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  • CHAPTER ONE
  • CHAPTER TWO
  • CHAPTER THREE
  • CHAPTER FOUR
  • CHAPTER FIVE
  • CHAPTER SIX
  • CHAPTER SEVEN
  • CHAPTER EIGHT

    Unknown

    Office porn Queen


    CHAPTER ONE

    On the huge new 797-X, you almost could forget you were on an airplane, it was that big.

    It carried 900 passengers on three decks, had a crew of twenty, showed three different movies at the same time, and had a bar and a sauna.

    And also this new plane, the pride of Wanderlust Airlines, had three conference rooms. Any company's executives could hold a conference or a Board of Directors meeting in the air, behind locked doors.

    Or an executive could lock up himself or herself with a secretary and catch up on confidential matters. Each conference room contained a well stocked bar easy chairs, a private washroom and even a foldout bed for any harassed executive who needed a nap.

    This was a double bed by the way, so two executives could nap together, although if one didn't like the other, he or she could sleep on the couch.

    This feature was unique with Wanderlust Airlines. It even had changed the way that folk pronounced "Wanderlust". Usually the accent falls on the first two syllables, like this: WANDERlust. But when some leering comedian in some night club somewhere began to call it the WanderLUST Airline, the new name caught on and the conference rooms were generally sold out weeks in advance to male executives and their female secretaries, or vice versa.

    As our curtain rises, we discover that Conference Room One on a 797-X has been out of service because it had needed repairs. A game of strip poker had ended in a chair-swinging fight. It all had started with a drunken claim by a large, horsy woman that there was no bottle with a neck so long that it could fill her cunt. Her strip poker opponent called her an anti-male sexist, and then… but all that happened last week.

    Today, a petite and shapely young woman, in a uniform tailored to accentuate the breasts, stood with a key in her hand at the door of Conference Room One. Her name was Helen Troy and she was one of the fourteen hostesses who pampered the passengers on the 797-X. Also got pinched, got felt, made dates, and might even marry a millionaire.

    Helen Troy was never sure whether she would prefer to be married to a man or to a woman. Sometimes this sex-centered doubt as though she were sitting on her cunt on a fence, ready to fall either way worried her.

    Sometimes it seemed like a lot of fun.

    Like now.

    Helen, about to go off duty for a couple of hours, had been parading up and down one of the plane's aisles, following her breasts. This was part of the Wanderlust hostess training. A girl was rated by the way she walked her breasts down an aisle. The second most important thing was the sway and swing of the hips. Equally important was the hostess's perfume. It was made to a secret formula, and contained rose petals, a sperm oil base, tincture of opium and the faintest trace of a famous laboratory's concentrated essence of cunt.

    On this particular hip-swinging parade down the aisle, Helen Troy had become aware of a woman of about her own age – twenty-four – who wore a severe tailleur that, to a woman's eye, hinted of opulent curves beneath.

    This woman, who smiled at her and ran admiring eyes over the uniform tailored by Mainbocher, didn't have the kind of figure that lends itself to a tailleur.

    She should have been traveling in a bikini. Which set off a bell in Helen's mind. Awornan who hides her womanliness? Oh-ho. Could be a dyke. No. Too delicately built. Too carefully made up and coiffed. Try again. A woman who hides but coyly displays her femininity so that another woman might see it but men might not?

    Hmmmm, thought Helen, getting a tingle in the nipples.

    She paused at the woman's seat. "Anything I can get for you?"

    "Oh, not really, thank you." A soft, sexy voice with a kind of insinuation in it. "Except that, well, look, I want to find out something about Wanderlust Airlines' policy regarding hostesses. Perhaps you…?" And oh, such a secret smile!

    "Why, I'm just going off duty. Anything I can tell you…"

    "It's, uh, a delicate matter. Is there any place where we could talk in private?"

    Sure. Conference Room One. The paint had dried, in there, but it had been too late to open it for reservation when the plane took off.

    Helen hesitated. She wondered where the huge plane's captain, Master Pilot Henry Hastings, might have gone. A little while before, she had poked into the cockpit to say hello to Hank. The copilot, reading a newspaper while a computer flew the plane, had said that Hank was off duty and ought to be around somewhere.

    The copilot grinned at Helen and said he wouldn't be surprised if Hank was in one of the lays with a cute Argentinean twat who had been missing from her seat in First Class. He said that Snarly Mollie, as everyone called the chief stewardess, should have known better than to report a passenger missing. She should have checked to see weather Hank was out of sight at the same time.

    Helen had felt a pang. Hank Hastings was part of her problem.

    But now that tailleured but sexy passenger, Cleo Prentice, who had taken her to the bar, leaned across the softly lit, tiny table and touched her hand. At the same time, beneath the table, their knees met and Cleo began a gentle rubbing.

    Helen's jealous thoughts of Hank faded when Cleo once again used her secret, knowing smile.

    "What I want to know, Helen, is whether Wanderlust Airlines will accept a lesbian as a hostess."

    Helen drew in an unsteady breath. Down in her crotch, a warmth and a moistness got together in a slithery tingle, and she had to wait a moment before she could go on.

    "They have a policy against it. They want girls who show their sexual attraction to men. Our most frequent fliers are businessmen, after all. But we do have lesbians in the hostess corps. A girl simply doesn't tell."

    "I… you see… I have a tendency that way, but I'd love to be a hostess."

    This was it.

    Helen said very slowly, breathing hard: "You only have a, a tendency toward, uh, making love to women?"

    "A leaning. A… desire." Cleo leaned close. Her breath touched Helen's cheek, warm and subtly perfumed. "I'm so uneasy talking here. They might bug a bar to find out, you know, business secrets."

    Conference Room One! Vacant, and made to order for an assignation of cunts!

    Helen sneaked the key off its hook when Snarly Mollie wasn't looking. Now she stood alone in the angle of the rear passageway and fitted the gimmicky three-cornered key to the pickproof lock. But as she opened the door a few inches, she stopped and looked around again. She could see a lay door. Was Hank in there with that missing, sexy, slinky, dark-eyed charmer from Buenos Aires? Fleetingly Helen wondered how they could manage in the close confines of a plane's lay. Let's see, she thought. Hank sits on the toilet, being gentleman enough to close it first, and the seductive South American gets onto his lap backward and offers her cunt to Hank's every-ready prick. Hank slides it in… the angle is a bit awkward… Missy adjusts her olive-skinned ass cheeks on his thighs… she has a tight grip around him… she is sighing with pleasure… slowly she pumps, stops, tantalizes him. Slowly she pumps, stops, but this time Hank, if Helen knew Hank, would ram it up into her and make her gasp and murmur of love in Portuguese. Meanwhile he had access to her times. Those two must be having such a good time in there! They had both been out of sight for at least half an hour. Lucky there were plenty of lays on the plane for other people who might want to do something in a lay beside fuck. The hell with Hank. Helen turned the other way, nodded reassuringly to Cleo, who watched her while casually lounging in the entrance to the bar meanwhile she had hesitated a quarter-minute with the conference-room door ajar. But nobody came along.

    Unseen by anyone but Cleo, Helen opened the conference room's door.

    Everything in order, and, of course, nobody there. Bed still up in the wall. Huge comfortable lounging armchair faced to the window where clouds slipped by. Couch. Bar. Great.

    Cleo slipped in close behind her. Helen murmured that the conference rooms were shielded against electronic bugging. She turned and carefully locked the door.

    "Isn't this clever?" she asked, and showed Cleo how at a touch of a button the double bed came down. "We're very proud of our conference rooms. Seems that some people like to confer in bed, heh-heh."

    She hardly could manage the leery little laugh, she had gone so tight in the throat with the onset of hot longing. And so wet in the crotch, where the heat concentrated right on the clitoris, that funny little button they call the man in the boat. He was paddling his boat in a boiling sea. Her cunt lips were positively drooling.

    Cleo looked at her and Cleo knew.

    Cleo only gave her that secret little smile.

    Cleo shrugged off the jacket of her unbecoming tailleur.

    Helen, viewing the other woman in a lovely low-cut blouse of clinging silk, gasped and without thinking because her wet twat had her so befuddled – said, "Oh, you're not wearing a bra!"

    Cleo smiled her secret smile, glanced down at the tight little nips that showed so clearly, glanced up at Helen, winked, and patted the place on the couch beside her.

    "I'm glad we're alone together," she murmured. "I've noticed how Wanderlust hostesses parade their breasts, and I really think it has something to do with the airline's success. But I've wondered if I have enough up-front for the lob."

    "Oh… yes…" Helen felt a strange shudder run through her as she stared at Cleo's firm, globular boobies. The woman actually had perfect hostess titties. You bent over a man to put his cup of coffee on the little table that comes down into his lap. You thus give him a view down your neckline into the regulation hostess bra that reveals much and hides almost nothing. Then, as you stand up, smiling, you just happen to bump a breast against his shoulder.

    Sometimes they tremble so, after that one-two treatment, that they hardly can pick up their cup.

    And don't kid yourself. Women look down other women's fronts, too.

    As Helen did now while Cleo leaned forward.

    And settled back, and said, "Did you notice the little scar on my left breast?"

    Helen gulped. "N-no."

    "Right here." Cleo opened her blouse till the clinging silk merely hung on her erected nipples, that jutted forth like tiny buds of pink. Helen could see the corollas of puckered delicate flesh above them and knew those corollas went all around, and how it felt to be kissed there, around and around and around and around…

    "Warm," she gasped, and slipped out of her uniform jacket.

    "Right here," Cleo said again.

    Helen saw a tiny white line to one side and above the left nipple.

    "Oh, Cleo dear, that's nothing. It… it…"

    "My kid brother threw a sharp stick at me when I was thirteen years old."

    "Oh, how dreadful. But it doesn't even…"

    "I thought it might make a bump in the wrong place. That's why I wear heavy tailleurs."

    "But it doesn't!"

    Helen watched her own hand go out. It did not seem to belong to her. It had gone entirely beyond her control. Her hand went out, shaking, and with one finger she touched the tiny scar.

    "Not a bit of bump. Don't worry, dear. Don't," and her hand slid beneath Cleo's blouse, causing the silk to give up clinging to Cleo's nipple and fall away, revealing the entire lovely breast. "Worry. Dear. Oooh. That feels. So. Smooth. Oh yes. Better check. The other one. Oooh," said Helen, helpless with longing. Softly she rubbed and cupped both breasts, feeling the taut punctuation of the nipples on the palm of either hand.

    Cleo had been quite self-possessed, but now, when she spoke, her voice had become unsteady. "I'd love to be a Wanderlust hostess on the same plane with you. To make sure." (Gasp.) "I did everything right."

    Cleo's hand came up as unsteadily as Helen's had, and one by one undid the buttons of the uniform blouse and pushed the blouse off Helen's shoulders.

    Then the mini-bra opened as Cleo's hand crept around in back and found the snap. The mini-bra hung on Helen's hot, thrusting nipples. She herself slid it away down an arm and dropped it.

    Cleo cupped Helen's breasts, joggled them gently. "You're so firm, dear," she murmured.

    "I'll show you all the – the pectoral muscle exercises. Not that you need them, dearest girl. Oh, your breasts are so lovely, so lovely…"

    Somehow they found themselves standing. They were just of a height. Cleo slid her own hands beneath her breasts and pushed them up and forward.

    "I'm not sure, but… I have a feeling that if we…"

    She had the right instincts, thought Helen, who lifted her own breasts and held her nipples against Cleo's. They played a delightful game, rubbing their hard nips around and around each other's corollas. It got Helen so hot she went weak in the knees.

    Cleo seemed to thrive on it. She had talked of having no experience with lesbian techniques, but she seemed naturally attuned to the arts of ancient Lesbos. Again she did the right thing.

    She placed her nips firmly against Helen's quivering nips and she embraced her partner and took her lips in a delicious kiss.

    Their tongues met and slid upon each other in the heated spaces of their sex-hungry mouths. They sucked each other's tongues and made little half-smothered cries of passion. Meanwhile they worked at each other's remaining clothing, and almost at the same moment were down to their scanty panties.

    The kiss went on while they squirmed their bellies against each other, two sets of silken skin slithering and glissading together, seeming to throw off sparks as they continued their passionate hula.

    Meanwhile Helen did not have to tell Cleo to slide her hands beneath her panties and feel and rub and soothe and squeeze the buttocks. Cleo even knew how to make tiny pinches back there. It didn't hurt. It stimulated the undulating waves of torrid need that swept Helen from head to toe.

    She got her own hold on Cleo's ass cheeks and felt her partner's ass muscles, which were certainly in good condition, quiver in little spasms of delight.

    Cleo murmured, "Darling, you have such a lovely touch. Go – you know – in between."

    Slowly, letting her fingernails slightly indent the petal-smooth skin, Helen ran her fingers to the cleft of the buttocks and then pushed between with her forefinger extended.

    When she found the tight bumhole she rubbed it very gently. Which Cleo now did to her at the same time, and they began to thrust their bushes together to make one Mount of Venus hit against the other, in a fucking sort of motion.

    In their wild delight they collapsed upon the bed.

    "I… I'm not sure what to do now, my lover," Cleo whispered into Helen's ear. Then she kissed the ear all over its inside and nipped at the lobe and tongued it. But this is a hot-pash item both with men and women. It worked on Helen and she dived at Cleo's bush, nosed her way between the silken thighs, took one long, salty, sweet, gluppy, delicious, wide-mouthed, hungry suck at the man in the boat, then remembered a technique she had learned in the girls locker room in high school.

    Why not make it last? They might have no other chance to get together again, and Helen still had an hour or more left of her off-duty break. And beside, Cleo was so good to taste and so exciting to be tasted by, and so altogether wonderful in her strange, almost little girlish mixture of knowledge and ignorance – but always eager willingness – in the field of sex in which women turn their backs on the prick and the balls and find ways to hotly satisfy each other.

    She lifted one of Cleo's feet and kissed the high arch, tongued it ticklishly, then roguishly took it to her own crotch and worked the big toe up and down her cunny. Then she sucked her own juices from the big toe. Not everyone knows the erogenous use of toe-sucking.

    Cleo gasped and murmured, "Oh, my darling, my darling, what are you doing to me, ooooh, oh!" She held her own cunt tightly as though to keep it from melting into a pool of nearly-unbearable sensation.

    Now Helen kissed and sucked the other toes. Then the ankles. Then, slowly, she made tiny kisses up the calf and paused to run her tongue along the sensitive area behind the knee. She made a little slapper of her tongue and slapped it wetly at the nerve center behind the knee.

    "Ohhhh, you'll drive me mad. More, more!" moaned Cleo, pumping her hips in ecstasy.

    Helen got Cleo to bend her knee upward. This exposed the tender pinkness of her inner thigh. Helen murmured over its svelte curves and whispered that no man was good enough to possess Cleo's delightful body.

    Now her tongue found the thigh and drew along it, upward, upward, leaving a trail of passionate tremblings. It was as though Helen were drawing little tongue-paths up the thigh in the direction of the throbbing cunt that was her goal.

    As she came within an inch of the cunt, well into its aura of exciting aroma, Cleo took her hands away and sighed, "It's yours, it's yours!"

    But Helen teased her, going down to the top of the knee again. Cleo cried, "Please, please!" and opened her cunt lips with both hands to show Helen the inviting interior, all moist pink and proclaiming its deliciousness. But Helen once again drew her tongue very, very slowly up the thigh along a different path.

    She watched that yummy cunt. She rejoiced in its spasms, and saw how the fuck tunnel watched her, so wet with female sex secretions the very basis of her own on-duty perfume – that it seemed almost like a weeping eye.

    She wanted desperately to fling herself upon that cunt, mouth-wide open, tongue protruding, and tongue-fuck Cleo, going like a jackhammer, till her lover screamed and beat her fists on the bed and pumped her hips wildly and came.

    But still Helen held back. A quarter-inch at a time, she drew that second trail of passion up Cleo's inner leg, savoring it, letting the other woman know something about the wild passions that women used to give each other in the ancient Isles of Greece and still do today.

    Cleo begged her, "Take my cunt, take it, take it, I can't bear this any more!"

    But Helen intended once again to travel her cunt aspiring way to within an inch of its musky moist sticky goal. Then again she would go back to the lower thigh. And again she would tease and cajole Cleo into an exquisitely tuned yearning. And only then would she plunge her face into that desperate crotch.

    But suddenly Cleo grabbed her by the hair, yanked Helen's face to her cunt, and with surprising strength slammed her mouth and nose down into it. Helen couldn't breathe! Gamely she thrust her tongue down the tunnel as far as it would go and hoped Cleo would come before she fainted.

    And fortunately she had already brought Cleo to the threshold of wild climax. Her tongue seemed to feel how the nerves took fire in all the sensitive area of Cleo's cunt. Cleo bucked so hard when the great spasm of sexual delight took hold of her, that she bucked Helen's head away from her crotch.

    Helen gasped for air. She felt dizzy. But it would be her turn now. Tenderly she stroked Cleo's breasts while the novice moaned in the aftermath of her initiation.

    Then Cleo got briskly to her feet and began to dress!

    "But what about my turn?" Helen wailed.

    "Oh, I'm sorry darling, but I just looked at my watch and I have to be at the short-wave telephone in ten minutes to call my office exactly when I said I would. So I have to run, but don't worry, sweetie, once we get to Buenos Aires we'll find a hotel room together."

    Miserably, Helen said, "We have a turn-around flight. Fuel-up and return. No leave till New York."

    "Oh, dear. Well," said Cleo, briskly returning to her shape-hiding tailleur. "Take care, now. And remember, I owe you one." She walked out, waving a casual goodbye. With her cunt burning and her head whirling, Helen tried to think. Let Cleo go fuck herself. Must be some kind of sex nut.

