Daddy Issues
Posted: Sat May 15, 2021 6:51 pm
My mother was an undocumented worker who scrubbed floors and cleaned the gringo’s offices living, so that her daughter could live the American dream. I never knew my father. My mother told me he was a rich white guy who had raped her when she was scrubbing his toilet. I have my mother’s sweet personality, humor and dark hair, and my father’s fair skin and blue eyes.
I was born in the United States, and as my mother wished, lived in the American dream. At Stanford, I met Paul, and we fell in love. Being the wife of a Silicon Valley tech entrepreneur has given me more money than I know what to do with, and a husband who travels at least one weekend a month, leaving me plenty of time to live out my fantasies.
My fantasies are dark, and dirty. My psychiatrist says that I’m trying to connect with my roots, and the father I never knew. She says I have a form of “wealth guilt”, and am seeking out a father figure that will take advantage of me, the way my mother was taken advantage of. She always asks me why I died my hair blonde, and changed my name from Juana to Jo. Why do I pretend that I can’t speak Spanish? I point out that I live in a Spanish colonial mansion, but she remains unconvinced. She says I’m both embracing and ashamed of my roots, while searching for the father I never knew. She says Paul has given me the security I want, but not the domination I crave.
All I know is my husband Paul is sweet and caring, but never wants to get down-and-dirty in the bedroom. I’ve put on a slave collar for him a few times, and he always tells me to take it off. He says he respects me too much to treat me like anything but a princess. So, I get my satisfaction elsewhere.
Depending on Paul’s schedule, I’ll catch a plane down to San Diego on Thursday, and book a suite at The Hotel Del Coronado. On Friday morning I’ll have a Sea Salt Stone massage and shampoo and styling, and sometimes a touchup on my platinum blonde hair.
After some time in the sauna and a fun dip in the pool, where my tone body always draws appreciative stares from sad pool boys and fat husbands who know that I’m way out of their league. Then I grab my overnight bag and a limo for the 30-minute drive down to the Marriott in Tijuana. I don’t really need the Presidential Suite, but I book it anyway, as having money to burn is definitely part of my cover.
It's at the hotel that the transformation begins. The designer clothes go back into the suitcase, and I change into a pink tube top, short denim skirt, and nothing else. Then I lock on my black slave collar with the red tag marking me as the property of one of the local drug cartels. I always feel a deliciously naughty tingle when I lock it onto my neck, knowing that the key is buried in my suitcase, and I won’t be seeing it again until Sunday morning. The final step is washing off my expensive makeup, and painting my face like a slave brothel whore.
Getting out of the hotel is an easy trip down the fire stairwell, but getting back to my suite on Sunday morning is a bit more challenging. I actually got caught trying to sneak back to my room once, and when the hotel manager looked up my SIN number on my lip and realized my collar was fake, he put me up for sale in the hotel gift shop! It was unspeakably humiliating, being displayed naked and being fondled my fellow guests and the bellboys who had carried my bags. Fortunately, I “persuaded” (blew) one of the busboys from the hotel’s restaurant, Condimento, and he agreed to call my friend Emma. She’s a slave trader and knows how to talk the language of business. Emma secured my release, and now regular payments to the manager assure that I am not hassled when I attempt to return to my room after my weekend fun, although I am expected to use the stairs up to my Penthouse on the trip home.
The walk to the red-light district is more than an hour, and the cheap deodorant I use comes in handy under the blazing Mexican sun. I walk down a busy industrial road, the Blvd. Agua Caliente, filed with fast food places, dentists, tire stores, gas stations, and every conceivable business. I can afford none of them. I am a peso-less, collared Mexican slave whore, with nothing but a few cheap rubbers in my fist and a plastic room key hidden in a secret pocket in my skirt to connect me to my previous life.
