Airport Security

You're a security guard in the new hopped-up sci fi era of homeland security gone out of control. Every day more and more prohibitions are published, so many that people can't keep track, and are punished for not knowing of rules no one could hope to learn. Every day the power of enforcers grows. It has certainly gone to your head, in a manner of speaking.

I enter the airport on a hot day, wearing the Monroe dress. Given the tattoo and the leather backpack, the overall effect is more kinky that conventionally 50's, but you spot me when the skirt blows almost all the way up in the gust of air conditioning that comes through the door as I enter. The skirt actually blows up higher than my waist while I'm trying to free my hands to swat it down, and you decide to keep a weather eye out for me at the checkpoint. You begin to formulate a few plans. I look like just the kind of girl who could be carrying contraband. You have an instinct about such things.

I'm wearing the dress because the weather is too hot for me. I'm sick of the damned lines in mere minutes, too. I hate fucking airports. Patience isn't a virtue of mine. After getting my boarding pass from the machine and waiting for lord knows how long in the checkpoint line, watching people getting taken off to the side and wanded and patted down, I finally get to send my backpack though. And I set off the wretched alarm as I walk through the metal detector. Too late, I realize that these 50's dresses have metal stays as well as metal zippers. Oh shit. And... Is that someone going through my backpack? I KNOW I took all the pot out. Oh no. There's a dog. I'll bet it's one of those drug-sniffing animals. Could the day get any worse? Well, sure it can. Here you come with the handcuffs. Oh, Fuck.

This is the last time I come to an airport a little high, I resolve, scared someone will think of giving me a blood test. But, being just a tad enhanced, I can't help noticing how broad your shoulders are and how I can feel the heat off your body as you stand too close to me.

Whoa. I almost fall into you. You're gazing at me, expressionless, but there's something -- that makes me excited as well as nervous. I suddenly feel completely vulnerable. And, perversely, I can feel myself starting to get wet. Stupid. Jesus. But there's something about you that's making my heart pound double time. I try to settle my breathing, but it's difficult. God it's embarrassing.

"Come with me." Oh, like I have a choice.

There's nowhere to go and there's a brawny hand on my arm. You lead me to one of several cordoned-off areas out in the open. One of those areas where I've seen people getting patted down and wanded. There's a table, waist high, with my backpack on it. There's a bench. Not much else besides you and me. I notice out of the corner of my eye that we're attracting a rather unusual amount of attention. Other security guards are drifting by, acting casual. Passengers are slowing down. What the hell?

"Ma'am, we have several serious issues on the table here," you begin, still standing disturbingly close, your eyes locked on mine. "We've detected metal objects in your clothing. We've detected residual contraband in your bag. Homeland Security's new no-tolerance policy dictates that we perform a full cavity search immediately."

What? Oh, you must be kidding. And out here?

"Are you out of your mind?" Now I'm mad. There's a fucking audience out here for god's sake. Just hearing you say that to me in public is humiliating. OK. I'm still getting turned on. But I'll be damned if I admit it.

"Please untie your top ma'am. We'll need to check under the fabric."

Oh, this is outrageous. When I don't move to do as you tell me (incapacitated by outraged sputtering, probably) you move in to untie the top of my halter. I lose my head and slap you. Before I know it -- and I'm not sure how you pull it off so quickly -- you have my hands handcuffed behind my back. And you're pulling down the top of my dress while I stand there, helpless. There's an almost but not quite audible hum from the onlookers as you hold my breast in your hands for a moment and run your thumbs over the nipples. Which are very hard. As, I notice, glancing down, are you. Oh my god. This can't be happening. You said "cavity search." Surely --

"Open your mouth." You run your thumb along my lower lip. "Open your mouth and kneel down."

No. This is ridic-- You put your hands on my shoulders and push me down, very firmly indeed. You're seriously bigger than I am. And I'm in handcuffs. Shit.

"Bite and I'll make you very sorry."

