Guard Duty

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

Susan Denton was apprehensive as she approached the airport security station. She didn't like having to set her purse on the black conveyor belt that transported it¾ and the personal effects it contained¾ through the X-ray machine that rendered ghost images of her personal effects. On one occasion, the machine had showed the spectral outline of a phallic-shaped dildo. She was still embarrassed whenever she thought of the incident. Sure, lots of women carried dildos in their purses or luggage, along with tampons or sanitary napkins and other feminine needs, but seldom were such contents revealed to security guards and other onlookers in a busy international airport. The episode had been sufficiently humiliating to make a long-term impression upon Susan, and she made damned sure that she wasn't carrying a dildo in her purse of luggage whenever she flew or might otherwise have occasion to pass through a security station.

Unfortunately, as a submissive, she'd not had the luxury of disobeying her mistress, Madame Sharon, who'd insisted she wear the ring through her genitals and take her chances as to whether the metallic loop would set off the airport's security alarm. No doubt, Madame was delighted at the chagrin that Susan felt as she contemplated the possibility that the ring would set off the alarm. Just the thought that such an incident might occur was enough to redden Susan's face. She felt weak in the knees, too, and her stomach felt queasy and full of butterflies.

Nevertheless, sick at heart as she felt, Susan took her place in the slowly moving file of men, women, and children who walked through the metal detector.

All too soon, she stood before the arched frame beside the conveyor belt.

A female security guard nodded to her. "Step through, please."

Susan swallowed. Please don't let the damned alarm go off, she prayed. She stepped forward. Immediately, a shrill, shrieking siren sounded.

The security guard instructed Susan to place her purse on the conveyor belt. Susan did as she was told. "Walk through again," the guard ordered as she reset the alarm.

Susan followed the guard's instruction, and the alarm shrieked again.

"Do you have anything metal on your person?" the guard asked.

Susan couldn't bring herself to mention the ring through her genitals. She shook her head.

"No belt buckle or cigarette lighter or watch?" the guard inquired.

"No."

The guard reset the alarm. "Try again."

Once more, the alarm sounded.

The guard held an open hand toward Susan. "I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."

Susan stepped toward the guard, and the sentinel's hand closed upon Susan's bicep.

"Where are we going?" Susan asked.

"Come with me," the guard answered.

She led Susan to a small, well lit room, containing only a few wall lockers, a small table, and two straight-backed chair, closing the door behind them. She regarded Susan impassively as she advised her, "I'm going to have to strip search you."

Susan's eyes widened. Her mouth gaped. "What?"

"Take off your clothes, please, starting with your blouse."

Susan was not an aggressive or assertive woman. There was nothing forceful about her. Instead, she was submissive, acquiescent, compliant. Years of physical abuse at the hands of her father and years of sexual and physical abuse at the hands of Madame Sharon had made her as pliable and supple as a mindless willow branch. She wanted only to please others, especially her mistress, no matter the pain or the misery or the distress she might have to endure to do so. Without a word of protest, with her eyes downcast, she did as she'd been commanded, unbuttoning the silk lavender blouse, pulling first one arm and then the other from its respective long sleeve, and draping the expensive item over the back of a chair.

"Now the bra," the guard ordered.

Dutifully, Susan reached behind her back, unfastened the clasp, and shrugged out of the garment, hanging it on the back of the chair, with the blouse. She blushed as she saw the guard stare lustfully at her perfect, high, round breasts. The small room was chilly, and the cold temperature, as well as the guard's ogling gaze, made Susan's nipples stiffen within the center of her puffy areolas.

"You have beautiful breasts," the guard declared.

Another woman might have been outraged by such a comment, but Susan had been conditioned to accept such observations as compliments. "Thank you," she replied.

"Do you mind if I touch them?" the guard asked.

Susan had also been conditioned to accept her mistress'¾ or any other woman's¾ caresses. She shook her head, to indicate her willingness to have her breasts handled.

