Last Chance to Escape

by neff trebor

Copyright© 2015 by neff trebor

Fiction Sex Story: Zoe and Jon are trying to get out of the country as rebels take over. They are detained at the airport for interrogation by an officer that wants retribution.

Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   NonConsensual   Reluctant   Coercion   Heterosexual   Fiction   Wimp Husband   Cuckold   Wife Watching   MaleDom   Humiliation   Black Male   Oral Sex   Masturbation   Cream Pie   Exhibitionism   Size   .

I ran across a series of stories by FINC on 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 I do not know whether I will post this on or not. Right now, I am just writing. I offer this as an alternative version to his:

Airport Examination

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.

Once her husband was secure Ngatto said something in their native language and both guards took positions outside the door. Zoë caught a glimpse of worried faces as passengers looked in for a mere second before the door slammed shut again.

"I, I, I demand..." Zoë was cut short.

"Please, please miss there is no need for all this unpleasantness." Ngatto raised his hands to calm her down. "You're plane is still here, though I think it will be the only one leaving for some time."

The sinister black giant man opened a note book as if in thought.

"We're rounding up all presidential associates for interview; your husband will have to stay."

"He's nothing to do with the president," she shouted again, her eyes wide with alarm.

"I think he is!" Shouted Ngatto in reply; his deep black skin glistening with sweat.

The secret police man was now the one to raise his hand to diffuse the situation.

"Look we can have all this sorted and you and your husband on the aircraft." He paused, "the last aircraft out of here."

Zoë looked to her husband tied to a chair; eyes frantic. She could hear voices outside. The whole world seemed to want to leave but she they were trapped in this windowless room. The little man saw her confusion and continued.

"Which brings me back to my question? Are you a bitch, or just an expensive, high maintenance cunt?"

Zoë just looked at him nervously her face perplexed; eyes searching the walls as if to find the answer.

"What does he want me to say?" She thought her head swimming. So she just stood there open mouthed looking dumb.

The two africans looked at each other then back to her. She was spectacular. Her reddish brown hair framed a high cheek boned slim face. Her lips were wide; lipstick un-noticed; nose with a strong chiseled tip. She had manicured nails and expertly plucked eyebrows. If you had enough money even third world countries had beauticians.

They looked her up and down to her expensive high heeled boots. She looked more like she was off to the president's ball rather than fleeing the country.

"Undress please; Mrs. Stephenson."

"What... ?" She still couldn't process the command.

They said it again.

Zoë shook her head repeating "No!" over and over. The two men seemed unfazed and lit cigarettes the officer opened the door and looked out. He spoke to the guards then closed the door. The noise of jostling passenger seemed to fade.

"I've sent for transport. It'll take some time; the roads are littered with bodies and barricades. Once it's here we'll get you two down to the newly liberated prison."

Marcel smiled. "I know it well; empty now, I believe, except for enemies of the revolution." He had spent many years enduring pain and humiliation there. He smiled at his unexpected fortune of changing sides at this opportunistic moment.

"Please we haven't done anything wrong," Zoë said her dress now clinging to her provocatively.

"Maybe you see it that way. Don't you think we can invent something before they get here?" Ngatto sneered unashamedly. Zoë's eyes widening at the realization. "How many people would die on false accusations before this revolution was over?" she wondered. She didn't want her husband to be one more.

She bit her lip and decided to concede.

"I ... I ... I ... I'm willing to co-operate; but my clothes?" She asked as sweetly as she could; her beautiful piercing pupils trying to read his serpent-like eyes for any sign of compassion. The officer continued explaining.

"Miss, you can leave once we have finished our investigation. Get on your plane. Fly away." He then grimaced; "or you can park your pompous cunt in our prison. Have you ever been in an African prison?" Have you even read what your own Embassy says about tourist conduct in our country? Marcel unbuttoned his shirt showing lacerations burned deep into his chest.

He then stroked her arm. He brushed the back of his hand up her arm; starting at her elbow. She tried not to gag as the back of his fingers hesitated at the base of her breast. Then; in a slow, slow motion, he held it against her breast so there was no misunderstanding from her or her husband what he was doing. Zoë was frozen in disbelief.

"I doubt a body as fragile as yours would last long in there. There are no individual cells. It is coed housing." He added sympathetically. "There are some real savages that would love to keep you warm during the night. I doubt if your husband would be much help. He would probably get killed trying to defend your pompous honor. You wouldn't get much sleep either."