    She, right now, must get the bed in order and return it to its place in the wall. And get back into her uniform. And get out of that Goddamed Conference Room One.

    She took care of the bed. She gave herself a quick wipe down in the bathroom, then dressed. Then paused.

    Damn, she needed an orgasm. It was hellish to get so excited and have no relief. Her cunt quivered. It begged to have its taut nerves relaxed.

    Her still hot twat bothered her so much with its unrequited agony that she decided she might as well sit on the rug and finger-fuck herself.

    She got her skirt up and her panties down and two fingers sliding slickly down into her ready and-willing fuck canal. With the first five or six thrusts she could almost feel her labia major and her labia minor and all the rest of her female apparatus sigh with relief.

    And then take notice and get ready.

    And then gather speed and steam. Hot musky steam.

    The orgasm lurked just beyond her reach. She lay back on the soft rug and jammed her fingers deeper, deeper, deeper, giving them a vibratory motion, and she let out a gasp of delight as the greatest feeling in the world promised to burst within her like a skyrocket if she gave herself just a few thrusts more.

    Her clitoris throbbed. Her heart leaped. She didn't seem to be in Conference Room One any longer. Instead, she rode the puffy white clouds outside and the hot equatorial sun was making her cunt sizzle. Now! Just one thrust more, deep, deep! But she fell back into Conference Room One.

    Where she lay on the rug with her skirt up and her panties down as though she had just gotten off the toilet. Let alone that she had her fingers in her cunt. She lay helpless and miserable, her sexual climax utterly lost, her shame showing in her flushed cheeks and her wide, startled eyes. All this because a male voice had drawled from nowhere: "Why, hello, Helen."


    CHAPTER TWO

    Grimly Helen kept herself from looking around.

    Despite being so close to the climax she desperately wanted and needed, she withdrew her finger from her cunt. She licked it clean. So what? But still she did not glance around at the big overstuffed armchair that faced the window.

    She didn't have to. She had recognized the man's voice.

    She pulled up her panties and smoothed down her skirt and at last turned and said, "Why, hello, Hank," as composedly as she could, which was not very.

    Finger-fucking is one hell of an activity in which to get caught!

    Hank, of course, had been sitting in that chair all along. He must have heard her open the door and hold it a quarter-minute while waiting for Cleo to arrive. So he and his lover had not been locked up in a lay. They had been whooping it up in Conference One's big easy chair all the time.

    Hearing Helen open the door, they had hidden their clothing and themselves by snuggling in the armchair between its overstuffed wings, hoping that whoever had entered the conference room would soon go away.

    And then they no doubt had peered at the lesbian fun that Helen and Cleo had had with each other, although, of course, it was Cleo who really had had the fun and had left Helen in a dreadful state.

    Now Hank's lover's inquiring face appeared next to Hank's. The woman – girl, really – had a Latin face. A quizzical, not unfriendly expression.

    Of course Hank had been sitting there with his pants and underpants off and the girl had been sucking him while he fondly watched her dark head bob back and forth between his thighs.

    Helen knew Hank Hastings.

    And now the fellatrice stood up beside the chair and revealed herself to be quite naked save that she wore long stockings, right up almost into her twat. This was an old whorehouse trick. Long stockings worn with nothing else whatsoever make a naked woman seemed nakeder than naked.

    Hank waved a big hand negligently. "Helen. Carlotta."

    "Hi."

    "'Allo."

    "Carlotta's from Buenos Aires. Treat her politely. She uses Wanderlust a lot." Hank said it WanderLUST, and winked.

    "I see," said Helen, flushed and unhappy.

    "Ah, don't take it so hard," said Hank. "If women didn't finger-fuck themselves now and then, they would drive the men crazy trying to satisfy them. Or the women," he added with an innocent look.

    "You heard what that bitch did," cried Helen. "I gave her such a magnificent come and then she walked out and left me hanging!"

    "One of the passengers? Well, she would have to be, of course, since she isn't one of the crew. Nothing we can do about it. If we call her a nasty cheating twat, she might take her business to another airline."

    Hank Hastings tried not to sound serious, but he felt serious. He knew more about the situation than Helen knew.

    At the end of his flying shift, with his hot sucking date with Carlotta all arranged, he had first made sure he had the extra Conference One key that had been made for the convenience of the redecorators.

    Then he had strolled out of the cockpit and down the aisle between the rows of passengers, a striking figure in blue with four gold stripes on his sleeve, and his Chief Pilot's hat, heavy with gold braid, at a rakish angle on his nuggety chestnut hair.

    He had a big jaw and a big grin, that he used with effect. Strolling among all those people who felt he held their lives in his hands, he cooed to babies and encouraged little boys and girls who wanted to grow up to be airline pilots. Also little and not-so little girls who wanted to become hostesses.

    "Always a place for the right young woman on Wanderlust," he said, beaming, judging the promise in young tits.

    He also made sure to be cordial to women who looked as though no one had noticed them, save with loathing, for the past forty years. This was good for business.

    When he passed vivid little Carlotta, he gave no sign of recognition. But their eyes met and he nodded slightly, then looked significantly down toward Conference One, where she was due to suck him off with great style. Just then he saw another good looker in a window seat. She read the airline's travel magazine, WANDERLUST OR BUST, and paid no attention to the four-striper's promenade.

    Hank paused. That woman looked familiar. His memory put her into the skirted Wanderlust hostess uniform. Wanderlust hostesses wore skirts, rather than the more practical slacks, because they were supposed to look as feminine as possible.

    Well, if this gal had once been a Wanderlust hostess, she must have nice tits. But she had chosen to hide them beneath a tweedy tailleur.

    Hank frowned to himself and kept on walking. Suddenly he recalled having met that woman at the company's HQ in Chicago. Yes, she was Cleo Prentice of Wanderlust Security. She had a special sort of job that kept her flying. She tried to make friends with hostesses of a certain type. And then…

    Hank frowned more deeply. His frown cleared when he realized that Carlotta had risen from her seat and was strolling after him as though going somewhere to freshen up. Fact was, she was probably going to get all sopped up with jisum.

    A noble hard-on made Captain Hastings limp the rest of the way to the door of the conference room where the hour of blissful sucking was scheduled to take place.

    Once Carlotta had slipped into the room to keep him company, Hank had removed his pants and his underpants and had seated himself in the big, inviting armchair that faced the window, its back to the door.

    Carlotta had removed everything but her stockings.

    He gave her soul kisses and a good all-around feel that reassured him as to the silken, exciting qualities of female skin.

    He had on occasion fucked her, but when he had let her know he was simply dying for a good suck, she had readily agreed to take care of the matter.

    She kneeled between his thighs and regarded what she saw with admiration. She took it into her hands and stroked it gently.

    She turned the stroke to a rub up and down in a circle made of her thumb and forefinger, but did not carry this too far.

    She patted it as though it were a puppy.

    She licked it as though it were a candy stick.

    She tickled it with her hair, smiling as Hank Hastings gasped and said, "Wow!"

    She blew air on it to cool it.

    She rubbed it again to heat it.

    She took it in her hand and counted carefully as drops of precoital fluid appeared at the tiny slit in its business end. One, two, three, four five, in Portuguese.

    If you do not know what I mean by "it", you had better go back to school.

    I mean prick. But I wonder if you know how many other words refer to the same several inches of meat that make up a man's most prized belonging.

    For example:

    Baloney, bat, chingus, cock, dick, dingbat, dingus, dofunny, doodle, fag, gadget, meat, pecker, pencil, peenie, ramrod, rod, peter, pud, reamer, wang (or whang if you prefer).

    Although prick will always do. So Carlotta, having tickled, stroked, partly masturbated, cooled, heated, licked, and, oh yes, fervently kissed Hank's prick, let alone admired it for the handsome prick it was, settled down to suck it.

    She began at the bottom of the shaft and ate her way up to the head. She did not, of course, take anything away from the healthy flesh of the noble pole. Rather, as she ate her way along, it grew achingly bigger. And it throbbed, and Hank, his eyes closed and his big jaw hanging, said, "Ohhhhhh." And, "Ohhhhhh, that's great."

    Now Carlotta kept to the underside of the pulsating cock. When she reached the frenum, the nerve center, she tongued hard. Hank almost jumped out of the chair.

    Now only the big purplish head remained unexplored by Carlotta's eager lips and tongue. So she went at it.

    Somehow she got that huge bump into her small mouth and, closing her lips around it, narrowed her cheeks by applying heavy suction.

    "Eee-yah!" moaned Hank in his ecstasy.

    That was when the dark hair began to bob between his thighs. Meanwhile Carlotta's clever hand went beneath his balls to tickle. She made the ravening rod slide in deeper, feeling it rest, throbbing, against the back of her throat.

    She felt the quivering that meant jisum was on its way. Her tongue flitted about as though it were a tiny squirming animal, and as Hank beat upon the arms of the chair, out of this world with sexual delight, Carlotta caught the first great sticky squirt, then the second, then the third, swallowing madly, never spilling a drop.

    Gradually the hard-on faded. When the heavy prick lay limp in her mouth, she sucked on it still to make sure she had not missed any of the salty, delicious come.

    Then they had a drink.

    Then they snuggled in the big chair and Hank played with her tits and twiddled her cunt and in other ways showed her he had appreciated her attention to his rampant sexual apparatus.

    Since they did not have much time, Carlotta took ice cubes from the frig at the bar and rubbed them up and down Hank's limp dick. Then she hotly sucked away the coldness. Then she got her hand in between Hank's muscular ass cheeks and tickled the little hole she found there. Then she scratched with her fingernail in the area just behind the balls, and he muttered, his eyes closed:

    "Hey, yeh, do it again."

    Gradually the rod stood up, ready for action. She kissed it to congratulate it.

    He settled himself, she put a cushion beneath her knees and happily began the second installment.

    First she jerked him longer than before to get things stirred up.

    Then she jerked him while she sucked him. This really sent him. He lay back, saying "Oh, oh, oh, oh," so far away in a cloud of bliss that he seemed almost to have traveled to another.

    She made with her tongue around and around the base of the glands, the head of the prick, an area in which a man carries his wildest sensations.

    She put in time on his balls, twiddling them and hefting them gently. And she mouthed his prick and took it out and looked at it, and mouthed it again and took it out and looked at it, full of mischief, until he said that if she did it again he would die right there and she might have a bad time explaining.

    She had the rod deep in her mouth and she was bobbing away again when she felt that certain vibration.

    This time she sucked so hard, she hurt her cheeks, but she kept on sucking, forming a vacuum in her mouth that enticed the jisum to leave its hiding place. She knew when the dam broke, because Hank let out a blissful sigh.

    As soon as the first jet hit the back of her throat, Carlotta knew that Hank's jisum glands had been working overtime. But she swallowed one great gout after another, until finally the flow slowed and the ravening prick began bit by bit to lose its hardness.

    Hank had just about returned from the planet called Venus, after the Goddess of love, when they heard someone put a key into the door's lock. They acted fast, then, grabbing their clothing and sitting on it, tucking themselves into the chair and making themselves as small as they could behind its big back, that shielded them.

    Not that Hank was much worried. After all, he was a valuable man and he was sporting with a passenger on his time-off. But still a Chief Pilot should not be caught in an undignified situation.

    They sat silent, listening to Helen and Cleo make woman-to-woman love, and sometimes peeking at them. They exchanged an indignant glance when Cleo marched off with her snotty, "I owe you one," leaving poor Helen with a hot, unsatisfied cunt to ravage her nerves.

    Then, having revealed themselves to startled Helen, they agreed with her that she had been badly used by her lesbian companion on whom she had worked so hard to insure an orgasm, while getting no climax of her own in return. But some passengers did treat airline personnel like dirt.

    To make Helen smile, double-naked Carlotta patted her tummy as though to say she would want no lunch, she was so full of jisum.

    At least Hank smiled, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew Helen's sex partner's name and he knew that woman's nasty undercover job and he knew that Helen was in trouble. His dear friend Helen was a fine hostess and a lovely person, but Hank knew that she had been uncovered as a lesbian and so she was going to be fired.

    He had been only pilot, not a Chief Pilot, and Helen Troy had been high-school junior, when they had met.

    At first she was just another fresh young face in a sea of fresh young faces, each with its high young breasts to match. The girls came to find out about being airline hostesses, maybe. Often the high school would set aside a room where Captain Hastings could fill-in this gap in their unsophisticated wondering about the world of jobs.

    The trick was not to be too obvious about the sexual angle, especially when some gimlet-eyed dragon of a female Occupational Counselor chose to sit-in.

    On the other hand, Hank Hastings enjoyed the challenge. He had to get over to these dewy girls, somehow, that being an airline hostess had a lot to do with sex. And when a girl hostessed for Wanderlust Airlines, the job oozed sex at every pore.

    He had to make this clear but not say it out loud, so to speak. And especially he had to make clear that any girl who knocked at Wanderlust Airlines door would deal with an outfit that gave sex first place.

    At first this gave him plenty of trouble.

    Take a virile man standing before a dozen or twenty dewy young things, shuffling his notes, clearing his throat. And all the time he is imagining how great it would be to line them all up naked and feel his way along a row of pairs of pink-tipped high-borne breasts, cupping, patting, gauging size and weight, perhaps kissing here and there to judge nipple sensitivity. And then say, along with a pat on the rump: you and you and you, report for hostess training.

    A fantasy, of course, but even imagining it gave him a hard-on. All he could do was to hold his sheaf of notes across his crotch. But even so, some girls would whisper and giggle.

    The Occupational Counselor might even shuffle her feet uneasily. This could be bad for business.

    But he had to make the girls know they would be getting into a job in which their possession of pretty faces, handsome and generous tits, swingy hips and a tolerant attitude toward pinchers meant more than their ability to pour coffee without spilling it into a customer's lap.

    During the months he had put into hostess hunting while the first of the 797-Xs had been made ready, he never had found the one right way to handle the sex-or-else ploy. Then, out in a Corn Belt auditorium, he noticed a Bible on a reading stand.

    He remembered that he also had a Bible in his room at the local hotel, put there by well-meaning people.

    That night he found the six words he had vaguely remembered and he copied them onto a card.

    "Now, ain't that the Bible truth?" he said to himself. "And who could deny it?"

    After that, before he spoke to any group of dewy girls and their dragon-guardian, he first glanced at the card.

    Then he stood, with a serious face, until he had everyone's attention. Then he said in his resonant voice:

    "I want you to know that everything I have to say is founded upon six words from the Holy Bible. These words are, male and female created he them. I hope that when you get home, and of course I know every one of you has a Bible in her home, you will read these words for yourself. You will find them in Genesis, one, twenty-seven."

    Hank would then pause before he said solemnly, "Remember those words. Our business is founded upon them. Male and female created he them."

    This made it difficult for anyone to take objection to what he told the girls. Not that he told them anything that might be called outright improper, but he gave them plenty of hints. And showed, in his ease and sincerity, how good it is to have the Bible on one's side.

    He told the attentive, fresh faces that the majority of any airline's passengers was made up of businessmen. And that these men liked to feel relaxed during their interim of travel between one office and another.

    He told the seventeen-year-olds – meanwhile wondering if any of them were still virgin – that a man feels at his best when he has the attention of a well-groomed, attractive young woman. And it is the duty of any airline to help its passengers feel at their best. Why, Wanderlust Airlines had in its files letters from grateful wheelers and dealers who said something like: "Your delightful hostess made me feel so relaxed that I was able to put over a big deal that no one else in my office could handle."

    Wanderlust knew how much of its success depended upon its corps of hostesses. Young women who, to put it simply, never doubted the eternal truth that male and female created he them.

    He went on to make it sort-of clear that once any young woman had been well coached in the art of creating an aura of sex around Wanderlust's male passengers, she would see those same male businessman passengers again and again. They would ask for her. They would give her valuable investment tips.

    The truth was that those men returned to fly Wanderlust merely to enjoy having their aging cocks stand at throbbing attention for most of a flight. But they did hand out tips on stock. Anything to keep the girls talking so they could make a date.

    "Of course we know that many a hostess marries a millionaire, but I'm not making any promises," Hank would say. Pause. "Any questions?"

    Salaries, fringe benefits, free travel, yes indeed and so forth. Hank also remembered to say, now and then, standing there in his uniform, broad shouldered and flat-bellied, "MY hostesses." The gals liked this.

    "So, when you graduate high school, thanks to the excellent teaching of dedicated people such as Miss Fidditch, here, phone our eight-hundred number you will find in your phone directory and setup an interview. Perhaps I will meet you aboard one of our new 797-Xs, the world's largest planes. I know I will say, 'Glad to have you aboard.'"

    Well, in one little high school surrounded by mile after mile of golden wheat, one of the girls raised her hand.

    One look at the thrusting bosom and Hank said, "Yes?"

    "Uh, Captain Hastings, well, I mean, is a girl in any, you know, danger when she works as a hostess?"

    This was not the first time that Hank had fielded the question. He had an answer ready: "Absolutely not."

    No hostess was likely to be raped aboard a plane. What might happen to her on a date with a passenger, later, he presumed was not covered by the attractive little girl's blushing question.

    Hank took note of the kid. Ash-blonde hair, perfect. Those breasts, more than perfect. He watched her walk and he murmured, "Wow."

    He wished he could meet her again, and then he found himself face to face with her in the local department store. He had gone in to buy socks. He passed her where she was trying-on winter mittens.

    "Hello, there! Aren't you the young lady who…?"

    "Oh! Captain Hastings!"

    "Guess you have an early winter up here in the Dakotas."

