BE CAREFUL NOT TO MISS YOUR FLIGHT
Do you get fed up with airport security checks? One young woman’s body-search goes a teeny-weeny bit too far...
At Tel Aviv airport there were little curtained-off cubicles where you were questioned about your journey and your luggage by a security guard in uniform.
The one assigned to me had checked my ticket and gone through my bag with a fine-tooth comb. My underwear had been displayed for all to see. The tampons - for which I had no immediate use for but always travelled with me as a matter of habit and which I was trying to hide at the bottom of my case, had also been waved around with crass regard for all and sundry to see. I’d felt the colour come to my cheeks in a sudden burning flush. Being fair skinned and freckly my blushing makes me look like a traffic light at red.
I was perspiring badly in the oppressive temperature. I always suffer in the heat. My case had been checked through and I was finally on my way to the long queue for passports and personal security ahead.
My passport just about got the thumbs-up, but not without the odd mistrusting, scrutinising look. It was as if they were all acting above their station just to impress their superiors or maybe it was their directive to antagonise passengers. Whatever it was, I was made to feel very small.
The next hurdle was the security line.
There were about thirty cubicles, each about the size of a small bathroom. About two-thirds were staffed by big, mean looking guys in khaki uniforms, but the other third were by smart uniformed women guards, all officious and efficient.
I picked the shortest line and tried to ignore my suddenly pounding heart. The intimate closeness of the booths seemed both oppressive and threatening.
“Come with me, please!” The guard’s voice was mellow, faintly accented, its speech patterns typically sprung in rhythm as with many Israelis’.
She was taller than my five-foot-six, by at least another six inches. She was very feminine-looking in a statuesque way, olive-skinned with her dark hair pinned up into a practical yet very attractive style. It made her appear powerful and businesslike and I suppose that was the idea. Green-flecked eyes were complimented by gorgeously thick and lustrous, well-curved eyebrows and just a subtle hint of colour on those high cheekbones completed an amazingly attractive Jewess look.
Her shirt showed the beginnings of a tantalizingly deep cleavage, the belt clinched her waist in a way that thrust her hips into provocative prominence, and under those khakis her toned thigh muscles spoke for themselves with an athletic vitality that was easily identifiable, even through the material.
I tried to hide my latent feelings. I was in a steady and happy relationship with a guy back home, but at various times in my life I had fantasised about making it with another woman. It had never happened. But this Israeli woman was so beautiful that I was weak at the knees. My mind strayed into wishful thinking territory. Not good at times like this.
However, I was soon brought back to earth as the tall female guard unceremoniously bundled – or at least, that was how it felt - me into the cubicle with my overfilled backpack. I found her manner and behaviour belittling and unnecessary and my brief erotic fantasy was quickly cooled and replaced by a gathering resentment.
“So… where are you from? Where are you going? Where did you stay in Israel?”
Her brusque manner angered me but I knew I had to remain polite. I didn’t want to antagonise her and make things difficult for myself. I answered her questions as honestly and calmly as I could. Head up, eyes linking with hers, I told her what she wanted to know. She nodded, heart shaped lips creasing slightly. I tried not to lose myself in her intense, almost accusing gaze. I felt guilty, almost banged to rights before we’d even got started.
“Your air ticket and passport, please.” Her slender, olive fingers reached out. I handed them over. Her eyes turned steely. Something occurred to me. When they had questioned me in the queue for luggage as to what part of Jerusalem I had been in, and I had answered, “East Jerusalem,” I had noticed that my documents had vanished for a few moments. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time.
Her head snapped up, the long ring-adorned fingers gripping the passport tightly. She looked me up and down, as if appraising me like a piece of bad meat. I felt humiliated, self-conscious, my body cringing in my big wool sweater and baggy jeans.
“Take your top off.”
I dithered, not quite sure if I had heard her correctly.
“You understand plain English?”
“Quickly,” she snapped. “Unless you plan to miss your flight.”
I nervously started pulling the sweater over my head. But I was so hot and uncomfortable it was actually a relief to get it off.
Her eyes dug into mine. “Why East Jerusalem?”