The guard's reaching hands opened. Their long, slender fingers closed upon the velvet-smooth, creamy globes, squeezing Susan's breasts several times. Susan felt her nipples, already erect, further stiffen and swell. A small, helpless moan escaped her parted lips.

"You like that?"

Susan nodded. She'd been trained to enjoy being treated as an object of others' amusement and pleasure.

The guard bent, taking one of Susan's swollen nipples between her lips, sucking at the teat. For a long moment, she nursed at the magnificent breast, pausing to lick the swollen bud from time to time. Another small moan escaped Susan's lips. The guard smiled up at her, transferring her mouth to Susan's other breast. She suckled the second nipple, licking and squeezing it. After she'd enjoyed herself in this fashion for several minutes, she stood erect again. "Now, the skirt, stockings, and panties," she ordered.

Susan gulped. Tears filled her eyes, one wandering down her cheek. She wanted to argue, but she dared not. The impulse to assert herself or to defy authority had long ago been beaten out of her. She stepped out of her high-heeled shoes. She unzipped her skirt. Her thumbs hooked in the sides of its waistband, and she lowered the skirt past her sleek thighs and dimpled knees and down her calves, stepping out of the item of apparel. She didn't bother to hang it atop the discarded blouse and brassiere. She let it lie on the floor. Now, she wore only her panties and stockings. She swallowed again, realizing how little clothing remained before she'd been completely naked, her entire body exposed to the guard's ogling gaze. She unfastened her garter belts and slid the stockings down, over her bare legs, standing first on one foot and then the other as she pulled the hosiery from her feet. All she wore were her thong panties, which meant that her smooth, creamy buttocks were now also on view. At last, she surprised herself, finding courage enough to plead with the guard. "Please," she murmured, "don't make me remove my panties, too."

"Sorry," the guard replied, "but, for all I know, you could have a grenade hidden inside your cunt."

Cunt! Susan knew that she should be offended, even outraged, by the guard's use of the obscene term to describe her genitals. No self-respecting woman would have tolerated the use of such an expression. However, Susan had lost all self-respect years ago. She trembled with shame, but she did not protest; she did not refuse to comply with the guard's order. Her face burning with humiliation, she tugged the flimsy panties down, scooting them over her creamy thighs, past her knees, and down her calves, stepping out of the underwear to let them lie on the floor beside her discarded skirt and stockings.

"What the hell?" the guard cried, her eyes and mouth opened wide and her tone of voice pregnant with disbelief.

Susan winced. She'd heard such surprise¾ such shock¾ before. Usually, it preceded violence.

"You're not a woman," the guard proclaimed, accusingly. "You're a¾ a¾ I don't know what! A freak! A goddamned freak!"

"I'm a transsexual," Susan whispered.

"A what?" the guard thundered.

"A shemale¾ you know, a chick with a dick."

"A chick with a dick?" the guard repeated, sounding offended. "Chicks don't have dicks, mister! You have a cock, and you have balls¾ that makes you a man." Not only did Susan have male genitals, but her manhood was pierced. At Madame Sharon's insistence, Susan wore a thick silver ring through that looped through the glans, or head, of her penis. It was this adornment that had set off the metal detector.

"I'm a transsexual," Susan repeated, her voice soft.

"You want to be a woman? Is that it? You a cross dresser?"

"No, I am a woman," Susan explained, "trapped in a man's body." It seemed unlikely to her that the guard had never heard of the condition. Maybe she's merely feigning ignorance, the better to fuck with me, Susan thought. The transsexual felt as if she'd burst into tears at any moment.

The guard laughed, but there was no merriment in the sound. It was cruel. Heartless. "There ain't no such animal."

"Please," Susan begged, "let me go. I'm not carrying anything dangerous. I'm harmless. I'm just a passenger, trying¾ "

"Shut up!"

Susan silenced herself.

"You want to be a woman? Get down on your hands and knees, bitch!"

Susan whimpered. "Please¾ "

"NOW!"

Susan sank to her knees. She let her upper body fall forward, catching her weight upon her outspread palms.

