Travel Restrictions (Part 9 posted 11/4)

[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.

[jastes22]

Someone placed their hand on my ass. The contact was sudden and proprietary, fingers spreading just enough to claim the curve of flesh. I squeaked, a high, involuntary sound that escaped before I could bite it back. My pussy twitched hard from the touch, the reaction sharpened by the fact that I was completely naked in public—skin bare under harsh fluorescent lights, every inch of me on display for anyone who cared to look. Warm fingers traced the outer edge of my cheek, then the other hand reached over and slid down my bare back, slow and deliberate, until it closed around the stiff leather of the collar and pulled me up.

My tits peeled away from the cold metal table with a soft, sticky sound. The sudden shock of air against the flattened, sensitive skin made me gasp. Nipples tightened instantly, still marked by the chill of the surface, the faint imprint of the table’s edge lingering like a temporary brand. The officer hauled me upright by the collar and the firm grip on my ass, forcing me to find my feet. My legs felt weak, trembling under my own weight. My midsection was pure jelly after being examined so thoroughly—probed, spread, measured, and catalogued like livestock. My bare pussy still tingled from the shaving, the newly smooth skin hypersensitive to every shift of air. Every muscle fluttered with residual sensitivity, as if the examination had rewritten the way my body responded to being touched.

Something cold pressed against my side, right along the soft skin of my torso. I gasped and tried to pull away on instinct. A sharp tug on my leash snapped me still. The leather bit into the front of my throat just enough to remind me who controlled the slack. I flushed hot, feeling for a moment like a bad girl who had disobeyed her master. I bit my lips hard, trying not to think about how easily I was letting myself be treated like a real animal—more and more with every passing minute. No, I told myself. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t right. I wasn’t an animal. I wasn’t some pet. The words felt thinner than they had an hour ago.

Another tug on my leash, lighter this time, almost encouraging, as if the officer already knew it was taking less and less to keep me obedient. My thoughts argued, but my body followed. I stepped after him on shaky legs, the leash guiding me with quiet authority. The metal of the table was behind me now, and the open space ahead felt enormous.

I glanced down at the thing still pressing against my skin. A blue sticker had been smoothed into place, thick black lettering stark against the adhesive: Exotic Animal #47. My heart sank. It was a livestock sticker, the kind reserved for animals at a local carnival or county fair—cattle, goats, the occasional exotic display. The edges of the label clung to my skin with a faint, chemical stickiness. Distantly, I considered what the stinging sensation would feel like peeling it off my smooth, pink skin later. If there was a later. If I was still allowed to peel things off myself. My body wasn’t my own anymore.

We were moving. Moving toward the center of the area behind the TSA lines. I actually missed the somewhat covered seclusion of the corner. Out here I was in the middle of everything, in plain view of dozens of passengers who could get a clear look at my entire ass, the soft undersides of my thighs, the sway of my hips as I walked. They could look up and down the entirety of my legs, my side, my neck, and my head without a single stitch of clothing to disrupt the exploration. I tried to tell myself that it was just a little more exposing than wearing a bikini, but it was a weak comfort. A bikini at least pretended to cover something. This left nothing to the imagination and everything to the gaze of strangers.

A few people slowed as they passed. Some looked away quickly. Others did not. I felt their eyes like physical pressure on my skin—on the curve of my ass, the heavy sway of my breasts, the blue sticker announcing what I was supposed to be. My face burned. The leash stayed taut enough to keep me moving in the exact direction the officer wanted.

“Down,” the officer said.
I bit back a retort and bent onto all fours, spreading myself further to the crowd behind me that seemed only to grow. My heavy breasts swung freely, shifting without restraint, nipples still tight from the cold table and the cooler air of the open floor. No covering. No bikini. Not even a stall to protect my naked body. The polished floor was hard under my palms and knees. I could feel the faint grit of tracked-in dirt against my skin. My ass was presented to anyone standing behind the barriers, the newly shaved lips of my pussy exposed to the open air and the shifting attention of the line.
Something above me flashed red. Numbers climbed, adjusted, then settled on a final reading. A scale.
“137 pounds,” the officer muttered. I heard the scrape of pen on paper. He chuckled, low and satisfied. “I got pretty close. Just three pounds off.” His hand rested on my back, broad and warm, as if I were some dog who should be proud of her master for guessing something trivial, like the answers to a Jeopardy question. The praise made my stomach twist. I wanted to hate it. Part of me did. Another part of me stayed still under his palm, waiting for the next instruction.

I blushed so hard my ears rang. Even though my weight had already been estimated publicly, having it formally weighed and stated felt like another collar around my neck, another layer of myself stripped away and recorded. The sounds of the crowd of passengers passing through and staring pounded down on me—footsteps, rolling luggage, quiet comments I couldn’t quite make out. I was going to die of humiliation. Or worse, I was going to survive it and still be kneeling here, stickered and leashed, while strangers decided what they thought of the exotic animal on display.
“And just sign here,” a woman’s voice said.

It was Marissa, the front desk receptionist from ages ago—back when I still had clothes. Back when I was still human. I dared to look up, though that felt dangerous with the officer standing over me. Marissa held a clipboard and a pen, her expression carefully professional, as if this were just another form in a long day of forms.
Dan stood a few feet away, pointedly looking anywhere but at me. His jaw was tight. “I don’t understand. I’m passing ownership of my pet to the airline?”
I froze. The words hit harder than the cold table or the leash tug. Pet. Ownership.

“Not permanently,” Marissa said quickly, her tone practiced and soothing. “Ownership will transfer to you once she’s picked up at your destination. It just allows us to make choices for the safety of us and… your pet without needing your consent in the meantime. Standard procedure for exotic animals in transit.”

Exotic animals. The sticker on my side burned hotter.

I watched, cheeks still flaming, as Dan took the clipboard. His hand hesitated over the signature line. For a second I thought he might refuse. Then the pen moved. He signed. The sound of the pen scratching across the paper was soft, almost polite, and it felt louder than anything else in the terminal. Ownership of me—temporary, they said—had just been transferred to the airline. I remained on all fours, the scale’s red numbers still glowing faintly in my peripheral vision, the blue sticker adhered firmly to my skin, while the people who had just decided my status turned their attention to the next form.

[SensoryOverlord]

Oh my! What a sudden and unexpected explosion of potentials.

He probably should have read the fine print. But then we already knew he's not a big fan of fine print.
Unless he's been faking surprise all along, and this is when his evil plan really cuts in.

[justcantgetitup]

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!

Yes, I do think that we jumped the shark a little there and I couldn't see them shaving and cavity searching an animal in real life.

That said, I could believe that the authorities have tired of people trying to "pull a fast one" by booking people in as pets to get cheaper fares and the fact that they have deliberately kept Rya out in the open suggests that they want to really make a public example of someone to stamp the practice out so I have really enjoyed the story so far.

I'm looking forward to seeing what happens to Rya when the flight gets to its destination.