The Great Tijuana Tongue Bath

17 min read

We were like twisted Siamese twins joined at the libido.

I’ll tell you how I met her.

It’s complicated.

When I crossed the border into Mexico I was carrying a suitcase full of cash and the memory of three dead friends. Hard to say which was heavier. It had been a good plan.

Maybe a great plan.

My plan.

You know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men? It’s true. And I know whereof I squeak.

Now everyone was dead but me, and that was definitely not the fucking plan. The score went south so hard and so fast that one of two things had to be true: either the cops had suddenly gotten a brain transfusion making them incredibly clever, or we had been set up by the inside man, in this case, a woman. I bet you can figure the odds on that one without breaking out your computer. I made myself a promise to square that at the earliest opportunity.

But first things first.

The first order of business was to touch base with the nice people who had provided the seed money. They had assumed that I had also gone down for the long dirt nap, and were both surprised and pleased to discover that I was still breathing. Maybe it was — as they claimed — because they “liked” me. But more likely it was relief. They had no doubt been contemplating the unenviable task of reporting back that both the seed money and the anticipated profits were gone with the wind. Not the kind of message you want to deliver in an organization with a long history of killing the messenger.

Expenses came off the top, plus the vig. All tolled, their cut was about 70% of the take. If you’re thinking that they drive a hard bargain, you’re right. Under the circumstances, I might have been able to stiff them by playing dead, but if they caught on, I wouldn’t be playing. And they would catch on because I had to fence the goods somehow, and nothing walks, swims or crawls unless they get a piece of the action. Besides, a deal with the devil is still a deal, and I never welch on a bet or go back on my word. Never. It’s my religion.

That left 30% for me to move, but that 30% — even at only ten or fifteen cents on the dollar — was still a chunk of cash big enough to choke a brontosaurus. With the right fence I might even get twenty cents and I was pretty sure I knew the right fence. I set that part of it in motion with a phone call. Later, after it was washed, dried and folded, I’d send shares to the widows and orphans.

With business matters concluded for the moment, that left me with one more pressing duty to perform: a wake.

An Irish wake.

I knew just the place: a seedy club called the Casa del Gato. Not exactly subtle. Or unique. Must be a thousand dives in Mexico called “House of the Cat.” Everybody knows how it translates.

This cathouse was owned by a guy I knew. Jorge by name. Played the tenor sax. Thought he was Coltrane. Sounded more like train wreck. But he knew people. He could get you women with low morals or guys with high explosives, and he knew how to keep his mouth shut even under extreme duress.

For this job, I wouldn’t need any C4.

When I explained that I intended to do enough drinking and fucking for four men, Jorge didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He just said, “Bueno. What do you need, amigo?” I told him what I had in mind and he told me what it would cost. I was flush. No problema, see?

There’s an unbelievable amount of cheap fuckmeat along the US-Mexican border. Tijuana. Juarez. Matamoros. Swarming with hookers who’ll fuck a donkey for a dollar. If you can pay, you can play all night, do-dah, do-dah. I could pay and I could pay well. Jorge lined up the talent like we were casting an epic movie. Not far off the mark. Maybe we should have filmed it. I was Mr. Phelps selecting specialized talent for my team. Emission Impossible.

I had enough to choose from that the choosing was almost a chore, insofar as meeting naked, available and insanely game women can be considered work.

The late, lamented Mickey, who once, in the joint, took a shiv that was intended for my back, had possessed the most extensive collection of big tit magazines in the known universe. I wondered what would become of them now. Maybe I’d donate them to charity. Deprived orphans, maybe. In his memory, I selected a soft, zaftig sweetie with pumpkin-orange hair that I hoped to hell wasn’t natural, and a set of pendulous jugs that definitely were. Blue-ribbon winners at any county fair in the States. The nipples were the size of the top of my thumb. She had a smile almost as big as her titanic bosom. Damn, I don’t remember her name. Let’s call her Molly Brown.

For Freddie B — B for Biko — I chose a lean, mature woman who looked strong as an ox and nearly as smart. She didn’t smile at all. Much too long in the game, she had her share of wrinkles, stretch marks, and smattering of silver in her thick brown hair — above and below — and tattoos that had seen their prime. I believe her name was Ruby, or maybe “Rubia,” though she wasn’t blonde. She had a businesslike, take-me-or-leave-me attitude that clearly said she didn’t give a fuck. She didn’t expect to be cast for a part. Now, if ever there was a guy who didn’t give a fuck, it was Freddie, so she was a perfect match. Just his type. He probably would have married her.

