The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney Read online

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  The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney © 2014 by Huck Pilgrim

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  The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney

  Huck Pilgrim

  Copyright 2014 by Huck Pilgrim

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  Contents

  The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney

  A Small Favor

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  Introduction

  Lisa is young. Beautiful. She is a little bit shallow, but it's not something she notices about herself. She goes to Mexico for a little fun. Some excitement. She would not have picked Mexico, because she is a bigot, but her boyfriend takes her. He tells her it's all on him. Top shelf all the way. He gets the best room at a fancy casino. It's the presidential suite. But then something goes wrong, and Lisa finds herself face-to-face with her own limitations. Fortunately for her, she meets Americo, a Mexican drug lord who is only too happy to help her imagine herself differently. Perhaps even as an entirely new person!

  The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney

  She has a delicate face, a slim figure.

  Shrugging her elbow from the hand of the man escorting her, she looks at the brown people packed onto the floor of the casino. She is nineteen, maybe twenty. Furious. The man at her arm is old enough to be her father. He is thin, wizened. He lets his hand float in the air near her arm. He sighs. His lips press together, making a tight little line under his thick mustache. He gives her a tired smile and nods in the direction he wants her to go. He averts his eyes. Folding her sun-kissed arms under her small breasts, she scowls. She is wearing an expensive Egyptian cotton top, tight jeans. The top is sleeveless, all the better to endure the stifling Mexican heat.

  Why did it have to be Mexico? Her blue eyes blaze. When the man reaches for her elbow to get her walking again, she hisses. Her cheeks have faint acne scars, but her high cheekbones hide this imperfection.

  “Senorita,” he says. His voice is plaintive. Pleading.

  Two men in dark shirts skirt the roulette table, moving fast. She sees them coming toward her and bites the inside of her cheek, bracing herself for confrontation. Her nipples stiffen. She appreciates a good fight, likes it a little rough sometimes. The man makes a gesture with his head and the two stop. They are younger than he is. They fold their arms and glare, like hounds at bay. One of them puffs out his cheeks, blows air from his mouth.

  “Senorita,” the man whispers. He clips the last syllable, holds out his hand.

  Balling her fists, she sets her boney shoulders and starts walking, her honey-blonde hair shimmering with each step. Her heels clip on the tile floor. The walls are painted that horrid orange you find in Mexican restaurants. Why do Mexicans always use such tacky colors?

  She strides through the casino, not really sure where she is headed or why. The man is behind her now, but there really is only one way to go. When she exits the casino through an arch and finds herself in a courtyard, it’s not clear which way he will want to go, so she stops. He trots to catch up. He points to a door that leads through a small restaurant with booths against the walls, small square tables piled into the middle, and young families milling about. The people here are eating and talking. Watching the television on the wall. Three children wearing diapers and little else race past her. One child reaches for her, trying to put its sticky hands on her designer jeans, palms opening and closing. It wants money.

  She moves a chair between her and the child.

  The old man leads her down a hall, then into a narrow stairwell that circles around. The walls are yellow, peeling plaster. Bleeding. They go around and around and down a long way, and then he opens a heavy wooden door at the bottom. She has a bad feeling but goes inside. Her eyes need time to adjust to the dark. She can smell incense burning, hear soft familiar sounds. It soon becomes apparent that there are almost half a dozen people in the room, some kneeling at the wall.

  Is it a church service?

  The far wall has holes cut into it, and then a cock appears in one of the holes. The noises are wet slurping sounds. Her mouth dries up and a throb of terror fills her chest.

  Turning on her heel, she makes for the door.

  The Mexican who led her into this room grabs her, fingers digging into her arms. She twists an arm free but he forces her hard against a wall, his hand winding into her hair. She tries to knee him between his legs, but it’s a glancing blow and he just laughs. Her head is yanked back as his chest crowds her. His hand is on her breasts. She whimpers, trying to twist out of his grasp. His hand sinks past her belly, down between her legs.

  Her breathing is getting shallower. Her legs feel weak.

  He cups her pussy.

  And then her scalp sings with pain and her vision goes white—she finds herself on her knees. Putting her arms over her head, she waits for what will come next. Something heavy crashes to the floor, but it's over on the other side of the room. She steels herself for her own heavy blow, but it never comes. Instead she hears a man exerting himself. Softly cursing in Spanish. Something is happening in the room, but it's not happening to her. She raises her head, opening her eyes.

  Americo is here.

