“I hereby give myself over to chronic masturbation”, I announced to
myself. My words were chopped up in the ceiling fan and then fell dead in the
silent flat. Traveling alone to Cairns, Australia was exciting in one way. I
mean there is the barrier reef and islands and topless beaches. But in other
ways, such as at nine at night and being in a place where there were strict
blue laws, well it was not so exciting. But laying in bed and lubing my prick
with baby oil was giving me very little satisfaction. I felt restless. I had
to move.
That is why I ended up cruising the bars. One was sort of fun. I danced
with some women but nothing seemed to spark and the music and noise became too
much to bear. Finally I stumbled on the sidewalk of a storefront (oh yeah, I
guess I drank a few blue tinnies also) in which the window was blackened out.
It was about a block from the docks where the reef boats departed and it looked
deserted. There was an “ADULTS ONLY” sign on the painted black glass. I
decided to give it a shot. The inside was much cleaner and brighter than the
outside would have suggested. The walls were covered with racks which
contained soft porn magazines. Directly in front of me was a glass case which
contained various dildos and fake vaginas (one that even pulsated!). To the
right was a curtained entrance way which had a handwritten sign over top: FIVE
DOLLARS – ALL DAY. What really caught my eye was who was behind the counter.
I couldn’t believe that a woman who looked like that could work in such a
place. She appeared to be in her mid to late twenties, slender, with short
blonde hair. Contained in a loose string tie top were two perkie, firm looking
breasts. She was busy SEWING! of all things and every time she pulled the
thread there was a solid but definite tremor under her top. Her nipples stood
out as they rubbed against the fabric like the tips of two pinkie fingers.
“What does five dollars all day mean”, I interrupted her conversation and
pointed to the sign.
She looked up, her eyes were blue, and she smiled.
“Those are x-rated movies luv. They run all day. We’re not allowed to
have any of the hard stuff in print but it’s dinky di if we show movies.”
“O.K., I’ll take a ticket”, I said.
I handed her a fiver and she touched my hand for a moment.
“We usually don’t get young ones in here”, she said as she continued to
smile at me.
Out of fear I broke the contact but I still wished to bask in her
presence.
“Is that sewing your doing?” I asked.
“Ah Yeah. We have a live sex show coming up soon and I’m making the
costumes. It’s one week from now. You really ought to come if you are in
town.” She answered.
“Ah! That’s no good,” I say, “I’ll be flying back to Alice at the end of
the week.”
“That’s too bad, luv,” she said as she went back to her sewing.
Walking through the curtain was like walking through the entrance of a
cave. The room was dimly lit. Chairs and sofas were arranged in front of a
large screen television. Some men were sitting and drinking beers they had
…End of the part1. To be continued..
Archive for March, 2009
Aussy
Tuesday, March 31st, 2009Anal Sex Circus part5
Monday, March 30th, 2009I moved closer to the bed.
“You think it’s a trick?” she whispered.
She played a few more notes. The sound was coming from between the
cute little cheeks so delicately covered in the gauze of her panties.
The silky panties tautly covered her well-rounded butt. I could make
out the sight of her anus as it gently opened to let out the sounds.
I began to pull her panties down.
“Oh, Monsieur,” she said, “that is extra.”
“How much extra? I’ll pay — if the price includes fucking that
musical rectum of yours!”
To bugger the beautiful bitch, I almost emptied out my wallet. I
stripped and stood in front of her, my hard dick pronging straight
out. “Whistle a tune for me, Melody,” I said, patting on the bed.
She began to whistle — till I stopped up her mouth with my cock. I
holstered it in her hot throat, moving in and out. Her lips coated
it. It felt nice — but not as nice as her tight asshole was going to
feel. “You’re going to play a little tune with your pretty little
tush — until I stop you. And you know what I’ll be stopping you
with!”
Melody moaned as I pulled my long prick out of her mouth. It was
glistening. She lay demurely on the bedsheet, face down, her thighs
slowly pushing her buns upward for my inspection. They were the
cutest pair of cheeks I’d ever seen. Pale milky skin, round and yet
pillowy soft. The cleft between them was deep, the two orbs so
buoyant to the touch.
She produced a slim tube of lubricant, and, with just a few swizzles
with her finger, lubricated her anus enough for easy penetration.
I stroked her bottom as she tensed it, her puckery little anus pulling
in like a mouth in a kiss. She let go with a long, reedy note. And
as I got behind her, I wielded my dick right up to her rump, and
silenced her. The thick tip of my dick plugged up her anus easily. I
held my dick with one hand and gently eased the bulbous tip into her
yielding asshole. I took my time, luxuriating in the tight, greasy
fit. Her entire rectum clenched lovingly around my thick prong and
there was just enough lubrication to keep going back and forth.
“Tight little bitch,” I whispered, slapping her upturned butt cheek
with my right hand. “I’m going to take my time with you.” I stared
down at the beautiful sight — her upturned ass completely mine, her
body face-down in mute supplication to me. Her little chute was
clogged deep with dick now, and it was going all the way up her. She
let out a gasp. I knew the whore wasn’t moaning with pleasure, just
the strain of accepting manhood into the one place that, even in this
day and age, is still a forbidden entry!
“It’s going up your ass,” I said. “I’m not going to stop until I
leave your asshole greased with cum.”
I slid my dick all the way up her ass. I did it slow, making every
inch feel like a mile. I grabbed handfuls of her tender butt cheeks
as I plugged her. Then I sank on top of her with my full weight,
driving her down into the mattress. I fucked her hard like that, and
then hoisting her from from the waist, pulled her back onto all fours.