I knew Bert’s type to a T, so that one was easy. Only a couple of choices. I picked a callow youth in his late teens, early 20’s, with a trim body, gaunt cheeks, and a tight, muscular, dancer’s ass. He wore his hair short and his cock long, and had blue eyes that made me wonder where they came from. Not a whole lot of blue eyes south of the border. He called himself Rico.

I hadn’t thought about picking anyone special for myself. My tastes in sex are eclectic and I’m pretty good at loving the one I’m with. But when I saw her standing there, as the gospel of John and Paul says, the way she looked was way beyond compare. Like Cassius, she had a lean and hungry look, and with her flat chest and wiry muscles, she appeared capable of going a few rounds as a super-bantamweight. Her hair was straight and thick, and so black it had blue highlights. It cascaded from her shoulders all the way down to her waist. High cheekbones, a proud aquiline nose, and a wide mouth rimmed with full, puffy lips gave her the profile of an Aztec queen. She had cocky tufts of hair spouting from underarms and pubis, and I do love women who are defiant enough to refuse to shave.

But it was her eyes that sold me. They were black as coal and burned just as hot. Slightly almond-shaped. Bottomless pits of dark passion and forbidden dreams. She said her name was Dolores, which is Spanish for “sorrow.” So how could I dance with another?

In addition to the stars of the show, I cast a few supporting players, mostly young and giddy, just for fun. Nothing like a roomful of bouncing naked flesh to make you feel at home on the strange.

Here’s the deal I offered them: they would each get paid an agreed upon amount no matter what. The booze, the food, the dope (grass and coke only) — that was all on me, and I wanted them to enjoy themselves. A good king likes to see his people happy, see? On top of that, the whole crew would each get a little bonus for every time they could make me come.

Oh, just one little string attached. When I was fucking Molly Brown with the watermelon breasts, she had to call me “Mickey.” Likewise, Rico had to call me “Bert,” and Ruby — if that was her name — had to call me “Freddie.” For the bread I was paying them they’d have been happy to salute and address me as “Mr. President,” or howl like a coyote for that matter.

“And what should I call you, querido?” my hirsute Amazon inquired.

“You can call me anything you like.”

“But como se llama, Baby?”

I made one up for her and she seemed satisfied, but then never used it after all.

It didn’t take much to get me started. My ex always accused me of being a walking hard-on who would fuck anything that held still long enough. From her, I always considered that a compliment. Either way, in any room full of flesh, I’d expect my compass needle to point north. That was a given. But this was a special occasion, so I pulled out all the stops.

Long before show time, I started drinking damiana liqueur, laced with a hint of coca leaf and grandma’s special party blend of herbs and spices. There are things in heaven and earth, Horatio, that make the little blue pill look like that geeky kid in the bow tie high school prom. Wing of bat, eye of newt. Shit that will give you an erection of concrete a week after you’re dead. But in retrospect, I think I underestimated both my cock’s crow and my cock’s crew. The back-up singers probably weren’t necessary for sweetening. We’ll never know for sure.

By the time the referee fired his starter pistol, and we exploded out of the blocks, I was stiff as Larry Holmes’ jab. I hadn’t really decided on the batting order, but it worked itself out. I went once around to the dealer with some preliminary getting-to-know-you groping and fondling. Then Molly Brown stepped right up to the plate. I had intended to fuck her, but then it dawned on me that Mickey would never have let those enormous tits go to waste.

She was way ahead of me. Led me over to a threadbare green easy chair, and playfully pushed me back so I had to sit down. I splayed out in the chair, easily the easiest thing that had ever been in it, and spread my legs so she could kneel between them. She slathered her chest with sandalwood-scented massage oil, and then stroked some onto my cock, taking her sweet time. I laid the shaft of my foundling member in the valley of her cleavage where I shall fear no evil. She wrapped her massive melons around me, and, holding them in place there with both hands, began to post a trot, sliding them up and down my cock. She grinned at me, biting her lower lip like a wicked little girl. At the bottom of the stroke, when her heavy breasts fell warm upon my thighs and the tip of my cock was closest to her mouth, she added a flourishing tongue-swipe. I began to suspect that this might not be her first titfuck.

“Ándale, Meeeky,” she intoned like she was riding into the home stretch at Hialeah.

Hey, you don’t have to ándale me twice. I opened her up in the stretch just to see what she could do.

Dolores had somehow appointed herself my head cheerleader and assistant director. She leaned in close like a corner man doing some quick coaching between rounds. “Do it, Baby,” she hissed. “Do it. Fuck those tits. Hose her down, Baby.” Much more encouraging words than, “Keep your left up, kid.”