The Blvd Agua Caliente translates to the Street of Hot Water, which is appropriate as the cement gets red hot. I could wear sandals, but I feel that being barefoot is an important part of my role, and I simply walk on the dirt or grass when it’s available. The collar identifying me as cartel property, is excellent protection, as the police and locals do not hassle me. I am slender and sexy, and I usually get stopped by at least 2 or 3 customers. I’ll satisfy them by kneeling down in the alley and sticking my head in the car for a quick blow job. After all, nobody wants a slave puta kneeling in their car.
They pay my pimp via Venmo or another cash app, as I am not allowed to have money. The first time I showed at the brothel with 100 pesos and proudly handed it to my pimp, he turned me over his knee and tanned my ass with his belt. So much for female entrepreneurship.
My friend Emma, the slave trader, had set it up for me, and got me the cartel collar. Fortunately, the brothel never even bothered to check for my slave identification number, probably because they were making too much money off my pussy to care. And my Spanish is good, so as long as no one checked the records, it was an easy ruse to pull off, way easier than it would be in the States.
I occasionally get stopped by gang members who ask for freebees. I always oblige, although once there was a gang of eight of them and I didn’t have enough rubbers, so ended up walking to my brothel with a mouthful of scum. Oh, well, it’s all part of getting into character.
By the time I arrive at La Cuello Cha Cha (The Collared Pussy), I’m hot, stinky, and fucked, in every sense of the word. After taking a quick pee in the grate behind the alley, I enter, barefoot and collared, into the place that will be my home for the next two nights.
As I am only a slave girl, I don’t get a shower or a chance to clean up. They take my clothes, which always makes me nervous as I know my key is my only way back. They take me to a garish, worn, purple sofa, shaped like a circle, with an iron pole in the center. I kneel on the sofa, and lean forward, so they can cuff my slave collar to the center pole of the couch, locking me into position. There are six couches, with about 8 girls kneeling on every couch. I am so close to the slave slut next to me that I can feel her thighs pressing up against me, and smell her pussy stink as she rubs herself. I am expected to keep myself wet and ready for the customers, so I join my sisters, grunting softly as I pleasure my hot, wet pussy.
It doesn’t take long for me to have my first slavegasm, or my first customer. It’s a cheap brothel, and despite the fact that the soles of my bare feet are filthy, I’m skinnier and WAY hotter than the other girls. I’m by the front door, which means that looking into the room one of the first things you see is my spread open ass and pussy, wet and ready! Most of the johns fuck me right on the couch, simply dropping their pants and slipping inside my hot pussy. They unlock me for blow jobs or “room service” – actually a room full of mattresses on a cement floor, badly separated by the other mattresses by a curtain. I’m always glad for room service or a chance to suck some disgusting fat man’s pecker, as at least I get unlocked from the pole and I get a chance to stretch my legs. It’s a welcome break, as on a busy night I can get banged from behind by more than a dozen guys in an hour.
I try to keep count, but never do. I have too many slavegasms for that. The other whores call me hog and accusing me of hogging all the peckers, but I know they are just jealous.
Most of the Americans know better than to go into the slave brothels, which are typically filled with skanky girls and are run by the cartels. There are better places to get laid than the cement room with the beaten-up old hotel couches and the slave girls locked up with their tails in the air, like dogs chained to a fence.
My clientele are local scum, although they are Aztec kings compared to the puta they are fucking. But somehow that made it all the hotter, and the dirtier the client the more that it turned me on. The fact that I couldn’t refuse anyone made it all the hotter. I got the occasional decently dressed local who had heard about the hot piece of tail at the Cuello Cha Cha, but they were the rarity. Which is why I was surprised when I heard a familiar Mid-Atlantic American accent behind me.
“So where is this hot piece of ass Juan told me about? As an owner, I should know all of the inventory.”
An owner? I thought this brothel was owned by the drug cartels.
“She’s ‘dare, boss,” my pimp said. “Front-and center.”
“Oh, my! She does look out of place. But that is a hot cha cha! Look at all that slave grease!” I shuddered as the old man grabbed my pussy like a piece of liver and began massaging my wetness in my hand. “Oh, this is a tasty little burrito. Look at her squirm. A regular Mexican jumping bean!” he said, laughing as he slapped me hard on the ass.