"I can see you now. I can see you with your eyes closed; trying to sleep. I can see you with your lips wrapped around somebody's cock; the size of which you are probably not too familiar with. You will quickly learn, if you value your husband's life and your beautiful looks how to cooperate. You will soon learn that as soon as it starts to soften, you will know to start suckling until it is stiff again. You've probably seen babies fall asleep before they finish their bottle. Maybe you've had a child fall asleep on your nipple. They learn to start sucking again at the slightest movement of the mother. You too will learn to nibble whenever the thing in your mouth loses its firmness." He smiled at his thoughts.

"Do you sleep like that with your husband? Have you learned to satisfy him that way?" Zoë tried not to gag. She understood the conversation, but this was something she had successfully resisted all her married life. The brazen conversation with this savage was making her wretch.

She looked to the door but no one came in, or was likely to. She was so close but so far from western niceties.

"I just want us to get on the plane," she said pitifully. "I ... I ... I'll remove the dress, but please don't hurt us. I ... I ... I'll do it if you promise to let us on the plane." She stared forlornly at Ngatto, hoping to exact some small concession in return for her promise of capitulation. It was a feeble effort to gain some modicum of control in the situation.

Her tormentor nodded in understanding; delighted she had capitulated. "Of course; I just need to clear up a few matters." Then he explained what the two rebels had been debating when they first appeared.

"Over my years of work I have found many ways to get what I need; a confession. However pain is very close to pleasure and I have seen many women convulse in ecstasy in my company."

There was a scoff of indignity from Zoë and muffled grunt of protest from her husband.

He looked at her passport as he spoke." I have already asked you Mrs. Stephenson; are you a bitch or a pompous cunt? Either way, you'll climax many times before your plane leaves."

Zoë shook her head," No, no, no! No way. I've changed my mind. I want to see who's in charge." She couldn't believe his casual remarks.

"Miss Zoë," the Ngatto said, laughing and slapping the Emile fondly on the back, "I am in charge, as far as you should be concerned."

His tone changed.

"Undress now you white cunt or I'll personally castrate your husband and make you eat them long before he reaches prison."

Zoë looked at Jon. He was shaking his head; completely helpless. Outside there were gun shots and screams. The airport was starting to disintegrate into a riot. The two men moved menacingly closer.

She had no choice. She had less than an hour before the plane left; even less before their prison truck arrived. There was so much confusion and anarchy outside who would notice them gone? She bit her bottom lip thinking through her options. It took her seconds to realize she had none.

Zoë put the forefinger and thumb of each hand on the first button at the top of her dress. Her fingers shook so bad she could hardly push the first button through the eyelet. Zoë stepped up within inches of the Ngatto. In the softest pleading voce she had, she stammered: "Is ... is ... isn't there some ... some way for you to do this in another room? So ... so ... so my husband doesn't have to watch?" Zoë was used to getting her way all her life. She used the most sultry eye contact she could muster under the circumstance. His serpent like stare told her it was useless. Her shoulders slumped.

"I ... I ... I'll do it for you if I must, but I'm begging you; can't you have the guard leave the room until we ... we ... we're done?" Zoë tried to stand so her back was to her husband. Her eyes were pleading for some simple way of salvaging some sort of dignity. Ngatto's stare told her this was only a precursor to something worse.

Her mind was too numb to remember pushing the rest of the buttons through. Finally, she had the last one at the hem in her hands. When it was done, she held the sides of her dress against her with her arms; unable to comply with his words.

"Take your time; Mrs. Stephenson. It's up to you. You can look out the window and tell about how much more time you have until they start to board."

She was beaten.

Jon's blood was boiling. "Don't fucking do it honey!" his mind screamed as he watched her arch her back and let the garment slide off of her shoulders. "Why the fuck didn't she wear a bra?" he wondered. His indignation overshadowed the fact that they had been in such a hurry to leave, he had told her just to get out of bed and go; that he had told her to forget that stuff.

Perhaps she wouldn't have worn one anyway. Many European women had been brought up that way. They were away from home; friends; nobody who counted would have known. There must have been some secret; unconscious delight they both had in being able to dress and act differently away from home. Those thoughts were backfiring now.

Zoë gathered the garment and held it in front of her. What was she supposed to do now? Ngatto extended his hand. Reluctantly, Zoë folded it neatly and handed it to him; hoping wildly that she would be getting it back. The africans admired her long thin naked body, small pert breast and the slightest of thong panty. Her legs curved up from her high heeled boots to an hourglass waist; hips looking more like a 14-year old boy than a 40 year-old mother. Her skin had the sheen of fear; beading into microscopic droplets that covered her; giving her tan an almost baby oil glow.

