Border Crossing
"He's caught with contraband at the border. The agent offers an alternative to arrest—a private inspection that becomes a regular arrangement. Now he crosses twice a week, and she's always waiting."
The checkpoint was supposed to be routine.
Cross from Tijuana to San Diego, declare nothing, blend into traffic. I'd done it a hundred times for the import business—furniture, mostly, sometimes antiques. Everything legal.
Except this time.
This time, Agent Reyes found the pills.
"Step out of the vehicle, sir."
She was waiting by the secondary inspection area. Three hundred pounds of federal authority stuffed into a uniform that struggled to contain her. Fifty years old, maybe. Hard eyes. Harder body—not fat, exactly, but substantial.
"There's been a mistake—"
"The canine doesn't make mistakes." She nodded at my trunk. "Six thousand oxycodone tablets. Street value: half a million. Federal minimum: fifteen years."
My legs went weak.
"Agent Reyes—"
"Senior Agent." She stepped closer. "And right now, I'm the only thing standing between you and a cell in Florence. So I'd be very careful what you say next."
She took me to a private room.
Concrete walls. No cameras. A table bolted to the floor.
"Here's how this works." She closed the door. Locked it. "I write up what I found, you go to federal prison. Your business fails. Your family loses everything. You die in a cell surrounded by men who did worse."
"Please—"
"Or." She sat on the table's edge. "We come to an arrangement."
"What kind of arrangement?"
"The kind where the pills disappear." She spread her thighs. The uniform pants stretched tight. "And you show me how grateful you are."
"You want me to—"
"I want you to make a choice." She was unbuttoning her shirt. "Fifteen years, or fifteen minutes. What's it going to be?"
I looked at the door. At her. At the body emerging from that uniform—massive breasts in a regulation bra, belly that curved over her belt, shoulders wide as a linebacker's.
"Fifteen minutes."
"Smart choice." She grabbed my head. Pushed me to my knees. "Now show me you mean it."
I buried my face between her thighs.
She tasted like sweat and power. Her grip on my hair was brutal, directing me exactly where she wanted—clit, inside, back to the clit, harder, faster.
"That's it," she grunted. "Fucking earn your freedom."
I licked like my life depended on it. Because it did.
She came in twelve minutes.
Shuddering, grinding against my face, making sounds that echoed off the concrete walls.
"Fuck—yes—there—there—"
"Not bad." She was catching her breath. "But we're not done."
"You said fifteen minutes—"
"I said fifteen minutes minimum." She stood. Dropped her pants completely. "Now bend me over this table and fuck me like you want to stay free."
I was hard. I don't know when that happened—somewhere between terror and her cunt on my tongue.
"Yes, Senior Agent."
"Good boy."
I fucked her against the inspection table.
Her massive ass rippled with every thrust. Her moans filled the room. She demanded harder, deeper, more, and I gave her everything.
"You're better than I expected," she gasped. "Most men get too scared to perform."
"I'm motivated."
"I can tell." She pushed back against me. "Don't you dare come until I tell you."
"Yes, Senior Agent."
She came twice more before letting me finish.
When I finally did—buried deep inside her, shaking with relief and release—she laughed.
"The pills are confiscated." She was fixing her uniform. "Case closed. No charges."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." She handed me my keys. "But I expect you to cross this checkpoint again. Soon."
"Why?"
"Because this arrangement isn't one-time." She smiled. "You owe me now. And I collect my debts regularly."
Two weeks later
I crossed again.
Same checkpoint. Same lane. Agent Reyes waved me through to secondary before I even reached the booth.
"Anything to declare?" she asked, leaning into my window.
"Nothing, Senior Agent."
"Wrong answer." She opened my door. "Follow me."
The private room became our regular meeting spot.
Twice a week. Sometimes three times. I'd cross the border with nothing to hide, and she'd "inspect" me for an hour.
"You're getting better," she told me after a particularly thorough session. We were sprawled on the concrete floor, both sweaty, both satisfied. "More confident. Less scared."
"Should I be scared?"
"Probably." She rolled onto her stomach. "I could still destroy you anytime I want. One phone call and those pills reappear."
"But you won't."
"I won't." She pulled me on top of her. "Because you're too useful to waste on prison."
Six months later
The arrangement has evolved.
I'm not just crossing for inspections anymore. I'm staying overnight. Weekends. Holidays.
Agent Reyes—Maria, she lets me call her now—has an apartment in Chula Vista. When she's not on duty, I'm there. Cooking. Cleaning. Servicing.
"You're basically my kept man," she observes one Sunday morning. "You realize that?"
"I realize you could have arrested me, and instead you—"
"Made you my personal fuck toy?" She laughs. "Yeah. Best decision I ever made."
"For you or for me?"
"Both." She pulls me toward the bedroom. "Now shut up and earn your freedom."
One year later
Maria retired early.
Full pension, twenty-five years of service, commendation from the Secretary himself.
We moved to Puerto Vallarta. I run a legitimate business now—actually legitimate, no pills, no contraband. She spends her days on the beach and her nights with me.
"Do you ever regret it?" I ask sometimes. "Letting me go instead of arresting me?"
"I arrested your freedom," she says. "Just... differently."
"And now?"
"Now you're mine." She kisses me. "No border. No inspection. Just us."
"Forever?"
"Forever." She pulls me close. "You crossed into my country, gringo. And you're never leaving."
I don't want to.
I'm exactly where I belong.