Travel Restrictions (Part posted 10/29)

[Somebody]

No procedure like this would be complete without a little shaving, yet I didn't think they would be able to excuse that for a pet. Clearly they are just kind of doing whatever they want, and I am here for it!

[Bucket]

Finally got around to reading this and wow, what a fun story. Pet play is and always will be incredibly hot.

[jastes22]

The officer finally pulled his hands away.

I slammed my legs shut the second I could. Heat flooded my face. I was already naked—collar locked around my throat, leash trailing to his fist, wrists cuffed and chained—but the new slick bareness between my legs felt like a second, sharper exposure laid on top of the first. Every drift of air across the freshly shaved skin registered with humiliating precision. I wanted to fold in on myself, disappear into the table, become anything other than the open, hairless thing they had just finished making of me in front of strangers.

My vision narrowed at the edges. Terminal noise—rolling bags, a distant gate announcement, the low overlapping talk of people who still had ordinary itineraries—receded as if someone had turned the volume down. I couldn’t get a full breath past the collar. The leather sat snug enough that every shallow inhale reminded me it was there.

“Rya…”

Dan’s voice reached me from somewhere to the side, thin and almost apologetic. I didn’t look at him. Looking would have made the whole thing solid in a way I wasn’t ready for.

“Open your legs.” The officer sounded bored, like he was reading the next line on a checklist. “Cavity examination still required.”

No.

The word formed cleanly in my head and died against the muzzle. They had just splayed me open and shaved every inch of me smooth while a loose ring of travelers watched. Phones were still up. People had stopped pretending they were only glancing. I tried to drag anger up through the fog of shock, something sharp enough to brace against, but the effort only made me more aware of how little surface area I had left to defend. Naked. Collared. Leashed. Even the hair between my leg, a pathetic covering, was gone. The air kept finding the newly bare folds no matter how tightly I pressed my thighs together.

“Now.”

The leash jerked hard. The collar bit under my jaw; the metal tag flipped against my collarbone. A short, high sound punched out of me before I could stop it—something between a yelp and a gasp. My breasts swung with the force of the tug. Whatever thin resistance I had left cracked. I opened my legs.

The insides of my thighs were damp. There was no hiding it. Cool air touched the smooth skin and every nerve there felt scraped raw. I could feel the heat of the flush still climbing my neck and chest, the way my nipples had tightened in the recirculated air, the slight tremor in my thighs that I couldn’t quite control.

The officer didn’t wait for me to finish spreading. Two gloved fingers found me and pushed in.

My wrists jerked. My arms stayed locked above my head the way they had been ordered, because giving any sort of resistance, any reason for them to prolong their treatment was worse. The latex was cool, impersonal, and somehow more violating than bare skin would have been. It stretched me open without pause, searching. I tried to climb out of my body—up toward the fluorescent panels, away from the table, away from the fact that a stranger was inside me while a small crowd watched—but the physical facts kept dragging me back down. The slow curl of the fingers. The wet sound that seemed indecently loud under the terminal hum. The way my body clenched around the intrusion even as my mind refused the reality of it.

A soft, broken noise escaped before I could lock it down. I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted metal. My legs stayed open. In the periphery I could see the circle of watchers: a man in a windbreaker holding his phone at chest height, the screen bright; a woman who had set her coffee down on her suitcase to stare without blinking; two teenagers who had stopped laughing and simply watched, one of them still half-smiling like he couldn’t decide whether this was allowed. The officer worked deeper, methodical, pressing against every surface as if completing a form.

I kept my eyes on the ceiling tiles and tried not to catalogue the rest—the way my breasts shifted with each shallow breath, the constant press of the collar, the fact that the dampness between my legs only seemed to increase under the steady, clinical pressure. The reason I had boarded the plane in the first place had become abstract, almost fictional. There was only the table, the lights, the fingers, and the quiet certainty that the process was not finished.

The officer paused, fingers still inside me, and looked at my face as if deciding something. Whatever it was, he discarded it. He withdrew with a soft, humiliating sound that made me flinch. The sudden emptiness felt almost as exposing as the intrusion had.

Then he flipped me.

The world tilted. The leash whipped across my cheek. My legs closed for one brief, desperate second before a knee forced them apart again. My breasts flattened against the cold metal of the table; the shock of temperature punched a gasp out of me. The surface was unyielding. I could feel the edge of it against my hipbones, the way my skin stuck slightly where I was already sweating. I barely had time to register the new position before a single gloved finger pressed against my rear entrance and pushed in.

The sound I made was louder this time—half protest, half something I refused to name. Shame and unwanted sensation raced up my spine in the same current. I knew noise only drew more eyes, more phones, but the air had left my lungs and the finger did not pause. It worked deeper with the same bored efficiency as before. I dug my forehead into the metal and tried to breathe through it. Every small shift of my weight made the collar tug and the leash slide across my back.

A second hand caught my chin and turned my face away from the table. Fingers—slick, latex-tasting—pushed into my mouth, sliding over my tongue and the inside of my cheek. The double invasion short-circuited whatever coherent thought I had left. My body remained exactly where they had placed it: breasts crushed to metal, ass raised, thighs open, mouth occupied. The crowd had a clear view of everything. I could hear the soft murmur of commentary at the edge of the circle, the click of at least one camera shutter that wasn’t a phone, the restless shift of someone adjusting their stance to see better.

I floated in it for a stretch of time I couldn’t measure. The terminal continued around us. Someone’s suitcase wheels clacked past. A child asked a question and was hushed. An announcement about a delayed departure echoed from the far end of the concourse and no one in the immediate circle reacted. The officers finished with the same lack of ceremony they had started with—fingers withdrawn, gloves stripped, notes made on a screen I couldn’t see.

Only when a different hand touched my bare shoulder did I realize the examination had ended. Dan. His palm was warm and useless. I was still sprawled across the table the way they had left me, cheek against metal, the leash slack but present, every private inch of me visible to anyone who cared to keep looking. My legs had drifted apart again without my noticing. The air moved across skin that no longer felt like it belonged to me.

I tried to close them. The movement was slow, stiff, and far too late to matter. The loose ring of watchers had not dispersed. A few had drifted closer. One man was still recording. The officer said something to his colleague about the next stage of processing; the words reached me as sound without meaning. Dan’s hand stayed on my shoulder, a small point of ordinary human contact that only made the rest of it feel more unreal.

I stayed where I was, cheek against the cold table, and waited for the next instruction I already knew I would hate. The process, whatever it was for, was clearly not finished.