Renee couldn't take her eyes away. The girl's panties were around her ankles. She was squeezed in a human sandwich between two men. Behind her, the man was guiding his huge penis into her ass with his hand. His face was hideous, twisted. Renee didn't want to look. But she couldn't take her eyes away.
Dimly, in the background, she heard the whir of the movie projector, smelled the sweat and cologne that permeated the room. Inside she was sick. She'd never dreamed it would be anything like this. And still she couldn't stop looking.
On the flickering movie screen the girl's mouth was open. She was screaming, or saying something, or crying. Renee couldn't tell which since there was no sound with the movie. Slowly, the girl's butt caught the man's rhythm and jerked with it, cramming the huge prick in inch by inch.
The camera swept over her jolting hips and settled on the prick in front. The dark, swollen head nestled in her black pubic hair. It was still wet, shiny from the girl's mouth. She had been sucking it only moments earlier as the men stripped her.
Renee quivered. She'd never seen a cock that big. Her ass ached with sympathy for the girl in the movie, but her vagina held an unceasing itch that made her wiggle and squirm for relief.
The man guided his penis with his hand. The great head flared out like a dark, blood-filled mushroom pushing relentlessly against the girl's slit. She tried to pull away and succeeded only in driving the other man's large cock deeper into her asshole.
Behind her, the man said something, grinned, then grabbed the girl's hips with both hands and jerked her tight against him.
The girl's mouth snapped open. In her mind Renee imagined she heard the shrill cry of anguish. The agony of the probing prick. And then the man in front drove forward, pushing her cunt open like it was wet paper.
The girl was gasping. The two men had matched their cadence, driving in together, lifting her off her feet on their spearing pricks.
Up she went, her toes straining to touch the ground as they rammed into her. Down, and her knees sagged while the endless lengths of cock pulled out of her, shining in the movie lights.
Renee was sweating. Her own breath came in harsh gasps in empathy with the girl. What was she doing here? In a Mexican whorehouse watching a dirty movie? She tore her gaze from the screen and peeked at Fran's patrician profile outlined against the beam of light from the projector. It was Fran's idea. When that Mexican cab driver said he could take them to see some dirty movies, Fran jumped at the chance. "Don't be a virgin," Fran chided patronizingly when Renee had objected.
But it didn't take much chiding. Renee had to admit that. She was curious. She'd never seen a dirty movie. She'd never seen people making love and she'd wondered how it would affect her. So she had nodded and Fran told the taxi driver "yes!"
Renee's glance was drawn back to the pictures on the screen. She gasped.
One of the whores, a big-breasted brunette with the high, flat cheekbones of an Indian, was sitting on a man's lap. The woman had the front of his pants open and was pulling his penis into view while he watched the movie.
Hastily Renee looked away, focusing her eyes back on the screen where the two men were pounding their pricks into the poor girl at a furious rate. Her panties had slipped off her feet and her legs were splayed so that she was held up only by the vicious ramming.
Her mouth was working as the men made their last hard, desperate assaults and plunged deep into her as their sperm shot into her.
Renee looked into her eyes. They seemed to be staring straight at her from the screen. Tears ran down the girl's cheeks. But her hips still convulsed between the two, immobile men as they milked the intruding cocks for the last morsel of nourishment.
And the screen was blank white and the lights went on. Renee's eyes hurt from the sudden glare. She blinked, gingerly, afraid to really close her eyes in a place like this.
"Fran, let's go."
"Wait a minute." Fran was staring at something. Renee followed the direction of her gaze and blushed. A whore in a gaudy blue and white dress had the skirt around her waist showing the dark fur between her legs. One of her prospective customers was nuzzling her crotch, his tongue flicking wildly as it caressed her slit.
Renee shivered, imagining that hot, greedy tongue at her own crack. "Fran," she whispered. "Let's go."
"All right, sissy." Fran picked up her purse and led the way across the room.
Renee tried not to look. But it was all around her. The men and prostitutes acting like animals. Ripping and tearing each other sexually.
"Going, girls?" The Mexican at the door leered as he opened it for them.
"What else is there to stay for?" Fran stopped to ask her question, half in and half out of the door.
"Oh," the Mexican winked. "There is mas… more. Maybe you come back later we have a mucho especial show tonight."
"When?"
"A las dos, senorita."
Renee could see Fran frowning mentally as she tried to convert dos into its numerical equivalent in English. "Two, Fran," she whispered. "Come on, let's go."
"All right." She smiled at the doorman. "A las dos, senor."
"Si, senorita," he leered. "You come back then, okay?"
"Okay!" Fran agreed. Then Renee pushed her outside and the door was closed behind them.