    "Oh my, and does it ever get cold!"

    "Well, you join us and I'll see what I can do to put you on our route to Hawaii."

    "Oh, my!" She had a lovely laugh.

    "Then we all can see how you look in a grass skirt."

    "Oh, dear!"

    But not too much embarrassed. And not at all trying to get away from him.

    "Ice-cream soda? I was just going to get one for myself and wishing I had someone to talk to."

    "Oh well sure"

    As innocent as that. And didn't she love it when other high-school girls in the old-fashioned ice-cream parlor took notice of her date. Too bad he had to leave that evening because he was speaking tomorrow at a high school in Kansas City.

    Well, they each had another soda and gradually he knew that this tender bud, this beautifully bosomed Helen Troy, wanted to tell him something. At last he got her talking.

    "Look, Captain Hastings, I'd love to train for a Wanderlust hostess as soon as I get my high school diploma next year. But about being, you know, sexy like you said. Well. I don't know if it shows in me, but. I got an awful scare about sex last year. Only don't tell my parents."

    "Won't breathe a word," said Hank, leaning forward to hear better.

    "Because it was my Uncle Hiram, my father's brother."

    It is often someone in the family.

    "He was out of a job, the way he mostly is, and he'd been drinking, and his wife had left him, and he wasn't attractive to women, so I suppose he was – you know?"

    "Horny?"

    She flushed. "Horny. And there I was. I mean, Mom and Pa went to hear a lecture on bringing out the best in teenagers, for parents only, and there I was alone in the house with Uncle Hiram."

    "Well, it was summer, long days, and I went jogging with some of the other kids, came in all sweaty. Waved to Uncle, who was sitting on the porch, and ran on upstairs and I guess he heard the shower going and I guess he heard when I turned it off. And even when I opened the glass door of the shower stall. Because by then he was listening at the bathroom door, you see."

    "I see," said Hank Hastings grimly.

    "And I hadn't been able to lock the bathroom door. That was because he had jammed the lock. He knew we'd be alone and I'd be taking a shower."

    "He walked in me. I was naked. I made a little scream and grabbed a towel around my waist and put my arm across my, you know, my bosom. He laughed and just grabbed me and dragged me through the hall. I screamed louder and he hit me so hard I went half-fainting and I just about knew he had me in the spare room and had tossed me on the bed."

    "Well, I managed to kick him in the, you know, where they tell girls, if a man ever attacks you, kick him there."

    "In the crotch. Good advice."

    "And hurt him and got away again but he tackled me out in the hall and slapped me half silly. He banged my legs apart and he took hold of my, uh, down there, and he had a hand on each side of it and he was like prying it apart and saying, 'Ooh, I want to look in, I want to see where the women hide their sin, I want to look in.'"

    "It hurt terribly. I kicked him in the face but I was barefoot and couldn't hurt him much. I jumped up but he caught one ankle and tripped me and this time I fell on my face and he was on top of me in back and he was pushing his, his male member into my rectum. I think he had his member all greased beforehand."

    "It hurt terribly but he got it in and he, you know, slid up there, in there, and then he pumped up and down and he didn't seem able to, you know, satisfy himself. And meanwhile biting me on the backs of the arms and pulling my hair and hurting me in any way he could."

    "Well, I was almost unconscious with pain except that it began to let up and I thought I would let him continue and satisfy himself and let me go."

    "But what he did, was, he got out of my rectum and went for my…" she said it this time, "… vagina. But he said he would first break my legs so I couldn't kick him. He had gone mad. Well, he really tried to break my leg but I pulled his hair so hard, he stopped."

    "He raped me madly, and I've always been afraid someone would do it again. Then he found out I wasn't a virgin. I mean, I guess you know how it is, a girl gets fond of her finger and. Well, when he found I wasn't a virgin he beat me and kicked me and called me a, a slut and he knocked me down again and got into my vagina again and this time he, you know, satisfied himself and then he just lay there holding me down and gasping and groaning."

    "Well, then we heard my parents car in the drive and he got up and ran, holding his pants up. Out the back door and he saw another girl and tried to rape her right out in the street but someone hit him with a rock. He ended in the insane asylum. Well, my parents had run out to see the noise was all about, so I dragged myself back to the bathroom and washed again and said I had taken a fall while jogging."

    "But you see, after that I wanted nothing to do with men, ever. And I heard some of girl friends saying men are vile and women don't need them to, you know, get their rocks off. Meaning they were lesbians, and pretty soon they were breaking me in."

    "Well, I stopped believing that all men are vile, and right now I don't know where I stand. But I know I'll try it with another woman sometime."

    "Well, what I wanted to know," said the forlorn girl, twisting her hands together, "is whether you'll take a lesbian for a hostess on Wanderlust."

    He evaded the truth. He wanted to see this girl again. Anyway, everyone knew that lesbians got into hostessing because they often found lesbian friends that way. But it was all under cover.

    "It's your right not to state your sexual preference," Hank Hastings said. "And I hope to see you on my plane. I'll know you, Helen."

    "Watch for me, Captain… Hank."

    And so it had worked out.

    And she had gone to bed with him from time to time and they had gotten along very well together. But he sensed her unsureness. She still didn't know if she was a man's woman or a woman's woman.

    Now here stood Helen in great trouble. She had been enticed into lesbian cunnylapping by Cleo Prentice, who herself had been fired as a lesbian hostess. Then, out of inward hate or something, Cleo had become Wanderlust Security's undercover woman. And she knew how to do her job.

    Hank wondered what Cleo was doing right then. Might be going to the short-wave phone to call Security in Chicago and tell what she had proved about Helen Troy.

    Maybe he could stop her. Demand the phone. Pilot's priority.

    He gave Carlotta a wink and he nodded toward Helen. Carlotta grinned.

    Hank ran out and down two decks to the shortwave phone. But Cleo sat in the glass phone booth and she was just hanging up.

    She saw him, noticed his upset condition and gave Hank a very knowing smile.


    CHAPTER THREE

    The two shapely women, Helen and Carlotta, remained in Conference One. Helen wore her uniform. Carlotta wore her stockings, leaving unclothed everything that a man would like to see – her pert up tilted breasts, her dark neat bush, her slender but adequate hips, her firm buttocks, her odd but attractive face.

    Looking at her more closely, Helen saw more than Latin in her face. Behind the olive skin and along the cheekbones lay a hint of ancient native blood. Carlotta had had an ancestor among the tribes of South America who built great temples and engaged in human sacrifice and the deflowering of virgins with stone lancets known as the lingams of the Gods.

    Carlotta strolled to the bar. Helen found the view of her back and her swaying buttocks quite disturbing. The long black stockings looked like something left over from an indescribable debauch.

    Carlotta went to the bar, made two margaritas. Not everyone has seen a super-naked woman work at a bar. The effect is fascinating. Carlotta knew this. She knew, too, that she was not fascinating a man but fascinating a woman. This required technique.

    Carlotta was simply a Buenos Aires specialty – a woman who knew how to take care of all the varieties of sex.

    You name it, she supplied it. But although, on occasion, she might round up a corps of girls to provide some bored rich man with a bacchanal, she preferred more intimate scenes. Whatever was to be done along the highways and byways of sex she preferred to supply by herself.

    She had fucked her friend Hank Hastings with hot and lively expertise. Called upon to provide suck, she had sucked him over the rainbow and back again.

    Now she had caught his signal and she was going to get to work on Helen Troy. Carlotta could switch from heterosexual to homosexual without thinking twice about it.

    Moreover, she had seen something in Hank and Helen, when they had been so briefly together, that made her think they ought to be together more often and all alone. Being a woman, Carlotta was a matchmaker.

    But now to the problem of the moment. This Helen had been given a bad time by a female passenger and had been left in a state of nervous tension. Carlotta knew the medicine to apply.

    She brought the margarita to Helen and clinked glasses. She let half the drink go down Helen's throat and then she reached for Helen's hand.

    "Shek," she said.

    Helen nodded. Yes, her hands were shaking. Carlotta touched delicate fingers to the pulse in the side of Helen's throat. "Queek," she said.

    "My heart is still beating fast, I know," Helen said, pleased with Carlotta's sympathy.

    Holding her drink in one hand, Carlotta bent, reached casually up beneath Helen's skirt and pressed her hand firmly upon the twat she found. She could not reach its skin but she felt it adequately through the fabric of Helen's minipanties. She also felt, as she smiled quietly, the shaking response that ran through Helen's entire form.

    "Shek," said Carlotta. True enough, Helen's cunt had been quivering and now quivered even more strongly. "Wet." Carlotta smelled her own fingers. "Ah! In middle." She tried to find the English words but could not. "Lost," she tried. And "Not mek feenish."

    Helen marveled. "You can tell by the smell of my cunt that that bitch Cleo left our sex job unfinished, even though I polished her off so well?"

    "Ah-hmm, yes. Now. Do."

    Again Helen watched the provocative ass cheeks, made even more so by the black stockings, retreat a couple of yards to the button that controlled the bed. Carlotta deliberately made her breasts twitch when she lifted a hand to press the button in the wall.

    The bed came down softly, invitingly. Carlotta smiled to Helen and pulled back the bedspread.

    She came to Helen and removed the hostess's uniform jacket.

    Without hurry she unbuttoned Helen's blouse.

    She showed her approval of the revealing bra. She ran her lips along the edges of the bra, tracking its outlines along the quivering, warming tissues of Helen's breasts.

    She unhooked the bra and retreated a foot to get a better view. She nodded her approval. She put a hand beneath each breast and felt their weight and nodded further approval.

    She invited Helen to feel her breasts, and turned sidewise to show their outline, the up tilted nipples that made a kind of ski-jump for an exploring finger. She made the motion of using a bow and arrow.

    Ah! One had to have Indian blood in order to have breasts of that enticing shape.

    "Men like, ho-ho-ho!" said Carlotta, smiling.

    She helped Helen out of her skirt and half-slip but motioned that she should leave on her stockings. Oh yes, thought Helen, while all her juices flowed in eager expectation, let's play whore!

    Being a woman, she had a hidden desire to be a whore. But Helen's sexual desires ran in too many directions and she never knew which direction to call the way home.

    Anyway, if one were to play whore, where were the men?

    Who needed a hairy brutal man when one had a silken-skinned, gentle woman?

    Carlotta again fondled Helen's breast, pressing the nipples inward and letting them spring out again. She then cupped her hand upon one breast while she bent her lips to the other.

    She approached Helen's nipple in the suck-off style, with her lips drawn over her teeth. When she had the enticed, erect nipple between her lips, it gave Helen only half the sensation she had tremblingly expected. She wanted moisture. She wanted tongue.

    While Carlotta let Helen go on wanting a wet nipple, she released the other breast and glided her hand down Helen's belly into the bush. She combed the bush with her fingers, and this sent a delighted shiver through Helen's body.

    Carlotta touched the cunt, below; once, twice, three times, each time lingering longer while her lips continued their odd, drawn-down exploration of Helen's nipple.

    All at once, Carlotta grabbed Helen's cunt and at the same time opened her mouth wide and took the nipple and the corolla and more into her wide open mouth that flooded with moisture.

    Helen made a small, soft, delighted shriek.

    She didn't expect what happened then.

    Carlotta hooked a finger into her cunt and drew her along that way.

    It didn't hurt. It didn't not-hurt. It hurt just a bit, just enough to be exciting. The finger had its grip merely in the outer lips, resting against the clitoris. Helen could have gotten away. But why? Smiling in tender wonder, she allowed Carlotta to draw her along as though she were an Indian maiden led along by the Incan hook made of twisted feathers that could tickle a girl almost into madness before they sat her upon the stone lingam for her defloration.

    Helen didn't know all that. She only knew she was having a wonderful time. And that her much abused cunt, signaled to expect an orgasm, was responding with heat, juice, and a delightful aroma.

    They sat upon the bed and engaged in tongue writhing soul kisses and rubbed each other's pussies.

    They fell back on the bed, stretched out together, excited, contented, more excited than contented.

    With a naughty grin, Carlotta got up on her knees between Helen's thighs as though she were about to take a man's place. But what she really wanted was to rub her remarkable nipples around and around Helen's. She thus signaled that, yes, she certainly had peeked at Helen and Cleo when the two had been sporting in this same bed.

    Cleo slapped Helen gently on the hip and made a signal: turn over.

    Gloating upon Helen's gluteus maxiumus, Carlotta nibbled and nipped with her tiny teeth. She made Helen keep her legs apart so that, simultaneously, she could sometimes nibble and nip down the ass-cleft, which led her along a trail of torrid fun down to the back of the crotch. With a quick motion, Carlotta reversed her position and, almost standing on her head, got at the part of Helen's cunt that her tongue could reach. She whipped it with her tongue, held the lips apart and got her tongue in almost to the fuck tunnel.

    To Helen, this was both delightful and frustrating. She wanted it from the front, the tongue slapping the clitoris. Of course, Cleo had planned it that way.

    But Helen waited, hoping Cleo would return to the delightful nipping of the ass cheeks that excites so many nerve-ends and sends such delicious sensations coursing through the body.

    Cleo knew this want and she supplied it once more.

    But she kept a hand on that cunt.

    Helen lay on one arm and thought that even if the plane crashed down into the ocean, right now, she would want Carlotta to go on making love to her.

    Now came the signal: Turn over!

    On her back, Helen drew Carlotta to her for more soul-kisses. She did not let the lithe Argentinean go until her tongue grew actually tired.

    The humming and quivering remained delightfully in her mouth when Carlotta switched ends again and they played female sixty-nine.

    As they both knew, sixty-nine is easier to play when at least one of the partners has a long, hard prick. When two women do it, it takes a lot of stretching the neck. But both Helen and Carlotta were young and active. They went at each other, tongues flickering eagerly.

    They found the right angle and they went to work.

    Helen soon realized that her experiences with other woman had not given her anything like Carlotta's cunt-licking expertise.

    Carlotta knew the nerve centers, not only in the cunt, but along in the delicate areas on either side of the outer lips, where cunt meets thigh.

    While Helen was seeking honey in the depths of Carlotta honey pot, Carlotta was giving her certain preliminaries that had been brought to Spain by the Moors in the tenth century, and had been used heavily by the harem women who had had little to do all day beside cunt-lick. Also these techniques had had time to become perfected since then.

    Like the South American snake that lonely women often use for sexual excitation, Carlotta's tongue made its sinuous way along the outside of Helen's cunt lips. By the time that wise tongue had made a circumnavigation, Helen was getting so overcome with sensation that she hardly could make her own tongue go.

    Then Carlotta settled down to tonguing Helen's clit.

    Helen gave up. She couldn't go on doing her own tonguing while this wonder of wonders was happening to her. She did not know that Carlotta was tongue bating her clit according to a mathematical formula worked out by the ancient Mayan astronomers in their lonely towers. Provided with women, boys, female llamas or whatever else they needed to keep them happy, they had discovered more about sex than the average American whorehouse madam would ever remember, let alone believe.

    So Carlotta went a secret number of times clockwise and a secret number of times counterclockwise around Helen's throbbing clitoris. She then felt for a certain pulse at the other end of the cunt, and did it again, but counter-clockwise first.

    By now she had twisted her lithe body around once more and was able to concentrate better. Having Helen firmly in control, she went from the hostess's clit to her yearning fuck tunnel. Here she did something simple; that is, simple to someone who has studied a certain art most of her life. She simply drove Helen wild.

    When her twisting, searching tongue had caused slow rings of heat to march up and down the length of the fuck tunnel, and Helen was holding her own breasts, actually digging her nails into her breasts in her excitement, and moaning, "Uh, uh, uh, uh," Carlotta turned her attention to the areas of Helen's sticky cunt that she had not yet dealt with. These were, first of all, the outer lips.

    But in order to give them her full attention, Carlotta wanted a position called the Buenos Aires Angle.

    Forsaking Helen for a moment – but with a whispered promise to return immediately, and a loving nip at the ear for reassurance – Carlotta got a cushion off the couch and seated herself on it, kneeling at the edge of the bed.

    She then worked the wildly humping Helen around, and got her settled with her legs up over her own shoulders. This presented Helen's cunt in a highly approachable position.

    "Shhh," she said fondly, trying to control Helen's abandoned thrashing. "Now the come."

    By lifting one of Helen's legs, then the other, she altered the angle of the cunt so that she could go at it sidewise and with her clever lips pull the outer lips, first the right one, then the left, as though, if she pulled farther, she would make the lip cover the cunt with a kind of weird modesty.

    Rather than try to pull that tender cunt apart as the rapist had done to Helen as a high-school girl, Carlotta was putting its parts more closely together. This of course concentrated the heat and Helen felt as though she had been brought to the Equator and displayed, legs spread, to the tropic sun, whose penetrating heat run all around her pelvis and up her spine to her head and back again.

    Carlotta mouthed the outer lips well, lingering where she knew the nerves came together in sensitive junctions.

    She gave the fuck tunnel another quick flip and penetration and then put her finger down into it and made her finger vibrate. The muscles inside grabbed at her finger convulsively.

    Carlotta now slanted her finger to one side, thus making room for her face, and slithered her tongue at the inner lips, feeling meanwhile the vibrations rising. Yes, her new friend, whom she really liked, was approaching the time of the Pampas Wind, the great tempest that carries all before it.

    Slanting her finger to the other side, Carlotta was about to get her tongue in there again when she felt the tiny spasms inside Helen's fuck tunnel give way to great surges of sexcited flesh.

    "Good, good," murmured the expert, and did not mind Helen's heels beating her back while the other woman humped and moaned and thrashed her arms in the ecstasy off her long delayed climax.

    When Helen had recovered somewhat, she bent her own face into Carlotta's twat and made sure that marvelous woman achieved her own climax.

