Oh, Mexico (I Never Really Been, But I’d Sure Like To Go)

“Where is it, where is it… Ah-ha!”

Christine emerged from the depths of her underwear drawer, somewhat embarrassedly brushing aside one of her (tragically unused) silken numbers off of the corner of her navy-blue tinged, eagle-stamped passport, probably the only thing she owned that was just as All-American as she was. She flattened the document, blew air over the surface like it was a long-lost ancient artifact, gamely gripped it by the spine to shake out anything that might have crawled inside, and then just held it out in front of her, staring at her ticket to not just a new country or continent, but a new brand new life.

After a moment of contemplating the gilded symbol on the front, Christine spat out her inhaled breath and abruptly got to her feet, nearly knocking her caged hamster, Eric, off of his wheel in surprise. “Let’s see… how did he say it went again…?” She mumbled to herself, pressing the passport down onto her desk next to the innocuously-resting stamp and a mostly-full bottle of tequila that she'd taken a pull from to steel her nerves. “To where an attendant would normally put the mark…” Reaching over to the handle of the stamp with her free, lightly trembling hand, she held it up over the tapestry it was meant to paint, and then—to combat a sudden spike of paranoia, coupled with just a touch of self-doubt—Christine flipped the stamp over just to make sure that it hadn’t turned or spun or otherwise veered away from her carefully-chosen test-drive of the stamp’s effects:

Welcome to

Mexico

On this very day, their campus was hosting a protest against the treatment of immigrants from their most important neighbor to the south. Like basically all such nation-based demonstrations on-campus, Christine had been filled with an uncomplicated sense of global-minded duty about going out and showing their foreign neighbors that they weren’t alone in their plight—undermined almost completely by how out-of-place she knew she’d inevitably feel. But all of that was in the past now, her new trinket guaranteeing that she’d do more than just fit in—she’d be a voice among many, promoting a good cause while also seeing just what the stamp could do. She also couldn’t lie that she had certain… questions, about the particular fetish of Mexican women, which as she understood consisted of an inability to say no, any time, anywhere, to anyone wanting to stick anything into them. The most pertinent being: How does that even work?

Without allowing any more time for hesitation or second thoughts, Christine gripped the stamp tightly, sucked in a breath, and stamped down. Gingerly removing it from the passport, she saw that the indentation was—surprise, surprise—the exact same as the stamp’s head. But even as she watched, the ink began to ripple and shift with the same holographic sheen as many of the passport’s other pages, and the black borders of the stamp itself began to separate and coalesce into a scale-like pattern. Eventually, the whole thing re-formed into a circle composed of two snakes eating each other’s tails, each head forming the mid-point of the top and bottom of the circle, before it all cycled down into a light, almost lime-colored shade of green—followed by the letters themselves stretching out into a more exotic, intricate, and, well… Mexican, font. Christine thought, resisting the urge to shake her head in disbelief, and feeling a low whistle creeping up past her esophagus. Wow.

Christine contemplated the design for a few seconds more, just to make sure it wouldn’t do anything else worth catching, before nodding self-assuredly. Alright, she thought, laying the stamp on its side before she turned and slipped into her bed, absent-mindedly netting her hands behind her head as she glanced at the American football poster hanging on the opposite wall, all I have to do now is nap, right? But even if I was tired before, I’m totally wired now. Think of all of the things I can use this thing for, all the ways it can help me, all the ways I can help others, everything starting with… just a… little… stamp…

Beep beep beep, beep beep beep, beep beep beep…

“Joder mío… Five more minutos, por favor…”

Barely a moment passed, before light-brown eyelids snapped open.

Sitting up fast enough to send her inky-black locks over her shoulders and into the edges of her vision, the newly-minted Mexican’s hands began frantically roaming over her body, heart hammering in her new chest. Starting at her still-trim waist and sliding up to her mostly still-perky breasts, she noted that nothing in that department had really changed. But as she brought her hands up to her disbelieving eyes, inspecting their back and front with a growing smile, and finally capturing a lock of black hair between two fingers, there was no doubt that she’d left Miss All-American far, far behind. Dios mío! It’s finally happened! I, I know Spanish, and, and my room—

Looking around in a stupor, she tried to fight off a bizarre fog of familiarity toward her new surroundings by focusing on the most obvious holdovers from her old life. “Eric—I mean, Enrique!” She shouted, throwing her legs off of the side of her bed. Sitting within its glass terrarium, what had once been an adorable ball of fluff that she’d been allowed to keep after a lot of begging and pleading to her RA was now an unblinking, vibrant green-and-yellow lizard, sunning itself on a large rock. Popping open the container’s top, she gently removed the reptile by the torso along with an onslaught of cooing and kissing noises, gently rocking back in forth with him in tow as he merely let out a small reptilian yip of protest. “You used to be a furry little guy, yes you did~!”

Slipping Enrique back into his cage, she turned around to behold the poster on her wall. “Football—I mean, uh, football!” Indeed, what had previously been a mid-action spread of a collection of hot, sweaty men threading between each other with pigskin cargo in tow, was now a mid-action shot of hot, sweaty men about to kick a ball into a distant goal. Some things never really change, she reflected with a small smile, taking a moment to amuse herself by picking all of the visible player’s names and stats out of her new memories—before catching sight of something that got her excited all over again.

