This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, places and events is unintentional. Please enjoy in safe and legal manner. ADDITIONAL NOTE: I think it is pretty clear who the villains of this story are. Their views are not my views; I think they're a bunch of cunts!
ANTHOLOGY
You are travelling into an alternate dimension. Do not adjust your connection to reality. Here we find a universe of infinitive possibilities, of extraordinary powers and incredible circumstances. Welcome to the Anthology...
Anthology (II) - Assport Control, part one
First they came for the foreigners, and I did not speak out...
A country is falling under the control of a nationalist tyrant who has gradually extended his powers from filthy foreigners to undesirable citizens (class enemies). Law enforcers across the nation have carte blanche powers to stop, strip and search (and more as their powers expand) anyone for any reason - in full public view. Humiliation has become a weapon but it is about to be turned back on the wicked who devised it. Sean Mills is Special Advisor to President Horace Hump and he is the mastermind of cruelty for the High Office.
Let's see how he likes it...
SPECIAL ADVISOR
Sean Mills wasn't really in a hurry he was just arrogant and filled with self-importance; they were traits that had yielded a rewarding and prosperous career in the politics of selfishness, wilful ignorance and punitive intent. He walked with long strides towards the main entrance of the airport - he was desperate to get the hell out of the stupid city, in an equally stupid state, which he had visited for a pointless and tedious meeting. It was one of the few states that had not been converted at the last election and it remained stubbornly resistant to the prevailing dogma of the High Office.
President Hump had made it almost impossible for the unbearably Egalitarian Party to get elected; almost, but not entirely, impossible. Impossible was something High Office was working on for the next, as yet unannounced, election - with help from the witless sheep of Legates and Prelates in the Orthodox Party.
"No, that's not what I said," Sean shot hotly into his mobile.
One of his aides back in the Capitol had made a mistake; in their defence Sean had given them the wrong information but he wasn't going to admit that - it was much better to just blame the fool on the other side of the call. He was already pissed off at the idiot for booking him on a commercial flight. He was Special Advisor to the President for crying out loud.
Special Advisor – an unelected role that involves extensive policy making decisions and influence in the soul of High Office. Not that High Office actually had a soul, nor a heart.
"What I said was... Fuck sake, watch where you're going," Sean spat.
The young man who had just walked into him looked Sean up and down, sneered and walked on. Sean had offered a glare of haughty derision but the man didn't seem to care, in fact he'd almost smiled at Sean. The young man also cast a smirk at Paul, Sean's son, who barely even looked up from his phone. The kid, blissfully unaware of his surroundings, absent mindedly reached into his shorts and gave his silky balls a scratch and then his hand an experimental sniff. Paul was lackadaisical at the best of times but this morning Sean thought he just looked spaced out – which, if Sean was honest, was also pretty normal.
Paul was a sixteen-year-old kid who was growing like a weed – just like Sean had when he was that age – which was ironic because the kid quite liked weed. Paul was not as tall as his father but he was gaining on him. Paul's exposed legs were soaking up the sun – they were hairless which Sean attributed to the boy being on the school swimming team. They both had fair hair and skin with soft facial features that made their unkindness surprising when expressed.
"What? Yes, I'm still here. I'm fine," Sean replied irritably.
Sean rubbed his shoulder where the sneering asshole had bumped him – an asshole who was wholly unfazed by the dirty looks Sean shot at his back. Sean had been distracted by the careless pedestrian of the shithole state and was all the keener to get out of it but his bellicose attitude was simmering to mere intolerance. He couldn't wait to be back in the Capitol.
"Just shut up. I'll be back in a few hours," he told his aide.
As Special Advisor to President Horace Hump, Sean had been treated cordially but the delegates he'd met with didn't like him and he didn't like them. They thought he was belligerent, conceited and vain; he thought they were soft, feeble and meek. They had (unsuccessfully) contested the latest Amendments to the Prerogative Search Act, Indefinite Detention Act, Compulsory Relocation Act and the Deprivation of Appeal Act; didn't they care about national security?
Did they want filthy foreigners coming to their country?
THE MEETING
"Well... Yes," Sandy Warn had replied to that very question.
Sean had blinked disbelievingly at the Egalitarian Party Legate. Legate Alexander (Sandy) Warn was handsome and tall with dark hair and navy-blue eyes. In contrast, Sean was fair-haired but nearly bald; nevertheless, he was also handsome and had deep brown eyes that reflected his soul – dark and unfriendly. Warn wore a wry smile but Sean knew he was not amused - he was looking to make a point.
"You want dangerous..." Sean started to say.
"They're not all dangerous," Warn interrupted gently.
"Dangerous criminals..." Sean continued.
"They're not all criminals," Warn pointed out amiably.
"To come here and steal our limited resources..." Sean kept going.
"And I thought we were the wealthiest and most prosperous country in the world?" Warn said wistfully.
The nation was not the wealthiest, nor the most prosperous. In fact, they had slipped in both rankings by nineteen places since the Hump administration had taken High Office.
"We won't be if we allow vermin to come here and..." Sean said through gritted teeth.
"Spend their money? Pay taxes?" Warn suggested.
"Undercut national citizens by working for less and stealing their jobs," Sean scoffed.
"So, you're suggesting businesses are exploiting immigrant labourers instead of paying nationals more for the same work? Why are you blaming the people being exploited instead..." Legate Warn was interrupted this time.
"You lot really are a tiresome bunch of bleeding-hearted bastards," Sean interjected.
Legate Warn chuckled at Sean's disdain and ploughed on with his argument.
"It's not just immigrants we're dissuading from coming. Our international standing has plummeted; people don't come to work or study, tourism has haemorrhaged. People are afraid to visit in case we treat them like dangerous criminals," Warn said the last two words sarcastically.
"The only people who need to be afraid are dangerous people. The laws we've passed to deal with filthy foreigners are keeping us safe," Sean said unconvincingly.
Those laws were designed with malice, not safety.
"Those laws aren't just being used against immigrants though," Sandy objected; "Everyone has seen the video of Alex Court incident."
Sean smiled - Alex Court had been the first (high profile) case of a stop and search of a national citizen at an airport using the Prerogative Search Act. It had originally been designed as a partisan assault on immigrants (for the crime of not being born in the country) and the law allowed them to be treated with shocking contempt. However, Sean always knew that if they decided they were re-elected, High Office could extend the powers of the act to target political adversaries or anyone else.
Euphemistically, Sean dubbed them class enemies.
Alex Court had been a test of that extension. His ID card had `malfunctioned' and that was all the justification needed to strip the man totally naked in the vast atrium of the airport in front of hundreds of witnesses.
"Our new borders make us safer," Sean stated the party line.
"Right. The old borders didn't scare away the right kind of people," Warn said dryly.
Humiliation was but the first weapon in a toolkit that dissuaded an enormous number of people from immigrating. It was designed to improve compliance with the law – would you risk travelling, or smuggling or anything else if there was a chance you'd be stripped naked as a punishment? Sean's idea of weaponizing humiliation had been ingenious - it could be used not just to actually ensure security but to punish, debase and dehumanise vulnerable people.
Sean didn't bother responding to Legate Warn. He was thinking about Alex Court - a gorgeous naked man with the massive cock whom Sean hadn't thought about for a long time. It must have been seven or eight years ago now...
ALEX COURT
For years, the Prerogative Search Act had been used to stop, strip and search foreigners in public spaces like city centres, town squares, parks, shopping centres and even televised sporting events. As it was (intentionally) a public exhibition, pictures and video inevitably leaked online but humiliation proved to be an effective deterrent against existing while foreign.