    Then they rested in each other's arms.

    "Who needs men, my darling, my darling," murmured Helen, gently kissing Carlotta's nipples.

    Carlotta whispered, "Shhh. We see about this. We see."

    "Well, Captain," said Cleo Prentice as she came out of the short-wave phone booth, "you might like to know that one of your hostesses is a lesbian. Caught her at it."

    "Yeh?" said Hank, suppressing an urge to hit the smugly smiling woman in the tweed tailleur.

    "Here are my credentials, by the way."

    "Yeh, yeh, you're one of Security's undercover cunts."

    "Really, Captain! One supposes that a Chief Pilot has regard for the welfare of Wanderlust Airlines!"

    "Sure. I fly the planes safe. Hey, wait a minute. Weren't you a Wanderlust hostess yourself, once? And didn't you get fired for fucking women?"

    Cleo Prentice drew herself up and glared at him. "That is a very crude way of putting a most subtle matter. Merely that any intelligent woman can come to realize that she has been making a mistake. I consider it now my sacred duty to cleanse Wanderlust of lesbian trash."

    "Yeh," choked Hank, forcibly keeping his clenched fists at his side.

    "Now, Captain, you ought to be getting a message from Security at any moment, covering the Helen Troy matter."

    He turned his back and walked away. He presented a thundercloud face to the passengers. In the cockpit, he snatched away the copilot's newspaper and shouted, "Goddamit, you're in command here when I'm out!"

    "Sure, Hank, but what am I going to do while the computer flies us in a straight line and no red lights or buzzers are sounding?"

    "Well, ACT busy!"

    Slamming into his seat, slapping on his headphones, Hank Hastings shouted back at the communications man: "Get the printout on that message that's just coming in."

    "Kayrist," said Sparks, handing him the printout two minutes later. "Security sure has a bee up its ass."

    The message, addressed to the Chief Pilot, requested him to order the Chief Hostess to require Hostess Helen Troy to surrender her duties to another hostess and remain off-duty until the plane reached Buenos Aires, at which time Hostess Helen Troy would report for disciplinary action in regard to reported lesbian activity. Hank Hastings growled at Sparks, "Tell Snarly Mollie to come up here." He handed the message to Snarly Mollie, who read it and snarled, "Hah! I knew it! She always had a sneaky way about her!"

    "Get the hell out of here," Hank Hastings said.


    CHAPTER FOUR

    And so, still wearing her uniform, Helen at last faced the Chief of Security in Chicago. His name was Mike Pawling and he was reputed to be a cocksman of high degree.

    He shouted over at his secretary: "Sylvia, you're too young to hear this. Take a break. Twenty minutes. Give you time to run downstairs and make the newspaper dealer."

    Sylvia rose and left. But since Pawling had his head down, rummaging through papers, she took the occasion to make the fuck-you sign with her middle finger and point it straight at him.

    In fact, the more it became known that a career hostess with a good record was to be fired because she liked women more than men, the more indignation went around among the hostesses on planes going anywhere from Bahrein to Tokyo or returning via Singapore, Rio de Janiero or little old New York.

    The news also had spread around HQ, where the office help did not see why a girl could not elect to be fucked by a prick, a finger, a tongue, or even a policeman's nightstick if she so desired.

    In fact, anonymous notes of protest had been sent to the President of Wanderlust Airlines.

    One letter said:

    "You old son of a bitch, you were a boy, once. Did you care what you stuck your prick into? I'll bet every time your mother sent you to the butcher" – the President was proud of his lower middle-class upbringing – "for a pound of liver, you fucked it behind a fence on the way home. And I'll bet you used to get together with one of your pals and do something naughty. I'll even bet you used to hide with one of your pals, at about the age of twelve, when you were just getting used to having that thing between your legs go hard and want you to give it a nice feeling, and I'll bet you tried out each other's assholes. Let alone what you might have been doing later when you found out how expensive it is to take girls out and then you found yourself jerking off when you got home because she was too smart to let you into her cunt. Maybe you looked up your old asshole friend and got back into assholing, which at your age then was homo, buddy. And so what? Even if you and your boyfriend went down on each other for the thrill of the century, so what? You married eventually and the way I hear it you have four kids and they all went to good colleges. What does Helen Troy have? Not even a job. Who is guilty, you or Helen? If she is guilty, you are guilty. Again, of what? It's all a tempest in a teapot. Who cares who fucks who with what? Put her back on the 797-X, Godammit. Sonny, let me tell you something. If you ever got off your ass and took a look at the way that gal walks her breasts down an aisle you might leave your wife, see? I hate you. Yours sincerely, Ms. Noname Anonymous."

    The President was said to have looked furtive and guilty and disturbed. But he did not interfere with his efficient Security Department. So all this did not help Helen Troy, who was due to walk out of Security with her head under her arm.

    Mike Pawling gave her a careful breast inspection, grinned, and at last found her file.

    "And here is the tape," he announced.

    "What tape?"

    "The tape that Cleo had going in her purse all along. I listened in horror. How you told her of the dreadful dishonesty of girls who do not admit they are lesbians. And everything you said during your session with our valued Cleo Prentice. Would you like to hear the tape?"

    "No."

    "No?" He seemed disappointed. She supposed that by now he knew it by heart, and repeated it in bars.

    "Well, you are entitled to speak in your own defense, Miss Troy."

    "I don't feel guilty of anything."

    "You know our rules."

    "Yes. I also know how hard it is for you to get good hostesses, and I know I am a good hostess."

    "You cannot possibly be a good hostess if you engage in activities that turn your thoughts away from men."

    "Did you ever hear of the Black and Blue Contest?"

    "What's that?"

    "One night in Rio, a local millionbux invited all of a 797-X's hostesses to a party. A wild one. Some of those Brazilian rubber barons carry ten kinds of condoms with them, all with fancy little nobs and ribs to give a girl a thrill, and they were awfully anxious to try them out before releasing them to the public. When one of them got finished with me, I mean he was using a condom with ridges, I thought my female apparatus was all punctured, but no, it was only kind-of indented, inside."

    "But you did get a thrill?" asked Mike Pawling eagerly. "Because, look, I have something in my drawer, here…"

    "Never mind. I want to tell you about the Black and Blue Contest. To get away from the condom ploy, one hostess started telling about the Wanderlust passengers who had pinched her ass, and another chimed in, and boasted that she had gotten twice as many pinches. First thing you know, we had lifted our skirts and dropped our panties and were standing with our asses in the air, showing them to a committee of three Brazilian men-about-town she couldn't seem to make up their minds without feeling every ass three times."

    "What for?"

    "The feeling didn't have anything to do with it. It was the ass-inspection that counted."

    "Yeh?" said Pawling, doubtful, but at the same time licking his lips.

    "Because we were trying to decide which girl had the most black-and-blue pinch marks on her backside."

    "No kiddin!"

    "And who do you suppose won?"

    "I give up."

    "Me."

    "You? But you're female homo!"

    "What I'm trying to show you is," said Helen, "that being a lesbian is a private matter and it does not show on a girl's face or in the way she walks nor in the attraction that her ass has for a male's pinching fingers. Do you want me to show you my bare ass right now, before all my black-and-blue marks fade, so you can see for yourself that…"

    "No, no, someone might walk in," said Pawling hastily. "But if you'd like to drop around after hours? Listen, this fancy condom. See? Look, ain't it hairy? It's got more than one thousand stiff hairs cemented to it, and when you get that in your cunt you are going to…"

    "I hope you find some other cunt, Mr. Pawling. I hope your prick gets plenty of exercise. But do be sure not to put on that condom inside-out. It will tickle you so much, you might die laughing. Meanwhile, if you are going to fire me, let's get it over with."

    She walked out of Security in civilian dress. But still, Pawling had made sure she had his private telephone number, just in case she ever changed her mind about having a good dinner and then having a wild night with the aid of a super-tickler.

    At first Helen thought she would get a job with another airline. But really, she had had enough of hostessing.

    She found a job at Marshall Field's, selling lingerie. A straight female clientele, of course.

    Except for the embarrassed male who might sidle up to her counter and whisper, "Need something frilly in black lace for a – a – an amateur theatrical."

    He meant for his girl friend to parade back and forth in, of course, and help him get another hard-on after the second coming.

    Or the guys who said frankly they wanted to get their girl friend something reckless and revealing that might change her character. Get her, y'know, interested in love, like. Meant they weren't getting it, or weren't getting enough of it.

    Or the guys who came back the next day to return a hot black-lace number because it was like the new bikinis. A girl couldn't wear one unless she shaved down there. Seemed some girls didn't think shaving down there worth the bother. Maybe it was the new way to tell a fella to take off and keep flying away.

    Or the occasional guy, often well-dressed and with a magnificent briefcase, and he walked all around Lingerie, looking for courage. Then he asked Helen to try on brassieres till he found one he thought was the kind his wife (oh, yeh?) had tried to describe to him before trusting him with her shopping. His wife was so busy, poor dear preparing her dogs for the dog show.

    A couple of times, when she didn't have other customers waiting and the buyer was out of town, Helen did drape a few bras across her blouse. But then one of the guys wanted her to let him watch how she put a bra onto her bared breasts. Her beautiful big high-riding breasts, said this breast fetishist, drooling.

    He offered her fifty dollars an hour to come to his apartment some evening with an assortment of revealing bras and try them on. On the naked breasts, of course, because he was so anxious to please his wife.

    At first she refused. But her salary didn't cover her expenses and rent was terribly high for a single girl even though she had a roommate (female).

    So one day, she said what the hell, it's not that I'm selling my body or anything like that.

    "Okay, Mr. Wiskett, but if your wife is not at home I'm walking right out, see?"

    Hamilton Wiskett lived on the 49th floor of a slender, svelte co-op building that looked out over the lake near the Elks memorial.

    The Wiskett apartment reflected money and an artistic taste, although perhaps not a very good one. They had filled it with statues of nudes, some men, some women. They had nude paintings too, and Mrs. Wiskett – for the man really had a wife – confided that she liked to look from their back window at Chicago's tall buildings downtown, because they reminded her of so many erected penises. Well, one made allowances for the buildings that were too thick to make a penis of practical use, so to speak.

    Now Helen knew why they lived in a tall, slender apartment house. And it was round, beside.

    As fetishists go, they seemed well mated. The husband went around town bothering lingerie saleswoman, and the wife went around looking for a statue of a male nude with a hard-on.

    Mimi Wiskett had been a bit pissed of bourbon by the time her husband came home with Helen Troy in tow with her stock of brassieres. When they settled down for a drink, preliminary to having the bra try-on, Mimi had more bourbon and got pissier.

    She asked Helen to call her Mimi, and after a bit she confided something of her life's story.

    She said she had had four brothers, so she got to know what a penis looked like and balls too. But she never could see any of her brothers when he had a hard-on.

    A couple of times she had walked into the male dormitory, as they called the large room where the brothers slept before any of them married. And there they were, tickling each other around the balls or helping each other jerk off. But they wouldn't let her look. They said it wasn't nice for a young girl to see a man with a hard-on.

    She said, well, she had seen them running around naked between the bathroom and their bedroom and if she could see them without a hard-on why couldn't she see them with a hard-on?

    They said, no, and all she had to do was to go to the museum and look at male nudes, the ones that had forgotten to put on their fig leaves, and she would see plenty of marble pricks and balls but she would not ever see a statue with a hard-on. That was because it was not considered decent to show a man's stiff prick in public.

    So she made a ten-thousand-dollar bet with her eldest brother Toby that somewhere she could find the statue of a male nude with a hard-on. The bet was to run for twenty years. She really was becoming desperate to find a statue that had a hard-on. Often, if she heard that some art dealer had a male nude statue, she would buy it sight unseen. She couldn't very well ask him in advance if the statue had a hard-on, could she? After all, she had her reputation as a lady.

    Maybe she was a three-crack woman, thought Helen. A crack along her cunt, a crack along her ass and a crack in her head.

    Finally everyone agreed they should get on with the business of the evening, which was bras, or, more accurately, breasts, tits, boobs, or whatever your favorite word may be for those wonderful bumps that girls carry in front.

    Mimi had no objection to her husband's viewing Helen's bare breasts. She didn't even object to his personally putting on each bra and taking it off, during which time he made sure to finger Helen's boobs and worm a finger across each nipple.

    It had been difficult for Helen to arrange to borrow two dozen assorted bras from the store. But they would be happy tomorrow when she brought in Ham Wiskett's check, because Mimi decided to buy the entire batch.

    But first she made sure that Mimi tried-on every one of the frilly, peek-a-boo creations.

    "You see, dear," she murmured to Helen, "I'll get a thrill out of wearing bras that you have worn on your perfect, perfect, lovely breasts. We both wear the same size but my breasts droop while yours stand up so proudly, and oh, dear, your breasts just put mine in the shade."

    Mimi asked Helen not to redon her own bra until she had felt her pectoral muscles and had received advice on exercising for a firm, high bustline. Helen had learned all about that in the Wanderlust hostess school.

    While Ham was trying to find his checkbook, Mimi hefted and tested and pressed and bounced Helen's breasts. Then she asked Helen to come to her bedroom, where she had a full-length mirror, so she too could strip to the waist and compare her breasts with Helen's, side by side.

    Helen began to feel warm in the crotch.

    She made sure she had Ham's check tucked away before she went into Mimi's bedroom. The couple had separate rooms.

    "Let me try something," said Mimi. "I'll kiss you here" – just below the nipple – "and then I'll kiss myself in the same spot and see if the difference in firmness can be felt by the lips. Because the lips are our most sensitive feeler, Helen dear. I always believe what my lips tell me."

    She kissed Helen's left breast near the nipple and said, "No, I don't think that's the right place." Helen quivered.

    She kissed the breast near its top, in the area generally exposed by an evening gown, and said, her voice growing shaky: "No, that's too high." Helen felt moist in the box.

    Mimi bent and kissed Helen's breast way underneath and said, her voice so shaky that she hardly could form the words: "That's… so sweet… I think the nipple area, after all. Look. See how I can kiss my own nipple?"

    Her breasts were so floppy that she was able to turn one up and by craning her neck and pursing out her lips, kiss the nipple and run her tongue around it.

    "Do you mind if I sit down?" Helen asked tremulously. She knew where she wanted to sit. On the bed. She had gone too far. She could not stop now. She was Mimi's.

    "Why don't you sit on the bed, dear?"

    Again the older, flabby Mimi eyed Helen's figure hungrily as she once more sucked her own nipple, did it again, said breathlessly, "Okay, now I can remember the feeling of the breast, right there."

    She held her nipple in her mouth while her skirt, which she had unzipped at the side, slowly slid down her legs.

    "Oh dear," she said, laughing a little. "Now, why don't you take off your skirt too, so you won't have the advantage on me? I'd like to compare legs with you anyway."

    Helen rose, slipped out of her skirt and without allowing herself to think slipped out of her panties too.

    "It's warm in here, isn't it," Mimi breathed, her face hungry with desire.

    She slipped her own panties to her feet and kicked them away.

    Her eyes went glazed. Her hands went out almost as though she were blind. She half-felt her way to Helen's side, where she suddenly came-to as she sat beside Helen, their hips touching. That was when Mimi dropped all pretense and with a gasp of desire went open-mouthed for Helen's breast.

    For the nipple. She took it in deeply. She tongued it. She gasped, "Oh, how I love you, how I love you!" and swallowed the nipple again and the portion of delicate flesh around it.

    While Helen sat dazed in wave after wave of hot-flushed passion, Mimi kissed her all over her breasts, then went to her lips and sucked hungrily at them. Their tongues intertwined. Their tongues and lips created hot shivers and long surging billows of tremulous desire. Even Helen's ass quivered, and her toes and her fingertips tingled with passion.

    Suddenly Mimi was pushing Helen down toward her lap and moaning, "Please, please!"

    Helen slid down in front of her and Mimi lay back. Helen didn't like the slack skin of the inner thighs she found here, especially when she compared them to the taut silken litheness of Carlotta's body… Carlotta, her last lover, oh, so many weeks without the precious sensation of another body to share her want and need! The cunt lips were growing moist and she added the moisture of her own tongue, lapping frantically all over the folds and recesses of the vulva. Muskiness filled her mouth and the scent in her nostrils made her head whirl.

    She tongued the tunnel, evoking a gasp of pleasure from her new sex partner. She tried Carlotta's trick, taking each outer lip, in turn, within her lips and pulling it across the center of the cunt.

    Whatever she did brought gasps and cries from Mimi, interspersed with moaning whispers: "Oh, how I love you! Oh, what a darling girl you are! Oh, I want you to stay with me, I don't want my husband profaning my body any more, I only want you, you, you!"

    At length Helen's own cunt cried out for attention and she settled herself with a knee on either side of Mimi, who lay on her back, and presented her cunt to the gaping mouth below it.

    "Press down," murmured Mimi.

    Helen pressed her twat down upon Mimi's mouth and was rewarded by a firmer contact with the tongue that eagerly sought to lose itself in her hot, moist, depths of vulvae excitement. The feeling in Helen's cunt felt somewhat like warm molasses with electricity running through it. It felt like a tornado whirling inside her womb, and whirling faster and faster. It felt like honey drip-drip-dripping. It felt. It FELT. She thought she would float right out over Lake Michigan on the wings of that tremendous surge and swell of pure wild pleasure.

    When she felt herself near coming she wanted to prolong the pleasure. Mimi was just a second ahead of her in suggesting sixty-nine. Helen turned and quickly got in the sixty-nine position she had enjoyed so much with Carlotta… and others.

