Customs Inspection Back to F Back to main page

Collected by Djian
update 27 july 2007


(M/f, exhib, humiliation, dog)


Customs Inspection
by ej
 
 

Melanie made her way through the airport at the capital of the island nation. At the top of the walls, panoramic screens showed the video complement of the music piped in through the public address system. This alternated with the official announcements of departures and arrivals. At the moment, a merengüe was playing. It was that hip-shaking dance that was called dirty dancing music in the states but was part of the culture and very soul of the Caribbean. The singer was telling of how that woman "me puso a gozá." She got me groovin'. The band members and the model playing the woman in question appeared as being interrogated in a fake police station, in quick succession. Melanie considered how the government would try anything, or give away anything, if it fostered the tourist trade. At the same time, the government wanted to foster its prefabricated image of uncompromising, almost-Spartan nationalism. Melanie forced a wry, ironic smile. She had been working here for the past year studying the archeological record of the island's pre-Columbian civilization. Melanie Smith was a still-attractive, 57-year old woman. Her almost five-foot, seven-inch frame still carried the ease of motion of an athletic youth. Her size forty breasts, followed by a thirty two-inch waist and topping hips forty two inches in circumference, could still draw and keep the attention of men. Especially as she walked with a sway of hips and buttocks that could be the envy of any local woman. Her legs were muscular, with hard, firm thighs and hips, supported by well-rounded calves ending in tapered ankles and well-formed, high arched sprinter's feet. Her skin was tanned by years of archeological work in the Sun. However, she had always taken good care of it with humidifiers and antioxidants, so that it was smooth and for the most part free of wrinkles and blemishes. The only exceptions were the lines that formed around her neck and in her face when she laughed, as well as the few age spots and freckles on her back, hands, and bosom. Her blue-green eyes and short gray hair in a still-pleasing face seemed to complement the dark tone of her skin. Her stomach was as smooth as could be expected of a 57-year old woman that still did fifty sit-ups and fifty push-ups each day. She wore what she called her tropical "duty uniform" of pedal pusher pants, short sleeved cotton blouse, and sandals, topped by a canvas hat. She only wore bikini panties and a cotton white brassiere underneath. No need to overdress in the heat. She had been working for the anthropology department of the local university. In fact, she had been hired from the states because of her illustrious academic career there, and she was a sort of local guru as far as pre-Columbian archeology was concerned. She was now headed back to the states, where she would be giving a series of lectures on her findings and then advocating for funding to various government and private institutions. The fact was that the research on the local indigenous culture had been handicapped by lack of funds and Melanie had been caught in a seesaw battle with the local government's cultural and historic preservation institution. The local institution wanted to monopolize all archeological, cultural, and historic research work, excluding what it deemed all so called meddling foreign participants. She had been put in a position to champion multi-party efforts at cultural and archeological investigation, arguing that the knowledge to be gained was a patrimony of all humanity. The result had been a cancellation of her university teaching contract. Although she received a more than generous severance compensation. She would now have to pursue further research on her own, which is what she intended to do as soon as she procured funding back home.She had been reviewing her notes at a table in the airport café. She was also hoping to meet some of her former students, who would be departing today to participate in an exchange archeology program with a stateside university. She had several demitasses of the local strong coffee, which she loved, and washed each down with a bottle of bubbly mineral water. As she gathered up her papers into her carry-cart, she ordered a shot of the extra-strength local dark rum and a local beer as a chaser, a pint of fine Pilsener produced by the descendants of European immigrants arrived at the beginning of the Twentieth Century. Although she only drank occasionally, she felt that this was like a toast to her time here. Hoping for a prompt return. By the time she finished her Pilsener, it was time to board her airplane. The public address system was playing a romantic song. In the video clip, a singer with a Spanish Jewish surname crooned to a woman of four decades that she was the perfect combination between experience and youth, and asked what would it take to make her fall in love with a man of a decade less. "How about a woman of five to six decades, guy?" Melanie thought, as she smiled to herself. Her divorce, after all her years of marriage, had not been easy. It was one of the reasons she had immersed herself in her work. At the customs inspection, she got out her passport and visa.
She couldn't help noticing the presence of dogs. The local police liked to use dogs both preventively, to sniff out explosives or drugs, and proactively, as attack systems, together with their trainers. She had always understood the use to sniff out substances. Humans have approximately one inch of nasal turbinate in
their nasal cavities. That's the actual surface where the sense of smell is registered. Dogs have four to five inches. As for their use in an attack role, she could only speculate this to be a throwback to when dogs had been used in the extermination of the indigenous population. Two long, brutal dictatorships, various civil
wars and other strife had given the local people a reputation for violence that contrasted with their day to day gentleness and courteousness. Melanie always thought that the reputation for cruelty and violence was undeserved and the work of racist stereotypes, since she had always enjoyed the most cordial relationships with her students and most of the locals she interacted with. The laws, however, were in fact draconian and rather harsh, a by-product and remnant of the two periods of dictatorship. The local police was also known for a high degree of deadly efficiency. That, and an icy courtesy that could reputedly put fear in the most hardened criminal soul.