I held her hanging tits in my hands and felt them jiggle with every
jolting thrust. Only through a love sacrifice, or the dire need for
money, does a woman let a dick go up her ass willingly. Either way,
it felt good to me. It was hot. It was tight. The view of her
upturned rump and the heavy titglobes in my hands were making my blood
hiss steam through my veins.
I slid it in and out faster and faster, until that final moment when I
stabbed it in deep. My dick was so tight up her rectum I could feel
the cum chug out of my dick. It spurted hot lava, I could feel it
pulse down the length of my shaft and then spit deep inside of her.
She felt it, too, and actually rammed her butt against me so that my
dick went in right to the balls. And finally, after about five
tingling minutes of my spent dick still being inside her bottom, my
cock slowly began to slip out.
Against her will, the delicious derriere of the whore called Melody
saluted my conquest with a bassoon-like note. Then, too exhausted to
control herself, Melody let my cum trickle out of her fucked asshole.
Thick as cream it melted down her moist cunt, running down onto the
sheets.
She let out a groan as another cascade of it began to burble out. I
put my hand underneath and cupped the cum, and wiped it all over her
ass cheeks, squeezing the slick and buoyant bottom as I did it. I
gave her a friendly slap on her cum-soaked ass, which resounded all
around the room.
“I knew it was best to save you for the end,” I said.
I put my clothes back on. I had no tickets left. But, as if I’d been
on ferris wheels and roller coasters, I left the circus completely,
utterly satisfied. I had experienced two anal “rings” of the
Amsterdam circus — the only Anal Sex Circus in the world — the
Greatest Show on Earth.
Anal Sex Circus part4
Sunday, March 29th, 2009 scum dripping down my thighs to prove it. My ass felt so tingly! Was
it pain? Or…was it greedy pleasure! Yes! I was an anal whore! I
was then! And I am now.”
Dominique twitched her bulbous butt and said, “Fuck my asshole! Screw
me! Drill it up my asshole! That’s where I need it. I’d love your
dick in my asshole!”
My cock had long ago crawled into hardness, straining against my
underpants. “One hundred?” I asked. “Ooooh, two hundred, two
hundred!” she gasped back. “One hundred to come on it!” I shouted.
“Done!” she cried. I pulled my pants down to my ankles, grabbed the
stiff pipe in my hand, and with the pre-cum already oozing from it,
cranked my cock over the pale, white virginal assflesh of Dominique.
She spread her cheeks, her crinkly little anal ridges standing up.
Bullseye! A burning jet of cum slammed onto it! She parted her anus
and the cum bubbled there. I came again and again, blobs of the thick
gunk drooped onto her cunt, speckling her ass cheeks. I shut my eyes
and took a deep breath. Another second and I would’ve collapsed right
on top of the whore. I sat in the chair. Dominique daintily rose
from the bed and began to wipe herself on a towel. She winked at me,
and I began to get dressed. I was still as horny as a bull. With the
first load out of the way, the next woman would get it but good. My
prick would pump her pooper for hours before it popped.
Walking the full length of the corridor, and examining all the doors,
I found one I definitely wanted to explore. On the door was the name
“Melody.” Underneath it: “She’ll play a tune with her moon.”
When the door swung open, there she was, a cheerful, naughty brunette
with olive green eyes and a pouty red-lipped smirk. Her hair was dark
brown and reached her shoulders. She was lounging in her bed, wearing
a silky white lace bra and sheer white silk panties. She winked and
motioned for me to sit in the chair near the bed.
“Let me hear your story,” I said.
“I have no story, Monsieur,” she said. “Only a song.”
And with that, she got on her stomach, arched her pert buns into the
air, and while looking at me and smiling so charmingly, she proceeded
to let out four melodious farts, the last held with all the poignancy
of a violin.
“That was the opening to…an Irish song. ‘Oh Danny boy’ wasn’t it?”
She nodded her head. She placed both hands on her delicate buttocks
and, with some concentration, proceeded to play virtually the entire
tune.
…End of the part4. To be continued..
Anal Sex Circus part3
Saturday, March 28th, 2009 my legs up! I began to beg for it! Oh, fuck me! Fuck me! Put it up
my thirsty cunt!
“But suddenly my hungry pussy felt empty! His long, thick cock
slithered out. As I lay on my back, he glared down at me, disgust on
his face. He was staring at the sheets. ‘I thought you were a
virgin,’ he said. ‘You put me off for months and months! But it was
just a cheap trick to get me to spend money on you! And when I
finally get to have you, you take it like a whore!’
“He made a guttural sound with his throat and heaved up a hot smelly
glob of spittle on my exposed pussy flesh. I told him there had been
only two lovers before him, and that I was a good girl, and how I
wanted to be sure before I let him have me. But he didn’t believe it.
‘Maybe you’re a virgin one way,’ he sneered. He pulled my cheeks wide
apart. I cried out ‘No! No! Don’t! I’ve never done this!’ He
said, ‘Never been snagged in your shitter? Then this is a night
you’ll surely remember!
“He flipped me over onto my stomach and began spanking my tender ass.
Over and over he spanked me; it made me rabidly horny, but I wouldn’t
admit it because I was afraid he’d think I was a ‘dirty girl.’ My
cheeks tensed from the sting of his stiff palm! It was like he had
doused my fanny with alcohol and made it flame, like a big round mound
of creamy dessert! I gave in, untensing my cheeks, letting them be
spanked silly — they shook and jiggled under his hand, burning bright
red! He pulled my ass cheeks far apart with his strong hands,
exposing my virgin asshole! He grunted, spitting all over my ass. It
stung! He landed wads of it right in my pucker. He plumbed the gobs
of spittle into my asshole with his finger. He really rubbed it in!