Now, personally, I don’t have a tit fetish. Yeah, I know. How un-American. But this wasn’t for me; this was for Mick, and he’d have been in hooter heaven, tit-fucking this callipygian senorita. As his surrogate, I had to stay in character. With a little help from the hands and tongues of my other newly purchased friends, tickling and teasing several of my miscellaneous parts, it was no great challenge to fire a blast of semen onto her slippery chest as a farewell toast. Here’s mud in your eye, Mick.

In weird synchronicity with that thought, a glob of semen landed in the lady’s eye. Well, almost. It hit her in the brow ridge right on that spot where a hard punch can open up a nasty cut that will blind you with your own blood. She wiped the cum off with a fingertip, and then licked that finger clean like she was stealing frosting from a wedding cake. The gesture provoked a chorus of jaunty oooo’s and ahhhh’s and olé’s, like a great veronica at a bullfight.

After I came, Dolores pulled me to my feet, grabbed me by the hair and crushed our mouths together, kissed me hard, her tongue darting around like an electric eel hunting for tonsils. She licked my ear like a puppy and whispered, “ Do everybody else first, querido. You won’t be able to fuck anybody else after me. I’m going to fuck you to death.”

I could tell this was going to be a lot of fun.

I didn’t need time to re-load.

Tonight, my cock was like one of those magic six-shooters in the old Roy Rogers westerns, the kind that never runs out of bullets. While Dolores and I were tongue wrestling, I felt a warm mouth engulf my cock, a hand started caressing my balls, and whatever luff I had in my sails was immediately stretched taut again, keeping me close on the wind. That mouth was sucking me like the owner’s life depended on getting a serving of my semen. Now, Bert had always insisted that men gave the best blowjobs simply because they knew first-hand — so to speak — exactly how to tune that instrument, from having one of their own, a point I was disinclined to concede, no matter how logical. I’d had a few blowjobs from men, and I’d even fucked a few in the ass, but that was in the joint so it doesn’t really count. Prison is way on the other side of the looking glass. Nothing in there counts. I’d never had sex with a man on the outside.

So I was just a little surprised to discover, when Dolores and I broke from our oral clinch and went back to our corners, that it was Rico who was sucking my cock about as masterfully as it had ever been sucked. Okay, Bert. I’m not too proud to admit when I’m wrong.

Rico realized that he’d gotten my attention to attention, and gave me a Cheshire grin. “Dámelo, Berto,” he said. “Dámelo. Dame lo que quiero.” He grasped my cock firmly, turned his back to me, and bent over, pulling me toward his asshole.

How do you say no to that?

Okay. Here’s looking at you, Bert.

I’d had anal sex with women a time or two. But this was — different. When I pressed my cock against the dark rosebud between Rico’s buttocks, I slipped into his ass as easily as into a moist cunt. I realized that he must have already lubricated it, but it was still a surreal moment. That’s where the “different” part came in. Bracing his hands on his knees, Rico rhythmically flexed and released the tight ring of his sphincter muscle. It felt like the hand of a tiny munchkin jerking me off. I’d had some reservations about fucking this boy, not sure whether, being on the outside, I could put my heart into it, even as an homage to a fallen friend.

But I needn’t have worried.

Rico did the fucking.

He brutally pounded his ass against me, driving himself onto the stake like a dinner guest of Vlad III. He took me so deep into his ass he’d be able to taste my semen when I came. Feverishly he whammed, bammed, slammed and jammed like he was starved for alliteration. His rock-hard glutes were the antithesis of a woman’s soft comfortable ass. His testicles swung low, and bumped against mine with every backward ram. He rode my cock like he was planning on keeping it.

Across the room, I saw there was a mirror, mirror on the wall. I didn’t bother to ask who was the most depraved of all. It would have been rhetorical. But I could watch me with Rico, and I could see when I reached my climax. As I pumped jolts of joy into Rico’s colon, he sent identical spurts flying out into deep space. It was as if my cum was his cum or vice versa. It gave me the oddest sensation of being in two places at once, which is somehow very close to being nowhere at all.

Very far away, were more ooo’s and aahhh’s and olé’s, and somebody clapping in flamenco time.

I was parched and Dolores appeared telepathically with a drink. Damiana, tequila and something else — maybe lime? — on ice. Better than mother’s milk. My mother, anyway. We sipped while we watched one of the bit players fuck herself with a monstrously huge purple dildo shaped vaguely like a penis. It was like watching a film of her giving birth only played in reverse. Lube or no lube, that thing stretched her narrow pink lips so far apart, I thought her cunt might snap like a rubber band. Oh yes, very funny until someone loses an eye.

I still had one more toast to make.

