Chapter 1
Takeoff
"Five thousand pounds or fifty camels," I heard them mutter, a fuck bag of sheiks, heads together, eyes stripping every garment of clothing from my body. Their heads looked like white Ping-Pong balls bobbing in a pond. They were trying to buy my body. It was a reasonable offer for my little finger, but that wasn't what they were after!
When we arrived, the party was in full swing. Most of the locals were in full regalia-akal and thoub-but a few-like the one with whom I was dancing-were sporting western dress. The air was icy cool in the air-conditioned apartment compared to the blistering heat outside. The lights and music were very low. I found myself looking down at a bald head sprouting a few tufts of hair like an old potato which had been left in a dark warm place. Somewhere above my knee a hard knot was pushing into the soft plaint flesh of my thigh. It ground in relentlessly. Raspy breathing was escaping from the wide-flared nostrils, and claw-like hands encircled my tiny waist. A hot, too heavily perfumed aroma floated upwards, offending my delicate nostrils. I prayed for the music to stop as the knot was expanding against my leg. If he weren't careful there was going to be a nasty sticky mess on the floor of this superb luxurious penthouse. However, it was his pad, so I supposed he could do what he liked, although I would have preferred that he didn't involve me. I didn't want to offend him, a highly intelligent man and a government official of great esteem, but there was no way he was going to use my thigh to get his rocks off! How did I get myself into this mess, anyway?
I was destined for Sydney via Kuwait, Colombo, Singapore, and Darwin. This was my first trip as a full-fledged stewardess, and already I seemed to be in trouble. The farthest afield I'd been before was Gibraltar. Now I was really being thrown out into the wide, wide world-Sydney and back in twenty-eight days and maybe as many lays! The crew consisted of four stews and four on the flight deck. As the newest member of the crew, I was flying as a Number Four and given the dirtiest jobs, as befitted my lowly station. My duties were keeping the Johns clean and correctly stocked and tending to baby bottles and "special meals"-for invalids, for instance. I remember being approached by an Indian gentleman who insisted he was a vegetable. What he meant to say, of course, was that he was a vegetarian.
The hot air slapped me in the face as I swung the aircraft door open on our arrival at Kuwait. T leaned out to get my first glimpse of the magical Middle East. We "handed over" to the outgoing crew (I warned the other Number Four that we had a "vegetable" on board), and we tripped out into the horrid heat. As we crossed the tarmac my thick skirt stuck to my nylon-clad legs, and my hair lost what little curl it had had. Customs cleared everybody except me. As a newcomer I was subjected to grubby hands fingering all my underwear and other belongings. After much fuss they finally let me through, and I fled to the crew bus that was to carry us on the last leg of our journey into the city. We had arrived at sunset, and all along the dusty roads Kuwaitis had abandoned their Cadillacs and were doing what looked like an up-tails-all into the sunset. There was nothing much to see except sand and dust and the occasional black-robed figure scuttling across the sand like a rat in the shadows. Gradually we approached the town of box-like buildings. The sidewalk cafes were packed with white-robed and-hooded customers. As the sky darkened I could see the eternal flares in the distance burning high in the sky as the oil spewed nonstop from the ground.
We checked into the hotel, and we were all invited to the captain's room for a drink, as was the custom. Kuwait was a dry state completely without alcohol (or so I thought until I got wise to the game), but more of that later. You either changed or went along to the crew party in your uniform depending upon how urgently you needed a drink, and you took along your own glass and your own booze if you'd managed to get any through customs. Hotels which accommodated crews were quite accustomed to being asked for large buckets of ice, and some of the better ones even supplied nuts and olives with the ice.
The crew were allocated rooms close together-all except me-and I was put at the far end of the corridor alone. I went up to my room, quickly shed my sticky clothes, and opened the window. I stepped out onto the balcony and gazed at the Persian Gulf glittering like a precious sapphire. I stood in the heat listening to the eternal honking of horns and religious wailing, a sound with which I came to identify Kuwait. (I could be put into a darkened, shuttered room and know beyond a shadow of a doubt if I were in the middle of Kuwait.) I stepped out of the heat and into a cold shower under the full blast of the water. I reached for a large white bath towel and snuggled into it. I had my back to the open window as I toweled myself dry. I suddenly had the feeling that someone was watching me. I whipped around to find five brown beak-nosed faces hanging over the adjoining balcony of the room next door. I thought to myself, nosy crowd! Perhaps, I thought, I should open my towel and give them a quick flash, causing them to fall off the balcony and crash down four floors onto the sizzling pavement below! However, having been severely schooled in how to deal with amorous Arabs or leering lechers I decided against this move and waved my fist at them and told them in no uncertain terms to shove off. I drew the net curtain and finished by ablutions in private.
I slipped on a pair of fine cotton trousers and a Tshirt, miniskirts having been banned by the company in Arab countries and worn at considerable peril only by a "ew dumb birds.
I arrived last at the crew party. It was beyond comprehension how such a gathering could be called a party! (They were usually so boring for the attractive stewardesses who had to make up to the men, who were sometimes paunchy and middle-aged.) It was always at the crew party the first night out-that is to say, Kuwait-that the male members of the crew decided which of the girls they fancied for their sexual entertainment for the rest of the trip. I breathlessly recounted my peeping Tom tale to the crew, and they told me a little belatedly that if ever I found myself in a room miles away from the others, I should ask to be moved.
I now had a chance to study the men for the first time. The Australian captain was tall, dark, and undeniably handsome in a cool detached way. The first officer was a big balding man in a crumpled suit. The engineer was a small dour Scotsman, and the nav was one of the nicest, but ugliest, men I've ever set eyes on. And here we were for two days. I wondered who was marking off whom for whose bed. I was wondering if the junior stew got to jump on the captain or whether she was left with the dregs after the senior girls had had their pick. The girls were a friendly bunch. Hilary, the Number Three, blonde and big-breasted, was the one with whom I really clicked. The others were pleasant, but nothing compared to the dazzlingly endowed Hilary. Eventually, everyone drifted off to an early bed except massively mammaried Hils and Frank, the captain and me. At least we had progressed as far as first names. He was going to a party later that evening at the home of one of the local hierarchy and asked us if we cared to go along. I, as a new girl, was all for getting as much local color as possible, and Hilary, with her ever-bounding energy, was always randy and ready.
And that's how I came to have Fahid's lump which felt like a malignant growth attached to my inner thigh. The Arab hawks were still bidding for my body and casting furtive glances at Hilary's upper protuberances. There was more of Hilary to love, and so perhaps I'd be let off the hook if she succumbed. What the Arabs didn't realize and couldn't grasp was that money doesn't buy everything, and certainly not me. I was very proud that the most precious part of me was totally mine. I didn't trade it for money, gold bars, or oil. It was mine. Nobody could take it from me. It was only given by me in love, desire, or pleasure. It was mine to bestow, not to sell to the highest bidder. I didn't imagine one of them. Despite their untold wealth and power, I wasn't impressed with their treatment of women. Most of them preferred boys, anyway, and I couldn't be confused for one of their seedy sallow-faced youths.
The dance, thank God, ended, and to my immense relief, Fahid left the room, but he returned shortly (possibly having relieved himself in the John) with a heavy, expensive gold bracelet which he tried to force onto my arm. Much to his horror I refused, because if you accept that kind of present from an Arab you're really in deep-or he's really in deep, and there was no way his sticky hot dick was getting within an inch of my love tunnel even if he wrapped the gold chain round it!
However, he just couldn't take no for an answer. I had gone to the cocktail party in his home with the captain and Hilary for a pleasant evening out, and Fahid simply couldn't understand that a white woman would freely enter his home of her own accord unprepared to spread her legs on his bleeding goatskin carpet if he so desired. However, he was barking up the wrong bloody tree as far as I was concerned. He persisted in trying to force the bracelet on me, and in touching me and pressing his fat body against mine and breathing his stale breath down my neck. Finally, I simply couldn't stand it any longer. God knows where his dick had been. So I told him he could take his bracelet and shove it up his ass, and I fled into the street and ran the few blocks that it was to the hotel.
When I got back to the hotel, I took every particle of clothing off and sent them all to be dry-cleaned or laundered or sterilized and got into the bath to wash away the smell of money and oil. I also washed my hair, and having dried myself I flopped exhausted on the bed, wondering if I had made the right decision in becoming a stewardess. The extracurricular duties were proving too much.
