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Lorna Landry has never been fucked like this before. In all of her thirty-one years, she has never been lifted from her feet and placed down gently on her back to await the next levels of stimulation. Never been thrown down forcefully in anticipation of a good, rough screw, for that matter. Strong hands have never massaged and cultivated a channel from her scalp to the spaces between her toes. Never has an eager tongue followed the same path. It’s a shame that wet, hungry lips have never met the backs of her kneecaps, meandering north like a balloon in the wind. There has never been much activity on Lorna’s lean thighs, much less a raging hard-on pressing urgently into her soft flesh.
Can you believe that a confident scholar like Lorna, who has penned and been published amongst the highest-profile academics, could not before this moment translate into words the feeling of her generous breasts feeling small and secure within the palms of a man’s insistent hands? Had never even considered that her nipples could fit so neatly in the webs between his fingers? That there might be a flavor to the underside of them, and that he might hunger for it? Might beg to taste her inside and out? But this is exactly what she imagines.
“Lorna.”
This feels so primal, so jungle, that the rumbling down deep in Lorna’s gut warns of a devastating storm. Sure enough, that hurricane tongue sends her ducking for cover, desperately awaiting the heavy downpour like the barren Mojave. Calling her name like the howling category-5 wind.
“Lorna! Damn it, Lorna!”
And just like that, it is gone. Lorna is used to falling short of a climax, but this time feels especially real. Unforgiving.
“Jesus Christ, Lorna! Focus! If you are not up to the job, then please step aside and let a competent photog relieve you of your duties.”
Today, Lorna is among over fifty zealous do-gooders who show up on Arizona Avenue before the rays of dawn. They are self-appointed and self-righteous, and stopping the employment of illegal immigrants is their cause. Tucked away in high-end haciendas beyond the city limits of San Diego, they are mostly white-collar with white skin, and that’s how they’d like to keep their neighborhoods, and this country for that matter. Among them are Lorna and her husband, who, like the rest, are committed to the cause and obsessed with the pursuit of national recognition.
Across the street an unsuspecting white cargo van pulls into a liq
uor store parking lot promptly at eight A.M. Within seconds, the vehicle is surrounded on all sides by a swarm of brown men looking for work, eyes as intense as their heavy accents and sun-baked skin.
The crowd looms even larger through the lens of the MiniDV camcorder Lorna has trained on the scene. In the past year she has seen hundreds of these men: harmless, indigent congregations of carpenters, landscapers, and cleaners paid to do the work that not even the poorest Yankees will accept. Truth be told, Lorna can’t tell one from the next. To her, they are little more than objects to be captured and studied. So every day she stands video vigil like an obsessed voyeur, and records the every move of the “undesirable foreigners,” the monotonous mass of paper-bag complexions.
But this one is a god among men. He stands a full foot above the heads of the others. He is fresh from the border, Lorna figures, on the scene now less than two weeks.
His plaid cutoff shirt is merely a distracting prop for sturdy shoulders and rippling arms that look capable of supporting two men on each. His tan pants, the only pair he seems to own, are tattered at the knee and frayed at the hem, bulging in the middle. Lorna can’t help pulling in for a tight shot of his mighty knot. She has been transfixed by this god since the moment he emerged on the dayworker scene.
Lorna can feel the hot breath spewing from her husband, Tom’s, wiry lips, even through the shiny red bullhorn.
“Keep up! It’s almost showtime!” he roars. “You think you can handle that?”
She nods, still preoccupied, disoriented, and horny. He turns around, his eyes following hers to the tall, striking figure across the street. He places a finger on her chin, guiding her eyes reluctantly back to him. She gathers herself, not even noticing that Tom continues to berate her to the amusement of their colleagues.
“Let’s rock and roll, soldiers,” calls Lorna’s lookout. “The United States border needs us.”
Before Lorna can pull back to a wider shot, focus, and press the red record button, the white van is almost totally encircled by the ambitious mob. Vigilante feet cross the street to the liquor store parking lot, anxiously approaching the first ambush of the week.
“Sir, did you know that hiring illegal immigrants is against the law? This is what you’re here for, right? Prowling for illegal dayworkers?”
Spit splatters with the accusations intended for the van’s driver. Angry, beet-red fingers claw at the windows, pressing down hard as the confused driver rushes to roll them back up.
Defeated brown faces sense what is happening. “¡Hibridos! Gringos!”
Lorna is a step behind the mêlée, capturing it all on the tape her group is desperate to sell to CNN. Her normally steady hands are suddenly wobbly, her vision unfocused, rattled, and hyperaware of the powerful presence she knows is hidden somewhere in the mix. She follows closely behind her husband, the creator and star of this spectacle, making sure he appears towering by her low angles, his voice heard clearly above all others.
“We demand that you leave the premises immediately, and if you select any workers from this illegal Mexican labor pool”—Tom shouts, briefly staring into Lorna’s video camera—“we have captured time-stamped video images of you, your license plates and, essentially, your intentions, which we will not hesitate to share with federal law enforcement!”
Actually, Lorna hasn’t yet managed to get a shot of the tags. She isn’t even certain she got a clear shot of the driver, who is now covering his face with a newspaper. At the moment, all she can see is the sea of callused worker hands raised in protest, her own fingers shaking and clammy. She does manage to see the guy who throws the first punch, a matter of inches from her nose.
Her body is rocked from one end of the liquor store parking lot to the next, as fists and fury fly freely around the white van. The driver is pulled out, or perhaps he hops out, incensed. Either way, he finds his demise on the ground beside Lorna’s husband, Tom, who caught a bad one from a stocky brown gardener in chalky work boots. Tom cradles his nose and his shiny bullhorn like a newborn, he himself folded in a fetal flop.
Panicked, Lorna takes two steps back before slamming into a brick wall, her camera plunging to the asphalt. She had no idea she was so close to the storefront that will serve as her refuge, but she quickly bends down to scoop up her camera and take cover before she ends up on the ground with a broken nose, too.
Her hands meet with his—pale against bronze—and she retracts, leaping to her feet, much in the way her heart also dives from her chest.
“You thieving wetback! That is American property and I will have your filthy ass back in the bush so fast, heads are gonna roll!” Her body is convulsing violently, undermining her feigned authority. She resents knowing that there is fear evident in her eyes, and avoids connecting with his. Her head is pounding wildly, and yet there is a curious pool gathering between her thighs.
He stands up slowly, and casually takes a step back. The camera’s knowing red eye stares up at him, yet he is neither nervous nor self-conscious. He is amused, and insanely intuitive, fluently interpreting the implications of Lorna’s unstable knees, shallow breaths, light perspiration, crimson complexion, and involuntary tremors. As the sun stretches in the east, there is a celestial erection stirring in the west. And Lorna Landry has it all on tape.
“Attack me again, amigo, and I will have your dirty Mexican mug on every news channel in America,” Lorna warns, fumbling both her words and her camera.
