I ran across a series of stories by FINC on Literotica.com. I read "Airport Examination," and emailed him; saying that I had run across his stories from time to time; and it was one of my favorites. I was enthralled by the name of "Zoë," his description of her, and the story theme. I said I would like to re-write it a little differently; (for my own amusement) and send it to him for his own posting. I only sent it once; with no reply. I do not claim the name of "Zoë," or the theme of the story as my creation. I have edited the sex scene but kept most of his dialogue. He has an exciting series of stories. I believe they are on Literotica.com. I do not know whether I will post this on storiesonline.com or not. Right now, I am just writing. I offer this as an alternative version to his:
by Finc (edited 3 31 2015)
The orderly queue had slowly but surely descended into a jostling chaotic snake of passengers. The normal Western Reserve had begun to crumble as more and more military vehicles appeared on the airport tarmac and outside the entrance hall. The military coup had come so quickly that even the international news agencies were only just getting the first patchy information. The presidential palace had been stormed and although the world carried on around them things had changed. Everyone in the queue felt the sword of Damocles over their head as if any moment their freedom would be snatched from their grips.
Zoë and Jonathan Stephenson had arrived just in time. As an engineer working on the great dam Jonathan had somehow been tipped by sympathetic colleagues; revolution was in the air and he and his wife should get out while they could. The roads were almost completely blocked by now, but with the tip off they had managed to get here early enough for a ticket on a plane out.
The passport control continued its shambolic attempt at security and visa examination acting oblivious to the worried passengers and the flurry of armed soldiers racing around. The military were seizing the complex around them but the airport staff acted as if this was an everyday occurrence and eyeballed each passenger with suspicion as if to say "why should I let you leave today?"
"Oh shit" Jonathan said a little radio to his ear. "The news says that they've restricted the airspace; no more planes in."
Zoë looked out of the window at their airliner sat on the shimmering runway. The pilot seemed eager to leave as his queuing passengers. She thanked God they had a ticket. They had been guests of the outgoing regime, here to construct and improve, but technically they were only advisors.
"Jon," she asked nervously, as out of the corner of her eyes she saw two soldiers dragging a blood covered official."
"They've already started their purges," he replied under his breath
"One of many that they would round up today," She surmised.
"Just keep moving forward," Jonathan whispered in her ear, the passport check in getting closer and closer.
To the right of them a door opened and a big African man in camouflage uniform appeared. He had guards and what looked like an airport official next to him. As he stood, arms folded, Zoë and Jon turned their heads and kept their eyes to the ground.
The man looked up and down the queue. These fucking westerners were running like rats. So typical! His orders had been to seize the airport. No more no less; but the civilian clothed man next to him had suggested that chaos and mob rule does not come around every day. The smaller man was a secret police traitor. He had betrayed many of his old colleagues for the sake of the glorious uprising, and now high on fear and adrenaline he wanted to take whatever opportunity arose in this bedlam.
"Explain again?" Said the gruff rebel officer; the smaller older man nodding and pointing.
"There," he replied, "I would suggest those two."
The soldier followed the finger towards a tall fortyish white woman. She was dressed in a gold button front dress. His educated eye could see that it was not hot enough for her to have the perspiration she exhibited. Her tanned and toned body had a thin bead of perspiration that was beginning to coat her. She must have dressed in a hurry. Was she was wearing a bra? He guessed she had decided to leave in a hurry, and maybe even had no panties?
These European women seemed to be oblivious to what they did to the local black men. Her panic had caused the perspiration; causing the fabric to start clinging to her thin frame. She was a strange combination of red and blonde hair that should have hung to her waist. With the thick, recently washed hair in a French braid, it stopped about half way down her back. Was she a redhead with streaks of blond laced into it, or was she just a spectacular natural coincidence of dark brown, red and blond? Her skin tone also made it harder to diagnose her true hair color. Her skin had a light sheen of brown but also a spackling of freckles on her arms, cheeks and thighs.