    Mimi quickly entered into the spirit of the thing. Each cunt now had a busy tongue flicking it, and each cunt now seemed to be racing the other toward a great and growing blaze of lustrous silver light.

    "Good, good, have at it, girls, you're both going to sleep well after this session of cunt-bunting."

    Ham Wiskett had walked in noiselessly, on bare feet, being naked. All Helen saw of him was his hairy legs as he climbed onto the bed, which groaned beneath the triple weight.

    Helen lay on top of Mimi, so Mimi's ass was out of reach while her own firm pink buttocks offered a resting place to Mimi's husband.

    All in one motion he separated Helen's ass cheeks, slathered her with something greasy, worked some into her rectum while she felt Mimi gripping her to hold her helpless.

    Then he was pushing the head of his prick at the tight ring of muscle that controlled Helen's bumhole. Insistently and remorselessly he was forcing his way in.

    "Goddamn fool," said Mimi indistinctly, her lips moving against Helen's twat as she spoke. "I'm under here, you dope, and I can't take your weight on my mouth. What do you want to do, ruin all my bridgework?"

    "So move her down a bit, my sweet."

    Helen wanted to get away but Ham had her pinned through the ass and his weight upon her. Mimi squirmed her face up between his legs, so she could breathe and also not ruin her bridgework.

    "Suck my balls while you're there," Ham ordered.

    He pushed down slowly, slowly into the ring of sphincter muscle that gave him a delightful sensation as it slipped upward along his prick. He made sounds of eager enjoyment and pinched Helen along the ribs as though to invite her to enjoy with him.

    She would rather have hit him with a chair, but she could barely move.

    She had to endure the slow, remorseless invasion of her rear by Ham's slick and relentless prick.

    When he had sunk all the way in she felt the tickle of his pubic hair upon her ass cheeks and heard him say to Mimi: "I told you she would have a good ass to fuck."

    He slid in and out, zing, zang, whoops-a-daisy. He had used a lot of grease, which made it a little more comfortable than a dry fuck in the rear would have been, but still Helen felt far from comfortable.

    And yet, as had happened at the time of her rape, when she had been sixteen, despite her resentment she began to get used to the sensation.

    She began to understand why women (and men) can order, by mail, sent in a plain wrapper, objects of penis length and texture, made of plastic, and provided with changeable heads. As with condoms, there are prickly kinds and knobby kinds and spiral kinds of interchangeable heads for flexible plastic penises, and still other sorts, to suit anyone's taste.

    She even had seen pictures of monstrous knobs that it seemed impossible to fit into a rectum. The trick was, those knobs folded back under pressure, than sprang out to their full exciting dimensions once they were deep inside.

    Ass-fuck is simply not appreciated. It had taken a lot of brave women (and men, one should not forget) to allow their rectums to be penetrated and their lower intestines filled with prick, before it got whispered around that the asshole and what lies below it are very sexy areas.

    You only have to grit your teeth and bear pain the first few times. After that it feels better every time. Soon it feels real great.

    The fucker, of course (the live fucker, whom many prefer to a plastic prick) benefits by the tight sphincter that can be made even tighter through a natural effort by the fuckee. No cunt muscle can approach this tightness. On the other hand, the ass is not equipped with the cunt's lubricating glands, nor with the cunt-odor that in itself seems to whisper, "Come on and fuck, fuck, fuck!"

    Cunt and ass present an interesting choice. A good cocksman can avail himself of both. Two holes to one come. Include a good suck and you have it made.

    But not all people have the same sexual tastes.

    Ham now pumped away, and Mimi encouraged him despite Helen's groans and her plea for mercy.

    "Go it, boy," she cried. "Bang that bunghole. Crash that keister."

    "Put your finger up my ass!" gasped Ham, now pumping furiously.

    Helen couldn't see, but she supposed that Mimi somehow managed to do penetrate his asshole with a finger.

    "Fuck me!" Ham Wiskett shouted.

    Quite a circus. But it was what he wanted, to be fucked in the ass while he fucked in the ass, and really, he needed another man with a tremendous prick, not a woman's finger. But again, each to his taste, thought Helen in a few seconds of being able to think clearly.

    Then Ham whammmed her again, off on his final sleigh ride, getting his prick up into areas where he surely hit the remains of her lunch. I am going to smash him on the head with a handy sized statue, thought Helen as she received the bang-bang corn holing. No, I am going to choke him with a brassiere. Then I am going to pull Mimi's hair out by the roots. Her twat hair too. She trapped me!

    Somewhere in the mishmash of fucking, squirming, bouncing and gasping, Ham Wiskett came, howling. Mimi patted his back and soothed his exhaustion. "There, there!"

    Eventually they let Helen roll herself off the bed and stand, woozy.

    "Take a shower," offered Ham generously.

    "Let me out of here," whispered Helen through the hair that fell over her face. "Let me OUT!"

    "Ah come on," said Mimi, standing naked in her naked husband's embrace. "That's the only way he can get his rocks off, don't you understand? So what if! Meanwhile I had a little girlish fun."

    "It's wonderful when a man and wife understand each other," said Ham.

    Mimi kissed him. "Isn't it, dear?"


    CHAPTER FIVE

    And then, one day, a man wanted to buy a girdle. At heart, Helen remained the girl from the wheat fields of Dakota. True, she had been raped by a mad uncle. True, she had yielded to sly offers that came from older girls who had fallen for her freshness and above all for her figure. True, she had lain twiddling and sucking and tonguing and sighing with these girls in the hay and between the sheets, let alone the quick diddles behind a row of lockers in the girls locker room.

    True, she had grown to like having female fingers explore her twat, to be followed by a female tongue so eager to suck honey that sometimes she checked her cunt, later, to make sure that it was still all there.

    Let alone that our heroine, Helen Troy, had gone through a hostess-training school, and as to what happens in hostess-training schools, well.

    But the experience includes men. Men haunt hostess training schools. They have been known to climb in through the windows and to wait outside in the shrubbery to snatch girls who had snatches, and probably no girl could get very far if she didn't have one, so that was not so hard to do.

    Beside, they didn't have to snatch. They only had to ask.

    So anyway, Helen had been to hostess training school, an experience said to turn any dewy girl into a wary and sex-wise woman.

    Let alone the actual job of being a hostess. Imagine you are back in the last chapter. Again form an erection-encouraging mind-picture of that row of hostesses at that wild party with those rubbery South American businessmen. There the row of hot cunts stands, panties down, skirts up, displaying their well-proportioned behinds for a countdown on black-and blue pinch marks.

    Such goings-on are not for the unsophisticated girl. Yet Helen Troy still kept something of the Girl Of The Golden West in her psyche. Her hair still reminded men – that is, some men – of corn silk. Her smile still told of prairie sunrises rather than of the sexual stew of a big city with its blue-tinged atmosphere of fucks, sucks, orgies and bodies-for-sale.

    That was why Helen did not at first realize that the man who wanted a girdle was a transvestite.

    "You got any idea what style girdle she would like, sir?" Helen inquired.

    "Oh, uh, like that one hanging over there," said the slightly built man who wore an artist's flowing tie.

    "Ah yes, our Model 444. Very popular. What size, sir?"

    "Size?" he said vaguely, looking around at the sea of pink and pastel colors that announced what goes on beneath female outer dress. Then he brightened. "Well, sure I know what size, I mean, I never measured it in inches, but if you've got a tape measure?"

    "You're expecting the lady to join you here?" Helen inquired sweetly. "Hell no, sister. Give me a tape measure and I'll put it around my own hips. I want the girdle for me."

    "Oh."

    "Listen we got an act going down at the Mister Madam Club. What we need is, we need one woman on tap to advise us, y'know, guys can make awful mistakes when they put on women's clothes. I mean, they know what looks good on them, like, I look mighty pretty in something flowing and yellow and with flowers in my hair. But they can make mistakes, I mean, wear a today's style with something that was stylish yesterday."

    "Oh."

    "So you got good taste, you gotta have or they wouldn't let you work here. So look, sell me the girdle, I send in other guys for girdles and tell them to ask for you and you give me a percentage, see?"

    "I'm afraid that doesn't attract me, sir."

    And meanwhile the department's buyer, himself a prissy little sort, stood nearby, watching them.

    "Well, listen, we need someone like you. Listen, I got a better idea. You get finished here around five-thirty, six, huh or even on Thursday you're finished by nine. So you come on down to the Mister Madam."

    "I don't think that that type of entertainment really…"

    "Nah. It's you who gives the entertainment. Listen. What we want to do, it's wild, it's sensational, you never heard nothin like it. Comes the end of the show, see, all the guys in drag they pull out their pricks and wave them at the audience, which always is good for a big laugh."

    "Well, meanwhile you been dancing along with us and nobody knows you're a woman. But when we pull out our cocks – we wear pink ribbons tied in big bows around them, I mean, we have a helluva gag man – when we pull out our cocks you don't pull out yours, if you know what I mean."

    "I…"

    "But when we all turn and look at you and march you out stage-center and make motions you should show your cock to the house, it's laughing so hard it's pissing in its pants, you know what you do then?"

    "Tell me," murmured Helen wearily.

    "You flop back, where two guys are waiting to catch you by the arms. And two guys lift you, one by each leg and they hold you flat, like that, with your legs toward the audience and then comes a tarantara from our three-piece band. And then…"

    "I suppose they spread my legs apart."

    "Yeh! Chee!"

    "And I suppose the audience gets a good view of my vagina."

    "Huh?"

    "My cunt."

    "Sure! So then they see why you didn't pull your prick out with a big pink-ribbon bow on it, and wave it! Hey, I can get you good money. I can get you, let's see…"

    "My mother wouldn't like me to go on the stage," Helen said. "Ever since my grandfather took an actress for a second wife and it turned out she wore rouge, we simply don't want another actress in the family."

    "Yeh, but listen, I got an even better idea." The transvestite leaned close, turned to gaze around for possible eavesdroppers, then whispered, "At the same time you show your cunt, you unzip your tits!"

    "I don't recall zippers on my tits, but I'll check when I get home."

    "Nah. Not your tits. Your bodice, up here. You unzip your bodice, which we got made to flop open, and you pop up your tits, which I see you got good ones. And hey!" the little man went on, blinking eagerly, as though he sat in the audience at the Mister Madam, hardly able to believe, the wondrous treat that unzipped before his eyes, "you show your tits, see, but first we showed our cocks, didn't we?"

    "Oh, is that what you meant?"

    "And then you showed your cunt, didn't you?"

    "I seem to recall something about that."

    "Well, now, hey this is great. This. Is. Guhreat."

    "Tell me, tell me!"

    "You show your tits. The audience cheers. Well then we guys, we see you've got us licked. I mean, see what I mean, we got pricks to match your cunt but when it comes to tits, what have we got?" He motioned into his jacket, made a throwing-away gesture. "We got nothing but pillows inside our bodices."

    "For goodness sake! You mean it?"

    "Sure I mean it. What'd you think, men got?"

    "So what we do is, we throw away those little pillows because we can't compete with you, see? And you think the audience won't howl? They'll roar. They'll piss in their pants."

    "They'll be awfully wet by then."

    "Hey!" Another glow of inspiration touched the transvestite's face. "Listen to this. You ain't heard nothing like this. Listen. You listening? Because what we do is, we put a star on one of those pillows that the guys throw. They throw the pillows into the audience, and don't worry the doorman collects them before they get out of there. But meanwhile one guy in the audience, he's got the pillow with the star. So we give him a pass to the Girl Scouts Convention."

    "Nah. A free drink! Or if it's a couple, two free drinks!"

    "Really, sir, I need your credit card on this girdle. Or do you have an account here? Or will it be cash?"

    "Ah, look, what you're afraid of is being typed as a stripper. But you ain't stripping. Don't you see? Between the cunt and the tits," – he outlined the area on himself – "you stay all dressed."

    "My mother wouldn't like it."

    "Listen, I'll get you even more money. Hey, boss says, five bucks for the cunt, five bucks for the tits, I'll tell him, hell no, not this gal, you pay her five bucks per tit."

    "My grandfather would turn in his grave."

    "Hey, maybe one of the other girls here?"

    "Sir, I think you should go now. I have wrapped your girdle. Cash, credit card or charge, please?"

    "Fuck your girdle if you're too good for the Mister Madam," the transvestite said, disgusted. "Who the hell are you, a leftover from the Ziegfeld Follies or something?" He walked away, waggling his hips.

    When Helen turned from putting the girdle back on display, she found herself facing the buyer.

    He wanted to know: And just what is going on around here, my dear Miss Troy.

    He told her that the store catered to certain types of people who would be much put off if they encountered other sorts of types.

    He said that he understood that a disproportionate number of men had been coming to her counter, which obviously indicated some, all, attraction she was offering them. Some, ah, service?

    He said that if she wished to use her counter as a dating center for her, ah, assignations, she might well find a more suitable atmosphere at some other store.

    She said, "I sold two dozen bras the other night, on my own time, after work."

    "Admittedly so, but when I think of what dreadful transvestite orgy you must have indulged in, I shudder."

    He didn't fire her, but he left her feeling insecure.

    She wondered again about getting a hostess job.

    A hostess job. Hmmm. At least, one traveled.

    She felt her right buttock reminiscently. Not a single sore spot, any more.

    But she stopped feeling herself in public when she saw the buyer watching her, aghast.

    She supposed that her good sales record would keep her from being fired. Still, the scene had made for a rough day.

    At five o'clock she walked home toward the two-bedroom apartment she shared with Tina McGill, whom she had met in the store's lunchroom one day. Tina worked downstairs in Office Supplies.

    Generally the girls kept to their own rooms.

    It was understood that one's visitors were none of the other girl's business, in a friendly way.

    They shared the bathroom, but it was little trouble to pick up razor blades or cufflinks that men left behind and simply leave them on the table at the front door. Same with lipsticks.

    Helen knew that Tina slept-around a good deal with men, but she did not think that any women had entered the picture, or had entered Tina's cunt, as the case might be. She herself had had very few overnight guests.

    They had all been women. In fact, when Tina found a lipsticked cup in the kitchen, which they also shared, she pointedly left it for Helen to wash.

    But Helen had been remembering Hank Hastings a lot, lately.

    Back then, oh so long ago, when she had been a high-school junior and had had two ice-cream sodas with him, and had impulsively told him of how her Uncle Hiram had raped her, and how this had affected her attitude toward men, she had later berated herself for telling too much.

    But gosh, a high-school kid sipping sodas in an ice-cream parlor with Captain Henry Hastings of Wanderlust Airlines! In his uniform! Craggyfaced! Big-jawed! Straight-backed! Broad-shouldered! Flat-bellied! Twice as old as she!

    She could be excused for letting the occasion go to her head.

    With her grades and her build and her breathtaking walk, Helen had had no trouble in entering Wanderlust's hostess training school. She didn't need to call upon Captain Hastings for aid. She wondered if he even remembered her, three days after their meeting.

    Well, Captain Hastings had been using his time, while waiting for the first 797-X to be ready, in recruiting hostesses, as she knew. But also he had become interested in hostess training.

    The girls at the school whispered that sure, he was taking down names and bust, waist and hip measurements which he would feed to a company computer to form a composite pattern of the perfect hostess to spear onto his captain-sized prick.

    Helen wondered if a computer could do that, but at eighteen she was too shy to ask.

    She did think, however, with a blush, that Hank Hastings probably did have a captain-sized prick. Sometimes she dreamed about it. She dreamed herself away from women and back to men, or rather one man, Captain Henry Hastings.

    She dreamed him into her bed. But each girl in the hostess school, had, in her little sleeping cubicle, only a narrow scanted-single bed.

    She dreamed of how they would make do in her narrow bed. Easy. He would lie on top of her. She would have his strong-muscled form cradled into her pelvis, which nature had fashioned for the comfort of a lover.

    He might even lie there a little while, and how blissfully her warm breasts would absorb the feeling of his chest hair. She thought she would even rub up against his chest hair and let her nipples take in as much thrill as they could absorb. Which was plenty. (And in the abandon of a dream, double-plenty.) He would understand her youth, and the shock she had had from Uncle Hiram.

    She would understand his maturity and authority and, to be frank about it, his experience with women, even Oriental women who had horizontal cunt slots, if the story was true.

    But see, he had come to her! The glamorous captain had remembered her! He had wondered at the Registrar if some girl named Troy had checked in, as she had said she would, and when told, yes, Helen Troy had entered upon hostess training, he would, next thing you know, let his wonderful naked body down upon her yearning, soft and heated body in her scanted-single bed.

    In dreams, you don't have to fill-in all the details.

    She did not think he would penetrate her immediately. Instead he would lie upon her and kiss her lips with manly tenderness. And kiss her cheeks. And her closed eyes. And her yearning lips again.

    When he kissed her breasts, he would make a delightful little game of it.

    Whispering: "See, my sweet Helen love, here is our 797-X at the head of the runway." He rested his lips at the top of a breast.

    "And here our 797-X begins its takeoff run." Drawing his well-formed lips slowly downward along the breast, yet at the same time raising his head because the breast's marvelous firm outward curve made him do that.

    And with every millimeter his lips traveled along the silken skin, excitement rose in Helen's being. She felt her pulse in her cunt, going faster and faster.

    She thought in her dream – as she sometimes thought when quite conscious – that although a woman's lips can thrill a breast and madden its nipple, a man's lips feel infinitely better. Because it all ties in with the hairy chest, and the way one's breasts flatten against that chest instead of merely meeting some other woman's nippled softness. And ties in with the strong arms that do not coddle one, but instead thrill by being hard and angular and different from a woman's, oh, so titillating different.

