
“You can pay me now, with your pretty mouth, and little pink tongue,” he replies. He laughs, and his dog barks appreciatively.
You change positions to watch as Pedro pushes me into the alley. My heart races as I drop to my knees in front of him. He unzips his pants as I kneel before him. He smiles down at me, relishing his position of power. From the end of the alley, I see you watching with a twisted smile on your face as you watch your haughty wife being put in her place. The stupid dog is watching, too, as well as a few of the hookers, who cheer me on through my first trick.
"It's not so fun now, when you're on your knees."
"Do you like chorizo, gringa? You'd better get used to the taste of Mexican sausage."
As I take Pedro into my mouth, I can't help but think about you, about the way you're watching me, about how much you're enjoying this. And it's then that I realize: this is what I've been craving all along. Not just the thrill of playing the hooker, but the humiliation, the submission, the knowledge that you’re watching every shameful moment of my degradation. Reaching between my legs, I begin to stroke my pussy.
Pedro groans and grabs my head, forcing me to take him deeper. I gag and choke, my eyes watering, but I don't resist. I let him use me, let him degrade me, let him take what he wants. And all the while, I'm thinking of you, of the way you're watching me, of the way you're loving this.
When Pedro finally pulls out and blows his load all over my face, his dog wags his tail and BARKS his approval. I'm surprised to find that I'm not disgusted. Instead, I'm turned on, my pussy throbbing with need. I reach up to wipe the cum from my face, but Pedro stops me.
"No, my little Puta," he says, shaking his head. "You leave my splooge on your face, and your tits. I’m going to mark you, like my dog Hammer peeing on a tree. Now everyone will know you belong to me."
Pedro "discounts" my price to 100 pesos - just $5 - and I'm soon giving blowjobs, hand jobs, and getting fucked in the alley. I can feel the humiliation rising inside me, but it only serves to turn me on even more. I'm a dirty little puta, and I love it.
After about an hour, I get into an argument with one of the customers, who wants me to do a show with one of the other girls. She lifts her skirt, and I can see her bare pussy has a cursive P branded on it, marking her as one of Pedro’s putas. Repulsed at the idea of eating out some skanky whore, I refuse.
Pedro comes running, followed by his dog, Hammer. I explain to Pedro that the perverted customer wanted me to “put on a show” with one of the other girls, and I “have no intention of eating puta pussy.” I also complain that the lice in my crotch are getting unbearably scratchy, and ask if I can end my shift early.
Pedro drags me to the hood of a car and bends me over. The other whores laugh and assure me I’m “gonna get it good” as Pedro slowly takes off his leather belt.” I know what’s coming, but I can't help but moan with pleasure. The other hookers hold me down, their rough hands groping my breasts and fingering my pussy as Pedro uses his belt to teach me my place.
I'm completely at his mercy, and I've never been so turned on in my life. He tans my ass, while I promise to be a good little whore!
“I’m sorry! I’ll do whatever the customers want!” WHOOP!
“I’ll eat pussy!” WHOOP!
“I’ll put on whatever show they want to see!” WHOOP!
“I’ll do anything!” WHOOP! “Anything!” “Any show you want!” I promise. WHOOP!
Hammer barks his approval.
"You like that, Harvard?" Pedro sneers, his hand connecting with my ass with a loud smack. "You like being a filthy little whore?"
"Yes," I gasp, my pussy dripping with desire. "I love it."
I can see you, standing across the street, laughing as Pedro gives my pampered bottom its first ever can of whoop ass. I know the relationship between us will never be the same, and it excites me more than I can say.
Pedro rolls me over onto my back, and the crowd moves in closer as he fingers what he refers to as “my pink coin slot." “Miss Harvard has bugs in her rug,” Pedro says, grinning. "We gotta get her cleaned up before we can put her back to work."
The hookers exchange a glance, then one of them steps forward and pulls my dirty panties down, revealing my matted pubic hair. They gasp and recoil, their noses wrinkling in disgust.
"Oh my God, girl," one of them says, shaking her head. "This is gonna take some work." Pulling down her panties, she reveals her smooth, bare pussy, and her cursive P brand. “See? This is much cleaner!”
