No Rules. Just Victims.

Farrell chuckled.

"Between hair and nails anyone watching this movie will think 'factory work sure pays well in Mexico,'" Inez said. "Though what really burns my ass is Daisy. Literally Daisy herself. Until she overwhelmed the whole thing, a Mexican played lead."

"That figures," Farrell said.

"The part is still Mexicana," Inez said, "but Senorita Boricua isn't exactly convincing in the role."

"The movie isn't named 'La Verdad,' is it?"

Inez eagerly bobbed her head, dark hair trembling around her face. "Exactly! It's like watching an Ecuadorian play a Cuban. There's off, then there's way off! The producers must see every Latino like they do Arabs! All the same."

When their waitress brought a third pitcher of Margaritas, Farrell requested menus. By then afternoon had slid into early evening. The gradual arrival of more patrons increased room volume. Rather than speak louder, Inez and Farrell huddled ever so closer. Once or twice she even absently twirled her hair.

"You know," Inez said, "you never really told me why you were in the hills."

Her query was simple, its tone insistent. Farrell let the question linger and her frustration grow. He concentrated on his menu. Sure enough when he surfaced ...

"I'm going on the assumption the food's good here too," Farrell said.

She remained steadfast. Selection determined, Farrell put his menu aside. Focusing on what he'd been tasked, he generalized his motives for being in Mexico. Listening to the abridged truth, Inez considered the tale told. The returning waitress delayed her reply. They ordered. He noted approvingly she chose a dish featuring green chili and not the less volcanic red. Order given, waitress departed, Inez spoke.

"So, massa sent his great white bwana to kill the monster terrorizing the natives, huh?"

Farrell laughed at her flip distillation. Then he laughed again. Her joky tone was apt.

"We all should hope it's that simple," he said. "Say, how long has this shoot lasted?"

The film was midway through a two-month schedule. He asked how long had her hill subjects given Inez photo-documentary carte blanche.

"The last five days," she said. "Taking pictures is a snap. Oh! Sorry! The tough part was getting their trust. Poor as they are, they're still proud. And very guarded. Even though I'm not a gringra, there's still distance. Once they understood and accepted I have no intention of exploiting them, they relaxed. And surely it helps distributing craft services leftovers. Oh, and guilt-tripping the set doctor into making a house call or a dozen."

Listening to Inez, Farrell admired how she valued results over procedures. Benefits mattered, not methods. Sweet as Inez was she wasn't naïve. At her age he'd never been that clever to twist ethics. Only the service taught him how expediency trumped propriety. Upon entering corporate America that lesson served him well.

"It's good they trust you," Farrell said. "If you've gained that, you've done well. In these parts, trust is neck and neck with water as far as value. These people need some kind of advocate. Mexico City ignores them until election time. Then they get bought off cheap. Between times they're left to fate. Around here only movies provide miracles. Maybe your pictures might prod somebody big into action. You know, be nuisances that irritate."

Grounded as she seemed, he wondered how long until Mexico dissolved her beliefs into irrelevance. Inez reluctantly digested his view. Her disconsolation was shallow. She rebounded eagerly.

"I have pictures galore!" Inez said. "Maybe you'd like to click through them sometime."

She issued her offer so innocently, he almost blanked on its implication. Inez' eyes beseeched him. Her desire entered an obvious desperation. She could've finger-painted her pictures and Farrell would've agreed.

On the surface she sought his estimation for artistic validation. Below the high-brow fig leaf tumbled basic man/woman dynamics. He analyzed no farther, simply recognizing she found him attractive. For him it sufficed that Inez was a sensible woman. After all the fuck-dolls he'd rutted lately, the challenge of a substantial female excited him.

"It would be a privilege to see your, ah, portfolio," Farrell said.

Inez simpered, hiding joy which threatened to bubble behind a hasty sip of her drink. The waitress delivered their plates. Farrell and Inez calmly ate in expectant silence.

After dining, the night's final Margaritas greased their mood to dance. Motivating them further, the uninspired band sawed through norteño favorites.

A midweek night the dance floor offered plenty of twirling space. Farrell and Inez preferred the slower tempo songs. He held her tighter than necessary and she encouraged it. Their vertical frottage gave him a monstrous boner. Inez would needed to have been numb from waist down to disregard the bulge bowing his button-fly jeans. Rather she acted quite aware.