Transport hubs (airports, bus stations, high-speed rail stations) – were even better: more government-owned HD cameras.
The pictures that were uploaded online were from the kind of people who would watch a lynching or a public execution. Humiliation became a ghoulish hobby, cruelly enjoyed, like watching bullying and rooting for the persecutor.
Prerogative Search became a system for punishing people that President Hump, Sean Mills, the High Office and the Orthodox Party hated: black people, brown people, those kind of Asian-looking people and literally anyone who hadn't been born in the country. For some reason, white immigrants were much less likely to be maltreated. Asylum seekers in desperate need were turned away – the country no longer an internationally recognised safe country.
Despite opposition from the Egalitarian Party, who parlayed for a semblance of decency, President Hump was helped by the Orthodox Party to disintegrate human rights. Fair play and ethics did not matter. After President Horace Hump swindled the last election in his favour, he ramped up his ambitions for tyranny and swung his sights to undesirable national citizens (class enemies).
Like Alex Court.
National citizen was a phrase coined by the High Office but it was something of a tautology since they didn't allow someone who was not a national to be called a citizen.
Another phrase that Sean Mills had coined for the High Office was class enemy.
Class enemies were anyone considered undesirable to High Office and now they had a way to get rid of their opponents; political enemies, Egalitarian voters, none-white people, disobedient women, the gays, the disabled, religious minorities...
Humiliating immigrants was one thing but Alex Court was a landmark test of whether the people would abide national citizens being treated the same way. Alex was a very good-looking man in his early twenties: tall and broad with a sculpted chest and a big, flaccid, circumcised dick. He was also black but who else was Sean going to test it on?
Alex's treatment had been manufactured by Sean because he fit a profile. Alex was a minority; he had publicly objected to immigrants being abused by the government and he wasn't an Orthodox voter.
Alex was taking an internal flight when he was stopped by airport security, now known as the Border and Transport Police (BTP). As Special Advisor, Sean Mills had overseen numerous institutional and employment changes to law enforcement and recruited degenerates willing to do the abusive dirty work alongside the pre-existing police who thought sexually molesting people in public was wrong for some reason.
Checkpoints were formerly known as passport control but passports had been replaced with biometric ID cards. Sean liked to think of the public stripping and exposure as assport control.
Sean almost quivered at the thought of a public fingering of a hot naked man's asshole.
The BTP officer in charge when Alex's ID card had malfunctioned was named Brett Moore and he had been warned such an error would be forthcoming. Brett's lip curled nastily when he scanned Alex's ID card – the details attached to the card had been manipulated by a data mining company associated with High Office.
Being stopped at an airport was nothing unusual for Alex – even before the laws changed, they had been more punitive towards people who travelled while not-white. However, Alex's heart started to sink when the instructions to strip began.
"Mr Court, you will be processed under the Prerogative Search Act. Please take off your shirt," said Officer Moore said.
"What? Why?" asked Alex, unable to keep the challenge from his voice.
Brett knew how important it was to avoid being accused of impropriety – even though he was clearly guilty of it – but his position of power meant he didn't need to be reasonable or measured.
"Because I told you to," Brett replied. "Details in your ID card appear to have been tampered with. It might be an innocent mistake or it might be a false ID. You need to undress before we put you through the biometric scanner again to search for discrepancies with our file."
He added the additional details to pacify the complainant and legitimise the impending humiliation of a national citizen. Officer Moore wore a hard expression and he cast a glance at two colleagues who were standing by to "help" Alex if he refused.
Unhappily, Alex took his shirt off to reveal a great physique. He was a tall and broad man with black hair in the centre of his chest that peppered across his pectorals. Unsatisfied with his search, Officer Moore told Alex to drop his shorts.
"C'mon, man," Alex complained; "We both know the biometric scanner doesn't need me naked."
Officer Moore smirked at the man in front of him because Alex was only delaying the inevitable. The Prerogative Search Act gave the BTP officer the power to strip a person without even the courtesy of a private room. Alex had seen enough people treated this way and figured it would only be a matter of time before a citizen was maltreated like that. But him?
"Biometrics are gathered every time you pass through a transport hub, that data is compared to your ID card and the central database," Officer Moore explained; "Either there is an error with one of the three factors or you have stolen or forged this ID card and violated the Ingress and Egress Act. So, you need to drop those shorts so your next scan is as detailed as possible. I mean... it could be worse..."
The threat was implicit. It could be worse; indefinite detention or deportation were on the cards if he didn't comply. Alex dropped his shorts, exposing bulging underwear and muscular legs – strong thighs and calves, toughened with sinew.
There was a whistle of appreciation from somewhere in the crowd that had gathered to watch. Alex hadn't even noticed them until that catcall and he dreaded to think how many people were watching. How many more would join them? How many more would see pictures of him? Would the security cameras record everything?
Alex's feet were still encased in his sneakers but the only other item covering his body now were his grey briefs. Not for long.
The grey colour of his briefs contrasted Alex's dark brown skin. A fine layer of black hair decorated the inside of his thighs and ran down his legs but he was by no means a hairy man.
"Put your hands behind your head," Officer Moore said.
Alex sullenly obeyed – he felt defeated and already knew what was going to happen next. He had protested this kind of mistreatment of immigrants and now it was going to be him – photographed naked and mortified.
He thought about his work colleagues and neighbours. Would they see those images?
With his hands behind his head, Alex's beefy chest puffed out. His only consolation was that he was a model of a man – not the airbrushed, dehydration-enhanced-abs kind of model, but the pinnacle of male pulchritude.
The bulge in his briefs was enough to make the average erect man blush. His flaccid cock was bigger than Officer Moore's dick was hard, not that they'd be comparing. Moore stood behind Alex and tugged the briefs down from the waist, whipping the last vestiges of Alex's modesty away. Alex felt his five-inch flaccid cock swing, his big balls also freed from containment.
Alex wanted to cover his cock but knew it would result in a reprimand from Officer Moore.
The sound of images being taken were drowned out by the hubbub of excitement from the crowd – it was always the same when the Prerogative Search Act was used in this manner. Alex had half hoped his home state would be free from this kind of mistreatment but the government made sure there were men like Brett Moore in every transport hub.
Alex's briefs were dragged to his ankles and he was ordered to step out of them.
"We should make sure the biometric data is as complete as possible," Officer Moore said; "Why don't you make that thing hard and then we can get you scanned again?"
Alex blushed and shifted awkwardly – he really didn't want to do that.
"My ID card doesn't have my cock size on it, neither does the central database," Alex replied; "Look... if my card appears to have been tampered with then none of this is going to answer the question of if it was me that did it, an accident or an error so..."
"Your compliance would reflect well on my final assessment," Officer Moore responded; "At the end of my assessment, I can agree it was an error and let you go or I can recommend detention or deportation. You know you have no right to appeal so your only chance is to do what I say. Now."
The reason Alex didn't want to get hard was not because he was embarrassed by his cock, quite the opposite. The exact opposite in fact. Alex Court had a nine-inch penis.
Alex should have been relieved that he was no longer posed with his hands behind his head, exposing his pits to the crowd of spectators but he was about to feel even more exposed. Alex reached for the slab of meat between his legs and tugged it with his fist. His hand dragged along the dangling shaft, sweeping over the head of his cock, and lengthening it inch by inch.
Five inches, six inches, seven inches, eight inches, nine inches.
Fully hard, Alex's cock was a gigantic. He looked at Moore, whose eyes bulged at the sight of it and he wasn't the only one staring at the big cock was a mixture of jealousy and disbelief. Alex didn't actually want to cum so he stopped once he was fully hard, his cock was as straight as a nail and happily protruded from his groin and stood parallel to the ground.