I'm on my knees in front of the bulge in your pants which is, frankly, terrifyingly huge. Then you unzip. Oh my god. You brush the hair out of my face, wind your hands in it, and slowly push your cock into my mouth. And to tell the truth, even though I'm almost paralyzed by horrified embarrassment, I really like your cock. It's so big, and so hard, and so slick that it feels almost like metal. I relax a little. I feel you push in deeper and I realize you're not going to push until you choke me and feel surprisingly grateful, there on my knees with my hands fastened behind my back as you fuck my face in a leisurely way. There's a rumble of approval from surrounding masculine throats. Possibly including yours.

But you pull back before you come. I'm surprised.

"We're not finished," you say, as you lift me up bodily by the shoulders. "Homeland Security regulations direct me to search all possible areas for contraband."

The murmur from the crowd is audible this time. People actually seem to be jockeying for position. I wonder whether it's the pot that makes it -- no, I'm not that stoned. No, the only thing the pot is doing is making me begin to enjoy this disastrously embarrassing scenario. I can feel my heart pounding again. I've already had a close personal encounter with your cock. I can't help imagining what it can do. But in front of -- oh shit. You push me face forward over the table, You throw up my skirt, exposing even more of me than the gust of wind from the door, and you jerk down my underpants, pulling them off with a swift practiced motion.

"Spread your legs please."

Oh, I can hear the crowd now. My stomach and bare breasts are flat against the table, my face is turned to the side. My hands are behind my back. My ass is exposed apparently to all the world. I spread my legs.

"Arch your back please. It facilitates penetration."

I arch my back. By this time I want you so badly that I feel as if the dampness is visible from a distance.

You put your hands on my hips and push your cock into me almost halfway. I moan. You back up and push in deeper. Oh. Oh Jesus. Oh that feels wonderful. There's no hope on God's earth of keeping quiet. I love it, I can't stand it, I have to have it. You ram into me harder and harder, in front of an ever growing crowd, while I shriek with pleasure. Onlookers comment happily on the size and shape of your cock, on my change of attitude, on the apparent absence of contraband.

And comments from the crowd clue me in to what's coming next.

"See what she's got up her ass!" someone yells.

"Fuck her up the ass."

Oh great. Let's go for total humiliation, then. I turn my head and glance back at you over my shoulder, over my cuffed hands. There you are, fucking me well and hard. And you smile. You run your finger across my wetness, pause consideringly, do it again, and push it slowly up my ass. Slowly. Still smiling. A happy shout arises from the crowd. Oh what the hell. There's something surreal and erotic about this now. I'm so aroused, so in love with your cock, so on the verge, that having a scary gorgeous guy in a uniform handcuff me and then fuck me in the ass in front of a cheering crowd until I come begins to seem... pretty fucking terrific. Jesus. I must be out of my mind.

"Let's see how you like it," you murmur into my hair, as you move your hand between my legs, strumming my clit. "I think you will."

The finger picks up more moisture, lubes my ass again while your cock moves in and out of my cunt. And then you withdraw and I feel the tip of your cock in my ass. You're slow this time. It's gradual. Gradually, you fill me to the bursting point, applying pressure to my clit, making me writhe, making me long to be filled up.

"Say what you want," you whisper, your cock all the way up my ass now, your hand playing my clit like an instrument.

"I want to feel you fuck me." I realize I do. I arch my back and wiggle my butt.

"Louder."

God, I want you to fuck me. "Yes. fuck me. Fuck me hard. Do it! Please. Do it!"

A shout from the audience. "Yes!"

And you fuck me. Hard. God. I come, screaming, begging for more. Even you aren't silent as you growl and shudder and cover our unprivate cordoned off area (as well as several onlookers) with come.

As I stand up shakily, pretty well shellshocked, my skirt falling back down, my top still down around my waist, you move your hands behind my back, undo the handcuffs, and let them fall to the floor. Then you place your hands on my bare waist, lean down, and kiss me.