She took her place in the line. A hairy young man, probably German or Dutch by his accent when he said "Oh, excuse me!" Almost bumped into her as he joined a girl in front of her in the line.
The young couple made their way through customs and into the plane. Her turn came. She handed over her passport. She always felt a flutter in her stomach when she went through these formalities. The presence of several large dogs, restrained by their policeman partners, did not help her sense of apprehension any. Just then she realized she needed to use the bathroom. Those coffees and the rum were highly diuretic and she had neglected to use the bathroom all morning. Maybe the tension of the moment had something to do with it. The customs inspector directed her to walk in front of the dogs, like the young couple had done. She walked forward pulling her carry-cart. The first dog twisted its head quizzically at her. The second one sat on its haunches and alerted. She felt a firm hand on her
shoulder. "Madame, would you be so kind as to accompany us." The dark-glassed customs police Lieutenant said. A customs policeman took the handcart and her purse away from her.
The Lieutenant grasped her arm and escorted her gently but firmly to the airport station. This was an enclosure built right in the middle of the concourse leading up to the security gates and customs inspection post. The sound of the public address system was blocked inside the station. The sparse furniture consisted of two desks with telephones, one of them had an elaborate carved sign that said "H. Alba, Lieutenant, Customs Guard." A computer terminal, an upright locker, and a two-place sofa completed the decor. Chest-high glass panes gave a two-way view of the outside to the occupants of the station, and vice versa. She asked "What is it? What have I done?" The Lieutenant replied, "Please be silent unless addressed. Have a seat on the sofa and please keep your hands crossed on your lap where I can see them. Thank you." The tone he said this in, politeness apart, left her with no doubt that this was not a request and she better do exactly as ordered. She sat on the sofa and crossed her hands on her lap.
Lieutenant Alba and the other policeman put on latex gloves and went through everything in her carry-cart. "The second dog at the post." Alba said, "It is trained to smell out drugs. It alerted on you." She felt a surge of panic. "Drugs!" She said. "But I've never used them!" The Lieutenant looked at her, "But you could be a
trafficker." He said. They went through her bundles of notes, and through her small personal bag. Her other luggage had been loaded on the plane. The plane? She looked out the glass pane and the window in time to see her flight, and her luggage, take off for the states. The two men went through her bag and purse. Personal documents, clothes, underwear. Black silk sleepwear. She felt mortified at having her nightgown and underwear pulled out and displayed like that in public.
The other policeman held up a small brown paper bag from her cart. "That's not mine." She ventured. "It was in your carry-cart," the Lieutenant said, "and please don't forget to be silent unless addressed." Inside the bag was a transparent, plastic bag containing a white powdery substance. Alba touched the powder with
the tip of a pocketknife and then tasted it. He turned to Melanie. "Cocaine." He said. "In the name of the Republic, you are placed under arrest for possession of narcotics pending determination of intent." He almost recited. Melanie couldn't believe her ears. "That German boy!" She said, as she tried to stand up. "He
put in on my cart when he passed me in the line!" Alba put a hand on her shoulder and made her sit down again. The other policeman had finished filling out a form and hurried out of the station with the bag. Alba leaned close to Melanie and said, "Madame, maybe you don't understand the seriousness of your situation. Our law contemplates two instances of drug possession.

The first one is less than two grams, which is a minor offense. Under the Minor Nuisance Crimes Law, you would be considered in the same league as a thief, somebody causing a minor disorder, or a prostitute." She exclaimed, "A prostitute!" He continued, "Yes, but you'd be immediately expelled from the country as persona non grata. More than two grams," he continued," and we consider it as intent to distribute. It would be a mandatory five-year sentence. With no time off for good behavior. Probably at the Grand Palace." She felt a knot in her stomach and winced at this. The Grand Palace was the criminal prison. She had heard that in the female wards, first the guards would give any new girl a reception `party.' Then the inmate gangs that ran the inside would give her another. By the end of the first year inside, the women had all been through lesbian rape, drug use, and numerous beatings. It was even rumored that the guards sold the women to male inmates as prostitutes. She also recalled instances where female prisoners had been put to work in trash collection duties in the city, entirely in the nude, as
collective punishment for individual transgressions of the many rules. Here, they didn't shrink from using public nudity as a form of punishment. The lower quality local press routinely carried nude photographs of women convicted of prostitution. She had not patronized those local tabloid newspapers. Now she realized she was at risk of the same treatment. Her arrest had been a mistake! She didn't want to end up at the Palace. Now she was terrified! She felt like she really had to use the bathroom and her expanded bladder was pressing against her stomach. The Lieutenant went to the locker and got a sealed gallon jug of water and a large plastic cup.

