New Mexican Hooker Maids

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“New Mexican Hooker Maids”

by J.D. Savanyu

A hot summer night in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. A small hick town named after a wacky 1950’s game show. A dry desert breeze wafted across the shallow Rio Grande in a glorious sunset, ruffling an American flag in front of the Cadillac Motel. A fancy name for a sleazy den of depravity. Pickup trucks were steadily arriving from Riverside Drive, pulling into a small parking lot beneath a flickering neon sign. Ten “undocumented” prostitutes from Old Mexico waited in the employee lounge, in tacky vintage French maid costumes.

“Maldita sea, odio estos estúpidos atuendos,” Camila Valentino whined in her native language. “Son demasiado cálidos para Nuevo México, y tan objetivantes. Las doncellas de verdad no las han usado desde los locos años veinte.” (Damn, I hate these stupid outfits. They’re too warm for New Mexico, and so objectifying. Real maids haven’t worn these since the roaring twenties.”

“Pero nuestros ‘clientes’ los aman,” Rosa Perez replied while adjusting her tight black dress with lacy white trim and a shiny white apron. “Pone a los hombres en un modo de juego de rol de fantasía, como uno de esos programas de anime con chicas disfrazadas de zorras.” (But our ‘clients’ love them. It puts men in a role playing fantasy mode, like one of those anime shows with slutty cosplay chicks.)

“Yo también odio el anime,” Camila grunted white putting on her black-and-white lacy housekeeper cap. “¿Por qué los chicos japoneses tienen que dibujar a todas las mujeres con enormes tetas, globos oculares gigantes y un rayo por cabello?” (I hate anime too. Why do Japanese guys have to draw every lady with huge tits, giant eyeballs, and lightning for hair?)

“El sexo vende, cariño. Y las mujeres realistas son un verdadero desvío.” (Sex sells, honey. And realistic women are a real turn-off.)

Gary Johson marched into the room with a perpetual slimy grin. The cliché pimp was decked out in a blue Brooks Brothers business suit to make him seem “respectable.”

“Aright ladies, this is the busiest time of the year, so you better clean up real fucking good. I want this motel looking spic-and-span tonight, if you catch my drift. ” (That white Irish dude assumed all Mexicans were uneducated hotheads.) “We got our first client of the evening in room 107. He looks like a real handful, so I’m giving him the hottest girl. Princess Camila.”

“Si, Senor Johnson,” she giggled with a rush of pride.

“Get your big juicy latinx ass over there, and bring home the bacon for daddy.”

“Si, Senor Johnson,” she giggled again. “I do right by you always.”

Camila adjusted her ridiculous costume and pushed a cart full of cleaning supplies that was just for show. The real illegal immigrant maids worked in the morning hours, in modern gender-neutral sky-blue uniforms. She left the dingy lounge and stepped out to a muggy night in Truth or Consequences. The neon sign of Pedro’s Discount Liquor gleamed on the other side of the Rio Grande, casting an eerie reflection on the water. The Cadillac Motel eerily resembled the Rosebud Motel in Schitt’s Creek, her favorite sitcom. Post-war prefab architecture at its low-bid worst.

Camila was a prostitute ever since she was eighteen down in Chihuahua, earning a thousand pesos a month. Below the definition of a “living wage” by American standards. Four years later, she was earning four times as much in dollars, and loving every minute of it. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for another wild night, then she knocked on the fading red door of room 107.

“Be there right quick, baby!” beamed a deep baritone voice. She looked through the thin white curtains and saw the outline of a tall man with a ten-gallon cowboy hat getting off the bed. A big smile spread across her face. She loved ranch dudes most of all.

“Howdy, senorita,” said the rugged blonde cowboy in standard longhorn herder attire, including a big belt buckle that was shaped like New Mexico, with a bold warning: “Don’t Mess with N.M.!”

“Howdy, senor. I am Camila the maid, at your service,” she replied with a thick Mexican accent.

“I could tell that from a mile away, darlin’. That French maid costume is fucking awesome.”

She giggled sweetly and batted her long eyelashes. “Muchas gracias.”

“Vous êtes la bienvenue, madame.” (You’re very welcome, madam.)

She giggled again. “Lo siento, I do not know any French words besides ‘oui-oui’ and ‘croissant.’

“That’s okay, querida. They never teach that frou-frou language down in Me-hee-co. That’s where you’re from, right?”