He skewered my anus with his finger, like I was a fish on a hook.
“While I squealed and cried, he poked his finger up my asshole,
wedging it in as far as it would go! I lay there whimpering as he
slowly worked two fingers in, and began to stretch my tight anus while
landing a few more slaps to my chubby little fanny!”
Dominique pulled the cheeks of here milky white ass apart so I could
see the pink little hole that had been the scene of the raw, raunchy
scene. “I felt his hot thick penis lay along the crack of my ass,
like a hot sausage laid atop a soft bun. He spat again and again,
worked his wet, slick penis in his hand. Then suddenly he drilled it
right up my ass. I gasped as it seared all the way into me!
“He really fucked my ass! IN and OUT it went! He almost pulled me
off the bed when he pulled the massive dick out of my anus, and he
almost drilled me into the ground every time he slammed it back in. I
moaned when I felt his cock get thicker and suddenly shoot cum up my
asshole! I could actually feel the hot sperm going up my anus. My
eyes were wide. I had been fucked in my asshole, and I had the hot
…End of the part3. To be continued..
Anal Sex Circus part2
Friday, March 27th, 2009 see them perform. Here, there were rooms. On each gold-curtained
door was a picture of the girl within.
I, along with a half dozen men, studied these pictures as we walked up
and down the corridor. A picture of an angelic, sweet-faced blonde
girl caught my eye. Under the picture was the description “Dominique.
She will tell you of her shameful anal deflowering!” Each girl had a
different look and a different story. I put my “ticket” into the door
slot. It slowly disappeared, like a cash machine banking card. My
fingers, trembling with excitement, grasped the door. I heard the
whirring sound of a motor, and slowly the heavy metal door opened by
itself. The moment I got inside, it shut with a hollow clank. And
there, lying on pink satin sheets, was the baby-soft delicate blonde
Dominique.
“In English?” she whispered. I nodded. The elegant room held a sink,
bidet, toilet, a king-sized bed, and a large overstuffed chair. I
sat, not two feet away from the bed where this beautiful, pale white
girl lay, absolutely naked.
“Oh, Sir,” she said, her pretty blue eyes growing wide, “it happened
to me not long ago.” She whispered, “I can still feel it. Ooooh,
right here. I am still so tight and tender.”
She writhed on the bed, sliding half off it, displaying her plump
buttocks. The globes of her ass still held large dollops of baby fat.
Her soft white bottom was thick, rich, round and perfectly unmarked.
She gently cupped her bottom cheeks and pulled them apart, exposing
the most delicate little pink pucker. Below it, wisps of blonde hair
framed her moist pussy.
She held her cheeks open, undulating on the bed, almost humping it.
She looked over her shoulder at me, her mouth open in a sorrowful
pout. “I was so young when it happened. Paul did it. Paul was the
boy I was seeing. We had been dating many months. He was a sweet
boy, and he bought me expensive gifts. We kissed and petted
passionately. One night, he wanted to go all the way. I had refused
so many times, but he’d made this such a special night We’d had a
lavish meal, an expensive show, and then he gave me a gold pendant.
“In my apartment, I let him undress me. He peeled my panties down and
started to hungrily lick and kiss my pussy. He lathered it with his
hot tongue, and my legs parted wider and wider.” Here, Dominique
jerked her legs wide, showing me her moist pussy. She ran a painted
fingernail along the petal-like edges of her labia.
She continued: “It was too much to resist. I closed my eyes while he
feasted on my cunt. He made my whole body heat up — my nipples
knotty and swollen, my pussy so soft, wet and yielding! Gently, he
began to slowly work his penis inside. I could hardly wait! I kicked
…End of the part2. To be continued..
Anal Sex Circus
Thursday, March 26th, 2009 Unlike so many of the bawdy houses of Amsterdam, the building bore no
signs. In fact, as I stood in front of the chipped, black door marked
#12, I almost thought it was all a practical joke. What did I know
about the strange Hazraj, the turk who, in drunken friendliness at the
hotel bar, had insisted, “A whore’s a whore all over the world. You
don’t need to visit Amsterdam for that. But…the Anal Sex Circus!
There is not another anywhere.”
I rang the bell. Was this really the place — or was he having a
joke at the expense of a white British tourist? When the door slowly
opened, I realized that he was indeed a friend! Stepping into the
interior of the townhouse, it was a though I had stepped through tent
flaps and into the most opulent carnival ever.
There was actual sawdust on the floor. The air smelled of beer and
popcorn. The big main room had concession stands where they were
selling popcorn — delicately laced with hashish – and white cotton
candy, also drugged. Beer and liquor were being sold by men in straw
hats, red vests, and white striped shirts.
Garish rotary lights whirled a dizzy array of greens and reds into the
air. Semi-nude women — black, Asian, and white — escorted the
various men as they ate, drank, and laughed uproariously. In
different languages, a barker in a derby hat shouted at the back of
the room, “Hurry, hurry. Step right up! Come, Come, Come to the Anal
Sex Circus!”
If the mad Turk Hazraj had not been so explicit in his description of
the place, I don’t know what my reaction to this bizarre spectacle
might have been. A beautiful Eurasian girl glided up to me. I
ordered a cafe pousse at the bar. In American money, it cost me about
$20. I was going to order one more for my “hostess” but reconsidered:
“You wouldn’t drink, would you? Just water one of these plants with
it.” I slipped here $20 cash instead. “Let’s call it a contribution
to the continuing survival of horticulture.”