"We'll also need a urinalysis from you, and a blood sample. Any drug traces found will be added to the total." He showed her the jug. "This is distilled water, still with the commercial seal on." He said. He made her sign a statement where she acknowledged the seal of the jug was factory-applied and intact, then he broke the seal. "I don't need that. I had too much coffee and water. Even a rum and a beer! I can give a sample right now if you show me to the bathroom." She protested. "It's not that easy." He replied. "The rules say we must measure input and output, as well as do the chemical analysis. Please lift your blouse and lower your pants, I have to get the exterior measurement of your bladder." She hesitated at first, incredulous, but obeyed. A man in shorts and a sports shirt carrying a duffel bag caught a sight of her exposed belly and a few of her grayish pubic hairs. He kept his eyes on her as he walked on the concourse outside the station. More people began to look.
The Lieutenant first palpated and then measured her with a pair of calipers. He used a calculator and then said. "I estimate you must have about twenty ounces of liquid there. Unfortunately, regulations specify that you must drink a whole thirty two ounces." He poured her a cup full of the warm water and she drank it slowly. He kept a tally of what she had consumed plus what he had at first estimated to be inside her. She felt this was not just procedure. This was torture. By the time she was on her last cup and feeling bloated, the other policeman came in and whispered something to the Lieutenant. Alba addressed Melanie. "One, decimal, nine five grams." He said, looking straight into her terrified blue-green eyes. "Do you know what that means?" He continued. "If we find decimal-zero-five of a gram in you, you get the mandatory sentence." He let that sink in. He continued, "Would you please stand up." She did. He produced several large plastic evidence bags. "Hand me your hat." The Lieutenant ordered. Melanie's hat was placed in one of the plastic bags and tagged. "Please remove your sandals." He directed. Mechanically, Melanie stepped out of the sandals and stood barefoot on the rough commercial rug. Alba put these in an evidence bag, sealed it, and labeled it. He produced a nail clipper and instructed her to trim the nails of her hands and feet. She felt strange doing this in front of these policemen and onlookers that she didn't know. The clippings went into a bag and were appropriately labeled. He made her stand up again. "Now you will remove your pants and then your blouse, please." He said. Melanie realized what was happening. "You're going to strip search me!" She said. "You can't do this! I'm an American citizen and I've got rights!" The Lieutenant pushed her back into the sofa in an exhibition of controlled brutality. "Not here you don't!" He said through clenched teeth. "Here, you're under the laws of my country! And those say that we can and will strip search you to determine if there are any other traces of drugs in your clothes or your person!" Then, in a more civil tone, he stated. "If you won't take your clothes off, then we'll do it for you, Madame." Melanie felt on the verge of tears. "But this is a public place." She pleaded. "So much the better, if you have nothing to hide." He replied with a wolfish grin. Melanie felt herself stand up, as if she were in a dream. A bad dream. "That is much better, Madame." The Lieutenant said. "Now, would you please remove your pants." Her pants didn't have a belt but were held in place by an elastic band. She lowered them from her waist all the way down to her ankles. The policemen did a surprised but appreciative double take when her fine-turned legs were exposed. The attention only managed to make her feel more humiliated. She pulled out one foot, then the other, and handed the garment to the Lieutenant, who recorded and bagged it. A small crowd of onlookers was beginning to form outside the station. Melanie was beginning to unbutton her blouse, when Alba said, "Wait until you're told." She stopped. Then he said, "Please unbutton your blouse." They were going to stretch this out, she realized. Part of the purpose was to humiliate and shame her, not just to find out if she was guilty or innocent.
She stood there in her bikini panties and open blouse, showing her brassiere. "Now, take it off and hand it to me." She did. He bagged and tagged it. The people looking into the station were beginning to laugh and point at her. She could hear snatches of conversation "…some old whore…" and "…deserves it, druggie trash…" and "…look at those curves, hope they make her take it all off…" She closed her eyes and wished herself away from there. "Now your retainer, please." Alba said. "My retainer?" She asked. "Your brassiere." He explained. Slowly, she reached behind her back and undid the catch. She slipped the brassiere off her tanned and well-muscled arms and gave it to Alba. He placed it in a bag and tagged it. Her well-endowed breasts spread out and bounced, with the darker nipples standing out swollen and pointy. The bits of comments filtering from outside changed to "…nice tits…" and "..bit droopy…" or"…big, round ones, just what the doc ordered…" She did not habitually sunbathe in the nude, so the lighter skin under the brassiere presented a sensuous contrast to the darker skin surrounding it. She stood there in her panties, covering her nipples with crossed arms, and trying to fight an urge to urinate. She could hear wolf whistles from the people watching outside. Alba said, "Let's have the panties." She lowered her hands from her breasts. Her breasts bounced with a slight rocking motion. With a blank expression in her face, she grasped both sides of her panties' elastic band. She lowered them to her knees. Then she pulled one leg out. Then the other. And she handed the panties to Alba. He immediately bagged and tagged them. Melanie just stood there, nude, with the lighter area delineated by her bikini panties showing against the darker background, and her grayish pubic hair exposed. Alba turned her around and handcuffed her wrists behind her back.
While doing this, he afforded a complete view of her to the onlookers on both sides and the front of the station. Several flashes that
went off among the spectators blinded her. The catcalls continued. "Doctor Smith. Melanie. Let me explain what will happen
now." Lieutenant Alba said to Melanie. "All your clothes will be analyzed for drug contents. The same will happen with the blood and
urine samples we'll shortly obtain. If the sum total of drug contents is above the two gram limit, you will get the five year
sentence." He paused. "However, " he continued, "there is a way out for you." She ventured to say "Yes, whatever!" He ignored the small
breach of prisoner silence protocol. "If you admit to possession for your own use only, under the Minor Nuisance Crimes Law, I'm empowered
to have you out of the country as a deportee within the same day. It would be immaterial whether the amount of drugs is over or under
the limit. Now, what do you decide?" She said, "Those drugs were not mine." He replied, "That's not what I'm asking you. Will you admit guilt? Or would you rather wait for the analysis results? Then you won't be able to plead to the lesser charges, and we have evidence against you for them, anyhow." She asked, "Would I go on trial?" He smiled, "Yes, If you so choose. In two to six months.
Meanwhile, you'd be at the Palace, under preventive custody." Her mouth dropped open. "No!" She said. Then, "I'll agree to the minor charges." He made her stand, gingerly and trying to prevent voiding her bladder. He removed her cuffs, and presented the appropriate paperwork. She signed the papers and was again handcuffed and directed to sit down. Some of the locals in the crowd of onlookers were laughing and commenting. She caught snatches of
conversation, "…be sorry…" She thought she heard "…bad choice…"
The Lieutenant made several telephone calls, completely ignoring her. He then scanned the documents she had signed into the computer and forwarded them. She kept her legs together and kept her muscles tense, trying to keep any water from escaping. She said, "Lieutenant, I feel like I'm bursting. Can't I use the bathroom now?" As his response, he pulled a long bandanna from a desk drawer. He stood up and said walked over
to her, twisting the bandanna into a long rope. "Melanie, I warned you," he said, as he put the bandanna over her head and inside her mouth, "you are to be silent." She was terrified and didn't even think of resisting. He then tied the ends of the bandanna behind her neck. Not too tightly, but she couldn't talk now. "You're now a confessed criminal in this country, Melanie." He continued. "We still have to get the samples and document your file. Do you understand that?" She nodded, wide eyed, and felt how her breasts bounced up and down, adding to her humiliation. She kept her legs pressed together and rocked a bit back and forth, trying to ease the
discomfort of her full bladder. She heard obscene comments from the audience.

