Travel Restrictions (Part 6 posted 9/17)

[jastes22]

Now it was Dan’s turn to be shocked.

“Wha—” he cut off, eyes instinctively running up and down my body before he could stop himself. Color flooded his face when he realized I was watching. He shook his head hard and turned back to the officer. “Is that really… necessary?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.” The officer placed a firm, impersonal hand between my shoulder blades. “Regulations require that live animals be searched thoroughly prior to transport. Outer garments must come off.”

I blushed so hard the heat reached my ears. My voice came out quiet and strained, the collar already making every word feel thinner. “But I’m not… an animal.”

The protest sounded weaker than the last time I had tried it. The officer didn’t even bother telling me to be quiet. The pathetic quality of the objection did the work for him. Around us the security line kept shuffling forward. Shoes clattered into bins. A scanner beeped. Someone laughed at something unrelated, the sound slicing through the moment like it belonged to a different world.

Dan tried again, worry finally cutting through the earlier helplessness. “Can’t you… can’t you make an exception? I mean, look at her—obviously this is a mistake. She’s—”

“I’m sorry, sir. Regulations.” The officer’s tone never changed. He reached for the hem of my thin white top.
I grabbed the fabric first, yanking it down as if that could somehow seal me inside it, curling my shoulders inward in a useless attempt to make myself smaller. The motion only made my 34Ds shift and press harder against the stretched material. The weight of them felt sudden and obscene.
“Wait! Wait! Wait just a minute!”

A few passengers in the nearest lane had stopped pretending not to watch. One woman openly stared, lips slightly parted. The leash clipped to my collar hung slack for the moment, but the weight of it against my collarbone felt heavier with every second. Every small movement reminded me that I was already tethered.

“Miss,” the officer said, still calm, still bored. He had the audacity to sound almost annoyed, “Please remove your shirt or it will be removed for you.”

I stood frozen, mouth open, arms locked across my chest. The fluorescent lights felt brighter, bleaching everything into harsh relief. The air smelled of coffee and recycled terminal air and the faint metallic tang of the scanners. I did not want to peel the top off in the middle of a busy security line. The thought of dozens of strangers watching my heavy breasts spill into view under nothing but a bra made my stomach twist into a hard knot. But the alternative—letting a gloved TSA officer strip me while the line kept moving—felt worse. The idea of those impersonal hands sliding the fabric up my ribs, over my chest, past my face, was enough to make my skin crawl.

The officer stepped forward again. His hand hovered near the hem.

“Fine!” The word tore out of me, too loud. Heads turned. I held one hand out as if to stop him, the other still clenched in the fabric. “I… I’ll do it.”

My fingers felt numb as they reached for the other side of the shirt. They felt detached, like they belonged to someone else and I had forgotten how to use them. After a few clumsy moments of fumbling, they finally found the edge. I bit my lip hard enough to taste metal, glancing at the officer one last time, clinging to the final shred of hope that this was still some elaborate, sick joke. If it was, this was the last possible moment for someone to laugh and call it off. After this, there would be no going back. The collar would still be on. The leash would still be clipped. The file would still list me as Pet #47.

The officer only nodded, patient and uninterested. Helpful, in the most clinical way possible. I didn’t want to give them any more reason to put their hands on me.

I pulled.

A sliver of skin appeared first—pale midriff, the soft curve just above the waistband of my jeans. Then more. The fabric bunched and climbed, dragging slowly over the underside of my breasts. For a suspended second the top hung there, stretched tight across the heavy curves, before it finally came free and slid up over my head. My breasts bounced once, heavily, settling into the beige bra that suddenly felt very inadequate under the open fluorescent glare. The motion was impossible to miss. I felt every ounce of their weight, the way the bra straps dug into my shoulders, the way the thin cups strained.

My world shrunk. Cool terminal air kissed the newly exposed skin. Everything was too loud, the stares too real. A hard swallow reminded me of the collar still wrapped tight around my neck. The metal ID tag shifted against my collarbone with the movement.
“Arms down,” the officer said.

I hadn’t realized my arms had automatically pulled in, crossing over my chest in a last, useless shield. The sound of the airport seemed deafening now—echoes of shouted gate changes, the endless roll of luggage wheels, footsteps, a child asking a question too loudly. It felt like every pair of eyes in the terminal had found me.

“Ma’am,” the officer warned, voice still flat. “Now.”

