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