It’s a tradition in fiction writing to take one tiny observation and elaborate it into a complex story - H.E. Bates
wrote about it. In this case, I really did see the Airport Girl, while I was waiting for someone to arrive. She really
was wearing a dress like this - though not quite as revealing. And she really did have a septum ring, though it was
tiny, just barely noticeable. She was wearing gladiator-style sandals, though with no heels. She was there for a long
time, constantly wandering about. I never saw who she was waiting for - suddenly she just wasn’t there any more. And I’m
pretty sure she didn’t have any of the other decorations that appear in the story.
She mingles with the people waiting at the customs exit - the limo drivers in their cheap suits with their handwritten
signs, the noisy families waiting for their relatives, the people waiting quietly for their partners, passing the time
doing things with their phones. She moves constantly, up and down the line, to the front and then to the back, brushing
politely past people. She turns heads everywhere - men especially. A slim, petite Asian girl in a short, revealing dress
is bound to. Women notice her too, with a mixture of admiration and disapproval. Occasionally words like whore,
shameless and disgusting are heard to slip from their lips.
She’s about 5 feet 3 inches tall, though her heels add another four inches to that, and probably weighs less than 90
pounds. Her hair is shortish, nape length, and intensely black. The dress is short, a couple of inches below her crotch,
made of some kind of clingy yellow-orange fabric. The top is tight, sleeveless, just thin straps over her shoulders. The
skirt part is very full. It swirls outwards and upwards as she walks. From the front it looks skimpy, but perfectly
decent. The back is cut very deep, right down to her waist, with just a single thin strap behind her shoulder
blades. It’s obvious that she isn’t wearing a bra over her tiny breasts.
Her shoes are bondage-inspired sandals, with thick leather straps covered in pointed metal studs. The careful observer
would notice the rings on the ankle strap and the tiny padlocks that hold everything firmly closed. But only the
occasional foot fetishist is looking that far down, to admire the polished black leather, the carefully shined studs,
the medium-thickness heel holding her pretty, elegant feet in a perfect posture. She carries a garish yellow plastic
case, occasionally swapping it from one hand to the other.
Not many men are looking at her face. Those that do could hardly fail to notice notice a chunky, thick metal ring
through her nose, hanging down as far as her upper lip. They might also notice that her lips are permanently parted, as
though (in their imagination at least) just waiting for the first opportunity to give them a blow job. Only very careful
inspection would show why - a fine gold chain that passes from her nose ring, between her lips and teeth, fastened
invisibly to her tongue stud. It’s impossible for her to close her mouth, and difficult to swallow. She has to be
careful not to dribble, at least not in public.
She has large rings in her earlobes, and several small studs around her ears. Her eyebrows are plucked to the finest of
lines, and her full lips are picked out with orange-red lipstick. Apart from that she wears no makeup.
The men who are dreaming of her breasts, staring at them while trying to pretend not to, can’t fail to notice her
prominent, erect nipples. A few can make out the thick rings she wears there, too, though most are just puzzled, if they
notice at all, by the odd shapes they make under the tight dress.
There is one who understands, a tattooist and piercer himself. He’s waiting for his girlfriend, and he has just learned
that her flight is an hour late. He has nothing to do but wonder and dream. Seeing all her piercings, he wonders what
else there might be, hidden under her dress. A ring or two in her labia? Clit hood? Even he would be amazed if he
knew. He’s also one of the few who notices the strange gesture she makes quite often, stroking her bottom delicately
with her spread fingertips through the dress. He has an idea, just an idea, what that might be. He would love to put his
hands under her dress, feel her cheeks to confirm his idea, push aside her panties to see where else she is pierced. But
he doesn’t want to be arrested, so he keeps all his ideas in his head, watching her in fascination as she struts up and
She’s quite aware of all the attention she is generating, though she gives no outward sign. She senses the male arousal
and excitement, even sees their erections sometimes. She would like nothing better than to drop to her knees, carefully
open their flies, engulf their erections between her pretty painted lips and caress them until her mouth is filled with
warm, spurting cum. But she doesn’t want to get arrested either, so she just walks, carefully avoiding eye contact with
Then, suddenly, she is running, surprisingly nimble in her heels, running towards the exit. She rushes up to a woman,
embraces her, is embraced, picked up high. They kiss, deeply, like lovers - which they are, like long-separated lovers,
which they aren’t - they have been apart for less than two days. There are more tuts and words of disapproval, disgusted
glares from the men, words exchanged between complete strangers - disgusting, perverted, shouldn’t be allowed. But she
doesn’t care, neither of them does. The woman is dressed rather strictly, a typical businesswoman - knee-length dark
skirt, white shirt, dark tights, black leather shoes with just the very slightest of heels, a large handbag over her shoulder,
pulling a case along behind her.