I looked around and spotted Ruby watching the show from the cheap seats, eating a tortilla and swilling it down with Carta Blanca. I gave her a nod and she popped the rest of her snack into her mouth, guzzled down her cerveza, and strolled over.

Ahora? Frederico?”

Ahora, chica,” I said.

Dolores threw Ruby a little hand jive, like she wanted her to steal third base. Ruby shot me an omniscient smirk, and lay down on her back. She unhurriedly brought up one leg, then the other, and locked her ankles behind her neck. Pretty limber for an older gal. She began rubbing her cunt, spreading her lips out. They made a large perfect heart shape. Her swollen clit was not so much a little man in a canoe as an admiral on a battleship.

“Look at that pussy,” Dolores whispered to my cock through my ear. “ Nice, eh? I want to watch you fuck her, Baby.”

I have to confess, I wanted Dolores to watch me fuck her, too.

I knelt before Ruby’s altar, nuzzled her dripping clam, enjoying the scent of her musk, then lowered myself into her. Behind me, Dolores tugged on my balls, nibbled my neck, and whispered things to me that I had rarely thought, almost never said, and certainly had never heard said to me.

Molly Brown settled down beside me, too, bringing her big smile and some ándale’s with her.

Aiii, Freddie,” Ruby moaned. “Ai….ai….más…más…” Like someone having a fever dream.

Her hoarse pleas put spurs to my stallion of love ( — wait a second. Strike that. Let’s pretend I didn’t say that. It’ll be our little secret.)

Her hoarse pleas tossed gasoline on my fire.

I gave her all the más I had.

Ejaculating took longer this time. Like the ref giving my balls a standing 8-count. Saved by the bell, I fell back and Molly caught me on the safety net of her immense cushions, like a heated waterbed, and I rested there until the waves subsided.

My debt of honor was now paid.

Having done my duty to my kameraden, the rest of the night was mine.

I’d give you a detailed blow-by-blow if I could, but the truth is, between the damiana, the tequila and the dope, most of it is just a blur of my hands, mouths, tits, cunts and asses, along with some part of me, in a comprehensive variety of mathematical permutations, like a control junky’s vacation photos.

Dolores continued to play the role of M.C., directing the others to act in diverse and sundry pleasant ways for my amusement, and the crew racked up a lot of bonuses as I worked my way around the room during the course of the night.

Me getting off was the ultimate everybody-wins situation. I was the birthday boy, the founder of the feast, the jolly-good fellow that nobody could deny, and the players dove into their erotic labors with abandon, backing each other’s play, helping themselves as they helped others help me get off. They also helped themselves to the party favors and by morning there was not a morsel of food to chew, a drop of booze to drink, or dot of dust to snort.

The holes in my memory notwithstanding, I do recall a couple of highlights I can share with you.

For example, I remember fist fucking that young dildo artist. Being in her cunt way past my wrist, pommeling her cervix like I was working uppercuts on the heavy bag. I remember she writhed like a snake with every punch, and giggled a lot. Dared me to use both hands, and by god, I got both of them in there. Dolores confided to me later that the girl was a veteran bronco buster in a Tijuana pony show, so she could claim, as the evil wild west land baron always says, “I’ve got the biggest spread around these parts.” She later demonstrated her ability to take that monster dildo in her ass. That’s what I call intestinal fortitude.

It turned out that my boy, Rico, could switch hit, and he made mincemeat out of one girl’s asshole, hammering her with the same frenzy he’d shown when he’d had my cock in his own ass. It was extremely intense, with the girl squeaking and squealing and grunting, wide-eyed with incredulity. Personally, I think Rico preferred men and he had to work harder to do a woman. Funny, in the joint guys fantasize that a man’s mouth or ass is a woman’s; I think Rico had to pretend that girl’s ass was a man’s. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when we fuck, who we fuck, why we fuck.

And I certainly remember Dolores.

I had fucked myself nearly all the way to oblivion, riding that pulsating, sensual wave within hailing distance of Valhalla. Sometime during eternity, I woke up on the beach with Dolores re-waxing my board. I sat up to see her take a deep swig of our damiana witches’ brew. Then she leaned over and kissed me and we shared the mouthful of aphrodisiac through the kiss. But calling it a kiss is like calling Jaws a fish.

Yeah. There are kisses and then there are kisses. It wasn’t a kiss, it was the kiss. The kiss of which all her previous kisses were a mere foreshadowing. It was a deep-probing, tongue-sucking, lip-biting kiss. It was famished, starving, desperate. The way you kiss when you haven’t had a good one in a long time, and your whole body is one giant ache, with the epicenter somewhere between your crotch and your soul, and nothing but an exhausting rutting will assuage the primal pain.

