I Went Back Dressed as a Woman for Night Duty

More than a week had gone by since that night. The purple marks on my wrists had turned green and yellow, and the burn when I sat down had diminished to a nearly shameful tingle compared to the agony before. The bruises faded into pale shadows on my skin. But there was something that didn’t go away. Something that took root inside me and started to grow.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a cheap silk robe. My apartment is clean, tidy, and the air no longer smells like them. It smells like disinfectant and like me. And it’s unbearably boring.

My fingers slide across the phone screen. I turned it on two days ago. Messages from regular clients are piling up unread; I ignore them all. I’m looking for one name, one number. I saved it simply as “S.1.”

My heart hammers against my ribs, and it isn’t fear. It’s an anxious, almost nauseating excitement that makes my whole body tense. I swallow. The guilt is still there, down deep, but it’s weak, drowned out by this new, voracious hunger. Under the robe, without even realizing it, my thighs press together, and I can feel how wet my cunt already is just thinking about him, about them, about what they did to me and what they still hadn’t done.

I open the chat. My fingers hesitate for a second over the keyboard and then type faster than I expected.

—Hi. It’s Renata. From last week.

I wait. There’s no immediate answer. The minutes drag by, and each one is an eternity. I stare at the screen, waiting for the three dots that signal he’s typing. Nothing. A stab of humiliation shoots through me. What if he was only playing with me? What if now he’s laughing at my desperation?

Just as I’m about to hurl the phone and hide under the sheets, the screen flashes.

—I remember. The one who left crying. Still hungry?

A shameful relief floods me, immediately followed by another shiver of desire that cuts through my belly and goes straight to my clit, which starts throbbing under the silk. His bluntness, without a single word of adornment, hits like a direct blow. Now my fingers fly without hesitation.

—I’m ready. For what you told me. For your friends. For everything.

There’s another pause, shorter this time.

—Seriously? Last time you looked pretty broken.

—I’ve recovered —I type—. And I need more.

The confession burns on the screen. It’s the deepest, dirtiest truth I’ve ever admitted.

—Hahaha. You liked it, didn’t you? You liked being treated like what you are. A whore with her cunt open.

I don’t deny it. I can’t. Instead I write:

—When? Where?

—Wednesday. Me and two others. We’re on duty. We’ll stop by at ten sharp. I have your address.

—Okay. I’ll be ready.

—And listen carefully. Come dressed decently. Pants, a jacket, something that won’t draw attention. No stockings or heels. Here, inside, we’ll dress you as what you are.

I read the message over and over. “Decently.” That word burns me. It means my real self is something dirty that has to be hidden first and then revealed as an act of domination. And that excites me to the marrow: them controlling even my appearance, ripping away the “decent” to expose the whore underneath.

A tremor runs down my back, a mix of terror and pure anticipation. My breathing quickens. Without thinking, my right hand slips under the robe, between my legs, and my fingers find my soaked, slippery, swollen cunt. Wednesday. Just two days. I touch myself slowly, imagining the hands of seven men on me, and I bite my lip so I won’t moan alone in my room.

—Understood. Decent. Ten o’clock. I’ll be ready.

I wait. Maybe more instructions, maybe another insult.

—And don’t eat too much beforehand —followed by a devil emoji.

The arousal freezes in me for an instant, replaced by a cold, familiar calculation. I remember the pain from that week, dragging myself across the floor, the fifty thousand pesos that didn’t even cover half the humiliation. And yet desire brought me back. But this time I’m not going to give myself away for free.

My fingers, which were trembling from desire a moment ago, now tremble for another reason. I type, erase, type again.

—There’s something else. The payment. Last time it was fifty. Recovery took a long time. This time, with more of you, I want a hundred.

I send it and close my eyes, waiting for the explosion. The mockery. The threat.

The reply comes almost immediately.

—Hahaha. You’re negotiating? You think this is a fair?

—We decide the pay. It depends on how you behave. How much you can take. Whether you make us laugh or not.

—Maybe we’ll give you eighty. Maybe forty. Maybe just a kick in the ass and send you home crying with your mouth full of cum. That’s payment too, isn’t it? A lesson.

