COLOMBUS, NEW MEXICO

AMERICAN-MEXICAN BORDER

Name:

Paloma Ayala

Age:

17

Place of Birth:

Tijuana, United Mexican States (Mexico)

Ethnicity:

Hispanic

Languages:

English, Spanish

Paloma Ayala dutifully filled out the work-application form, a worn-down pencil in her hand scrawling across the paper.

Medical Notices:

None

Green Card Number (If Applicable):

That blank field, however, made Paloma pause. There was no way she was passing herself off as a natural citizen - her heavily-accented English and ignorance of American culture was too much of a handicap. And, as one might have guessed, Paloma was not quite a legitimate immigrant. It'd been surprisingly easy, slipping over the American-Mexican border. For $300 a man crammed her into a crate and buried her beneath identical crates in the back of a truck, which had crossed over via the border city Colombus. There, she'd been dropped off, given a poorly-forged American passport and permanent residence card, and sent on her way with a good-luck kiss.

Digging into the brand-new tight-fitting denim jeans she had bought once inside America (her first American purchase, actually), she pulled out the counterfeit Green Card and scribbled down the number. She wasn't sure how the computerized system worked, simply hoping it didn't. She had exactly $5.25 on her, and needed a job is she intended to eat in the next day. And that was how she'd ended up working at the El Mexican Hotel, on the city’s outskirts, which, despite its name, seemed to have nothing to do with Mexico. Well, in fairness, the labour seemed Mexican.

Paloma handed the form into the receptionist - an old white woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties. The receptionist beckoned for Paloma to enter the boss's room behind the desk. Somewhat nervously, Paloma did so, opening and closing the door behind her.

The air conditioning was like a divine wind - a rare luxury in Mexico, and a gift from the gods on a day when the weather was peaking into the triple digits. She was wearing a navy-blue crop top that matched her denim jeans, although her legs were sweltering, and her feat roasting in her gym socks and running shoes. Her long, black hair, which she normally kept in good shape even in the slums of Mexico, was tangled and sweaty. She was short, about five foot three, weighing only a hundred pounds (a product of her environment). She was surprisingly well-built, however, as a result of the manual labour jobs she occasionally managed to scrounge up. She was somewhat dark for a Latina, with emerald-green eyes and naturally perfect teeth. She could speak English fluently, albeit with a heavy accent.

The office was a small room, with a cheap IKEA desk and an office swivel chair for 'The Boss' and two plastic chairs for everyone else. An old Macintosh PC sat on the desk, whilst two large filing cabinets took up two corners of the room. It was dimly lit by an overhead neon light bulb, and a half-dozen cigarette butts rested in an ashtray on the desk. The Boss was a tall, Caucasian man who looked to be in his mid-forties, with greying white hair and a surprisingly strong build. He was wearing a stained white muscle shirt and Bermuda shorts, as well as a cheap pair of sunglasses, even inside. The man beckoned for Paloma to take a seat in front of his desk. As she did so, the man leaned back, putting two sandal-clad feat on the table.

"So, you're looking for a job here?" asked the man, almost rhetorically.

"Yes, sir," mumbled Paloma, consciously trying to mitigate her accent.

"Filled out the form with Shirley?"

"Yes, sir," repeat Paloma, nervously bowing her head. The man put his feat down and leaned closer to her.

"You're a legal immigrant, right?"

"Yes, sir," stammered Paloma, "my Green Card number is on the form."

"Well, that's good. You speak English fine, too, I see. So, are you ready for your job?

"Yes, sir. I am very eager to work, sir."

"That's good. You'll be cleaning this hotel, including the rooms, doing some gardening, plumbing, maybe even some waiting on tables. Your hours are 8 to 8, and you get paid $4 an hour. You also get three meals a day and bunk outside, free of charge."

"Thank you very much, sir," said Paloma, turning red in the face. "When can I begin?"

"Right now," answered the owner. "Just sign this contract to formalize the employment. There's an employee change room in the basement. Take a shower, wash up. I'll leave you your uniform down there why'll you're in. Get changed, then come back to me and we'll get you started."

Paloma scrawled her signature across a contract twelve pages thick, not bothering to read it. Her new boss filed it away in the cabinet, and Paloma stood up, ducked out of the room and quickly found a staircase leading into the semi-finished basement. Sure enough, there were about two-dozen change room lockers and four shower stalls, each complete with a soap and shampoo dispenser mounted on the tiled wall. The change room was empty, so Paloma stripped out of her crop top and denim jeans, placing them in the locker along with her black thong, socks and running shoes. Stepping into the nearest shower, Paloma slid the plastic sheet across and twisted the tap labelled 'C'.

