Anne posted her story to the original Strip-searched group; 
it appeared in August 2002.  This version was edited, with 
permission, for SS2, in February 2006.  

After reading this, go on to Joe Goe's "Note to...Anne" also 
in this folder.  -- C.L.




                    MY BIRTHDAY SUIT
                      A True Story
                       
                           by

                          Anne



This is something that happened to me when I was 23.  (I'm now in 
my mid 30s.)  And I'll always remember it like it was yesterday.  
My first knowledge of strip searches was a "Time" magazine article 
I saw as a kid.  It tells of tens of thousands, if not hundreds of 
thousands, of women across the country who were completely strip 
searched and often internally probed while being detained (often 
not even being arrested, just held) for the most minor reasons.  
And it was usually females, almost never men, which led me to the 
conclusion that, since most police are men (especially those in 
policy-making roles), they mostly do it because they get off on the 
idea of women going through this.  I've always held this opinion 
(and I know I'm not alone), and this notion definitely added to my 
experience when it happened.  Anyway, on to my story.
 
I had gotten a ticket for going across a double yellow line.  For 
multiple reasons, I very uncharacteristically didn't take care of 
it in time, and it turned into an arrest warrant.  When I got the 
warrant in the mail, I took it and the ticket with me to work the 
next day since the police station wasn't far out of my way, and I 
would go in after work to pay it in person and be done with it.
It had been so long since I'd read the ticket, and I didn't bother
reading all of the warrant once I saw what it was.  So I didn't
know to pay it at the courthouse and not the police station.  Well,
you guessed it.  To make a long story short, they took who they
saw as the girl dumb enough to march into a police station waving
her arrest warrant and arrested her.  It was what normal procedure
called for, and with typical cop bureaucracy, no one would take the
initiative or responsibility to handle it any other way.

To calm my anxiety, they said that, by the time the case came
before a judge, I would have already paid the ticket, and, with my
having no prior record, the judge would certainly dismiss it, and
it wouldn't go on my record.  So, no, they said, we're not going 
to put you in a cell with real criminals, and there won't be any
community service or fines except the cost of the ticket itself 
(and a late fine).  We'll just process you and send you on your 
way.  

So a cop led me to a seat and took my ID along with the ticket and 
warrant and started some paperwork, calling out to me from where 
he was working things like, "Is this still your correct address?" 
and stuff like that.  They didn't handcuff me and overall were 
being pretty congenial.  (It wasn't until the next day that I 
realized that at no point did they read me my rights.  Oh, well.)
Then he walked over and gave my ticket and ID back (he kept the
warrant) and walked away.  I was left to just sit there for a
couple of minutes wondering what more this would entail.  I thought
of having my picture taken while holding up a sign with a number 
on it like in the movies (which didn't happen) or of being
fingerprinted (which did).

A policewoman walked briskly into the room and, stopping in front
of me, said my name.  When I acknowledged that that was me, she
said, "Come with me."  She seemed pretty no-nonsense and 
by-the-book.  Instead of having me follow her, she waited for me
to get up and turn down the hall she just came from, then walked
behind me, like she didn't want me to bolt for the door or 
anything.  

Now, when she first came into the room and called my name, all the 
other cops (and all but one were male) seemed to look up knowingly, 
just a little.  Though nobody overtly made any wolfish whistles or 
anything, I thought I heard little comments ("mm hmm" and "yeah") 
under their breaths and to each other.  This, plus the fact that it 
was a female cop now taking charge of me, gave me my first inkling 
of what just might be going to happen.  As these thoughts were 
starting to come together, and I had gone a little way down the 
hall, she told me to stop.  She opened the door I had just passed 
on the left and held it open for me to go in.

Now, the weird thing was that the door had a glass pane in it, but
had cardboard taped over it on the inside.  Noticing this, I was 
immediately reminded of college, where the fine arts building had 
a couple of doors treated the same way because they had nude models 
posing for life drawing and painting classes inside.  With all of 
these thoughts coming together, I just froze in front of the door 
in shock for a second.

"Well, c'mon," she said, firmly.

As I walked past her, she asked for my purse, and I handed it to
her.  She closed and locked the door.  She pointed to a table
against the wall on the right and told me to stand on the other
side of it.  I went around it and turned to face her (thus facing
the door).  She, on the other side of the table, opened my purse
and said, "Go ahead and take your coat off.  Put it on the table."
Her tone sounded like she just wanted me to be comfortable while
she checked my purse.  Maybe that's all she'll do, I thought, and
at the most just frisk me.  So I took off my coat and put it on 
the table.

