Before I get into my story, I need to say thank you to Marie for these prompts. As a total beginner, they give me the discipline to get writing and to be read.
My experience with law enforcement has unfortunately all been on the serious victim side so not really given my any material, but I hope this brush with another arm of the law is arresting enough.
World traveller they call it in the high street. That casual
look that fills me with envy at the airport. A selection of comfy, slung
together textures and pale colours, slightly worn to show you’ve been here before.
I haven’t. Not alone. Not racing to get to you on the other
side of the world because you’ve called and asked me to. But like everything
else, I’m faking it, down to my cute little retro 60s hand luggage. My only luggage.
Lord, I want to be with you. It’s been weeks. Set up with
Skype, we’ve skirted the line of international law with some of the things we’ve
done on voip call, but nothing can replace the touch of another hand. Your
touch.
Trying to look casual, I slip out of my boots and take the
baggie of liquids from my inside pocket. Coat in another tray, I look at the
blandly bored young man on the scanner and wonder just how many dildos and
vibrators pass through his sight every day. To place the little retro case on
the rollers is taking all my nerve. I assume an air of calm I definitely do not
feel.
Stepping through the body scanner, the high-pitched whinge
of the machine distracts me. I’ve prepared everything, and nothing about me
should be bleeping right now. Following
instructions, I step back through and despite the inner fluster, I convince
myself it is an anomaly. Deep breath, step forward and the scanner shrieks again.
I can see my hand luggage piling up at the bottom of the rollers and I want to
go retrieve it, but a strong hand guides me aside. Feet apart. Arms up. Hand scanner
first, then pat down.
And I hate myself, but that was enough to start the descent.
So desperate to see you, so focused on this sexy break we’d manufactured. The
firm sweep of the back of a hand down the outside of my breast and I was tipped
into my kinky place.
The escort took me to a paper room just feet from the busy
queues, and then a second appeared with my jacket and case. Opened them up on
the counter. Talking to me, my brain refused to register the words, as
everything I had packed for you was laid out on a stark white camping table. Our
favourite glass dildo, the plug I planned to prepare with as soon as I was
checked in, the little velvet bag of clamps and the less dainty bottle of lube.
Hot. Cold. Exposed. Excited.
A fraction of my brain stayed with them, but the rest of me
was high and floating. I must have mumbled responses, or perhaps even delivered
them with confidence, but that was somewhere else on the outside.
She was efficient. Business-like. Firm. The embodiment of my
authoritarian crush. And through the haze, I opened the buttons on my carefully
creased linen shirt, exposed the satin and lace creation I had chosen for you
and hoped the flush across my breasts could be mistaken for embarrassment.
The room was thin and although brightly lit, shadows of the
crowds outside added to the exposure. Her hands were warm, sweeping under my
shirt, her chest brought to mine as she checked under the clasp and straps
before tracing forward. Close enough to smell her shampoo. To imagine she was
your handmaid.
I want to tell you her fingers sweeping my hot skin under
the tight wiring of my new bra were humiliating. Embarrassing. That this
exposure in near public was uncomfortable and frightening. That the final
swirling sweep of palm over lace was some kind of final straw. But it wasn’t.
It was the door fantasies as yet unexplored and a window in time back to lovers
of a more feminine flavour.
The hand scanner again and once more the angry beeping. Just
a Marks and Spencer’ bra she says, and bids me to fasten my shirt. I tuck
myself away, my case is repacked and the roar of the busy airport returns in
full force.
She sends me on my way and when I rush to the cool quiet of
the ladies’ room to repair my blush, I am both bright eyed and distant to my
own mirrored gaze.
World traveller. Experienced, but searching for more. Here,
on my way to you, a flash of the old in her certain hands and the exposure of
those thin paper walls I have travelled a few more miles and found a place I
might need to explore some more. With you next time.
