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Office porn queen - sex story


Office porn queen



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

Keys: work office sex sexy secretary

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A few months ago I bought V.I.P meet and greet tickets to see my favorite pop singer Ariana Grande. I was so excited to see her live in concert especially since I was standing in the very front row of the stadium right by the catwalk. At the day of t ..continue reading

VOODOO IN HAITI

Richard held on to his mind with difficulty. His senses were reeling. He felt dizzy. It was one of those numerous delightful nights which all young married people will remember later on in their life with nostalgia, one of those honeymoon-like nights ..continue reading

Jack'in Granny

Ever since I saw her at the supermarket that first time I knew I had to have her. She was just my type. But I knew there was no way she would ever give herself to a young man like me. She was at least twice my age probably in her late 50's. Some ..continue reading

Our fuck community

Today was a big day for me, the biggest of my life so far, I thought to myself as I opened one eye and looked at the morning sunshine filtering into the hut. Today I not only turned adult but was also getting married. “Get up, Orion,” my mother ..continue reading

Exotic Erotic Thing

My wife is a fantasy fuck, and she knows it. Drooling drunks will tell her their fantasy. She'll find a way to make their fantasy come true, or do what she can do, and I have to find a way to deal with it. She doesn't force dealing with it on me; ..continue reading

Arab BBW meets South Sudanese

As Salam Alaikum, dear readers. How are you today? My name is Fatima Mehdi, and I'm a young Arab woman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I'm in the police foundations program at Algonquin College, and hope to work in law enforcement someday. You ..continue reading