The Roadside Checkpoint I Didn’t Want to Escape

My name is Nerea, I’m twenty-nine, and I’ve spent my whole life running forward. When something breaks, I don’t sit around crying over it: I look for waves, sweat, speed. Skiing in winter, surfing as soon as the water stops hurting, kickboxing to let out what I don’t dare say out loud. My body is the result of all that. Five foot five, narrow waist, abs showing without me having to tighten them. It’s not vanity, it’s discipline.

I’m a lawyer, from Comillas, in Cantabria. Brown hair that turns almost blonde in summer, always in a high ponytail because I hate it getting in my way. Green eyes and a good-girl face that fools almost everyone. I’ve got a piercing in each nipple — I like hinting at them under thin T-shirts — and a couple of tattoos that tell stories I don’t tell just anyone: a wave breaking on my ribs, a tiny compass on my wrist.

Three weeks earlier, things with Adrián had ended. Or, to be exact, he’d ended them. I didn’t cry in front of him. I packed my things from his flat in Santander, loaded the board into the camper van, and left without looking back. I decided that summer would be mine alone: the French coast, the Atlantic, and my own ghosts.

I’d been surfing around Lacanau and the surrounding area for five days. I slept in the van, cooked on the camping stove, and lived on coffee, oats, and salt. Perfect. Until that afternoon.

I was coming back from the beach along a secondary road, my hair still damp and a soaked white tank top that left nothing to the imagination. In the glove compartment I had a little pot of marijuana. For me. A joint at sunset, nothing more. Nothing to sell, nothing to hide beyond my own moment of calm.

They stopped me at a routine checkpoint. Two young gendarmes and a third, older one who looked like the one in charge. They asked for papers, searched the van. I opened the glove compartment without thinking too much about it, and when they saw the bag the three of them looked at one another and muttered something in French I didn’t quite understand. Their tone wasn’t that of a simple fine.

—Get out of the vehicle, please —the older one said, very seriously.

I tried to explain myself in my correct French, but with a northern accent. I told them it was for personal use, that it was nothing serious, that I was a lawyer and knew my rights. They only half-smiled.

I reached the little station with my heart in my throat. A prefabricated building of gray concrete, surrounded by low wire fencing and two dusty patrol cars. They practically shoved me inside. The older one — about forty-five, close-cropped graying hair, square jaw — gripped my arm hard while the other two flanked me. One blond, with a bad-boy face; the other dark, broad, with a trimmed mustache. None of them were smiling anymore.

Inside it smelled of cold tobacco, burnt coffee, and cheap disinfectant. They put me in a small room: a metal table bolted to the floor, two chairs, a large mirror that I knew was one of those that lets you see through from the other side, a camera in the corner and another handheld one on a tripod, already set up. A red light was blinking. It was recording.

—Take your clothes off —the older one ordered in a dry French accent.

I tried to keep my lawyer’s composure. Steady voice, even though my hands were shaking.

—I am a Spanish citizen. I demand to be informed of the charges, to be allowed to call my consulate, and for my rights to be respected. This is illegal under the European Convention on Human Rights.

The older one let out a short laugh, like a bark, then slapped me so hard my cheek burned.

—You’re not in your courtroom here, mademoiselle. You’re in my house. Hands behind your back.

He took out the handcuffs. Cold steel. He put them on me roughly, just hard enough to hurt. Arms behind me, shoulders forced back. The blond stood behind me and grabbed my ponytail, pulling it upward so I’d lift my chin.

—We do this, not you. Don’t worry.

I held out for a few more seconds out of pure pride. Then the broad one lifted my cuffed arms and the blond ripped off my top in one yank. My bikini bra was exposed, black and tiny, the piercings showing through the fabric. The older one reached out and yanked it down in a single motion, leaving my nipples bare. The cold in the room hardened them instantly.

—Look at that —the blond murmured, coming closer to pinch one between two fingers. Hard. I moaned despite myself.

