They take ownership of my body.

“Alright, gentlemen,” said the officer who had recognized me from the cheerleading photos, positioning himself in front of my open legs. “Since I identified her, I go first. Let’s see if she’s as good in person as she is on the college WhatsApp group.”

I felt the weight of his solid body on top of me, crushing me against the metal of the table. The pain was immediate, a tearing sensation that added to the humiliation of being gagged. Through my glasses, which remained on because of his twisted desire for me to see everything, I watched his sweaty, triumphant face. He moved with a mechanical rhythm while the other four surrounded the table, cheering him on and touching my body, focusing obsessively on my breasts as if they were hunting trophies.

When he finished, there was no pause. Ramirez shoved him aside roughly.

“My turn. For patrolling her.”

Ramirez was more aggressive. His weight crushed my bust, making it difficult for me to breathe while he forced himself into me with a intensity that made the metal table creak against the cement floor. I squeezed my eyes shut behind my lenses so hard I saw flashes, trying to escape to a place in my mind where I couldn’t feel the rough brush of police uniforms against my bare skin.

One after another, the five officers rotated. Each transition brought a new wave of nausea. I felt the men’s sweat dripping onto my abdomen, the smell of tobacco on their breath, and the humiliating sound of taunts from those who waited. One of them forced me to arch even further while taking me from behind, stretching the straps at my wrists until I felt like my shoulders would dislocate.

The successive abuse left me empty, a hollow shell. There were no more tears, only a blank stare fixed on the flickering fluorescent lights on the ceiling. The officers, satisfied and adjusting their uniforms as if they had just finished routine paperwork, talked about their “achievements” while I remained there, covered in their trace and my mouth dry from the cloth still suffocating me.

Time in the basement stood still. The officers kept their word and didn't stop until the last one had satisfied his desires with me. When the last one stepped away, I lay motionless, breathing shallowly through my nose. My muscles were stiffened from the tension of the straps and extreme exhaustion.

“Alright, job’s done,” Ramirez said, buckling his duty belt with a final metallic click. “But we don’t want the morning shift to forget who this gift belongs to.”

One of them pulled out his phone and began taking photos of my state: naked, bound, gagged, and visibly marked. The flashes blinded me behind my glasses, but I didn’t even try to close my eyes anymore.

“Wait, she’s missing the quality seal,” another laughed, pulling out a thick permanent marker.

The officer who had recognized me from the group chat photos walked over to the supply table, rummaging through the clear plastic bags of evidence confiscated that morning. He pulled out a thick-tipped industrial permanent marker with black ink and tossed it to Ramirez, who caught it in midair with a predatory grin.

Ramirez uncapped the marker with his teeth and positioned himself between my open legs. I felt the initial contact of the felt tip—ice-cold and wet—brushing against the extremely sensitive skin of my inner thighs. The smell of chemical solvent filled the space, mixing with the heavy atmosphere of the basement. With firm, deliberate strokes, he began writing on my pale skin.

However, the constant, repetitive, and firm friction of the marker across the hyper-stimulated areas of my pelvis triggered a final betrayal by my own nervous system. The hyper-sensitivity accumulated from the trauma and abuse caused my skin's receptors to misinterpret the physical contact. Suddenly and completely against my will, an intense shock traveled up my abdomen.

My body contracted rhythmically and violently. My hips arched compulsively against the leather straps, and my thighs trembled heavily as a purely biological, involuntary response shook my exhausted frame, spilling onto the metal table. Behind the lenses of my glasses, my eyes went wide in horror and internal guilt at my own anatomy's reaction.

A wave of loud, mocking laughter immediately echoed off the concrete walls of Block B.

“Look at that! The little bunny just came again just from the marker!” Ramirez exclaimed, letting out a self-satisfied laugh as he watched my legs tremble.

“What a hypocrite you are,” Miller mocked, pointing at the wetness glistening under the fluorescent light. “You cry and groan behind the tape, but down there you’re thrilled. Turns out you love the punishment and you’re enjoying this more than all of us combined.”

“She’s practically begging us not to let her go,” another officer added, wiping his hands while laughing at the spasms still running through my belly. “The morning shift is going to have a field day with her.”

Enduring the added humiliation of their taunts and their perverse interpretation of my physiological response, I had to lie completely still while Ramirez resumed writing with the marker on my damp skin.

Although I couldn’t see what he was writing, I felt the weight of each letter etched like a scar of ink.

“Perfect,” he said, putting the cap back on the marker. “‘Property of Block B. Do not touch without permission from the night shift.’”

The five men gathered one last time around the table, admiring their work with contempt. I was marked, humiliated, and recorded on their phones.

“Leave her like that,” Ramirez ordered. “Don’t take off the straps or the gag. Let her wait for the next shift in this exact position. That way she’ll learn what happens to ‘students’ who come into our sector causing trouble.”

Without a shred of remorse, they walked toward the exit. One by one, the sound of their boots faded away. The last one out hit the main light switch, plunging the basement into absolute darkness.

I was left alone, bound to the metal table in deathly silence, feeling the ink drying on my skin and the ache of my broken body, waiting in the blackness for the next shift of men to come down and claim the “gift” their colleagues had left for them.