The logistics of drug trafficking are always changing, as you try to one-up the drug trackers. You've tried everything with cocaine - baking it into cakes, hiding it in soap, religious statues, plaster casts, dissolving it in bottles of pepsi. But your preferred method of choice is women.
Women made the best drug-mules. Their bodies were natural containers after all. The beautiful creatures would swallow thousands of dollars of your packaged product and hold it in their intestines while they crossed the border, to be decanted on the other side. They were naturally accustomed to having their vaginas and anuses packed to the brim, into which you gleefully inserted liters of product. Drug enforcement officials were less likely to search them than men, less likely to use deadly force, and women had their own ways of "persuading" border guards to look the other way.
A simple x-ray would detect swallowed product, of course, but there were ways around that. Breast and ass augmentation was common in this part of the way, and no border guard would look twice at a woman sporting a juicy pair of fake tits. Well, they certainly might look twice, but they're unlikely to suspect that, instead of silicone, your surgeons have filled those implants with pure diluted cocaine. Each enhanced tit can hold within it between 100 and 500ml of the stuff. Surgeons on the other side remove the implant, drain the fluid, and easily filter out the product. There was no greater delight to you than watching the big breasted mules being sent on their way to the airport.
It doesn't stop there though. After all, what goes hand in hand with big breasts? Babies! You could fill a mule's belly with kilos of liquid cocaine, pump them full of synthetic hormones to make them look and act like heavily pregnant women, then send them on their way. It has the additional benefit that border security are especially wary to x-ray a woman they believe to be pregnant.
There's only one catch. Female mules are scarce. They're too sensible, too afraid of you, they're not as money-hungry as men, nor as desperate to put food on their table for their families. You have more product than you can pump into your limited supply of female mules, already packaged up in millions of jiggly implants just ready to be inserted, but you have more men lining up to be mules than you know what to do with.
It is a typically hot and steamy day, as you sit in the palatial gardens of your forest villa. Underlings fan you, bring you iced drinks, ass you examine the new arrivals, boys from the local villages, all eager to begin working and earning. They are nervous, naturally, avoiding your gaze as they stand in a long line in front of you.
Many of them have already begun starving themselves, so that their clothes hang loosely off their reduced frames. That's good. It shows commitment, and will require less time and effort from your men until their bodies are ready to be carved up, pumped full, and shipped out.
You instruct them to strip, and they do so without question. Your eyes flit up and down the line. There is potential here certainly. A few individuals catch your eye.
Some, of course, are too large, too masculine. They must not have received the memo about what this job entails. Many of them genuinely arrive expecting to be recruited as your "muscle", when muscle is literally the last thing you need. Yet you've seen muscle-bound men dwindle to nothing just a few months after losing that thing between their legs. A cocktail of synthetic hormones in their blood can correct almost anything.
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