“Turn around and show me your face, little puta. I like to see the fajita meat I’m fucking.”
Knowing that my options were to turn around and show my face to the familiar voice, or get my ass tanned with my pimp’s belt before showing my face, I turned my head.
My father-in-law’s smile faded as he tried to process who he was looking at. He knew me, of course, but it took several seconds for his brain to reconcile that it was his prim-and-proper daughter-in-law kneeling naked and spread before him.
I should explain that Paul’s relationship with his father was strained, to put it mildly, and our marriage had only deepened their separation. My father-in-law, Winston Chambers, was old money, snobby, obscenely rich, but “shady”, as my husband put it, even as he refused to say why he disapproved of my father-in-law’s wealth. I always tease Paul that he has worse “daddy issues” than his wife, and maybe he’s the one who needs therapy.
When Paul started dating me, Winston made in clear that he disapproved strongly of my “pedigree” as the ‘anchor baby bastard of an illegal.” Everyone calls me “Jo”, but he always called me by my given name “Juna,” pronounced in a heavily accented “WANNA?”, or “Miss Gomez” in the most sarcastic tone, as if he were saying MISS Pig-Sow.”
At our wedding Winston got drunk, and during the wedding toast “joked” that he “never understood why his son, who had everything, married this beaner. I told him, son, you can fuck a puta, but you don’t marry them. I’m sure she’s good in bed… hell, I’d fuck her myself, but I don’t have any pesos to pay her with.”
He went on like this for 2 minutes, with the Best Man trying to shut him up. When he took off after my poor illegal mother, and said he’d “let her scrub my toilet anytime”, my husband lunged at him, and had to be pulled off. Needless to say, I don’t often look at my wedding photos.
It got worse after we married. Over the years Winston has repeatedly squeezed or slapped my ass, grabbed my breasts, threatened to have me and my mother deported, offered to “bang me like a congo drum”, and ‘complimented’ me by saying, “You don’t look Mexican, with the dye job. Do you dye the rug, too? You should, in case ICE checks.”
Now my father-in-law knew that I shaved, completely, for he was holding my soggy pussy in his hand. He didn’t let go, but continued fondling my wetness, even as his brain struggled to process what he was seeing.
“Jo?” he finally said, struggling to believe his eyes, as he used my correct name for the first time ever.
“Winston?” I said stupidly. “I can explain. It’s… sort of a game.”
His expression moved from baffled, to shocked, to confused, before finally resting on amused. It took him almost a minute to speak. “Well, now I know what my spoiled, pampered daughter-in-law does during her weekends at The Del. Like to play puta, do you? Well, don’t worry, little chica. Your padre can make all of your dreams come true.”
Turning to my pimp, I pleaded for my release. “No! No! Dejame ir!”
I tried to rise, but was jerked back into place by the short dog chain that locked my collar to the pole.
My pimp reached for his strap, but Winston cut him off. “Refusing a customer, WANNA? Slave girl putas have to take all comers, right? You’ve been a bad girl. You must learn respect for your elders. Now daddy spank.”
I shuddered as my father-in-law, relishing the moment, slowly unbuckled his belt, and drew it out of the loops, drawing it out to torture me. “Please, Winston,” I pleaded. “Just let me go. I can pay you.”
The last statement was absurd, and I knew it was as soon as the words came out of my mouth. But in truth I was so used to buying my way out of things that it was the first thing that came to mind.
“You’ll pay me soon enough, with your snappy little cha cha,” he said, as he folded the belt in half. “You are a stupid little burro, aren’t you? Let’s see if we can sharpen your wits, with a little oil from my belt.”
He raised his arm high, and brought the belt down hard. It exploded across my ass, and I cried out in pain.
“That’s for being a lying, Mexican whore.”
WHOOP!
“That’s for marrying my son!”
WHOOP!
“That’s for pretending that you’re a lady.”
WHOOP!
“That’s for refusing to suck my cock.”
WHOOP!
“That’s for slapping my face when I grabbed you by the pussy.”
“WHOOP!”
