"Go to hell," I growl at the TSA agent. I'd had to walk through the metal detector one too many times on this trip. But when I had to take down my bun so the agent could "inspect" my hair, I finally lost it.
Our dear president had forced through a draconian executive order allowing the TSA practically the same authority as the Gestapo. My Nazi reference to the offending hair inspector had apparently been enough to detain me.
One would think that detention would have made me bite my tongue. One would be wrong.
So now I'm pissed that I'm trussed up in the agent's office ass up, over his desk: zip ties on my wrists and hand cuffs on my ankles. Apparently something in the executive order makes that legal. I'd love to read the statute myself, but it's probably in the large binder of TSA regulations propping up my hips. Mr. Power Trip was kind enough to throw his shirt over it, otherwise I'd have a bikini line full of paper cuts.
The problem is Mr. PT is pretty hot, even in the stupid wife beater revealed when he sacrificed his shirt to me. I'd been eyeing him, as a matter of fact, when they'd pulled me out of line to inspect my hair. He was the first to approach me after my Nazi comment. Late 40s, maybe early 50s, just a touch of white in his dark hair. Tall and fit but with a bit of heft-defined arms and chest that I can see when I cut my eyes at him now. But that's not really what makes him so hot. This fucker owns the room when he walks in. Every molecule in my body wanted to fall to his command when I first saw him.
When he led me away from the security line, his grip on my arm was just snug enough to make me follow. His presence was so commanding that I didn't-couldn't, wouldn't-resist.
His lackey brought my luggage and the boots I'd had to remove and they led me to a private screening room. The lackey disappeared back to the growing line of travelers.
"Look at me, bitch," he'd said after closing the heavy screening room door. I rolled my eyes at him and it took all my willpower to not spit in his face. "I know exactly what you're about, you self-satisfied, entitled cunt. You think you've got a right to verbally abuse my staff just because you're a basic white girl? Well, you're not going to get away with that shit on my watch and I've got the authority to make sure you're punished for it."
My back was to the two way mirror but I saw him eyeing something behind me and over my head. He walked towards me and, without warning, his hand was at my throat. I inhaled to scream but his hand tightened quickly, instinctively.
"Keep your mouth shut, bitch, and this will be less difficult for you. Put your hands up over your head and take two steps backwards. I felt my eyes widen, and was about to shake my head "no" when his hand tightened again-too quickly, like a reflex and not a response. He shoved me backwards and without ever releasing his grip on my throat, he cuffed my left hand and attached it to a D-ring above the mirror. "Welp," I thought, "I guess that explains what he was looking at."
He released his grip on my throat and put a finger under my chin. I didn't resist when he pushed up and inspected me. "What a beauty, truly," he said to me, staring into my eyes. "Too bad, I have to punish you for your little scene out there." I tried to hold his stare but my eyes fell to the floor. He mumbled something about breaking my pride as his eyes molested every part of my body. I inhaled sharply when he cuffed my other hand to the d-ring on the opposite side of the mirror.
He moved to my suitcase and started going through my things. I opened my mouth to protest but one look from him silenced me again-this guy, his command of the space was palatable. He found my vibrator and tested out the different speeds as he explained some obscure TSA rule about wireless electronic devices. "Basically, I can test any device to make sure it's not anything nefarious. And I'm going to test this on you, but believe me, the testing will be nefarious. Spread your legs, whore."
"No."
Backhand across my left cheek.
"Now."
Tears welled in my eyes, "No."
Backhand across my right cheek.
I spread my legs just enough for my skirt to crinkle up at my hips.
He kicked my feet open wider and my weight fell against the cuffs on my wrists. I gasped at the pain but was immediately distracted by my skirt being yanked up around my waist and my panties being yanked so hard in the opposite direction that they ripped across my spread thighs.
He pushed my ass back against the glass.
"You skank. All those people out there can see the outline of your fat ass. I wonder if they'll like it as much as you do when this test makes you scream my name."
"Wh-".
"Shut up. To you, my name is Sir, that's all you need to know right now. And don't speak unless you're spoken to."
Silence, I lowered my eyes. Then he glared at me, clearing his throat. "Answer me, you worthless whore."
"Yes, sir," came out of my lips in a raspy whisper.
"Good girl, that's better," he said and he shoved his strong fingers in my pussy and brought them out sopping wet and pinched my clit, I let out an involuntary moan. He picked up my torn panties and shoved them in my mouth. He pulled off his cheesy uniform tie and secured the gag in my mouth.
He picked up my vibrator and dampened that in my pussy as well, cranked it up, and placed it directly on my clit.
Moments later, anyone close enough to the two way mirror could surely see my juices dripping down the glass as I pulled against the restraints in the throes of an orgasm. When the last wave subsided, he held the vibrator on my clit for another few moments. As I was writhing from the over stimulation, he grabbed my throat again and watched me intently. When he turned off the vibrator, I slumped against the d-rings and glared at my captor, pissed because I was stuck there but glowing from cuming. The juxtaposition clearly amused Mr. Power Trip, he laughed at me as he tossed the wet and sticky vibrator back into my suitcase.
"Now it's my turn, slut," he released the cuffs from the D-rings and I tried to pull down my skirt.
"Leave it." I glared at him. He raised his hand. I lowered my eyes.
"On your knees, dirty slut," he commanded, unzipping his pants.
Here we go again: "No," I said through my torn panties.
I flinched, expecting another blow, but he grabbed a fist full of my hair instead. He tried to pull me down to my knees but the angle was wrong and I was able to resist, even though tears pricked my eyes from the pain. But I couldn't recover my balance in time and he was able to adjust his grip and bring me down to the floor hard on my left side.
"On your knees, dirty slut," he said again. The thought of feeling his cock in the back of my throat did not help the wetness situation between my thighs. But it's the principle of the thing.
"No," I said again.
He took two handfuls of hair this time and dragged me bodily to a door opposite of the one we entered. I was still on my side and he put his foot on my arm and adjusted his grip on my hair with one hand. He peeked both ways out the door, kicked it all the way open, grabbed both my hands in one of his, tightened his grip on my hair and dragged me across the cold tiles of a brightly lit hallway. My skirt became more hiked and twisted and had anyone come in the hallway, they would have seen everything between my legs as I kicked and thrashed.
