Incident at the Police Station

The silence in Lieutenant Barry Jones's small office had become almost tangible over the past few minutes. If it weren’t for the soft sniffling of that hot Latina—Victoria, according to the file he found—you could almost reach out and touch the air.

– So, miss— Barry began, but the girl suddenly snapped her face toward him.

– ¡No soy la "miss", idiota! – her voice boomed through the room in waves, just like the ones rippling across her full tits, barely contained by the plunging neckline of her dress. – ¡Soy hombre! ¡Yo soy senador Richard Falkner!

Barry raised an eyebrow slightly. He’d already heard this bullshit half an hour ago. A whole stream of crap about how yesterday morning this girl supposedly woke up not in her mansion, but in some sweaty room above a brothel in East L.A., with boobs, shoulder-length hair, and lips swollen after... as she put it, “some kind of orgy.”

– Uh-huh, – Barry exhaled slowly, staring at her seriously. – Maybe that’s enough. I’m just trying to understand why you even came here. Is this some kind of plan from your pimp or... what the hell are you playing at?

She clearly didn’t catch all the words, but her face twisted into such a smug, arrogant expression that Barry, for a moment, actually thought she might’ve been someone important in this world—rather than an illegal hooker who now was completely under his control.

– ¡Exijo! I want... I need... – Victoria burst out passionately, jumping to her feet, her breasts in the tight red dress pushing forward and nearly spilling out of the deep cut. – Me... need... lawyer! And phone call! Senate... embassy... you get this? I no this... no should be here!

– Sit down, – Barry said firmly, slowly rising from his chair. – You don’t even have any ID. You’re listed as an illegal. You’re not a senator. You’re a prostitute from East L.A. Victoria Juarez.

Victoria exhaled loudly, puffing out her lips, and sat back down, stubbornly crossing her legs and folding her arms under her breasts, as if trying to shield her new womanhood.

– This… all mistake – she pushed the words out with desperation. – I not whore! I… be man! I be white! Tall! I have wife, son in Harvard…

– You’re getting deported – Barry said slowly. – You get that, right? Within 72 hours.

– No! – her voice cracked. – You no have right! I not this latina whore! I hombre! Man! I vote against such latina whore! Give me lawyer!

– Alright-alright-alright, easy, sweetheart – Barry said with fake calm, raising his hand to his ear like he was trying to hear her over the shrieking and hysteria. – Don’t make this harder on yourself.

He stood up, walked around the desk, and leaned over, looking down at the girl—or more precisely, at her cleavage.

– You came here. To the station. No ID, dressed like this, and with this… – he waved his hand, like swatting away the absurdity – this crap about being a “senator.”

Victoria flinched like he'd struck a nerve. Her tits bounced again.

– I… not crap! I was man… real, important! – she struggled to find the right English words. – They switch me! I wake up – and this! – she stood up, squeezing her thighs together, pressing her palms on the table, shoving her deep cleavage almost in Barry’s face. – You think I come here looking… like this – her voice trembled – for nothing?! I demand investigation! I need body back!

Barry squinted.

– So, you want me to believe that a senator—that Richard Falkner, one of the loudest voices against illegal immigration—woke up in the body of… – he looked down at the tits spilling out of the dress and the short skirt – a young Latina whore from a brothel in East L.A.?

– ¡Exactamente! – she shouted, clutching her hair in panic. – I don’t know how! But this… this nightmare! I not even can talk right! I… I cry when I see… – she suddenly stopped, lowering her head – …these…

She put her hands on her breasts, like feeling their weight all over again.

– This not mine…

Barry looked at her with a new expression. Mixed. Something in her desperation, in her voice, in the tears starting to form—there was something strangely genuine. And completely insane at the same time.

– Look, Victoria. – He sat back down and sprawled in his chair. – All I’ve got is a girl with no papers. You’re booked for prostitution, you’re illegal, and you’ve got zero proof of who you say you were. You even got a Mexican accent, you know that?

She jerked upright.

