Border Patrol 1

[RoBloch]

Border Patrol
Chapter 1

My ethnic heritage should not matter to anyone, but it has been fateful for me.

Six of my great-grandparents are of pure French descent and grew up among the wealthy leaders of the community in Mobile, New Orleans and Dallas. One of my great-grandfathers was half English and half Comanche and he had a child with a black woman in Tulsa who he took as a servant, almost a slave, after her family lost everything in the 1922 Tulsa massacre. I guess that makes me an octoroon in the jargon of the Old South.

Ironically, I am told that some of my so-called pure white ancestors were slave traders and men who tracked down fugitive slaves. I did not condemn them. If you survived the Atlantic crossing was it really so bad to be a slave, I thought.

Being slightly black and slightly native did not affect my life much. My family was comfortably upper middle class. I always passed for white. My white ancestors were very pale. The days of “not one drop” prejudice are over, aren’t they, and there is little racial prejudice here in the 21st Century. People should quit blaming prejudice for their lack of merit.

The guys in high school were more interested in my DD boobs, cute face, long legs and well-shaped butt under the cheerleader’s costume; not who my great-grandparents were.

Maybe my heritage explains why I get a darker tan than other women get on the beach in the summer.

Who my great-grandparents were did not matter to the University of Texas. Guys drooled all over me in college and I had a choice of the guys I teased. I only went to bed with the very coolest.

I was in the upper half of my business school class when I applied to Consolidated Amax where I got my first job.

I don’t think my husband, Michael Johnson, Vice President of Consolidated Amax ever asked about who my ancestors were. After we met at a corporate event shortly after his second divorce, he was much more interested in my hot body and bedroom skills. The only criticism I heard from his family was about me being 26 and him being 50 when we got married.

The marriage was happy enough for three years. We had a big mansion in Westlake. I quit working shortly before the marriage to help Michael run the household and host big parties for corporate leaders and state and national pro-business leaders.

Our parties were great, even if some of Michael’s friends made suggestive remarks about how they’d like to take me to bed. I thought it was kind of flattering for some Congressman or bank president to say that he loved my designer dress but would love it more to see me without it. I’d swish my breasts and hips, giggle and move to greet the next guest.

The Consolidated Amax president, Ted Volks, a state attorney general, Ben Flaxs, and a couple of Michael’s rich golf buddies, Howie and George, seemed particularly interested in my looks and seemed to never miss an occasion to accidently glance down my dress or make a double entendre remark suggesting they’d like to see me in bed. Well, I did dress to impress and to show off my curves. I did not mind the lewd remarks except the ones about how maybe I should “make use of all that fine baby-making equipment” I had.

I decided not to have children. It might mess up my figure. This left much more time for enjoying life and travel.

Michael made more than enough money and played golf and poker with his buddies when he wasn’t with me.

The sex was awesome for the first years.

While his friends and co-workers were imagining getting into my pants, Michael flirted with college girls who worked as interns at Consolidated AMAX but I paid no attention. Boys will be boys and I knew I was hotter than all those young chicks.

When I hit 29 though, I kind of got interested in men more my age and Michael got interested in some women at Consolidated who were hardly out of high school. I probably cheated first, but I thought it didn’t mean anything. A quickie in one of the guest bedrooms did not count.

I did not think Michael playing around with women barely 20 meant anything either. We were still enjoying life in a big old house with two big cars and lots of fancy clothes from Saks and Neiman Marcus.

Michael did not mind that I took vacations in Cancun and San Miguel De Allende with my Canadian friend Margaret although he probably suspected that I was hooking up with some of the hot guys hanging around the fancy hotels. At least I did not think he minded when I was coming back from Cancun three years ago in 2025 with a dark tan and great memories of a few international wind surfers and Mexican studs.

Margaret flew back to Toronto a day before me which allowed me another night of action with Miguel, a bartender at the resort. I had no trouble at customs at the airport and I got in my Beemer I’d left in long term parking.

I hate cabs. So many slimy guys drive cabs and even limos. Why would I want to have to sit in a smelly cab with some guy descended from a wetback or slave?