As soon as I put it on the table, she said, "Go ahead and take
off any jewelry and put it on the table."

"OH MY GOD," I thought, it might actually happen. A strip search. 
You should know that I'm shy and self-conscious about my body.  
Kind of slowly and mechanically I took my necklace off, put it on 
the table, undid my earrings and put those on the table.  By now 
she was done with my purse; she was quick.  She folded her arms 
and looked at me and said, "Now go ahead and put your clothes on 
the table."

After a second I nervously quipped, "That means I'll have to take
them off."  

She just said, "Mm hmm," affirmatively and stood there with her 
arms folded.

OK, I thought, it's really happening to me. Strip searches were
just something in the news that you never think would happen to
you.  And so, I commenced to strip in front of her.  I don't mean
undress, I mean strip.  You see, to me, undressing is a word for,
say, getting ready to step into the shower at home.  But in an
unfamiliar environment, in front of a stranger, with no screen to
stand behind, not prepared for it when I got up that morning like
a doctor's appointment, being told (not asked) to take my clothes
off -- that's not "undressing," that is "stripping."

I can remember the feeling of every button passing through my
fingers as I undid my blouse.  I slipped it off to reveal my
pasty-white skin.  I distinctly remember wondering whether to fold
my clothes or just throw them on the table.  They were my office
clothes, not just jeans and all, and habit told me to neatly fold
them, but I didn't know if that would use up her patience and piss
her off.  There seemed to be some kind of dignity salvaged if I
folded them as I normally would, but that would only keep it from
being over as soon as possible, so what do I do?  Habit won out,
and I carefully folded my blouse and put it on the table.

Again, I couldn't help pausing before going on, standing there in
my bra.  After saying, "This is SO demeaning," because I felt I 
had to say something at that point, I started undoing my slacks 
and pulling them down.  I then realized I had not taken my shoes 
off yet, so I just tugged my slacks off over them.  I folded them 
and put them on the table.  I keenly felt the cool air against all 
that skin that had been covered all day until now.  By now I was
thinking, "She just said 'put your clothes on the table,' not
'strip naked' or anything like that.  She could very well mean 
just my outer clothes."

So, standing there in my bra, pantyhose, and shoes (still having 
my semi-high heels on while in my underwear increased the feeling 
of being "on display"), I just sort of turned my palms forward with 
a meek smile as if to say, "There you go.  My clothes are off."

She just looked at me with her arms folded and said, "Did I say to
stop?"

I thought that, if I'm going to make some kind of stand, the time
is now.  I put my hands on my hips in a gesture of defiance, but,
being in my underwear, that only made me feel silly.  I thought of
saying all the things women in my position would have said -- is
this really necessary, what more could I possibly be hiding, I'll
sue, do I look like the kind of person who would be hiding weapons
or drugs, and since I didn't plan on being arrested today why would
I conceal something so deeply, etc.

But all of those things seemed pretty futile.  It struck me that by
now police departments would know what they could and couldn't get
away with when strip searching, without triggering legitimate 
lawsuits.

Plus, I didn't want to piss her off and make the situation worse.
Also, not only was she a cop, but I was in my underwear, and she
wasn't.  I can tell you that this didn't exactly make me feel like
I had the psychological upper hand.

So I just ended up saying, "All this for a traffic ticket?"

She replied that this isn't just a matter of a traffic violation
anymore -- I was now UNDER ARREST, and this is standard procedure.
She finished by saying, "C'mon -- into your birthday suit."

My "birthday suit."

I hadn't heard that expression since I was a little kid.  There 
was just something about my being naked being referred to that 
way, and her smart-alecky attitude, that hit me and made me 
realize that this tense feeling I had wasn't only from nervousness. 
I realized I was finding my exposure and embarrassment arousing.
It was maybe in the back of my mind since I froze in front of 
the door, but I only realized it now.  From this point on, I 
went with it, and anything I did or said, and all of my reactions 
to her orders, would be based on trying to increase this feeling. 
My nudity-embarrassment fetish was born at that moment.