“Si senor, I am from Chihuahua. I sneak to America last year.” She bit her tongue, remembering istanbul travesti too late not tell any Johns that she ‘sneaked,’ because they might be undercover cops or I.C.E. Agents, putting the freeze on.

“A French maid from south of the border. Holy fuck,” the cowboy snickered. “Come on in, Camila. This motel room needs a good scrubbing.”

She stepped into a small crappy room with an old queen size bed and an “el cheapo” television set that was turned off. A laptop computer was turned on and playing a hardcore porn scene with Missy Martinez and Jordi El Nino Polla. Riding his dick in the reverse cowgirl position on a granite kitchen countertop, with fresh tropical fruit surrounding their naked bodies. Yummy. Camila tossed her hair again and flashed her best seductive grin.

“Business first, darling,” she said. “Two hundred for one hour, four hundred all night.”

“Of course, baby. I’m all about the Benjamins.” He pulled out his wallet and gave her two crisp hundred dollar bills. “I made a cool ten grand selling longhorns at the cattle market today, and I’m giving you a cut of the action. Here’s two hundred bucks for sixty minutes of heaven. “

Camila sniffed the crisp Franklins, savoring the bittersweet aroma of success. She put them in her cleaning cart and twiddled her long jet-black bangs.

“Now then, what should I scrub first?”

“You already know the answer to that question, mamacita.”

“Indeed I do, tu sexy vaquero.” (You sexy cowboy.)

He snickered sleazily and unfastened his novelty belt buckle. It hit the linoleum floor with a sharp thud, and his eight-inch dick soon sprang outward. Matching his macho personality. She dropped to her knees, licked her plump latina lips, adjusted her frilly French maid cap, and dove right in. Sucking that cowboy cock with well-trained precision while growling like a raging bull.

“Yee-ha! Daddy been riding the range so fucking hard, but you make it worth every fucking mile.”

She groaned louder against his man-meat, twisting her head while bobbing her torso back at forth at a steady clip. Not too fast, not too slow, with just the right amount of suction. Just like her pimp taught her; practicing during the sweltering hot afternoons on Gary Johnson’s johnson in his office, with walls full of Hustler centerfolds. She’d come a long way since blowing drug cartel bosses in barrio brothels. Reaching her true destiny in Truth or Consequences.

“I’m getting’ my money’s worth, bitch,” the cowboy grunted, dropping his warm country welcome act and revealing his true nature. “Get that big dick all the way in that pretty mouth.”

Camila let go of the base of the shaft and slowly moved her lips toward his hairy balls. Suspense was the secret to her success. She got just half an inch away from rock bottom before the gag reflex kicked in. He grabbed the back of her head and face-fucked the back of her throat, gagging her over and over and over. He finally stopped, and she pulled out with a loud gasp of exhiliration.

“Fuck yeah, maldita puta sucia!” (You dirty fucking whore!) “I love getting those big pretty eyes all bloodshot from gagging.”

“I fucking want more, maldito semental de los bosques!” (You fucking backwoods stud!)

She shoved his big manly penis back in her mouth and skull-fucked him willingly, gagging even more. He took off the rest of his rancher get-up, revealing an impressive set of muscles. The rough-riding buckaroo of her Wild West fantasies, ravaging a fair maiden from Me-hee-co.

“Damn cowgirl, you suck dick mighty fine. But let’s see how well you ride a big fucking stallion.”

“Saddle up, pardner,” she beamed; awkwardly imitating John Wayne. Not a minute too soon, because she was getting dizzy from all that gagging, and her knees were getting sore on that hard 1960’s tile floor. He dove onto the squeaky queen-size mattress and pointed his spit-soaked penis toward the water-stained ceiling of room 107. She took off her stupid french maid costume (except the frilly cap) and mounted him like the cowgirl she wished she was, sliding that big fat dick slowly up her big wet twat, savoring the building electric charge as it went deeper and deeper. She bobbed up and down at a moderate pace while he squeezed her d-cup breasts. She moaned pleasantly at the same tempo. Not obnoxiously, like most hookers and porn stars. Just loud enough to keep her clients focused on the task at hand. The task they paid their hard-earned money for.

“Fuck yeah, chiquita. I love call girls who make it last.”

“I do whatever you please, cowboy.”

“That’s right, you’re my ‘undocumented’ fuck slave. I bet you like it rough, like one of them gang bangers travesti istanbul back in Me-hee-co.”

“Si, senor. I love hard fucking men. Treat me rough, please.”