I must have fallen into a deep sleep because I don't know how long the phone had been ringing when I was finally awakened by its persistence. I picked up the receiver and placed it to my ear, but I was too dazed with sleep at first to understand what the soft seductive French voice was trying to say. He had seen me in the hotel and thought I was attractive and wanted me to come out and meet him. In fact, he was the manager of the very hotel in which I was staying!
I said, "Are you an Arab?"
No, he wasn't an Arab. The soft, lilting French accent aroused me from my sleepiness and drew me to him like a moth to an electric light bulb.
"Where and when?" I said.
"Toute suite, cherie," he murmured in dulcet tones.
The nasty taste in my mouth disappeared. The iron clamp encasing my loins vanished, leaving a warm receptiveness and feeling of gratitude toward this complete stranger with a voice as soft as the whispering desert sand. He gave me my instructions.
"We shouldn't meet in the hotel, as I am the manager and it wouldn't look right for me to be seen fraternizing with stewardesses, and most of all it wouldn't be correct for you." At the back entrance of the hotel there's a car park. He'd meet me there in ten minutes. He would flash his car headlights three times so I would know which car to get into. Discarding everything I had been taught, I thought, what the hell! If I can give an all-powerful Arab sheik the shakedown I could certainly cope with a Frenchman!
I was nervous, yet trembling with excitement because according to my training stew I was embarking upon the most hazardous mission of all time. Many a fair-haired maiden had disappeared without a trace into the sands of Kuwait. I had already learned that white flesh like mine was worth many an oil well or an esteemed place in a harem. But my motto was nothing ventured, nothing gained. I smothered my super-clean body with perfume, dabbing a liberal amount on my mons veneris and under my arms, on the backs of my knees, inside by elbows, on my bottom cleavage, and on the cleavage between my breasts. Now I was prepared for the randiest of fellows-if he appealed to me and my clitty.
Bearing in mind that a Frenchman is more likely to be turned on by a woman who is elegant and chic, I chose a simple backless pink wild silk dress which fell in soft folds to the floor. And it was conveniently buttoned from the bust to the crotch. Needless to say, I didn't bother wearing a bra or panties. My feet were encased in shiny pink sandals, and my long hair was flowing gently down my back as I stepped into the arcade from the hotel and walked toward the car park. There were about three thousand cars in the car park, but the moment I stepped out of the light my entire body was illuminated by the glare of headlights from a car parked directly "in front of me. I was blinded by the glare, frightened by the possibilities, excited by the probabilities, and my knees were trembling as I made my way toward it. When I reached the car, the passenger door swung open.
I slid onto the soft seat and for the first time came face to face with my quarry. He was gorgeous, dark-haired and very, very masculine. He smelt of good French cologne. Masculine odors have always meant a lot to me. The first thing I asked him for were the keys to the ear. Without these he couldn't whisk me off into the desert. While I found him incredibly attractive, I wasn't prepared to trust him completely. I was still inclined to be cautious. I asked him why he had singled me out from the other girls who passed his way. He replied like a line from a bad song, "There's something in the way you move." Moving a little closer he said, "Mon chou. Eet was love at first sight." Typical French bullshit, I thought, but at the same time I warmed to him.
I gave him back his keys, and he drove off to the quarter of the town where he lived. With affected chivalry he helped me from the car and guided me to his apartment. It was then that I realized he was a good six inches shorter than I. The apartment was all set for romance.' A cold spread was laid out on the table. And. my goodness, there was even a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket! That really impressed me. To get hold of that stuff in Kuwait was quite a feat!
"How did you know I'd come?" I asked him. "I took a gamble, cherie," he said, "and you see eet has paid off."
I thought for a moment and replied, "I always enjoy a good meal and a fine wine, but I'm still not too sure if you'll be getting your just desserts."
He smiled knowingly and said, "Don't worry. Take your time. I'm in no hurry." I was quite certain he'd get his way in the end. After all, it was going to be my way, too. We sat down to the feast. He ate his food as though he were eating me. He took a chicken leg in his hand as tenderly as if it were my thigh and nibbled it accordingly.