    And the belly above one's belly has ridges of muscle. How could you conceive of having a soft belly pressed against yours? It's your business being soft and cuddly, not your lover's! Wonder of nature's greatest invention, the male prick.

    Away with women!

    Captain Hastings' manly lips traced a trail of fire along the swell of Helen's breast, and when he reached the nipple, he said, "Takeoff point."

    But he landed his lips on the yearning nipple a few seconds later and said, "Landing, flaps down," and took that well-treated nipple into his mouth again.

    She wanted to tell him how good it felt, but she couldn't talk because it felt so good.

    And his prick had hardened against her cunt.

    It lay pointing downward, its top pressed against her cunt. Her cunt began to bathe it.

    "Ah, Cleopatra on the Nile," murmured her lover. "Thus she wafted her aroma of love to Julius Caesar, tong ago."

    "Oh, Hank, Hank," she sighed dreamily.

    "Thus did Josephine, the torrid West Indian Creole, signal her love to Napoleon, and gave him her silk kerchief drenched in her juices to wear as a life-protecting charm in battle."

    "Oh, Hank, Hank, don't ever let me go."

    "Mmmmm. Ahhhhh. Thus does the graduate Wanderlust hostess on my 797-X charm the male passenger into imagined seductions, mirages of belly-bouncing and ghosts of climaxes upon her lovely bod, on and on and on."

    "Oh, you Hank! You're talking business!"

    But she'd laugh as she said it, hugging him closer, getting another kiss.

    And going breathless when he went at her cunt with his strong, bony fingers. When he trailed a finger up and down the slotted center of her eager twat. And when he replaced the finger with his entire palm, which he rubbed excitingly up and down and then made to travel in circles that never left her pudendum, and against which she pressed upward in a trance of delight.

    And when he backed off a little to let his prick spring up from its partial inhibitment against her cunt. Now it lay upon her belly. Captain-sized? It reached well past her navel.

    When her wonderful lover drew back a few inches to get into ramming position, his prick left, within her navel, a drop of fluid, like a kiss of promise.

    The prick of her dreams now had its big knob of a head against her clitoris. The two exchanged throbs of passion and longing.

    The prick of her dreams, guided by the firm hand of the man of her dreams, slid insinuatingly downward along the slot, probing, probing, now just within the outer lips, and sending radiations of thrill in every direction.

    Found the place.

    Pushed.

    Filled the top of the glabrous tunnel while that glorious hunk entwined her again in the convolutions of a soul kiss.

    Slid deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper! She found herself biting his shoulder in her wild excitement, and knowing that she only increased his passion. And then "Hey!"

    A man snatched her off her feet and a car stopped alongside with shrieking brakes.

    Its driver looked as though he was going to make a scene about this jaywalking woman, for Helen knew now that she had been walking in a dream. But Captain Henry Hastings in his gold striped uniform and gold-crusted cap said, "No need to make an issue of it, I am sure."

    "N-no sir."

    The car went on.

    And, yes, this was Captain Hank, now in the present, when she was twenty-four, a hostess of experience, a fired lesbian hostess, Captain Hank who had saved her life.

    He escorted her to the sidewalk and walked her along with his big hand beneath her arm till she got over her fright.

    And looked up at him wonderingly.

    "Don't you live around here somewhere?" he asked with his wonderful smile. "I was going to track you down and ring your doorbell."


    CHAPTER SIX

    She walked along beside him, at first having to lean on his arm because her legs were unsteady. But soon she felt better and at the same time became aware of the strength in the arm that supported her. His arms were as sinewy as she had dreamed.

    It was odd to walk along in a public street, fully dressed, with a fully dressed man, yet seem to have been naked in bed with him only a few minutes ago.

    She felt so dizzy and so wonderful and so lost and so found and so ashamed of herself and so happy to be alive, that as they walked she told him all about her dream.

    Helen told Hank how, in her dream, he had walked invisibly past all the guards and straight to her bed in the hostess training school, six years ago.

    And about how easy it had been to solve the problem posed by a narrow bed by simply having him lie on top of her.

    "Naked?"

    "Naked."

    "Go on. I like this story."

    "It's a dream."

    "Dream it again."

    How he kissed her and how he made takeoffs and landings from her breasts with his lips, and how she simply dissolved into a quiveringly ecstatic typhoon of ecstasy.

    And how he had fucked her. Which had made the previous ecstasy not so much after all, once the fucking ecstasy took over.

    "A dream, you say, Helen?"

    "Such a beautiful dream."

    "Well, let's make ourselves the charming couple whose dreams come true."

    "All right. Sure. I mean, hey, why don't we?"

    "If you'll stop here for a moment," Hank said a bit breathlessly.

    They paused in a doorway. She knew he wanted to kiss her. He did. He also felt her up. His hand on her breasts had clothing to cope with, but the warmth came through from his hand to her nipple and went out from her nipple to his fingers.

    He pressed against her so that she felt his hard-on against her crotch, clothing or no.

    "Later," he whispered.

    "You bet."

    He knew she still felt shaky. Swell-headed though he was, he had his considerate side.

    They went on to a restaurant so high-perched and so candle lit and so dreamily set to view the city and the lake and the sky, which had a rising moon in it, that its name did not matter. All Helen wanted was to be there with Hank. She never even found out the name of the wonderful wine he ordered. But it was good.

    And Hank got good service. "Yes, sir, Captain Hastings."

    He knew she was slowly coming back to herself. She told him the story of the transvestite and they had a good laugh together. But she did not feel like saying much. She hardly could think beyond the fact that Hank Hastings was going to lay her that night. This would make the second time, or the third, if you counted the dream.

    The first time had been so very long ago.

    He drew an envelope from his pocket. "What I was going to ring your bell about. You see, I stopped them from mailing it to you. I said, no, I wanted to deliver it to the best hostess I ever had, and that I still thought they had been crazy for firing you. Also it saved the President from having to write an embarrassing sort of letter. Embarrassing to him, I mean."

    "Hank, what's this all about?"

    "Well, seems you have won a prize from Wanderlust Airlines."

    "Huh?"

    "Probably you don't even remember entering the prize contest that the President set up about a year ago. Each employee to tell the company about some big profit-making opportunity it was neglecting."

    "Oh! Yes! Oh! You mean -?"

    "You won!"

    "Oh, yes! I said the company ought to go after the many groups of women who hold conventions annually or semi-annually and make a deal with those groups to furnish their transportation."

    "That's it. Go on."

    "And I made a list of, oh, it's hard to recall but I looked up women's groups in politics and in the big charities and church groups and big national mothers groups and then the education-field conventions and all that. Scores of chances to wrap up a lot of passenger miles. Make them a price. Get a contract."

    "And your idea has been kicking around for a year, but now you have won the prize. Why, the President has been wanting to know why nobody told him that women have conventions, same as men."

    "Well, well, well. Let me see my check." Helen opened the envelope. "Why, the sons of bitches. One hundred measly dollars." She remembered then: "But that was the prize as announced."

    "Yes," said Hank. "On an idea worth millions. But even so I heard high-level remarks to the effect that a fired employee shouldn't be allowed to win the prize. But I pointed out that you could sue the company, which would hot be the sort of publicity that Wanderlust likes."

    "Except that I would never have known."

    "Except that I would have told you."

    "Oh… Hank!" She put her hand on his. He had hair on the back of his hand. It felt great. Not at all like a woman's hand that had been coddled with creams and lotions.

    "Want to hear about some of the old gang?" he asked as he refilled her glass.

    "Sure."

    "Well, now, your dear old friend Cleo Prentice…"

    "Cleo the spy. Let me think. She hired-out to a foreign government and went slinking around in tight black dresses and seducing their secret agents. She handled them five at a time."

    "One in the cunt."

    "One in the bumhole."

    "One in the mouth."

    "And one in either hand, jerking like crazy."

    "Now, Helen, you have been keeping evil company or you wouldn't know such things. But what really has happened to Cleo is, she now has a staff of three fired lesbian hostesses turned into temptresses. She sits at HQ and receives their reports about trapping others. Her title is: Supervisor, Confidential Inquiry."

    "Well, fuck her," said Helen, who was feeling good on champagne. "Except that it's too good for her."

    "Oh, she herself is still making it with women. That's an open secret. But she is not a Wanderlust hostess."

    "So there!"

    "So there."

    "Maybe she'll try to make me some day," said Helen with an evil grin. "That would be something to look forward to. Let's see. She spreads and wants me to go down on her. So I do. What she doesn't know is, I have slipped on a set of stainless steel Dracula fangs, and…"

    "I must frisk you for Dracula fangs before I get into bed with you. Meanwhile, if you have much more champagne, I'll have to carry you home."

    "Wouldn't mind. Long as you drop me right into bed."

    He pretended to write himself a note. "Drop right into bed… kiss good night, chastely, on forehead… turn out light… go away."

    "You forgot the fuck part. You know what I mean? Where the prick slides into the cunt and goes up and down and feels good."

    "Is this the same shy little high-school girl I used to know?"

    "And in those days you had your mind on nothing but the good of your airline, didn't you? Oh, Hank," Helen said, laughing, taking his two big hands into both of hers, "What's Carlotta doing these days?"

    "Selling stock in her Buenos Aires establishment."

    "Establishment?"

    "You wouldn't understand."

    "You still want me to be the high-school girl, don't you?"

    "I wish we could relive it," he said softly, and he scratched his nails along her palm.

    "Oh, you nasty man. Well, I wish you could have heard what some of the kids said about you after they saw us together in the ice-cream parlor. Like, 'Hey, Helen, bet your captain got his hand cold with ice-cream and then felt you under the table to give you a special thrill.'"

    "Wish it had occurred to me. Do you like a cold hand on your twat?"

    "Let's try it. And, oh, 'Hey, Helen, he's gonna fly you free in his airplane and fuck you in the cockpit. That's why they call it the cockpit.'"

    "Conference rooms are a lot more comfortable."

    "Oh, Hank, when you said, 'Hello, Helen,' while I was finger-fucking and thinking myself all alone, wow, that was a shock!"

    "I should have arranged to have Cleo Prentice murdered on her way to the short-wave phone. But I was kind-of tied-up with Carlotta, right then."

    "Oh, weren't you! Carlotta is a wonderful gal. Next time you see her – and I know you will – give her my love. Next time you see Cleo Prentice, spit in her eye for me."

    "Both eyes."

    "Can I have some black coffee?"

    "They call it demitasse, here."

    Demitasse and French sherbet. Memories and a dream man. Heat in the cunt. Tingling in the tits. Helen felt just fine.

    "Hank, do you remember our first time?"

    "First and only, so far and yes, I remember. I remembered it all the way from Seattle to Hong Kong, the other day."

    "That's what you tell all the girls. But Hank… I remember how scared I felt, going up to your room in that big-city hotel…"

    "In Milwaukee, it was, where you had gone to visit your aunt, who didn't mind your taking a couple of hours to go sightseeing by yourself. You were hundreds of miles away from home. And I didn't wear my uniform."

    "You thought of everything."

    "One tries."

    "You were right, a big-city hotel is an impersonal place. If anyone took notice of me, they assumed I was visiting the city with my parents who had a room upstairs. Just get into one of their dozen elevators and push a button. Up you go. Your door was unlocked, just as you had said it would be."

    "And nobody saw us together."

    "Hank, you're a handsome sight, naked."

    "You mean, my uniform does nothing for me?"

    "You have a handsome ego too, my friend. Oh, Hank, when I entered your room and you took me into your arms, I wasn't scared any more."

    "I remember."

    "And I remember that I said that my only experience with a prick, so far, had been with my mad uncle's. So I got down on my knees, to see at close range. And you showed me the sensitive places around the head of the glands and you explained to me about a man's balls and why they must be handled carefully. It wasn't that I really, really had never heard such things before, Hank. You know, girls in locker rooms. It was that I wanted to hear them from you."

    "You also assumed a kneeling position in front of a man with a hard-on."

    "Oh, I remember I felt a little disappointed in your having a hard-on already, because I wanted to lick you into one."

    "If you had found me without a hard-on while I waited for a lovely girl to join me in bed, you would have had reason to be insulted."

    "I was awfully unsophisticated."

    "Like, kneeling before a man with a hard-on, ready to lick."

    "Oh, that. It seemed like a sophisticated thing to do."

    "Girlie, when you closed that luscious coral mouth around the head of my prick, I became the most surprised and pleased man in Milwaukee and for miles around."

    "You acted as though it felt good. You gasped and grunted and you pushed on my head to make me take it in deeper, but you pushed gently, I remember. You told me to use my tongue more, and when I did, and I felt you get all shaky, and your prick jump around in my mouth, I just tongued you more and more."

    "Believe me, girlie, your little warm hand on my balls at the same time almost got you a mouthful of pearly-white jisum right then."

    "So then we went backward to the preliminaries."

    "I would have felt cheated if I had fucked you without first having had my hands full and my mouth full of your very pretty tits. Even back then, when you were seventeen, you had two terrific goonas, and they grow more terrific every year."

    "You undressed me inch by inch. Oooh, didn't I like that! And kissed every inch as you exposed it. Oh, Hank, I can feel it now… oh Hank, when you ran little kisses from my breasts down along my belly and you flipped my clit just once with your tongue, just once, which left me ga-ga, and you whispered there'd be more later, oh… and you ran those little kisses down to my clit and back through my bush and you knew the right places where a girl wants her belly kissed and those jittery spots under the ribs, on the sides. And up to the tits again and then kissing my under my jaw and my chin while you played with my nipples, I… oh, Hank, I'm almost creaming in my pants, just remembering."

    "Save the cream. I want to taste it. By the way, I have a room in this hotel. The restaurant is on the top floor. So this time we go down to my room instead of up."

    "Oh, Hank, you have absolutely led me astray, tonight! But we're back when I'm a high-school girl eager to be led astray for the first time, because it wasn't fair to count my mad uncle. So. Where we we? You were putting your prick up between my breasts…"

    "Which is a very special trick, limited to girls whose breasts are very firm and resilient. That's when you ought to envy the men, Helen. When they find a girl with tits they can press together and make a fuck-slot that is lined with breast tissue, because there is nothing like breast tissue to feel sliding along one's hard and happy prick."

    "I remember how you slid your great big wonderful prick between my breasts as I pressed them together, and then I made a nipple rub along your prick and for a moment I thought you had fainted."

    "Came close. The nerves can stand just so much."

    "And right through my nipple, where it slid along your prick from the base up to the bottom of the head, and hit the kind of flange you have there, and slid back again, right through my nipple I felt the spasms in your prick and I felt how hard you were trying to stop yourself from sliding in and out there but you hardly could."

    "You bet I hardly could stop. Wow, girlie, what you have there! Somehow I did stop, when one more slide would have zowied my balls into the squirt of the year. But I wanted more of you. To taste, to excite, to feel, to kiss, to lick, to caress. So I drew away."

    "Not very far."

    "Only down to your wet little cunt where I found that my tongue could have a lot of fun. And also I ran into a little fellow down there, the one they call the man in the boat."

    "My clitoris. Oh, yes. Hank, a girl can do all sorts of things to her own itty-bitty-bumpy clit. She can tickle it and put an ice cube on it and put a vibrator to it and she can heat it and I've even heard, back there in the high-school locker-room is what we're talking about, when girls are at an age when they'll try anything for a sensation in the crotch, I've even heard of rubbing the clit with red pepper, but you have to be careful not to get any down into the cunt itself or you'll be sorry."

    "Like liniment on a man's prick. The trick there is to dilute it till you get it just right, somewhere between a burn and a thrill."

    "Well, I've just learned something. But oh, Hank, when you really tongued me down there I knew that nothing a girl could do to her clit, absolutely nothing, can equal the sensation of having a mouth and a tongue take care of working that clit up into its absolute peak of jittery jumping excitement."

    "A man's tongue or a woman's tongue, Helen?"

    "A man's, yours!"

    "Very good. Well, there we were in that hotel room in Milwaukee and I knew I was going to have you for a hostess and I wondered how I could possibly wait while you got the schooling you needed. Let alone that you were only a highs school junior and you had to have your diploma before the school would let you in."

    "But one day I would have you as a hostess in my plane. And then. Well, fuck and pilot. Pilot and fuck. But meanwhile I would have to wait, no getting around it. But meanwhile I had you in bed and I went kissing on down your legs and along your inner thighs and back to your cunt and up to your breasts again and nuzzled them and licked them and sucked those young sweet nipples till I got so hot I…"

    "And got me so hot that I…"

    "That I said, I'll he on my back and you'll sit on my prick and take it in and I want you to writhe around and make your tits shake so I can watch them while I fuck you upward. Which we did, and when you writhed around on my upright pecker that was getting so heated and juicy way up there in your absolutely terrific, tight twat…"

    "I was a bit worried about making you come in that position because I still wasn't sure, when I was seventeen, how many times a man could come in a couple of hours, and I had to get back before my aunt got worried about me and I did want to feel your prick slam wham into me the downward way, with me on my back, because I had, oh, such an yen to feel you fuck me with all your weight behind it."

    "Which I did, lovable child, not half an hour later. Hey wasn't I raring to go and slam down to the bottom of your sex department, come three-quarters of the way out, let you tickle the exposed part of my prick for a few seconds, and then I slammed down in again."

    "Oh Hank, if I could only tell you how it felt when…"

    Someone cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me, Captain Hastings, madam."

    They looked up at the headwaiter who had a phone and a plug-in cord in his hand.

    "Urgent call from O'Hare, Captain Hastings." O'Hare International Airport, of course. Chicago's pride, the busiest airport in the USA.

    "Let's have it," said Hank Hastings resignedly.

