Introduction

The danger of narco-states is real. The sudden presence of big money in a place of extreme poverty can lead to enormous power being delivered into the hands of barbaric drug lords, enough power in some cases to challenge the authority of the state itself. This can easily devolve into civil war, oppression, and even slavery.

International Agency for the Investigation of Drugs and Crime, 2015

Cactus County Arizona is a barren wilderness with a land area bigger than Connecticut and Rhode Island combined but a population about the size of Waco, Texas. The Department of Vichada, Columbia is a state in the nation of Columbia mostly covered by Amazonian jungle. The States of Sonora and Sinaloa are in Northern Mexico bordering the U.S.

“What Is Really Going On In Sonora?” The Washington Reporter Website, July 2015.

News reports about the drug war in Northern Mexico are being challenged by a number of credible sources. These sources claim the conflict, which has resulted in hundreds perhaps thousands of deaths in the Mexican state of Sonora, was not between rival Mexican cartels, but rather was retaliation by the U.S.-based Figuera crime family for recent raids by the cartels.

These sources assert that the attacks were directed at specific towns controlled by the Sonora Cartel including the border town of Pancho Villa, and that they were executed by well-trained paramilitary forces using military weapons, including helicopters and aircraft.

Mexican authorities investigating the conflicts continue to insist these rumors are false and ridiculous exaggerations. “There is absolutely no evidence of U.S. military weapons or personnel being involved in the fighting,” says Sonora Governor Pablo Velasquez.

Sources in the Pentagon also state unequivocally that all military assets in the region have been fully accounted for and that there has been absolutely no involvement of American military personnel or assets in the fighting.

We have been unable to contact Jesus Figuera, CEO of the Figuera Family businesses or Don Francisco Madera, the accused leader of the Sonora Cartel, for comment. Some sources claim Madera is himself a victim of the recent violence.

Chapter 1

State Senator Warren Ochoa had an eye for beautiful women. He enjoyed all types but was especially excited by slender figures with long hair, long legs and subtle muscle lines. His new administrative assistant met all of these exacting criteria and more--she moved with the kind of feline grace that promised exciting sexual performance.

His mouth watered as he watched her walk across the floor to his table. She wore dumpy shoes, an ultra-conservative gray shirt that covered her legs to mid-calf, and a pair of oversized black-rimmed glasses...much too heavy for her face. Her dark red hair had been pulled back and tied in a severe and matronly bun at the back of her head.

“You definitely look uninteresting,” he said as she took the chair opposite.

“Thanks...?” she said as she sat.

“If we could only do something about your face...”

She shrugged her shoulders. On his order, she was doing her best to appear business-dowdy, but her high cheekbones, incredibly full lips, and luscious bedroom eyes were working against the disguise. They fairly screamed “sex” and as much as she tried there was little she could do to hide them.

“We wouldn’t need to do something about my face, senator, if you didn’t insist on me being at your side 24 hours a day.”

He smiled slyly. It was true--he couldn’t get enough of her, but at the same time he wanted to preserve his conservative demeanor. She thought it was dumb; everyone knew he was lecherous even by political standards. Hiding their relationship by making her look unattractive was exhausting. Who really cared if Ochoa was fucking her? He had divorced long ago. Any decent man would have affected a more accommodating balance, but Ochoa was selfish and obsessively possessive.

“Are you...sassing me...?” he asked with a menacing tone.

Sam immediately understood the danger and tried to recover.

“No, senator...I was just saying perhaps it would look better if I was in the background more. I don’t think either of us wants our real arrangement to become the focus of people’s attention.”

She reached across the table and laid her hand on his. The thing he didn’t understand was that he wasn’t fooling anyone by making her is administrative assistant, she thought smiling. Everyone in his office knew she was his mistress. Some, those who understood the score in Cactus County, knew she was with him as some kind of payoff. She had just appeared on day and he had introduced her as Jocelyn Jeffries, his newly-hired administrative assistant. Her real name was Samantha (Sam) Thomas, but using an alias was safer for all concerned.

No one really understood the evil behind the true reason they were together. She had been given to him by the Figuera Family in return for him dropping his demand that the state senate investigate the use of weapons by the military at Ft. Huachuca. She was a bribe, a much more effective means of persuasion than simple cash.

“You don’t think...,” He snarled meanly, “you don’t think.... “Since when is a slave allowed to think for herself? Do you want me to go back to Mateo and tell him you are sassing me?”

She lowered her eyes and tried to look contrite. The threat was real. If he turned her back to the Figuera Family, the consequences for her would be extremely painful. They didn’t tolerate disobedience.

She remembered the day Mateo had given her to Ochoa. He didn’t ask her permission; he had just ordered her to stay with him, to obey him. Trying to put a positive spin on it, she had convinced herself that all masters were basically the same. How naïve...she knew better now--Ochoa was a pig and that was an insult to pigs.