I read their words and feel the floor give way beneath my feet. It isn’t a no. It’s worse. It’s a tombstone laid over my dignity.

The dry laugh that escapes me is an odd sound in my own throat. It isn’t joy. It’s surrender. It’s something breaking inside in a way that, deep down, was always meant to break. The hundred thousand vanish like smoke. They don’t matter. Nothing matters except the hungry emptiness they opened in me and only they can fill.

—Fine —I type, slow but determined—. You decide. Just promise me it’ll be like last time. Or worse.

—I promise. It’ll be much worse. We’re going to leave you in pieces, all three holes burning. Wednesday. Ten o’clock. Don’t forget to dress decently, Renata.

Using my name in that context is the final blow.

***

Wednesday passed in a whirlwind of nerves and meticulous rituals. From morning on, my body was a temple prepared for profanation. In the shower I removed every last hair, the blade scraping until the skin was soft and vulnerable. I spread my legs in front of the bathroom mirror and slowly ran the razor over the lips of my cunt, around the clit, between my ass cheeks, until everything was clean, not a single hair left, exposed like a grown girl’s pussy. Then the internal cleaning, that humiliating process of preparing myself inside, knowing why, anticipating the invasion. I inserted the enema nozzle into my ass, let the water run, felt my intestines fill and empty, and repeated it until I was clean inside, ready for them to put whatever they wanted into me, however they wanted. Each act was both reminder and promise.

I dressed in drab clothes, as ordered. Loose jeans, a hoodie, sneakers. I looked in the mirror and saw an ordinary, insignificant girl. Inside, the whore they wanted to dig out was boiling.

The small black bag was by the door. Inside, the contrast: a pair of black stiletto heels that made me feel powerful and exposed at once. A red lingerie set, barely a few strips of lace that covered neither my nipples nor my cunt. Makeup to turn my pale face into a mask. And, in a separate bag, condoms and a large bottle of lube. My offering. My complicity.

The hours passed. I couldn’t eat. Every sound in the hallway made me jump. At 9:50 I stood by the door, bag in hand, my heart pounding in my chest. Fear was a metallic taste in my mouth, but beneath it, stronger, a current of electric desire ran through me, soaking my panties.

9:58. An engine stops outside, a low purr. It’s not a regular patrol car; it’s a dark, unmarked vehicle. The headlights go off. My fingers grip the bag handle until my knuckles turn white. The doorbell rings, a hard, authoritative buzz. I open the door.

There they are. The same two. Taller, broader than I remembered, filling the doorway in their dark green uniforms. The bigger one, the one saved as “S.1” in my phone, smiles. It isn’t a friendly smile. It’s the smile of a predator who’s found his prey again.

—Good evening, Renata —he says, his voice a mocking growl—. Punctual. I like that.

The other, quieter one, looks me up and down as if I were already naked. He snorts.

—You look like a different person in those clothes. Almost decent.

S.1 reaches out and takes my chin hard. His fingers smell like tobacco and coffee. He forces my face up.

—But we know what’s underneath, don’t we? A little eager whore with a wet cunt waiting for us.

Fear paralyzes me, but between my legs a traitorous wetness responds to his brutal touch. He notices. He lowers his free hand and squeezes my cunt over the jeans, palm flat, pressing hard, feeling the heat through the fabric.

—Look at this —he says to the other without taking his hand away—. Already dripping. The whore’s ready.

—R… ready —I manage to stammer—. Ready for whatever you want.

He lets go with a small shove that makes me wobble. He takes my bag without asking. The other man grabs my arm, firm, almost painful, and leads me to the car. The back door opens. The interior smells of sweat, leather, and cheap disinfectant. They push me inside. The quieter one sits beside me, his enormous thigh pressing against mine. S.1 gets into the passenger seat and slams the door. The engine growls and we head into the darkness.

—Did you bring your toys? —S.1 asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

—Yes —I whisper, my hands clasped in my lap.

—Good. You’ll need them —says the one beside me, his voice surprisingly soft and thick with threat. His hand drops onto my thigh, not stroking, just weighing, possessing—. Because tonight it’s not just the three of us.