The Beemer was fine but when I was almost home, a siren went off behind me. It turned out to be a shiny big SUV with “US Customs and Border Patrol” on the side. I didn’t think the Border Patrol ever got as far north as Dallas.

The officer who came up to the car, Doug, told me to get out of my car and put my hands on the roof. I was outraged, of course. “I was not speeding much and why don’t you cruise some taco stands and bean factories if you are looking to do your job.”

I got out of the car after Doug said that if I did not get out, he’d break my window and pull me out.

I was frisked by Doug and then his partner, Bill, who’d joined him. Both big guys who probably never went to college. They felt up my breasts and between my legs roughly and thoroughly. Bill even reached down my blouse to make sure my breasts were real and not packs of drugs, he said.

I told them that I was a U of T graduate, a Texas housewife with a successful husband and important connections, and I’d have their badges. They said they were looking for weapons or drugs on illegals and that if I had connections it was probably with heroin dealers. I said I was born in Texas as were all of my parents and grandparents, I had spent a week in Mexico and not brought back anything but a suntan, certainly not heroin.

When I showed him my Real ID driver’s license, Doug said I had to be kidding. “That’s a picture of a white woman. Just how did you get this BMW and this ID?” he asked.

I screamed that it was my car and my ID and used a few other choice words about how “you trailer thrash offspring should go back to dealing with their own kind.” Doug told me to shut the fuck up and Bill put handcuffs on me. I was then led not so politely to the SUV. I asked to use my cell phone, but the two guys said that the drug lord or pimp I wanted to call would have to wait.

Things only went downhill after we reached their headquarters. They let me use the toilet but afterward Doug and Bill took me into a room in the basement. The room had a filing cabinet, a long table with various extensions, belts and attachments, an intense overhead light, and a picture of the president. Four video cameras attached to the ceiling moved and focused apparently based on the decision of some operator outside the room. Another large man they called Captain Smith joined them.

Captain Smith began, “Bill tells me you speak English pretty well for an illegal but just who are you?”

“I am Karen Johnson. I live in Westlake and I was on my way home after a seven-day vacation in Mexico when the officers stopped me.”

“You sure as hell don’t look like you live in Westlake unless you work there as a stripper or an escort.”

“Of all the nerve,” I sputtered mad as a wet hen. “This blouse cost 800 bucks at Saks and these Valentino jeans are worth more than you are. As I said, I just got back from Mexico and my papers all checked out at the airport.”

“The guys at the airport are asleep at the wheel. Your passport picture sure looks like it was taken of a white woman,” the Captain said.

“I am a white woman you moron. I just got a good tan at the beach. Why don’t you call my husband? If you give me my phone, I can call him for you.”

“No way, I don’t want to talk to your pimp after you’ve whispered to him how to lie. You give me your supposed husband’s number and I will dial,” the Captain said.

“I don’t remember his number. It’s on speed dial. Nobody remembers numbers they have on speed dial,” I replied.

Captain Smith went off and returned with a man about age 50 they called “Chief.” “I know Michael Johnson who lives in a big place in Westlake if that’s who she means. I have played golf with him. He’s a great guy who believes in America, hates socialism and loves country music. HIs wife is a real hottie, but she isn’t some puta.”

The Chief pulled out his cell phone and had a discussion with my husband on speaker.

“Mr. Johnson, this is Chief Richards from Border Patrol, we got a brown lady here who says she’s your wife. She was apprehended in a BMW that is registered to you.”

“My wife is missing in Mexico somewhere,” the louse said. “You probably have the maid my wife hired before she left. She looks a bit like my wife but much darker. I knew that maid was suspicious. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was involved in my wife’s disappearance.”

“Michael,” I screamed. “You know damn well that it’s me and that the maid I hired is Syrian.”

“She does speak English a lot better than most illegals,” Michael said. “Your men better investigate her completely Chief. She may be involved in a kidnapping, or recruited my wife into some drug cartel and seems to have stolen the car my wife uses.”

“Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Johnson, but we will have to interview you some more later,” the Chief said and hung up the phone.

Turning to Captain Smith, Doug and Bill, Chief Richards said, “have you done a complete search of her car?”

“Well, yes, Chief,” Doug said. “She had a suitcase with a few dresses, a bunch of skimpy bathing suits and three condoms left over from what looks to have been a value pack of 36.”