  He is cursing, kicking the old man who tried to rape her. Americo's dark hair is hanging in his eyes, but he doesn’t stop kicking. Stomping. Spitting. He looks like a fucking mad man. She watches him do his violent dance of kick ass. His boots are white with red tooling. Soon the man on the floor curls into a ball. He holds one hand out, his fingers splayed.

  Americo glares at the old man on the floor, then looks at her. Using both his hands, he smoothes his wild hair back on his head. He adjusts the waistband of his pants, pats his ribs, and finally he says, “Forgive me.”

  He is breathing heavily.

  She uses her fingertips to help herself stand. Rising to her feet, her head throbs. One of her heels has snapped. She takes off both shoes. They are beautiful shoes. Red patent leather. Ruined. Holding them by the throat, she lets her arms hang at her side.

  Americo takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. He is holding a stained whit
e hand towel. He methodically cleans his hands with the towel. His breathing returns to normal.

  The man who assaulted her cowers on the floor. His soft moans mix with the wet noises in the room, the occasional moan from a man on the other side of the wall.

  “Where is Danny?” she asks, her voice trembling.

  Americo gazes at her evenly. “Danny . . .” Americo says, his voice trailing off.

  He pauses to study his hands and she sees the towel he’s holding has deep crimson stains on it, almost a muddy brown. “Danny is unavailable,” Americo says.

  Something in her stomach sinks.

  He shrugs, smiles. “Danny asked me to send you his regrets.”

  “Regrets?” she says. Her voice is shrill.

  Americo notices a wet stain on the toe of his boot. It's dark, like mud. He bends to wipe it with the towel and it smears like blood. He spits on his boot to clean it.

  When he stands, he grins at her.

  Her small upturned nose starts to quiver along with her upper lip. The acne scars brighten on her cheeks.

  “There is the matter of your bill,” he says.

  “My bill?” she asks. Her voice rises with a note of optimism. A bill is a simple problem, a solvable problem.

  “For dinner. Your room.” He smiles at her.

  “Danny said—“

  “Danny said—,” Americo shouts, raising his hand imperiously.

  She goes quiet.

  “Danny said,” he repeats in a lower voice, pausing and pressing his lips together. He takes a moment and then smiles. “That you would settle the bill, offer . . . recompense.” He pronounces this last word deliberately with his thick Mexican accent.

  Americo tilts his head. He smiles.

  He waits for her to absorb what he just told her.

  Her head is swimming. The pain in her scalp has receded to a dull throbbing in the front of her head. She wonders if this is Danny’s idea of a joke. It would be just like him to set up something elaborate. Something crazy. She looks at the far wall. A dark haired woman has a cock in her mouth, her own hand buried between her legs. The man on the other side bucks his hips and the woman closes her eyes and places her hands on the wall.

  “And you will,” Americo whispers.

  Hot tears run down her cheeks and she uses the back of her hand to wipe her eyes. “I want Danny,” she says. “I want to see Danny.”

  Americo sighs. He drops the rag at his feet. Takes a knife with a long silver blade from his boot. He uses the tip of the knife to clean his fingernails.

  The girl stops talking. She wants to stop crying, but she can’t. She whimpers. Fat salty tears roll down her cheeks.

  “What is your name?” Americo whispers.

  She's not sure she heard him right. She wipes her eyes.

  He tilts his head. "What did your mother name you?" Americo asks.

  “Lisa,” she whimpers.

  The man Americo kicked rises to his feet, retrieving his hat. Americo watches this man collect himself.

  “Not anymore,” Americo whispers. “Tonight you are Natasha.”

  “Natasha?” she repeats.

  “One of the girls is sick tonight,” Americo says. He holds his hand out to where the women kneel. “Natasha will take her place at the wall.”

  She looks at the wall.

  Americo grins.

  “It is only for one night. It won’t kill you.” He taps the blade of the knife in his palm. “Tomorrow you can go back to America. Tomorrow you can go back to Lisa. Tomorrow you forget Natasha. Forget Danny. Forget about Mexico.”

  She looks at the knife, the way the blade picks up the light. She wipes her nose with her arm. Tucks her hair behind her ear. She ought to say something, she knows, but it's hard to imagine what would make sense. What would be an appropriate response?

  “How . . .” she says. She stops, unsure how to put into words what she wants to express.

  Americo raises an eyebrow. He listens.