I explained my father was in Jerusalem working for a British construction company and I had been visiting him. She put the passport and ticket down, pulled on a pair of gloves, and began body-searching me. Despite the stifling heat in the cubicle I shivered – whether from the taut atmosphere or the touch of her practised hands, I’m not quite sure.
Her fingers missed nothing and when her hands curved around my breasts, I gasped. She probed expertly, feeling inside my shirt breast pocket. I wondered if she would feel my hardening nipple through the cloth. She slid down my ribs to my slightly swollen belly and patted it rather ungraciously.
I was trying to control my breathing, but the further down she went the more rigidly I had to hold myself, particularly when her hands came to the waistband of my jeans. I had a sudden thought of her sliding down my zipper – or hers – and rocked on my feet involuntarily, licking my lips slowly. Then her hands went to my jeans pockets, feeling, pinching and poking, all the way down my thighs.
“Please..,” my little moan came out despite myself and I blushed.
She stopped dead, her jaw muscles bunching.
“Take off your shirt and your jeans, please.”
I didn’t argue.
“Now your shoes and socks.”
Talk about thorough. I did as I was told. My hands clenched, attempting to stay still at my sides when all I wanted to do was stroke her face and ease the tension in her forehead, show her as passionately as I could that I had nothing to hide.
She stared at my stomach. “You are pregnant?”
Her matter-of-factness made me blush again. I don’t know why it should have. Did I feel guilty about having a baby for some reason? I wasn’t married, but I’d been with my partner for two years. Perhaps it was the sheer intrusiveness of her question?
“Four and a half months,” I said. My voice sounded uneven and croaky to me. My throat was dry. I badly needed a glass of water. I asked her, but she ignored my request and continued her search.
She ran her hands over my belly, gently, perhaps even lovingly. I was surprised at the change in her, as if a mood of tenderness had overcome her. I shivered in the heat. I could smell her perfume mixed with her natural perspiring scent, an acute muskiness.
“I think it makes a woman very appealing,” she said. “Pregnancy. A woman is not a complete woman until she has given birth and raised a child.”
I thought it a strange thing to say. My legs began to quiver. I didn’t know what to say in reply. “This will be my first... so I suppose I’m not complete woman yet, as you put it.”
She smiled. “But you are very beautiful.” Suddenly she kneeled in front of me and kissed my tummy, just the once on my protruding belly-button, as light as a settling butterfly. Her dark head was in stark contrast to the white translucent skin stretched across my belly. I felt so unattractive next to her... frumpy, pale, washed-out. I was a carrot-head with freckles.
“I love your whiteness,” she said, her big green eyes looking up at me. She got to her feet and stood before me, her extra six inches in height towering over me. “It is what women should do... have babies.
Your husband... is he at home in England waiting for you?”
“I’m not married. I have a partner, and yes, he is at home... and waiting for me… I hope.”
Suddenly her hands were on me again. As she bent over me, I caught another whiff of her perfume. It was familiar to me.
“Georgio,” I murmured in her ear.
“Yes,” she muttered distractedly, her hands now inside my bra, checking that all I had in there was mine. “The breasts become large during pregnancy, like ripening fruit.”
“Do you have children?” I said.
She nodded. “Two boys... twelve and fourteen. They are monsters.”
I wanted to say that she didn’t look old enough, but I knew it would have sounded corny and false. But it was true, she didn’t.
Her hands slipped down to my bottom and cupped my cheeks. She asked me to bend over, then upright gain. I could feel the vein in my neck, pulsing faster and faster, my buttocks tightening and clenching under her practised hands. My breathing had become ragged. She squeezed my cheeks, parted them, slid her hand down the crack, and gripped them again – all very professional and efficient. “I’m sorry we have to do this.” she said, “As you can see, we leave no stone unturned.”
She took off her gloves with a slow erotic grace. She held my gaze, her diamond-white teeth glinting between the cherry lips. “Take off your panties, please.”
I felt my face on fire again, as I hooked my fingers in the elastic and pulled them down. I could hear the murmur of other interrogations going on around me. I tried to focus on the voices to take my mind off the intensity of my own situation.
