Flying High (9 page)

I imagined Eric's beautiful eyes shut tight behind his blindfold as he knelt there, enduring and savoring this experience at the same time. I knew just what it was like. Justin had done this to me before. I heard him grunting loudly as he forced his way in. His muscles worked relentlessly as he gripped Eric's hips.

I could tell that they were close to coming. Their breathing changed, their movements became more desperate and demanding. Suddenly, Justin pushed in hard, spearing him. The gesture was final and rough. As he shook, he pushed in twice more, then slumped over Eric's back, his breathing still fast. With that final deep push, Eric came as well. The sight of his come pumping over his fingers excited me even more.

Afterward, Justin pulled out, resting in the back. Eric removed his blindfold in a motion of pure exhaustion, resting his head against the pilot's seat. I slumped down in my chair, lazily piloting the plane. The three of us stayed like that for what seemed like ages, motionless and spent. We had no words.

I felt hypnotized as I watched the shapes of the waves passing below, light winking off of them. I thought again of those ancient maps, of ships lost in far-off uncharted seas, never to return. As I turned the plane a few more degrees, sunlight filled the cabin. I tossed the map to Justin in the backseat. “Let's find out if you can plot us a course home,” I said, but I only half meant it. Part of me wanted to continue out over the warm ocean, trapped in our own lusty triangle.

 

 

 

 

 

Big, bright yellow planes. Stewardesses dressed like shapely lemons.

What was it about Hughes Airwest that kept me coming back in those early days? I'd always hated the color yellow. Frequent-flyer miles weren't on the menu. Complimentary drinks and bad airline food were as far as it went.

Maybe it was that catchy jingle in their ad campaigns. Remember it?
Yes, Hughes Airwest flies more places in the west!

 

The cliché of the traveling salesman was in mid-morph: days on the road living in crummy motels out of the back of a nine-year-old 1962 Chevy, looking for that next sale. My cigarchomping, bourbon-chugging mentor had just retired to a split-level ranch in The Dalles when I realized that life from the back of a car was not the life for me. Don't get me wrong. I
loved the traveling part, loved the salesman part.

But this was the age of the jet-setter. Why schlep from town to town, selling commercial kitchen appliances, when the appliance of the new generation was just begging to be sold? No one understood these monoliths. They had flashy lights like Christmas on the side, and crate-loads of attendant gear to facilitate belching of green and white barred paper from a big printer that made the sound of a thousand knuckles cracking.

For a budding salesman gifted in the hard sell, computers were the stuff dreams were made of. How tough could it be?

 

The sun was setting as I mounted the stairs pressed to the fuselage of a big yellow plane on the tarmac of some nameless small city, bound for yet another. Truly, I had lost track. A handful of early successes had given way and my numbers were charting down. The sales of these big computers seemed to cycle hot and cold, and I was never at my best in the cold.

I was thinking of going back to selling commercial stoves, where grease-splattered diner owners knew the value of a quality stove, where my convincing presentations could amplify that value.

Tonight the seat of a Boeing 727 would again be my easy chair. I needed to clear my head. I needed a distraction. I'd sampled more than one Layover Lizzie: a stewardess stuck in a podunk city waiting for her next flight. I'd adapted my “fast read” sales pitch to sort out the women interested in such excursions. Make that pitch; if the client doesn't bite, move on.

This stewardess had fair skin and bright blonde hair framed in that damned yellow outfit. I didn't give her a second thought as I passed. But later, when she made the preflight check, her coquettish smile, painted burgundy beneath eye-matching electric
blue eye shadow, lit up the cabin. I read her nameplate:
Jacqueline.

Down the aisle some old curmudgeon pretended he didn't know how to buckle his seat belt. His grumbly voice let out a couple of laughs as she bent over to assist him. His hand sneaked around and pinched her shapely butt.

She gave a patronizing, tight laugh as she pushed his hand gently away.

I recalled when my mentor once winked at a beehived brunette barmaid somewhere in Wyoming. “I'd sure like to get into those panties.”