Matter-of-factly, she whispered, "Seems like somebody's ready."

Hurriedly they exited Ruiz. Quick feet and her giggling carried them along murky sidewalks. Hungry as he was for Inez, Farrell noted downtown's shadowiness. If neon storefront signage hadn't flared irregularly, viscous gloom would've enveloped Solipaz' heaviest trafficked streets. And if streetlamps downtown only sprinkled light, how solid was night in the hills?

He glanced at the sky. Tonight would be visually good. Little need for anyone sober to pick his or her way under the waning half moon above.

At her hotel the desk clerk handed Inez her key and messages. Despite who she towed and their eagerness no smirks were exchanged. Laden as they perhaps should've been, the trio's "Buenos noches" lacked arch inferences. Inez and Farrell skipped the birdcage elevator and hiked the stairs.

Mild lighting from bedside and writing desk lamps glowed in a room last furnished during the Cardenas administration. Farrell leaned against the door until the lock clicked. Inez took several steps away and set her camera on the desk. He tossed his hat. It landed next to her camera. Inez turned as if suddenly remembering she'd been followed. She smiled at her "pursuer."

"I have nothing to offer you ... to drink," Inez said.

Farrell pushed off the door and gravitated slowly towards her. Embracing Inez here felt better than on Ruiz' dance floor. He smothered her heavy breathing through baldly reciprocated kisses. Her lips and tongue were as inquisitive as his own.

While he unmoored Inez' shirt from her jeans, she unbuttoned his fly and pulled his dick through the boxers' slit. She tugged more from perusal than hunger. His length pleased her but it was obvious she favored fisting his girth.

Shirt unfastened, Farrell removed it. Wounded cotton fluttered to the floor. A gold cross resting off-kilter nestled on her chest.

At this moment, at this age, Inez showed no blemishes or sagging. He suspected between sensible dieting and outdoor activity augmented by scheduled, though not regimented, gym visits, she maintained an admirable figure. In the future, say, into her downside 30s, awaited the sad possibility of her becoming sloppy. He stopped scaring himself for no good reason. This was now. She was vital. Farrell hoped her vigor equaled her looks.

After all the decorative female unmentionables he'd bought and removed over the last several months, Inez' vanilla bra fascinated him. The cups were plain, the straps functional. Her panties just as likely matched. Farrell almost laughed at such normalcy.

He unbuckled both their belts and confirmed his guess about her undergarments. His hand slid beyond the elastic surrounding Inez' waist. Round solid cheeks crowded each palm. She wriggled, giggling under his kneading. One hand circled around front then crawled down.

Her grooming suited thigh-high cut bottoms. His middle finger found her crack and teased wetness. Inez groaned softly. The slight embarrassment wandering across her face amused him. In playful retaliation for succumbing so soon she squeezed his meat through his pants. He bent forward reflexively. Farrell pried her death grip and retreated. Sitting in the nearest chair, he slid off his boots. On the foot of the bed Inez did the same. Their clothes quickly littered carpet and furniture.

The billowy shirt, her support, understated a bountiful chest. Close dance floor contact aside, his partner's tits were larger than they'd felt. As often for busty women, her nipples were small and shy.

His .38 didn't faze her. The nine he yanked from behind his back did.

"You planned on shooting elk today?" Inez asked.

"No," Farrell said. "Maybe cans. Mexi-cans. Puerto Ri-cans. Domini-cans."

She laughed. "That's sooooo bad!"

Again reaching into one of his boots Farrell plucked out a condom. Long ago that fold ought have contained a knife. But now guns prevailed exclusively. They rendered fists or blades as quaint hallmarks of just as violent yet less lethal conflicts. These days, depending on known circumstances, he kept rubbers, hid money or an extra key in the obsolete pocket.

Naked, he rose, strode towards and loomed before her, his package an angry accusative pointer. Inez eyeballed him. She spent maybe one second too long gazing at the scars along his cock. Tentative fingers reached out and balanced his low-hanging balls. Unless she'd banged older men, a professor during college perhaps, he assumed Inez had never seen a pair drop so low. Inez raised both on a flattened palm. Their weight impressed her.