    "Hastings, here. Yes. Right. He broke his wrist? I see. Well, it can happen when a man goes to a health club. Oh. Absolutely nobody? But look, you see, I… Okay. On my way. Have the plane set to go and I can catch up on the schedule by riding the jet stream eastward."

    Hank hung up.

    "Yeh," he grunted. "Once in three years we have a shortfall on pilots and it had to be now. Off I go into the wide blue yonder."

    "But Hank, our date!"

    "I'm a pilot, Helen," he said.

    That was all he had to say. She wasn't one of those dumb things who would attempt to interpose her yearning twat between a trained man and his duty. A gal might feel proud that her sexy attractions had kept a man fucking when he should be working, but too often, late, he got into trouble and she lost him.

    Down in the hotel's driveway Hank shouted for the attendant to get two cabs. He put Helen into one and handed the driver a ten-dollar bill for a three-dollar trip. But he made the driver promise to see the lady right up to her door and wait till she had closed it and locked it.

    "Oh, Hank," Helen said helplessly, and kissed him. "Where are you going?"

    "London."

    "When will you return."

    "Don't know. But when I do, girlie, you and I have to take care of some very important unfinished business."

    She was able to smile, then.


    CHAPTER SEVEN

    Which was all very well so far as the general glow of sexy friendship was concerned, and the promise of something doing, when Hank showed up again, that would be hot and lively and very, very good.

    But at the same time, Helen suffered from a condition known as unsatisfied cunt. This condition also involves unsatisfied lips, unsatisfied nips, an unsatisfied and itchy clit, and nerves left on edge and not at all comfortable to live with. Worse yet, the nasty, edgy feeling brought Helen back to the last day she had worked as a Wanderlust hostess. That time in Conference One. That bitch of a Cleo. Walked out, her own twat (and all the rest) made quite mellow with lesbian techniques, but Helen left unsatisfied and unhappy, reduced to the juvenile occupation of playing cunt-finger.

    So Helen had two reasons for feeling not at all placid as she walked down a corridor toward the apartment she shared with Tina McGill.

    She had not expected two men to walk out of the apartment as she approached. Nor to hear Tina sing out gaily from within: "So-long, fellas. Keep your cocks up."

    One of the youngish men called back at Tina: "Keep your twat hot, kiddo."

    The other looked too tired to talk, and he was walking bowlegged.

    Tina McGill. From the "Tina" one might infer she was tiny, but she stood a good five-nine and had big bones and heavy breasts, broad hips and big blue eyes. She looked as though she might have stepped off a Viking ship, or as though she ought to be wearing armor and singing Brunnhilde at the opera.

    The "McGill" might infer that she had Irish ancestors and, marched in the St Patrick's Day parade. But Tina never walked when she could ride.

    Entering their apartment Helen felt herself glowering. She simply couldn't rise above her twitchy-cunt condition and be pleasant. "Been getting well screwed, I see," she said to her apartment mate.

    "Nah. Except that I did get screwed because I got cheated. Yeh, I guess. My problem is that it takes two men to hold me down when I get going. So I was glad to have those fellas drop in. But they had different ideas from mine. Cup of something?"

    "Tea."

    "You always drink coffee."

    "Tea." Just to be contrary.

    "Well, what they did, those two fellas," said Tina from the stove, "is, well, first of all they run a feely movie. That's where I met them. I was there getting felt by some guy from the office and on the way out, these two fellas, Hal and Sam, they were stopping couples and asking how did you like the show. So we got to talking."

    "What's a feely movie?"

    "You don't go there to watch the movie. You go there to get felt up. There's a lot of jerking off and clit rubbing too."

    "How nice."

    "And there's been rapes, and the smoke of the pot in that place is so thick, sometimes you can't even see the screen."

    "You do seem to know the in places."

    "Listen, one time I was in there with some guy from my old block and I was in the middle of going down on him when we hear these screams and there is a girl being raped by three fellas lined up to go at her in the aisle. Well some fool called a cop but when he came in the girl kicked him and scratched him because she had only been screaming to attract more and more fellas to fuck her."

    "All this and a movie too?"

    "Oh, had a helluva good show last time, I remember," reminisced Tina. "It was called, BRENDA TAKES IT BETWEEN THE BUTTOCKS. I remember I got an awful nice feel out of Hal while he was watching the picture."

    "But I thought you didn't go there to watch the show, just to get felt-up?"

    "They feel-up the girl, then she…"

    "Well, they can get it in too, but what the hell, why break your back in a theatre seat when it's always possible to find a bed somewhere."

    "I see."

    "You want to see a feely, you can look at the show, nobody's gonna stop you."

    "Glad of that."

    "You come along with me next time I go."

    "Well…"

    "The thing about the show is the sound track, too. Which you are listening to the sound of exactly what you see up there, which is like any other movie, huh, but I mean, what you see up there isn't."

    "Tell me more."

    "Well, last time or maybe it was the time before, I dunno, lemme think, was I sucking Freddie or Herbie… it was Herbie, the one who puts strawberry syrup on his prick to make it nice for the girl. Well, where was I? Oh, yes, that time they had pictures, right up close I mean, of elephants fucking each other and the sound track was great. It sounded so squooshy, if you know what I mean. Squshhh, squshhh, squssh."

    "A man who needs sounds like that to get him hot has something wrong with him."

    "Yeh? It got me pretty hot. I even bought a recording. We could put it on later, maybe."

    "Is the tea ready?"

    "Just about. Oops!" Tina, with her big clumsy hands, had broken the teapot.

    "I should have stopped at McDonald's," Helen muttered.

    "Well, gee, I'm sorry. But I'm awful nervous. I didn't get my rocks off with Sam and Hal and you know how that feels, leaves you all unsatisfied."

    "I know how it feels," said Helen grimly. "In fact, right now I'm having the same problem. Tell you about how it happened sometime. But what do you mean? Two men couldn't make you come?"

    "I found out something about Hal and Sam," grumbled Tina. "They're fairies."

    "Then what were they doing in your bedroom."

    "Sucking each other's pricks."

    "Huh?"

    "They were walking along together and they got hot and needed a private place, so Hal says, 'Hey, I know a broad up in that building, she might let us use her bedroom.'."

    "We could go into the Court House and suck in the toilet," says Sam.

    "But Hal like me, he likes to be comfortable. So they rang the bell and came on up and I wouldn't let them in at first but they said they had an idea my roommate wasn't home on account they had seen you walking with a bellhop or something…"

    "A bellhop!" shouted Helen.

    "Well, anyway, he wore a uniform. So if I would let them in, all they wanted was a quiet place where they could stick their pricks into something nice and shoot their loads."

    "So I let them in. And found out they weren't really lying, but when they talked about sticking their pricks into something nice they didn't mean me."

    "You sounded so friendly when they were leaving."

    "Who bears grudges? Beside, they'll let me in for half-price any time at the feely movie." The girls now paused and had teabag tea and stale cookies.

    "God damn it," Tina said. "My trouble was, I shouldn't have watched them suck each other. It got me so Goddam hot and needing a fuck something awful, but it was is the wrong time to find gigolos hanging around in the park, and they charge so much these days. So what am I going to do with my Goddam twitching twat?"

    "Well, you can take the hand mirror off your dresser, then lie on your back and spread your legs and hold the mirror so you can see into your crotch."

    "And then?"

    "Admire your pussy, of course."

    "Ah, shit, Helen."

    Tina looked hurt. She said no more, only looked away, seemed near tears. She drank more tea and had another cookie.

    Silence hung over them.

    Tina said at last, "Cheez, if you don't like me, I'll move away. You got more education than me and you been an airline hostess and met all kinds of people, maybe I'm too low-class for you."

    Silence.

    "I mean," muttered Tina. "You got women in your bed, that's what you like, but you don't have to look down your nose at me."

    It came to Helen then that, yes, she was better educated than Tina and certainly she had seen more of the world and had met some very interesting people.

    This did not make her feel superior to the other girl, sitting there so mournfully, but it did stir up something in her head… and her nipples… and her cunt.

    She heard herself breathing deeply.

    She felt herself starved for the orgasm that would sweep away her tenseness and let her blissfully enjoy hours and hours of restoring sleep.

    She began to realize that although she had tried to let Tina be a real partner in their apartment sharing arrangement, Tina always had let her make the major decisions. What kind of dishes to buy. What kind of food. Even what kind of tapes for the tape player.

    When a prospective airline hostess enters a training school, she finds herself being watched for more than the way she moves her body and the way she walks her breasts down an aisle.

    The airline looks also for a certain ability to handle others. Some passengers do need handling.

    And the airlines look for the habit of taking charge that can be so valuable in the case of any emergency.

    I guess I have some of all that, thought Helen. That's why Tina leans on me and that's why she values my guidance.

    That means… well…

    Well, despite all her lesbian lippings, lappings, funnel-tonguing and all the other kinds of woman-to-woman sex that Helen had indulged in so often, she never yet had tried to seduce another woman.

    So here they sat, Tina and she, their cunts screaming for release from the tensions they had built up, and a gigolo quite a heavy expense, and, well.

    Bet I can do it, thought Helen.

    "Tina, I'm sorry I was so snappish. I really did have a bad time with this fellow in uniform… I think he's a movie-usher cadet or something like that… because he got me so hot that I nearly went crazy and then he said it was Friday and it's bad luck to have an orgasm on a Friday, and he went away."

    Tina sniffed but managed to say, "Yeh, some people get awful superstitious. I mean, everyone knows a black cat is hard luck but not coming on a Friday, never heard that one before."

    "Well, that's men, Tina. They think of themselves, first, last and always."

    "Yeh, you know, you got something there."

    "Now those two pansies, Hal and Sam is it? Imagine a woman saying, 'Mind if my friend and I use your bedroom for a few minutes so we can suck each other off?'."

    "Never heard a woman say that, no. Yeh, they're two jerks, those guys. But that's the kind comes after me. The jerks."

    "Tina, how can a man really appreciate a woman for the tender, loving, sensitive creature she is? Men! What they care about is their muscles and their pricks. And all that hair, ugh, I mean, on the few occasions when I have taken pity on a man and allowed him to press his belly on mine and fuck me, I have been absolutely disgusted at being in contact with so much hair."

    "Hey, I once fucked a fella with a long beard and he liked me on top, see, I mean the layin flat on top position for the girl, and you know what he did with his beard?"

    "Something awful, I know."

    "He laid it right down my back."

    "Ugh!"

    "And it tickled."

    "Ugh! Isn't that awful?"

    "Well, I kinda liked it, but y'know, now that I look back on it maybe it was awful."

    "Tina."

    "Hnnn?"

    "Tina, please go on being my friend. I am so very fond of you, Tina dear. And if I get grumpy sometimes, well, the ones who are really to blame are the men. Do you… still… like me, Tina?"

    Helen took Tina's hand and pressed it to her cheek.

    "Ah, sure, you're a swell gal," said Tina, flushing. "I mean, I learn so much from you about style and housekeeping and cooking and all, and anyway you're pretty and it's nice to have a pretty person around."

    "I think you're pretty too, Tina."

    "Ah, g'wan. Me? Old horse face?"

    "I see the beauty beneath, Tina dear. And I feel the yearning beneath, as well. The yearning for real love, untainted by the hairy coarseness of men. Tina," breathed Helen while her cunt began to moisten, "let me kiss you so that I know we're really friends and we'll always, always understand each other."

    As her face approached Tina's, the larger woman turned her head to take the kiss on the cheek. But Helen found her lips.

    At first the larger lips rested uneasily upon hers. Then, as Helen parted her own lips, rising on her toes to make her breasts press upon Tina's, the other girl's lips also parted and the kiss became juicy.

    Tina pulled away suddenly. She had a red face and she shook. "Hey!" she said.

    But when Helen drew her close again, Tina did not resist. And when Helen slipped a hand down into the loose neckline of Tina's housecoat, Tina only gasped upon her lips as their kiss resumed… and continued, their tongues now writhing together.

    Tina wore nothing beneath the housecoat. Helen's hand easily found the beansack breast and stroked its heavy nipple. She felt the nipple rise beneath her fingers and she rubbed it in little circles and heard Tina gasp.

    The loose housecoat acted as a funnel to bring odors upward. Helen sniffed, making no noise, and even while kissing she smiled her triumph. Tina's cunt odor was not quite like her own, not being so delicately musky, but it was cunt odor and it told her what she wanted to know.

    "Undress me," she whispered.

    "I'm scared."

    "Nothing bad can happen, only good things. Love. No more loneliness."

    "I mean, I never."

    "Be my virgin," Helen whispered upon Tina's lips while she kneaded a big breast whose nipple felt more and more excited. "Be my bride of Lesbos. Where the lesbians first found out how glorious it is to have a sex life without men. Where burning Sappho loved and sung. Where lesbianism built its sacred temples and developed all the loving customs that have come down through the ages to help modern woman avoid those disgusting modern man. Be my virgin. Be my bride of Lesbos. Come with me, my darling. Come with me. Be my bride. Now."

    Slowly, as Tina hesitated, Helen pushed the housecoat from one of her shoulders, then from the other. But she kept the coat from falling all the way. She held it just above Tina's breasts and she kissed along the line of the housecoat just as she herself had once been kissed along the top margin of her hostess-model brassiere.

    Slowly she moved the cloth downward, following it with kisses. Where at first she had been kissing what one might call Tina's chest, now she kissed the upper swell of the breasts, glissading her lips up and down from one breast to the other.

    She needed only the hand to keep the housecoat in place as she slowly moved it down Tina's body. The other hand was free to roam.

    It slowly, slowly lifted the hem of the housecoat.

    Slowly, slowly it exposed Tina's lower legs. Then her trembling knees.

    Then her thighs, swelling outward as the housecoat crept upward.

    Then, as Tina's generous hips appeared, so did her bush, ample in size and releasing the musk that is nature's call to sex.

    "Oh, oh," Tina moaned, standing with eyes closed, helpless to move.

    Again, Helen lowered the top part of the housecoat minutely down along the, ever-growing breasts. She kissed hotly. Kissed. Kissed.

    Then suddenly she moved the coat several inches and exposed the nipples.

    She dropped the coat, leaving Tina naked, and she turned the big tits toward each other and made one nipple circle the other, and made the two nipples bump each other and rub together.

    When Tina said, "Yes!" Helen plunged her open mouth at a nipple and in the same instant plunged her hand between Tina's legs.

    She really hadn't known how much sticky stuff a big woman could produce. Shedding her panties, she wiped cunt goo onto her own seething twat and then, taking the mixture of her stickum and her friend's, she wiped from cunt to cunt, the stickum growing warmer in her hand as the two bodies raised their temperature higher and higher as they felt the lash of passion.

    Gently Helen led Tina into the big woman's bedroom, hoping that the familiar surroundings would help her feel at ease. The "bride" shook with fear. Surely not fear of pain but fear of the unknown, and Helen understood this.

    "It's only Helen, who loves you," she whispered. "It's only your dear old friend who at last wants to show you what real, warm feminine friendship is all about. Oh Tina my dearest, until you join another woman in the embraces and techniques of lesbian love, you haven't lived. And you surely haven't loved."

    "But. But…"

    "It's the jealous people who call us wicked," Helen murmured into her friend's ear, and kissed the ear and tongued it inside, feeling how Tina's hand trembled in her own as she did so. "They're jealous, that's all. They envy us our friendship and our passion."

    They stood at Tina's bed. A teddy bear that Tina kept on the pillow, her good-luck charm from childhood, seemed to grin at them.

    "See, Tina, I'll turn out the lights but I'll leave the hall light on and the door open a trifle. I want you to see me when I make love to you. And I want to see you."

    Helen sat upon the bed and pulled the trembling Tina down beside her. Then Helen lay upon the bed, her head upon the pillow, pushed the teddy bear aside gently and patted the place beside her.

    When at last Tina lay beside her, she gently stroked the other woman from head to toe, lingering on the breasts and the pelvic region and ending with two fingers inside Tina's cunt, searching out her mysteries.

    Again she kissed Tina's breasts and soul-kissed her lips and ran kisses along her spine down to her ass cheeks, which she nibbled and nipped.

    Then she kept Tina on her back, gasping, and lifted one of the girl's long legs and kissed the toes and sucked at them.

    "Oh gawd, I'm going to fly away, I'm going to turn into jelly," moaned Tina.

    "I'm so glad I make you happy. Now…"

    Slowly, ever so slowly, Helen drew her lips down along the calf of the uplifted leg and when she came to the back of the knee, she lingered. It was not for nothing that she had sported with two women in Conference One.

    And when she compared what she was doing with the callow techniques of high-school girls who get interested in each other's bodies, she felt glad she had reached a higher plane of experience and expertness.

    Working on the nerve centers behind the knee, even though it hardly seems a sexual organ, she got Tina almost unable to catch her breath, beating her hands on the bed, saying the kind of no-no-no that they both knew meant yes.

    Helen now traveled her lips down the inside of Tina's thigh. She went an inch at a time. And as she approached Tina's cunt she slowly pushed the leg outward and then the other leg so that the way to the honey pot showed straight and clear.

    Somewhere in Tina's past there must have been a mother or an aunt or even a hygiene teacher who had told her of the so-called dangers of lesbianism. Tina could not forget this. She actually pushed at Helen, moaning, "No, you mustn't, you can't, I won't let you, it's naughty, it's dreadful. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. OhOhOhOhOhOhOhOhOh…" But Helen's educated tongue got to work on her steamy cunt, sucking, lapping, tugging at the lips, thrusting into the fuck tube with a tongue that would not be denied.

    It was hard work, making Tina come. With her tongue and her fingers and even with her breasts rubbing Tina's in a wild saraband, Helen kept at it and kept at it. Toward the end, as she felt passion nearing its climax, she made sure it did not recede by adding the excitement of a bum hole tickle and then her tongue at the same place while her hand worked at Tina's cunt savagely.