She winked back. “Why's that, hon? There's already one asshole in there.”

His smile fell like a luckless horseshoe.

When Jacqueline brought me a scotch, I tossed out my favorite icebreaker to Hughes Airwest stewardesses. “Is it true what they say in the commercials?”

“What is that, sir?”

“That you say ‘yes.'”

“Well, we do our best.”

I gave a sly wink.

She smiled softly.

The exploratory touch, the “innocent” graze of a passing knee with an innocent swoosh was met with a focused gaze that burned on my retinas like a sudden flashbulb on a dark night.

 

A few weeks later, Jacqueline greeted me warmly as she took my boarding pass. When she served my scotch, I tested the waters again. She hadn't said yes the last time, but I thought the moment worthy of another sales pitch. Casual, ever casual, the backs of my knuckles touched the base of her silky thigh while I “reached” under the seat for my leather valise. Her eyes
connected with mine. They didn't squint, didn't widen. She let me linger for a moment before she eased her leg from my graze.

I was more deliberate in the dark cabin when she brought a refill. My fingers curled around the back of her knee to the base of her thigh. She watched the scotch pour. She finished as my fingers trailed up her thigh just under the bright yellow miniskirt.

I was sure I saw her wink in the dark cabin as she continued up the aisle. I pivoted my hard-on parallel with my pinstripes.

The plane descended toward a yawning sunrise. “Jacqueline, we should be arriving just in time for breakfast. I know a great diner just in town.” I smiled as she paused to check my seat belt.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Gartner, but I have plans.”

“I thought you Hughes Airwest employees say yes!” I gave a sly wink.

“Well, we do our best.” Her lips curled in a tight smile.

 

Not long later, Jacqueline and I met yet again. It seemed fate had something in mind. She beamed as she took my boarding pass. “Good evening, Mr. Gartner.” She didn't even look down at my ticket. She remembered my name!

“Please, Jacqueline, call me Kevin.”

“Of course, Kevin. As you wish. If you should need anything, don't hesitate to call on me.” Her smile gleamed like pearls.

It would be a four-hour flight, and from the diminutive turnout at the gate the plane was going to be sparsely populated. I stopped halfway to my seat and looked back at Jacqueline as she greeted another passenger. Her eyes were on me. I thought I might ask her to join me for breakfast, and maybe dinner “after,” but the truth was I would be staying a good two hours from the airport in some town built around a large factory. The woman
behind me tapped her foot impatiently at my blocking the aisle.

Jacqueline's smile widened.
Yes, yes, YES!

This might be that moment when I'd finally join the Mile High Club.

 

Jacqueline sent a signal as she poured my scotch ever so slowly, a signal clear as the rarified air at thirty-five thousand feet. My knuckles slid from the arm of my seat to her knee. The scotch continued to trickle. I traced up under her skirt. The scotch stopped halfway through the pour. It was as if it was a beer and she was waiting for the head to settle.

I felt a tiny shock of curly hair. No panties! I eased one fingertip inside her as a light went up at a seat down the aisle.
Damn!
I withdrew my finger and traced her dew down her thigh.

I breathed her aroma as I sipped my scotch. Each time she passed me, she locked my gaze, and my cock got as hard as the fuselage of the 727. I drank my scotch a little faster than usual. The reading lights were shutting off all around the plane like the porchlights of a one-horse town after nine o'clock. Heavy, sleepy breaths began to rise in the darkened cabin.

I held up my empty little scotch bottle and shook it like a bell. Jacqueline returned with a fresh bottle. She set it on my tray and looked at me, waiting.

“Will you pour it, Jacqueline?”

“Of course.” She opened the bottle and began pouring slowly. I slid my hand straight up to her pantyless pussy. She leaned close to my face, so close it could've been a kiss, and her Certs breath filled my nose. She whispered. “Go back to the bathroom on your left. Take off all your clothes and wait. I'll knock two times, pause, then two more. Unlock the door only for that knock. Any other, tell them you're sick and to go away.”

