Chapter 26: The Police Station

The sun was a dying ember, casting long, bruised shadows across the dusty road as I lay bound and broken in the wheelbarrow, having serviced the village men again. The rough wood cut into my back, and the smell of dried mud and old animal waste clung to my skin like a second layer. I was nothing more than a piece of livestock being transported through the humid Thai evening. The air was thick, tasting of salt and exhaust, sticking to my throat with every ragged breath. The farmer and his son were chatting in Thai, counting their earnings.

Then, the sudden screech of tires. The wheelbarrow jolted to a halt. Through the haze of my withdrawal, I saw the khaki uniforms of the Royal Thai Police. Hope didn’t even kindle in my heart, I knew they would take their turn with me as they always did. It was just a matter of how brutal or rough they would be.

The officers didn’t move to untie me. Instead, they circled the wheelbarrow like sharks. One of them leaned down, his breath smelling of stale cigarettes and strong coffee. He spoke in a rapid-fire burst of Thai, the tones sharp and commanding. I didn’t understand a word, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable. It wasn’t pity. It was hunger.

The first one didn’t even wait to remove his trousers fully. He shoved his cock into my mouth with a violent, sudden thrust that made me gag, the thick head slamming into the back of my throat. I could taste the salt of his skin and the metallic tang of his sweat. While he used my mouth as a sleeve, another officer stepped behind the wheelbarrow. He grabbed my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, and drove his cock into my raw, stretched asshole without a hint of lubrication.

I screamed into the first man’s groin, the sound muffled by his shaft. The pain was a white-hot spike, tearing through the delicate lining of my rectum, which was already ravaged by the horse and the boar. I felt my insides splitting, the friction creating a burning heat that seemed to sear my organs. They fucked me right there on the roadside, the rhythmic thud of their bodies against the wooden wheelbarrow echoing in the quiet evening.

As they pounded into me, the world began to shift. I saw Charles - Vanessa’s ex-boyfriend, the first man who had turned me into a cuckold. He was standing just a few feet away, leaning against a palm tree, wearing that smug, predatory grin. He wasn’t helping; he was watching, his eyes tracking the movement of the police officers’ cocks sliding in and out of me. “Look at you, Max,” his voice whispered in my mind, a cold wind. “From a high-rise in HK to a wheelbarrow in the dirt. You were always meant to be a hole.”

The police began to argue with the farmer and his son. The voices were loud, aggressive, a chaotic symphony of Thai that sounded like barking dogs. I couldn’t tell if they were fighting over me or the legality of my presence. Eventually, the tension broke. The farmer and his son looked dejected, their shoulders slumped as they turned and walked away, leaving me behind.

The officers freed me from the wheelbarrow. For a moment, their touch seemed almost gentle. They wrapped me in a coarse, grey blanket that smelled of mildew and old smoke. They led me into the car, and we drove a distance. Then they helped me out into the police station, and as I stumbled along, my legs shaking, I let myself believe in the lie. Hope sprang anew. I thought I was being rescued.

The station was a cacophony of clacking typewriters, ringing phones, and the oppressive scent of floor wax and old paper. The officers processed me, but the language barrier was a wall I couldn’t climb. They spoke minimal English, and I was incoherent, my words slurring together in a mix of English and broken Cantonese. I was a ghost in a room full of bureaucrats.

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead like a trapped wasp, casting a sickly, jaundiced glow over the stained yellow tiles as they dragged me through the precinct. My bare feet slid on the floor, leaving faint smears of dirt and unknown fluids. The air hung thick with the sharp tang of industrial cleaner, stale sweat, and the underlying, pervasive stench of despair that seemed to seep from the very walls. Every few steps, the officers gripping my arms would halt abruptly outside an open office door. Inside, other policemen looked up from their desks—some sipping weak coffee, others shuffling papers—but all their eyes flicked to me with the same lazy, predatory interest. A guttural chuckle would escape one, a sharp bark of laughter from another, followed by rapid-fire Thai that sounded like stones grinding together. I didn’t need to understand the words to know the meaning: Look at this broken thing. Look at the freak. See how she trembles? Their gestures were universal—a flick of the chin toward my heaving chest, a mimicked motion of hips thrusting. They were announcing the prize, broadcasting my humiliation like a street vendor hawking rotten fruit. Each pause felt like an eternity, their grip bruising my arms as they waited for the next leering comment to fade before jerking me forward again.

They dragged me to the toilet. The door slammed shut behind us with a sound like a tomb sealing. The toilet felt claustrophobically small, made smaller by the three policemen gathered around me, the walls closing in. The tiles were stained, urine-yellow, cracked in places where moisture had seeped behind them. The air was a chemical assault, ammonia stinging my nostrils, bleach burning the back of my throat, overlaid with the ripe, sour smell of old urine that had soaked into the grout. It smelled like neglect and used bodies. They flung me down, my bare back hit the cold, slick tiles first, sending a shock of ice through my overheated skin. Before I could draw a breath, hands were on me—rough, impatient, smelling of cheap tobacco and strong liquor. They flipped me onto my stomach, my face pressed hard against the damp, grout-lined floor. I tried to turn my head, but a heavy boot pressed down between my shoulder blades, pinning me flat.

“Keep still, bitch!” one of them snarled, his voice thick with contempt as he yanked my hips up. My knees scraped against the abrasive tile. Another laugh, sharp and derisive, followed his words. Ladyboy. Small penis like a woman. My body, traitorously, gave a faint, involuntary twitch—a pulse of blood to the insignificant nub between my legs that made me whimper in humiliation. They weren’t just violating me; they were mocking the very core of what they’d made me, laughing at the pathetic remnant of Max that had been long erased.