Shit, I thought. I always bring my own condoms even though I have an IUD. You never know about where the guy has been, but I should have left those three in the resort garbage. “Yeah, so, is it illegal to bring condoms into Texas now?” I said.

“So, let’s see,” the Chief said, ”we have a supposedly married woman, who goes to Mexico for a week without her supposed husband, uses 33 condoms, doesn’t look like the ID of the missing woman whose ID she’s carrying, and whose supposed husband suggests is an illegal migrant who might be involved in his wife’s disappearance. Gentlemen, I think we need to process her completely on the assumption she is going to be deported very permanently.”

“Wow,” Bill said. “33 fucks during a seven-day trip. Over 4 fucks a day. I am impressed.”

I did not think that telling them that I used six of the condoms with the yoga instructor at the health club in the weeks before I left for Mexico would improve my situation.

Meanwhile, Chief Richards left the room and the Captain Smith, Doug and Bill had taken some nasty looking electrical devices and a flogging whip out of the file cabinet.

“Now, Puta, take off every stitch of clothing. You need to be strip-searched very carefully,” the Captain said.

“Puta, what’s a puta?” I asked.

“Don’t tell us you don’t know the word for whore, Puta. Now are you going to take off all that fancy clothing you stole or are we going to have to take it off you?”

I got a nasty shock on the ass from one of the devices wielded by Bill or Doug. I began to take off my clothing.

When I got down to my Vicky’s Secret bra and panties, I said see, “there’s nothing on me.”

“Did I tell you to stop at your bra and panties? Take it all off,” Captain Smith said.

“In front of all three of you and those damn video cameras? Do you goons get off humiliating women, watching movies of women stripping in front of your cameras?”

“You will soon find how we get off,” and I got hit by two of three electro-shocks from different directions and whipped across my bottom.

I held my breasts the best I could with one hand and tried to cover my pussy with the other when Bill grabbed my arms and held them over my head.

Bill told me to lie down on the table with my pussy even with the lower edge of the table and spread my legs. He pulled up poles that came up from the lower end of the table and attached each leg to a strap on a pole so that my legs formed a wide ‘V’. A video camera seemed to focus in on my pussy. I turned redder and knew I was getting moist between my nether lips. I could have died of embarrassment.

I expected one of the men to put on a plastic glove and go up my ass and vagina but instead Bill began to gently work his fingers on my inner thighs. Doug and the Captain started to lightly run their fingers over my nipples saying that they had better make sure there was nothing hidden in them. I felt myself getting still more wet even while I was mad as hell and humiliated as I could be.

I was not that innocent. I knew that these officers and their Chief were well off the reservation. Maybe this was some practical joke from Michael. The Chief knew him. Or was Michael the sort of guy who enjoyed watching his wife be used by other men? Was he watching through the video cameras? He’d never suggested anything like wanting to watch me having sex with other men, but it was sure clear that he had some secrets.

If it wasn’t Michael, was anyone watching from the video cameras? I started to fantasize being watched by various people as Bill began expertly to lick my clit. Soon, I realized that I was going to be cumming in front of three strange men and whoever was watching through the cameras or would watch a videotape. I was horrified but exploded in an orgasm, closing my eyes and trying to suppress the “yes” that often comes to my lips when I have an orgasm.

“I did not taste any controlled substances on her lips Captain,” Bill reported.

“The Chief said to be thorough. You need to use the most sensitive instrument that you have to probe whether she is hiding anything up her cunt.”

Bill dropped his pants and soon a penis was where his tongue had been. By now, I was not surprised. I was going to be fucked by these guys and there was no way around it. I was alone with three men who had obviously done this before, and they had me so tied down that they could have dissected me like a frog in high school biology without me being able to do anything about it.

I expected three quick slam-bam -thank-you-ma’am sort of fucks but Bill took his time. I was worried about what would happen if I kept having orgasms on camera while being ravished by these three guys. Would that prove I was a puta? Did it matter? It’s not like one has to be an illegal immigrant thief, kidnapper or whore to have an orgasm. Still, I tried to resist despite what I’m told an old GOP candidate for governor said about lying back and enjoying it if you couldn’t avoid it.