Alba, apparently, didn't. The other policeman came in and conferred with Alba. A male nurse came in with him. "Well," Alba said. "we didn't find a trace of drug in your nail clippings or your clothes. I don't think we'll find anything in your blood or urine either." He stood her up, and undid her gag. She coughed and ran her tongue across her lips to make the bad taste of the cloth go away. "However," Alba continued, "procedures are procedures. Nurse, get the sample." The nurse did the venipuncture on her standing up, pulling her arm joint to the side and without bothering to remove her cuffs. In that uncomfortable position, he drove in the needle and searched for the vein until he found it. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to relax her arm to reduce the burning sensation. The nurse drew two tubes of blood, which were duly marked. Then, Alba produced a cup. A small one. He instructed her
to fill it to the mark. "Here?" she asked, "I thought you'd take me to a bathroom." He pointed to the floor, "Squat where you are and do it. I'll hold the cup for you. But be ready to stop when I tell you. If you spill body fluids in public, that may be the basis for added charges." That, she didn't want at all. She squatted on the floor. The door had been left open and the now numerous audience was laughing and enjoying the spectacle she presented. She felt she would die of the humiliation and shame. Alba crouched behind her and held the cup between her legs. "Do it now, slowly." He whispered almost tenderly. She thought for a moment that the cup was touching her labia. Or were those his fingers touching her? She relaxed and felt first a slightly burning sensation and a few drops began to flow. "Remember, don't spill it. It's a small cup." He whispered.