“And now bend over once more, please.”
When I did, her fingers rimmed my anus, probing intimately until I squirmed. I felt a stray nail scratch. “Ouch!” Was it accidental?
“Stand still,” she whispered. The whisper was a command.
Her hands wandered round to check my bush and below it. I jumped at the touch, willing myself not to show my arousal, even through my increasing tension. She checked further, satisfying herself at least that everything was as it should be, and I realized that the wetness of my pussy had most probably betrayed me by now. My clitoris was hard and inflamed, like a throbbing finger infected by a splinter.
She straightened up again. Her face was quite flushed - the only sign of betrayal to her cool professionalism. Did she feel the same as me? Was her cunt wet too?
“You can dress now.”
I did so, hurriedly, mechanically, and she beckoned me to take my backpack. “Have a nice flight.” She showed no sign of emotion or inner feelings now. She seemed once again in command of her faculties - the professional guard going about her day-to-day duties, all in a day’s work.
I began to feel sad and rather let down, a certain emptiness, a disappointment, as if awakening from a lovely sexy dream just before the critical moment had been reached. She must have felt something. Surely what I’d been through wasn’t just a body search. It troubled me greatly to think I may never see her again.
Weak at the knees, I shuffled out to a seat near the cubicle, and slumped into it trying to calm down and erase the sordid thoughts that must be etched on my face. Now I felt foolish and even more humiliated. She would surely have felt and realised how wet I was for her. How embarrassing if she herself didn’t have any sexual intent after all.
Suddenly a voice said, “Come with me.” It was by now a familiar voice. I looked up. It was her. She had that stony cold look again.
“Is anything wrong?” I said.
She didn’t answer. She marched me down two corridors to a small room with the blue-and-white POLICE sign, unlocked the door, motioned me in, luggage and all, and then locked the door behind us again.
“Yes, something is wrong. You have a big security problem.”
“Why?” I began to feel panicky.
“Shut up and kneel down.”
I obeyed, and without saying another word she unzipped herself, pulled her khakis down and motioned me forward. I braced myself on the back of smooth, hard thigh muscles. I buried my face between her legs and tasted her sweet honey musk, my tongue working faster and faster, flicking and circling, darting here and there, my hands pulling her to me as I dipped and dived, heedless of the groans coming from her depths, gaining in pitch as I found and kissed the tiny swelling bud that was coming to life under my tongue. It seemed so perfectly natural to do what I was doing. It was only a matter of following my instincts and being sympathetic to the movements of her body. That told me everything I needed to know.
Her thick pubic hair was in my eyes, her muscular buttocks clenching under my hands, and I knew she was getting closer and closer, as she bucked and gasped. She grabbed me by the hair in a vain attempt to gain a breather, but I refused to let her rest and forced my head forward again, eyes watering with pain as her hands flexed and tugged, trying to make me stop, to pull me off. But I remorselessly teased and tongued her until she came with a shuddering climax that arched her back momentarily and drew from her the most joyous wail, and I was the one who had to steady myself as her dead weight slumped over me like a sack of grain, her long, slender body shedding all the pent-up tension, before finally relaxing.
I had to move. My knees were killing me. I managed to stand up. I clung to her body. Her arms folded round me protectively.
“Rest a moment,” she said. “I will do something for you when I have my breath.”
And oh God, how I needed that something.
Her eyes burned with passion. She turned me around so my back was to her and began feeling my breasts. Then her hands went down to my crotch and probed through the denim. I started to shake all over again. She unzipped me, her fingers dipping inside my panties. I wanted to lie down but she made me stand all the time and masturbated me until I came with a violent shudder, followed by a gentle fluttering sensation that ran through my loins like warm, liquid gold. A man had never made me feel that way.
The PA system began to announce my flight. She held me close and kissed me, and then immediately pushed me away.
“You must go,” she said. “It has to be goodbye.”
We adjusted our clothing and she unlocked the door. But before she opened it, she said with a smile, “Enjoy your flight… and look after your baby. I’m sure it will be as beautiful as you.”