    Then back to the fuck tunnel, now feeling with tongue and fingers and even her cheeks as she pressed her face into the big wet crotch, how the tremors had begun deep inside and were rising along the wildly fluttering tissues.

    When Tina came, she clamped Helen's head with her legs and humped herself and screamed.

    When at last the big woman lay exhausted and smiling, with sweat-wet hair falling across her face, Helen knew she had created a lesbian.

    Both exhausted, they went to bed together. Murmuring of how grateful she was, and how deeply she loved Helen, Tina took Helen's head to the plump pillow of her breasts. Helen fell asleep.

    "You were talking in your sleep last night, sweetie," said the blushing Tina next morning. She had worn her best frilly bed jacket to the breakfast table.

    "What did I say?"

    "Oh, it wasn't very clear, but you said, I think, When I return, we have unfinished business, remember. Hey, sweetie, you and I, we don't have any unfinished business after last night!"

    "I must have heard someone say that somewhere, about unfinished business, but I can't remember who," said Helen. But she lied. She remembered very well how Hank Hastings had told her, with those very words, that he would return to her and take up their love-life again.

    Suddenly, in the bright sunshine of that morning, with her new conquest, Tina, already feeling her beneath the table and ready for lesbian fireworks, Helen felt lonely and cold.


    CHAPTER EIGHT

    In Europe, secret agents, male and female, prowl the back alleys of sleeping cities and the marble corridors of power.

    And also in the United States, secret agents make rendezvous in boudoirs and beds, or on park benches within sight of the White House, and secrets flow from pocket to pocket. In the USA, a heavy-lidded gal in a slinky black dress may be nobody at all, or she may carry in her cunt the plans for a secret satellite.

    This goes on in Europe too, only more so. The cities are older. The national boundaries crowd closer. People have had extra centuries in which to learn the arts of espionage, with which the arts of sexual temptation have always been closely connected.

    Now and then, pilots who fly the Atlantic find themselves doing favors for heavy-lidded gals in slinky black dresses. In 1982 a pilot suffered serious frustration when one of those heavy lidded gals forgot to remove the usual secret plans she was carrying in the usual place.

    This had not happened to Hank Hastings yet. Also he was involved merely in doing favors for the State Department.

    Thus he found himself showing his credentials to the guard at the door of the United States Embassy in London.

    Once inside, and waiting in an anteroom, he further identified himself by taking out a cigar, smoking half of it – right down to a nearly invisible mark – and then extinguishing it by rubbing the fiery end into a marble ashtray.

    The ashes would be collected later and would by chemical analysis reveal a great deal.

    Hank then looked casually out through a window. He kept his eye on a man in a black raincoat who was feeding pigeons. A very careless secret agent. Everybody knows that secret agents feed pigeons to make them look innocent while they wait and watch.

    Hank's mind filled with thoughts of Helen Troy. Yes, he thought, the day I get back to Chicago, that sweet kid Helen and I are going to snuggle down and catch up on our fucking.

    What a sweet kid she is. Always has been.

    And such a good airline hostess.

    Those stupid bastards at HQ. Just because some executive's smart nephew took a course in the psychology of sex, they think they know all there is to know about the adroit commercial handling of the sexual undercurrents.

    No lesbians. Mad!

    That poor kid. All mixed up. Likes men. Likes women. Fucks men a little. Fucks women a lot. It would be all right if she were a straight-out bisexual. Her trouble is, she can't make herself at ease.

    Well, wait till I get back to Chicago. I am going to ram it into her so hard and so often that I think she'll decided it's a man she wants, after all.

    Someone entered the room, behind him.

    Hank made no sudden motion. He didn't want a knife in the back. But the tiny mirror he wore on his signet ring showed him only the figure of a slight red-headed girl with small but well perched tits beneath a casual morning outfit that surely had been born in the shop of a famous couturier in Paris.

    The Ambassador's daughter.

    Hank still did not turn. The rampant erection that had taken charge of him, the moment he had thought of lying naked in bed with naked Helen Troy, nuzzling her breasts and losing his pecker in the depths of her cunt, well, he wanted that hard-on to die down.

    He recalled a lecture on good manners he had had, when a youth, from his ne'er-do-well cousin, a notorious fucker-around-town.

    "A gentleman," his cousin had told him, may be cunt-hunting around with Woman A, Woman B, Woman C, Woman D, and so forth. But he must never forget the courtesy due his women, no matter how many. Should a gentleman find himself with an erection caused by the remembrance of ecstasy he has shared with Woman A, for example, he must never let Woman B see the bump that hard-on makes in his trousers. Any woman whom a man respects as good company and a good lay is entitled to see a bump in his trousers that she herself has caused. Let her know only of the hard-on that is dedicated to her alone.

    "Remember that, young man," the ne'er-do-well cousin had said. Sometimes the rule could not be followed. This time, Hank tried his best to fight his hard-on down. He even had to whisper to himself, "Helen, let go of my prick!" before his prick calmed itself.

    He turned, then, and posed in smiling attention in his natty uniform. Like a naval officer, he carried his gold-encrusted cap under his arm. He now had four-and-a-half gold stripes on each sleeve and a touch of gray at either temple. All this added to his mature handsomeness, as he well knew.

    "Ah, Miss Leona! Good morning."

    "Good morning, Captain Hastings. Father asked me to remind you that he'd like to see you again on your next London trip."

    "By all means."

    "You have finished your cigar?"

    "Quite, thank you."

    Smiling, the sub-twenty girl slipped past him with a delightful motion of slim hips. She had a plastic bag into which she dropped the marble ashtray, thus making sure she did not lose any of the precious cigar ash.

    "Off to the Code Room," she said with a pretty smile.

    "Ah. And then?" She might or might not have noticed the bump he was raising for her alone. At any rate, she touched her hair with a bit of unease and murmured, "Why, off to my ballet class near Grosvenor House."

    "Why, that's quite close to the Wanderlust London office."

    "Oh, is it really?"

    But she was too young to carry it off, quite. She had known. Oh, she had known!

    "Yes indeed. And I must report there in half an hour."

    The ashtray in its strong plastic bag, now tightly sealed, made a telltale tremor where it hung from her hand at her side. Her dainty young lips had parted slightly.

    Hank Hastings murmured, "I was about to take a cab. May I give you a lift, as we say in Chicago?"

    She laughed. "Oh, we speak pure USA around here! Why, yes, thank you, Captain Hastings. Just let me pop back to the Code Room. Ad a mo!"

    They laughed together. She's mine, Hank Hastings told himself. But, be careful. Trouble can come with trickery in high places.

    Once upon a time, another American flyer had fallen in love with an Ambassador's daughter.

    But Lindbergh had married the girl.

    Marriage was the last thing that Hank Hastings wanted.

    Playing with one hot twat after another was so much more fun.

    On closer inspection, as she rode with him in one of those high ceiling London cabs, the Ambassador's daughter seemed about seventeen.

    She seemed about the age of a USA high-school junior.

    It occurred to Hank Hastings, with an odd pang, that Helen Troy had been a high-school junior when they had first met.

    And then… ice cream sodas with a crowd of other kids looking on! And then, suddenly, the dark cloud of her story. The chill of the thing. Raped by an uncle. But at least it had happened in today's world, not yesterday's. Women didn't get "ruined" by premarital sex these days, any more than men did.

    They could, however, get turned off men and turned onto women.

    It hadn't felt that way when he had laid, waylaid and relaid delightful young Helen Troy in that hotel bed in Milwaukee.

    But there he went, his mind on Helen again, and his prick rising as though hunting for Helen's cunt and not the young cunt of the girl who ended in a bed in a London hotel, beside him.

    It had happened so quickly.

    He supposed he had come into Leona's life at precisely the right time. Just when all the good manners and well-guarded entertainments that come the way of an Ambassador's daughter had acted up, in her teenage mind, to nothing much.

    He supposed that there comes a time in every girl's life when she wants to be had. Lucky the man who happens to be in her company right then.

    They had found a mildly decayed old hotel near St James Park. Through a corner of the window they read the time on Big Ben, down toward the river.

    They had doubtful plumbing but a delightful big comfortable bed. Hank had hardly had time in which to change out of his uniform into a suit of London cut, and to remember to carry a tightly rolled umbrella. Leona had popped into Harrod's for a dress so dowdy, it gave her the giggles.

    "I told them I wanted something that would please my Edwardian grandmother," she chuckled.

    Good. The US Ambassador's daughter was known as one of the most modishly dressed girls in town.

    When they had closed the door of their room, alone at last, ready to carry a two-hour courtship to its sexual conclusion, she had looked candidly up into Hank's eyes and had said, "Better tell you. I'm a virgin."

    Startled, he at last replied, "Well, good."

    "I mean a virgin-virgin, cherry and all. Some girls think that if one of our London lesbys deflowers her with a tonguing, or more likely a fingering, she is technically still a virgin. But with me, cherry is cherry."

    "I couldn't agree more. But, uh, do you have many lesbians in London?"

    "Enough."

    "But apparently you never made it with any of them."

    "I didn't say that." Such a direct little creature! And as she spoke, she undressed.

    "Then you did?"

    "I told her she could lick me but she mustn't put her tongue way down in."

    "Did you enjoy it?"

    "I had a virgin come. How about that?"

    "Not many girls can say it."

    "But then, later, it seemed so silly." Now she was undressing him. "This makes more sense." She laughed, looked up at him with a flushed face, for a moment lost her poise and admitted, "Look, I've imagined this so many times and I've had so many hot dreams about it that I know it's what I want."

    "We make our lives by our points of view."

    "I also, while keeping myself virgin despite a lot of pawing, found out the invariable male point of view." She had his pants down and she had her hand into the front of his underpants. She released the rod that she had no trouble in finding. It sprang out, lance-like, pointing at her navel. "There's the male point of view," Leona said.

    "You are so right! But you don't seem startled at the nearness of a naked prick."

    "Oh no. I've tickled them. Pulled and pulled on them and watched the stuff squirt. Licked them. Sucked the jisum out. But I've never had one inside me, uh-uh."

    He had her typed, now. A teaser. So far and no farther. But the teasers who gave a man relief could make interesting company.

    What's more, he didn't feel as though he was in charge of her. She seemed more in charge of him. This at seventeen! She was going to be Madam Ambassador one day. And in politics. Madam Secretary would be a good bet too.

    "Leona, what will you do about lesbians when you are Secretary of Human Resources?"

    "Tell them to be careful about catching diseases of the tongue and tell them to try out the male point of view, because they ought to know what they are missing."

    Hank laughed, slapped her rosy rump. "Into bed with you."

    When push came to shove, the child began their sex play in a scared condition. Not much, but he felt it in her tenseness. Yet such was her healthiness that the cunt he fingered grew warmer and warmer. And more and more open. Often the twat lips are called the flowers of a woman. He could see then soften, actually open, the flowers of desire.

    Gradually his stroking relaxed her. At the same time it raised her tiny nipples, that with real sex in her life would soon develop into a woman's gorgeous buds.

    He found her extra-sensitive in the creases where the tops of the legs meet the belly, in the groin, where those creases point from each side toward the secret recesses of the inmost crotch.

    He trailed his lips along those creases. While he did this, the girl touched his hair and the back of his neck and let her own finger follow his tongue along the love-path.

    She quivered with the firm body of youth. He thought: You can almost tell a woman's age by the way sex play makes her quiver.

    He wasn't very steady himself, just then, with his prick straining outward, bar-stiff with longing. And now she took it into her hand. She had tiny hands. Very delicate. Their touch brought a gasp from him. He saw her smile at that.

    But mostly she lay with her head back as though lost in some world of her own while he tongued the bottom of her belly and made little taps upon the clitoris, which swelled and throbbed with a promise of deep sexual longings.

    She lay with her head back, her taut little breasts rising and falling quickly, and she let him serve her with man-caresses. That was it. She let him serve her. Well that was the way it was.

    Not a bad way at all. As long as she kept hold of his prick. Which she did, holding it to assure herself that her time had come, that at last she was going to have a prick thrust down into her cunt, to drive her into ecstasies she had so far only imagined.

    He got a hand beneath her and played with her buttocks. She tensed and released them, tensed and released. Good instincts. Tension and release in itself stimulates the nerves, and as the man's hand caresses, one stimulation meets the other and as Hank had heard from other women the sensation is not merely doubled, but quadrupled, and it all gets together and runs through the tissues into the cunt.

    He turned her over and kissed her ass cheeks and heard her sigh and murmur something to herself. Had she said, "Ah, I picked the right man to pop my cherry."? He was pretty sure she had said that.

    Well, in modern times, kids married kids. Okay, but perhaps the old-timers had been right. In the old days, a man didn't marry till he was thirty-five or so. (What he did meanwhile was called sewing his wild oats.) But the virgin bride got a man of experience. He knew how to break a girl in and he knew how to keep her going on a torrid level of hotness. Good for both.

    A gentleman of those days, like back when Big Ben was set up like a very large prick with a wristwatch, or prickwatch, a gentleman drank himself to death by the time he was getting gray. Then, when his still-juicy widow had his money, she had no trouble in finding another husband.

    Maybe this unusual little girl's instincts were right. She had grown bored with her virginity, but the man she had chosen to cop her cherry was old enough to be her father. Yes, Hank had never had any trouble finding young girls to get on top of. Okay with him.

    As he had with Helen Troy when she had been seventeen, he lost himself in Leona's fragrant, firm youthfulness.

    Going suddenly at her breasts, he startled her into a cry of surprise and pleasure.

    Why, he almost could get a breast into his mouth! There was only a circle of delightful breast tissue left over at the bottom, and while he tongued the nipple he played with the exposed part of the breast, circling it with his finger, poking it gently, smoothing it, moving his head up and down so that that titty-base was slightly compressed, then released, then compressed again.

    And if Leona had thought she'd be able to keep her cool while he got his yearnings past the point of no return, and got her simultaneously ready to be penetrated, well, she could forget it. The youngster who had been so much in charge was in charge no longer. He had titillated and cunny funnied and kissed her and nipped her into a state of abandon that had her gasping for breath and throwing herself around in wild sexual writhings.

    When he abruptly presented his prick to her mouth, she had it in and down her throat almost before he knew what was happening. With this time-honored act of the female's surrender to a special male need, she put the control of the fuck back into his hands.

    The trick now was not to fill her mouth with come when he so badly wanted to. No, he wanted to slide a fresh and fully energized prick into the cunt where the cherry waited. He hadn't had a cherry for a long time. And where is the man who does not want to perform a deflowering!

    She wasn't biting him, but she was holding him with her teeth in back of the bottom swell out that the prick-head makes the widest part of the apparatus. At the same time, because he was reaching down into her cunt and maddening the inner lips with his ministrations, she was making a kind of hum of joy. A woman with a prick in her mouth can't articulate sexy words, or sing the Song of Solomon, but she can get a hum going that vibrates the prick-head even if she doesn't know what she is doing.

    The moment came at which Hank Hastings had to ask her to let go. He had waited almost too long. For an instant he stared down at his throbbing prick and tried to control it by wishing it not to come.

    She too stared at it. If it had squirted she would have gotten a messy face. Probably would have enjoyed that. But after a few seconds of hanging at the very edge of orgasm, the semen retreated to its reservoir, leaving Hank shaken.

    Now she wanted to please him! "You want me to do that again? I mean, get you awfully near coming and then you can subside and then I'll work you up again? Isn't that the way the Italian playboys do it?"

    "Little girl, you do that to me again and you'll have to carry me to my plane. Little girl, prepare to lose your cherry."

    "Just let me imagine something first," she begged. "Just let me imagine I'm lying on a bed of roses and you are not a human man, you are a satyr, with hoofs instead of feet, and tiny horns, and shaggy fur on your body."

    Nothing like a classical education, Hank thought as he probed the shivering outer cunt lips with his restored and cunt-hungry pecker.

    And got half of the head's length, no more, in-between the outer lips, letting the head bathe in virginal but plentiful juices.

    He held the lips apart with his hand and pressed on into the pink passage to paradise.

    "Do it," she whispered. "Do it."

    She humped up against him. "Do it, oh, do it!"

    The prick slid slowly in. The tissues stretched and made room. Talk about hot boxes! How hot would her box be after she had been fucked twenty times! Perhaps he could arrange to find out. When his prick met resistance he paused and moved the rod to one side and the other, probing.

    "There, there!" she cried.

    He pushed at the resistance. She did not cry out, but made hissing sounds, as though struggling to control pain. But it could not have been bad, because when the cherry gave way she humped up against him with all her strength to get him in deeper.

    In just a few more seconds she got the jisum leaping out of his turgid prick in great gobs. But those seconds had been memorable seconds.

    When he slowly pulled out a limp and satisfied prick, he saw blood on the sheet that they had rumpled with their sexual strivings.

    "Well," said Leona, regarding the evidence, "we are Mr. and Mrs. William Watkins, newlyweds, aren't we? And by the way. You didn't even notice. Look. While I was shopping I even bought a wedding ring."

    This little girl will go far, thought Hank Hastings.

    He had a plane to fly, so he checked the time by glancing out at Big Ben. Five PM, Greenwich Meridian time.

    Eleven AM in Chicago. Where he would arrive tomorrow. And catch up on fucking Helen, and that was really something to look forward to.


  • CHAPTER ONE
  • CHAPTER TWO
  • CHAPTER THREE
  • CHAPTER FOUR
  • CHAPTER FIVE
  • CHAPTER SIX
  • CHAPTER SEVEN
  • CHAPTER EIGHT
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