His hand starts to climb slowly, dragging over the jeans to the crotch. When it gets there, his fingers press over the seam, right where my clit is, and he digs in with his knuckles, moving them in small circles. A low moan slips out of me, involuntary, and he smiles without taking his eyes off the road.

—Did you hear that? —he says to S.1—. I barely touched her and she’s already moaning.

I turn my head toward him, fear tightening my throat.

—W-what?

S.1 laughs from the front.

—I lied to you, sweetheart.

The hand on my thigh clenches, fingers sinking into the flesh through the pants. Then he unbuttons my jeans with cold skill, pulls the zipper down, and slips his hand inside without asking. His thick fingers shove my panties aside and find my soaked cunt. One of them goes in at once, all the way, and I grit my teeth to keep from screaming.

—Damn, look how much she leaks —he murmurs, moving his finger inside—. She’s already wide open. Doesn’t even need to be prepared. This one comes factory-ready.

—At the station —he goes on, without pulling his finger out, his hot breath in my ear— there’s a special watch. Six, seven guys. All bored. All with hard cocks waiting for something. All wanting to have fun with a whore like you.

The car takes a sharp curve and throws me against his hard body. I don’t pull away. I can’t. He takes advantage and slips in a second finger, and now there are two thick fingers moving inside me, curling, touching something deep that makes me gasp.

—Seven? —My voice is barely a thread of air.

—Seven, eight, who’s counting —S.1 says, lighting a cigarette. The orange ember lights up his profile for a second—. The thing is, Renata, you’re going to be our distraction for the night. The station toy. The mouth, the cunt, and the ass of the whore who offered herself up.

The man beside me pulls his fingers out of my cunt and shoves them straight into my mouth. They taste thick, slick with my own juices, and he makes me suck them.

—Taste yourself. Feel how whorish you are.

I obey. I close my lips around his fingers and suck them like a cock, moving my tongue between them, swallowing the taste of my own cunt. He laughs.

—And broken toys don’t get paid. They get used until they stop working. Then they get tossed out.

—But… you said… —I stammer when he pulls his fingers out, and the protest dies on my lips. What was I going to say? That it wasn’t fair? Both of them laugh harshly, filling the car.

The vehicle passes through a back gate that closes with a sinister screech. We’re inside the perimeter, in a concrete yard lit by harsh yellow lights. No one is in sight. The silence is worse than any noise.

—Get out —S.1 orders, opening my door.

The cold night hits me, but it’s nothing compared to the chill running down my spine. I pull up the zipper with shaking hands. The other man grabs my arm and drags me toward a side door, metal, unmarked. They open it and shove me into a small staff bathroom, cold, with dirty white tiles, smelling of bleach. The fluorescent light flickers with an annoying buzz.

—You’ve got five minutes —S.1 says, taking up the doorway—. In that bag is your costume. Put it on. All of it. We want to see the transformation.

The door slams shut and leaves me locked in the cold silence. I look at my blurred reflection in the fogged mirror. First I take off the “decent” clothes: the jeans, the hoodie, the plain underwear. I’m left trembling, naked and pale under the cruel light. I open the bag.

The heels first. The cold leather fits my feet and the height changes my posture, forcing my back to arch and my ass to stick out. I’m no longer insignificant. I’m an exposed silhouette. Then the lingerie. The red lace bra covers almost nothing; my nipples show dark through the sheer fabric, hardening against the rough weave. The thong is barely a cord disappearing between my cheeks and leaving my shaved cunt almost bare, only faintly veiled by a tiny triangle of lace. I sit on the edge of the sink, spread my legs, and apply the cold lube with trembling fingers. I coat my cunt, but I also shove a lube-coated finger into my ass, stretching myself slowly, knowing they’re going to go in there too tonight, and I want the first thrust not to split me open. Preparing myself for all of them, knowing that each of those holes is going to be the center of my own humiliation.

I finish the mask: the big hoop earrings tugging on my lobes, the bright red lipstick, the smoky eyes, the false eyelashes, the sweet perfume meant to cover the smell of fear and desire. I look at myself in the dirty mirror. The transformation is complete. Nothing remains of the drab girl. There is the whore they came for.

The door opens before I can knock. S.1 scans me up and down and a cruelly satisfied smirk crosses his face.