She dutifully explained the “play” at the Anal Sex Circus. After I
finished the drink, I walked back to the back of the room where a man,
dressed in imitation of an American carnival barker, guarded the
entrance to the upstairs rooms. I bought two tickets ($100 each)
which entitled me to see three “shows” of my choice. The tickets were
actually more like plastic credit cards.
With insane calliope music blaring down the corridors of this two-
story townhouse turned madhouse, I made my way upstairs. In the old
carnival midways, you’d walk along seeing the posters for the midgets
and fire eaters and freaks. You’d pay to go into the tent to actually
…End of the part1. To be continued..
Alma part6
Wednesday, March 25th, 2009 wet cunt over my cock, easing me into her. “Mmmm, yeah,” I
replied, and she began moving up and down with shallow strokes.
I reached around her, grasping the airplane’s control yoke with
one hand, squeezing the nipple of her right breast with the
fingers of the other.
The red beam from the cabin light, directly above her, gave
Alma’s shoulders a hypnotic, fiery aura. To her right, I could
see the “DME” — the Distance Measuring Equipment indicator —
clicking off the miles remaining until the Alma VOR. The plane
climbed in synchrony with our excitement. Alma removed my hand
from her breast, directing it downward between her legs, where my
finger had no trouble locating her now prominent clit.
Moistening my finger with the wetness that virtually flowed, now,
from her vagina, I began rubbing the area around her clit in
slow, circular motions.
Only five miles remained on the DME. I thrust up into Alma, but
could not penetrate her as deeply as I wanted, because of the
awkward position. Suddenly, the navigation indicators swung
wildly, indicating our passage over the Alma VOR, with the
altimeter reading 5000 feet. I was now both over, and in, Alma,
and cleared for the higher altitude. Thrusting up again, I
pulled back sharply on the control yoke, raising the nose of the
airplane rapidly, and pushing Alma’s body down on my cock with a
force of 2-G’s. The altimeter spun up past 5300 feet. Alma, the
stall-warning horn and I went off simultaneously. I pushed the
nose down just as the airplane complained of its mistreatment
with a pre-stall buffet. Reaching around Alma’s right side, I
fire-walled the throttles. The result was positive G’s which
pushed Alma and me toward the roof of the cabin, with my cock
still deeply in her. She gasped, screamed and her pussy
contracted around me as she reached the peak of her orgasm.
The rest of the flight was too routine to merit discussion,
except to say that Alma flew for a while as I used my mouth to
play with her breasts and pussy. That little bit of flight
instruction was revenge: I wanted her to feel what it was like to
have to concentrate on altitude, attitude and airspeed, while
waves of pleasure distract you.
After we off-loaded the cargo in Atlanta, I called back to Miami
to report that the right engine was running roughly. “Nothing
serious,” I said, “probably just a fouled plug; but I think I
should stay here tonight and have it looked at in the morning.”
Alma and I found the airport motel with the 2-foot concrete
walls. They were intended to protect guests from the noise of
the landing and departing jets. That night, they isolated our
neighbors from some pretty amazing sounds from within the room.
Alma proved herself a very vocal, athletic lover. It wasn’t
until two days later that Alma appeared in the pilots’ lounge
wearing the set of wings bearing the instrument, multi-engine and
commercial endorsements. She took a lot of kidding about the
“commercial” endorsement, but refused to divulge where, when and
with whom she took the check ride. I didn’t see her again. That
week, Uncle Sam decided my flying skills were needed more in
Southeast Asia than in Florida. I spent two years flying the
military big-brother of my airplane — the Beech Baron —
ferrying various important Army types, working diligently to lose
the Vietnam conflict for us. After that, I moved to Washington,
DC as an associate in a large, anonymous law firm. Partnership
in the firm came six years later. Although the money was good, it
came at a price: the medication I was taking for high blood-
pressure caused the FAA to revoke my medical certificate. My
flying days were over.
As the Piedmont jet climbed over the Virginia countryside, my
reverie was broken by a cabin announcement; “Ladies and
gentlemen, this is Al Carey, your captain speaking. Along with
our first-officer today, Alma Whitley, I’d like to welcome you to
the continuation of Piedmont flight 232 to Atlanta. We will be
cruising at an altitude of ……” Alma Whitley. Damn. The
woman had a flair for coincidences.
I waited until the other passengers exited the long aluminum
tube, and followed the crew down the jetway. “Triple Nickel 8-
Ball,” I said, coming up behind a slim, short body topped by a
shock of blond hair. She turned with an expression that was half
annoyance, half quizzical. Then, recognition spread across her
face in the form of a big smile. “Sherlock. My old check
pilot.”
“Cathy,” I said to my secretary on the airport pay phone, “call
Al Mason’s secretary in New Orleans and postpone our meeting
until tomorrow morning. It looks like I’m going to have a long
layover in Atlanta.”
Alma part5
Tuesday, March 24th, 2009 747 heavy; converging traffic, an Aztec at 5 thousand, 12
o’clock, fifteen miles. I’ll try to work out a higher for you
after Orlando. Maintain 4000.” I uttered the airman’s universal
complaint for circumstances like this: “Shit!” I said. Alma
laughed, “Relax, Sherlock, it’s a long way to Atlanta. Could you
turn up the heat a bit.” That was a reasonable request under the
circumstances: while I had been talking to the Center, Alma had
divested herself of all of her clothes and was shivering
slightly. I flipped on the gasoline-fired cabin heater which
immediately filled the cabin with warmth. I moved my hand down
to the soft blond hair between Alma’s legs, an act that filled me
with warmth.
