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Baldur’s Gate International Airport is a shithole.
The air is so stale, Cazador can taste the microbiome of the ten thousand people who have passed through the security hall today. The fluorescent lights hum from the low ceiling, needling behind his eyes.
Someone brandishes a clear plastic bag at him.
“Any geeeeels…. Liquiiiiids….. Laptops-tablets-phoooooones……” drones a member of staff with bored, vacant eyes.
The queue is so long, snaking around the cramped, miserable room that he cannot see the end of it, sapping the life of every soul forced to meander through the maze of barriers.
Something in his head strategically withdraws. Time passes, or maybe it doesn’t, he’s not sure – but somehow, as he becomes dimly aware that he’s at the front of the queue. The noises return – the clatter of trays, the scanner emitting sharp, accusatory beeps, a voice– “Take a fockin’ tray, mate” –so he does.
He folds his coat onto one end, sets his bag on the other, adds the plastic bag of toiletries, then removes his phone.
The woman behind the tray carousel rolls her eyes deeply at him through her absurdly long fake lashes. She pinches his phone between her bright pink acrylics and moves it into a separate tray, then his coat, as though he had committed some kind of unforgivable sin.
Thank god he packed the hand sanitiser.
His trays disappear into the machine, and he steps behind a blonde woman to pass through the archway. She is motioned through without drama.
There’s a man on the other side. A guard.
A sharp sting pricks between his eyes. He’s not sure why.
“Stop,” orders the guard. His voice is husky and deep and oozes authority.
Cazador freezes where he is. Runs his eyes over the guard. Blue uniform pulled taut over crude, stocked shoulders. Shirt tucked into heavy cargo trousers anchored by a thick leather belt. His cap casts a slight shadow over his eyes, pinning down a sea of loose, white, curls which frame a muscular jaw.
Two fingers, wrapped in dark, thin rubber gloves, lift and beckon him forward. Come hither.
He cannot seem to tear his eyes away, so he doesn’t, staring stupidly as he steps into the archway. Immediately it beeps, deafeningly loud in his ears.
“Back,” commands the guard, and for some unfathomable reason, Cazador feels his chest lurch at the order. Then “again,” comes the order, and he goes again, the arch screaming at him once more.
“Arms out,” gruffs the guard. Cazador complies immediately.
And then he’s swiping his detector over his body, down his sides, up his legs. The detector makes a wailing sound when it passes over his crotch. Fuck… That’ll be the… He’d forgotten.
Those piercing eyes gleam with danger as they meet his. Without looking away, the guard places the detector down on the table, and kicks Cazador’s legs further apart with his black, heavy-duty boots. Cazador gasps. The guard kneels down, patting firmly up his thighs, reaching between his legs and grasping his arse, and then– fuck– a cupped hand presses into him there and finds–
“What the fuck is this?” the guard growls, his eyes bright and… knowing. Cazador hears himself stammer, but no words come out.
The room twists.
Face down, knee in his back.
Arms yanked.
Click, click.
Cazador’s arms are cuffed behind him, and then he’s pulled up, dragged across the hall, suddenly inexplicably breathless, something twinging in his… No. Get it together, Cazador… The hunky guard says some words to the people behind the X-ray machine – though, through his haze, he cannot quite make them out. They pass the guard Cazador’s things, and he lifts them into his other hand, pulling him towards an enclosed booth at the back of the room, heart racing at the feeling of his wrists cutting uncomfortably into the handcuffs, and shuts the flimsy door behind them.
“The people who searched your bags have found an undeclared illicit product in your bags,” starts the guard. “Did you pack it yourself?”
“Y– yeah…” Cazador quivers.
“Then why did you fail to declare an illegal item?”
“I didn’t know I–” before he can finish speaking, the guard pulls his red bottle of lube out of his bag. He feels blood flood into the capillaries in his cheeks as he flushes, he assumes, a shade of beetroot.
“This is a 120ml bottle of liquid. Did you know that the limit for liquids is 100ml, and that they must be in a clear plastic bag?”
“I f– forgot…”
The huge guard crowds him into a corner, and Cazador feels his breath quicken.
“Furthermore,” he rumbles, “You are carrying metal on your body. I am going to have to perform a strip search–”
Before Cazador can open his mouth in protest, the guard is tugging at his trousers, then his boxers, and he feels the cool brush of a latex-wrapped hand against his bare skin, moaning quietly despite himself. And then the guard laughs. A full, hearty, dark laugh.
Because he’s found it. His cage. The tiny, metal cage that his cock is mashed into, the strangling ring around his balls.
“That’s two illicit items now. Mister..?”
“Szarr…”
“Mr. Szarr. Mmm. Well then, Mr. Szarr, why have you intentionally come into an airport wearing an illicit item, knowing that some poor security guard would have to examine you, carrying a deliberately oversized sexual lubricant product? Are you a pervert, Mr. Szarr?”