My arms suddenly felt stiff, heavy as metal. With visible effort I forced them down to my sides. My fingers clenched and unclenched until the knuckles ached. Standing there with my shoulders back and my chest fully presented under nothing but the bra, the leash hanging from my collar, I could feel the residual sway of my breasts with every shaky breath.

A sharp tug on my leash. I yelped, stumbling and nearly falling onto the floor. Dan reached out to catch me, but the officer grabbed my bare shoulder and directed me. “This way.”

I blushed, the sensation of being walked around on a leash like a dog humiliating. I kept my eyes down, focused on the legs of the officer in front of me. For a moment, I hoped that maybe they would finally take me to a private room. It wasn’t even a matter of if I was going to lose my dignity, but just how much I was going to.

No such luck. Instead, the officer pulled me to a small alcove with an array of instruments that was minimally out of the way but still very much in view of the TSA lines.

“Now…time to remove the bra,” the officer said.

[justcantgetitup]

This story stirred memories of a sexual fantasy I had was I was around 11 years old. I was pulled over by a female customs officer at the airport and forced to strip naked in her office to be searched. Then she got the info that she had the wrong person. She agreed to strip naked for me in return for keeping quiet about it.

[balsamy]

love it, please keep them coming!

[jastes22]

My bra. They expected me to go topless in a place slightly less crowded than the mall on a Saturday.

“B—but…you can’t seriously—”

“Please, ma’am, stop making this difficult.”

I was making things difficult? Why was he acting like all this absurdity was my fault? He was telling me to go topless! In public! It took everything not to snap at him.

It’s fine, I told myself. If I hurry, if I don’t make a fuss, I’ll get through this quickly and I can move on. I swallowed hard, shaking my head almost imperceptibly. The self-talk was doing nothing, but it was the only thing I could do. No one here knows me. No one recognizes me.

But what if someone took a video, put it online, and someone at home recognized me? I would never live this down.

Blood pumping in my ears, collar tight around my neck with every shuddered breath, I reached for the clasp. There was no point in trying to stop it, no matter the consequences—clearly, the TSA workers had no qualms about dressing me down, and resistance would just make it worse. The threat of being physically handled by some sweaty workers being paid $20 an hour was enough to keep me from shoving my hands in front of my chest.

The noise continued to build. I swear the airport was just getting louder and more crowded. Everyone was invited to watch the girl with 34D boobs get humiliated.

I swallowed hard, sweat forming on my skin and the blood running so fast that I thought I might pass out. I shut my eyes, and undid the clasp.

In an instant, my boobs burst free from their unnatural containers, nipples pink and hard. They bounced, shaking up and down my chest like balloons. I gasped, my stomach clenching so hard I thought I was going to be sick. I moved my arms in front of me, my eyes down. It was impossible to tell over the noise, but I swore I could hear the clicks of phone cameras going off everywhere, or at least the gasps of passengers. Distantly, I was aware of Dan off to my side, watching.

The agent reached for the remnants of my bra still clutched in my hands over my breasts. I whimpered, but allowed him to peel them away. He put them into a plastic bag, setting my bra on the examination table. He looked me up and down. “Hands down,” The agent said.

I swallowed, holding back tears, as I dropped my arms, bearing my topless chest to the entire airport.

Most girls would be proud to have a chest my size, but I always found it something to be embarrassed by. In the few instances where I saw a naked girl—in the changing rooms, the occasional poster, or movie scene—I always envied how perky their breasts were, even if they were smaller. Mine were big, sure, but they sagged ever so slightly, and they felt almost comical on a woman of my size. Whenever I was in public, the way they jutted out was always in the back of my mind. Now, however, they were the only thing on my mind.

The second agent, who was younger than I originally thought, walked over, holding the camera from before during my original “inspection”. He looked me up and down slowly, his eyes crawling up my skin like spiders.

The camera came up, and he snapped a few pictures. I bit my lip, my efforts to stay silent thwarted by a pathetic squeal from my throat. My fingers clenched and unclenched. It’s okay, I told myself. Plenty of people already have pictures. What’s a few more? The thought didn’t stop my breath from catching as he stepped forward, the camera forever clicking.

There was a *snap* as the man pulled on the light-blue latex of an examination glove. His fingers reached out, and cupped a heavy boob.