They reach for a can of burning menthol shaving cream and a razor, and I can't help but squirm as they lather up my crotch, the menthol stinging my sensitive skin. They begin to shave me, their hands rough and confident as they work the razor over my mound. Worse, one of them works my clit, causing me to repeatedly orgasm as the crowd laughs and cheers me on. I’m humiliated beyond belief, but I can’t stop cumming, even as I feel the hair falling away, revealing smooth, bare skin beneath.
"There we go," one of the hookers says, stepping back to admire her work. "Bare as a newborn babe.”
They reach for a bottle of delousing spray and douse my crotch, the harsh chemical burning my skin. I cry out, my body writhing in pain, but they don't stop. They just keep spraying, while Pedro and my husband laugh.
When they're finally finished, they step back and admire their handiwork. I'm completely bare, my pussy glistening and exposed. I can feel the cool air on my skin, and I can't help but feel a sense of shame and vulnerability.
"There you go, my little Puta," Pedro says, patting me on the shoulder. "All clean and ready to work. Time to earn back all the money you cost me,” he says, slapping me hard on the ass.
I nod, my throat dry and scratchy. I can feel the cum still drying on my face, and I can't help but feel a sense of humiliation. But as I look over at you, I see the huge bulge in your pants.
“He was right to shave that Tijuana taco between your legs,” I hear you say. “Better for business.”
I blush red, because I know you’re right. The “Tijuana taco” between my legs is product now, and it’s the only thing a girl like me can sell in a place like this. I squeeze my thighs together, relishing the heat in the pussy that Pedro owns.
Smiling, you walk over to where I’m strutting, and hold up my purse. “Money, credit cards, passport. Everything you need to get out of here. If you want me to rescue you, all you have to do is drop to your knees, and blow me.”
Again, the smug, triumphant smile on your face is too much for me to handle. After all I’ve endured, you should be declaring me the winner. Why should you get a blow job?”
“Fuck off,” I say. “I don’t need to be rescued, not by any man, and I don’t need any of the shit in the bag. Admit that I won, and I’ll let you take me home.”
"You still haven’t learned, have you? I’m not the one who is going to fuck off,” you say, your voice soft and gentle. "Fine, do it your way, Natalie. Get your skanky ass back to work. I’ll be back when you’ve learned your lesson."
I watch in disbelief as you walk back to your truck. “Joe! That’s not funny. I can’t stay here. He brands the girl’s pussies.”
Smiling smugly, you turn to respond. I try to rush up to you, hoping to hold you, but picking up a stick off the ground you use it to push me away. Mimicking the same condescending tone I use when I want to show you my intellectual superiority, you explain. "Remember that fancy ass Celebrity Chef gourmet Mexican restaurant you always drag me to? The one that uses the fancy press to brand their logo on the tortilla shells."
"Sure, I remember. I said it was good marketing."
"Exactly," you say. Running the stick down over my belly button you boldly use it to raise my skirt, revealing my stinky panties. You poke my pussy mound with the dirty stick, like it's a piece of rotten meat you don't want to touch. "Now that Tijuana Taco between your legs is the product, and they're going to brand it," you say nonchalantly. "No big deal. It's Marketing 101."
I look down, mouth agape, at the stick poking into the "product" that was now available for anyone with $5. Using the stick, you continue to poke and jiggle the cheap but spicy Tijuana Taco that has just been prepped for market, and will soon be wearing Pedro's brand.
The tension is palpable. My pussy is too gamey to touch, so you continue to assess it with the dirty stick.. I stand before you, utterly humiliated, but still too proud to submit.
Tossing the stick aside, you turn and walk away.
“When are you coming back? Are you going to be back tomorrow?"
You keep walking.
“Okay, maybe you should leave my purse,” I plead. “As a backup.”
I watch in disbelief as you get in your truck, backup, turn, and drive away. I watch as your truck recedes into the dust. I’m terrified, but my pussy is wetter than ever.
I tense as I feel Pedro’s commanding hand on my arm. “Come on bitch,” he says. “It’s showtime.”
Behind me, Hammer barks his approval.
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