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    Please Note: You must be a legal adult to view this site. Where I live, that's 16 years old. It may be something else where you live, I'm not sure. In view of my ignorance, I now require a note from a parent or legal guardian stating categorically his/her express lack of interest in your moral upbringing. A note from a physician or signed prescription attesting to the necessity of viewing such materials for your mental and or physical well being. A quart of blood. Urine samples from three references not related to you by birth. A recently soiled condom belonging to yourself or someone you know. A naked photograph of your spouse in a compromising situation (unmarried users may submit photos of people they wish they were married to) Proof of citizenship of a country other than France. A Hostess Twinkie or Ding-Dong in the original unopened wrapper accompanied by dated proof-of-purchase. Six dollars in small, unmarked bills (loose change may be acceptable provided it's not Canadian) and a signed affidavit assuring me that you will use this site towards it's super-secret, intentionally designed purpose and not for world domination, research for a novel or doctoral thesis, intellectual masturbation or anything stupid like that. I hear it all the time and it's annoying. I don't do interviews. The next idiot who asks me to be his/her mentor will be shot. You must have a life before you can proceed beyond this point because I'm busy using mine. No piggy backing allowed!

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    Well, then...Let me tell you about how I met my husband. My father was a coffee grower in Guatemala and we were rather poor, as you can imagine. Nevertheless, I had a happy childhood and I was very happy. Until Hurricane Sofia hit our small village. We were devastated, all of us, and my family as badly as anyone. There was a landslide and my oldest brother, Pedro Luis, was attempting to save our goats when a tidal wave of mud engulfed him. We never saw my brother or the goats again. The small hillside that my father owned and grew coffee on now lay at the bottom of a steep ravine and there was nothing left of our house or possessions. We had no money and little means of getting some. In fact, the only thing of value that remained to my parents was myself, a small, thin and very dirty 12 year old girl.

    With great sadness my parents tried to explain to me the necessity of what they were doing. I tried to understand and be strong for them, but it was very difficult when my father sold me to a man from Panama City. He was older, very fat and smelling of cigarettes. I didn't like him very much, but he was my new "Papa" and I was to work in his brothel with his many other daughters. The first night was the worst, when Papa took my virginity, and I wish I could say that I fought him, but I didn't. He covered me with his fat, sweaty skin and thrust his cock into my innocent pussy hard and fast, covering my mouth with his so that all I could taste was his bitter tongue. I remember that more than anything else and to this day the smell of cigarettes on a man's breath is like a knife in my belly. He fucked my pussy and then my butt, which was somehow worse. Before my lessons were done, I learned how to service a man with my mouth, cleaning Papa's cock after he raped me and making him hard so that he could do it again. 

    I became very good at it and I earned my Papa a lot of money. Some of the men who had me spoke of love and they would come back as often as they could to spend their money on me. They would bring me small gifts from far away places and tell me stories of their travels. These men worked the ships moving through the canal and I desperately wished one of them would steal me away, or even buy me from Papa. But they never did and I spent three years working day and night in that whore house. If I was tired after a long night, but a customer wanted me? I couldn't sleep. I would have to suck his cock or fuck him, or do whatever he wished. I was young and pretty and so I was very popular.

    One day, when I was almost sixteen, a small group of men arrived. They weren't sailors though, they were doctors mostly, and one of them was an older man, an Anglo who worked for the United Nations. That's what he said and I didn't care. He asked me if I was eating alright, and if I had my own bed and clothes. He asked me about school and silly, meaningless things like that. I asked him if he wanted me to get under the table and suck his cock, or if he desired I would dance on the bar and fuck him on the stool where he sat. When he told me he didn't want to have sex with me, I called him a faggot and laughed in his face, because if he didn't have sex with me, if the man didn't buy me a drink, I was wasting my time. My Papa's time, and he would beat me for it after the men were gone. 

    The next time I saw that strange Anglo, he was returning with the police and they took me away, myself and seven other girls as young or younger than I was. They brought us to an orphanage run by Catholic nuns and I was supposed to get fat and strong and go to school. But I didn't. I would slip out at night, myself and some of the others, and we would find work on the streets. I could make five or even ten American dollars for sucking a man off in an alley, even more for a quick fuck. It was good money and after several hours of that we'd have enough to find a bar or small club. My friends and I would buy some cocaine, which was always cheap, or some ecstasy or other pills, and wash it down with rhum and tequila and beer. We'd dance with each other and soon with the handsome young men that we wanted to love. Every night was like that and it was very good for me. I was fifteen and I thought it would always be like that. I'd always be young and high and dancing through the night.

I'm out of time. Thanks for visiting. Have a nice day.

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