The cold water felt impossibly good on her sweat-drenched body, particularly her feet, which seemed to have swollen after being stuffed into running shoes for so longer on such a hot day. After just letting herself soak in the cold water for about two minutes, Paloma washed out her long, black hair, then systematically soaped down every part of her body. She was, understandably, rather dirty, and it took her a considerable amount of time to get the brown dirt out of her skin. She didn't have a toothbrush - something she supposed was easy to acquire in a hotel - but other than that, she felt better than she had in months. Finally, she closed the tap, and the heavenly shower came to an end.

Paloma stepped out of the shower to find a white towel neatly folded on a nearby wooden bench. Towelling herself down, Paloma walked over to her locker and swung the door open, only to find her clothes missing, and replaced with something else entirely. Pulling the folded cloth out of the locker and placing it on the nearby bench, she managed to recognize the garments.

It was, she believed, a French Maid uniform. She didn't have a television back in Tijuana, and had only seen the dress on a billboard advertisement for a motel several years ago. It consisted of a two-piece black satin dress - a top and a skirt - with a corset-like lace-up detail on the front, complete with a petticoat and white apron across the front of the skirt. There were a pair of pale white knee-high stockings, a black lace choker, tiara-like headpiece and white elbow-length 'eloquent' gloves. There was even a black bra and a g-string thong, and a pair of four-inch black strap-on high heels. With a small sigh, Paloma finished drying herself off.

The g-string, like much of American culture, was something she hadn't experienced before, and the way the material slid between her butt cheeks caused her to involuntarily bring her arms in to her sides, as if she was being tickled. She proceeded to pull up the reasonable knee-high stockings, then the black satin skirt, tying the white apron around her waist. She then slid on the satin top, tucking it into the skirt as she was supposed to. The top exposed a generous amount of cleavage, as well as all of her arms and a good portion of her back. Several laces over her stomach seemed to work like the laces of a corset. Paloma pulled the laces tighter and tighter, feeling her waist clinch and the ropes slid around her belly, pulling the dress tighter onto her body, before finally knotting them closed. She then pulled on the elbow-length gloves, tied the lace choker in a knot in front of her throat, and slid the tiara/headpiece over her head. Finally, she stepped into the four-inch high-heeled shoes - significantly taller than anything she'd ever experienced before. There were two buckles on either shoe - on going over the foot and one wrapping around the ankle. Properly securing them, Paloma had to practices walking about in the change room for a few seconds just to get her balance.

Finally, she walked in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, examining herself. Her black hair was no longer tangled, but flowed around her shoulders, a few strands occasionally passing in front of her face. The tightly-laced corset/waist clinch had the secondary (and probably intentional) effect of pushing her breasts forward. The high heels made her look several inches taller than she actually was, but also gave everyone a clear view of her near-entirely uncovered ass every time she had to bend over - a rather common occurrence in this line of work. But she was in America now, and if playing this bizarre game of dress-up was part of the job, she was content to live with it.

Walking back up to the ground floor (taking a little extra time on the stairs), Paloma strode into the office behind the receptionist, knocking on the door and letting herself in. Oddly enough, the lights were all out, and she couldn't see a think. The heavy door closed behind her, and her gloved hand felt along the wall for a light switch, although she couldn't recall seeing one before.

"Freeze! Immigration police!" somebody yelled, in Spanish, from only a few feet away. No! This couldn't be happening! She'd just made it to America, to freedom! She had a job, a clothes, and a place to live! She swung around, flinging the door to the lobby open when she felt two strong hands grab her arms and yank her back into the room, slamming the door behind her. Paloma tripped over her feet, falling to her knees on the floor of the office. The overhead neon light flickered on, and Paloma looked up, tears already pooling in her eyes, to see... her boss?

"So, Ms. Ayala, do immigration authorities make you jumpy?" he asked. He strolled around her, seating himself behind his desk. Paloma struggled to regain her composure, coming to her feet.

"No, sir, it's just... with the lights off, and people yelling - I was scared, and I couldn't see anything," she half-lied.

"Of course. Now this here," said her boss, pointing to a piece of paper on his desk, "is your application form. And these," he pointed to a stack of paper beside that, "are application forms from about seven other immigrants. Now, correct me if I'm mistaken, but it seems rather coincidental that all eight of you happen to share the same Green Card number!"

"Sir... I'm sure this is just-"

"Don't play games with me, child!" barked her boss. He stood up, walked over to her still-kneeling form and grabbed her by her hair, yanking her to her feet, and causing Paloma to yelp in pain. "You're an illegal immigrant travelling on an illegal Green Card! Don't even bother lying to me!" Paloma said nothing, although let the rivers of tears stream down her cheeks. She wasn't sure if this changed the mind of her boss, but he did calm down, pushing her into a chair and sitting on his Swedish-made desk. "We can still use you here, but extra precautions have to be taken."

"What... extra precautions?" stammered Paloma, half-acting.

"Doesn't matter now, does it?"