Inez freed her palm from underneath his nuts. Gravity reasserted itself but errant scrotal hairs caught on her retreating fingers. Her hand glided along his gnarly stick until the knob. There she clasped the head and crabbed deeper onto the queen-sized bed.

The fingers-to-penis connection willingly maintained, Farrell kneeled where she'd sat then crawled behind her. Mattress traversed, Inez ended tenuous hold for arms around his torso. As she reclined comfortably, he rolled latex down his cock.

Farrell settled himself in the saddle formed between her thighs. Again unlike his most recent partners, Inez presented a plush platform. Against Adriana's, Sofia's and even Janey's comparative skin and bones, Inez was fleshy.

He stopped lunging at Inez' juicy mouth and wandered into her expansive chest. The last woman he'd fucked with tits big enough to mash his head between was an American. Figured. Farrell took happy advantage of Inez' warm hills and promising valley.

Surfacing he thumbed her nipples until they toughened into short peaks. Inez' eyes drooped further while her mouth slackened more when Farrell tongued mindless designs atop those crowns.

He considered giving Inez oral. Unneeded. His curious fingers came away soaked.

Farrell's presence, his minor manipulations, her anticipation, had already boiled the short curlies hiding her slit into hot moss. A glance showed the excess glistening her thighs recesses. Soon she'd drip and stain the sheet.

Groundwork laid -- so to speak -- Farrell aligned them then plunged. Her grateful catch of breath pleasantly exaggerated his first stroke. Noises that followed called to mind exuberant porn.

Effortlessly Farrell filled Inez. Not that she was loose and lippy, but after his prior partners' smallness, he found Inez snug though not tight. She started at the place where the others eventually adapted themselves.

Heat and the strength of her legs against the back of his own and buttocks bothered him momentarily. Heels and calves of lighter women had been fluttering wisps. Farrell imagined a weaker man comparing Inez to a vise.

From his first effort he sustained the same beat. Since Inez accommodated him so, Farrell saw no cause to vary. Besides, his ragging rhythm wouldn't have mattered. Glassy-eyed and slack-mouthed as she was, Inez shuddered to her own cadence.

She came twice. The first quaked, the second erupted. So much so Farrell rode powerful ripples from Inez' pelvis through her shoulders. How many years since he'd ridden waves like hers? During any other sexing the load Farrell shot would've been regarded as jolting. Inez' delight tempered his discontent. She was satisfied and he'd gotten off. What else mattered? Yet ...

The room had become stuffy. Inez asked him to open the shutters and switch on the ceiling fan. Two more features further dating this hotel. Slatted wood shutters thwarted sunlight and noise instead of curtains or blinds and no air conditioning because of the structure's ancient wiring.

Obeying Inez, Farrell laughed to himself. This part of current Mexico so much resembled the Arizona he escaped over 25 years ago. Draft the fan drew refreshed their room. Indeed it had been a sweatbox. The pair had been too busy fucking to notice.

While he ventilated the room, Inez rushed into the bathroom. She returned carrying a towel. One which quickly covered the bed's discoloration. Though both had perspired profusely, the stain she sought concealing consisted of greater essence than sweat.

Frightened, Inez gaped at him. It struck him as wrong.

Sheepishly she confessed, "Sometimes I-I gush!"

Farrell lacked an adequate answer for her explanation.

The bed's added linen marked "off limits." Fortunately they'd lain out of plumb. Much to her insistence their long bodies crowded the bed's unsullied two-thirds.

Farrell considered it strange Inez didn't engage in any post-coital chat. In his experience after the deed free and clear casual lovers ran their mouths about trivial matters. Consequently women involved in horizontal commerce spared few words. From shame. Or guilt. Displaying pleasure as she had, Farrell expected the former. Instead she practiced the latter.

Maybe she was just tired. Anyway Inez fell asleep. Farrell wished she hadn't. Second-wind sex had revived him somewhat. New crazy thoughts zigzagged through his mind. Before she dozed, Farrell intended asking Inez whether she could scrounge him a copy of the film treatment. The initial version, the one whose convulsions got this production rolling. By coincidence or accident, it might contain insights pertinent to these Solipaz butcheries.