Blacmail at the Airport

This story is written for Miss S. She is travelling abroad in a former Eastern Bloc country when she is pulled in for questioning in relation to a suspect package found in her luggage. The story is written to her directly, and I hope that this style doesn't put you off!

*

You are at the airport when you begin to feel slightly panicky. There should be no reason for that, however, you are being stared at intently by one of the uniformed security men. A puzzled expression comes over your face and further lack of comprehension registers when you are tapped quite sharply on the shoulders from behind. A female security guard beckons you aside.

"Please ... Follow me," she barks in broken English.

You have no choice. Her build and demeanour are those of someone who is used to having her authority obeyed. She walks ahead of you and then you are aware of a second guard behind you. People stare at you - your compatriots, fellow travellers, people with whom you have a common national identity. They can do nothing to help you. There are looks of concern, of surprise, but also you can sense that they are glad they are not in your shoes.

"What is the problem?" you ask.

"Please ... all will be explained!"

"But ... my luggage, my passport ... everything is in order ... I don't understand!!"

You are led down a hallway and then you turn left and left again and finally right, where you find yourself in a different annex. This part of the airport appears more like the old military wing of a civilian airport. The building seems even less comfortable than where you just were a few moments ago. How you wish that you were there now and not here ... but where was "here"? An endless stream of hallways and corridors were taking you further and further away, leading to growing confusion and disorientation in your mind. At the end of one such corridor, there is a room into which you are shown. The room is small, measuring no more than 10 feet by 10. It is tiled in white and lit by one naked light bulb. There is a small table and a chair. There is no window. The room is airless and very claustrophobic.

"Strip!" the female guard commands.

"Why on earth ... What exactly have I done? Why are you doing this to me?"

Your voice is now several pitches higher than usual. Your heart is beating and adrenaline is pumping through your body. A sickening feeling, a feeling of dread, a feeling of lack of control ... all of these feeling and emotions are mounting in your body and producing a state of near panic. You are on the brink of hysterical tears. How quickly it has happened. Why has it happened? One moment, you are on the verge of boarding a plane, and the next, you are in the middle of this ... this nightmare.

The female guard snaps a latex glove onto her hand. She waits. The other guard makes no move to leave. He smirks. You get the feeling that this is not the first time he has witnessed the humiliation of a passenger at her hands. You start to undress. You are not comfortable, not one bit comfortable. You take off your coat, placing it on the table, followed by your boots, which you bend down to untie. You are wearing tights under your skirt and as your pull them off, you think how pathetic tights are when they fall to the ground in a pile. You are wearing a long skirt and this is next to come off, leaving you in a white blouse and your underwear. Now, you feel the dampness of the perspiration which has built up under your arms. You have not shaved there for a few days and the sharpness of the new growth irritates you. Next, you take off the blouse, followed by your bra and panties.

"Bend over the table please!" she commands as she snapped another latex glove onto her hands.

This scenario was now totally beyond your ability to comprehend. You caught the look in the male security guard's eyes as you bent over, exposing yourself completely to his gaze. Just as she prepares to search your body cavities, the door opens and both of them snap to attention. Frome your position, you cannot see what is going on, but the curt order given by the new arrival, dismissing both of them leaves you hope that your dilemma is over. However, your situation is far from being resolved and is in fact about to become a lot worse.

"Miss S?" a heavily accented male voice commands your attention.

His is the voice of authority, a voice that calls and demands respect.

"Can you explain this?"

A small bag, containing approximately 100g of white powder lands on the desk in front of you.

"We found this in the luggage when you, how you say ... checked in."

"That's impossible ... I have no idea what it is. Somebody must have planted that in my luggage."

"It is cocaine Miss S. and indeed, it may have been planted there ... I care little for the truth. Truth bores me. Let me tell you something about myself Miss S. Under the old regime, I had a ... reputation for getting results from people particularly difficult to interrogate. Here, I have been reduced to the level of a mere pen pusher, with a small amount of authority ... and sometimes situations like this one give me the chance to ... refresh my skills."

He spoke his words slowly and with a certain degree of lazy menace. He takes out a cigarette and lites it up. Usually S, you do not like the smell of cigarettes but his are different, with a kind of sweet smelling flavour to the smoke.

"I recognise something of a fellow traveller in you ... Around here, my word still counts for something. I can make this nightmare disappear for you. Would you like that? Would you like the memory of my face and this room to be a distant one? Let me offer you a way out. You can spend 30 minutes here with me, where I will teach you a lesson in respect ... respect not for yourself but for me, or you can spend the next 15 years eating boiled cabbage in a filthy prison cell based on a trumped up charge of possession of narcotics ... the choice is yours ... the plane will be late taking off ... I, we, have the opportunity to decide your future ... together. What will we choose?"

Bent over the table, with everything on show to this man and very quickly guessing that he was 100 percent serious, you decide that you do indeed have no choice.

"Ah the old days Miss S ... I would love to tell you so much about them, but I fear that we will have to wait for another time which will give both of us the opportunity to ... enlighten ... ourselves further. Would you be so kind as to put on this blindfold ... I find it offensive to look at your eyes ... You are so pitiful ... Look at yourself ... You are such a pitiful creature ...Look, I cannot even get hard looking at you ... My dick, it is like it doesn't work. You are such an excuse for a woman. Here, let me hide your eyes"

He fits the blindfold and your senses are reduced by one. The blindfold is not comfortable. It smells ... of fear, the fear, tears and sweat of others who have been forced to wear it in the past. But there is another smell ... what is it? You hear the familiar sound of a zip being undone. He uses his other hand to guide you into a sitting position on the chair. The chair feels cold to you ... What is he doing? Then you feel it, hot and steaming and stinging, the flow of his urine as he pisses all over your face. It streams down your face, and you feel it dribble down your body, dividing itself into several small streams as it makes its way down your torso. It continues its flow onto your legs where if dribbles down your ankles and onto the floor. Some has remained on the seat, making it wet and as the piss cools and uncomfortable.