Perhaps she would have thought twice before wearing such a short dress to the airport when the military was looking for friends of the president. Whether they were part of the government or not, every man noticed her. Although her breasts were not big, they more than stood out. They were modest melon sized, but it was clear that she had long pink nipples thrusting out against the thin fabric. Those long shapely legs disappeared into burnt umber high heeled boots that clicked across the uneven concrete paving. It was a poor strategy to wear high heels for a couple trying to leave the country unnoticed.
At a casual first glance, her face showed no make-up. Depending on the light, her eyes were blue, green or gray. Like a coat of DuPont Chrome Illusion, her eyes changed color as you walked around her. She had the chiseled nose and cheekbones of a Scandinavian; perhaps Norwegian or Dane. Her rear did not wiggle like the sassy Americans. She seemed to glide along. The only telltale sign she was walking was that her unsupported breasts would bob out of step with the sound of her heels.
Her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses concealed her fright and concern; making her appear much more confident than she felt. Her alligator handbag was a poor choice for someone hoping to blend into the crowd.
Zoë looked across and caught the return gaze of the soldier and his acquaintance.
"Oh shit" She said looking down again. "What are they doing?"
The officer approached with two troopers at his side.
"Miss, Sir," he said bowing his head in deference. "Please I need you to come with me."
"Why? Uhhhhh ... we're due to..."
The officer had already snapped his fingers. His guard's hands tightened on the triggers of their AK 47's.
The couple tried not to stutter as the soldiers directed them towards the nearby room. The guards made it clear they would have to move and as passengers looked ominously on, the couple was casually but firmly escorted out of the queue.
Once inside the side room they closed the door letting the couple stand there. The heat and official's attention became claustrophobic.
Jon handed over their passports and then carefully but quickly answered their questions.
Good afternoon; the guard said. "I'm Emile Okoye; special assistant to Mr. Marcel Ngatto. We are here to make sure all entrance and exit to our country are done properly. Many instigators in this riot have come in illegally to disrupt our country. Many consultants to the president; Yakubu Gowon, have tried to escape with artifacts from the National Museum. Some have taken large amounts of money from the banks. We have found women taken precious jewels from the palace. Women are very clever about being able to hide small things like that..."
"Are you both Married?"
"The Kamuku Dam; we've been here 6 months."
"No I'm not an official of the president, I'm a private contractor."
The huge, darker man, Marcel Ngatto, wiped his brow but did not speak allowing Emile Okoye to do the questioning.
Now Zoë had to answer questions. She started off sounding indignant but nervous.
"No I've never met the president,"
"No I know nothing about that."
"Yes, yes I would like to leave, so would my husband."
Marcel Ngatto suddenly interrupted with his own question. It was unexpected.
There was a pause from the bemused couple. The beautiful woman's composure changed from indignant to alarm.
"What?" She replied.
Zoë thought she miss heard, "I don't..."
He repeated, enunciating clearly.
"Are you a bitch?"
Perhaps it was just a reflex from something that may have been said to her as a teenager. She didn't think. She was sorry instantly. She regretted slapping him in a millisecond. Zoë looked at her husband. Her cheeks were red.
"Please we just..." She added trying to back peddle.
"You look like a bitch," he said; mocking her. He took out a white handkerchief and wiped his face; checking for blood.
"Now I've just..." Jon was ready to jump to his wife's defense when suddenly he was gripped by the two guards. They began to scuffle with him. One officer barred the door. The Emile gripping Zoë's wrist as she screamed.
"Slap!" Ngatto hit her back.
She coughed and spluttered; dazed, with the wind momentarily knocked out of her. Her husband was been pushed into a chair his; hands bound behind his back. Jon knew better than to struggle, but two rebel soldiers tied him tightly to the chair. Zoë backed away to the corner; hand over her mouth in shock. She didn't know what to do. They had no way of escape.
.... There is more of this story ...