She nodded and kept her eyes closed and her sphincter muscles tense, trying to control the flow. She was vaguely aware that somebody with a video camera was filming her from the crowd. She thought of how it looked as if Alba was masturbating her and she was in the throes of an orgasm. She held her head held high on her stretched neck, engorged breasts with nipples pointing forward, eyes shut and teeth bared in what could be an expression of either pain or pleasure. Or both. Then Alba said, "Enough." She had to squeeze her sphincter muscles shut again to avoid spilling the sample. As she did this, she felt a stab of pain in her bladder, but managed to hold the flow. She had probably voided a little over an ounce, and this didn't bring her any measure of desired relief. On the contrary, with the water in her urethra pressing against her sphincter, the sensation of fullness and the urge to urinate was, if anything, worse. Alba covered and processed the urine. "Two more stops." He said. "How are you feeling?" He asked her. The sympathy almost shocked her. "I…would…" She began. "Could I use the bathroom now,
please?" She pleaded. "I'm sorry," he said, "we won't have time if we're to have you gone in the next flight. Try to hold it and go in the plane. By the way, not a drop on the floor. I don't want to have to re-arrest you." She winced at this. Public nudity and humiliation were completely acceptable. Public relief of a physiological need wasn't. "I know you're not familiar with our criminal laws and you're not used to the silence rule. But I can't have it defied in front of the people out there. I'll need to gag you again." He said, pulling out the bandanna. He gagged her. "Let's go." Alba said. He attached a long chain, like a dog leash, to her handcuffs, and marched her down the concourse directing her, "Straight ahead, to you left, right." The crowd seemed to have multiplied and close in on all sides. As she passed them, she could feel a hand squeeze her buttock here, rub her breast there, or pinch her hip. Locals jeered and pointed while tourists scrambled for their cameras. Outside the station, the public address system could be heard again. On the accompanying video, in front of a beach, a number of people in white were posing in a dream-like sequence. A white-clad woman had her hands tied with a green rope and what looked like a piece of green tape gagged her mouth. The singer, to the stringy, soft rhythm of bachata music, pleaded "...pónte en mi
lugar…" Put yourself in my place. Alba watched Melanie's naked back and buttocks, and he put himself in another place and time. Alba and his girlfriend had just reached young adulthood. They had just begun to share their love for each other, when they had been discovered. The head teacher at the school had made them stand in front of the class and had gone on about honor and duty to the motherland and how these two young immoral sinners had betrayed the nation's expectations of them. Then they'd been ordered to undress. They had removed their clothes and stood there, naked in front of the class and with arms held at their sides. Unable to cover their recently sprouted pubic hair and her young breasts with erect nipples. Alba had been a younger version of the same build of man he now was. Less muscle and body hair, if anything. His girlfriend was very light- skinned. She had raven-black hair contrasting with caramel-colored eyes that looked sad like a china doll's and topped a delicate nose that led down to full sensuous red lips. The developing curves of her body promised shapely breasts, hips and legs on maturity.