She is put back down again, a couple of words exchanged. She drops to her knees, presses her lips passionately to the
new arrival’s shoes and feet, smothering them with kisses. Disgust among the audience turns to concern and even alarm -
must be something wrong with her, they’re sick, horrible exhibition of filth. Still they don’t care. She jumps up, they
kiss again, then walk off hand in hand, talking animatedly. Only the tattooist is intrigued, rather than disgusted or
alarmed. He has nothing better to do so he follows them discreetly through the airport concourse, carefully staying
twenty feet behind them. But they turn into a deserted side corridor, it would be impossible to follow without being
noticed. He lingers at the entrance but soon they turn a corner, out of sight.
They soon disappear into a staff toilet. Inside it is big, enough to lay stretched out on the floor, the toilet itself
tucked into a corner. As soon as the door is closed and locked, the businesswoman makes a gesture and the girl lifts the
tantalizing dress over her head, throwing it into a corner. Now we can admire her naked body. She has nothing
underneath, not even the panties that the tattooist thought he would have to push to one side. We can understand now why
she kept caressing her bottom. It is covered in vicious weals from a recent brutal caning, each framed by two deep red
lines interspersed with dried blood. To be exact, there are six on each side, neatly aligned in parallel rows. They must
still be very painful.
Her lover pulls her skirt up around her waist and sits on the toilet, legs spread wide. Those aren’t tights she’s
wearing, they’re hold-ups, and her pussy, like her companion’s, is completely exposed, with just a carefully tailored
brush of public hair. The girl drops to her knees again, pressing her mouth to the newly exposed flesh, using her tongue
expertly on it. The woman gasps, sighs, trembles, pulls the girl’s head hard against herself. Her lips part, her hips
thrust, and soon she is gasping in pleasure, barely able to stop herself from screaming. She doesn’t release the girl
until her spasms and gasps have stopped and she sits there shivering with the residue of her pleasure. She lifts up the
girl’s chin, idly rubbing her thumbs on her large brown nipples, then twisting and teasing the heavy rings. The girl
starts to squirm and moan in her turn, but she is cut short.
“Thank you, Sweetie-Pie, that was very nice. Now over my knees.”
The girl obeys. One hand explores the vicious weals, while the other continues to tease her nipples.
"Does your bottom still hurt?"
"Yes. A lot. Thank you for giving me this to remember you."
"Can you sit down?"
“Not really. I’ve been standing all day. Now my feet hurt.”
“My poor Sweetie-Pie, how cruel, how unjust for a beautiful little thing like you. What a terrible thing.”
The girls says nothing, just yelps when suddenly long fingernails seize one of her nipples, tugging and crushing it. She
yelps more as the other hand falls on her bottom, hard and loud, each stroke leaving four deep red fingertip marks. One
of the weals splits at its edge, blood oozing from it. As her cries become louder a hand crushes against her mouth,
fingers reaching inside and holding her tongue by the stud. She wants to scream but somehow can’t. Still the spanking
continues, rhythmically now.
After a dozen or so strokes it stops. The woman reaches into her bag and takes out a black plastic hairbrush. Holding it
by the handle, she smacks it into the girl’s bottom over and over. This is even worse than a hand. Her yelps are louder,
her struggles more desperate. By the twelfth and final stroke she is sobbing in pain. At a command she stands.
“Say thank you, Sweetie-Pie.”
“Thank you. Thank you for punishing my naughty bottom. She deserved it.” The girl learned at the very beginning of their
relationship never to use words like Mistress or Madam. On the rare occasions when she really needs to address her
mistress, she uses Miss and her family name. But that is not often.
"Have you eaten anything?"
"No, nothing at all?"
“Have you drunk anything?”
“Only a few small glasses of water.”
“Good. So you must be quite thirsty and hungry.”
“Yes, I am.” She has starved herself partly as penance, for leaving her mistress on her own, but also for very good
practical reasons which we will soon learn.
She knows what to do. She stretches full length on the floor. The woman squats over her, her pussy pressed tight against
the girl’s mouth. The girl starts to swallow, slowly and first and then quicker and quicker, as hot piss fills her
mouth. The chain between her teeth makes it hard, and a few trickles escape, running round her cheeks and collecting
behind her neck. Still, she makes a valiant effort. The woman continues to caress her nipples and tease the rings,
making it even harder to concentrate and swallow. Then she lifts herself a few inches. The last few spurts splash over
the girl’s face, into her eyes, up her nose, running round into her hair. She gasps, swallowing the last few drops.
“Thank you. That was so good, I needed it so badly.” (What would the crowds waiting at the customs exit think now, if
they could see all this?)
