Detained in NYC
Copyright© 2025 by Midori Greengrass
Chapter 3
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - 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
“Why?” Akemi asks.
He’s attracted to her, naturally likes her, but sometimes she gets on his nerves. Even an exotically beautiful woman, far Eastern one named Akemi does. When she talks about her husband worrying because she’s been away so long he wishes he’d been with her the whole time to really give the guy something to worry about, in her up to the hilt. Her husband is American, by the way. That makes her even more fascinating to Tommy. How do they communicate? What do they talk about? Or is it just fucking? He wishes he could be with her twenty-four-seven. But at the detention center they’re all these other damned people around, mostly damned Latinos. He’d like to fly alone with Akemi in a plane to some other part of the country, a mostly White part or maybe with some Asians to make her feel at home (as she clearly doesn’t in the detention center, and why should she?) Maybe Seattle. He imagines it. The approach to the airport, view from the window of hangars and the like, city too out there, waiting for the wheels to touch down, grinding sensation, waiting to grind with her. Somewhere neither of them had been before. Four star hotel. Hyatt. Splurge for her.
“I get it. This isn’t the Hyatt,” he says.
She glares at him, then smiles weakly, seeing, after all, that he’s human.
He wants to be all over her.
“Why?” she says again. She will many times. Gets on his nerves sometimes. She’s supposed to be an ideal, not someone who complains like everyone else (like his wife Sophie). Sometimes he wants to tell her to shut up, to make her shut up, so at least he can enjoy his fantasy.
At least.
Her pink miniskirt. No, it isn’t pink. Red-orange, with crisp pleats like crepe paper.
The space, small of her back, between the waist and her white dance top.
Whoah. Blowing his mind.
“Why you’re here?” He shrugs his shoulders. Why are any of them here? He looks around at the others. Why does the world work the way it does?
His eyes come back to hers. Picturing the hotel room. Do it up right.
He’s glad she’s still there this morning. He’d worried overnight she might be gone. But of course not. Where would she go? He smiles at the thought but also feels sympathy for her. She wonders at the look on his face, searching for whether he’s someone who will help.
Why would he? It’s he who arrested her (if that’s what it was), picked her up off the street on the way to her dance class, in the middle of the day, ruining her day and much more now.
Why?
Her husband would wonder by now where she was. Akemi kept turning the thought over in her head, hoping it would lead somewhere, a way out. Thinking. There was not much else to do in the detention center. At the same time, it was the worst thing to do.
She wasn’t thinking of how distraught Mitchell would be, only of how he might help. She realized it was selfish of her not to put his feelings first, but her predicament now was extreme.
She’d heard the footsteps when they were almost on top of her. Her emotion, fear, moved before she could. Her eyes rose as she tried to push that down. She hated the unnatural smile she forced onto her face, wanted not to yield, instead to ignore his presence, pretend she didn’t recognize that immigration law enforcer. But she needed him. He was all she had here.
She’d made a place for herself in the corner, better than the molded plastic chairs available- if she was going to be held a while she’d better get comfortable- smoothed the fabric of her skirt from a reflex of modesty. He’d stared as she got in and out of the patrol car and later, and now too. The outfit was the one she’d arrived in and all wrong, of course- she hadn’t planned on the arrest or whatever it was that had happened. The tangerine-colored skirt had felt fine on the street or even subway but not there. It was like an itch impossible to escape. Her dance-top felt too tight, confining, like the walls of that ridiculous place, the floor of an office building made over as a prison- temporary they’d said on the news she saw, but months had passed since the crack-down started and people were still pouring in. The detention center was like a backwater.
It would be something else if she had overstayed her visa. She respects the law and disapproves of those who don’t.
How long would she be there?
And why?
She saw his gun again, holstered, of course. She felt like making fun of it. Big man!? Acting strong? She’d seen it on the news. Small men swaggering because they were white and the policy in Washington put them first, backed them up ever above the law. The country- the world? seemed to be going in a bad direction. Cops behaved with impunity, flaunting power they should never have been given.
She didn’t make fun of Tommy, knew that would only make things worse. Her emotions were complex, ran a gamut. She felt grateful- yes, a little grateful- that at least Tommy wasn’t making fun of her, at least not at the moment.
“Had some breakfast yet?” He’d stopped in front of her- why hadn’t he just kept going?- giving the gentle smile that had disarmed her the day before. So unexpected from a brute. He wasn’t the stereotype she had built in her thoughts overnight, at least wasn’t only that.
Without waiting for her answer- he seems nervous, even shy, trying to mask that, he repeated- Akemi hadn’t heard it the first time, “I see someone who could use some coffee.”
Grinning to cheer her up.
“Not Starbucks, but better than the-” He cut himself off.
“Oh, not in a mood to talk. I understand.”
He didn’t, and her eyes told him so. He saw more in them than she wanted him to, emotion appearing through the cracks in the stone wall she tried to keep in place, her mask. Human beings need human communication.
“Officer.”
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