They were ordered to turn around at intervals so everyone could have a look at them. Although no one dared laugh or comment, their shame was undiminished. Then, they were ordered to present their backs to the class, bend over, and grasp their ankles. The teacher produced a long, flexible rod, and proceeded to whip Alba three times across the buttocks, then repeated the procedure with Alba's girlfriend. Each stroke drew blood, but Alba remained silent and expressionless. His girlfriend broke down crying. Alba was ordered to get dressed and sit out the rest of the lesson. This was a punishment in itself, as he felt the burning and the wetness of the blood soaking his underwear under his dark trousers. His girlfriend was made to stand for the rest of the lesson, stark naked. When class was dismissed, the teacher called Alba and gave him an auxiliary police armband and credential, a written document, and the whip used on him and his girlfriend. He had to escort his girlfriend to her house. She had to make her way home entirely nude, holding her clothes and books. Twice they were challenged by security patrols. Alba had to present
the authorization document, but his girlfriend had to put down her clothes and books and search for her national identification document, while every passer by got a good look at her. She had not bothered to cover her breasts or sex, but had kept her arms hugging her lower abdomen, as if protecting it. When they reached her home, she just walked in as if in a daze. Alba came by in the evening and was told his girlfriend had been sent away. "With family. To the interior. And please don't come here again." Her father had said, nervously. Alba realized part of his punishment had been to participate as instrument of his love's humiliation. He also felt a perverse enjoyment at the power he had wielded and at how, even now, he made his girlfriend's father uneasy. That was the beginning of
Alba the efficient. Alba the loyal. And at night, when he'd slept unaccompanied and all sources of censorship –women, microphones, or his own mind- disappeared: Alba, the animal. Alba, the slave. Alba, the idiot.
"Pónte en mi lugar…" Alba focused back on Melanie. She was walking with an almost crossed legged, hunched over gait, to keep herself from urinating. Some of the "I work for tips." luggage porters, a few of whom had crossed her path real close in order to touch her, were making fun of her and mocking the way she was walking, while they went on in front of her. They'd seen this before and they knew where they were headed. Alba stopped her in front of a barbershop and escorted her in. He addressed the barber, "Evidence. MNCL." He said. "Whore?" the barber asked. "None of your business. Just do it." Alba replied. She was made to sit in a reclining chair without armrests. Alba didn't say a word, but he grabbed her right ankle and putting a hand on the front of her thigh over her right knee, he made her flex her leg. The other policeman did the same with her left knee. She lay there, half looking at the ceiling, with her private parts exposed in the air. As she realized what was going to happen she wanted to scream, regardless of Alba's precious silence rule.
Her gag only let a few muffled sounds escape. "Watch her feet," the barber said, "they're all dirty and you'll soil my chair." Both policemen lifted her feet slightly. The barber produced a pair of clippers and a fine comb. He combed out her pubic hairs and snipped them off. The male nurse was on hand with an evidence bag pre-labeled "Smith, Melanie-Pubic Hair Sample-MNCL." Then, the barber lathered her pubic mound thoroughly, then her labia and all the way to her anal orifice. He then shaved the remainder of her grayish pubic hair until she was bare as a pre-adolescent girl. The whole crowd in front of the barbershop was laughing and mocking her. It was sheer torture to squeeze her pubic muscles and hold her water, while at the same time shaking under the tingling and sexual excitement caused by the manipulation of her genitals during having. They let her sit and squeeze her legs together. She felt a burning sensation between her legs and noticed the glint of her translucent secretions just outside her labia. She felt her face burning with shame and concentrated on looking at the floor. Someone
was saying in a loud mouth, "Man, the bitch creamed and all." Alba was arguing with the barber. "Her hair's short!" The barber said, and an exasperated Alba replied, "Just a good patch. You'll get full rate, just do it!" The barber held her head none too gently with one hand. In the other hand he held a razor, wet with water only. "Don't move now." He said, and shaved a generous patch of gray hair from her head. This went into another evidence bag. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, with a two-inch strip of bald patch on her head. Her first dismayed thought was that she'd have to have it all cut off and use a wig. She felt her eyes getting wet with tears, at the same time her nose ran. They made her stand in the door with a policeman behind her, while Alba filled the appropriate paperwork so the barber's services would be paid. While this happened, she felt her breasts being fondled by the people in
the crowd pressing in on her and someone ran a hand under her across her freshly shaved sex. She gave a start and the policeman behind her just said, "Be still." Melanie looked above the heads of the people at the video screens. She realized with dismay that the video screens were carrying images of her being marched nude to the barber shop. Probably in a segment from the local news. Alba came out and directed her back to the station, she walking her almost cross-legged walk. Crossing her legs made her walk with the crack of her ass open. One of the porters reached behind her and ran a finger up from the area of her vaginal labia through the crack between her buttocks to her anus. She gave a jump and her breasts bounced up and down. She was actually more terrified of loosing control of her bladder and giving Alba another excuse to keep her under arrest. "Enough." Alba said, and in one swift motion, he sent the porter sprawling with an elbow blow to the side of the head. Alba didn't even break step. The reason why she hadn't met her students before, was that they were scheduled to fly at a later hour. As they turned a corner, they came upon the group of her archeology students. They realized, to their horror, that their professor, she who had mentored and taught them all this time, was being led through the airport naked and humiliated, subjected to the indignities that a common prostitute or a drunken brawling woman might be. Some registered disgust. After all, they had been taught that this only happened to those that deserved it. She must have done something truly evil. Some averted their sight. Others showed surprise. Only a few, among them her star pupil, a girl of eighteen that could have been her grand daughter, reflected any compassion. The students moved along.

Melanie began to cry and shake. Now she felt completely naked. Her beautiful body, with it's slightly drooping rounded breasts, firm hips, and large, pointed nipples, felt double her 57 years. She felt like a used animal, unlovely and unloved, and now rejected by those that had respected and admired her. Alba put his hand in front of her face, brushing off the two streams of tears and said, "Come on, Melanie, it's almost over." At the station, Alba said, "Twenty minutes." She still felt like her bladder would burst and was now sitting bent over in pain. Alba removed her gag and cuffs. He had her draw up her legs and spread her labia, while a cotton-swab sample was taken of her vaginal secretions with a rather large piece of gauze. Then she was photographed in that position. "Use a finger to
plug off your urethra, Melanie." Alba had advised. She did, and narrowly prevented voiding her bladder while she spread. Next, a similar rectal sample and photograph were taken. Alba was explaining "We're making a kind of archive of your body secretions. It's an old but effective procedure first thought of in Europe. I understand it is used very effectively in Cuba. Those swabs go into hermetically sealed glass vials. If ever you need to be identified, one of our dogs can register your smell and we use the dog to identify you." She knew that by now, between the heat-induced sweating, exitement, and plain fear, she was certainly smelling. She hadn't even been allowed to wipe after her short urination. Samples were also taken from her mouth and ears. Then he made her stand up and removed her handcuffs. "Squeeze those muscles down there, Melanie," because now I'll need you to stand with legs apart and
hands on your head." She felt as if she was bursting. "I don't think I'll be able to," she said, "I'm about to pee." He looked at her sternly. "You better not." He warned, "Shut your eyes and think of something else." She got into the position and was photographed from all four sides. A still beautiful woman of 57, showing the still firm body of an athlete, but with a shaved and angrily irritated mound between her legs and a big bald patch on her head. She tried to blank her mind in spite of the pain in her abdomen and pubis. She felt his hands touch her breasts, cupping them and lifting them to run the soft cotton swab underneath and around them.