“No!” He begs. “There’s been a misunderstanding–”
“I don’t think so. I think you came here hoping to take advantage of a guard.”
The guard twists his cage painfully between his fingers, but somehow, as he stares up at the hulking man in his ironed blue uniform, he feels himself twitch against the bars.
Gloved hands grab at his body. He tries to struggle, but he’s much weaker than him, and an insidious voice in the back of his head tells him he wants this–
“Are you carrying any drugs on your person?” he asks.
Cazador shakes his head.
“Hmm. Unfortunately, Mr. Szarr, I will have no choice but to verify that...”
And then he’s against the wall. Pressed, face-first into the flimsy plastic partition, his ear to the panel, hearing the clamour of the hall on the other side.
There’s a slurping sound. Fuck. The guard is squirting the lube onto his gloved hands and then–
Without warning, a thick, smooth finger slides into his upturned arse, probing inside him, and he cries out, can’t help it, it feels so fucking good, the silky latex, the burning shame, all of it..
Cazador whimpers as the finger withdraws and is joined by another, twisting and turning, and he feels his eyes roll back as they brush against his prostate.
Fuck me, please he screams with his mind.
“Please stop–” he wails with his mouth, but his halfhearted plea is cut off as a gloved hand clamps over it. “You forced me to do this,” the guard grunts. “I don’t want to do this, I have much better things to do, but you left me no choice…” Cazador moans deeply into the feeling of the latex moving over his lips as the fingers fuck into him, harder and deeper.
His cock pulses painfully against the dome of his cage. The blood rushes into his shaft with a desperate need to stand to attention, but there’s no room, the cage strangling his erection, crushing his hardness back down into his body even as the fingers in his arse try to pump it full again. He can’t help but want this. Love this. The choking sensation in his balls. The pinch of the sturdy cuffs restraining his tender wrists. The gloved hand tightening around his mouth. Then it moves down to his neck, squeezing. His fingers withdraw, but when he re-enters, there are four. A scream tries to emerge from his throat, but it is strangled into a breathy wheeze, feeling tears well in his eyes, unsure if it’s because of the strain in his arse, cock, or neck; or from the sheer overwhelm and humiliation of it all.
The knuckle of the guard’s thumb pops past his ring, a deep, intense pressure radiating through his pelvis, forcing him to focus on nothing but the sensation of being opened. He feels it all. The distinct shape of each knuckle pressing against his inner walls, the expanse of the guards’ huge hands stretching him wider than he thought possible as he jerks against the cheap laminate, clenching and writhing.
Every pulse of blood swells him into the bars, every rotation and grind of the fist against his prostate tries to push guttural moans from his constricted throat.
His eyes start to loosen in their sockets, fluttering idly beneath his lids, the wall going light and grainy as the oxygen leave his brain–
Just as he starts to slip into the warmth, the hand around his neck loosens. It skims down his body, hooking instead around his hips until it finds his caged cock and balls, pulling him back into the fist.
He looks back at the brute. The buttons of his blue uniform stretched tight against his bulging chest. The thick leather belt. Those shining eyes, glinting from beneath his officer’s cap as he pummels him into the wall, rolling his cock and balls in his palm… Tells himself he hates this; hates the deep, unbearable pounding; hates the crushing fire raging away between his legs, hates him– but fuck, fuck, it’s too much, head swimming, he can feel it, the strain in his groin is going to snap–.
When it happens, it’s like being tasered on his tip and arse at the same time.
His whole body locks and spasms violently as his orgasm wracks his frail limbs, his cage tormenting him, pinching his convulsing flesh, his hot release erupting from the bars and into the guard’s soft, gloved hand.
Cazador’s head goes light. Too light–
A moment later, disoriented, he finds himself collapsed on the floor. He must have passed out.
Everything burns.
His cock in its cage, his gaping arse.
“I could have you arrested for abuse, you know,” says the guard matter-of-factly. “Provoking a guard at airport security like that.” Cazador scarcely knows what to say, so it is just as well that he cannot seem to speak through his laboured breath and fuzzied mind.
He stares as the guard pulls off his wet gloves and discards them, and then begins rummaging through his things.
Sees him swipe his eyes over his ID, scanning his eyes over his address, checking the dates on his travel documents.
“This is now below the 120ml limit, so I’ll let you keep it this time,” he continues, casually shaking the bottle of lube, “and is this”– he makes out the tiny outline of his cock cage key –”the key to that?”
The guard points two fingers towards his cum-soaked cock.
Cazador nods.
To his horror, the guard pockets the key.
“I’ll be having this,” he says casually as he unlocks the handcuffs pinning his arms behind him. “You can go. See you in a week.”
The fuck?
The guard smooths his long white curls, adjusts his cap, and sweeps out of the booth, leaving Cazador panting, naked and covered in his own juices on the ugly, mottled grey carpet.