"No, sir," mumbled Paloma.

"Alright, good. All the rooms on Floor 4 haven't been cleaned today, and I'm ordering you to do that. There's a janitor's closet on that floor where you can find a trolley of cleaning supplies and a master key. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," replied Paloma, hastily getting to her feet. Her boss, however, stuck one hand out, in the universal gesture for 'stop'.

"I did say some extra precautions had to be taken, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir," answered Paloma, knowing the question was rhetorical. The man reached behind his back and pulled out a pair of British-style steel handcuffs. Paloma submissively held out her arms, and allowed the cuffs to be tightened around her wrists. There was no chain between the cuffs, practically pressing her wrists together, although at least her hands were handcuffed in front - they'd have been rather useless behind her back. Reaching into a small cardboard box beside one of his filing cabinets, the man pulled out a second pair of cuffs, these ones shackles, with about a foot of chain between the two cuffs. Paloma stood with her heels touching, feeling the steel cuffs slide tighter and tighter over her stocking-clad ankles. Finally, her boss pulled out a complicated-looking leather contraption.

It was, in fact, a well-made leather head harness, and a complicated one at that. A black penis-shaped object was inserted into the mouth, although it looked simply like a muzzle from the outside. Paloma felt the thick, cylindrical tube pushed into her mouth, which forced her jaw half-open. Two leather straps went around the back of the head and were buckled in on the other side. Two more straps went underneath her chin, and two more went up over her nostrils, between her eyes and over her head before buckling in to straps just above her beck. The harness also contained a pair of blinders, commonly used for horses, which were properly tightened for Paloma's head, completely cutting off her peripheral vision, whilst a leather collar was tightened around her neck, complete with a metal G-ring in front. Her boss decided to remove her lace choker and headgear.

"Alright, now, get to work!" her barked. Paloma nodded, said something that was completely muffled, then backed out of the room. The receptionist didn't even spare a glance at her. She had to walk slowly, thanks to the combination of her hobbled feet and high heels. Finding a nearby elevator, Paloma stepped into the cart and awkwardly managed to tap the button for the forth floor.

Just as the doors were sliding together, a hand shot through, prying the doors open, and a lean man in his late twenties slip into the cart. As the door slid completely shut, he turned to face the restrained Paloma, leaning against the opposite wall with his hands crossed over his chest, a smile playing across his face.

"Nice to see Bruce is getting along with the hired help," said the man. "Let me guess - tried to pass a fake Green Card on him?"

Paloma said nothing (for more reasons than one), but the elevator's second occupant seemed rather pleased with himself. His right arm moved away from his body, crossed the short gap between them in the elevator cart and pinched Paloma's ass cheek. She tried to pull away, but he just moved closer to her, pushing her into a corner and placing both hands on her ass. She tried to scream, but the penis gag made that completely hopeless. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the doors slid open on the fourth floor, and the man stepped away.

"Well, it would be improper of me to keep you from your work," said the man, smiling as he stepped out of the elevator. "My room's 403 - you should get to it soon. In the meanwhile, I wish you ado." He gave a mock bow, then disappeared. After a few seconds pause, Paloma hobbled out after him.

Paloma managed to find the janitor's closet easily enough. It was unlocked, and she found a trolley, stacked with all manner of cleaning supplies, towels, bed sheets and a Master key. Struggling out the door, Paloma shuffled over to Room 400, unlocked it, and set to work.

By the time she was finishing Room 402, she'd actually managed to get into the 'swing' of things. Her mind was so focused on making beds, cleaning toilets and wiping down television screens that she managed to not forget, but push to the back of her mind, the fact that she was handcuffed, gagged and shackled in a French Maid uniform by a man who knew she was an illegal immigrant. As she slid the key into the lock of Room 403, she was actually surprised to see the man she'd encountered in the elevator waiting inside for her.

"Ah, my fair Latina maiden has arrived," he said, something similar to sarcasm dripping in his voice. "Well, you can start in the bathroom - that's a mess." As she wheeled the trolley in, he locked and bolted the door behind her, causing a chill to creep up her back not caused by his eyes starting at the generous cleavage provided by her top.

Paloma spent the next five minutes patiently scrubbing the inside of the bowl of the toilet seat, the walls and floors of the shower, wiping down the mirror and mopping the tiled floor. Her employer hadn't been too specific on what quality a job he wanted done, although the best was probably a safe assumption. Once the bathroom was finished, the man roughly grabbed her by the back of the neck and sent her flying onto a nearby bed.

TO BE CONTINUED...

What should happen to our damsel-in-distress Paloma? For a variety of reasons, I'm not completing the story right now. Please send suggestions for what should happen next to my contact e-mail. You can also send story requests (about anything), and I welcome feedback.

To contact the author, send an e-mail to:

discrete_services@hush.com