There were equal amounts of passion and humor present now. We
were still below the official altitude for mile-high
inauguration, and I — and, I suspect, Alma — were wondering
just how to “assume the position” in the cramped cockpit. I was
reaching the point where the higher altitude was going to be
needed soon. We had passed Orlando some time ago, and just as I
raised the microphone to press the request for a higher altitude,
the radio came alive “58 Bravo, Jacksonville Center, no joy on
the higher altitude. Atlanta Center reports all altitudes above
5000 are occupied on your route of flight; maintain 4000.” This
was getting desperate. Perhaps the airways to our west would be
less crowded: “Center, could we have a new routing that would
permit a higher altitude?” “Standby” was the response, and as I
set the microphone down, I felt a pull at my zipper. Alma’s hand
reached in and freed my cock from what had become, by that time,
almost painful confinement. Bending down, she engulfed me with a
warm, wet mouth and began making slow up and down motions..
“58 Bravo, Jacksonville. Clearance.” “Go ahead,” I gasped, as
Alma’s ministrations below became more intense. “58 Bravo is
cleared to the Atlanta airport, present position radar vectors
Taylor, Victor 3 Alma, Victor 157, Atlanta. Maintain 4000 until
passing Taylor. After Taylor, climb and maintain 6000. Cross
Alma at or above 5000. Turn left now, heading 330.” I grabbed
my charts to identify the navigation fixes the controller had
specified — thinking I had misheard the “Alma” instruction. A
warm, bare back served as a convenient chart table. There it
was, a fix called “Alma;” it consisted of a VHF Navigation
Station named after a nearby Georgia city. I read back the
clearance to the Center, set course for Taylor, and sat back
marvelling at the coincidence of names, and at Alma’s talents,
which were making both of us incredibly hot. As we passed over
Taylor, I could take it no longer. I rolled the trim wheel up a
notch, putting the airplane in a gentle climb, raised Alma’s
head, kissed her deeply and said “sit in my lap.” I slid my seat
back, Alma pulled herself up by the edges of the instrument
panel. She said “like this, Sherlock?” And settled a very warm,
…End of the part5. To be continued..
Alma part4
Monday, March 23rd, 2009 transmissions, worked as an intercom. I pressed the push-to-talk
button, and, for lack of a better introduction to the night’s
conversation, asked Alma; “I’ve seen the new wings in the pilot’s
lounge; who’s running for the president of the mile-high club?”
She replied “they can’t elect a president yet; all their flights
have been illegal.” “Illegal?” I said. “Yeah, there are only 3
members so far and they all earned their wings with a student-
pilot.” That was the “illegal” part of it: student-pilots were
“signed-off” for solo flights, but were absolutely forbidden, by
FAA rules, to carry passengers, much less engage in sexual
acrobatics with them. “Funny you should mention the club,” she
said, “would you like to see why I asked to come on this flight?”
Without waiting for an answer, she produced a small black velvet
jewelry case, and handed it to me.” I retrieved a small penlight
from my pocket, and illuminated a set of gold wings — with 5280
inscribed in the middle — and hanging below, suspended by thin
gold chain, three small panels inscribed: “Instrument,” “Multi-
Engine, and “Commercial.”
Alma turned to me, unfastened her seatbelt, removed her headset,
and mine, put her lips to my ears, and said: “I’ve completed all
my ground school courses, Sherlock. I can’t think of anyone
nicer to give me the check ride for my advanced ratings.” I
turned, in time to see Alma’s T-shirt disappear over her head,
revealing a taut pair of breasts in the red lighting of the
cabin. It was only hours of training that forced my eyes back to
the panel where I found the airplane 20 degrees east of its
assigned heading at an altitude of 3800 feet, 200 feet below our
assigned altitude. As I banked left and corrected the altitude
discrepancy, I felt Alma’s hand between my legs. I bent over to
kiss her and soon received a warm tongue, deep in my mouth,
producing the clearly intended effect beneath her hand.
While Alma’s`plans were perfectly clear, the associated logistics
posed certain problems; the Travelair was a small aircraft, the
back seats were full of mail bags, and the fact that we were on
an instrument flight plan, with our progress monitored on radar,
meant I would have to devote at least some attention to flying
the plane. She snuggled up closer and I played with her left
breast, rolling the nipple between my thumb and forefinger.
The speaker crackled: “58 Bravo, Miami Center, now, on 123.35.
Good day sir.” “58 Bravo, roger, 123.35,” I replied, and with
one hand still on Alma’s breast, I reached over and tuned the
radio to the new frequency: “Miami Center, Beech 5558 Bravo with
you on 123.35, maintaining 4000, requesting higher.” The request
for a higher altitude was essential to the matter at hand: we
still were below the magic one-mile figure. The response was
discouraging: “Unable higher at this time, 58 Bravo,” the
controller said, “you are overtaking traffic at 6 thousand, a B-
…End of the part4. To be continued..
Alma part3
Sunday, March 22nd, 2009 with Montgomery, Alabama as a weather alternate, gathered my maps
— “charts” in pilot lingo, and returned to the lounge to tell
Alma she was welcome.
I loaded Alma in the Travelair’s right seat, handed her the
checklist and fired-up the two engines. We, used the challenge
and response system familiar to both of us: “Fuel on mains.”
“Check.” “Boost pumps on.” “Check.” “Gyro set….” When the
gauges read “in the green” Opa Locka ground control cleared me to
the active runway and I departed with my newly-found friend to
Miami. The turn-around there was short, delayed only by our
ground-handler’s hitting his head against the baggage door as a
result of looking at Alma, instead of where he was going. We
reboarded the airplane; as I reached over Alma to latch the
passenger-side door, my arm brushed the front of the outstanding
T-shirt she was wearing, Her reaction was to look me directly in
the eyes, and smile.