"I would shit on you also, but you are not worthy of my shit. You are a useless piece of shit. You are not worthy of my respect. What gives you the idea that you are worthy? What gives you the right to come in here and demand my respect? You have to earn it ... You have to believe that you want my respect ... If I don't believe it ... there will be trouble ... I will take your blind fold off when you signal that it is the time. If and I say these words very carefully, if I see one flicker of disrespect, even the hint of it ... then our deal is off ... do you understand?"

You do not nod quickly enough. Suddenly, your head veers to the left violently as his hands lands a slap on its right hand side. The pain jolts through your body and the sharpness of the slap make tears well up in your eyes. What a truly pityful and disgusting sight you are. How can you please any man given the state that you are in? How can you ever even hope to gain this man's respect?

"When I ask you a question, you answer, straight away ... do you understand? My cigarette is finished. Where shall I stub it out? Show me exactly where I should do it and choose carefully!"

Your hands are not bound, so slowly, you move your hand and point to your breasts.

"Yes, my dear ... you have chosen correctly", he says as he presses the hot cigarette end just over your left nipple. You jump as the searing pain jolts through your body, your body gulping in air, your hands immediately making an instinctive effort to rub the affected area but you don't dare touch it as you are beginning to understand respect. Only through pain, will you ever learn it S.

"Are you starting to respect me? Speak to me!"

"Yes!"

"You think that it is that easy ... that you learn respect as quickly as that?"

His face is so close to you now. You smell tobacco from his breath. You smell other, more definable things as well. His aftershave is subtle, not overpowering. Through the blindfold, you do not sense a change in mood. He is still very dangerous. Your own mind has now began its descent as your will is no longer strong enough to resist. Not 30 minutes ago, you were in complete control. Now, you are ceding this control to a stranger ... a stranger who knows how to bend your will, who is taking control of your very body and mind. He moves almost silently and positions himself behind you.

"Stand up!"

You do so immediately.

"Move away from the table".

You take four steps forward, four floundering, unsure steps. You assume that you are now in the middle of the room. The remains of his urine runs down your legs when you stand up. You are cold, uncomfortable and hurting, a wounded animal. He stands behind you. You feel his hands on your shoulders. The touch is gentle. Perhaps things have changed? He pushes you to the ground. You lie there, unsure, unable to move, to think. You are completely disorientated. You curl up. He undoes his leather belt.

"Miss S. Get on all fours please."

You obey. He starts to rain down blows with the belt. Stinging, hurtful blows. The land with accuracy, with almost lazy accuracy. He hits you with the detached disinterest of somebody used to training horses or dogs. The blows aimed at your breasts, your buttocks, your back, the sensitive area of your inside legs ... these are all designed merely to train you, to take out and mould what we all know about you, to make a proper little toy out of you, to use and abuse as ones sees fit ... to fuck, cum on, shit on, piss on, that you will take whatever is given to you and instead of bothering him with your pathetic protestations, you will in fact come back for more and expect it, want it, relish it, appreciate it, learn to love it as it is the only real love that you can understand and the only real love that a person like you deserves. You take the blows as an expression of this love and finally, only after 30 minutes of it starting, you are ready to accept him and whatever he has to offer. Your life before him ceases to exist and now, only what matters is what he wants. You signal to him that it is time to take off the blindfold. He stops the beating. You whole body aches from the blows he has delivered, but the pain has unleashed wetness in you that you want him to sate. You look up at him.

"Fuck me!"

He looks at you with distain. He takes another cigarette from his packet. He lights it up, draws on it and exhales.

"You disgust me", he says quietly. He speaks these words but you understand that he does not mean to hurt you. You understand what he means. "I asked you to respect me! That is not to say that I respect you. How dare you ask me something like that? To fuck you? Fuck yourself, you unworthy piece of shit! Fuck yourself, you bitch!"

You look at him with bewilderment. He approaches you. He gently kicks your legs open wide.

"Now, you whore, you slut, you fucking pig, tell me what you call that disgusting hole between your pathetic excuse for legs?"

"My cunt."

"Your cunt? That is too good a name for it! It is one of your three holes. One of the three that men use to satisfy themselves. Men fuck one of them and they just leave you to rot in the squalor that passes for your mind. That is all you deserve, is that no so?"

He looks at you not without feeling. You can see that there is some humanity there in his eyes. That you are under him, under his spell, well, that is without question. The moments pass slowly and then you see it. He starts to relent and lets his mask slip just for a moment. You seize the opportunity.

"Let me see you fuck yourself Miss S. Spread your legs and rub yourself. Look into my eyes as you do. Look into my eyes ... Yes, that is it ... Yes, look ... what do you see? Yes ... you see it don't you? You see acceptance ... Mmmmm, that's it ... stick your fingers in ... yes, do it, you must do it ...you must reach for it ... Watch me ... Look at me ..."

His words and demeanour soften even more, as he talks and treats you slightly better. He holds your face in his hand and watches your eyes as they become brighter and brighter, filled with hope, with the tortured hope that you feel and soon, the orgasm floods through your body and you cry out with relief and with the pleasure comes the tears ... and with the tears comes the shame ... and with the shame comes the numbness ... and with the numbness, comes the resignation.