"Fuck," Officer Moore muttered.
"Now what?" Alex asked contemptuously.
Brett Moore seemed to have no interest in touching Alex himself but he was still a sexual predator.
"Follow me to the composite scanner," Officer Moore replied.
Alex was marched, still naked and hard, past the spectators, giving some a better view that they'd had before while others gained a shot of his ass – more pictures for the internet. As he was paraded through the airport, Alex recalled the rumours of a social media app (XXXPoseBook) that spread this kind of thing. In a few years more and more national citizens would be exposed by the app dedicated to hosting Prerogative Search humiliations. People with friends and family and school mates and enemies would see their peers in a whole new way.
Alex walked with his hands at his sides, sure that if he covered up (which would have been tricky because nine inches is hard to conceal) he would have been admonished. Alex decided not to give Officer Moore the satisfaction.
A few minutes' walk from where he'd been, Alex was told to step through the so-called composite scanner which looked indistinguishable from the one he'd stepped though before his ID card had been rejected.
The truth was the "composite scanner" was no different – Officer Moore had just wanted to parade Alex around to enhance his exposure and embarrassment. Alex stepped though and Officer Moore made a show of comparing the new scan to the central database.
It was also an opportunity to keep Alex exposed for longer.
Alex's nine-inch fuck-tool didn't go soft. Despite the exhibition of the moment, the attention was exciting. He felt a bead of pre-cum leak from his cock and when he caught Officer Moore looking at him again, he felt sure the man would make him jerk off. Alex had seen any number of unjustifiably sexual and abusive demands made by supposed law enforcers and upcoming laws would make it even easier to mandate such debasing sexual displays.
However, Officer Moore grunted with begrudging satisfaction that Alex's scan was adequate. Supposedly vindicated, Alex had to walk back to his clothes while still naked so the victory tasted as bitter as defeat. Officer Moore would have liked to tell the bastard to jerk off in front of everyone but he had been ordered to show restraint. Alex Court was a national citizen and until High Office had tested resistance, or lack thereof, to treating national citizens the same way they'd been treating filthy foreigners, they had to be cautious.
In a few years, who knew – maybe they'd have people like Alex Court bent over a desk. Maybe they'd have him spanked or masturbating or finger-fucking his own ass?
Alex Court became a landmark case. The first foray by High Office into controlling the people the same way they controlled the invaders. They already controlled the people in other ways; low wages, minimal healthcare, poor education, political disenfranchisement.
Alex had complained about his treatment, there had been protests and the Egalitarian Party tried to blow the whistle too but it all fell on deaf ears. En masse, but not unanimously, the people agreed citizens could be (mis)treated in that way. Most Orthodox voters and supporters of Horace Hump knew they would not be the targets anyway – this was a punishment for others or the disloyal.
"It's not right," Alex complained.
"It wouldn't have happened to you without a good reason," said a colleague at work.
"Would you feel the same way if it was your teenage son who had been stripped naked? In public? And then made to get an erection?" Alex asked.
The woman blushed – as she ought to. She was defending the indefensible but apologists will always make excuses.
"These laws keep us safe. And my son wouldn't have done anything to deserve that treatment," she replied.
"Neither did I," Alex pointed out.
"We only have your word for that," she pointed out.
"Well if I ever see your son's penis, I'm sure you'll be comforted knowing how safe we all are," Alex concluded.
THE MEETING (continued)
Alex Court was lucky to be the first guinea pig – a few years later and it would have been even worse and he'd still have been flung into indefinite detention or deported. The Prerogative Search Act had become an effective tool by which High Office got rid or filthy foreigners and nuisance nationals.
Alex's naked body had been recorded by security cameras in the airport and by mobile phones but the release of the security footage was a particularly mean touch to the whole affair. Exposing Alex's nine-inch dong was like government sanctioned doxing.
What they did to Alex paved the way for things to come.
The thought of Alex Court still made Sean smile. Sean was not as vehemently opposed to skin colour as President Hump but there was a surprisingly ugly number of voters who voted because of racism rather than in spite of it. For them, the campaign against otherness was cynically reinforced with the autocrat's signature HH (88) – a wink and nod to white enthostate enthusiasts.
In fairness, people who voted for President Hump for other reasons – like ignorance, selfishness, blind allegiance and delusion. Even discomfort with what High Office was doing didn't translate into functional protest. They were in a sensitive phase of their plan for tyranny and if they pushed too fast, their brainwashed supporters would become former-supporters and their functional protest would be votes for the Egalitarian Party.
Legate Sandy Warn was a pest because he was frustratingly insightful and worryingly well-informed. The financial impact of lower tourism, falling visitation for trade, trade sanctions, diplomatic ostracization and exclusion from international events were difficult things to spin.
Sean suggested President Hump deal with it by emphasising it was "a small price to pay for enhanced national security and reclamation of national identity." Whatever that means. Besides, financial burdens didn't hit Presidents or Special Advisors - they'd just cut another social programme; pensioners or the disabled probably. Whatever.
"Our new borders make us safer," Sean parroted the party line (well, he wrote it).
"Right. The old borders didn't scare away the right kind of people," Legate Warn had replied.
Sean's reverie about Alex Court had delayed his reply to the insufferable man but Sandy was patient and knew when not to fill a silence. Sean stopped thinking about nine-inch dicks and turned back to the Synod representative.
"Legate Warn, High Office is not trying to scare anyone away," Sean responded.
"You literally have a law that says it's ok to sexually molest people in public," Sandy responded incredulously.
"We have to protect our own citizens first. People are welcome to come here but troublemakers, like filthy foreigners, can be sent away with the slightest provocation. ID cards are 95% effective at identifying and tracking every national in the county," Sean said patiently.
The efficiency could be higher but how else would High office and the Orthodox Party purge nuisance nationals and class enemies?
"There are more than two hundred million citizens in our country. That 5% ineffectiveness could affect over ten million people," Legate Warn said with grave concern.
Sean smiled at the weak man – Warn was feeble but smart. Yet, Sean's estimates were closer to fifteen million – a nice cut into the class enemies that threatened the powers of High Office.
"By far the biggest group affected are people who shouldn't be here. They don't need to go through any negative processes as long as they leave of their own accord. That's why we implemented the Voluntary Self-Deportation Act," Sean said like a reasonable racist.
He was trying to sound reasonable - a classic trick that attempts to make criticism itself seem unreasonable.
"Right," Legate Warn replied; "And when any individual is rejected by another country, you used that as proof that no-one wants them. Then it's ok to indefinitely detain that person?"
Sean smirked – it was a remarkably simple conceit that justified indefinite detention. First in holding camps and later in labour camps, after all those people couldn't be expected to be kept for free.
Critics had used the internationally accepted definition of concentration camps to portray the detention facilities as concentration camps but that was just partisanship that ignored the immigration problem. What was High Office supposed to do, NOT hold people without trial in substandard conditions?
"Perhaps we should get back to the original topic of conversation..." Sean said.
That topic had been a legislative effort by Legate Warn for his state to be exempted from four controversial bills. That was never going to happen. Legate Warn had always abhorred the legislation but the successive amendments were unconscionable; they allowed High Office to abuse power, abuse citizens, abuse political enemies, abuse visitors from allied nations...
Unlike Sean, who revelled in the humiliation of others, Sandy felt only sympathy for them. There had been an incident a few years ago where an entire football team from an allied nation had been stripped. They had been the guinea pigs that tested the Participation Amendment so the boys had been forced to wank, suck and fuck each other – in the packed sports stadium, after the match. Unacceptable. There would be no end to this unless Sean tried to stop them.
The Prerogative Search Act had been criticised in the strongest possible terms by their closest allies but President Hump didn't care about traditional allies, he was cultivating new friends – dictators and warmongers. Monkey see, monkey do.
"Individual states already operate with a degree of flexibility when it comes to the Big-Four," Legate Warn offered as a rationale.
The Big-Four referred to the four controversial bills that addressed the powers to search, detain, deport and deny appeal. Namely:
Prerogative Search Act.
Indefinite Detention Act.
Compulsory Relocation Act.
Deprivation of Appeal Act.
The Prerogative Search Act had allowed police to stop, strip and search foreigners for years. The amendments that Legate Warn was bleating on about had extended powers to tourists and nuisance nationals and permitted forcing them into even more perverted displays.
Searches could be intimate, invasive and public - a private room? Why bother? Sean had been the one to advise that drug dealers, mules, traffickers, gun runners, sex traffickers, etc would perhaps have second thoughts if they knew they could be strip searched and humiliated in public.
High Office had reassured its citizens that extending of powers to be used against them would be used responsibly and to keep them safe (ha ha). Even after Alex Court, and many worse examples since, the brainwashed apologists for President Hump still believed those searches were being made in good faith.
"In good faith," was a phrase President Hump used when he was lying his ass off.
The Indefinite Detention Act had never been intended, ironically, to hold people indefinitely and technically didn't specify that detainees had to be held in a detention facility. Thus, High Office often sold quality stock to high bidders domestically and internationally. To get rid of filthy foreigners to some other godforsaken country, they used the Compulsory Relocation Act so deportees could find themselves in the sex trade or the working-for-free trade.
People working for free, it turned out, was a remarkably cheap labour source.
The Compulsory Relocation Act facilitated the deportation of anyone who failed to provide adequate ID, failed to comply with instructions or failed to pass a Prerogative Search. All national citizens now had ID cards, visitors were required to have visitor cards, immigrants were expected to fuck off. Or have foreign national ID cards.
President Hump and Sean Mills expected Compulsory Relocation to be very useful in the run-up to the as yet unannounced election - disposing of filthy foreigners and deport class enemies. It was hoped a surprise snap election would mean men like Legate Warn were ill prepared to fight for the future.
The Deprivation of Appeal Act revoked the right to appeal - once you were out, you were effectively exiled. The bill had been a measure to mitigate domestic and international backlash that they were violating pesky laws like the International Declaration of Human Rights. Ultimately, Sean Mills advice to High Office had been to ignore condemnation.
"Yes, individual states have a degree of flexibility when it comes to the Big-Four," Sean repeated in agreement; "Flexibility, not exemption."
"Those laws are morally bankrupt," Legate Warn implored.
Sean talked over him before the man could say anything pithy or witty or... just anything really.
"You know that state laws can be stricter but not laxer than the national statutes," Sean admonished haughtily.
"Just because you have made something legal doesn't make it right. What's right isn't decided by how many people agree with it. We're building a case that the laws themselves are unlawful," Legate Warn replied.
"I know. It won't work... you must know that?" Sean said smugly.
Sean and Sandy fell into an inhospitable silence.
In the stale silence, Sean strolled around Legate Warn's office and glanced at a framed photo on his desk. Warn was standing next to one of the most beautiful young men Sean had ever seen. They shared similarities but Sean knew Warn was unmarried - a young nephew perhaps.
Sean's eyes dilated as he drank the tall glass of water in the photo. He idly fantasised about gobbling whatever the kid had between his legs. Legate Warn had looked away from Sean in disgust. While Sean thought about sucking off a cute guy, Sandy reflecting on the sorry state of his home nation.
Not so long ago, Presidential elections were held every five years and a President could only lead High Office for two terms. That changed with the election of President Hump and majority rule for the Orthodox Party in both legislative chambers - Synod and Conclave.
With the help of the Orthodox Party, Horace Hump extended the term time up to ten years. The Term Expiry Deferment Act stated that, after five years, votes must be held in Synod and Conclave to agree an election date or defer for another year.
With the Orthodox Party firmly in favour of the authoritarian President, delay after delay was agreed. In his first term, President Hump held High office for ten years before an election was mandated and, inexplicably, he won re-election.
Well, not inexplicable.
Polling stations had been closed, electoral rolls purged, people intimidated at the polling booths, voting cards destroyed, postal votes `lost', electronic voting machines were hacked.
He `won' re-election. Wink.
There had been innumerable anomalies in every state but they were ignored and any attempt by the Egalitarian Party to investigate them had been portrayed as partisanship from sore losers. Even when whistle blowers reported the mechanisms by which outright cheating had occurred, it was deemed too late and portrayed as an effort to undo the last election result.
Legitimate complaints were dismissed on the grounds it would be unfair to question an illegitimate result.
Makes sense? Good.
Thus, the three governing bodies (High Office, Synod and Conclave) remained in the stranglehold of a despotic President. The three governing bodies were supposed to work in tandem but no-one ever expected them to work together to impose tyranny.
President Hump had now reigned for eighteen years.
When people ask how a tyrant could be allowed to rise, Legate Sandy Warn would point out it started long ago. President Hump wasn't the first vain, greedy, arrogant man to hold a political office – people voted for such men (on both sides of the political field) all the time, against their own self interests. Question was, how do you get rid of the tyrant?
"I know you think you're untouchable, but you're wrong... you must know that?" Legate Warn said darkly, throwing Sean's own words back at him.
Sean laughed in his face. Sandy Warn was an impotent fool, Sean thought.
Just as Synod and Conclave could defer the Presidential election, the President could defer Synod and Conclave elections. It was a beautiful self-reinforcing process of corruption.
It was no wonder the country had slipped down the Democracy Index.
"But people voted for President Horace Hump," they said. "People voted for their Legates in Synod and their Prelates in Conclave. How can it be tyranny when we voted for them?"
The people are happy; they get what they want and they never want what they can't get – Aldous Huxley.
"I am untouchable," Sean replied casually.
Sean had been integral to duping people to vote for them, even as their rights and privileges were stripped away; High Office took their education, healthcare and jobs. President Hump's supporters accepted this even though they suffered too. They accepted it as long as others (class enemies, foreigners, blacks, gays, Jews, Muslims, the disabled, pregnant women, non-men) suffered more.
Gotta love the schadenfreude.
The ultimate irony of "getting rid of filthy foreigners" was a lot of minimum wage jobs for national citizens. With all those low wage and low skill jobs filled, where was the government's incentive to facilitate a highly paid, highly educated citizenry? High office liked them poor and stupid.
The silence had grown beyond that which even Legate Warn was comfortable with. He turned back to Sean to see the man smiling sickly at the photo of his nephew. Sean felt Warn's eyes on him and relished being caught in the act of wanton perversion.
Sean wanted to touch the boy in the photo - he was in his mid-late teens and dressed in a tennis outfit. His shorts came to mid-thigh and his legs were exposed – the mid-calve length socks were rolled down around his ankles and his long legs decorated with blonde fuzz. His polo neck t-shirt was open to revel a V-shaped segment of his golden-skinned chest.
Sean put his hand in his pocket and gave his semi-hard cock a squeeze with one hand while lifting the picture with his other.
"Who's the boy?" Sean asked.
"My nephew," Legate Warn replied; "He's eighteen now and nothing to do with my concerns about the latest amendments to Prerogative Search, Indefinite Detention, Compulsory Relocation or Depravation of Appeal."
Sean gazed approvingly at Warn's sexy nephew and without guilt. The desire to fuck teenagers was practically a sport amongst elitists. Sean didn't talk about his sexuality - actually, he barely thought about it himself - but he knew when he liked someone and he liked Legate Warn's pretty nephew – who didn't look like he was eighteen when the photo was taken. Sean took a moment to mentally undress the boy, lusting over his athletic physique and imagining the teenager springing to life has his balls were sucked.
THINKING ABOUT BOYS
Sean looked at Legate Warn and then back at the picture and he could tell his enemy was uncomfortable with the attention he was paying to the picture; it was the most uncomfortable Legate Warn had been which gave Sean an idea. Sean didn't bother being discrete as he grabbed the crotch of his trousers and squeezed his cock in full view of the man in front of him. Sandy Warn could see that Sean had a big, erect, cock – the shape and size of it emphasised by the tailored fit of his expensive suit trousers. That the man would be so bold as to play with himself while lusting over his teenage nephew was disgusting and entirely unsurprising.
"You're a pig," Legate Warn said.
"He's a good-looking boy..." Sean said; "Have you ever seen him naked?"
"We are not in one of your prerogative abuse centres now," Legate Warn said snappily.
"I wouldn't even need Prerogative Search, teenage boys share nudes online all the time now," Sean needled away.
"Are you done?" Legate Warn asked stonily.
"Do you ever play tennis with him?" Sean asked casually.
"Sometimes. I used to coach him until he was sixteen actually," Legate Warn replied.
Sandy made the mistake of thinking he was taking to a normal person because Sean broke into a wicked grin.
"I bet you loved it after he worked up a sweat?" Sean said salaciously. "He looks like a little tease. I can imagine him peeling off his damp t-shirt in front of you. Tempting you with his lean chest and button-sized nipples. Then he pulls off his sneakers and socks... do you like feet, Sandy?"
Sandy Warn looked on horrified and Sean felt his hard-on pulse.
"Then the little fucker slips his little shorts off too, slowly dropping them to his bare ankles and underneath you see the snug lump of his dick denting the front of his briefs..."
"You're sick," Legate Warn objected.
"He turns around and that's when you realise it's not just briefs, he's wearing but a jock. You can see his pert and little peachy ass. His skin is golden all over where the sun has kissed it, except his ass which is lily white. You want to kiss his ass, don't you? More, you whisper so he bends over and drops the jock... just for you, uncle." Sean can feel a leak in his underwear as he tells his story.
"His ass is hairless and the only place his skin isn't golden is the tiny speedo-sized part of his skin. You're thinking about his hairless hole. Kissing it with wet lips and slurping the pink ring with your tongue. You're thinking about him but don't move yet because you like to watch," Sean continued to needle away – even if it was only for his own entertainment. "Your little nephew steps out of the jock and you want him to turn around. You want to see his boy-cock, don't you? Even if it's soft, you want to see it..."
"What is this, Sean? What do you think you're achieving here? You think I'll get angry? I bet you'd love it if I was that easily antagonised," Sandy replied; "Or maybe you're hoping I'll get physical and hit you? Then you can wax lyrical about how the tolerant Egalitarians are so violent when all you've done is sexualise a teenage boy."
Sean had hoped Legate Warn would be pissed off but he was more composed now and seemingly unflappable. Sean decided to try harder.
"The next time you see the naked twink, he's in a bubble bath that hides his boy-bits. You sit beside the bath, beside your young nephew with shiny skin. You wait until he washes his hair with handfuls of water before reaching into the water. He's still wiping water from his eyes when you touch him but he's excited as your hand touches his chest and then moves lower. Your hand brushes through his wet pubes and then you feel it... his cock is soggy and hard," Sean is getting breathless thinking about the sexy kid. "He's still sixteen so maybe he's only five inches but it's hot and stiff and you yank it. The little prick moans and he's already ready to blow but he surprises you by pulling away and standing up."
Sean turns the photos of Legate Warn's beautiful nephew so the man can see it. For a brief moment, Sandy sees his nephew from a few years ago - exactly as described. He would never tell Sean but he had showered with the boy – entirely innocently – after a tennis match and he was as beautiful as Sean imagined him to be.
His nephew had boned up, causing Sandy to be embarrassed for him, so he knew another detail Sean had gotten wrong: the kid was much bigger than five inches.
"He looks tall standing in the bath while you're still sitting beside it. He's dripping wet which makes his skin shine and his cock is aching for the big burst. He puts his hands behind his head so you can see the drenched fuzz of his pits but there's not much to see. Your eyes are drawn back to his boner. Finally, you give in and lean in but not with your hand, with your mouth, Sandy. Your lips wrap around his cock," Sean sucks his finger for a moment before continuing; "You barely get to suck the head before he spurts in your mouth, covering your lips but you can't miss the chance to deep throat the beautiful fuck so you do. Your nose touches his damp pubes and his loose balls swing into your chin. His cum is salty but sweet and gooey and you keep sucking even after he's cum. Your hands grab his moist ass and your fingers find his ring. If you like it, uncle, you better put a ring on it."
"You're disgusting," Legate warn interrupted again but he was visibly shaken now.
Sean clapped his head delightedly at having gotten under the man's skin.
"I know. But when you're wealthy and powerful, you can be as disgusting as you want. You don't have to be a do-gooder, Sandy. You can grab people by the boy-pussy... they'll let you do it. You can do anything," Sean boasted.
Sandy almost pitied the man. Knowing what was going to happen soon, despite the fact Sean was a monster, he still almost pitied him.
"You're wasting mine time," Legate Warn said uninterestedly; "And you're wasting your own time too."
Sandy Warn had been disturbed by the imagery and he realised the depravity of the man was not a manufactured event or policy – it was who he was.
"You're no fun," Sean complained.
The Special Advisor had hoped to seduce the Legate into impropriety; he wanted to hold a mirror up to the sanctimonious asshole but Legate Alexander Warn seemed to be a genuinely good man. What the hell was Sean supposed to do with that?"
"Look, are we going to talk about..." Legate Warn started to ask.
His sentence would have finished "...the four laws," but Sean already knew what Warn was trying to achieve and frankly it was boring, embarrassingly naïve and stupid.
"No," Sean interrupted; sounding short and bad-tempered.
"No? You agreed to hear my arguments concerning the Big-Four," Legate Warn said reasonably.
"Let's be candid," Sean said; "You have tedious, legal arguments based on technicalities and the illusion of fair play. I think you're feeble, pathetic and weak and I have no fucking interest in anything you have to say."
"That's very honest of you," Legate Warn replied graciously.
"Thank you," Sean responded.
"I think you're an arrogant, amoral, degenerate; a sexist, misogynistic, racist, bully; a homophobic, transphobic, ableist, xenophobe; a vulgar, pathetic, greedy elitist; a selfish, pathetic, white supremacist and nationalist apologist," Legate Warn critiqued and added; "You're just like President Hump and he's just like you; you're a match made in hell... and if you think that I or the people of this country are going to stand for it..."
"You'll what? You already stood for it. You... the people..." Sean said it with disdainful sarcasm; "You all helped this happen or watched it happen. You should be grateful we're just exiling the filthy foreigners and all the other freaks instead of exterminating them. You must already know it's too late? Even if you wanted to stop us, you can't."
Legate Warn walked slowly towards Sean and for a moment Sean thought the man might strike him. He had never intended to be so candid but the woolly-headed weakling had got on his nerves. Instead of striking him, Legate Warn reached out and took the photograph of his nephew out of Sean's hands.
"Two plus two does not equal five," Legate Warn said.
Sean recognised the reference to Orwell's 1984. He'd used it for inspiration.
"The people are not going to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. We're going to take arms against the sea of troubles and by opposing end them," Legate Warn promised.
Sean snorted and replied; "You neither suffer nor oppose. You just abolish the slings and arrows. It's too easy."
Sean had countered Warn's literary reference with one of his own – Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.
They were interesting works of fiction. Each imagining a future under the rule of a totalitarian party or corporations that control one's every move. 1984 imagined controlling people's thoughts, brainwashing or using fear to engender agreement that 2+2=5. All the more sinister was Brave New World, in which Huxley imagined happiness and stupefaction as the method of control until people didn't even ask the questions anymore.
That was Sean's dream; that he could control the country. President Hump wouldn't live forever and he was the natural successor; forty years younger, the architect of tyranny and purification and the key to ensuring President Hump (and anyone who followed him) would be undefeatable.
"Not as easy as you think," Legate Warn replied thoughtfully.
"If we're done, I should get going. My son is waiting for me and the sooner we get out of this shithole the better," Sean said insultingly.
"I'm sorry," Legate Warn said after a brief pause.
Sean gave Legate Warn a quizzical look – that was a non sequitur. Sean was confused by the regret and remorse in the man's voice. Had he missed something? Sean was about to reply but he bit it back – he'd said enough for one day.
A few hours later he was impatiently marching towards the entrance to the airport, berating his aide back in the Capitol, shooting dirty looks at people who didn't look where he was going and wishing his son didn't look so doped up.
NOT CHECKING IN
The meeting with Legate Warn had really pissed Sean off, making him itchy to get out of state and back to the Capitol. The idiotic Egalitarian Party with their delusions that people should be treated equally with no regard for the simple fact that some people were superior to other people.
Having finished shouting at his aide back in the Capitol, Sean hung up the phone and cast a glance at his son who continued to float along loftily behind him. Sean stopped, now at the entrance to the airport, and looked at his son with a mixture of pride and frustration. At the moment, it was mostly frustration. The boy had no sense of urgency.
"Hurry up, Paul," Sean snapped.
Sean looked at his son who was rolling his eyes. Paul was wearing a tight t-shirt that stretched across his swimmer's physique and shorts that exposed hairless legs. The smooth legs, Sean also attributed to the swim team.
"More hurry, less haste," his son replied lackadaisically.
Sean looked at his watch – they were early for their flight. Sean and Paul had travelled light so they entered the airport with one bag each. Sean was unchaperoned by security – this was a veritable boast on his behalf. Sean was important and powerful - one of the three or four most powerful men in the country – but he was arrogant enough to walk around without security. Sean was untouchable because no-one would dare. His lack of chaperone was just that – a dare to people to come and get him.
Since his business had concluded early and he had been keen to escape, Sean had instructed his aide back in the Capitol to book him the first flight home that he could find. Sean had expected a carbon-spewing, privately-owned, luxury, business-class flight. Instead, Sean found himself travelling on a commercial flight – still business class though.
Sean hadn't flown a commercial flight in years. He handed his tickets to the woman at the desk who took her time inspecting them. He immediately didn't like her. She was a woman for one thing and brown for another – i.e. doubly lazy.
Sean huffed and signed but answered the usual round of questions before being directed to the appropriate terminal for the security check.
"You can now proceed to get checked in. Please have your ID cards ready in addition to your tickets and the boarding pass I've just given you," she said; "And have a very nice day."
She smiled at Sean and it occurred to him that people never smiled at each other like that in the Capitol; well, common, working-class people didn't smile like that. She was happy. That was it, she was happy. This state was like another world where the cloud of High Office hadn't blocked out the sun or started raining yet. A little misery was necessary to control the masses – when he got home, Sean was going to have to do something about the isolated little states that had insulated their people. He couldn't have people smiling and being happy.
"Are you coming, Paul? Or are you staying here?" Sean asked.
"You're the one who hates it here, dad," Paul replied; "I like it."
"What could you possibly like about this place?" Sean asked.
Despite his son's mischievous reply, he quickened his pace to catch up.
"Good drugs. Hot men. Nice weather," Paul replied.
Sean sniggered in response – his son had a point about all three things.
"We have all those things at home," Sean said.
Paul shrugged and they reached the security gate where they were instructed to put their bags on the scanning belt and step through a full-body scanner. Sean stepped through first and he looked back to watch his son gingerly saunter through too.
"Will you hurry the fuck up?" Sean said exasperatedly.
An officer looked between Sean and Paul as he approached them, looking over the shoulder of his co-worker manning the full-body scanner.
"You can hold there, please," the officer directed his instruction to Sean and Paul.
"Excuse me?" Sean replied.
Sean wasn't used to this kind of rigmarole and he had forgotten how pedestrian and pedantic checking in for a regular flight was. He should have just waited for the private jet.
"Please hold there while we check your scans and recheck your bags," the officer said.
"Re-check? Who the hell do you think you are? Do you know who I am?" Sean demanded.
The guard looked at Sean with a don't-give-a-fuck expression. He was a big man of solid muscle, black skin, brown eyes and a happy round face that did not, at this moment, look remotely happy.
"Whoever you are, you can call me Chief Bloom or Sir," Chief Bloom said; "And this will go much faster if you just sit tight and be quiet."
"Dad, just let these..." Paul mimed a wanking gesture; "...(wankers) do their jobs."
Sean snorted at his son – cut from the same mould as his dad, Paul really must be stoned to be so agreeable.
"Fine. Their mediocre little jobs," Sean muttered.
Paul sniggered at the Border and Transport Police (BTP) officers. He wasn't so unlike his dad and he was very chilled out at the moment, euphoric even.
"ID cards, please," demanded Chief Bloom.
"Sure thing, Chief," replied Sean disrespectfully.
Paul handed over his ID card without any sarcasm. Paul's card was scanned first and his picture and details filled the display; surrounded by green indicating a full pass on all credentials. Then Sean's card was scanned.
His picture and details appeared but it was surrounded by a red and yellow border. Chief Bloom looked at Sean, whose bravado was replaced with disbelief. A yellow and red border indicated multiple errors or infractions.
Which was impossible – Sean Mills was the fucking Special Advisor to the President.
"Sir, you have multiple violations on your ID card..." Chief started to say.
"Bull. Shit. Bullshit," Sean interrupted.
Without replying, Chief Bloom theatrically scanned Sean's card again and got the same errors again. The officer looked between the screen and Sean Mills and then tilted his head, his previously unhappy face was replaced with a slight smile.
"Sir, I am detaining you in accordance with the Ingress and Egress Act on suspicion of theft or forgery, misrepresentation and deceptive intent," Chief Bloom said.
"You're not fucking detaining me," Sean spat.
"Dad. Just tell them who you are so we can go home," Paul said – briefly rousing from the stupor he'd been most of the day.
Sean looked at his son and then looked around at the attention they were getting to his outburst. Sean had a bad feeling about this.
"My name is Sean Mills. I am Special Advisor to President Horace Hump, Executive of the High Office," Sean said pompously; "I'm willing to overlook this if you let me board my flight and..."
"You are not going anywhere, Mr Mills," Chief Bloom interrupted – pronouncing his name with exaggeration.
"I don't think you understand," Sean tried to continue.
"I understand that you have what appears to be a forged ID card, which is a crime. Now your spinning a blatantly absurd story about being Special Advisor? As if he would be on a commercial flight?" Chief Bloom said reasonably.
"I was trying to get out of this shithole and my aide in the Capitol is a moron," Sean said.
He'd agreed to the commercial flight for the same reason he declined security – arrogance and hubris. Sean wanted to be able to say he had travelled the same way as regular working-class people; he was just like them and understood their problems.
Or some bullshit like that. People lapped up crap like that, it didn't need to make sense, he just needed to make people think it meant something.
"Right," Chief Bloom replied slowly, drawing the word out into two or three syllables.
Sean could tell he was unconvinced and had to admit, it sounded like the kind of cock and bull story a filthy foreigner or class enemy would make up.
"Mr Mills, your ID card shows signs of digital manipulation consistent with forgery," Chief Bloom explained.
Sean looked at the screen and tried to make sense of how that could be. There were ways to damage an ID card – he'd invented a few himself in order to target and then remove class enemies. An electromagnet could demagnetise... then Sean remembered:
"What I said was... Fuck sake, watch where you're going," Sean spat.
Outside the airport, half an hour ago, the young man had walked into him, looked Sean up and down, sneered and walked on. That was it: the man who had bumped into him must have corrupted the data strip on his ID card. But that meant this whole thing could be a trap.
"Given this fact, I intend to process you under the Prerogative Search Act," Chief Bloom said.
"No. No. You can't do that," Sean said desperately.
"Mr Mills, we both know I can," Chief Bloom replied.
Sean could hear something in the BTP officer's voice. Did the man know he was telling the truth? Then why was he going to continue with the search? Unless this was a trap orchestrated by... who? That weakling Legate Warn?
"I have reason to believe my card was erased deliberately," Sean said.
"Please take off your clothes," Chief Bloom asked as if Sean hadn't spoken.
Sean looked around the Terminal where people were still waiting to be cleared, were in the middle of passing through security checks or were waiting for someone else to clear. Sean didn't dare count but as soon as they knew there was a show, the number would blossom.
He cast a look at Paul too – his son had returned to his faintly glazed expression but through that he was looking at his dad with a mixture of fear and embarrassment. Who wouldn't be embarrassed knowing their daddy was about to be naked in front of them?
"You do not have the authority..." Sean tried to say.
"I have every authority, Mr Mills. If you had concerns about interference with your ID card, you should have informed me immediately. As it is, I have now sanctioned you under the ordinances provided by the Prerogative Search Act and you have no longer have a right to challenge," Chief Bloom said; "If you were really Special Advisor, you'd know that."
"Yes, but those rules weren't intended for people like me. They were meant for monkey's like you," Sean said furiously.
Chief Bloom reached out and grabbed the front of Sean's shirt – Sean had been at arm's length but the grip of the powerful man pulled Sean forward so he stumbled into the solid chest of the muscled Border and Transport Police officer whom he had just racially insulted.
"I told you to take off your clothes," Chief Bloom said gently; "I actually asked really nicely."
The big black man had asked nicely and was still speaking softly but the voice was full of strength and implied threat and Sean knew he was in serious danger if he continued to resist. Sean literally had written the book on how to deal with suspects who did not engage with Prerogative Search.
"Chief Bloom, please just let me go home," Sean pleaded, politely adding; "At least let me call the Capitol, they will vouch for me."
Chief Bloom was unmoved by Sean's attempts to ingratiate himself.
"You are not in control here," said Chief Bloom. "You won't be checking in with anyone, Mr Mills."
"I didn't forge my ID, dammit. It was interfered with. I'm not some imposter or a filthy foreigner," Sean insisted.
"Which is exactly what a filthy foreigner would say if they were trying to stay here illegally," Chief Bloom suggested.
Chief Bloom turned and motioned to two nearby BTP officers. They'd been watching but engaged in other security assessments, besides they knew Chief Bloom could handle anything and if they were needed, he'd tell them. The two young BTP officers in their early twenties and knew Chief Bloom was not one to be crossed.
Chief Bloom had been appointed by High Office – for moments like this where the "woolly headed weaklings" were reluctant to enact the embarrassing criteria of Prerogative Search.
"Smith, Brian... help this motherfucker take his clothes off," Chief Bloom said.
The two officers were uncomfortable. Their state wasn't like others that were in the death grip of High Office; theirs had been substantially insulated and protected by their representatives in government. Their Legates and Prelates represented the Egalitarian Party who complied with the letter of the law but not it's spirit.
For example, the Prerogative Search Act and the others in the Big-Four had discretionary clauses in the extent to which individuals were detained, searched and exposed. They couldn't just ignore the law but BTP officers across the state found many an excuse not to fully realise its mandates. For this reason, states ran by the Egalitarian Party had the lowest processing rate for Prerogative Search; conventional wisdom would say they had the greatest problems with "filthy foreigners" but the opposite was true.
States ran by the Egalitarian Party was more prosperous with lower crime, lower unemployment, better pay, better healthcare...
The generous use of discretion when it came to the Big-Four was exactly why High Office appointed men like Chief Bloom, who made up 20% of the workforce and ensured there was almost always someone on site who would deploy the full cruelty package.
Officers Smith and Brian were very uncomfortable when asked to strip a man and it showed.
"That won't be necessary," Sean said to the pair.
He didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of "helping" him get naked.
"It'll be much easier if you just follow instructions," Chief Bloom said.
Sean pulled the knot of his tie and angrily whipped it out of his collar, tossing it at Officer Smith. Sean took of his suit jacket with equal haste and fury and tossed it to Officer Brian.
A woof whistle caught Sean's attention and he turned in its direction however there were so many people watching it was impossible to tell who had done it. A depressing sense of inevitability had fallen over Sean; he knew the rules better than anyone, he knew the tactics and he knew the options. He had no options.
Sean was unbuttoning his own shirt because he didn't want to give Chief Bloom the satisfaction of having stripped him. Sean's shirt was now opened to reveal a flat chest with a smattering of hair across his sternum that tapered into a narrow line as it cascaded into his toned abdomen. He flexed it and pulled his stomach in for the sake of vanity but Sean really did have good definition on his abs. His abdomen had a scatter of hair around his belly button and a trail of hair that descended into his trousers.
GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT
"Have you seen enough?" Sean asked.
"No!"
"Off! Off! Off!"
"Take it all off!"
The verdict of the people watching him was that they were disappointed with the mere possibility of the show ending so soon.
"It sounds like they want to see more, Mr Mills," Chief Bloom said; "Always give the people what they want."
As an unelected politician, Sean did not agree the people should get what they want.
"I think a complete search is going to be necessary, Mr Mills. Do you need any help continuing because for a moment there you were being so well behaved," Chief Bloom commented.
"No, Sir. I don't need help," Sean said as he unbuckled his belt and pulled open his trousers.
Chief Bloom noticed that Sean had finally called him Sir.
Officers Brian and Smith remained uncomfortable. They derived no satisfaction from any of this and felt Prerogative Search, Indefinite Detention, Compulsory Relocation and Deprivation of Appeal were grotesquely despotic, discriminatory and shockingly authoritarian.
Officer Brian thought only a sick mind could imagine that this was an acceptable way to treat people – national citizens or foreigners.
"If they don't want to be treated like this, they shouldn't come here," say the apologists.
Officer Smith couldn't help but think that if the only solution a government can think of for solving issues of immigration involves human rights abuse, they probably need to think of better solutions.
Nevertheless, neither officer failed to notice that Sean was rather handsome. He had round, smooth shoulders and his collarbone emphasised a kissable neck. The porcelain smoothness contrasted his chest hair – he had more on his chest then his head. Sean was an asshole, but the more clothes that came off, the more he looked like a sexy asshole.
"This is so embarrassing," Paul muttered distantly.
Sean looked at his son sharply but said nothing; he didn't want to drag the boy into this. Sean wanted to chastise his son – embarrassing for him?! But looking at it from the teenager's point of view, watching your dad get stripped probably was embarrassing.