“Miami Clearance Delivery, Beech Triple Nickel 8-Ball at Butler
with the numbers.” This was a game. The same controller worked
the ground position nearly every night; but would not yield to
the “triple nickel eightball” informality. So, as usual, he
answered with: “Aircraft calling Clearance Delivery, say again
your call sign.” Resigned to the game, I replied, slowly:
“November five five five five eight Bravo, standing by for
clearance.” “Roger, November five-eight Bravo is cleared to the
Atlanta airport, as filed. Fly runway heading after departure,
maintain 2000, expect 4000 one-five minutes after departure.
Miami departure control, 131.55. Squawk 0425.” The rapid-fire
readoff defined our route and direction of flight, the altitudes,
radio frequencies and transponder codes that would allow tracking
us on radar. I read back the clearance to him for confirmation,
concluding with “triple nickel eight-ball.” The reply was
“readback correct, five-eight Bravo, have a good flight, ground
point seven.”
After only a short delay, Alma and I were 25 miles from the Miami
Airport and cleared to our requested altitude with a simultaneous
“hand off” to the Miami Center: “Five-Eight Bravo, climb and
maintain 4-thousand, report reaching to Miami Center on 133.45.
Good day sir.” We were “in the soup” — a combination of fog and
mist that accompanied the warm front that covered the east coast
from Miami to New York. Visibility was limited to the wingtips
where the red and green navigation lights were visible only as
large, diffuse colored circles.” We reached 4000 feet, so
advised Miami, and sat back for a long night of flying as I
trimmed the airplane for cruise.
Although we were seated less than a foot from one another, we
both wore headsets, which, when not being used for radio
…End of the part3. To be continued..
Alma part2
Saturday, March 21st, 2009 small gold wings with a cloisonne’ panel in the center, bearing
the numbers “5280.” A second, and then third, pendant soon
appeared on other necks. Although none of us had the nerve to
ask, it appeared that the mile-high club was more than talk.
My turn to fly the Atlanta run came up one Thursday. I usually
got to the field after work, about two hours before the cargo
would be ready in Miami, and had “dinner” — which is stretching
the term, from the vending machines in the lounge. The coffee
machine, it was said, served a dual purpose, dispensing battery
acid for the aircraft as well as slaking the thirsts of the
pilots. That night, as I approached the machine, with quarter in
hand, a voice said “I’ll trade you some real coffee and the best
pastrami sandwich in town for a ride to Atlanta.” The invitation
came from a short blond named Alma, a “primary student” in our
parlance: one who was training for her private pilot license.
She produced a picnic basket, a large thermos and an inviting
smile. “OK,”`I said, “but I’ll have to call Miami and get a
weight for the cargo, first.” “For reference, Captain,” she
said, “I’m 112, pounds, soaking wet.”
Actually, the “cargo weight” issue was only a ploy. If I didn’t
particularly feel like company on a given evening, it was easier
to decline a request on “weight and balance” grounds. It also
aided some rather subtle gender discrimination: it was amazing
how often we had room for a 130 pound woman and not a 180 pound
guy.
For Alma, however the weight and balance problem was resolved
when she first asked for the ride: she had mischievous blue
eyes, a button nose, and pert breasts, not well-contained by a
Harley-Davidson T-Shirt. I had heard from one of the instructors
that she was a serious, bright student with the goal — and
apparently the talent — to achieve an airline career.
At the ‘phone, I checked the weather. The short hop from Opa
Locka to Miami was no sweat. It was “VFR” — the initials for
“visual flight rules,” that permitted flying when the visibility
was greater than 3 miles and the cloud ceiling greater than 1000
feet. The rest of the route was another story, however. Atlanta
was reporting a 500 foot broken ceiling, sky obscured, visibility
of two miles, forecast to drop to 200 feet and a half-mile in
rain and fog. The enroute conditions were free of thunderstorms,
but ceilings along the route were low, typically 300-1000 feet.
The ride would be smooth, but definitely “IFR” — Instrument
Flight Rules –requiring a suitably instrumented airplane and a
pilot holding the coveted “instrument rating — which I had
acquired from eight-months of flying with a hood over my head,
alongside a sadistic instructor who would simulate every sort of
system failure known to man. I filed our flight plan for Atlanta,
…End of the part2. To be continued..
Alma
Friday, March 20th, 2009 I was in the window seat of a Piedmont 737, taxiing out at
Washington National that morning. My destination was New Orleans
with a change of planes in Atlanta. As we passed the transient
ramp in front of Butler Aviation, I saw my old airplane. It had
been repainted, but bore the same numbers along each side of the
fuselage. The sight of it brought back a memory from the 1960’s
that marked the highlight of my brief career in commercial
aviation.
Officially, the airplane’s registration number — and radio call
sign — was N-5558B. But to my two partners and me — and to
the tower crew at her home airport in Opa Locka, Florida —
Beech Travelair N-5558B was “Triple Nickel 8-Ball.” She was a
outside business venture of three lawyers — my two partners and
me — who shared a criminal-law practice in Miami, and a love of
flying. Sherlock — the name my father, an Arthur Conan Doyle
fan, gave me — earned the law firm some early publicity, and we
were doing well enough to afford to buy Triple Nickel 8-Ball. Our
aviation business involved flying bags of bank checks from Miami
International Airport to Atlanta Hartsfield Airport where they
were taken by van to the Federal Reserve Depository for
processing. The income was predictable; but the flying wasn’t –
particularly in the summer when the Florida thunderstorms topped
out at about 40,000 feet.