“H-hey!” I shouted, jumping back. “What’s the big idea? Keep your hands to yourself!”
“Physical inspection,” the man said. He was holding a clipboard I had barely registered on the inspection table earlier. “We need to catalogue everything in case there are damages in transit.”

Instinctively, I looked for Dan. Surely, he’d see them trying to handle me, his girlfriend, and step in. A quick glance didn’t spot him, though, and I felt a surge of panic, my head light and my blood rushing. My collar was squeezing my throat, I couldn’t breathe. Topless and without any way of resisting, I was being stripped of more than my clothes. They were turning me into an animal.

“Ma’am?” The officer asked “The transit is leaving soon, we need to hurry and complete the inspection and preparation.”

The agent reached forward, squeezing both of my breasts with both hands and manipulating them like they were dough. The cold, plastic touch of the gloves was odd and very unwanted, a reminder that I was being “examined.” I squealed but didn’t move as he lifted each breast, manipulated them so he could examine them thoroughly, then let them fall before noting something on his clipboard. My face turned red with each bounce of my breasts. I wanted to tuck into a ball and disappear. I bit my lip, focusing my eyes down, trying not to look at anyone who might be watching.

The man pulled out something from a container. A wipe? He saw me watching him, my eyes growing wide. “Sterilization,” the man said. “Can’t have you bringing in any pathogens to the paying travelers.” Again, he grabbed each breast and wiped them down, the wipes cold and wet. My face went red, the sensation of being wiped down like a child humiliating. I held back tears as he very thoroughly wiped me down, occasionally grabbing a boob and manipulating it to get underneath the skin or on the side.

Finally he finished. “Everything appears to be in order,” the agent said. I realized he wasn’t talking to me, but to Dan. Despite everything, I blushed, a little mewl escaping my throat as my eyes fell further downward as my status as a pet continued to emerge.

“Can we go?” Dan asked. His voice was husky. He was looking me up and down, but was obviously trying not to make any comments at the sight of his topless girlfriend.

“I’m afraid not,” the officer said. “There’s still a few more examinations to be done.”

[justcantgetitup]

In part 4 the TSA officer said that all outer coverings have to come off. I'm anticipating her having to strip completely naked, be sterilised below the waist then have to board the plane either nude or just in a disposable nappy.

[balsamy]

another great one. Love to hear her inner thoughts as she gets more and more exposed. Waiting for the next one!

[jastes22]

A chill ran up my spine. My throat was dry, my head light and swimming. All the blood seemed to have rushed to my face at once. My bare nipples still tingled with the drying wetness of the wipes, each breath making the heavy 34Ds shift and settle under the open fluorescent lights. My fingers clenched and unclenched at my sides. I couldn’t seem to get enough air.

No matter how still I stood, the collar remained a constant, tightening reminder of what was happening. If anything it felt tighter now—the only thing left above my waist, the metal tag cool against my collarbone every time I swallowed. Tears threatened to escape, but I forced them down. Crying in the middle of the security area somehow felt more exposing than already standing topless.

I could barely track the officer’s calm voice. The words reached me in fragments—lower garments… mandatory… complete screening—while my mind kept looping on the simple, impossible fact that I was already bare from the waist up, my breasts hanging fully in view of anyone who cared to look. What more could they possibly need?

“Rya.”

Dan’s hand settled lightly between my shoulder blades, warm against bare skin. The touch pulled me a fraction out of the spiral, but his voice was quiet, almost careful, the same helpless tone he’d used since the collar first clicked shut. He didn’t tell me what to do. He only looked at the officer, then back at me, eyes dark and uncertain.

The agent’s tone never changed.

“Outer lower garments, please. Or we can assist.”

My breath caught, and a pathetic little whimper escaped before I could stop it. Instinct yanked my arms across my chest, pressing the heavy 34Ds flat for one thin second of false cover. The contact only reminded me how bare everything above the waist already was—skin still faintly damp from the wipes, nipples tightening again in the cool terminal air. The collar dug in when I swallowed.

Somewhere behind me a suitcase crashed onto the floor. A child started crying about sore feet. The ordinary sounds felt wrong, like they belonged to a different airport, a different story. I was standing half-naked under fluorescent lights with a metal tag on my throat and a leash hanging from it, yet people were still just trying to catch their flights.

“Now,” the agent said. Flat. Unhurried. The same tone he might use for a slightly uncooperative piece of luggage.

