Chapter 4

The van’s tires screeched to a halt, throwing me forward against the metal restraints biting into my wrists and ankles. Before I could catch my breath, the rear doors swung open, flooding the compartment with harsh fluorescent light. Two hulking officers—one with a jagged scar running down his cheek, the other with tattooed knuckles that spelled “HATE”—unlocked my chains with clinical efficiency.

“Welcome to your new home, princess,” Scarface sneered as his partner yanked me out by the collar of my shirt. My knees hit the concrete hard, sending spikes of pain up my thighs. They dragged me through a maze of clanging metal doors, each one sealing shut behind us with a finality that made my stomach drop. The air smelled of industrial cleaner and something darker—sweat, fear, stale cum.

The medical center was blindingly white. A bored-looking nurse with chipped nail polish handed me a paper gown. “Strip,” she said around a wad of gum. When I hesitated, the officer with the hate-knuckles backhanded me across the mouth. The coppery taste of blood bloomed on my tongue as I fumbled with the buttons. They measured every inch of me—calipers pinching my nipples, cold fingers probing between my cheeks, a speculum clicking open to examine my most private places. My face burned as the nurse logged my reactions in a chart labeled “Bitchboy Conditioning Program.”

The uniform they gave me was worse than nakedness—thin white fabric that turned translucent under the prison’s humming lights, no underwear to hide the way my body betrayed me with terrified arousal. The sandals slapped against my bare feet as they marched me to Cell 00, a holding pen with graffiti-scratched walls that smelled of piss and desperation.

Two days. Two days of listening to the other prisoners catcall through the food slot. Two days of jerking off silently in the corner, knowing the guards were watching on camera.

On the afternoon of the third day, they came for me. The walk to F Wing was a gauntlet—jeers and whistles echoing from every cell, thick fingers reaching through bars to grab at my flimsy clothes. My stomach twisted when I saw the population: muscled Black men lounging on their bunks, curvaceous trans women blowing kisses, all of them sizing me up like a piece of meat.

Cell 069’s door groaned open. Darkness pooled inside, thick and suffocating. The officer shoved me forward—straight into waiting hands that clamped around my throat and slammed me face-first onto the concrete floor.