What we admitted, to everyone but the I.R.S., was that our money-
losing business was just an excuse to fly and hang around the
airport’s Fixed Base Operation trading lies with the other pilots
and would-be pilots that inhabited the pilots’ lounge.
There was a flying school there — a collection of Cessna 150’s,
young instructors with their eyes set on the airlines, and
students from the local area. Late afternoon usually found a
fair sprinkling of women in the pilots’ lounge; some of them
students, but mostly the girl-friends of the students and
instructors. They all knew about our operation, and with
suitable hints, could wrangle a ride in Triple-Nickel-8-Ball on
our Miami-Atlanta-Miami trip when we wanted the company.
A few weeks before, the female “regulars” in the lounge had
jokingly announced formation of a local chapter of the “mile-
high” club — and that subject had replaced discussion of
instrument-approaches and engine overhaul prices. As I
understood it, the rules were simple: sex above 5280 feet,
unaided by co- (or auto) pilot. The novelty of the topic wore off
after a while; but one day a female student showed up with a
small pendant hanging from her neck on a gold chain: a set of
…End of the part1. To be continued..
Airscrew or How I joined the Six Mile High Club part4
Thursday, March 19th, 2009smooth inside skin of her thighs.
Karen unzipped her skirt and wriggled out of it, still under the blankets.
“Please..” she moaned – “please..” – I felt the same way. She turned to face
away from me, and firmly pressed her shapely bum against my left thigh. Making
sure the blanket was covering us well, I twisted around until my throbbing
tool was pressed up against the valley between her thighs; it was a similar
position as if she was sitting on my lap. I could probe her sex with mine.
She arched her back and raised her right thigh and firmly holding the end of my
pulsing penis, she guided it into the mouth of her soft hole. I pushed hard so
my cock slid smoothly into her firm warm tunnel. I cupped both her breasts
with my hands and pulled her hard against me to penetrate as deep as possible.
She sighed and shuddered and her hips moved gently and rhythmically. The need
to copulate quietly to avoid attracting attention was not forgotten, despite
our extreme passion. This need forced us to perform using hard pressure and
firm small movements; she thrust hard against my equal and opposite series of
nudges. My instincts desperately wanted me to pump every last drop of my spunk
into her as quickly and violently as possible, but my intellect made me want to
prolong this ecstasy. The discipline of doing it slowly and quietly, so as not
to attract attention, made it easier to prolong the excruciating pleasure
without climaxing. Curiously I have always found that the longer and steamier
the foreplay the better I can hold on until the crucial moment of a mutual
climax. I was able to relax and savour the exquisite pleasure of being coupled
with my beautiful fellow traveller.
I forced my left hand between her waist and the seat until my left forefinger
could just reach past her bush to the hot spot at the top of her slit which I
correctly guessed would fire her climax. We were now locked together and so
overcome with desperate excitement that at that moment neither of us would have
cared if all the passengers and crew were watching, although we kept straining
against each other and moving slowly with great force to avoid attracting
unwelcome attention. I could feel her muscles pulling and rippling at my
straining hunk of meat that I cruelly rammed into her with as much force as I
could manage. She had superb muscular coordination and was able to achieve
what few women I have coupled with can do, to give a feeling of sucking me into
her with muscular ripples of her vaginal walls.
I could hold back no longer and erupted into frenzied, deep, deep wild spasms
pumping and pumping what seemed like gallons of my juice as deep into her as I
could. As I felt my ejaculation erupting I ruffled her clitoris. She
shuddered and bucked and her internal muscles rippled along me forcing out the
last small jerks of spunk. We subsided against each other quite breathless and
trying not to pant loud enough to attract attention. Our fuck had only taken
ten minutes; I glanced nervously over my shoulder and saw a stewardess’s head
rapidly disappear behind the galley curtain. Had she realised what we were up
to? No way of telling, but judging from the slightly awe-struck look she gave
us later, I suspected she had guessed! I wondered how often the back seat of
this cabin was consummated by new members of the “Six Mile High” club and
whether aircrew ever join this club for fun (considering they have many more
opportunities than even us frequent business travellers). So thinking, I dozed
off still clutching Karen tight in my arms, my deflating cock lying stickily
against her leg.
We woke up knickerless and trouseless still under our blanket. The movie had
finished, the aircraft was in darkness, we only took a few minutes to arouse
each other to another insatiable frenzy and I soon had pumped yet another
generous load of cum into her willing and inviting slit. Not being satisfied
with basic membership of the “Six Mile high Club” we had even found time for a
second helping.
The cosy space under our blanket reeked of our sexual juices: we blotted
ourselves with tissues from Karen’s bag. She wriggled back into her skirt, I
wriggled back into my clothes, while she went to the loo to tidy herself up.
She re-emerged looking immaculate (and stunning). Breakfast was served, and
there was little to say after this amazing night of passion. Soon the aircraft
landed, and we went our separate ways – she had a connecting flight to catch to
Sweden. A peck on the cheek and a coy smile as we parted; “till next time!” I
went through immigration and customs in a post-coital daze. Sadly our paths
have not yet crossed again, and if they do, I wonder whether we would ever
achieve such ecstatic feelings as those of two strangers coming together in
such total uninhibited and lustful intimacy in such an impossible place?
Airscrew or How I joined the Six Mile High Club part3
Wednesday, March 18th, 2009 But it is one thing to snog, even as naughtily as this, in an airplane full of
people but quite another to remove the garments necessary to couple us in the
way we were were both obviously craving for and to release our wild passion in
the sexual frenzy we both felt. How could we satisfy our enormous lusts? What
with cabin crew wondering backwards and forwards behind us to and from the
galley, we could not easily strip off and start humping without the risk of
creating a sensation on board. I had visions of us being arrested for grossly
indecent behaviour in a Jumbo Jet! Could I somehow get my cock out and force
it past the tight gusset of her tight panties? But what position could we use?