But Bill was good and with my nipples being stimulated and Bill having a nice rhythm in and out, I just lost track of everything but my hot spots. I began to think that maybe the Governor and all of Michael’s friends were there and I could hardly contain my humiliation or my lust. I tried to think of anything that was a sexual turn-off that I could, but I started thinking about a warm beach in Mexico and imagined getting screwed on the beach in front of a crowd of surfers and I was feeling better and better. Before I could focus again on resisting, I could feel Bill’s cock spasm and cum in me and I came myself, this time saying “Yes, oh yes, fuck yes;” the usual stupid shit I say when I lose control.

I was joking to myself that it was good that I’d brought three condoms when I looked over to the top of the cabinet and saw that the three were still there. Seeing the shock on my face, Doug said, “We aren’t your normal punters, Puta. We put the seed where it belongs. We believe in traditions and family. It’s the American way.”

I blushed, sputtered and said, “Oh my god” and the three laughed.

The Captain let my legs down, took them out of the straps, and his cock went into my vagina. He pounded a lot harder and faster. My legs had nowhere to go except to wrap around the Captain. I tried not to add to the movie highlights if a movie was being made, but Captain Smith’s dick was so perfect and seemed to just barely tap my cervix while rubbing my g-spot in just the right way. I was so wet from Bill’s semen and my own fluids that everything was gliding perfectly.

I knew I was being fucked bareback again in front of a crowd of some size. Still, I was soon so excited that I again beyond thinking. I could feel it building within me and mentally it was just “what the fuck” as the Captain added his seed into my womb and I gasped “oh fuck” and had a screaming panting orgasm, not even trying to conceal it as the orgasm spread from my pussy to my toes and nipples.

There was about a ten-minute break before they flipped me over on the table and moved me down the table. I was jack-knifed on the table, my torso on the table, my legs reaching the floor and my pussy and anus pointing at some camera. “Spread em bitch,” Doug said. Doug did put on a plastic glove, put on some lubricant and stuck his middle finger up my ass.

I had had only a little traffic in that direction through that tunnel. Michael took me there about once a season for variety. I grunted and screamed a bit as Doug worked his finger around. “I haven’t found anything here either, Captain,” Doug reported.

He then dropped his pants and did take one of the three condoms. I was definitely happy I’d bought the lubricated kind as Doug’s cock worked up my ass. It hurt at first but that stopped, and Doug started picking up the pace. It did not take more than a few dozen hard slams before Doug reported that there was nothing up my ass he could find.

They let me lie there a few minutes dripping and spread face down on the table with the fucking cameras recording my body as I felt like a piece of pounded meat in a butcher’s display glass.

I still thought they might announce that the whole thing was a gag and that they would threaten me with all sorts of bad things if I reported them before letting me go. Instead, the Captain said, “Bill, take her to the tank for training and disposal with the other Putas.” Bill walked me, now naked as a jaybird and dripping two men’s jism, down the hall to a quick shower that was also equipped with a video camera that recorded every scrub.

After the shower, Bill led me toward a group of cells.

[imreadonly2]

Wow. A great story, and very timely, with them basically picking people up based on the color of their skin. I could definitely see Michael having to pick her up after she's sent to work on some plantation.

[RoBloch]

Thanks.
It will probably get darker than that.

[Mr. Smith]

Michael's not looking for her Joe. The silly girl should have gotten slave graded, badged and a SIN tattooed on her lip to prove her bona fides. Pride got in the way, and now she's gonna pay the price. Michael probably has his cock buried in a nineteen-year-old keeper and after two divorces, knows that getting the cheating wife enslaved is a hell of a lot cheaper than going through a third divorce. They'll name her Maria, Sofia or some other common Mexican name and instead of deporting her, she'll get sold with proper ICE documentation of her new status.

[lovethissite]

Looks like Michael wanted a cheap divorce. It sort of reminds me of a now college coach trying to relive his youth with a controlling gold digger girlfriend.

[RegressedNegress]

Echoing what has been said, this is very relevant to what is happening here in the U.S. now. And, as a darker skinned woman myself, this is also personally resonant for me. My thanks to the author!