“That’s for turning my son against me!”
He had been estranged from Paul long before he met me, but as hellfire rained down on my defenseless ass, I was in no position to correct anything. Instead, I gripped the metal pole I was chained to, and took my beating like the obedient little slave whore that I was.
"What you want is a rich daddy who will give you things. But what you NEED is a strict daddy who will beat your ass with a leather belt, and fuck you, like the little taco eating puta you are!"
WHOOP!
“Who’s your daddy?”
“You are, daddy,” I said, feigning heavily accented English. “Fuck me, daddy I’ll be a good little puta. I give it to you nice and sweet.”
I was desperate to stop the beating. With tears in my eyes, I looked over my shoulder and spread my legs. My father-in-law looked at my red ass and wet pussy, weighing his desire to whip my ass against his desire to fuck me.
Blushing, I wiggled my ass for him. “Oh, Wanna hot for you, master! Fuck my hot burrito!” I said, in broken English.
Lust won out, and smiling, he unzipped his pants and pulled out his pecker. “Give me a glove,” he said to my pimp. “I don’t want to catch anything from this old taco shell I’m about to fuck.”
After putting on his condom, he entered me hard and fast. “That’s it, little Mexican jumping bean. Wiggle that ass! I’m a customer now, and there is no pretending that you’re anything but a whore. A cheap little puta in a slave brothel, getting the fucking she deserves, for the spare pesos in some beaner’s pocket. Oh, your pussy is so sweet. This is some hot burrito meat! It feels wonderful to fuck it. I’m going to enjoy you, even more than my idiot son does. Because I know how to treat you… like a PUTA.”
I gasped into my slavegasm as my father-in-law slapped me on the ass. But he kept right on fucking me, laughing as I shamed myself under him. “Coming so soon? Of course, you are! That’s what greasy Mexicans sluts, spread their legs and cum like braying donkeys when their white master’s fuck them. Don’t worry, my little chica. Daddy has lots more where this came from.”
“Who’s your padre? Who’s your padre?”
“You are, daddy!” I shouted, gasping and groaning as my father-in-law fucked me into another slave-gasm. I had never felt more ashamed, humiliated, excited, or fulfilled.
http://staging.latina.com/sites/default ... az_400.jpg
I was born in the United States, and as my mother wished, lived in the American dream. At Stanford, I met Paul, and we fell in love. Being the wife of a Silicon Valley tech entrepreneur has given me more money than I know what to do with, and a husband who travels at least one weekend a month, leaving me plenty of time to live out my fantasies.
My fantasies are dark, and dirty. My psychiatrist says that I’m trying to connect with my roots, and the father I never knew. She says I have a form of “wealth guilt”, and am seeking out a father figure that will take advantage of me, the way my mother was taken advantage of. She always asks me why I died my hair blonde, and changed my name from Juana to Jo. Why do I pretend that I can’t speak Spanish? I point out that I live in a Spanish colonial mansion, but she remains unconvinced. She says I’m both embracing and ashamed of my roots, while searching for the father I never knew. She says Paul has given me the security I want, but not the domination I crave.
All I know is my husband Paul is sweet and caring, but never wants to get down-and-dirty in the bedroom. I’ve put on a slave collar for him a few times, and he always tells me to take it off. He says he respects me too much to treat me like anything but a princess. So, I get my satisfaction elsewhere.
Depending on Paul’s schedule, I’ll catch a plane down to San Diego on Thursday, and book a suite at The Hotel Del Coronado. On Friday morning I’ll have a Sea Salt Stone massage and shampoo and styling, and sometimes a touchup on my platinum blonde hair.
After some time in the sauna and a fun dip in the pool, where my tone body always draws appreciative stares from sad pool boys and fat husbands who know that I’m way out of their league. Then I grab my overnight bag and a limo for the 30-minute drive down to the Marriott in Tijuana. I don’t really need the Presidential Suite, but I book it anyway, as having money to burn is definitely part of my cover.