Nothing else in the world now mattered except an overpowering urge to stuff my
straining rod into the depths of her warm, slippery slit. But trivial problems
like knicker elastic, trouser zips, stretched Y fronts and unyielding aircraft
seats made this ambition hard to realise.
Karen, as always, was way ahead of me. She gave my cock a gentle squeeze which
nearly fired it of, and got up without a word and strolled seemingly casually
towards the loo at the front of the cabin. I contemplated following her into
it, having heard stories of people having it away in railway carriage loos.
But this always seemed to me to demand contortionist skills, apart from being
not exactly comfortable or aesthetic! Also, there was no doubt that the
passengers watching the movie would have noticed me following a lady into the
lav, which on the top deck of a 747 is alongside the screen for the inflight
movie, which was then in full flow. The thought of banging away in that
confined space and of re-emerging afterwards was too daunting, even in my
highly charged state!
Karen re-emerged a few moments later, quicker than usual when women use a loo,
looking inscrutable. She grabbed a couple of BA blankets, snuggled back
against me and it was a matter of moments to cover ourselves with the blanket.
In the semi-darkness and in the back row, we felt safe from prying eyes. My
hand went back to where it had been, to find just warm flesh and no knickers. I
reinserted my fingers into her warm and inviting slit. Her hand was undoing my
zip, under the cover of the blanket; I undid my belt to help her. In a flash
(so to speak) my trousers and pants were round my ankles and she was holding my
throbbing prick like the gear level of a sports car – it nearly made me change
gear – into overdrive!
I soon discovered she had also removed her bra; her nipples strained against
the thin material of her blouse. I undid her blouse to expose her breasts
under the blanket. I was then able to lay across her and greedily suck the
entire aureola of her left breast into my mouth, with my head under the blanket
in delicately scented warm darkness. I tickled the nipple with the end of my
tongue, an action I have found to be appreciated by my lady friends, and Karen
was no exception! She cradled my head with one hand like a baby held to her
breast and gently stroked away at my straining cock from its tip along its
underside to my balls. She was clearly an accomplished lover. I moved my head
to her lap and attempted to lick her clitoris, but this was almost impossible
in an aircraft seat, even though she parted her legs as widely as the limited
space would let her. I remember the overwhelming scent of excited woman mixed
with the fragrance of her perfume, but could only nuzzle her fur and kiss the
…End of the part3. To be continued..
Airscrew or How I joined the Six Mile High Club part2
Tuesday, March 17th, 2009 persuaded Karen to have a double gin with a bit of tonic which visibly relaxed
her some more.
I slipped my hand down slightly from her hair to stroke her neck and her ear
lobes. She snuggled closer and reminded me of a purring cat. British Airways,
ever cooperative, chose that moment to dim the lights and to start the in
flight movie. I started taking a few liberties with where I moved my hands,
aided by the semi-darkness, but half expecting to be rebuffed as, after all, I
was fondling a girl who until a few minutes earlier had been a total stranger -
this was too good to be true! But I could not help noticing signs that my
efforts were stirring up her hormones; her face looked flushed, her eyes were
soft and her pupils large. My left hand closed over her left breast. She made
no effort to discourage me, so I gradually eased my hand into a position where
I could massage the slight mound of her nipple straining through the material
of her blouse and bra. By now, I felt rampant; my trousers bulged as if they
would burst and I began to wonder if we could satisfy our wildly growing
passions.
She snuggled closer and started stroking my leg in an absent minded kind of
way, fairly innocently near my knee. The arm of the seat was getting in our
way, luckily they hinge back, so I lifted it and took the opportunity to slide
my arm right around her left hip so as to push my hand under her thigh. The
hem of her skirt had ridden up enough for me to stroke her silk clad thighs. I
was pleased to find she was wearing stockings and not tights as I reached warm,
smooth, bare skin slid my fingers under the silky ribbon of her suspender
strap. She made no effort to discourage my wandering fingers, so, pulling her
closer I covered our laps with a BA blanket, and boldly stroked her thigh with
my other hand, working her skirt hem back as I went. She sighed and parted her
legs slightly when my hand moved along the last smooth inches of warm scented
upper leg and my fingers at last brushed gently against the thin silky material
of her knickers, tightly stretched over her sexual mound.
My cock throbbed with excitement and anticipation and I had to slow down and
mentally count to ten to avoid filling my pants with cum when I realised she
was not only going to let me reach my target, but was panting for me as much as
I was for her. I inserted my fingers as far as I could between her legs, and
stroked them gently along the warm and noticeably damp material covering her
cleft and up to the summit of her pubic mound. She sighed and gripped me tight
as my finger a deliberately sought and found her tiny clitoris. I felt her
hand cup the bulge in my trousers. We kissed long and passionately; it was
strange I thought to have got to such a level of intimacy without having kissed
before. I exercised as much self-control as I could muster as I felt the
exquisite feeling of her hand gently exploring my throbbing cock. In return,
my fingers pulled aside the warm silky gusset of her knickers; and I was able
to stroke warm downy hair and feel the soft, warm, wet and incredibly inviting
slippery crevice. I pushed two fingers into her soft hole, and gently massaged
it; I then rolled the flesh of her engorged entrance lips gently and firmly
between my finger and thumb. She clung to me more tightly, eyes closed, and
her hips shuddered; she sighed again and we kissed passionately.
…End of the part2. To be continued..