“Tequila—I mean, mezcal? Whatever.” She said with a shrug as she spotted the bottle she’d left out on her desk, before padding over to pour a congratulatory/victory swig—witnessing just in time the wriggling form at the bottom of the glass, accompanied by a vivid memory of the… unique flavoring methods for this kind of Mexican booze. “Alright, maybe, maybe save the mezcal for later.” She said, slipping the cap back onto the bottle, and surreptitiously splashing the already-poured liquid into her dorm trash can.

It was in doing this last action that she saw something that nearly made her heart stop—her passport, similar in its blue color and bird-related mascot, but featuring a wholly different glittering gold heading shining back at her:

Mexico

Slipping a finger under the cover, she hesitated for a moment, before berating herself. This is what you’ve been waiting for, you can’t chicken out now. Time to suck it up, flip this open… She did so, followed by furrowing her brow. …and say hello to… Catalina Rodriguez? “Cat-a-lin-a.” The Mexican girl tried out, and was almost unnerved both by how natural it felt, and the realization that she’d already been thinking of herself with that name ever since she woke up. I… I used to be called something else, right? It started with a C, I know it did… Catalina’s internal musings were broken up by her phone’s alarm going off again, which she looked to with some annoyance—before remembering why she’d gone and set the alarm in the first place. “Ay basura, the protest! I’m going to be late—!”

Hastily grabbing up her purse and throwing the strap over her shoulder, she fled into the dorm’s bathroom to apply her make-up. Man, this new skin-tone makes this really interesting. She thought absently, laying the eyeliner on tastefully and the eye-shadow on thick. God, and my hair’s practically a mane now… Do I even need to style it? Lemme just— Running her fingers through the midnight-black curls and fluffing them out, Catalina turned from one side to the next, liking what she saw. I am one hot tamale! I wonder why this is all the heavy-duty, anti-smear stuff, though. Must cost a fortune.

Catalina went through the rest of the dressing process almost mechanically, her mind drifting off to the near-future of the demonstration even while her new body went through the muscle-memory process of getting ready for this big event. Slipping on a plain black bra with what she felt was an overcomplicated snapping mechanism, she then pulled on a delightfully festive shirt in the sideways pattern of the Mexican flag—with green coloring the shoulders, short sleeves, and the top part of her perky breasts, the white part encompassing almost the entire heft of her bosom from one side to the next, and the daring red highlighting her breast’s underside and the bottom hem of the garment. I wonder why I have so many of the same shirt, Catalina thought absently, as she slid closed the drawer with at least a dozen of the same type of shirt stacked neatly on top of each other, and why my bra’s so hard to take off. Am I losing a lot of shirts, while also wanting to keep my bra from coming undo—oh god, these are cute...~

Torn between a somewhat-daring red skirt to compliment the color on the bottom of her shirt, or a set of tan khaki shorts that came to mid-thigh and complimented the color of her skin, she giggled at the wealth of new choices before she decided to go for business over pleasure. She was halfway through pulling the shorts up her juicy thighs before she stopped, and analyzed that thought. What is that supposed to mean? She wondered, before her cheeks heated up under the **** of a different revelation. And was I about to go without underwear?!

Catalina walked out her front door with a sigh, even as she shifted her stance to adjust her lacy thong’s nesting place between her cheeks, wondering why all of her panties were so dang dressy. Like I only wear underpants on special occasions, or somethi—“Lo siento, por favor!" She said, nearly bumping into somebody. "I—oh, hi Caleb.” Both sets of memories confirmed recognition as the tall, thin, and somewhat poorly-groomed face (not that she'd ever say that to his face, she knew he tried) of perhaps one of the only reliably male faces around her female-only apartment complex. “How’s the wi-fi?”

“Oh, y’know, same as always.” The man said as he reached up to rub as his somewhat unruly beard, eyes already staring past her and into an unpleasant near-future. “Too much bandwidth, not enough people using it. Or, no, wait.” He said exasperatedly, before cracking a good-natured half-smile at her.

Catalina giggled, acknowledging that joke didn’t really get old no matter how many times he told it, and adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder. “Well, I’ll make sure to send all of my e-mails in the middle of the night from now on.”

“All I ask. Where’re you off to?”

“Just going to the protest on the other side of campus today." Catalina said, unable to hide her genuine smile of excitement, "It’s going to be really something!”

Caleb smiled back, even as he wrinkled his nose in frustration. “Sounds like fun. Meanwhile, I get to wrestle with the cords in the ceiling, again. I’d have less dust in my nose if I just snorted it off a cocaine platter.” But then his expression brightened slightly, and he gestured at her with his chin. “Hey, on that note, I’ve been crazy stressed lately.” He said, beaming. "Mind if I fuck you up against the wall before you go?”

Catalina blinked once, twice, before breaking out into a wide smile. “Oh, of course!” Catalina said. “Is right here okay?”

