Chapter 30

The air in the cell was a thick, suffocating blanket of humidity, smelling of unwashed bodies, stale urine, and the metallic tang of old blood. I lay draped over Diesel, my skin slick with sweat and the remnants of our desperate, secret union. The orange glow of the dim corridor lights cast long, flickering shadows across the concrete floor, where fifty men slept in a tangled, snoring mass of grey fabric and grime. I could feel the warmth of Diesel’s cum still pulsing deep inside my raw, stretched asshole, a heavy, viscous presence that felt like the only thing anchoring me to my own existence. Diesel’s eyes were closed, his chest heaving in the slow, rhythmic cadence of post-orgasmic exhaustion. For a few fleeting seconds, the horror of Bang Kwang vanished, replaced by the intoxicating scent of his salt-crusted skin and the ghost of a tenderness I hadn’t known in years.

Then, the silence shattered.

It happened with a sudden, coordinated violence that left me breathless. There was no warning, only the sound of fifty men waking up at once, a collective surge of aggression that felt like a tidal wave. Rough, calloused hands clamped onto my shoulders and waist, ripping me away from Diesel with such force that I felt my joints pop. I screamed, a thin, jagged sound that was instantly drowned out by the guttural shouts of the inmates. They spoke in a rapid-fire torrent of Thai, their voices harsh and mocking, the sounds meaningless to me but the intent crystal clear.

“You ... bitch!” one of them spat in broken English, his breath smelling of rotting fish as he slammed my face down into the grit of the concrete.

I struggled, my welded manacles clinking frantically, the cloth Diesel had wrapped around them now soaked in sweat and filth. I kicked and writhed, my breasts pressing painfully against the cold floor, but I was nothing against their combined weight. Beside me, Diesel was fighting like a caged tiger. He roared, throwing punches and elbows, his muscles bulging as he tried to reach me, but six men had him pinned, their knees digging into his back, their hands twisting his arms into agonizing angles.

The heavy iron door of the cell groaned open with a piercing screech of metal on metal.

Mr. T stepped inside. He was a wiry, skeletal old man with skin like cured leather and eyes that held a predatory, ancient cruelty. He didn’t rush. He walked with a slow, deliberate gait, the heels of his boots clicking on the stone. He stopped beside me, looking down at my trembling, naked form with a clinical detachment. He reached down, his fingers cold and smelling of tobacco, and forced my jaw open. He poked at my gums and inspected my teeth, humming softly, examining me exactly as a buyer would examine a piece of livestock at a rural market.

He looked from my tear-streaked face to Diesel, who was snarling, blood already leaking from a split lip. Mr. T let out a dry, wheezing laugh that sounded like sandpaper on bone.

“Little pet ... and her dog,” Mr. T murmured in a rasping English.

He reached down and unzipped his trousers, his cock springing free—a greyish, vein-streaked thing that looked as withered as the rest of him. He grabbed a handful of my shaved scalp and yanked my head back, forcing me to look at him.

“Suck,” he commanded. “Now.”

As I opened my mouth, sobbing, the air was suddenly filled with the sound of wet thuds. Mr. T had nodded to the men holding Diesel. They began to beat him. It wasn’t a fight; it was an execution. Fists and boots rained down on Diesel’s ribs and face, the sound of breaking cartilage echoing through the cell.