Latest Flash

The Ensenada Incident

A little bit of love, a little bit of heroin, sometimes the going down gets mixed up with the coming down. Until you go too far.

The Ensenada Incident by Jesse Rawlins
My tits feeling tender, I woke alone on bedraggled sheets … handcuffed to the bedposts—smelling like rank pussy—but still basking in the afterglow … as early morning sun splashed filthy Venetian blinds. I would’ve found the cuffs enticing. But damn I needed to piss like a distraught racehorse.
I scanned the empty warehouse. My clothes remained scattered on the dust-caked checkered floor … its black-n-white tiles buckled and cracked … but blessedly varmint-free.
This glass-walled corner office had no door: and its full bathroom didn’t either. Leading me to assume my absent lover Carlos had left the keys to these cuffs on one of the nearby tables—then ventured out to buy us coffee.
But those tables proved as bare as my freshly-spanked ass—
And I didn’t see my purse ….
For three full months, I ‘d socialized with Carlos. Always in public. Never alone. So I’d never been to his place; he’d never been to mine. But I assumed that just like me, he lived in greater San Diego.
I’d bumped into him Friday evening (outside Better Buzz Coffee) … and heard myself gush: “Can you recommend a restaurant—somewhere out of town? Saturday’s my birthday. I wanna try something new.”
“Have you been to Ensenada?”
“Are you referring to the city—the one across the border?”
“Yes, Chiquita, I am. I’m heading down there shortly to see my mother for the weekend. Her place overlooks the beach—and she also has a guest room. I know a dozen lovely restaurants I believe you would enjoy.”
I didn’t go home to pack—
Just hopped in his Jeep: grabbing what I needed on the eighty-mile drive … and we arrived in Ensenada as a fiery August sun sank behind the low-slung mountains.
We dined leisurely on the waterfront; strolled to several bars. Shortly after midnight, he’d waltzed me to this warehouse.
Tired. Tipsy. Horny. I hadn’t really cared.
I spent two hours clenching; couldn’t withstand the pain—
Scooting my ass to the bedside-ledge … I peed lamely on the floor.
I tossed-n-dozed the entire day—then suddenly he rejoined me: “Thank god, Carlos. I thought you’d gotten mugged. Where have you been?”
He laid a familiar green travel bag gently on the bed … removed a Boston Bruins snow globe—and jauntily shook the trinket. “I’ve been to your condo, chica. Brought back some of your things. And I dropped by to see your mother while passing through Laguna. A very nice lady; my cousin and I offered to repair her damaged roof—at a very modest price.”
My heart had sunk-n-shattered as soon as I saw my snow globe … and the pistol in his waistband. “Thanks,” I simply told him, feigning nonchalance. Despite his passive-aggressive manner, I couldn’t be fooled again—no one knew I was in Mexico.
But beside my birth certificate … and a dress I wore to weddings … I also spied an item—that just might save my life.
Producing a decadent chocolate cupcake … Carlos held it to my lips; and sang me Happy Birthday: “I want to marry you, Chiquita. Here in Ensenada—once the paperwork is ready.”
That explained the dress …. His initial plans at least, didn’t involve killing me. Though shooting me full of dope—and selling my ass for cash—remained unwelcomed possibilities.
I lasciviously licked some icing: “Of course I’ll marry you, baby. I thought you’d never ask.”
Carlos smirked: “I admire you, Chiquita. Not prone to histrionics. And very good at math. I’m a lucky man to have you—and your mother’s lucky, too.”
He let me take a shower. I let the bastard fuck me.
Carlos left me every night ….
And every night he cuffed me.
But during daylight hours we two lovebirds kept quite busy. Blood tests. Chest x-rays. Trips to the U.S. Consulate. And the local Registry. Forms for the U.S. State Department. And the Mexican foreign office. Meanwhile, documents in English had to be transcribed into Spanish—by a certified Mexican translator—
This odyssey took a week ….
Only civil marriages performed by civil servants are valid in Mexico, and four witnesses are required. Three women and a gentleman silently stood at ours. I smiled at the groom: the groom groped my ass.
Our first morning as newlyweds, Mr. Romance fed me breakfast: twenty-five colored condoms—filled with brown-tar heroin … gently dipped in maple syrup (and ribbed for my pleasure).
Sometime after sunset, we’d head back to San Diego: I would drive his Jeep. Assuming my sweet Carlos had compadres in the states, I resolved to make my move soon after our border crossing—
I’d clipped the weapon to my wallet, and he hadn’t said a word.
My Taser looked exactly like a flashlight.
I tazed him. Tied him. Gagged him ….
Raped him with a lug wrench—
And eventually I drowned him.
I could’ve cut off his cojones ….
But I’m not prone to histrionics.
Social service workers meet a lot of lowlifes. Ex-lawyers. Ex-doctors. Ex-cops. Ex-cons. Most of them are addicts: making it hard to trust ’em as far as you can piss. But some will handle the currency I needed to dispense: the drugs inside my body—
Which frightened me half-to-death ….
Abandoning our homes—carrying new identities—my mother and I fled East … finally renting property out in the Bahamas.
The tuxedoed Latin gentleman approached unbidden … and bore some semblance to the witness at my marriage—
“I was heading to my yacht … when I saw you through the window. The night is far too lovely to spend it trapped indoors. Perhaps you’d care to join me.”
I planted my elbow on the bar. Waggled manicured nails—
“Ah, your husband is indeed a very lucky man.”
“He told me that once.”
“Truly? Only once? So what is your husband doing—while you sit here all alone?”
“He’s committed to his task—of swimming with the fishes.”
“A marine biologist, eh?”
Maybe I overreacted …. But I tazed him to the floor—
It was too fine a night … to get confined indoors.

Despite its scantily-clad acclaim, Jesse’s first published story (When the Pheromones Dance) wasn’t well-received by her orthodox Catholic mother.
The author wisely fled to Washington—and securing White House Press Credentials—covered Science Policy during the Clinton Administration. But infected by Lewinsky Lewdness—Jesse suddenly spiraled into a life of prostitution: and spent six orgiastic-years pretzling for Corporate America.
Now holed-away in Parts Unknown, she’s trying her hand at fiction. You can learn more here: