As chance had it, Sam made it through security at San Juan Luis Munoz Martin airport. Pam, however, was flagged, and asked to step aside for a complete inspection. Sam tried insinuating himself, in his mealy mouthed, obnoxious manner, protesting that he's her husband and yakking something or other about what needed or needn't be done. The jibaroos in matching hats didn't seem like they could care less. Their story was that the drug dog had "signalled", and they were sticking to it, the absurdity of someone smuggling drugs into Puerto Rico notwithstanding.
Pam was led by one bodinki to a curtained off area where another waited with her luggage. This contemporary Telesterion was roped off, which sufficed to discourage Sam from straggling along, but they didn't bother pulling in the curtains, so he watched from a safe distance across the impenetrable barrier brought into physical being by a thin strip of cheap but colorful synthetic fabric. The men insistently but disinterestedly went through every stitch of her packed clothing, taking their time with her swimwear and the vaguely racy set of lace underwear Pam had apparently bought for the trip -- Sam hadn't ever seen it before. They also went through all her various bottles, vials, flasks, recipients, containers etcetera. It's not readily believable how many different flavourings of margarine the average thirty year old perceives she must carry on her person. At long last a third was called, and the luggage got ferried away to be loaded into the boat.
Sam thought they were done, but Sam was wrong as usual. The dog was brought, an ugly mutt of indistinct parentage. He took his sweet time sniffing away at Pam, and eventually the older (and therefore senior) porqin explained to her that the dog is smelling something, so she'll have to remove her clothes.
Pam, getting ever more nervous throughout the adventure, had finally arrived at the point of shaking. She asked for a female official, to which they replied that there aren't any currently available, and she'll have to wait until one returns from lunch break, supposedly three to four hours later. Apparently chewing an adequate pile of fat fried pork rinds takes a very long time.
Pam looked at Sam across the magical length of string. Sam looked at Pam, across ad idem. Their ship left in about two hours. They were going to miss it, unless... Perhaps they could catch up to it at St. Thomas, if they sprung to charter another boat, or perhaps a small plane. The thought made Sam frown just as Pam was offering an obsequious "Ok, let's get this over with." Sam imagined Pam noticed his frowning, and interpreted it as his being angry with her. Sam further imagined this were the driver of her submission. It is very cheap to imagine things, and with a little practice one can get these imaginations to always enthrone the self in the very center, as the locus of all causation and all explanation. Why not, after all, it's just like watching TV except without any outside advertising.
Sam blushed with the unconscious, or rather, repressed, anticipation of his wife stripping for some strange monkeys on some island somewhere. One of them pulled a curtain over the fourth wall, somewhat blocking Sam's view. It didn't close all the way, however, but left a three or four inch gap on the side. He could clearly see Pam starting to unbutton her blouse. He tried to position himself so as to block the gap in the curtains, but owing to his insufficient stature and the very sufficient distance provided by the impassible rope barrier his chivalry was a doomed entreprise.
Pam removed her blouse and handed it over, a healthy blush in her cheek. They briefly looked at the item, passing it back and forth before settling it in some kind of colorful plastic basket just as she was removing her shorts. Sam noticed there were other small gaps in the curtains here and there, and they were drawing a small crowd of gawkers, tapping excitedly on their badly designed squarish pieces of plastic with gsm modems attached.
There she stood, in her plain bra and cotton panties, Sam's wife, Pam. She seemed to think she's done, but much to her surprise they weren't about to hand anything back. The show wasn't yet over, and as one man barked they've not got all day. Pam hesitantly reached for the clasp and undid her bra. She slid it off her arms and handed it into expectant hands, only to be passed back and forth and placed eventually in the same colorful basket. As far as Sam could feverishly recall, this was the very first time another man had seen Pam's bosom bare. There was a slight woo from the photoreporters of the future crowd, and then it came time for her panties.
Pam simply pushed them down her smooth legs and stepped out. Her tits dangled enticingly as she bent over to pick them up. Her fresh Brazilian job did Wisconsin proud. She looked good in it, apt, able, competent. Nobody could tell it was her very first time. It had taken considerable prodding from him, Sam thought, yet scarcely could he imagine at the time she'd be putting her baby-smooth slit on full display in front of strangers gathered at will. Or rather, that's what Sam'd have said.
Pam spent a little while naked, shivering with nervous excitement, while a third man brought over a vial half-filled with some sort of clear liquid. They snipped a thread from inside her panties and placed it inside. The whole thing turned a bright, scarlet sort of pink, at which point they informed Pam that since her clothes tested positive they'll have to do a cavity search.
Pam started to object, but they pointed out to her that she has the right to refuse, in which case she will be arrested and tested in custody. Pam took remarkably little time to agree to this latest invasion of her privacy. She put her hands behind her head as instructed, and a moment later a couple of fingers were finding their way inside her vagina. Pam moaned slightly, eyes closed. The ad-hoc inspection official ignored her anus and instead moved on to fondling her breasts. Pam protested, pointing out that her breasts are not cavities, but he returned that they might be fake and he had to make sure. Sam noticed he definitely took his time, even tugging on the nipples repeatedly, and alternatively, no doubt making sure no nerve endings were damaged in the putative plastic surgery.
Sam was already half hard, which was an accomplishment for him in any case. By the time the third man proceeded to inspect his wife six minutes later however he was sporting a tent of such fury it was beginning to distract the focus of the gawker group. Apparently the democratic institutions are so very strong in Puerto Rico, even cavity searches are done in the tribal fashion.
Pam stood there, bare feet on the institutional plastic carpet, palms locked behind her head, while a number of men fondled her pussy. They played with her clit, they toyed with her nipples, they made various remarks about her body shape, skin marks, attitude and posture. The crowd of gawkers kept slowly growing throughout the procedure, by now counting many dozens. They were becoming slightly vociferous, so one of the inspectors had to come out and tell them to move on. He didn't bother pulling in the curtain at all on his return, however, making the point of the exercise perhaps disjoint from its actual effects.
Eventually the airport ran out of interested males to conduct further assays on Pam. She asked for her clothes back, but they told her that they were sent to the lab for analysis, and that she'll receive replacement garments. Pam stood, naked, while the crowd kept hissing suggestions at her, trying to get her to turn this way or that, or move her arms. Eventually a cheap peasant blouse and a short skirt, both plain white, made their way over in an unsealed plastic bag. No bra was included, nor any panties. Her purse and passport were returned shortly thereafter, and a moment later Pam and Sam, hand in hand, were hurrying towards the exit, silently.