I found her in the back alley behind my store.
She was bruised and battered and just this side of unconscious.
I rushed over to her, barely making out in the darkness the bruises that puffed her face. She was covered in debris from my refuse container. Someone had taken the time to spew garbage from my bin all over her. A message? Or just a final insult to punctuate her beating?
I didn't care. What I saw was an injured girl before me and I would do my best to make certain she got proper treatment.
"Can you hear me?" I asked loudly, tapping her face lightly. She moaned a little and moved her head slightly. "Can you tell me your name?"
No response.
"Ok. Can you tell me where you hurt?" I was loath to move her, wary of possible broken bones or internal bleeding. Again I got no response.
"Ok. You hold tight. I am just going to run inside and call an ambulance."
"No," she gasped and suddenly grasped my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip. "No policia. No federales." Her whole body shook violently.
No police? What was this? Although her Spanish clued me in slightly.
"Listen. You are hurt badly. You need a hospital. Doctor. El Doctor. Nosotros voy el hospital."
My Spanish is quite horrible, but she understood my intent. She strained herself making certain I understood she wanted no part of anything official.
"No. No!" she exclaimed, trying to pull herself up using my arm and spitting blood. "No," she said and collapsed back down, breathing heavily and raggedly.
Damn, I thought, and began running my hands over her body to try and determine if anything was broken or bleeding badly. I wished there were more light so that I could see. Blasted street punks were always knocking out the lights in the alley so that they could do their drugs, engage in prostitution and do whatever else it is young miscreants get up to.
I couldn't feel anything out of place on her body, so I decided to risk carrying her inside.
"You can't stay out here," I told her. "I am going to take you inside, see if we can't get you fixed up."
She didn't answer. I think she was now fully unconscious. My suspicions were confirmed when I tried to lift her. Her body sagged badly and I had a hard time getting her into my arms. Nothing is heaver than the dead weight of an unconscious human body. Her arms and legs were limp and loose and her body sagged at the waist every time I tried to get her up. Finally I settled for grabbing her from the front and lifting her from under her arms. I struggled to my feet and her body collapsed against mine. I was disastrously aware of a very healthy pairs of breasts pressing firmly into my chest and I felt disgustingly shameful that such a thought would pass through my brain at a time like this. I shuffled her over to my back door, leaned her against it and fingered to door handle. We tumbled inside and I winced as her battered body hit the ground. I tucked her feet inside and kicked the door shut, locking it.
In the light of the storeroom I got a much better look at her. Under the bruises and blood that matted her face she appeared to be a very attractive, and young, Hispanic girl. I would say between 18 to 20 years of age. Both eyes were blackened, her cheeks bruised and swollen. He nose was bleeding and her lips were cut. Her neck had blue and black marks around it where it appeared someone had tried to choke her.
I looked at the rest of her body.
Her clothing, scant as is was, was disheveled, but not torn. She wore a short black fishnet top that exposed her belly. Under it was a translucent black chamois. She wore extremely tight and short cut-off denim jeans. From her intact clothing I surmised that, whatever the intent of her attacker, it was not rape.
The bruises continued down her body, dotting her arms and thighs. If she had been hit on her stomach or chest, those wounds would not show yet. Maybe in another few hours. I pressed lightly on her chest, patting her rib cage. No bones seemed to move, so perhaps she did not have any broken ribs. I put firm pressure with my hands on her abdomen and, even though she was unconscious, she gave out a moan.
Shit. I pressed again but could not detect any obvious swelling, firmness or pocket of pressure that might indicate internal bleeding. I sat back and looked at her, weighing my options.
She very adamantly did not want to go to the hospital. However, if there was internal bleeding, I would have no choice. A dying or dead girl in my store would be very bad news indeed.
I took a second appraising look at her...the bruises, how she was dressed...and reflected upon the condition in which I had found her, buried under garbage and all. Someone wanted her taught a lesson, but not necessarily dead. The beating was too professional. Designed to hurt badly, but not disable or incapacitate. The careful damaging of her face was telling. Both eyes blackened evenly. And both cheeks. Lips busted but chin apparently not broken. Nose bleeding, but also apparently not broken. Someone wanted to preserve her looks. Someone was making money off of her.
Well, not anymore. Not if I could help it.
I considered options. Like as not, whoever did this would be back for her. It didn't do to leave a potentially illegal immigrant lying around for the cops to find. Too much to risk that perhaps she would be the one to crack and spill stuff to the feds who could not be bought. No. They would be back for their property. Best, I thought, to get her out of here, let them think she had come to and wandered off.
