Caravan of Love

By Hypnothrill published November 6, 2018
hypnothrill@yahoo.com
Summary
Think America has enough troops to protect against the migrant caravan penetrating its borders? Think again.

{In honor of US election day, I was inspired to write this. I wrote it all in one quick 2-hour session this morning, so I apologize in advance for any typos. I’ll be interested in seeing if this sparks as much controversy as my last “political” story did).

Caravan of Love

The caravan was coming. At first it was just Hondurans, migrant farmers who had left their homes after their crops had been ruined by drought. But as they swept north, the caravan grew to include Guatemalans, Mexicans. Their ranks were swelling with strong, brown-skinned young men. And they were about to hit the US border, just in time for Election Day.

Of course, to hear the liberal media tell it, they were just a bunch of desperate hungry migrants, slowly straggling their way up north in search of a better life. To hear the liberal media tell it, they were still days away from reaching the border. But that was fake news. As their numbers grew exponentially, the brown-skinned horde picked up speed. Barely stopping to rest, they power-walked towards the border day and night, determined to reach the US border by Election Day, when the yanquis would be distracted and would hence be at their weakest.

President Trump acted boldly, authoritatively deploying troops to protect the nation’s vulnerable, exposed borders from the hordes of virile brown-skinned men who sought to penetrate them. Of course, those so-called “experts” in the Pentagon ridiculed him, said there was “no real threat,” and only authorized the deployment of a measly few thousand troops to defend the whole border.

It wouldn’t be enough. Not by a longshot. Especially once we learned what the caravan was up to. But by then it was too late.

Naturally, we’d assumed that they trying to come across our border to rape our women, but we were wrong. It was much much worse than that. They were coming for our men.


Keeping a firm hand on his rifle, Rodney scanned the horizon, trying to see if he could spot any migrants coming his way. Despite the long, shoulder high barbed wire fence he and Jerry had laid down yesterday, he still didn’t feel safe. That wouldn’t keep those damn wetbacks out for long, Rodney knew.

His trigger finger felt itchy. He was ready to shoot some Mexicans. President Trump had said that even if they did as much as throw a couple rocks his way, he could shoot them. And Jerry was ready and eager to unload his gun in some Mexicans. He’d just be defending his country, that’s what Trump said.

In the meantime, Rodney scratched his other itch, on the skin that was peeling from his sunburnt neck. The 20-year-old red-haired private’s pale freckled skin wasn’t made for this kind of scorching desert sun. The sun wasn’t nearly so intense in the little West Virginia mountain town where Rodney came from. It was mostly rain and fog. Rain and fog and mud and people hooked on pain pills and no jobs ever since the mine shut down. That’s why Rodney had jumped at the chance to join the army, to get out of that place. (In fact, Rodney was a bit of a migrant himself, not that he’d ever think so; migrants were brown people, not white people like him).

He knew Jerry had a similar story; the only difference was he was from a dying farm community in Kansas. The two young soldiers had gotten pretty close over the past day, patrolling this sector of the border together.

Suddenly, Rodney saw a movement—it was the caravan! Or part of it at least. He counted five men, all muscular and shirtless, the sweat glistening off their brown skin as it dripped down their pecs and cobbled abs. Before he knew it, they were right there at the fence, grinning at Rodney and Jerry over the barbed wire.

“Get back!” Jerry shouted at them, “Take a step back or I’ll use this! I’m not afraid to shoot!”

“No comprende, señor,” said the tallest and handsomest of the wetbacks, still flashing his sinister grin as he leaned forward over the barrier.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Jerry shouted, a touch of hysteria creeping into his voice. “Get back! Go back to where you came from, back to where you belong!”

The wetback said nothing, just grinned broader, then spit in Jerry’s face.

“Un pequeño regalo,” he said.

Rodney looked on in shock. That wetback hadn’t just spit at his buddy; by the looks of things, he’d hocked a whole loogie onto Jerry’s face, covering his mouth and nose.

Rodney kept his eyes and rifle pointed at the five migrants as he called over to Jerry, who was retching and trying to wipe his face with his uniform sleeve. “You alright, Jer?”

