Nothing to Declare
by Cal Wallace
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Selina takes a nerve-jangling journey.
_____________________________________________________________________
Selina disboards the plane and follows the tunnelled walkway into the airport. Welcome to Canada adorns the curving wall in huge red letters next to a maple leaf.
The steady stream of fellow travellers slows to a halt at the queue for Passport Control. Selina senses her heart rate increase slightly. She shows no outward signs of anxiety, though she knows the effect of the betablockers will have worn off by now.
She begins taking slow, deep breaths, just as Martin had advised. Her enhanced breasts make her feel top-heavy, as they stretch the fabric of her blouse with each expansion of her chest.
She'd been apprehensive at first. It was a dangerous operation and Martin knew it. But he'd worn down her resistance with his countless telephone calls, pleading with her to do it just for him. And it was the thought of seeing him again, so soon, that had made her determined to go through with it.
He'd been anxious that she make it over in time for Burns night. He was to host the supper for the local appreciation society and he wanted Selina to join him.
The queue moves slowly a few steps at a time. As she waits, Selina thinks back to the start of her journey – Aberdeen, the previous day. It seems like a lifetime ago that she'd approached that check-in desk.
'Did you pack these bags yourself?' the girl had asked. Selina looked at the painted doll behind the counter, catching a waft of Chanel.
'Yes.'
'And has your luggage been left unattended at any time?'
'No.'
The girl fastened an adhesive label to the handle of each bag, before activating the conveyor. She took a boarding pass from the printer, and handed it to Selina along with her passport.
'Departure gate seventeen,' she smiled.
Selina took them, her hand steady as a rock. Inside, she was crumbling.
The x-ray machine's not a problem, and she has nothing to fear from the walk-through metal-detector, but waiting her turn to be patted down by the zealous butch female at the departure gate has her rigid with terror. If she was to be exposed by those probing hands...
She fights an impulse to retreat, to run to a washroom. There are eyes and ears everywhere in the airport Martin had warned her. She must retain her demeanour at all times.
To her relief, she's waved through with no more than a brief frisking. She vents a long sigh as she flops down onto a seat in the departure lounge, and waits for the call to board.
***
Now she stands once more. A different country. A different queue. At the desk, a serious-looking official compares Selina's six-year-old passport photograph with her pallid flesh.
'Okay,' he smiles suddenly, hands the passport back to her, 'enjoy your stay.'
At Customs and Excise she opts for Nothing to Declare. Her heart lurches at the sight of the two grimfaced men, who scrutinise each traveller, in turn. Selina gets ready with her best smile, but the men are not interested in her. Liberated, she heads for Baggage Collection.
Martin waits for her outside in a hired car. She gets in and he leans across until their lips touch. He cups a hand over her breast, squeezing gently.
'Hmm, nice,' he says. Can't wait to see them.'
Inside his apartment, Selina removes her coat then joins Martin in the kitchen. He hands her a glass of champagne, then, impatiently, takes it back and sets it on the table.
'Come on then,' he says, 'get them out.'
'Okay,' she agrees, eager to unburden herself. She pulls her top off and drops it on a chair. Martin holds both cups of her sports-bra in his hands, as Selina unhitches the catch at the back.
He takes it off, carefully, and places it on the counter. Selina unpeels the sticky tapes from inside each cup, to release the contents.
'Oh, yes, Babe,' Martin declares, 'you're a star!' He holds up a plump, five-hundred gram package in each hand.
'Wow,' he declares, 'these little beauties'll go down a treat at the Burns Society supper.' Reading from the label of one, he quotes:
"One-Hundred-Percent Genuine Scottish Haggis. Not for export."
Swearwords: None.
Description: Selina takes a nerve-jangling journey.
_____________________________________________________________________
Selina disboards the plane and follows the tunnelled walkway into the airport. Welcome to Canada adorns the curving wall in huge red letters next to a maple leaf.
The steady stream of fellow travellers slows to a halt at the queue for Passport Control. Selina senses her heart rate increase slightly. She shows no outward signs of anxiety, though she knows the effect of the betablockers will have worn off by now.
She begins taking slow, deep breaths, just as Martin had advised. Her enhanced breasts make her feel top-heavy, as they stretch the fabric of her blouse with each expansion of her chest.
She'd been apprehensive at first. It was a dangerous operation and Martin knew it. But he'd worn down her resistance with his countless telephone calls, pleading with her to do it just for him. And it was the thought of seeing him again, so soon, that had made her determined to go through with it.
He'd been anxious that she make it over in time for Burns night. He was to host the supper for the local appreciation society and he wanted Selina to join him.
The queue moves slowly a few steps at a time. As she waits, Selina thinks back to the start of her journey – Aberdeen, the previous day. It seems like a lifetime ago that she'd approached that check-in desk.
'Did you pack these bags yourself?' the girl had asked. Selina looked at the painted doll behind the counter, catching a waft of Chanel.
'Yes.'
'And has your luggage been left unattended at any time?'
'No.'
The girl fastened an adhesive label to the handle of each bag, before activating the conveyor. She took a boarding pass from the printer, and handed it to Selina along with her passport.
'Departure gate seventeen,' she smiled.
Selina took them, her hand steady as a rock. Inside, she was crumbling.
The x-ray machine's not a problem, and she has nothing to fear from the walk-through metal-detector, but waiting her turn to be patted down by the zealous butch female at the departure gate has her rigid with terror. If she was to be exposed by those probing hands...
She fights an impulse to retreat, to run to a washroom. There are eyes and ears everywhere in the airport Martin had warned her. She must retain her demeanour at all times.
To her relief, she's waved through with no more than a brief frisking. She vents a long sigh as she flops down onto a seat in the departure lounge, and waits for the call to board.
***
Now she stands once more. A different country. A different queue. At the desk, a serious-looking official compares Selina's six-year-old passport photograph with her pallid flesh.
'Okay,' he smiles suddenly, hands the passport back to her, 'enjoy your stay.'
At Customs and Excise she opts for Nothing to Declare. Her heart lurches at the sight of the two grimfaced men, who scrutinise each traveller, in turn. Selina gets ready with her best smile, but the men are not interested in her. Liberated, she heads for Baggage Collection.
Martin waits for her outside in a hired car. She gets in and he leans across until their lips touch. He cups a hand over her breast, squeezing gently.
'Hmm, nice,' he says. Can't wait to see them.'
Inside his apartment, Selina removes her coat then joins Martin in the kitchen. He hands her a glass of champagne, then, impatiently, takes it back and sets it on the table.
'Come on then,' he says, 'get them out.'
'Okay,' she agrees, eager to unburden herself. She pulls her top off and drops it on a chair. Martin holds both cups of her sports-bra in his hands, as Selina unhitches the catch at the back.
He takes it off, carefully, and places it on the counter. Selina unpeels the sticky tapes from inside each cup, to release the contents.
'Oh, yes, Babe,' Martin declares, 'you're a star!' He holds up a plump, five-hundred gram package in each hand.
'Wow,' he declares, 'these little beauties'll go down a treat at the Burns Society supper.' Reading from the label of one, he quotes:
"One-Hundred-Percent Genuine Scottish Haggis. Not for export."
About the Author
Cal Wallace was born in Glasgow and is now based in Aberdeenshire, where he writes quirky short stories and dreams of publishing a novel