For conservative senator John MacArthur, what happened felt like complete madness from the very beginning, or some kind of horrible nightmare. Not only had he, instead of the podium where he had been giving a speech in support of new anti-immigrant bills, suddenly found himself on his knees in some alley with a dick in his mouth, he soon realized that along with the body of a Latin immigrant prostitute Maria, he had also gained excellent knowledge of Spanish. In exchange, of course, for his native English.
— ¡Suéltame! ¡Suéltame, estúpido poli! (Let me go! Let me go, you stupid cop!) — John screamed desperately, trying to break free from the tight grip of the policeman, who in reality was not even making much effort as he calmly led the strangely hysterical new prostitute, who not only worked here illegally but also behaved as if she were the one in charge.
Heavy breasts swayed, the bra straps painfully dug into his shoulders, and under the too-short tight skirt those damn thongs kept cutting into his ass with every step.
— Soy John MacArthur. Senador. ¡Te vas a arrepentir de esto, jodido poli! (I am John MacArthur. Senator. You will regret this, you fucking cop!) — John squealed again, which only made the sergeant’s grip even tighter.
— Shut up already, I’m sick of your babbling, I don’t understand a damn thing anyway. If you make another sound, you’ll regret it, got it, whore?
The sergeant’s grip tightened even more, and maybe that, or maybe some fragments of English knowledge he had inherited with this body, made him understand that the sergeant was very, very serious, and his request to “shut up” wasn’t even an order. It was something worse.
From the realization of his own helplessness, John felt his stomach drop.
He fell silent. Fell silent and didn’t even try to argue with being called that disgusting word. Whore. Whore, damn it. Why was it that out of all that mess that had been his native language just this morning, that was the word he understood.
If only he knew that months later he would literally beg to be allowed to be that whore, even offering to suck off the entire department just so that this immigration unit wouldn’t send him to Venezuela — the place where Bianca Salas was born, or, as everyone here called her, “Bibi,” and whose role he, thanks to the laws from his former colleagues about the officially declared “mass hallucination,” and unofficially Alt Shift, would have to “play” after some time so as not to end up in a “correction” camp — or, simply put, brainwashing.
But right now, such a thought couldn’t even appear in his head. All he felt was burning shame and rage, twisted together into a tight knot in his chest. The policeman dragged him further down the alley, gripping his wrist tightly with his large hand in a black leather glove. Every step sent a painful sway through his heavy breasts under the red low-cut top. The fabric clung so tightly that John could literally feel his nipples rubbing against the thin material with every jerk. The black mini-skirt barely covered his thighs, and the fishnet stockings with little bows on the garters pulled unpleasantly against his skin, digging into the soft flesh.
— No! I say you no understand… I am… I am man! Big man! — he forced out, trying to find the words in his head while at the same time gasping from the fast pace and from how violently his new heavy breasts bounced with every step.
The policeman didn’t even slow down.
— I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England, — he muttered, yanking him forward so sharply that John almost lost his balance on those damn heels, which seemed designed solely to humiliate. — Shut your mouth and walk properly.
— ¡Soy hombre! ¡HOMBRE! (I am a man! A MAN!) — he snapped back into Spanish, his voice trembling, rising higher, sharper, almost hysterical, and from that contrast something inside him painfully clenched.
And around them, true chaos continued. Someone was running down the street, stumbling over nothing, someone else stood still, clutching their head as if hoping to squeeze an answer out of it that just wouldn’t come. A bit further, at the intersection, some man in a business suit was hysterically shouting at a woman in uniform, waving his arms, but his voice kept breaking into almost a squeal, making him look even more pathetic. Nearby, a girl — or no longer a girl — stared at her hands as if they might disappear at any moment.
— ¡¿Qué está pasando?! (What’s happening?!) — someone shouted very close by, and John, twitching, instinctively turned his head toward the familiar words, feeling the bun at the back of his head pull at his skin.
He saw people who were worried, and some were outright panicking. It looked like the end of the world.
— Move faster, don’t drag! — the policeman barked, sharply jerking his arm forward.
The heel slipped on the asphalt, and John almost went down, barely keeping his balance at the last second, but that only made his body sway even more, making his breasts jerk heavily under the thin fabric of the top.
— Fuck… no… no good… I… I can’t walk this… — he forced out, stumbling over words, trying to form them, but the language seemed to betray him, pushing out some pathetic, broken constructions. — This… shoes… stupid…!
Yes. Stupid. But one way or another, whether he wanted it or not, John would soon have to face the consequences of those very laws he had once pushed so hard… and not just the laws.