Normally I would slip my bra straps off my shoulders, slide
it around from back to front, and undo the clasps in front for
the sake of convenience.  But now I slowly reached back and, 
jutting my chest out, I fumbled with the hooks until I had them 
undone.  After slipping it off and throwing it on the table, my 
hands shot up and cupped over my breasts as if I couldn't help 
myself, though I knew I would have to immediately continue.

I had one of those awkward smiles you wear because you're so
uncomfortable you can't think of any other expression.  I brought
my hands down to my pantyhose, letting my boobies in all their
glory flop free. I slowly slid my thumbs into the waistband and
started working them down.  They were just above my knees when I
realized -- I did it again!  I still have my shoes on!  I awkwardly
squatted, my halfway-down pantyhose binding my legs together, and 
took off my shoes.  I took my pantyhose the rest of the way off and 
put them on the clothes pile.  At that point she asked me if I was 
menstruating, and I said no.  Then I bent back down, grabbed my 
shoes, and put them on the table.

I looked up, and our eyes met.  She was still just standing there
with her arms folded, but now she seemed to be amused at my
awkward, fumbling demeanor.  She had a bemused smirk on her face
like she was thinking, "Boy, you see all types in this line of
work."

There was only one piece left. I heaved a "here goes" sigh and slid
my panties down and off.  Onto the table they went.  And that 
left me there in all my glory -- in my "birthday suit."  I'll 
never forget that moment.  It wasn't that I didn't happen to have 
anything on, like how you would feel at home; instead I was NUDE
in every sense of the word.  That's the only way I can describe it.

As soon as I put my panties on the table she said, "Go stand in
that corner facing the wall," pointing to the corner farthest from
her.  Standing naked was one thing, but walking across the room and
feeling my breasts bounce and ass jiggle as my feet hit the hard
floor was a new sensation.  Like I was parading around nude.  I got
to the wall and, just like when I was in trouble as a little girl,
I had to stand in the corner.  Well, I'm in trouble and in the
corner again, but now I'm an adult, and I'm bare-assed naked. Go 
figure.  When I sneaked a look around I saw she was going through 
my clothes.  The rationale behind this procedure came to me then -- 
we're locked in this room, and since they'll be occupied going
through the clothes, they want plenty of reaction time if the
arrestee rushes them while their attention is diverted.  (Someone
I've talked to since then who would know about these things
confirmed that.)

Anyway, though I by now realized I was getting a kinky thrill from 
my embarrassment, I didn't want her to know that -- that would be
just too weird for me.  So, feeling like I should act like anyone
naked in front of a stranger would act, I reached back and crossed
my palms over my pudgy, pasty-white butt that was protruding back
toward her.  But, of course, my hands didn't cover the entire
surface area, and, thinking that my butt-crack was the most 
intimate and "nasty" part, I arranged my hands vertically, down 
the center of my ass, leaving my cheeks mostly uncovered.  I 
enjoyed the awkwardness of all this fumbling around, so I moved 
them back to the crossed position, then back over the crack, as 
if I couldn't make up my mind.

Of course, it was all silly and futile because she'll be seeing 
everything there is to see in a minute, and I felt more 
self-conscious than if I wasn't trying to cover myself -- 
but that was exactly the feeling I wanted.

It was then that I wondered for the first time how far the search
would go.  Would she make me spread my vagina and/or butt-cheeks
for a visual inspection?  Would I get either or both orifices
physically probed?

The feeling of someone examining your clothes, down to your
panties, when you're not in them really increases your feeling 
of vulnerability -- as if they don't really belong to you 
anymore, and you'll get them back if and when the other person 
decides.

After taking about sixty seconds for her to do this -- again, she
was quick -- she said, "OK, come here."  I turned around and,
continuing the futile covering-myself-up theme, I put one arm
over my breasts and cupped the other hand over my genitals and 
walked toward her.  

Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle.

She had stepped out from behind the table and, coming forward a
step or two, tapped the floor in the middle of the room with her
toe and, in her smart-ass way, said, "Take center stage."  Just
like her command about the birthday suit had had an effect on me,
this one too really did it for me.  It's hard to explain, but, 
her using that phrase really made me feel the center of attention 
in my nudity more than anything else I could think of her saying.

I stepped up to where she indicated, covering myself, as she took 
a couple of steps back, facing me.  So much for the strip part, 
now for the search part.  She gave her commands quickly and 
decisively, like she was following a set routine.  For the first 
set of instructions, she demonstrated the moves, like a coach in 
front of her gym class, leading them in their exercises.