I ran an electronics store. One of a chain of eight throughout the city. I paid my graft to the neighborhood, took care of the cops and street punks alike, and was basically left alone because I got people the neatest gear at rock bottom prices. I was cool in the neighborhood and beyond reproach in the street sense. Perhaps I could risk nursing her back to health.
In retrospect that was not the smartest decision of my life and in more ways than one it changed me. I can ponder now about my motives in keeping that girl. It is rare, very rare, that someone possesses such beauty that it can still shine though despite a severe beating. I had gazed at her, squatting on the floor beside her, enraptured by her beauty. Long dark hair, slightly wavy that reached to mid-back. Small, pert nose, sensuous lips and slightly slanted eyes. Her breasts seemed the perfection of Michaelangelan beauty and her figure was slim and taut. I remembered those breasts pressed against me and experienced a slight reaction in my groin.
"Alright," I thought. "Enough of this. Time to make a move."
I was alone in the shop, my staff having already gone home for the night. I left her briefly to fetch my car and pulled it into the alley, making certain no one was about. Then I completed the awkward task of hauling her limp form into the backseat of the car. I locked up the store and drove home.
My house is a very nice place. The electronics business in L.A. had been very good to me. I was situated on a bluff overlooking the ocean and sported six bedrooms in a modern, two story affair. I couldn't get her upstairs in her unconscious state, so I took her to one of the downstairs bedrooms and left her on the bed.
I drew a couple big pots of warm water from the kitchen, grabbed some towels, washcloths and first aid supplies from the bathroom and returned to her.
She was semi-conscious now, moaning and obviously feeling the pain of her beatings.
"Hey," I whispered and knelt beside the bed. I placed a hand lightly on her shoulder and she jerked back from me, eyes wide with fear. The exertion must have been too much for she sighed and descended into unconsciousness again. I tried to rouse her by softly shaking her shoulders, but got no response. Oh well. At least I could get her cleaned up and maybe determine further the extent of her injuries.
I would like to confess that it was an arduous task, a chore set about with professional detachment in the best interest of a fellow human being. But I am afraid that my masculine persuasion and the presence of an over abundance of testosterone, allowed me to ever so slightly enjoy the task I was about to engage in. I would like to say that the job of undressing and cleaning up a nubile young lady was one I did as a noble Samaritan, but honestly bids me to relate that it was a most enjoyable undertaking, one only slightly marred by the prospect that she would wake up during my administrations and slap me silly.
I started with her face, dabbing away dried blood and smudged dirt with a damp cloth. The more of her face I revealed, the more enthralled I became with her beauty. This girl was an exotic treasure and I started to feel a boiling rage building inside me that someone would do this to so perfect a creature. I got her face cleaned up, rested a cold cloth over her eyes to help reduce the swelling and imagined what that face would look like with a broad, happy smile splitting its features. Or a seductive pout when teasing or enticing guys. Or the perfect O her mouth and eyes would form in the midst of sex and a rousing orgasm.
I felt myself getting hard and decided to move on to the rest of her body, to continue cleaning up her sacred chapel of Athena.
Her blouses were a bit of a difficult challenge to remove. They didn't button or zip but rather needed to be pulled above her head to get off. I accomplished this with minor hardship, rolling her first to one side, then the next to creep it up to her head. While I had her rolled away from me my hand contacted her bare breast and I gasped as goose bumps suddenly ran the length of my arm. Oh, how firm and soft that fleeting contact felt. I let her roll back onto her back and stared down at two exposed, perfectly round, C-cups crowned with half-dollar size areola and two perfect, half inch round and high, delightfully brown nipples. I caught myself actually panting as I gazed at her half naked torso, her blouses pulled up to her shoulder line, the flimsy black of the material contrasting nicely with the deep tan color of her skin.
I was weak. I knew it, and my only care was whether or not she would wake up while I was performing my 'doctorly' chores. Those breasts were hypnotizing me, calling me, urging me to touch them, to grasp them in my hands and massage them. They begged me to feel their softness, to caress their fullness, to handle their nipples. I was weak. I was scared. I was a bastard.
Looking at the young lady's face for signs of wakefulness, I rested a hand on her bosom. She didn't stir. The touch tingled. My hand felt electric. I cupped her right breast in my hand, felt its silky smoothness and marvelous weight. I squeezed slightly, enjoying the give and play of her flesh.
My hand shivered with nervousness as I checked her face again. She was out cold. I played with her breast further, massaging it, creeping my fingers up to joyously tickle a nipple. I felt it grow hard under my manipulation and I let out a long, deep breath. Oh, how her body was calling to me!