It's at the hotel that the transformation begins. The designer clothes go back into the suitcase, and I change into a pink tube top, short denim skirt, and nothing else. Then I lock on my black slave collar with the red tag marking me as the property of one of the local drug cartels. I always feel a deliciously naughty tingle when I lock it onto my neck, knowing that the key is buried in my suitcase, and I won’t be seeing it again until Sunday morning. The final step is washing off my expensive makeup, and painting my face like a slave brothel whore.
Getting out of the hotel is an easy trip down the fire stairwell, but getting back to my suite on Sunday morning is a bit more challenging. I actually got caught trying to sneak back to my room once, and when the hotel manager looked up my SIN number on my lip and realized my collar was fake, he put me up for sale in the hotel gift shop! It was unspeakably humiliating, being displayed naked and being fondled my fellow guests and the bellboys who had carried my bags. Fortunately, I “persuaded” (blew) one of the busboys from the hotel’s restaurant, Condimento, and he agreed to call my friend Emma. She’s a slave trader and knows how to talk the language of business. Emma secured my release, and now regular payments to the manager assure that I am not hassled when I attempt to return to my room after my weekend fun, although I am expected to use the stairs up to my Penthouse on the trip home.
The walk to the red-light district is more than an hour, and the cheap deodorant I use comes in handy under the blazing Mexican sun. I walk down a busy industrial road, the Blvd. Agua Caliente, filed with fast food places, dentists, tire stores, gas stations, and every conceivable business. I can afford none of them. I am a peso-less, collared Mexican slave whore, with nothing but a few cheap rubbers in my fist and a plastic room key hidden in a secret pocket in my skirt to connect me to my previous life.
The Blvd Agua Caliente translates to the Street of Hot Water, which is appropriate as the cement gets red hot. I could wear sandals, but I feel that being barefoot is an important part of my role, and I simply walk on the dirt or grass when it’s available. The collar identifying me as cartel property, is excellent protection, as the police and locals do not hassle me. I am slender and sexy, and I usually get stopped by at least 2 or 3 customers. I’ll satisfy them by kneeling down in the alley and sticking my head in the car for a quick blow job. After all, nobody wants a slave puta kneeling in their car.
They pay my pimp via Venmo or another cash app, as I am not allowed to have money. The first time I showed at the brothel with 100 pesos and proudly handed it to my pimp, he turned me over his knee and tanned my ass with his belt. So much for female entrepreneurship.
My friend Emma, the slave trader, had set it up for me, and got me the cartel collar. Fortunately, the brothel never even bothered to check for my slave identification number, probably because they were making too much money off my pussy to care. And my Spanish is good, so as long as no one checked the records, it was an easy ruse to pull off, way easier than it would be in the States.
I occasionally get stopped by gang members who ask for freebees. I always oblige, although once there was a gang of eight of them and I didn’t have enough rubbers, so ended up walking to my brothel with a mouthful of scum. Oh, well, it’s all part of getting into character.
By the time I arrive at La Cuello Cha Cha (The Collared Pussy), I’m hot, stinky, and fucked, in every sense of the word. After taking a quick pee in the grate behind the alley, I enter, barefoot and collared, into the place that will be my home for the next two nights.
As I am only a slave girl, I don’t get a shower or a chance to clean up. They take my clothes, which always makes me nervous as I know my key is my only way back. They take me to a garish, worn, purple sofa, shaped like a circle, with an iron pole in the center. I kneel on the sofa, and lean forward, so they can cuff my slave collar to the center pole of the couch, locking me into position. There are six couches, with about 8 girls kneeling on every couch. I am so close to the slave slut next to me that I can feel her thighs pressing up against me, and smell her pussy stink as she rubs herself. I am expected to keep myself wet and ready for the customers, so I join my sisters, grunting softly as I pleasure my hot, wet pussy.