She had not really understood that as bad as things were for her, they could get worse.

Mateo had been kind to her compared to Ochoa. He had tried to make her situation better--he had saved her from the unspeakable horror of the dungeon at Casa de Huespedes after her abduction. He had taken her into his house and protected her from the worst of the atrocities. It was true he had held her captive, as a slave, but he did that of necessity. She owed him. She had learned to live with her captivity, with him as her master, even to...desire him.

But her time with Ochoa was different. He was basically a weak man who had gained power through manipulation and deceit. He had been used this power to blackmail the Figuera Family over the Fort Huachuca incident. She was sure he had not understood the danger of that move. It would have been easy for the Family to stage a fatal accident for him, but these were delicate times to kill a state senator even one as widely disliked as Ochoa. In the end, Tio had decided to bribe him with a female slave.

She looked up at his smug face and felt an instant revulsion.

“I’m sorry, Master,” she whispered submissively, trying to appear as small and meek as possible.

Amazingly, Ochoa responded to fawning obsequiousness as if it was his due. This was the characteristic that she found most revolting--the man thought he was strong simply because things had gone his way. She knew it wasn’t true; everyone’s life was a coin toss. Hers for example had changed in an instant. Good luck was no substitute for real strength in a man.

She looked up trying to look frightened then bowed her head. She was his for a year no matter what she did, no matter how much he punished and abused her. Mateo had made it clear that she needed to obey him regardless of what she thought. It was a condition that kept her alive.

“I think you need another lesson, Jocelyn,” he said quietly removing his hand from hers. “I’ve been gentle with you up to now thinking you would bring your mouth under control yourself. I can see now I was wrong--bitches like you respond only to two things, sex and pain. Yes, I have been too nice. We will correct that tonight. I promise.”

Sam kept her head down, unwilling to look in his eyes afraid he would see her contempt for him and really go wild. Mateo would never understand any of this; Tio would never understand how odious the man was. She was trapped.

***

Sam groaned with the pain; the ache in her feet was excruciating. When she tried to get off her toes to relax her burning calf muscles, the noose cut off her air. Was the bastard trying to kill her? She wondered, close to panic. If her muscles gave out, she would hang. Was that what he wanted?

She sucked in air through her clenched teeth and forced herself back onto her toes. Sharp spikes of pain rose up from her legs but she ignored them. Air was the priority at this moment. Suddenly the rope constricting her throat loosened and she was able to breathe. She could feel her muscles trembling; her entire body was shaking. Home much more of this could she take?

Didn’t he understand the fucking rules? If she died or was damaged, his life would be forfeit. The Family might be willing to use her as a bribe, but they would not look the other way if she showed up dead. The big boss, Tio, would consider it a lack of respect and Ochoa would pay for that with his life in a very painful way. Had he forgotten who he was dealing with?

Her bare feet were shaking again and sweating causing her to slip on the hardwood floor. She pulled her arms in frustration knowing they would not come free. He had crossed her wrists behind and tied them tightly, too tightly--her hands were numb. Pulling on them just made the ropes tighter.

Her toes slipped again in the pool of wetness under her feet. Sweat was pouring off her naked body now in rivulets. Was this how people died, she wondered, sweating and shaking? She tried to scream out a desperate warning to him as the noose tightened again, but there wasn’t enough air in her lungs. She could feel the hanging rope tightening on the side of her face. Blood was pounding ominously in her ears. She was seconds away from unconsciousness. In this insane bondage, unconsciousness meant death.

Time slowed to a crawl. She remembered the agonizing practice sessions at CBC (Chicago Ballet Company). They had been torturous as well, but not like this, not with the real threat of death hanging over her head. She had not been a prima ballerina at CBC, but she was good, good enough to remain with the company for two years after graduating college, good enough to endure the extreme pain of dance.

Pain... She had learned early that pain and pleasure were intimately related, that somehow they were kept in balance during a person’s life. That “balance,” however, did not mean that everyone experienced the same amount of pain and pleasure. Most people engineered their lives to feel only modest amounts of either; others felt more of both. Was this the end of both for her?

Suddenly she felt air flowing into her lungs. Ochoa had loosened the noose just enough so she could get her heels on the ground without choking. She breathed deep. She knew air had no taste, but her first lifesaving breath was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted.

She could not feel her hands or feet or her lower legs. This was a bad sign--her muscles were beginning to seize-up, to knot. Much more of this torture and she would be crippled or dead. She drew in another life-saving breath.

Crippled or dead... Ochoa had lost it. His maniacal ego had driven him to temporary madness, a madness which could very well snuff out her life. She had to do something.

“You have strong legs, bitch. I can’t resist them. They are the real reason I accepted Mateo’s offer, I wanted to feel those long legs wrapped around me as I fucked you.”