Sean had opened his trousers to reveal his underwear but the peeled his shoes and socks off before going farther. He stood in bare feet on the cool floor and watched Officer Smith picked up the footwear and put them into a box that was now being held by Officer Brian. The shoes were slipped into the bottom of the box and his shirt, tie and suit jacket – all very expensive - were placed on top.
Sean pulled his belt from the waist of his trousers and added to the box.
"This is the good bit!"
The spectators were kept at a distance but more people were arriving for their security check, which pushed the spectators who were already there forward a few steps until the audience was several rows deep. More and more people were loitering to continue watching what was happening to Sean.
This was the whole point of making Prerogative Search public - to humiliate and exhibit people. To lower their status as citizens or to dehumanise – literally to remove their humanity. You can't treat people like this but filthy foreigners or class enemies? They aren't people!
There was an insatiable and inexplicable satisfaction derived from watching others suffer like this. Sean just hoped his suffering would end with nudity; he knew there were many more ways to humiliate someone using the ordinances in Prerogative Search.
Sean undid his trousers and pushed them down his legs. He was a keen cyclist so his legs were lean, strong and feathery. Sean casually looked at his son's legs which were poking out of his shorts. They were more tanned but skinnier with not even a hint of stubble.
Paul's legs reminded Sean of a boy he'd met a year ago at a party at President Hump's More K Ozeru resort. The things he did to that kid... well, it's a good thing High Office were lax on sexual consent legislation.
Standing in his boxers in the middle of the busy terminal was embarrassing but Sean's bravado wouldn't allow him to show it. He flung his trousers at Officers Smith and Brian – his expensive, tailored trousers that probably cost more than those lowly working-class oafs earned in a month.
"Everything," Chief Bloom said simply.
Sean clenched his jaw and scowled before hooking his hands into his underwear and pushing them down. The moment they hit the floor, the clapping started – slow and mocking but then with increased fervour. Sean had covered his gentiles but his bare ass was still on show.
Sean kicked his underwear towards the BTP officers who added them to the pile of clothes in the box like a cherry on top. Sean hated the attention and looking around he could see hundreds of people who weren't even trying to hide that they were recording him.
It was going to be difficult to return to work and command respect after this. Everything Sean had worked for was at stake. Sean was forty years younger than President Horace Hump – he needed the old man for one more election but he had already been dosing him with potassium and other heart-compromising drugs. In less than two years Sean had planned to have bumped the old bastard off.
Standing naked in the airport and being checked out by hundreds of people was just a setback, Sean told himself.
"Great," said Chief Bloom with a delighted clap of his hands; "And now the boy."
"I'm sorry, what?" Sean asked with surprise.
"What? Fuck no, I'm not doing that!" the teenager said.
"Oh, I sympathise that it might be embarrassing..." Chief Bloom said unsympathetically.
"And unnecessary. My ID is the one that failed, not Paul's. Just leave my son alone," Sean said.
"Pleading for clemency, Mr Mills?" asked Officer Brian dryly.
"Does excessive pleading ever work in a state run by the Orthodox Party? Or the Capitol?" asked Officer Smith rhetorically.
Despite their comments, the two officers felt stabs of guilt that Chief Bloom was going to oversee the humiliation of the kid too. There was a certain irony to Special Advisor Sean Mills asking for mercy for his son. Yet Officers Brian and Smith had recognised that Paul shared his father's arrogant swagger and tried, unsuccessfully, to console themselves with this.
"Please don't do this to me," Paul pleaded with wide, dilated eyes.
"The Prerogative Search Act, section nine..." Sean started to say, thinking of any way to spare his son the same indignity he had just faced.
"I'm going to stop you right there," Chief Bloom said; "I'm sure you think we are just being punitive, Mr Mills. However, we have a very good reason for searching your son."
"What reason? Why would you possibly want to strip a sixteen-year-old boy naked in public?" Sean asked.
It sounded so lewd and perverted – Sean regretted phrasing it like that.
"Dad! I'm nearly seventeen," Paul protested.
The kid was missing the point a little.
"Because he's smuggling drugs," Chief Bloom said.
"Smuggling..." snorted Sean.
He looked at Paul whose eyes were now downcast and he looked guilty. It struck Sean that the boy had been spaced out and detached and it was exactly the kind of stupid thing he had done in High School. Fuck!
"Let's see the cute one naked."
"Hurry up. Get it off."
"Let's see your dicks, guys."
The spectators were buzzing with excitement.
"Son, please tell me you weren't stupid enough to smuggle drugs?" Sean asked.
"In fact, as he passed though the full-body scan, the biometric transponder detected atypical pupil reactions consistent with him being under the influence of illegal substances right now. Which would also be a crime," Chief Bloom needlessly added.
"I'm not high!" Paul squeaked.
"Anymore, you mean. You're coming down but you're still under the influence," Officer Smith chipped in.
"Which would be the illegal part," Officer Brian stated.
"And the stuff you've got shoved in your ass, obviously," Smith said.
"Well that goes without saying," Officer Brian chimed in conversationally.
"Actually, we have to say that," Officer Smith said.
"Are you two having fun? At my son's expense?" Sean asked darkly.
However, it was hard to sound authoritative when you were naked in public, cupping your flaccid penis and testes and being recorded by strangers.
"A little bit, yea. If you're the real Sean Mills you'll know that kind of the point," Officer Brian said blandly.
Officers Brian and Smith felt those familiar stabs of guilt at enjoying Sean's discomfort and revelling in the impending humiliation of Paul Mills too but there was something to be said for just rewards.
"I am the real Sean Mills and I will not allow..." Sean said.
"You have literally no choice, Mr Mills. You have no power, not authority and no say in this matter," Chief Bloom interrupted; "As I'm sure you're aware."
Sean eyed the big black man and the bad feeling returned. The feeling that this was all a trap.
Being forced to strip naked in public had distracted him but now Sean thought about it, it made perfect sense. But that would mean they knew who he was and they'd always known. That made sense too – this was an attack on him, on High Office, on the Prerogative Search Act.
Was that the goal here?
To make Sean see the error of his ways? Fat chance!
Was it pure luck that the right circumstances had presented themselves and someone taken the opportunity? Legate Warn had tried to dissuade Sean from extending the powers that allowed this like this to happen and now Sean was being hoisted by his own petard.
"I think you have delayed things quite enough, Mr Mills," Chief Bloom said, tilting his head at Officer Smith.
"Mr Mills, you were stopped for a fraudulent ID card," Officer Smith said; "Your processing under the Prerogative Search Act will continue momentarily and in parallel with your son."
"Paul Mills, your biometric scan produced results consistent with being under the influence of controlled substances and smuggling controlled substances," Officer Brian said officiously. "I now intend to process you under the Prerogative Search Act.".
"Woo hoo!"
"Strip him."
"Daddy and son time!"
Paul tried to tune out the excited commentary from the audience.
"I... I can't do that," Paul said desperately.
Officer Brian watched Paul's face and almost felt sorry for the boy. He had to remind himself that the boy was an arrogant, entitled, racist, little thug as well – not that that excused abusing the lad.
Chief Bloom had far less reservations about doing this to a teenager.
"That's ok, son," Chief Bloom said patronisingly; "If you're uncomfortable you don't need to take your own clothes off."
Paul and Sean looked hopefully at the Border and Transport Police Chief whose grin offered a total lack of reassurance.
"In accordance with the Participation Amendment, your dad will help you," Chief Bloom dropped the bombshell; "Sean, take off your son's clothes for him."
TO BE CONCLUDED...
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Stories so far by J. Forrester:
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#jforrester
Chronological order: School Exhibitionism, The Symposium, The Embarrassment of Riches, Do As You're Told, Anthology.
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