“Your wish is my command, bitch.”

He shoved her down to the mattress, then he stood up, hoisted her legs up to his shoulders, and pounded her pussy like hell. Making her whole body flap around like a ragdoll.

“¡Oh, Dios, sí, duro como la mierda! ¡Soy una chica mala, me lo merezco!” (Oh god yes, hard as fuck! I am bad girl, fucking deserving it!)

“Damn right you’re bad, you dirty devious maid. Crashing the border, selling your body, and dodging the tax man. Here’s your punishment, straight from Uncle Sam.”

He slammed her lean body down on the bed and slapped her big ass square and hard, making her shriek in painful pleasure.

“Fuck yeah, that big Mexican ass sound so good when I spank it.”

“Spank me harder, padre! Turn my ass fucking red!”

He spanked her harder, over and over and over. She lost count at fifteen; shrieking loudly and squeezing a lumpy pillow down to nothing. A minute later, the cowboy flipped her over roughly and slapped her tits and pussy with the same unbridled aggression (pun intended.) The stinging sensation mixed with endorphins, driving her insane. She pounded her fists against the drywall behind the bed, hearing the muffled moans of another fake maid, bouncing up and down in room 106.

He lifted up Camila’s legs and fucked her just as hard in the missionary position, making those big ol’ boobies spin round and round. Where they stop, don’t nobody know. He wrapped his strong hands gently around her throat and pounded her pussy even harder; sweating bullets on a muggy night in a room with an old air conditioner that barely worked. He nibbled every square inch of her big tits, adding more delightful pain to the mix. She loved rough sex with dominant men, and this cowboy was sending her to cloud nine.

He finally got his fill of alpha male aggression, letting go of her throat and glaring at her sweaty face with a wicked country boy smirk.

“Have you learned your lesson, you fucking whore?”

“Si, si! I learn well, Senor Cowboy. Like naughty country schoolgirl.”

“You deserve a little reward after your punishment. Some Magic Fingers should do the trick.”

“Fuck yeah. Buy me a massage with your cow cash.”

The cowboy picked up his wallet, pulled out a few quarters, and plunked them into a metal box next to the bed. The mattress started vibrating powerfully, sending a fresh wave of pleasure throughout her spank-sore body.

“Oh shit, that is muy bien!” she moaned while rubbing her clit in slow circles. “Oh mi maldito dios, I am so fucking horny! Fuck me hard again, please. Make more magic with your cowboy prick.”

“Fucking right I will. I ain’t got my money’s worth yet.”

He lifted her up in the air, slammed her face-down on the vibrating bed, and slammed her pussy with his prick. Feeling the full weight of his hulking frame with every thrust. His well-defined muscles strained and bulged against her delicate feminine body, literally bouncing off her wide hips. She reached underneath and masturbated as well as she could under those difficult conditions. She knew it wouldn’t take long for both of them to “ride off into the sunset.”

Her orgasm arrived promptly and massively, making her entire body shudder like an earthquake on that shaking bed. Her epic climax lasted nearly thirty seconds, as he kept fucking her with athletic abandon. Her loud moaning gradually subsided to dreamy murmuring. Drowning in total satisfaction, physically and emotionally. She didn’t have any real boyfriends in America yet, so she had to make the most of out these random emotionless transactional flings in a sleazy backwater motel. Turning nothing into something in her mind.

The cowboy pulled out a minute later and hoisted her up in the air yet again, like a WWE superstar. The craziest customer she ever had, and she couldn’t get enough. He bodyslammed her on the shaking mattress, and yanked her to a sitting position. He stood up on the bed and stroked his big dick at a rapid clip, aiming right between her big brown eyes.

“Wanna know the truth, querida?”

“Si, senor. Don’t fucking lie to me,” she replied, bracing herself for another messy facial treatment.

“You’re the best damn hooker I ever banged. That’s the truth.”

She groaned with another rush of sinful pride.

“And here’s the consequences!”

A powerful blast of hot splooge hit her right on the left eyeball. She yelped in pain, then moaned in pleasure as more and more covered the rest of her face and her black-and-white maid cap. It oozed istanbul travestileri down to her big throbbing tits, her flat toned belly, and her wet throbbing pussy. A tremendous load of man-milk, turning her into a giant glazed churro. He obviously hadn’t cum for at least five days; saving up to make this occasion truly special.

“God damn, you dirty fucking maid. You look like a farm slut at a barn bukkake.”

