It had started as a genuine vacation, his first time out of the country, but one thing led to another and, before he knew it, he was inside a drug den being prepped to swallow a stomachful of illicit exports. On paper, it was easy money to take his flight back home and then make the deposit in the natural way. The reality of how stupid this was to get involved in had slapped him hard as he found himself standing in the airport customs inspection line with beads of flop sweat running over his sunburn. More than just nerves made his stance so awkward, as he was also trying vainly to disguise something else from prying eyes: his hard-on.
The drug landscape and, indeed the world at large, had shifted drastically with the introduction of Q, a synthetic so potent it made the old stables of coke, heroin, etc. irrelevant. It worked on the nervous, endocrine, and reproductive systems to rewire the body so that sex, and acquiring more Q, became its sole drive. If a user survived the ravages of their now supercharged libido, the physical alterations Q could induce were drastic, even grotesque, as bodies were reshaped in pursuit of extreme eroticism.
The first sign of trouble had come when his erection roused itself after a session of staring at the attendant as she moved through the aisle. That was normal enough, but he became worried when it declined to dissipate despite vigorous personal attention applied in the plane's bathroom. One of the packages of Q stuffed inside of him must have ruptured en route! The bulge inside his boxers only became more pronounced as the flight went on, his balls feeling more full than ever and his pants seam straining as his shaft sprouted additional inches, throbbing with each pulse of growth adding to his girth.
He could feel his pants getting tighter by the moment now, as the line moved painfully slow. Even small doses of Q had powerful effects, what was going to happen to him if all of that got into his system?
Making things more difficult were the Sniffers, women so addled by Q addiction that they had lost nearly all of their humanity, reduced to a slavering puppet of mindless hedonism and insatiable drive to get more of the drug. Sad cases like these were so widespread that border control agencies had taken to using them in place of dogs, with startling effectiveness as their instinctual compulsion and adaptation to suss out the smallest quantities of Q proved their merits against smuggling.
Ahead of him in the queue, a woman withered as a sniffer roved its groping hands across her body before the thing's handler gave a tug on its short leash. Its eyes, undoubtedly bloodshot by the small amount of Q handed out to keep it docile, were covered by a leather-like mask, matching the black bodysuit which struggled to contain the plump curves of its ample assets within the studded harness it wore.
It was a disturbing sight, the lurching motion as it went from one person to the next, sniffing at the air along the way and panting with its tongue hanging out, leaving a trail of saliva dripping onto the floor in its wake. Its desperation to find Q filled him with dread, but there was nowhere to run to.
The closer it got to him, the more excited it became, nipples becoming visible under the tight latex covering its bust. The handler in her white button-down uniform was having a hard time restraining the sniffer. It nearly yanked free as it was his turn for inspection, a lurid grin on its face as it invaded his space, pressing its body against his, warm breath cascading onto him in huffs. He recoiled as it slurped the side of his face.
"Excuse me, sir," the handler said, "I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the line."