—Better than I expected —he growls. He grabs my arm harder than before and pulls me into the hallway.

The corridor is long, badly lit, with faded institutional green walls. My heels click sharply against the linoleum, a ridiculously fragile sound in the vast silence of the place. The other man walks behind me, a threatening shadow. We reach a wooden door. Low laughter and the murmur of a TV can be heard inside. S.1 doesn’t knock. He shoves the door open and yanks me in.

The room is a break room. Worn leather armchairs, a low table with plastic cups and empty cans. A soccer match plays softly on the screen, but nobody is watching. All eyes are on me.

Seven men. Seven green uniforms. Seven pairs of eyes stripping me naked, weighing and measuring me. Some seated, others standing against the walls. The air is thick with tobacco, sweat, and testosterone. I feel tiny. The heels don’t make me taller; they just make me more unstable. The red bra looks like a bloodstain on my pale skin.

S.1 lets go of me and steps forward, laying a heavy hand on my bare shoulder. His rough voice fills the room.

—All right, boys. Meet tonight’s distraction for this long shift. This is Renata. She has no limits. Or rather, we set the limits. You can use her mouth, her cunt, and her ass. All at once, if you’re creative. Right?

They all wait. I swallow, my painted lips part.

—Yes… whatever you say —I struggle out, voice broken but audible—. I’m a whore with no limits. Use me however you want.

—That’s it! —S.1 exclaims, and gives my ass a slap that echoes through the whole room and makes me step forward.

The first to come near is the youngest, with burning eyes. Without a word he takes my face in both hands and kisses me, violent, invasive, his tongue forcing its way between my painted lips and filling my mouth. I answer, moaning into his mouth so everyone can hear, sucking his tongue like it were his cock. His hands drop and he tears off my bra in one yank; the clasp gives way and my tits are left bare, nipples stiff and red under the light. He bends down and takes one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, biting it, while his other hand crushes the other breast until I cry out low. When he pulls away, leaving me breathless, another man is already there. Bigger, with shovel hands, he lifts me off the floor like a doll, my heels kicking at the air.

—Look at this little thing! —he roars, and the others cheer.

He carries me to the biggest armchair and drops me into it. He opens his fly right in front of my face and pulls out his cock. It’s thick, dark, already hard, the head swollen and shining. He grabs me by the hair at the nape and brings it to my mouth.

—Open. And don’t scrape me with your teeth, little whore.

I open my mouth and he shoves it in all the way, to the back, not letting me breathe. The head slams against my throat and makes me gag, saliva mixed with lipstick running down my chin. He doesn’t let up. He grabs my head with both hands and starts fucking my mouth at his own pace, thrusting me against his pubic bone, my nose smashed against the smell of sweat and tobacco on his belly. I try to breathe through my nose between thrusts, tears running black down my cheeks, my throat burning, gagging every time he hits the back.

—That’s it, that’s it, take it all —he growls—. Look at the tears in her eyes and she’s still sucking. This whore was born for this.

While he wrecks my mouth, I feel other hands. Two, three, I don’t know how many. Someone tears off my thong in one yank, the elastic cutting my hip skin before giving way. Someone pries my legs apart, makes me get on all fours over the armchair without taking his cock out of my mouth. A hot tongue buries itself between my cheeks, moving up from my cunt to my ass, licking slowly, and then two thick fingers wrench my cunt open and start pumping hard, sloshing in my juices.

—The little whore’s soaked through —says a new voice behind me—. Listen to that sound.

And I feel him pull out his fingers, climb onto me from behind, and without ceremony drive his cock into my cunt with one brutal thrust. I choke on the cock in my mouth with the swallowed scream. He starts fucking me from behind, gripping my hips, thrusting hard enough to slam me against the other man’s mouth, setting up a double rhythm: in front they shove it down my throat, behind they ram it all the way into my cunt. I’m a doll split in two, pierced by two cocks at once, and all I can do is moan with a mouthful of cock.

A third man comes over and offers me a can of warm beer, waiting for the one in my mouth to let me breathe.

—Here. It’ll loosen your tongue… and other things —he says when the other finally pulls his cock out, a string of saliva hanging from it.