She giggled pleasantly while fingering some white stuff into her mouth. Lots of male pheremones to sweeten her happy ending.

“You ride cowgirls so fucking good, senor. Like Butch Cassidy in Wild West.”

“More like Billy the Kid. But I ain’t never been caught,” he remarked. He grabbed his wallet and pulled out another hundred dollar bill. “I’m giving you a big tip, baby. You fucking earned it.”

“Muchas gracias, senor,” she beamed. She took the Benjamin and put it next to the other two in a cart full of cleaning supplies that she never used.

“De nada, Princess Camila. I’m gonna come back next Saturday night, and break you in some more. Get you ready for the open range.”

“Please do. I will dream of you so much till then. No fucking lie.”

“You’ll be in my dreams too, baby. Hell, I might even hire you at my longhorn ranch. I could use a maid to clean things up, then clean me up.”

“Si, si. I would love to be your French New Mexican maid, scrubbing your floor and eating your croissant.”

She got dressed, left his room, and glided dreamily into the employee lounge of the Cadillac Motel. Five other maid whores were sitting there in frilly Frenchie costumes, watching Schitt’s Creek while waiting for clients to show up.

“Hola chicas, mi John me acaba de dar una propina de cien dólares,” she boasted. (Hey girls, my John just gave me a hundred dollar tip.)

“¿Me estás jodiendo?” Rosa sneered. (Are you shitting me?)

She pulled out her three Benjamins and waved them proudly. “Léelo y llora.” (Read it and weep.)

“Maldita sea, Camila, ojalá tuviera tu toque mágico y sexy,” said Guadalupe Alviar. (Damn, Camila, I wish I had your magic sexy touch.)

“Los celos hacen que el corazón se encariñe,” Camila beamed. (Jealousy makes the heart grow fonder.)

“Te apuesto cincuenta dólares a que puedo obtener una propina de cien dólares de mi próximo John,” boasted Evita Castillo. (I bet you fifty bucks that I can get a hundred dollar tip from my next John.)

“Estás encendida, perra. Estoy de humor para apostar,” Camila snickered. (You’re on, bitch. I’m in a gambling mood.)

A toilet flushed in the adjacent bathroom, then Gary Johnson entered the lounge while zipping up his blue Brook Brothers slacks. “Hey Princess Camila, ya got a royal tribute for me?”

“Si, si,” she beamed. “A nice chunk of change for big daddy.” She gave him one hundred, keeping her contractual share of a hundred fifty.

“Muchas gracias, mamacita,” he replied like the standard pompous pimp he was. He smacked her big juicy latinx ass through a black vintage skirt, making her yelp and laugh playfully.               “You love that rough stuff, Senorita Valentino. You’re the queen of the Nile, and nobody can deny.”

………………………………………..

Meanwhile, ten blocks away at the Truth or Consequences police headquarters, Sheriff Ellwood Lobo was sipping coffee and nibbling a glazed churro. Waiting impatiently for someone to break the law in that boring-ass town. He finally got up and went over to Peter Whitecloud to shoot the breeze. The tall Navajo deputy was cleaning his service pistol over an issue of Hustler’s Barely Legal; opened to a centerfold with Luna Star. Spreading her eighteen-year-old cunt lips nice and wide. Ellwood gazed at the pink folds of her vagina over Pete’s shoulder for a moment, then he cleared his throat.

“Hey Pete, you’re violating Section 284-D of the penal code. No pornography allowed in public buildings.”

“Since when were you a bible-thumping prude? You read Hustlers all the time in your office. Not to mention Cheri, Fox, Swank, and Juggs.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a slow crime day, so I’m cleaning up the shop. Put that shit away.”

“Fine, whatever,” Pete grumbled. He threw the dirty magazine into a desk drawer and checked the Crime Stoppers anonymous tip line on his computer.

“Hey boss, I got somethin’ real innarestin’ here. Someone claims there’s a prostitution ring running out of the old Cadillac Motel. A bunch of Mexican hookers in French maid costumes.”

“I’ll be damned. That’s my favorite part of Halloween, seeing those slutty ladies all dolled up like vintage housekeepers.”

“Halloween is three long months away, boss,” Pete remarked while twiddling his bushy native american moustache. “Want me to go over there and check out the situation?”

“No, that’s okay,” Sheriff Lobo replied, with a sleazy grin on his good ol’ boy face. “I’ll go over and ‘check ’em out’.”

To Be Continued…

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