Her legs are spread wide open. There is something strange - her labia are filled with rings, many more than the
tattooist imagined. The rings have a chain threaded through them somehow, holding them tightly closed. Her cunt is
inaccessible inside. The woman starts to rub her anyway, just where her clit is hidden under the rings, her other hand
still working on her nipples. She starts to thrust and moan, she really wants to come but it’s hopeless.
“Please, please let me come. I’ve been a good girl. Please...”
The woman reaches into her bag and takes out a keyring. Carefully she unlocks something, then unthreads the chain from
the rings. Roughly, she tugs the lips apart, revealing the reason why coming is impossible. Hidden until now beneath her
sealed lips, the chain loops back from the thick ring in her clit hood, holding in place a metal shield over her
clit. Sharp teeth at its base press into her delicate flesh if she tries to rub herself through her labia. Her
frustration has been intense, pressing and squeezing herself - with no result except the pain of the teeth cutting into
her, though that is quite enjoyable too. The woman carefully unthreads the chain from the shield.
“Is this what you want?” she asks, then digs her nails hard into the swollen clit. The girl starts to scream, silenced
only by the woman’s pussy pressing tight on her mouth. The nails tug and twist, the girl writhes violently trying to get
away from the pain.
Suddenly she is gasping and squealing with pleasure, as the nails give way to the delicate rubbing of a well-licked
finger. Within seconds she is convulsing violently, still silenced by the pussy over her mouth. Now it’s a bit more
visible what has been going on. From her clit hood, the chain goes through a ring on the end of the large dildo that
fills her cunt, and through another ring through her perineum, just in front of her anus. Before, the chain was looped
back, through all her labia rings, then locked to the perineum ring. With the lock removed her pussy and clit are
exposed, but her cunt is still filled. The woman refastens the lock so the remaining part of the chain - still out of
sight - is still locked in place, but the dildo is free to slip out. Which it does, with a loud plop. The woman thrusts
it back into her, fucking her hard and quickly while her other hand twists and teases her clit. It takes a little longer
this time before she starts squealing, thrusting and trembling in pleasure.
“You’re insatiable, you little hussy.”
“I know. It’s just so good, how can I resist?”
With the pressure of the dildo removed, piss suddenly floods out of her onto the floor. She tries to stop but she just
can’t - she has been saving herself up since the morning, enjoying the discomfort and pressure along with all the other
little torments she was subject to. Soon there is a veritable lake under her bottom.
“You know what to do. Drink it up.”
She turns over onto her knees, then presses her face to the floor as she laps up the still warm piss mixed with dirt
from the toilet floor. Her bruised bottom is high in the air. The woman can’t resist licking the salty warmth from the
beautiful, damaged flesh, her tongue sliding down into the crack and pressing into the waiting, gaping cunt.
Finally the whole story of the chain is revealed. It passes around the girl’s waist, then down her back into her
crack. With her cheeks spread wide we can see it passing through a ring on the end of a plug which is still inside her,
then through the perineum ring. Since before she was left alone yesterday she was worn it, her cunt and anus both filled
wide, her labia fastened firmly together, her clit inaccessible inside yet constantly teased as the chain tugs on her
clit ring with every movement, her holes filled and teased. It’s no wonder she has been damp the whole time, her juices
oozing down her thighs for the last day and a half.
We understand why she has eaten nothing, not so much as a mouthful of soup, for a long time now. She has learned the
hard way that if she is to be plugged like this, it is much better not to. Accused of gluttony once, she was kept
plugged for two days yet encouraged and even forced to carry on eating. The pain, the cramps in her swollen belly, were
unendurable. She spent the last few hours locked in her cage in the dark, moaning and pleading for the plug to be
removed, but nobody was listening. The relief when the plug was finally removed more than made up for the mess and the
smell, though many hours passed before the cramps stopped. Her gluttony was cured.
They entertain each other for a while. The girl’s cries and screams, of indistinguishable pain and pleasure, get louder
and louder. The woman worries that someone passing in the corridor outside will hear and attract attention to them,
which would be awkward.
“You’re making too much noise. Gag time,” she says.
The girl reaches into the plastic case and removes something, fastening it behind her head. On the front is a huge
dildo, long and thick with swirling ridges on it like huge veins. It’s strapped tight into her mouth. An inflation bulb
hangs down, and with a few quick squeezes her cheeks are bulging, her breathing noisy around the swollen gag that
invisibly takes up all the space in her mouth.
"Can you breathe?"
The girl nods.
“Good, I don’t want to kill you. Not just yet anyway, I’m having too much fun.”
