Humiliation

His first night in cell 118 was enough to teach him he no longer owned his body, only belonged to the man in the lower bunk.

While he boiled the tea, the two men tied to the table were beginning to realize that no one would leave that living room tonight the way they had entered.

When the anesthetic wore off and he opened his eyes, he was already naked, handcuffed to a chair, and surrounded by four women who had spent a month waiting for that moment.

I thought I had the situation under control. I thought an old man with no strength couldn’t do anything to me. That was my first mistake of the morning.

I arrived at two in the morning with a dry mouth and one idea in my head: that night I wasn’t going to set any limits, no matter what happened among the pavilions.

I watched her fold sheets in those light-colored leggings and prayed she wouldn’t notice the bulge in my shorts. Then one day she turned and asked why I was looking at her like that.

I’m a closet tranny. I’d spent months obeying his emails when he wrote that he’d be coming to my city, and I knew that afternoon he’d do with me everything he had ordered.

Forty minutes earlier my hands were shaking. Now I’m holding the harness, and for the first time in eighteen years, I’m the one deciding what happens in this room.

I showed her the video and she collapsed on the living room floor. But when she got back up, she was no longer the woman her husband had humiliated for twenty years.

He called me as evening fell to warn me he’d be late. By then I’d already started getting ready: the wig, the makeup, the plug. Only him was missing.

I had her caged beside the table, on all fours, while my friends ate and tossed leftovers onto the metal tray. That was only the beginning.

That week I behaved like an insolent girl, and he warned me: we’d see whether I was still so haughty when he had me right in front of him, on my knees.

I was seventeen and had a girlfriend who was crazy about another guy. It took me a year to realize that betrayal didn’t hurt me —it excited me.

He had spent years perfecting an expression that revealed nothing. But that afternoon, in the hotel lobby, his eyes betrayed the one thing he must not feel for her.

When the doorbell rang, Babacar ordered him to open the door wearing only that ridiculous thong. His friend came in smiling, and Tomás knew that night he no longer belonged to himself.

I walked out of that meeting with my blood boiling. That night I didn’t want to play soft: I wanted to destroy the two boys waiting for me on their knees on the mattress.

Three days at the beach, five friends, and a phone that was never turned off. I thought I was among innocent laughs; others saw it as a show.

That September morning I saw the shyest girl in class walk in. It took me two weeks to realize the shy one wasn’t her, it was me.

When I pushed open the metal door, I expected to find him alone, like always. But under that hanging bulb were four more men, and none of them looked in any hurry.

Three weeks without hearing from him, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I texted “hiii,” and his reply reminded me of the only thing I was to him: his obedient slut.