"Put your arms out."  She had her arms forward, palms down.  I 
did the same.

"Palms up."  She rotated her arms.  I did the same.

Crossing her hands behind her head and pivoting slightly at the
hips from side to side, she said, "Lemme see your armpits."  I 
did so.

Not actually touching her breasts, but holding her hands just in
front of them, she said, "Lift up your breasts."  I simply cupped
my hands under my breasts and pushed upwards.  "No! I need to see
under them!  Like this!"  I did it again, this time touching just
below my nipples with my fingertips and pulling upwards, like she
demonstrated.

"Turn around."  Is this going to be the big moment?  Not yet.  I
was told to lift my hair up so she could see my neck and upper
back beneath it.  Then I had to lift up my right foot and show her
the bottom of it.  "Wiggle your toes."  I did so.  "Show me the
sole of your left foot."  I put my right foot down and lifted the
left.  "Wiggle your toes."  I did so.

"Turn back around."  I did so.  She was no longer demonstrating
the commands.  I had to lean forward so my hair was hanging down,
rub my fingers across my scalp, then comb my fingers through my
hair downwards from the roots to the tips.  I didn't have my hair
up that day, but I had used mousse and a little hairspray.  Running
my fingers through it made it all disheveled.  I hope they have a
bathroom with a mirror, I thought; I'm going to need it before I
leave here.

She told me to turn to one side.  I turned to my left.  She told me
to pull my hair back away from my ear and, with just my fingertips
like I did with my breasts, pull my earlobe forward so she could 
see behind it.  Then face the other way and repeat it with the 
other ear.  Then face her again.

I was told to put my legs well apart and reach down and spread my
vaginal lips.  After rolling my eyes and sighing in indignation, I
did so.  She then said, "Gimme three deep squats."  This was one
detail I remembered from the "Time" article.  Now it was happening
to me.

I said, "Is this really necessary?"  I realized that, instead of
just doing it and getting it over with, if I objected and only
obeyed after losing a battle of wills, then the feeling of
humiliation was increased.  I noticed it when I objected while in
my underwear.  I also noticed there was something about the
act of speaking while naked that really increased the feeling of 
being naked, which I found stimulating.  Especially with your feet 
spread strainingly apart while you're reaching down and holding 
your vagina open.  She answered me in her sternest tone yet and 
said to just do it.  So I did it.  A very odd feeling, doing that 
in front of someone.  I forced myself to look her in the eye the 
whole time.  I intuited that this move was designed to force 
anything hidden up there downwards.

When I came up from the third squat she said, "Turn around."  Well,
this is probably it now, I thought.

I did so and heard her take a couple of steps and a drawer open.
There was kind of a filing cabinet against the wall next to the
table.  When I looked back over my shoulder, she was starting to
put on a latex glove.  I had my answer as to how far this would go.
Again, wanting to speak, I said over my shoulder, "Just what do you
think you're going to do?"  But it came out sounding meek, like I
had already resigned myself to it happening.

If she enjoyed having the upper hand before, my meek little protest
really got her in the mood now.

That bemused smirk came back even bigger, and, after a few seconds,
she answered, "You and me are going to get to know each other a
little better."  If I liked her comments about my birthday suit 
and taking center stage, you can imagine what this one did for me.

For what seemed like an eternity, my naked self just stood in the
center of that room, turned away from her, with my head twisted
around and watching her over my shoulder.  She put a glove on each
hand, then took a tube of lubricant and some paper towelettes (not
kitchen paper towels, but the kind in public restrooms) out of the
drawer, came behind me and set the tube and towelettes on the
corner of the table.  The sense of suspense I created by not taking
my eyes off her the whole time from over my shoulder seemed to make
her enjoy it more and go slower.

Again, she said, "Put your feet well apart."  I did so.  "Bend
over."  She said it with a sense of finality in her voice, kind of
like she meant, "Yes, you knew it would come to this."

I just hunched my shoulders forward a little bit, resting my palms
on my knees.  She said, "Oh, it's going to have to be better than
that.  Come on."  That was what I was looking for.  Giving another
one of my indignant sighs -- this one more of a long grunt between
clenched teeth -- I took the opportunity to bend over in the most
extreme way I could.  Bracing myself with my hands on the floor in
front of me, I brought my shoulders down as far as I could as I
strained to stick my toosh out and up as far as I could.  I then
went pigeon-toed, pointing the front of my feet inwards.  It was a
strain holding this position.  "There," I said angrily.  "Is this
what you want?"  I could feel the cool air hit my anus from my
cheeks being pulled open by this position.