I drink in big gulps, gasping, my mouth raw. The bitter liquid burns my empty stomach and almost immediately a wave of heat rises from my belly. The alcohol mixes with shame and desire in an intoxicating cocktail that blurs my thoughts and sharpens every sense. Every touch, every look, feels ten times more intense. The man behind me keeps pounding my cunt, each thrust making a wet, obscene noise that blends with the others’ laughter and comments.

—Go harder —one says—. She likes it when it hurts.

—Put it in her ass —says another—. Let’s see if she can take it.

The one fucking my cunt yanks out his cock suddenly, leaving me with a hollow ache. I manage a breathy “no” that I don’t even believe myself, and he laughs. He spits between my cheeks, guides himself with his hand, and the head of his cock presses against my hole. I clench my teeth, grateful inside that I put on lube, and he pushes in slowly but without mercy, entering little by little until his entire cock is buried in my ass. The burning is white, blinding, and I scream at the top of my lungs.

—There it is! —someone cheers—. Look at her face!

Another man grabs my head and turns me around so I can open my mouth again. Another cock, smaller but thicker, sinks between my lips. And so I’m pierced by two cocks again, one in my mouth, one in my ass, with my tits hanging and a third hand slipping between my legs to rub my clit with two hard fingers.

—Make the whore come —says the one rubbing me—. We’re going to make her finish while she’s getting fucked.

And they make me come. Against my will, against all my shame, with a cock buried in my ass and another choking my mouth, I feel the orgasm rise from the soles of my feet, from the heels digging into my ass when I arch. My cunt contracts around nothing while my ass burns around the cock filling it, and I come with an animal moan that makes the throat of the man in my mouth vibrate. They all laugh. Someone claps.

—The little whore came. She came like a bitch.

They don’t give me a break. Barely do I stop shaking when the man in my mouth cums on my tongue, thick ropes of hot semen filling my palate. He grabs my hair and forces me to swallow it all, and then he makes me open my mouth so the others can see it’s empty.

—Good girl. Swallowed everything.

The man behind me is still going, pounding harder, and after a few minutes he grunts and unloads inside me. I feel the hot spurts filling my ass, and when he pulls out, something warm and thick starts dripping down my thigh. One of them laughs and shoves two fingers into my gaping ass, sloshing in someone else’s load.

—That’s nicely lubricated for the next one.

And the next one comes. And another. And another. They pass me from one to the next like a bottle. They lay me on my back over the low table, spread my legs, and shove cock after cock into my cunt. They make me get on all fours on the rug, yank my hair and mount me from behind like an animal. They sit me astride them and force me to ride while another man puts his cock in my mouth from the side. At some point there are two inside me at once, one in my cunt and one in my ass, and I feel the two cocks rubbing against each other through the thin wall of flesh, and I scream, and come a second time, or a third, I don’t know anymore.

They smear semen all over my tits. They fill my face. They make me suck three cocks in a row until my jaw hurts and I can’t close my mouth. Someone makes me drink more beer and then spits it in my face. Someone slaps my ass with an open hand until it’s red. Someone presses my tits between his cocks and cums in the hollow of my throat. The smell of semen, sweat, spilled beer, and my own soaked cunt fills the room.

That night I stopped counting. I stopped thinking. I gave myself to their hands, their shifts, their laughter and their insults, until exhaustion and heat made me one with the cold floor of that room. When the last of them finished emptying himself over my face and the duty watch returned to its routine as if nothing had happened, they left me sitting against the wall, disheveled, with my lipstick smeared, semen drying on my tits and thighs, and the torn stockings I don’t even remember when they put on me.

S.1 crouched in front of me and pressed a few crumpled bills into my hand. Not even half of what I’d asked for. I didn’t even count them.

—Behave yourself until next time —he said, lighting another cigarette, looking at my cunt, open and dripping between my still-spread legs.

And while I dressed in my “decent” clothes in that freezing bathroom, feeling other men’s semen still trickling inside my jeans, looking at the smudged mask in the mirror, I already knew the dirtiest truth of all: they wouldn’t need to call me. It was going to be me, again, the one who opened the chat and wrote that name saved as “S.1.”