Jerry didn’t respond at first; he was too busy retching and gasping for air as he tried to wipe away the super-strong Mexican sputum that clung to his nose and mouth. It was too bad that Rodney had his eyes trained on the migrants and wasn’t looking over at his friend, or else he would have seen how Jerry’s skin was getting browner as he rubbed the Mexican’s spittle into his face in a futile attempt to wipe it off. And he would have seen how Jerry’s facial features were changing, his lips getting thicker, his nose growing wider, his eyebrows growing bushier, even the stubble on his cheeks growing darker. And he would have noticed how Jerry had stopped retching and was now licking his lips, trying to slurp down all the Mexican spittle that had previously revolted him.

His eyes locked on the sinisterly grinning posse of migrants, Rodney called out again, “Jerry, do you hear me, are you alright?”

“I…I….Aye, aye, aye! Estoy muy bien!”

“J…Jerry?”

“Mi llamo Gerardo,” the soldier responded, and as he said those words, he began to flex his muscles, which had suddenly started to inflate. One flex and his growing biceps began to split the seams of his army uniform sleeves. Another flex of his pecs and the top two buttons of his shirt popped open. Before long, Gerardo had totally hulked out of his uniform shirt, which lay in camouflage tatters against his brown, hairy muscular chest.

“What…the fuck, man!?” Rodney cried out, “What the fuck did they do to you?”

“Mi amigo me dio un pequeño regalo. Es muy bueno. Soy muy guapo ahora.”

Rodney couldn’t understand a word. He’d never bothered to learn Spanish; it all sounded like gibberish to him. And what Gerardo did next confused him even more.

“Soy muy guapo y caliente,” he said as he groped the crotch of his camouflage uniform pants, “Debo frotar mi polla caliente marron.” And with those words he unzipped his pants and fished out a long thick brown uncut cock, which was already fully erect.

“What the FUCK, man?!” Rodney shouted, “Put that thing away!” He even raised his weapon as a warning, but it was too late.

“Aqui viene, puta!” Gerardo cried out, as a huge load of supercharged sperm shot out of his long brown uncut dick and hit Rodney square in the face.

Rodney retched and choked as he tried to breathe through the thick cum covering his nose and mouth. He tried wiping it off with his sleeve, but that only rubbed it into his skin. His skin that was starting to lose its freckles, that was starting to turn darker. Just as his red hair was turning darker, and the coarsening stubble on his face was starting to turn darker.

Rodney couldn’t help tasting a bit of the salty cum as he struggled for air. Part of him felt disgusted, but a growing part of him thought that it was salty…but tasty…like huevos rancheros. He licked his lips to get a bit more of the salty flavor, like he was licking the rim of his margarita glass at Chili’s. Mmm…yes…it was salty… but spicy… his hermano Gerardo had served up a big spicy load for him to eat…. Gerardo’s big dick and balls must be muy caliente to serve up such a big spicy load!

Soon Rodrigo was using his hands to scrape off and slurp down the rest of Gerardo’s big load. After all, his mamá had always taught him to clean his whole plate. And before long Rodrigo was flexing his muscles, showing off for Gerardo and the grinning brown men on the other side of the fence as he hulked out of his uniform shirt and displayed his glistening brown chest. And it wasn’t long after that before Rodrigo got the lustful urge to show off something else as well.

“Who wants a piece of this big brown cock?” Rodrigo called out in Spanish to the men on the other side of the fence. “I’ve got a load of fresh Mexican cream for you fuckers!”

“Save it for the Gringos,” the leader of the caravan called out in Spanish, “Now give us a lift over this fence.”

Gerardo and Rodrigo easily hoisted each man onto their broad brown shoulders, over the barbed wire fence. Then they headed back to their army jeep. There was only room for one other man in the jeep; the rest of the migrant caravan would have to travel on foot as they hunted for gringo men to convert. But Gerardo and Rodrigo (and their new friend Manuel, who sat in the middle, his muscular thighs wedged tight between them) would get the first pick of all those sexy white Texas cowboys.

As Gerardo drove towards the nearest town, Manuel played with Rodrigo’s throbbing brown uncut dick. Rodrigo’s big hairy Mexican balls were churning with desire, a desperate need to blow his load in the face of the first cornfed white boy he saw. And then soon he’d have a sexy new hermano to play with.

Yes, the caravan was coming. And soon the men of America would be drenched in their cum.

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