The same procedure was repeated with different swabs on her back, her face and neck down her legs, her perianal region, and finally her labia. She felt this was more like the caress of a lover than a forensic sampling.When he swabbed her vaginal area, he made sure that any secretions or any drops of urine that may have leaked, were collected on the swab. She felt a new tingling in her pubic mound, and her nipples again stood on end at the tips of her engorged breasts. "Now we're done. " Alba said as she opened her eyes. He put on the handcuffs on her again. A policewoman came in and handed Alba a laboratory result. "Excellent," he said, "No other traces of drug. Let's test the odor samples and we'll still have about five minutes before the flight leaves." Alba said. The policewoman stood on the other side of the room. She went to the European parade rest position used in the country. Left foot out at an angle. Both hands crossed in front of the crotch, legs separate. A policeman brought in one of the huge dogs. "Don't move or react in any way to the dog, Melanie." Alba advised needlessly. "They can be vicious." Alba opened one of the vials, the one with the vaginal swab. He let the dog sniff. The male policeman unleashed the animal and said, "Find." The dog went to the perfectly still policewoman and sniffed around the area of her thighs. Melanie's hands were handcuffed behind her back. She couldn't even cover and protect herself as the policewoman was doing. Had the man had said, "Kill," would the dog have torn off her vulva? The thought was nauseating. She could almost feel the sharp teeth tearing her tender flesh.

Melanie wanted to scream when the huge mastiff sniffed close to her shaved mound and licked its muzzle with its huge tongue. But she didn't scream. Her terror wouldn't let her move. She wouldn't have moved if the animal had actually licked her between the legs. The dog circled in front of the two women. Then it faced Melanie and went to its haunches. In the alert position. The trainer leashed the dog again. Both he and the policewoman left. "We had to test it." Alba almost apologized. "Can I get dressed now?" Melanie asked. "I'm afraid not. Your clothes are evidence and part of the file." So, she was going to be subject to the final humiliation and indignity of being sent to the states naked. Somehow, she wasn't surprised. Now her goal in life was to hold her water until she was inside the plane and could pee. "Your passport and one way ticket." Alba said producing the documents. "You've got me handcuffed." She remarked, and his answer was, "I know. Open your mouth. That way I wont have to gag you." She thought "Oh God, what else!" Then, "Anything to leave this hell!" She opened her mouth. Alba walked her through the gate to the tarmac and all the way to where one of his men guarded the jet's stairway. The song playing in the terminal had been appropriate. It went "…me voy de aquí….no vuelvo más…" I'm gone from here. Won't come again.

She no longer cared that people pointed at her naked body, or that they noticed her bouncing breasts and swaying hips, or how she was obviously walking trying to keep her legs together and not pee herself. She was even oblivious to the fact that she was being paraded like an animal, with her passport and a ticket in her mouth, at the end of a dog leash. She was vaguely aware that tomorrow, her nude photographs would be on display over all the country. Alba made her stop at the foot of the stairway. As he removed her handcuffs, he said, officially "The National Culture and Historical Preservation Institution sends you its farewell." She thought she should have guessed it.