His brown eyes were peering passionately into mine. Jean-Claude cleared the cutlery and plates, leaving us with the full champagne tulips. I was about to remark that he hadn't cleared the sausage from the table when I remembered there had been no sausage for supper! It wasn't long before I guessed what it was. Jean-Claude had surreptitiously undone his fly, pulled out his cock, and placed the tip of it on the white tablecloth. And I had always thought that Frenchmen have such divine table manners! He may have been a good six inches shorter than I in stature, but the length of his cock more than made up for his diminutive dimensions. He looked rather sweet and appealing standing sipping his champagne and casting furtive glances in my direction. I looked from his eyes to his dick with a smile on my lips as though I were perfectly used to men laying their dongs on the dinner table.
"J'envie de toi" he sighed hungrily, and I replied, trying to keep a straight face and pointing at his knobbled penis, "A little taste of that wouldn't go amiss." Jean-Claude sat down as I pushed my chair back from the table. Taking a swig of champagne I lay across the table on my tummy until my face was level with my "newfound friend," as I approached him, his head perked up and blood started pulsating to his very alert brain; he obviously appreciated the nearness of my ruby-red lips. Jean-Claude pulled down his dong and dunked it in the champagne glass. The champagne was glistening like dew on an early spring crocus. I pushed back the foreskin with my finger. As I unpeeled his banana my tongue followed my fingers and lapped up every drop of champagne as it trickled down his sturdy stalk. It was the finest tasting dessert I had partaken of in a long time.
Jean-Claude seemed to be enjoying his last course, too. He suddenly got very greedy and instead of remaining seated he got up unexpectedly. I say unexpectedly, for I had my head hanging over the table with just a comfortable amount of cock in my mouth. When Jean-Claude stood up, I did a very fast sword-swallowing act. How I didn't choke to death I have no idea! I pulled my head back and splutteringly told him not to be such a pig! That was the sort of strength and length of entry I adored and craved, but between my legs, not down my throat! He apologized profusely and playfully smacked his penis and said to it, "Tu es mechantl" It certainly was naughty, but the sort of naughtiness which appeals to my moist little clitty!
He backed off from me and lowered his trousers and underpants. I turned over and lay flat on my back on the table. He bent down, and supporting my head in his hands he tenderly kissed my lips. He took a tiny sip from his glass, and as he kissed me again, a delicious dribble of ice-cold champagne trickled off his tongue and he swirled it skillfully around my mouth. Licking champagne off his cock and being fed champagne on his tongue certainly beat drinking champagne out of the finest crystal glass in the world! Jean-Claude then began to unbutton my dress with fingers which weren't quite steady (he wasn't as cool as he pretended to be). His trembling became more violent as each button exposed a little more of my creamy skin. He let out a gasp of pleasure when he'd finished with the last button, and my dress fell away on each side revealing me as naked as a newborn babe.
With his hands clasped behind his back he circled the table, pausing to study me from every angle. He bent down and sniffed at my delicate bouquet. With epicurean delight he pounced on various portions of my body. He behaved as though he was a chef and I was a succulent roast he was inspecting to see if it came up to the high standards required by his restaurant. He pushed my hair back from my face. "Ah, oui, I love zee vay your hair grows in tendrils around zee temples! A deeeeleeeecious mouth!" Then he explained to me in French that my features appeared to him as though they had been sculpted by one of the great masters. He sniffed and squeezed my boobs as though he was choosing a couple of melons from a fruit stall. He spread my legs and carefully examined the area within. Finally he smacked his lips and licked his fingers while I shook with laughter.
"Vat ees so droll, cherie?" he asked.
"Eet's just zee vay," I mimicked, "you're inspecting zee merchandise to see whether or not eet ees palatable," I joked.
"Zay are nectarous. A feast for zee gods," he proclaimed.
I felt like saying, "Now that you've given me your seal of approval, how about bunging up my hole?" Instead, I said, "Jean-Claude, could you please take off your shoes and socks?" I didn't mind him wandering around drawerless in his shirt, but the sight of a man's bare legs in shoes and socks just freezes me up.
He obeyed immediately and then knelt on the floor and pushed his dark head into my pussy. I sat up and wriggled to the edge of the table to accommodate Jean-Claude's face. My feet were balanced on the edge of the table with my knees drawn up. He pulled back and started licking down the tingling flesh of my inner thigh. He kept up this mind-blowing technique until I was ready for him to put anything he possessed into me. With deft agile fingers he opened my lower fleshy protuberances and inserted a finger. Gradually he withdrew his finger and replaced it with his tongue. While his fingers manipulated and moved outside, his tongue was doing indescribable things to my warm weeping love cave. I tugged at his hair as though I wanted to pull it from its roots.