  "How do you know . . . ," she says, her voice trailing off. She is looking at the wall. Americo is giving her his full attention, but there is a girl at the wall who has caught her interest. This girl wears designer jeans that are worn and shiny on the thighs. She has dark hair and a round face. Looks about nineteen or twenty. Her thin arms are folded in front of her and covered with dark wispy hair. She is staring at Lisa with a look that's hard to read.

  "How do you know if the men . . ." Lisa says. Her voice trails off and she stops looking at the girl and sees that Americo's brows are knitted together. He is looking at her closely.

  "If they're good-looking," she says. She hears the words come out of her mouth and it's as if someone else has spoken. Her eyelids flutter down and she shakes her head. It's not at all what she meant to express.

  Her cheeks warm, the scars glow.

  Someone laughs, breaking the quiet. It's loud and boisterous and the back of her neck grows moist. Her clothes feel uncomfortable on her body. Americo is still looking at her with that same even expression. He turns to the old Mexican man who is laughing and whips the knife at him. It strikes the old man in the shoulder and skitters across the room. Americo steps toward the old man, but he scurries out of the room.

  Americo curses at the door.

  He comes back to her, puts his hands on her shoulders. Lisa shudders. She wants to lay her head on his chest and cry. "Natasha," he whispers. He coos softly in her ear, leading her to the wall. "This is your hole." He says something in Spanish to the woman already at the part of the wall, and she moves off. "This hole is reserved for only the most attractive men."

  "Don’t'," she whispers. Her voice breaks and she looks away from him. "Don't patronize me," she squeaks.

  "It is the truth," he says. "The truth." His voice rings with confidence.

  She turns to him and falls to her knees. "I'll suck your dick," she whispers in a throaty voice. Reaching for his belt buckle, she looks up at him. "I won't tell Danny," she says.

  He takes her shoulders in his hands and squats, his face inches from hers.

  "Danny knows." Americo grins at her. He has a gap between his bottom front teeth. "I told him I would bring you here, put you at the wall."

  Lisa doesn't know what to do with this information. His somber grin.

  "It was the very last thing I said to him," Americo says. He tucks her hair behind her ear, then puts his hand on her cheek. He has rough, calloused hands. A cock comes through the hole in the wall. It's long and brown.

  "I promised him I would watch you tonight." He strokes her head.

  Her breath is short, her mouth dry. She licks her lips.

  "And I will."

  Americo leans forward, inspecting the cock.

  "Natasha," he says, pointing to the wall. "It's Brad Pitt." He makes a face as if this is an impressive development.

  She sits back on her haunches. The woman to her right has her breasts in her hands, her mouth on the cock jutting from the wall. Americo raises his brows, and Lisa takes a deep breath. Taking the cock in her hand, she wipes the pre-cum from its head.

  She puts it in her mouth and Americo makes a soft sigh of delight.

  He strokes her back. He whispers encouragements in her ear. She'd sucked Danny's cock on the ride across the border. He couldn't come. He was too high and too stressed about his meeting with Americo. The hole is big enough that she can see the man on the other side is wearing denim work pants. His pants are down around his thighs and he wears no underwear. No shirt. He has a small tattoo on his abdomen. She wanted Danny to fill her mouth with semen, but he couldn't.

  The cock in her mouth swells, and the man presses his hips against the wall.

  Taking the dick from her mouth, she fists him. To protect her shirt from his cum, she puts her other hand over the head of his cock. He sprays into her palm. After he finishes, she sits back on her haunches and looks into her hand.

  Americo grabs her wrist, glaring at her palm.

  "Natasha," he hisses. A l
ump of fear rises in her chest and she closes her fist. Pulling her wrist from his grasp, she wipes her sticky hand on the seat of her jeans. He moves his face inches from hers. She can smell mint on his breath.

  "Not attractive enough?" Americo asks.

  Another cock comes through the hole. The man who owns it is still fisting it. This cock is dark and thick, with a fat head and a veiny shaft.

  "George Clooney," Americo hisses.

  She puts the cock in her mouth. The man who owns it is wearing slacks, his fly is open and his boxers are white with some sort of pattern. Maybe he is George Clooney. His cock swells in her mouth. She touches one hand to her breasts, the other strokes George Clooney's cock. In the car with Danny, her head in his lap, she settled in for the tiresome task that lay ahead. She squeezed her thighs together, the tight denim rubbing between her legs. When it took Danny a long time, she'd learned to satisfy herself. He could take forever. He was always stressed. Always high.