I tried to turn. The broad one shoved me against the table, chest against the freezing metal. They pulled my bikini bottoms down slowly, as if unwrapping a gift. I felt the air on skin still warm from the beach. They spread my legs with a soft but firm kick. The older one crouched behind me, pried my ass apart with both hands, and let out a low whistle.

—Pretty —he said—. And that little ass is untouched, isn’t it?

—You have no right… —I started again.

—Let’s see if you’ve got anything else hidden.

He cut me off by pushing two fingers into me at once. Dry at first. I shouted. Then he moved them, twisting, searching, until he found the spot and pressed. My traitorous body arched without permission.

The door opened. A woman came in. Early thirties, short jet-black hair, fitted uniform, dark hard eyes. They called her Camille. She came over, took off her cap, set it on the table, and looked me up and down while unbuttoning the first buttons of her shirt.

—You complain a lot for someone so wet —she said, with a soft Parisian accent.

***

They turned me face-down on the table. My chest flattened against the metal, my cheeks burning. The blond cuffed my ankles too, then linked hands and feet with a short chain underneath. I was completely immobilized, legs spread, arms stretched out in front of me, wrists fastened to a ring at the other end. I couldn’t move a centimeter.

The older one adjusted the handheld camera so it framed me properly: my face in profile, the piercings, the wave tattoo, my body open. He switched on an extra light. Everything was being recorded.

—Smile for the camera, lawyer —said Camille.

She lifted my head by yanking my hair and kissed me violently, shoving her tongue deep into my mouth. I tried to bite her; she pinched my nipple viciously until I gave in and kissed her back. Meanwhile, the broad one spread my legs farther and drove into me in one thrust. I screamed into Camille’s mouth.

They started taking turns. First the broad one from behind, gripping my hips, slow at first, then faster. Every slam dragged my breasts across the table, the piercings scraping the cold metal. Camille climbed onto the table in front of me, took off everything from the waist down, and pushed my head toward her.

—Lick —she ordered.

I did. First with anger, then with hunger. I slipped my tongue in, found her clit, made her moan. The blond moved up beside her and filled my mouth whenever Camille let me breathe. The older one masturbated off to the side, filming close-ups with his phone.

They changed constantly. They only freed my cuffs to put me on my knees on the floor. Camille sat in the chair and forced me to eat her out while the three of them took turns from behind. First the older one: longer, thicker, he went all the way in and stayed still for a second so I’d feel every bit of him. Then the blond, fast and jittery, smacking my ass until it turned red. The broad one grabbed my hair and moved me from Camille’s mouth to his.

They put me back on the table, this time with my legs opened even wider. The older one prepared my ass with saliva and with what was dripping from me. He pressed the tip in.

—No… not there… —I murmured, my voice broken.

—Quiet —Camille said, covering my mouth with her hand as he entered slowly. Pain first, burning, and then a strange fullness that made me moan against her palm.

I came like that, cuffed, immobilized, recorded. The orgasm shook me from head to toe and I screamed muffled against Camille’s flesh. They didn’t stop. They kept going until each of them came in turn. When they were done, they left me there for a while, face-down. The older one came over, wiped my face with a rough towel, and whispered in my ear:

—Good girl. If you come through here again with marijuana, we’ll be waiting. And if you get the idea to make a complaint, that pretty face of yours will be all over the web.

They released me. Gave me back my crumpled clothes. The bag had disappeared. I signed a blank sheet with shaking hands, and they walked me back to the van in silence.

***

I drove ten kilometers before stopping in a vacant lot. I climbed into the back, stripped again, and looked at myself on my phone screen, recognizing on my own face the marks of everything that had happened. I started touching myself. I didn’t recognize myself and, at the same time, I had never felt so awake.

It was already fully night, only moonlight and the distant glow of the road. I didn’t hear the car arrive. I saw the headlights slicing through the dark when they were already on top of me. Then a second patrol car behind them. Several shadows got out. I recognized the older one at once by his square silhouette and heavy gait. The blond and the broad one too. And two more I hadn’t seen before: one tall and thin, with a trimmed beard and black eyes; the other huge, almost two meters tall, with a presence that filled the space just by being there.