It doesn’t take long for me to have my first slavegasm, or my first customer. It’s a cheap brothel, and despite the fact that the soles of my bare feet are filthy, I’m skinnier and WAY hotter than the other girls. I’m by the front door, which means that looking into the room one of the first things you see is my spread open ass and pussy, wet and ready! Most of the johns fuck me right on the couch, simply dropping their pants and slipping inside my hot pussy. They unlock me for blow jobs or “room service” – actually a room full of mattresses on a cement floor, badly separated by the other mattresses by a curtain. I’m always glad for room service or a chance to suck some disgusting fat man’s pecker, as at least I get unlocked from the pole and I get a chance to stretch my legs. It’s a welcome break, as on a busy night I can get banged from behind by more than a dozen guys in an hour.
I try to keep count, but never do. I have too many slavegasms for that. The other whores call me hog and accusing me of hogging all the peckers, but I know they are just jealous.
Most of the Americans know better than to go into the slave brothels, which are typically filled with skanky girls and are run by the cartels. There are better places to get laid than the cement room with the beaten-up old hotel couches and the slave girls locked up with their tails in the air, like dogs chained to a fence.
My clientele are local scum, although they are Aztec kings compared to the puta they are fucking. But somehow that made it all the hotter, and the dirtier the client the more that it turned me on. The fact that I couldn’t refuse anyone made it all the hotter. I got the occasional decently dressed local who had heard about the hot piece of tail at the Cuello Cha Cha, but they were the rarity. Which is why I was surprised when I heard a familiar Mid-Atlantic American accent behind me.
“So where is this hot piece of ass Juan told me about? As an owner, I should know all of the inventory.”
An owner? I thought this brothel was owned by the drug cartels.
“She’s ‘dare, boss,” my pimp said. “Front-and center.”
“Oh, my! She does look out of place. But that is a hot cha cha! Look at all that slave grease!” I shuddered as the old man grabbed my pussy like a piece of liver and began massaging my wetness in my hand. “Oh, this is a tasty little burrito. Look at her squirm. A regular Mexican jumping bean!” he said, laughing as he slapped me hard on the ass.
“Turn around and show me your face, little puta. I like to see the fajita meat I’m fucking.”
Knowing that my options were to turn around and show my face to the familiar voice, or get my ass tanned with my pimp’s belt before showing my face, I turned my head.
My father-in-law’s smile faded as he tried to process who he was looking at. He knew me, of course, but it took several seconds for his brain to reconcile that it was his prim-and-proper daughter-in-law kneeling naked and spread before him.
I should explain that Paul’s relationship with his father was strained, to put it mildly, and our marriage had only deepened their separation. My father-in-law, Winston Chambers, was old money, snobby, obscenely rich, but “shady”, as my husband put it, even as he refused to say why he disapproved of my father-in-law’s wealth. I always tease Paul that he has worse “daddy issues” than his wife, and maybe he’s the one who needs therapy.
When Paul started dating me, Winston made in clear that he disapproved strongly of my “pedigree” as the ‘anchor baby bastard of an illegal.” Everyone calls me “Jo”, but he always called me by my given name “Juna,” pronounced in a heavily accented “WANNA?”, or “Miss Gomez” in the most sarcastic tone, as if he were saying MISS Pig-Sow.”
At our wedding Winston got drunk, and during the wedding toast “joked” that he “never understood why his son, who had everything, married this beaner. I told him, son, you can fuck a puta, but you don’t marry them. I’m sure she’s good in bed… hell, I’d fuck her myself, but I don’t have any pesos to pay her with.”
He went on like this for 2 minutes, with the Best Man trying to shut him up. When he took off after my poor illegal mother, and said he’d “let her scrub my toilet anytime”, my husband lunged at him, and had to be pulled off. Needless to say, I don’t often look at my wedding photos.
It got worse after we married. Over the years Winston has repeatedly squeezed or slapped my ass, grabbed my breasts, threatened to have me and my mother deported, offered to “bang me like a congo drum”, and ‘complimented’ me by saying, “You don’t look Mexican, with the dye job. Do you dye the rug, too? You should, in case ICE checks.”
Now my father-in-law knew that I shaved, completely, for he was holding my soggy pussy in his hand. He didn’t let go, but continued fondling my wetness, even as his brain struggled to process what he was seeing.
“Jo?” he finally said, struggling to believe his eyes, as he used my correct name for the first time ever.
“Winston?” I said stupidly. “I can explain. It’s… sort of a game.”
His expression moved from baffled, to shocked, to confused, before finally resting on amused. It took him almost a minute to speak. “Well, now I know what my spoiled, pampered daughter-in-law does during her weekends at The Del. Like to play puta, do you? Well, don’t worry, little chica. Your padre can make all of your dreams come true.”
Turning to my pimp, I pleaded for my release. “No! No! Dejame ir!”
I tried to rise, but was jerked back into place by the short dog chain that locked my collar to the pole.
My pimp reached for his strap, but Winston cut him off. “Refusing a customer, WANNA? Slave girl putas have to take all comers, right? You’ve been a bad girl. You must learn respect for your elders. Now daddy spank.”
I shuddered as my father-in-law, relishing the moment, slowly unbuckled his belt, and drew it out of the loops, drawing it out to torture me. “Please, Winston,” I pleaded. “Just let me go. I can pay you.”
The last statement was absurd, and I knew it was as soon as the words came out of my mouth. But in truth I was so used to buying my way out of things that it was the first thing that came to mind.
“You’ll pay me soon enough, with your snappy little cha cha,” he said, as he folded the belt in half. “You are a stupid little burro, aren’t you? Let’s see if we can sharpen your wits, with a little oil from my belt.”
He raised his arm high, and brought the belt down hard. It exploded across my ass, and I cried out in pain.
“That’s for being a lying, Mexican whore.”
WHOOP!
“That’s for marrying my son!”
WHOOP!
“That’s for pretending that you’re a lady.”
WHOOP!
“That’s for refusing to suck my cock.”
WHOOP!
“That’s for slapping my face when I grabbed you by the pussy.”
“WHOOP!”
“That’s for turning my son against me!”
He had been estranged from Paul long before he met me, but as hellfire rained down on my defenseless ass, I was in no position to correct anything. Instead, I gripped the metal pole I was chained to, and took my beating like the obedient little slave whore that I was.
"What you want is a rich daddy who will give you things. But what you NEED is a strict daddy who will beat your ass with a leather belt, and fuck you, like the little taco eating puta you are!"
WHOOP!
“Who’s your daddy?”
“You are, daddy,” I said, feigning heavily accented English. “Fuck me, daddy I’ll be a good little puta. I give it to you nice and sweet.”
I was desperate to stop the beating. With tears in my eyes, I looked over my shoulder and spread my legs. My father-in-law looked at my red ass and wet pussy, weighing his desire to whip my ass against his desire to fuck me.
Blushing, I wiggled my ass for him. “Oh, Wanna hot for you, master! Fuck my hot burrito!” I said, in broken English.
Lust won out, and smiling, he unzipped his pants and pulled out his pecker. “Give me a glove,” he said to my pimp. “I don’t want to catch anything from this old taco shell I’m about to fuck.”
After putting on his condom, he entered me hard and fast. “That’s it, little Mexican jumping bean. Wiggle that ass! I’m a customer now, and there is no pretending that you’re anything but a whore. A cheap little puta in a slave brothel, getting the fucking she deserves, for the spare pesos in some beaner’s pocket. Oh, your pussy is so sweet. This is some hot burrito meat! It feels wonderful to fuck it. I’m going to enjoy you, even more than my idiot son does. Because I know how to treat you… like a PUTA.”
I gasped into my slavegasm as my father-in-law slapped me on the ass. But he kept right on fucking me, laughing as I shamed myself under him. “Coming so soon? Of course, you are! That’s what greasy Mexicans sluts, spread their legs and cum like braying donkeys when their white master’s fuck them. Don’t worry, my little chica. Daddy has lots more where this came from.”
“Who’s your padre? Who’s your padre?”
“You are, daddy!” I shouted, gasping and groaning as my father-in-law fucked me into another slave-gasm. I had never felt more ashamed, humiliated, excited, or fulfilled.
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