And now, having fucked farewell to three bone-loyal, fuck-it tough, womb to tomb, sperm to worm, irreplaceable prison pals, and having dallied my way around the roomful of earthly delights as prologue, it was time to deny my own mortality by dying a little with her.

When I finally pulled away from Dolores’s mouth and looked into her bottomless eyes, what I saw was myself. We were like two predators meeting at a carnal water hole. My gut told me she was feeling the same thing, and my gut is never wrong. It was like looking in a mirror reflecting a mirror, reflecting a mirror, reflecting a mirror and on into infinity. Which was exactly where I wanted to go with her.

I licked the salty sweat from her throat, briefly sucked on the plum-purple nipples of her tiny breasts, continued down her lean belly, and then pulled her over on top of me. She straddled my mouth, the musk of her cunt sending a river of fire up my spine and back down to my cock. Her lips were enormous, thick and heavy, and dripping wet and I took them into my mouth like a suckling baby, darting my tongue inside for more. As she rocked her hips, rubbing her pubis hard against my chin, she swallowed my cock to the hilt, pulling on my balls, working a fingertip into my ass, stroking it around in a slow circle. I inserted a fingertip into her ass, too, and felt her thighs quiver when I did that. It was 69 to the 69th power. She was delicious, tart and sweet and salty all at once. I re-revised my thoughts on whether men or women sucked cock better. She was the undisputed heavyweight champ.

She rolled me over, swung around, and pulled me on top of her. My cock slid home instinctively, with neither of us providing guidance. Pulling her knees up, she locked her ankles across my butt, and with powerful squeezes, added penetration power to my thrusts. It was more than sweet physical fucking. It was the cosmic, yin-and-yang pas de deux, and all I wanted was to fill her up with my semen, fill her deeply, flood her cervix. And I could feel her open wide inside to swallow it all up. We were the last survivors of a dying breed, and breeding was our defiant cry of “fuck you” directed at the Ghosts of Extinctions Past and Extinctions Yet to Come.

We lay intertwined together afterward for a long time. I didn’t want to withdraw from her. Her cunt felt like home sweet home. Or, at least, it felt like what I imagined home might feel like.

Sometime later, after the end of eternity, I was awakened by the trill of a swallow outside the window. I got up, padded over and listened awhile, and remembered the words from one of the saddest songs I know: “Ave querida — amada peregrine; mi corazón — al tuyo acercare; voy recordando — tierna golondrina; recordare — mi patria y llorare…”

Dolores sensed my creeping melancholy and rode to my rescue. She rallied the troops for one last gallant effort, a sexual Thermopylae.

When the dark outside the window finally turned a lighter shade of pitch-black, and then grey, according to my view in the mirror, those who were just tuning in found me standing with my legs wide apart, bracing myself against the window jamb. Ruby was sitting under me, sucking on my balls, which felt like they were hanging down to my knees; Rico was kneeling behind me, rimming away and giving my anus deep tongue and finger massage; the unsinkable queen of mammaries was playing one side of my cock like a harmonica; the dildo magician was matching her on the opposite side; and Dolores, herself, was sucking and licking the head. And someone was French kissing the back of my neck. There were more of the faithful speaking in tongues in that room at that moment than you’ll ever find at a tent show revival.

Or I may have hallucinated them.

My previous existence had never been one that could be described as “monastic” — not with a straight face, anyway — but I had never come the way I did that dawn, just as a warm breeze, like a lover’s breath, swept into the room through the open window and turned my sweat-laden skin to goose flesh. Vesuvian jolts of ecstasy seemed to originate somewhere deep down in my belly, squeezing my balls in an invisible fist (or was it Ruby?) like a paramedic working a resuscitation bag, sending out tidal waves of semen far greater than my cock could accommodate, making it stretch and throb with every pulse.

The spasms refused to stop, racking me from the tip of my cock, up the length of my spine, to spatter sizzling pleasure on my white-hot brain. Millions of tiny soldiers chanted “once more into the breach,” and countless lips tenderly kissed the sweat from my skin after I shuddered one final shudder and collapsed.

When I awoke, I was cast ashore on a variety of cushions. Dolores was sitting in the big easy chair, watching me. The others had already gone.

Tienes hambre, Baby?”

“I could eat a horse,” I told her, punning with the feminine form of the word to see if she would catch it and she did. “Why don’t you have breakfast with me?”

She accepted.

And that’s how our thing started.

We spent some more time together. Off the clock. In addition to guiding me to the petite mort a few more times, she nearly introduced me to the big one.

Maybe I’ll tell you about that sometime.

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