They knocked on the sliding door. Three times, hard.

—Open up, Nerea. We know you’re in there.

The older one’s voice. Calm. Almost kind.

I stayed still for a second, my heart in my ears. Then I pulled on a long T-shirt that barely covered me — nothing underneath — and opened the door. The cold air hit my nipples, hardening them under the fabric.

—Good girl. You didn’t get very far —he smiled.

I tried to speak, but the thin one had already grabbed my arm and hauled me outside. The big one slammed the van door shut and stood watch.

—What are you doing? —I murmured, more out of habit than conviction.

The older one lifted my chin with two fingers.

—We saw you leaving the checkpoint. We followed you. And when you stopped here, we knew you wanted a repeat.

He wasn’t lying. I couldn’t deny it.

***

They took me, cuffed again, along dirt tracks for fifteen minutes, to an area of marshland near the coast. It smelled of low tide and rotting wood. They stopped in front of an old fishermen’s hut, gray boards, rusted roof, a broken window covered with cardboard. The perfect place for no one to hear a thing.

They shoved me inside. It smelled of salt and damp. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. In the center, a rough wooden table, mismatched chairs, an old mattress on the floor. The broad one yanked my shirt off in one pull and the piercings glittered under the poor light. The older one set up the phone on an improvised tripod. Red, blinking. Recording again.

The huge one stripped first. Wide chest, tribal tattoos on his arms. When he pulled down his pants, my breath caught in my throat. The thin one laughed under his breath, taking off his shirt, leaner but wiry, with a long scar across his abdomen.

The older one gave rapid-fire orders in French. They put me face-down on the table, just like before. Wrists to the front legs, ankles to the back legs, legs spread as wide as possible. The thin one went first. He opened me with his fingers and drove in with a dry thrust. I screamed. He didn’t stop, keeping a short, hard rhythm, gripping my hips. The broad one stood in front of me and filled my mouth to the throat. He tasted of salt and sweat.

The huge one waited, masturbating slowly, watching. When the thin one finished, he came over. He prepared me with his own saliva and with what was dripping from me. He pressed the tip in.

—No… please… —I moaned, my voice broken by the other cock in my mouth.

—Easy —the older one said, stroking my hair like a pet—. Relax. You’re going to enjoy it.

He pushed in. Pure pain at first, a burn that arched my back. But he went in. Centimeter by centimeter. He filled me like no one ever had. When he was all the way inside he stayed still, letting me feel his thickness, then began to move. Slow. Deep. Every thrust made me pant, my body convulsing. The others took turns in my mouth, pinched my nipples, pulled on the piercings until the pain blurred into pleasure. I came again, screaming against flesh.

They changed positions. They lowered me onto the mattress. The huge one underneath, me on top, impaled on him; the thin one behind. The others around us, filling my mouth, finishing on my face and my chest. They spanked me until my skin was burning. They were satisfied only when they recorded the final scene, sprawled on the mattress, cuffed and curled in on myself.

In the end they left me like that, trembling. The older one switched off the camera.

—Good video —he said—. We’ll keep it with the other one. In case you come through here again.

They threw me a dirty towel and the torn shirt. They took me back to the van. The huge one gave me a gentle pat before letting me go.

—À bientôt, little one.

They made me drive to Hendaye and cross the border into Spain, escorting me the whole way.

***

I drove for several kilometers without looking back, until I stopped at a caravan site. I got into the back again, switched on the interior light, and looked at myself in the rearview mirror: messed-up hair, swollen lips, red marks on my neck. I touched myself slowly. Everything hurt.

I don’t know if it was something they did to me or something I’d spent too long wanting without daring to ask for. I don’t know what to call it and I’m not sure I want to give it a name.

All I know is that, since then, every wave I catch, every punch on the bag, every cigarette at sunset takes me back to that hut. And I don’t want to escape.