Detained in NYC
Copyright© 2025 by Midori Greengrass
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - An artist is caught up in the dragnet.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Ma/Ma NonConsensual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold Wife Watching White Male Oriental Female Oral Sex AI Generated
“Detained in NYC”
Akemi sits on a hard plastic chair that looks like it came from an old conference room. Fluorescent lights are too bright and cold. The floor of the government building feels unfinished, like an office space turned into a makeshift detention center using folding partitions, desks pushed aside, and security tape marking areas no one really pays attention to. The air smells stale, like an office no one is responsible for.
Her red origami-fold skirt pools around her knees. She smooths the fabric by habit, a way to stay grounded in a place where nothing makes sense.
The officer who brought her in leans against a file cabinet, arms crossed. He is taller than her husband, broad-shouldered, built like someone used to physical work. His black hair is cut short on the sides, slightly messy on top. His eyes are a striking blue, a cold color that gives him an unsettling handsomeness.
His uniform shirt is slightly untucked. His shoes are plain black leather, scuffed at the toes but wiped clean on the sides.
His pants are standard uniform pants, stiff and creased. They fit him well. Akemi notices this quickly, in moments when she can’t quite meet his eyes. She looks away at once, feeling embarrassed.
The confusion of being detained, the bright lights, and the cold room make her thoughts wander in strange directions. Small details seem too clear. A peculiar flicker of attention catches her awareness, something she doesn’t want to name. Each time it happens, she pushes it down, forcing her focus back to the present moment.
“You know,” he says, nodding at her skirt with a smirk, “that’s ... quite the outfit. Don’t see many of those around here. Looks expensive. Fancy.”
The way his eyes move is what unsettles her—the slow, drifting travel down her legs and back up, lingering too long at her waist, as though he’s examining something fragile he might pocket. His gaze feels like fingers.
Akemi lifts her eyes. “Thank you,” she says carefully. She cannot tell whether he is complimenting her, mocking her, or testing what kind of reaction he can get. She wonders if the flash of red caught his attention on the street, if that was why he stopped her while she walked home from the grocery store. If this is all the result of one man noticing something bright and unfamiliar ... or something worse.
“Why am I here?” she asks. It is the third time. “You saw my documents. I am here legally.”
He shrugs, casual as a yawn. “System flags people sometimes. Happens. Especially with”—he gestures loosely toward the room full of detainees—”them.”
“But you did not tell me that before.”
He flashes a thin, crooked smile. “Didn’t want to confuse you. Figured your English might not be ... up to the technical stuff.”
He’s being frank, taking her into his confidence, dropping the professional tone for the moment. She sees he doesn’t do this with other detainees.
Yet his tone suggests he enjoys imagining her confusion.The words land with a sting she does not show. She sits perfectly still.
From the other side of the room comes the low murmur of families and exhausted men slumped in chairs. A woman sobs into a child’s jacket. Most of them look defeated long before any process has begun.
The officer looks over at them with open disdain. “You’re different,” he says. “Not like most of the folks who show up in here. A lot of them just ... sneak in, think we won’t notice. Half of them can’t read their own paperwork. But you—Japan, right? Educated. Polite. You’re not here because you’re desperate.”
He says polite the way someone else might say obedient.
Akemi stiffens. “Everyone here is a person,” she says quietly. “Everyone deserves respect.”
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