“Right here is perfect,” Caleb said, already reaching down to unbuckle his pants. Catalina chuckled softly as she turned around, facing the wall and inspecting it for a set of well-worn grooves roughly in the shape of her handprints. He’s so considerate. She thought, as she pressed her hands into their slots, and began shifting her hips back and forth while her pussy began to idly get wet.

I wonder if I’ll see anyone I know there. Caleb’s eager, fumbling fingers found the rim of her shorts, his fingertips tracing the upper curves of her ass. I mean, just because I was way too self-conscious to go, doesn’t mean my other friends would be. I wonder what my relationship with them in this life is like? Catalina’s glutes clenched gently in the open air as Caleb let her shorts fall to the floor, and she could hear the low murmur of his reading her tramp stamp-style etched instructions that she’d gotten on her dieciochoañera, while he worked her elegant, lacy pussy-prison to the side, “Ooooh, these are nice. Cat, you got any condoms?”

“Yeah, hold on a sec,” Catalina said, dislodging one of her hands from the wall to start digging around inside her purse. “Are these the right size?” She asked, handing a roll back to him.

“C’mon, like I’d really answer that honestly.”

Catalina giggled in response. “Fair enough.”

“Alrighty, here it comes—”

But this is even better than if I had just gone with them, because now I have my own Mexican immigrant story that I can relate to the mmmm, mmmmmmmAAAAAAAAAssssessssss~, oh, oooooh, that’s nice, yessssss~… Catalina’s hips began to buck back unconsciously as Caleb entered a steady rhythm, slapping each of her well-formed ass cheeks back into Caleb’s pelvis with every thrust. She could feel him tense and pulse inside of her, and she clenched her pussy muscles in response, trying to milk him as best as she could even while she tried futilely to pick up her own train of thought.

“God… Caleb, I think you’re, I think you’re fucking my brains out a little, hah, can’t barely, ooooh, think…”

“Urgh, do you want me to, ungh, slow down?” Caleb grunted out, and Catalina giggled again while she felt the beads of his thrust-thrown sweat dot the back of her neck.

“No, no, use me however you want. But do you mind if I just talk out loud instead? I’m really excited about this protest thing, how we’re really bringing the power back to the people, and by sharing our own stories coupled with the strength of our activism—”

“Yeah, that’s um—can you just, I dunno, talk more about being a Mexican fuck toy? Who basically only exists to get sperm dumped in her, wear my sperm like a coat—not that you’re literally that, but, like, y’know.”

Catalina shrugged; she knew politics weren’t everyone’s thing. “Yeah, no, Mexican dirty talk, I got it. I am a filthy Mexican, *pant* *pant* cumrag, after all,” Catalina gasped, her eyes beginning to cloud over from the sensations running through her lithe, well-fucked frame, “and your dick is basically the most important thing to me, fuck, yes, keep going, and it wouldn’t matter if you’d asked me here, or outside—ooh!~—or even at my own family, urrrrgh, reunion, I still would have bent over, spread wide, and let you put—it—wherever—you—wanted! Oh god!” Catalina squirted around the cock plumbing her depths, brought over the edge by her own words, and lightly splattered a section of wall at crotch-level that was just as well-used as the handholds she was currently being pounded into. She rode out the blissful cloud of her orgasm as Caleb continued to thrust his way over to his, keeping her going by murmuring reciprocal dirty talk all the while.

“Horny Mexican sex doll, slutty Mexican skank, take it, take it here, take it anywhere—! Oh shit!” Catalina let out a low hum as she felt him unload into her depths, the gradual filling of the bag forming a slight pressure against her walls. Her half-lidded eyes stared vacantly into the depths of her dedicated fuck-wall, as Caleb’s warmth and his presence within her gradually withdrew while he stepped back, taking the cum-filled condom with him in the process. “Whew, that was intense. Thanks a million, I feel tons better now.”

“No problem.” Catalina murmured dreamily, still unconsciously flexing her thighs in place, “Thanks for giving me an orgasm too.”

“Hey, you did most of the work. If your router ever goes down in the middle of the night, I’d be happy to repay the favor.”

Catalina just giggled teasingly, “With you, and me, in my room, at nighttime? You’d end up needing to repay me alllll over again~.”

He laughed in response, “You’re probably right. Maybe I’ll just buy you lunch sometime, then. Hope your protest thing goes well.”

“Hey, thanks!” She said, already hearing his footfalls moving away. “Later.”

“Later.”

Catalina stood there for a few minutes more, her sweat-drenched hair dangling into her field of vision, before resolving to put herself back together before some other male (or even a horny lesbian, it happened sometimes) wandered down the hall and started the process all over again. One of the tattooed instructions she’d gotten on her eighteenth birthday was One and Done, Please! right below No Condom, No Ride! but that could still get out-of-control if she wasn’t careful. It wasn't until she'd already pulled up her panties and shorts, checked out her reflection in a nearby wall-mirror to make sure her make-up hadn't smudged, and made sure that no fluids had gotten on her shirt (or at least anywhere but the white part, it hid the sperm pretty well) before she froze, realization dawning like a Mexican sunrise as a tiny piece of Christine poked through the clouds.

Oh. That's how it works.