Chapter 1

She was one of those nubile females that made a living showing her body on video camera for perverts all over the world to ogle and bully if they could get away with it. It was a hard way to make a living and the disgrace that went along with it in the small town was enough to make her a creature to be avoided because she was a follower of the devil. It didn't seem like she and her friends could be making much money at it because most of the watchers just went along for a free ride and kept quiet in the shadows without tipping the girls to encourage them to do kinky acts that are much too depraved to recount in this story.

It seemed strange to me that girls would expose themselves to such humiliation willingly but I had the sense that it was completely voluntary and in many cases the girls were happy at their work unless the viewers were in a nasty mood and made things difficult for them.

Of course a lot of the things such girls say can be taken as mostly fiction and the rest distorted views of reality. Her name was Rosita and she spoke Spanish better than English but understood enough to shake down the clients for maximum tips.

Rosita told me that she had recently given birth to a daughter who she called Angel. I thought that there was some truth in that because she was able to lactate at the drop of a hat or a request with enough of a tip to make it worthwhile. One of the things that she excelled at was the ability to make her pucker star almost dance on command and express her willingness to take it up the ass with her girlfriend's finger, her own fingers or one of the dildos that seemed to be available in every direction in the filming room. I wondered if the girls kept their own personal dildo for hygienic reasons or if they used them interchangeably without such niceties to guide them.

I was in Colombia on an extended stay because I was no longer welcome in my hometown stomping grounds of Miami, Florida. My name is Donnie Ambrusco and I had been brought to Florida by my escaping parents from Havana, Cuba when I was only eight years old. I was fortunate enough to be bilingual and my travels to Central and South America were made easy because of my ability to understand the lingo and fit in with the masses. Of course, my Cuban and Miami accent made me stick out in social circles but down in those places the residents from the city sounded strange to the people out in the countryside. I grew up in Little Havana and spent time in juvenile detention for some silly shit with firecrackers and the fact I had a small knife in my back pocket when the rookie cop patted me down. My mama was distraught when they paraded me handcuffed into the courtroom and I have to admit I was more pissed than fearful. They gave me the boot from the Sheriff's camp on my eighteenth birthday and I got hooked up with the Puerto Rican gang that was starting to make inroads into the Miami Beach and South Beach scene with the "pill" business and the all-night raves that attracted the cock-hungry pussies from up north. Making a long story short, I got caught out trying to steal some product from the local Cuban guys and my new Puerto Rican buddies were quick to give me up to keep their territory safe. Faced with threats from both the Cubans and the Puerto Ricans, I found that an extended trip to visit my suppliers in Colombia was the lessor of two poor choices and I hopped a flight that set down in Bogota in the middle of the night. It left me sitting in the airport waiting for daybreak because I hadn't arranged for any sleeping arrangements due to my recent troubles that caused me to be overly cautious.

I tried to imagine what it would feel like to be sitting in a strange country like this with a reputation for violence and not being able to speak the language. It almost gave me a headache just to think about it. About 6AM a couple of shady looking characters slunk in the automated doors and made eye contact. I figured this was the welcoming committee from the small organization my Uncle Charlie had set up for the importation of "flowers" from the Colombian countryside. He lived in a mansion up in Boca Raton so I guess the "flower" business was booming. I never got into that kind of business being strictly a "pill" guy even though I was only hooked on twenty year old scotch.

The younger one with the serious eye twitch picked up my flight bag and I thought that was a generous move unless he was planning on stealing it. Their Spanish was a bit slang driven and slurred but I could understand them just fine and tried my best to imitate their style. It must have worked because we all headed out to the crown vic. in the parking area and barreled our way through the still sleepy city out to the section that they were nice enough to find for me away from the cops and any other interested parties looking for a bounty.

The villa was old but well-maintained and filled with assorted characters that made me look like an altar boy. Directly across from my little patio balcony was a red clay building with a sign over the front door that advertised "Businessmen's Massage". There was little doubt in my mind what the house was being used for because the opposite pair of balconies was crammed with clotheslines of fancy panties and thongs and delicate bras of all sizes. It looked like the uniform of a full time whore rather than a professional masseuse.

My first visitor was a well-dressed older guy who told me he was a friend of my Uncle Charlie and that this villa belonged to him as well as the house across the street. His name is not important because I am certain he was using an alias anyway. I have to admit he was a bit comical with his constant looking over his shoulder like he expected the devil himself to be showing up any minute. I thanked him for his hospitality and he indicated to me that he was glad to be of assistance and at the same time asked me for a favor in return.