– I not fault! I now… think like this! In Spanish! I wake up – and all head be different! I write, I read… only in Spanish! – she suddenly reached for her bag, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper with trembling fingers. – Look! This… my handwriting! My notes! I try remember… what happen! I write… in English, but come out this…

Barry took the piece of paper. The lines were uneven, in Spanish—written in desperation, with attempts to squeeze in English words, but everything came out jumbled.

– "Mi cuerpo desapareció esta mañana... siento algo en mi pecho... hay algo extraño en mi piel... alguien tomó mi vida..." – he read aloud, then looked up. – You’re getting deported, Victoria. In 72 hours.

– I do everything! Give all I have! Just find my body! – she screamed, breaking down. – I buy, I powerful! I… – and then she faltered. Her eyes dropped to her own tits, and her expression turned… angry.

– Hm... well, if you’re ready to do anything, then... – Barry walked over to the door, locked it, and slowly turned back to her. His gaze slid from top to bottom, lingering on the boobs spilling out of her dress. – Show me how ready you really are.

Victoria’s head snapped up and she saw how he looked at her. At her tits, her lips, the short skirt. And suddenly, something clicked inside. Her old mind—senatorial, proud, disgusted—screamed in panic, but at the same time she felt something she’d never felt before… the body seemed to respond to another voice. Commanding. Degrading. And that made it even worse.

– What… you… – she swallowed. – You want… I give you money? Or… information?

– Money? – Barry chuckled. – Sweetheart, you’ve got no money. And you’re an illegal with zero rights. One word from me, and in three days you’ll be dumped in Tijuana with no chance of coming back to the U.S.

He leaned in closer, their faces now nearly level.

– I’m offering you a deal, Victoria. I forget that one Latina whore in a red dress walked into this station without any papers and started ranting nonsense. Might even help you with your little weird problem, if you try real hard and be a good girl.

Victoria froze. Her lips parted, but the words got stuck somewhere in her throat. He didn’t just not believe her—he was making her an offer… one that, in her past life, in her real life, she wouldn’t have even listened to.

– You... want me to... – she swallowed, her eyes darting around the room, landing on the locked door. – I... not whore! I... senator!

Barry exhaled loudly and turned toward the door.

– Alright, Senator! Good luck in Mexico – he said, glancing at her over his shoulder with a smirk, already reaching for the radio.

Victoria jumped up like she'd been stung, knocking over the plastic chair, her tits bouncing under the dress like they were ready to make a run for it first.

– Wait! Please wait! – her voice broke, scared and desperate. – I... I can...

Barry paused, a victorious look in his eyes.

– You can what?

She swallowed hard, cheeks burning, heart pounding like mad.

– I... do. What you want – she forced out, eyes cast down. – Anything... so you... no tell anyone. You help me, and I...

– Do you know what you’re saying? – Barry asked slowly, stepping closer. – Or are you gonna start again with that bullshit about not being a whore?

– I’m not a whore! – she shouted, then instantly recoiled, glancing away, her brow furrowed. – I... What you want?

– What do I want from a whore? – Barry snorted. – You seriously want me to spell it out?

Victoria took a step back but bumped her hip against the edge of the table. Her dress hiked up, revealing the top of her stockings. She felt her ears burning, her breasts rising heavily with shaky breath.

– I... not know – she whispered. – I never... I... I can't... – she faltered, and for a second, it was like a flicker of pride flared up inside her, the last remnants of who she once was – I never...

Barry raised an eyebrow.

– Then three days. And you’re back in Tijuana.

Victoria closed her eyes. Her arms dropped to her sides. Then, very slowly, she stepped forward, now standing right in front of him. She leaned in slightly, and whispered, barely audible:

– I no want go Mexico. I want... my body back. I do anything.

Barry looked at her and smiled.

– Then get started – he exhaled, placing his hand on her waist.

Victoria slowly sank to her knees. Her tights stretched tight on her thighs, the weight of her tits pulling the neckline so low one strap slipped off her shoulder. Her knees immediately felt the roughness of the floor and how cold it was, and she cursed herself for ever walking into that police station.