She has made remarks like this before. The girl thinks it’s just a joke, but she can’t quite be completely sure - the
thought that maybe one day she will really be killed, slowly and painfully, is something she just can’t help being
"Now you can fuck me.” She kneels, her bottom and cunt thrust high in the air, her elbows and chin touching the
floor. The huge dildo slides into her, the girl thrusting with her face, the woman resisting the temptation to put a
finger to her clit, prolonging the pleasure as much as she can. It feels wonderful, the giant cock stretching her,
teasing her sensitive cunt as it thrusts deep inside, stretching her, then pulling almost free again. Over and over and
over. Finally she can resist no longer, and with a few strokes of her finger she is making more noise than the girl ever
did. Luckily the corridor is as empty as ever. Nobody hears.
Nobody hears later either, when very carefully, with much licking and slurping, the dildo enters her anus. She squeals
with pain at first, then gasps as once again she is fucked, deep and hard, until again her finger brings her screaming
to a climax. It’s another dildo, hand-held and even bigger, that does the same for the girl once her plug is finally
They entertain each other for a long while, using every orifice in obvious and not-so obvious ways, along with their
mouths and tongues and fingers. Maybe half an hour passes before they are finally exhausted. They lay on the floor in
each others’ arms, smelling of sweat and sex and other body smells, oblivious to the hard floor and their unromantic
surroundings. Finally the woman extricates herself. She whispers something to the girl, who slowly, with seeming
reluctance, kneels before the toilet, bending over it and wrapping her arms around the plumbing at the back. The woman
takes a vicious, thin cane from the plastic case. She kisses the girl’s bottom, running her tongue along the weals,
pressing her lips to the fingertip bruises that are already starting to change colour. Slowly she runs her tongue
through the crack, pushing her tongue deep into her gaping anus, her still trembling cunt, a short lick on her clit.
Then she stands and gives a wickedly hard stroke of the cane on the tender flesh she was so recently worshipping. The
girl shrieks in pain, even though she was expecting it. The dildo gag has long since been unstrapped. The woman removes
one of her stockings and stuffs it into the girl’s mouth, completely filling it. Then she takes a modest-sized ball gag
from the case and straps it in tight. There is no more noise as ten even harder strokes tear at the girl’s poor tender
flesh, just an inhuman snorting noise as she desperately tries to breathe and scream past the stocking gag.
When she stops there are eleven more livid marks, bordered by bright red lines. She drops to her knees, tears in her
eyes as she licks delicately along the weals, along their bleeding borders, tasting the oozing blood.
“You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, my poor darling Sweetie-Pie.” The girl starts to moan through the gag, her bottom
shaking with the residue of the agony and the new pleasure of the tongue on her wounds. She tries to speak,
unsuccessfully, but the woman can guess what she is saying, and presses her mouth into the crack. Her tongue plunges
deep into her gaping anus, then down past her trembling cunt to meet her clit. It takes a long time and concentration by
both of them, but finally the girl spasms, snorts through the gag, convulses, her legs kicking everywhere.
The woman wants to kiss her, to worship her beautiful body - and to receive some well-placed licks herself. She unstraps
the gag and rips the now-soaked stocking from her mouth. They kiss passionately, the she is rewarded. After much careful
tongue work, she too finally manages one last orgasm.
Finally it is time to go. They are just not physically capable of any more, and their surroundings are hardly
comfortable. The woman rearranges her clothing, to look respectable again.
The girl is dressed again too, her dress pulled over her head. Her shoes are removed - she hasn’t taken them off during
all their exploits, but now she will walk barefoot through the airport. Together they pack the soiled toys that litter
the floor back into the case.
There is one last thing. From the plastic case the woman extracts a large plastic bag. She spreads the girl’s legs, and
then carefully clips onto each of her many rings a tiny bell taken from the bag. She keeps her clit hood for last, and
there she attaches a much heavier bell on a short chain. The girl stands. The bells are just visible beneath the hem of
her dress. Experimentally she walks up and down in the small room. The sound is rather like wind chimes, a constant
They kiss one more time - very awkwardly for the girl, whose lips are held in place by the gag and distorted by her
over-full mouth. Then they open the door and enter the still deserted corridor.
Their arrival at the crowded concourse turns heads again. It’s unusual to see someone barefoot at an airport, never mind
a sexy young woman in a tiny backless dress. By coincidence, the tattooist is just leaving with his girlfriend, who has
finally arrived. His last hour, spent in a mediocre airport coffee shop, has been a lot less enjoyable than theirs. He
sees the girl’s bare feet, he even notices the bells jiggling at her hemline - the only person who does. He would love
to get to know this intriguing pair better.
But they are already outside the building, and soon they will be in a taxi. He will never see them again, and we will
never know what they do next, or how such an unlikely couple found each other in the first place. They will remain just
a transient enigma.