It's hard to negotiate with a raging hard-on. I followed
her instructions to the letter. My heart jackhammered when two knocks came. The silence seemed an eternity. Two more knocks.

Jacqueline pinched her full lower lip tight in her teeth as I cracked the door. She nodded for me to open up. I cupped my hardness in my hand as she opened the door wide. She closed it, then gently spread my wrists and my cock pointed at her yellow-clad hip. She winked. “I'll give you credit. You do have a lot of nerve.”

“Pardon?”

“You're almost too perfect.” Her face was sweet and warm, but there was a darkness swelling in her eyes. “You've got a beautiful cock, though.” She traced it.

“Uh, thank you?”

“Spread your legs.”

I surveyed the tiny lavatory. She turned so the front of her yellow dress was pressed to my back like a chair. One cool hand smoothed down my back, across my butt, around my hip. The other circled my cock tightly. “Spread your legs,” she repeated.

I opened my feet as far as I could.

“Wider.”

I bowed my knees like a cowboy on a thick horse. Her hand slid under my asscrack. “What are you doing?”

She leaned in and whispered. “I was so glad when I saw you board the plane.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You believe in karma?”

Truth was, I'd heard the lyrics in the John Lennon song, “Instant Karma.” I had no fucking idea what it meant. “Yes, I believe in karma.”

Her little laugh was hollow but sweet. “Me, too. I'm celebrating tonight.”

“What are you celebrating?” My words became choppy and awkward as she gently squeezed my balls. My sac tightened.

“It's my last flight as a stewardess. I'd like to go out with a bang.”

“Glad to be able to help.”

“Of course. Say, you seem to know that Hughes Airwest jingle pretty well.”

I grinned. “Yes.”

“What is it they call us?”

“Top Banana in the West?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Her finger slid back from my tight balls and pushed at my asshole.

“Wait, what are you—” Her finger popped inside. “Whoa!” A long banana had appeared on the sink. “I—”

Her finger descended to another knuckle and I gasped. I grabbed her bare arm and her free hand gripped my cock. She stroked slowly, deliciously. My arms fell slack.

“You're kinda cute, with your salesman pitch and smart-ass smile. You think you're entitled, don't you?” She stared, half anticipating my reply, half not caring.

I opened my mouth to protest, and gulped air. I squeaked as she popped her finger out.

“Admit it, Kevin. You feel entitled.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Put your hands on your head.” She kissed my cheek.

I complied. She pulled out a tube and started to squeeze it. A juicy dollop of clear fluid splattered her fingers. She reached around my back again and slathered the rim of my hole. I felt like I'd just plunged into a cold pool on a hot day. It felt weird, but that cool goo also felt very good.

“Who is Top Banana?” Her other hand gently cupped my tight balls.

“Unh!”

Her middle finger poked back in, and I almost came when she grabbed my cock like a handlebar. “Who is Top Banana?”

“Hughes Airwest?”

“Who?” Her finger pushed deeper while her other hand doused the long yellow fruit. Her slick finger popped out. She glazed the banana and it disappeared around my hip.

“You're Top Banana, ma'am.”

“That's better.” And the tip of the fruit kissed my sphincter.

It pushed in a little and my ass resisted. “Unh! Mmm!”

She pushed the banana just a little deeper.

“Jacqueline?”

“Shh.”

My mouth gaped as she stroked my cock, then cradled my balls. “Ohh.” The fruit descended a bit deeper. “Ma'am?”

“Shh.”

With each twitch of resistance, she stopped until I relaxed, then she pushed a bit farther, holding my body fast with my hard-on. All the nerves in my asshole felt like they had been suddenly brought to life after a long coma. Each additional push made my limbs tingle.

“You like this, don't you?”

“No.” But my rod was now dark purple, pointing at the vibrating ceiling, and the veins popped like the Rocky Mountains up from the plains.

She stopped. “No?” She tilted her head sweetly and began to ease the banana out.