He was stroking her torso running his slimy hand from her underarms to ass cheeks as he taunted her. The noose kept her head up, facing him.

“Yeah, amazing legs... Not that I don’t admire your hair and that gorgeous face...” He moved his hands to her breasts and fondled her nipples. “And these pert breasts are of course luscious, delicious...but it is those long silky legs that get my motor started, you know what I mean?”

He was rambling, enjoying her agony, getting off on her fear. She turned her eyes towards his and saw the craziness in him. He was drunk but also insane. She didn’t object to the bondage anymore; she was even getting used to the hard agonizing discipline that came with her slavery, but madness... She could not submit to madness.

“The thing about legs is they need to flow from toe to crotch. I don’t appreciate muscles--hard-edged calves or bulging thighs--that’s a real turn off. I don’t want to fuck a weight-lifter, you know? And sometimes a girl’s kneecaps are too pronounced...everything has got to fit together properly.” He paused as if thinking. “I definitely don’t want the leg to be cone shaped either; it has got to have good sexy proportion.” He turned away then back again as if remembering one last thing in his explanation. “I also don’t like flat feet; I want a female sized foot and a high sexy arch...”

He put his face in hers. She could feel his hot breath on her face, smell the bourbon. Ochoa liked to drink to excess. He wasn’t a great lover in the best of times, but when he was drunk, he was terrible. He tried to compensate by inflicting impossibly harsh bondage and gratuitously cruel discipline, but he was bad at those as well. But there was a difference between bad and crazy; tonight he was crazy.

“It’s a lot to ask in a girl, but don’t worry, you got it all,” he whispered. “Yeah...perfect legs...strong legs...”

Was he really drunk or was he using his drunkenness as an excuse? Was that what he had been doing while she strangled at the end of this noose? The idea of it, the carelessness he showed towards her life hardened her resolve.

“...Don’t like your fucking mouth though,” he slurred, reaching into his pockets.

He held two piranha clips in front of her face. Her eyes opened wide and she tried to plead, but still could not draw sufficient air into her lungs to do it effectively. The steel clips bit at her nipples like a wild animal gnawing them with short sharp metal teeth. She couldn’t even scream; she just closed her eyes then opened them to stare at him with a desperate agonized look of pure suffering.

He smiled at her expression. Suddenly she realized he was holding a whip. It was a six-strand leather affair with a bone handle. He stepped back then swung it a dozen times into her ass and thighs with the full strength of his arms. She was screaming silently in her mind when he finally rested.

“Don’t you ever talk back to me again like you did today, understand, bitch? You are going to do whatever I tell you to do for another year. That was the deal and I’m holding the Family to it, understand? No one is going to step in here to rescue you; you don’t show me the proper respect and I’ll fucking kill you.”

She believed him.

He gave her another dozen strokes and her knees buckled from the unending torment. He let her hang free, strangling again, until her taut body began to convulse then he loosened the rope and let her drop helplessly to the floor.

He left the room.

She lay in a heap for a long time trying to regulate her breathing, trying to bring her muscles back to life. She knew he would be back--no matter how drunk he was, he always worked himself up to fucking her. It was as if he was challenging himself, as if walking away from her nude and bound body was an insult to his manliness.

She was right. An hour later he came back and removed her ropes then ordered her to the bed. She waited calmly as he tried to insert his flaccid cock into her pussy. It kept bending as it tried to penetrate her tight gateway muscle.

“Let me help, Master,” she offered meekly. “You just lie back down and I’ll take care of everything.”

He rolled over onto his back, half conscious. She knelt over him then used her tongue on his entire body starting with his feet. He began to moan as she approached his balls then groan as she took his entire sack into her mouth. She was fighting to keep him awake and aroused. It took a long time, but eventually he ejaculated with a pitifully meager spurt and a mild convulsion. She continued to kiss and nip at his skin soothing him into a near-paralyzed state of post-coital bliss.

When he was totally relaxed, she crawled to his head, gently removed his pillow, climbed over his face, and sat on this mouth and nose. He opened his eyes and stared up at her surprised to find her cunt blocking his airways. There was no alarm at first; he was annoyed that she would think he was going to eat her out, but he was not concerned. It was only when her dance-strong thighs closed on the side of his head that he showed fear in his eyes, but by then it was already too late.

His arms reached up to push her off; she grabbed his wrists and held them down with her full body weight. Suddenly, he was struggling to draw a breath and began to flail wildly at her, jerking his body to throw her off. She held on squeezing her thighs with her full strength, with the full power gained from 14 years of dancing. It was like riding a wild thrashing bull.

His eyes bulged. She could feel his mouth desperately sucking air from the inside of her vagina. It was no use--he couldn’t get enough to live and he didn’t have enough leverage to throw her off.