I nodded once, arms still locked. The motion made my breasts shift against each other. Heat flooded my face again. I forced my hands down, fingers already clumsy, and found the belt. Of course I’d chosen the tighter jeans today—the ones that made my legs look longer, the ones I’d planned to wear when I first met Dan’s family so I wouldn’t look like I’d just rolled out of bed. They had felt flattering this morning. Now the stiff fabric and the narrow belt seemed like a personal joke.

I hooked my thumbs under the leather, worked the buckle open, then fumbled with the button. The zipper stuck for a second. Every small movement tugged at the collar and sent another soft bounce through my chest. I could feel eyes on me—some polite, some not—while I wrestled the waistband down over my hips. The denim scraped my thighs, then pooled at my ankles. Cool air rushed in.

I stepped out of them one foot at a time, the leash shifting with each careful movement. The jeans lay in a crumpled heap on the polished floor.
What was left was a simple pair of matching beige panties—utilitarian, nothing special, the kind meant to disappear under clothes rather than be seen. They suddenly felt thinner than paper.

My fingers twitched near the waistband and stopped. Any real thought of refusing, of running, of doing anything that might still change this, had already drained away.

Just get it over with, I told myself. Take them off and it will be finished.

Except it wouldn’t be finished. The knowledge sat cold and heavy in my stomach. They were going to strip me completely, then examine me, then move me through the rest of the airport the same way they moved any other live animal. I was going to be naked for a long time.
My hands stayed frozen. The agent glanced over, mild annoyance flickering across his face, and made a short note on his clipboard. Whatever he wrote, I knew it wasn’t flattering.

“Rya…” Dan started.

I shook my head. I didn’t want him to say anything. I bent.

My chin brushed the tight collar; the metal tag shifted against my throat. The leash swung forward with the motion. My heavy breasts followed, swinging like pendulums under the fluorescent lights, the residual dampness from the earlier wipes still cooling on the skin. I hooked my thumbs into the sides of the beige fabric and pushed.

The panties slid down my thighs, over my knees, and pooled at my ankles. I stepped out of them carefully, one foot and then the other.
Every inch of me was exposed now—from the bare weight of my breasts to the soft curve of my stomach to the line of my ass. Recycled terminal air moved across newly naked skin. Somewhere nearby the smell of passengers and old fries drifted past. Swallowing felt like sandpaper.

The collar and the short leash hanging from it somehow made the rest of me feel even more naked, as if the two remaining pieces of hardware only emphasized how much was missing.

Between my legs the unshaved hair I had planned to deal with at the hotel was already damp. My legs felt unsteady, as if the floor itself had shifted under the sudden total exposure.

The TSA agent looked me up and down for a long moment, clipboard still in hand, expression unchanged. Then he cleared his throat.

“Hands on your head.”

I obeyed. Raising my arms lifted my breasts and made them shift heavily; the collar tightened a fraction with the movement. Cool air moved across every newly bare surface.

“Spread your legs.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, but my feet slid apart on the polished floor. The motion pulled at the dampness between my thighs, making it impossible to ignore. I wasn’t getting turned on by this. No part of me was. This was only biology—my body failing to understand why I was standing naked in a public security lane with my legs deliberately open. It was a stress response, nothing more. That was what I kept telling myself, over and over, while the air touched skin that had never been this exposed under fluorescent lights.

I opened my eyes just in time to see the camera come up again. The shutter clicked. I flinched but stayed still. What else could I do? Running was
impossible. The image of myself sprinting naked through the terminal, only to be tackled near a moving walkway and restrained in front of everyone, flashed through my mind and died just as quickly. The leash hanging from my collar made the idea even more absurd.
The agent kept taking pictures—front, three-quarter, a lower angle that left nothing hidden. A loose circle of travelers had formed at a polite distance. Some stared openly. Others glanced and looked away, murmuring to the people beside them. A phone was lifted, then another. I could only stand there with my hands on my head and my legs apart, fully presenting every inch of myself under the bright lights while the process continued around me as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.

The agent gave the leash a short, firm tug. The earlier ones had been almost guiding. This one was deliberate, the kind used on something that needed to be moved. It took me a second to understand we were heading back toward the metal examination table where the collar had first been fastened, and my descent to a naked pet had begun.

“On the table,” he said.

[cradulich]

truly enjoying your story. Hope you continue