She looked at him in pain, and humiliation, and horror, as she took the passport from her mouth. Then, in a softer voice, after taking off his sunglasses, he said, "Sorry about all this. Your country begins at the top of the stairs. Go home, Melanie." He turned his back on her and walked away, followed by the policeman. For a moment, she thought he looked more naked than she was. Melanie could see the stewardess motioning for her to hurry up, as she climbed the stairs sideways, trying not to open her legs. She had to hold her documents in her mouth again, as she helped herself up with one hand and used the other to squeeze her labia and vulva to keep from voiding. She could see the passengers staring and pointing. Some laughing. She could see some cameras. In a window, her star pupil
appeared to look down with her eyes shut. As soon as she got to the top, the stewardess pulled her in and secured the door. "I need to use the bathroom." She blurted out. Some of the tourists that were looking at her in fascination burst out laughing. "Imagine!" They'd say afterwards, "Just before takeoff, this older woman comes up the stairs bare ass naked, and says she wants to use the bathroom." The stewardess said, "We're taking off. Wait until we're on the air." Melanie cried out. "I need to go now!" The stewardess pushed her on one of the seats and said as she snapped on her seat belt, "Ma'am we need to get the hell out of here. I know you'll appreciate it. So stay put another minute." The pain was excruciating and she felt as if there was a basketball inside her bladder. She writhed and squeezed her breasts with her arms while she clenched and unclenched her fists and then grabbed herself between her legs. She bit her lips. Her legs were drawn up with her bare, soiled feet staining both the seat and the backside of her thighs. The plane gained altitude and the sudden acceleration and pressure change were increasing her misery and desperation. Oblivious to all the people straining in their seats to get a look at her, she released the
safety belt and ran off just as the first drops of her urine began to flow out and into the seat. She hurried down the corridor, breasts jiggling and hips swaying, leaving a trail of liquid, past the stewardess telling her to get back on the seat, and into the lavatory. She locked the door and collapsed on the seat. The burning sensation came together with a wave of pain that doubled her over. Then the stream came out in a torrent that sent her moaning
and arching her back in what became pure sexual pleasure. Then she screamed. A long, drawn out howl of fear and shame and horror and at the same time pleasure and exhilaration and released tension. Afterwards, she just sat there and cried. When someone knocked on the door to ask if she was all right she lied and said she was. She realized she didn't have her passport and experienced a moment of panic as she pictured herself flying naked forever between the republic and the states. Unable to land at either side. She washed up as best she could. Then she came out. The seat belt sign was off. The habituation of the last hours wore off and she realized again that she was naked! In a public place! She covered her breasts with an arm and tried to cover her now bare mound with the hand of the other. She hung her head down in shame. The Captain of the airplane was walking towards her. He tried not to stare at her
but had a hard time not noticing her curves and tanned skin. He offered his jacket and at least she got back some minimal modesty. An elderly gentleman handed her the passport with a diplomatic, "I think you dropped this, Ma'am." She muttered, "Thank you." The stewardess was wiping down the seat she had peed, with a disgusted face.

She looked at her and began to say "Ma'am…." Then the stewardess just sighed and put a blanket and a piece of plastic on the seat. "Here you are, Ma'am." She said.She closed her eyes until she felt someone's presence in front of her. She opened them to see her star pupil. She was taking a risk in case her country's secret police had an informant on board. The girl put her own blanket over Melanie's legs and around her hips.

Melanie noticed the girl's raven-black hair contrasting with caramel-colored eyes that looked sad like a china doll's and topped a delicate nose which led down to full, sensuous red lips. Then the girl gave her a kiss and walked away much as Alba had done. Melanie felt a wave of warmth course all through her body. Then she fell asleep. She was going home.Melanie saw Alba again a year later. Not in person. Her hair had grown back and she had re-adjusted to life. Except for a certain extra apprehension around dogs. At the university, she'd had to explain away her nude pictures and the confession to unspecified charges that could have been public disorderly conduct, or stealing, or even selling herself. She was on Sabbatical leave writing a book and had left what happened in the past. She no longer needed a wig and wore her hair just a bit shorter than before. The bush of her pubic mound had grown back. Then she saw him in the newscast. He had been prominent, some say the "Hatchet man," in the coup that had
given the country a new and freer government. "Mayor Alba," they'd called him now. The sound byte showed him in combat fatigues, toying with what looked like a small glass vial as he spoke and promised as interim minister of the interior that "Now it would all change." She recognized him better when he took off the dark glasses and showed the face of a boy that had done something terrible without really wanting to. Like the face he had shown her at the foot of the stairway. This was a few months before the republic sent the formal apology letter to her. The book was finished and her last relationship had ended in just friendship. Together with the apology, she received a packet containing her confession, records, clothes, and all the original photographs and samplings. All but one. She was also offered reinstatement in her position with back pay. Melanie burned the samples in the patio of her house. Then she burned the records in the chimney. One page at a time. She kept the apology and the reinstatement letter.
She turned on the radio to an ethnic station she liked. The same singer she'd heard a year before in front of the customs station was singing the theme song of a soap opera that had been popular in the republic. He sang about how "no es un asunto de perversión, pero me gusta verte andando en cueros…" It's not a matter of perversion, but I like to watch you walk around nude… She was going to burn the photographs when she saw herself as they had seen her. An older woman, but still sensuous. An object of desire. In pain, tortured, but a beautiful woman, nevertheless. In the most erotic poses she'd held in her life. She felt herself again naked, handcuffed, and
exposed in front of a crowd of onlookers. Grinding her hips trying not to pee, while her executioner and torturer explored all her body in its most intimate recesses. The singer was telling a woman. All women. Melanie. "…desnuda, que la naturaleza no se equivoca, y si te hubiera querido con ropa, con ropa hubieras nacido…" Nude, because nature doesn't make mistakes and if it'd wanted you dressed, you'd have been born with clothes on… She felt her nipples harden and stand out trying to burst through her nightgown, while her pelvic muscles tensed and a vibration like an electrical current ran through her body. Then she ran her hand through the hairs covering her labia. She realized that she was completely lubricated, as she pulled back her hand covered in her own shiny secretions. She felt all the humiliating shame and pain that were at the same time a rush of excitement and pleasure. She felt thoroughly alive. Yes. She'd go back
.
END

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