The guard removed the baton from the holster belted to her side. She pointed the thick end of the club against the cleavage dividing the sleek mounds of Susan's round derriere. The division between Susan's buttocks indented, and the passenger squirmed. The guard shoved the baton harder, and its thick end pressed into the part between the writhing passenger's ass. The baton traced the cleavage, sliding down to rest against the back of Susan's scrotum. There it rested a moment, and then Susan felt the heavy, blunt end of the club fall away from her.

"Maybe I should stick this baton up your ass," the guard threatened.

"Please, no!" Susan protested.

The club struck a savage blow, flattening the cheeks of Susan's bottom. The naked passenger screamed.

"I think I will fuck you," the guard declared.

Susan whimpered. She wanted to protest again, but she dared not. Her ass stung from the blow of the baton, and she had no doubt that the guard would not hesitate to rain down several more, even harder blows, just as Madame Sharon was wont to do whenever Susan forgot herself and voiced a complaint or an objection. She bit her lip, while warm tears streamed down her face. If the guard rammed the baton up her ass, the weapon could well rip her entrails. Susan could bleed to death from the injuries.

Susan heard the guard's footsteps as she crossed the room. In a few moments, she heard the creak of metal hinges as the guard opened a wall locker. Inside, there was a ten-inch-long strap-on dildo and a jar of lubricant. There were other items inside the locker, too¾ handcuffs, whips, chains, chastity belts, branding irons.

Returning to her victim, the guard strapped on the dildo, lubricated the phallus, and greased Susan's anus. Kneeling behind the passenger, the guard guided the head of the artificial penis into the circle of Susan's sphincter. She pressed forward with her hips, shoving the monstrous false cock through the tight anal ring and into Susan's rectum. The impaled anus fluttered frantically about the dildo, as if it were making a valiant, albeit vain, effort to dislodge the trespassing phallus.

"You have a lovely ass," the guard said, as she worked the ten-inch-long dildo back and forth inside Susan's buttocks, watching the false penis vanish and reappear within the speared anus.

Susan whimpered. Her eyes were shut tightly, but not tightly enough to prevent the spill of tears down her face or quench the anger, humiliation, and pain that welled within her.

For twenty minutes, the guard fucked her, shoving the dildo deep into her ass before withdrawing it until only an inch remained within her rectum and plunging the phallus home again, until her pubes rasped against the sleek curves of Susan's skewered buttocks. When the guard tired, she rested, with the massive artificial cock buried inside Susan's bottom. Then, her strength renewed, the guard drove the massive dildo into the depths of Susan's bowels again. When she pulled the false organ completely out of Susan's ass, the guard slapped the passenger's bottom, leaving a red handprint in the ivory flesh. Susan leaped before the blow, receiving another, harder smack by way of reprimand.

"You may get dressed," the guard told her, "but leave the bra and panties off."

As Susan donned her blouse, stockings, skirt, and shoes, the guard put away the dildo and the lubricant, until she had need if them again.

"Where are you traveling?" the guard demanded.

"To see my mistress, Madame Sharon," Susan replied.

"Does she treat you well or beat you?"

"Both."

"Are you an obedient slave?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The guard gave Susan an appraising look. "I'll bet you are," she said. "How long will you be gone?"

"A week."

"And how will you be returning home?"

"My mistress has already booked a return flight."

"How thoughtful. So, you'll be flying in to this airport?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll be waiting," the guard said. She looked Susan up and down. "You may go."

Susan wasted no time in leaving.

The guard smiled as she watched Susan's firm, round ass sway in the tight skirt she wore. Next time, the guard told herself, she'd use the twelve-inch strap-on and give this shemale bitch a fucking she'd long remember. From now on, whenever Susan the Slut flew in or out of this airport, she'd have a second mistress¾ one even more vicious and demanding than Madame Sharon.

The guard thought, Maybe, next time, she'd make this chick with a dick eat her pussy after she fucked her. In fact, maybe she'd make her eat her pussy before and after she fucked her! She smiled to herself as she slid her baton back into the holster on her hip.

Whistling, Susan's new mistress returned to her station, to resume guard duty.

  

  

  

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