Fran straightened her hair. "Really, Renee, sometimes you act like a child."
Renee didn't pay any attention. She was happy taking deep breaths of fresh air untainted by the smell of stale sex and cigarettes. Fran would cool off after a while. The thing that counted was the fact that they were out of there.
When they had crossed the border at San Ysidro, Fran hadn't given the slightest hint she was interested in anything more than sight-seeing. It was thrilling enough for Renee. It was the first time she had ever been on foreign soil.
The fact that Tijuana was a border town with an international reputation as a hell hole of perversion lent spice to the experience, but Renee didn't have any desire to learn any of the perversions – or even see the inside of anything more licentious than the main street bars.
It would be enough to see the statues on the Avenida Revoluccion, trade some of her college Spanish with a waitress or two, and then get safely back to Eureka, Montana.
School teaching wasn't very adventurous, Renee thought ruefully. But adventure wasn't everything. Renee set her lips tightly. Maybe getting screwed in a snowbank by John Benter wasn't the most exciting thing possible, but it was safe and assured.
They had walked up the hill and crossed the main street when Fran suddenly grabbed her arm. "We're being followed, Renee!"
The fear Renee was holding in check got away from her and flooded through her body. Her knees felt weak. Blood drummed in her ears. She glanced hack and then was hurrying forward with Fran.
There were two men behind them. She couldn't swear to it, of course, but she thought she recognized one of them from the place they had left. All of the terrible fears that haunted her came to the surface: the fear of being a stranger in a strange place, fear of being in the dark, of rape and violence. Fear of fear itself. Blindly, Renee followed Fran's lead.
The streets were well lighted, but empty. A chill wind cut through the wool of Renee's sweater and stroked her breasts with cold hands. Skittering before the wind, a Mexican newspaper fluttered down the street to wrap itself around the tire of a parked car.
It waved blindly for help. A corner of the front page turned in the breeze, flapped for attention. Muerte, it said in huge, black type. Muerte. Death.
"We've got to get off the street, Fran."
Both women were breathing hard. Fran nodded. Along the buildings a huge electric sign spelled out the words "Brooklyn Bar". Fran almost ran through the doorway. Renee was only seconds behind her.
Inside it was black. Slowly their eyes adjusted to the gloom.
They were being jostled along a rail that ran parallel to the bar.
"What you have, ladies?"
A fat bartender leaned across the wood-topped bar and breathed halitosis and onions on the two women. "What you have, ladies?"
"Beer," Fran said quickly. Renee nodded. The bartender flipped the caps off two skinny bottles and plunked them down on the bar. A white cap of foam welled out of the tops and slid down the sides to lay in puddles on the bar. Fran fought with her purse and gave the bartender some money.
"Senoritas?" A waiter in a ragged white jacket led them to a table on the edge of the stage.
Renee sighed and set her beer gingerly on the table.
"Never again, Fran. Never!"
"Relax, Renee. We're out of it, aren't we?"
"I guess." Renee sipped her beer and almost choked. It was bitter. More bitter than any American beer she ever drank. Squinting, she held the bottle up to catch the dim light in the room. The label was green, or at least, it looked green. On the front it said "Mexicali".
Renee examined their refuge for the first time since they'd come in. It was a huge room almost completely without lights, one side lined with a bar. Opposite the door, where she sat with Fran, a galvanized iron pipe railing outlined a tiny, floor-level stage. The room was noisy with voices. Prostitutes, perhaps thirty or forty of them, moved from table to table. The men sat, talked, laughed, using their hands in a ritual of sex that seemed to be without pleasure.
While Renee watched, one of the women pulled a sailor away from his beer by the hand and led him toward the door.
They were attracting their own share of attention Renee realized. The men, most of whom appeared to be Americans, were constantly glancing their way. Sizing them up, Renee supposed.
Harsh, strident music suddenly flooded the room from behind a dingy, red curtain at one end of tile stage. It was paced by a throbbing drum, the blood-tingling blare of a trumpet.
The curtain flicked back for a second to reveal the musicians pounding their music into the microphone, and then the entertainers undulated onto the stage.
There were two of them. Young girls who bumped and ground their way in a two-step the length of the stage, then turned and filed back around just out of reach of the customers' grasping hands.
One of the girls unsnapped her bra, exposing her pendulous breasts. She began swaying along the pipe, batting groping hands away as they pawed at her out of the darkness. In the center of the stage the other girl was doing a bump and grind, flipping her panties down over her hips in cadence to the music while the Mexican doorman blinked his flashlight on and off, trying to catch her hairy vagina in the circle of light while her panties were down.
The girl moving along the rail was coming closer to their table, Renee realized. She also finally understood what the rail was for.