"Tha-a-a-at's it," she cooed.  She dropped back into her "routine"
voice and said, "I'm going to search you internally.  It will be
over soon, and will go better if you relax."  Craning my head
around again, I saw her squeeze some lubricant onto her index
finger and put the tube back on the table.  She certainly didn't
have to do much reaching under to get to my vulva with the way my
position presented it to her.  I felt her spread my outer lips 
with her other hand and place her lubed finger in place.  She 
said, "Just relax," then slid it in as far as she could.  She 
moved it around for a bit, then withdrew it.

She said, "Stay down," put more lubricant on her finger, placed the
tip against my anus, and repeated, "Just relax."  Then she slowly
oozed it in.  She had it in for fifteen seconds at the most, like 
she did with my vagina, but fifteen seconds feels a heck of a lot 
longer when that's happening to you.  I savored the sensation that 
one medical author termed "sphincter insecurity" -- that uniquely 
tense, squeamish feeling of violation you get from having your 
rectum penetrated.  Needless to say, it's a sensation that fits 
in very nicely with my embarrassment fetish.

I clearly felt her finger against the inner walls of my rectum as 
she circled it around once she was all the way in.  I swear I 
could feel each knuckle (she had big hands) as she SLOWLY pulled 
it back out.  Just as I felt my anus close back up after her 
fingertip exited, her other palm smacked my left butt-cheek with a
playful slap as she casually said, "OK.  Get dressed."  Just like 
that. She was quite the smart ass. How mocking that little spank 
was, what a way to send me on my way after all that.  It definitely 
was the icing on the cake for me.  As I straightened up, she was 
slipping off the gloves and saying I could use the towels to wipe 
off the lubricant.  She went to a metal trash can next to the 
drawers that had one of those foot pedal operated lids, stepped on 
the pedal, and dropped the gloves into the plastic-bag-lined 
interior.

I took some towels, spread my legs, and gave a quick swipe down my
vagina, then walked over and threw them in the trash can.  I took
some more towels to wipe my toosh.  She was back against the door
with her arms folded again, watching me.  I said, "Do you have to
watch?"  And with her smirk she just said, "Yup."  I realized I was
in her custody and she wasn't supposed to divert her attention away
from me.  So, naked, I jutted my ass out and wiped it just as if I
was using my bathroom at home.  Not something I'm used to doing
with a stranger staring at me.  Very weird feeling.

It seemed so pointless to be putting my necklace and earrings back
on after what I just been through.  Like, who am I trying to look
nice for?  Again, it's hard to explain, but I think you know what
I mean.  I took my coat and purse, and she unlocked the door, then
held it open for me. 

Again, before I even stepped back out, I could see every head in
the other room pop up and look towards me, furtively smiling, as
soon as the door opened.  They knew what I went through and were
just on the other side of the wall the whole time.  A deliciously 
tantalizing after-effect of these situations is the flushed feeling 
of sexual suspense you're left in.  After being submissively nude 
in front of a stranger, you're then sent on your way with no outlet 
for the sexual tension.  You feel the whole world is looking at 
you...knows what happened to you...like you might as well still be 
naked.  Your clothes feel strangely ineffectual on you, and you 
feel pretentious being back in them, as if it's a farce to try 
to cover yourself up after being laid so bare, body and soul.  
And the person who had just seen everything there was to see and 
probed everywhere there was to probe on my body would soon be 
among them and doubtless telling them all about it.  And I just 
remembered how messed up my hair was, like we'd just had a wild 
quickee in the room, and we were coming back out.

The policewoman walked away, and the first cop walked over to take 
me to be fingerprinted.  As we were walking, he turned to me and
asked, "Have fun?"

		******************************

P.S.

A couple of people have asked me what I looked like so that they
could better visualize the story.  I have auburn hair, green eyes,
and am quite light complexioned.  I'm 5'4", have average-sized
breasts, and, although skinny as a kid, have just a bit of 
pudginess at my thighs and butt, both now and at the time of 
the search.  Hope this helps.

		******************************

If anyone wishes to discuss this strip search, strip searches in
general, or my embarrassment fetish, you can email me at

                    anne8505@yahoo.com



Edited by C. Lakewood