She hesitated, not willing to continue without being told. Ngatto looked at her lone remaining garment. It was ridiculous to even have it on. The now humiliated Zoë had her left arm crossed in front of her, her forearm not really shielding or hiding her breasts; but more like holding them up. Her palm covered her right breast. Her right hand had dropped to cover her crotch. Her lace panties were a finely woven; lace material that hid nothing. It was for all practical purposes, transparent. They had been put on the night before for Jon's benefit. The back panel covered her entire butt. The high-waisted garment was snug above her hips, but did little to conceal her front.

"Why, oh why hadn't she picked another panty to wear?" her mind screamed as she tried vainly to cover herself.

Ngatto looked at the garment; pointed in the general direction of her crotch and gave the "hurry up" sign. Zoë moved both hands to cover her face in total humiliation. She couldn't do it. "We've got all day as far as I'm concerned." Ngatto whispered.

Knowing that the truck from the prison might soon be there, Zoë moved her hands down; hooking a thumb on each side between the wispy cloth and her soft skin. She looked towards her husband for a millisecond; hoping in the back of her desperate mind that he might stop her; or at least reassure her that everything would be alright. She forced a slight smile she did not feel, hoping to telegraph to him that everything would be okay. Her cheeks reddened and her hands shook as she pushed it down. Once past mid-thigh, it fluttered to the floor. With nothing to hide behind any more, she covered her face; not being able to look at her husband any more.

The black men watched; stupefied. They had seen some magnificent strippers; shaved clean. They had never seen anybody like Mrs. Stephenson. Her alabaster white breasts were melon sized; with the untanned portion barely above her coral pink, long-stemmed nipples. They had seen young girls, sometimes, with unusually long nipples; but never this long or pink. Not in Africa. They were in awe of her.

They had seen shaven women too. They had seen them in the whore-windows in Amsterdam; maybe, but not here. Not like this. Zoë was clean shaven from the top of her slit down. Above, she had been shaved to a landing-strip configuration. The middle of the thatch was a thick, reddish brown curly display of delicious curls. The sides tapered out into a gradient of clearer and thinner growth that was almost blond at the edges. It was a work of art. Zoë stood there trying to look dignified; if that was possible.

"Drop your fucking hands; Mrs. Stephenson." Zoë must have known that command was coming, but it still hurt. Being called a cunt, a cow or a whore did not hurt as much as being addressed as "Mrs. Stephenson." It reminded everybody that she was a wife, and her husband was watching. Zoë looked at her husband for a second. She tried again to force a smile of reassurance; a way of getting them both through this awful situation.

"It's okay, honey." She tried to telegraph with her eyes.

"Go over and stand in front of your husband." Zoë's heels clacked over the stone floor as she moved to where she could almost touch him. Jon's expression seemed to say; "I can't believe you are doing this."

Zoë may have been humiliated beyond all imagination, but there was a dignity about her they just couldn't seem to remove. She stood there, expressionless; showing neither anguish nor fear.

"Turn around. Turn your back to him."

Zoë did so; unsure she could mask her humiliation much more.

"Bend over and spread your legs. Remind him why he loves you so much." Humiliated, Zoë bent at the waist; legs locked and her hands bracing herself against her knees.

"That's not good enough. Spread your legs wider. Use your fingers to show us what's inside those beautiful lips."

When the part of spreading herself registered, her face blanched. Tears went down her cheeks and off of her chiseled European nose.

She spread her legs; about shoulder width apart. She had her elbows against her knees with her hands over her face; trying to process the commands; to convince herself she was not in a dream. With her knees trembling, she moved her hands slowly to the sides of her labia. She pressed her fingers against them.

"More; you white European cunt." Zoë hesitated. "Bend over farther. Show him your cunt better."

Zoë bent farther; her head and hair drug against the floor.

"Open please." It was not a polite request. It was more of an order to increase the humiliation. The command was almost a whisper, but with the room silent in expectation, the words sounded like a clap of thunder.

In a dark room; perhaps in a moment of curious erotic adventure, she could have done it with her husband. But this was a well lit room; with her husband and two strangers setting the rules. "I've got to get through this." Was the thought she used as Zoë pressed her fingers against the inside folds of her labia. Her fingers shuddered as she parted the sides of the opening.

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