Holding the man's hands away, the girl had stopped in front of a table and thrust her breasts out while one of the spectators leaned over the rail and sucked her tit.
She continued bumping and grinding while he clung tenaciously to her breast. His friends were laughing and yelling "Ole, ole!"
Finally, the girl pulled away with a provocative twitch of her hip, leaving her – Renee searched for a word and finally pounced on one in desperation – admirer – sucking wind. His friends laughed and, when he tried to scramble into the little fenced-off stage, pulled him back.
She bobbed and swayed her way down the rail, her suckled tit higher, tauter than the other, the nipple glistening in the dim light. For a long moment the girl stood in front of their table – staring into Renee's eyes with an expression she wasn't sure she could read. Hate? Envy? Pity? It seemed all of these. Yet, the girl said nothing. Wordlessly, she turned away, gliding down the rail to the next tablefull of gaping men.
After seeing the look in the dancer's eyes, Renee wasn't sure of anything anymore. Just that she wanted out, now!
"Let's go, Fran," she insisted.
"Wait!" The older women reached across the table and gripped Renee tightly by the wrist. "Look!"
Across the stage, the other girl had started to travel down the rail. She still wore her bra.
"My God!" Renee gasped.
The girl had pushed her panties down around her thighs and was moving slowly, sensuously along the rail talking to the men.
A sailor, dressed in his winter blues, reached out with one hand. The girl caught his wrist and gently guided his fingers between her legs where they tickled the black mat of hair. She said something and laughed and then rocked her hips against the hand.
Pushing the sailor's hand away, she reached out and took the cigarette from his mouth. Throwing her hips out, she lodged the glowing ember in her pubic hair then, shuffling her feet like a dancer, turned completely around holding her arms over her head, the tiny white stick in her twat glowing an angry red.
When she faced the sailor again she handed the cigarette back to him and he put it in his mouth, sucking greedily.
The sight revolted Renee. And still her body reacted to it. She felt her panties getting wet between her thighs.
For a moment the girl and the sailor talked, gesturing. Then the sailor gave her something and the girl nodded her head. She stepped closer to the railing. Putting his hands on her hips, the sailor lowered his face until it was buried in the black mat of hair.
Renee quivered. It was too far to see his mouth, his probing tongue, the girl's hot crack. But all the same, Renee felt the sailor's lips and mouth working at her, transmitted to her through the girl.
It seemed to go on forever. The man's head against the girl's body. Finally, she moved on – only to do it again and again and again.
Renee was exhausted by the time the girl reached their table. It was all she could do to keep from screaming out as she witnessed the girl coldly performing an act that set Renee's nerves on fire just to watch.
The girl paused in front of their table too, and Renee wondered inanely if she was expected… to do that thing to her too. The girl just shrugged, opening her closed fist so the glint of silver showed. Suddenly, Renee realized why she was doing it. For money. For quarters. Every man that stopped her at the rail gave her a quarter.
Then she was gone. The waiter, a swarthy, short man, his white jacket dirty at the cuffs, the hem worn and frayed, came up to the table.
"More beer, ladies? Maybe something stronger this time, no?"
"Let's get out of here, Fran," Renee pleaded across the table. Fran nodded and Renee told the waiter, "No, gracias."
"Don' go, ladies," the waiter said, "there be more later. Bigger show. Better."
"How?" Fran asked acidly. "How can they do anymore on that stage than they've already done?"
"Don' worry, ladies," the waiter said again. "You wait. You see!"
They pushed past him to the door. Renee felt hemmed in, trapped in the filthy room. From the darkness in the back there were scattered wolf whistles as they left.
Outside, the night had grown no brighter, but the street lights and bar signs seemed to give off more light than the house lights inside.
"What time is it?" Fran asked.
Renee glanced at her watch. "One-thirty. Why?"
"We've got to hurry if we're going to be back at that other place by two."
She couldn't believe what she had heard. Renee's mouth dropped open and she felt stunned. "You can't mean it, Fran?"
"Why not?"
"It's just too… too ugly. You don't really want to go back there, do you?"
"Of course I do. And so do you." Fran turned to look at Renee. "There'll never be another chance like this, Renee. We'll go back to Eureka and read dime novels and hope a worthwhile man will come to town once before we dry up and wither away. And we'll never know what it was that was going to happen at two o'clock in that crummy whorehouse in Tijuana."
"So what?" Renee's eyes flashed. "Maybe it'll be better not knowing."
"You don't have to come!"
"You'd go alone?"
"If you won't." Fran opened her purse and calmly used her mirror to adjust her makeup by the light of the street lights. She put her compact back and snapped the brown leather bag shut with a click. "After all," she said, "just because you're chicken…"