In the southern highlands of North America, the kingdom of cacti on the edge of the desert.
1999, Mexico, desert prison.
When Dean regained consciousness from his stupor, he found a hefty body pressing down on him. At the same time, a pair of large hands had covered his fleshy buttocks, attempting to yank down his pitifully insufficient underwear and proceed with the subsequent action of dropping the soap.
Stenches of sweaty body odor, bad breath, and feet, all mingled together, rushed into his nostrils.
A wave of hair-raising nausea shot straight to his brain.
Damn it!
To be screwed the moment I wake up?
Dean tried to resist but discovered that the strength with which he could once punch a calf to death was pathetically small. His weakened body, including his hands, was entirely controlled by the strong man's grip, leaving him unable to move.
The most disgusting thing was, it seemed the burly man had sensed Dean's resistance.