Leaving me a complete slobbering mess, Jean-Claude withdrew his troops, and, grasping me around the waist, he dragged my limp form off the table and turned me round so my chin rested on the table and my ass was up in the air. Roughly pushing my skirt out of the way he started to enter me from the rear. I had a moment of complete panic as the horror-stricken thought hit me that perhaps after years in the Middle East he had picked up up some nasty Arab customs! But my fears were completely unfounded. He pushed his sheaf between my legs and straight into the proper tunnel. Relief and ecstasy came at once! The force of his thrust propelled the table across the floor! By the time we were both spent, the table had traveled several yards and had come to a halt against the wall. As the table hit the wall Jean-Claude exploded into me with a whoop of joy. I followed him seconds later, raising my bottom to accommodate all that I could. My body ached from the friction against the hard tablecloth, but the tremor between my thighs dispelled all other discomfort. We must have looked like the grand finale of a silly symphony a la Ken Russell, but neither of us cared about appearances. Our recently shared experience had been a splendid cacophony of sensual pleasure. Jean-Claude leaving me ass-high in the air eased out and lapped up my love juices with his tongue. I righted myself, and we said little, but grinned a lot like two people who had just won the Grand National and weren't quite sure what to do with their winnings!
"I knew you had eet in you," he smiled at me.
I replied, "I think you had it in me!" I tidied myself up, Jean-Claude returned me to the hotel.
I was at reception asking for my key from the swarthy, good-looking receptionist who looked knowingly at me when Hilary arrived in a disheveled state with the captain.
"Where the hell did you get to?" he demanded to know, looking at me with eyes of ice-cold fury.
"Oh, I've just had it off with the most delightful Frenchman on a table in the middle of my dinner," I replied flippantly.
He glowered at me in disgust and disbelief and strode off to the elevator. Hilary and I went up to my room and compared notes. Apparently I had caused quite a rumpus by rudely leaving the oil mogul's emporium. In fact, they had started to "disthoub" and expose their under-beneaths to Hilary, believing she would do the same, and that was how she came to be missing a sleeve from her dress. The "gallant" captain obviously couldn't allow one of his stews to be sheik-banged so he'd hurried her out, leaving them to play with themselves or whatever else happened to be handy.
"Fiona, did you really mean what you said about getting one on a table?" she asked, goggled-eyed.
"Of course!" I replied with a secretive smile, not wishing to tell her all the events of the evening. She calmed down and went to bed shaking her head in disbelief.
I had just slipped between the sheets when the phone rang. Jean-Claude's soft French voice said, "Merci mille fois, ma cherie. Dinner tomorrow night," he asked.
"Great," I replied, and added, "but maybe you've got a softer surface on which we can make love?" Feeling deeply contented and well and truly fucked, I fell asleep. My opinion of Kuwait was improving every second. There was more to it than sand, oil, and Arabs!
I was awakened long past lunchtime by a banging on the door. Pulling the sheets firmly around my naked body, I shouted, "Come in." A waiter entered carrying a tray. He placed the tray on the table on the balcony and left. Funny, I thought, I don't remember ordering anything the night before. I lifted the tray cloth, and there to my delight was a feast fit for a queen-a light fluffy omlette, masses of Arab bread, salad, a selection of fruit, a pot of coffee and, incredibly-this being an Arab country-a chilled bottle of an excellent white wine. A rose was pinned to the napkin, and the message on it read, "With the compliments of the manager." Some manager, I thought! Hilary joined me later, and we ventured out into the burning heat. She was thoroughly pissed off because she had spent a disturbed night keeping the lecherous first officer at bay from her bedroom door. We walked down to the bazaar and on the money changers' street where there were rows and rows of shops with different currencies pasted up in their windows and displays of gold bars in glass cases.
That evening Jean-Claude took me to the top of the Sheraton Hotel. Kuwait is a very ugly place during the day, but at night the view from the roof of the Sheraton Hotel is magnificent with the lights from the sheik's palace and the glow from the flares. It was almost as though a fairy had waved a wand across that unattractive patch of wasteland and turned it into a magical mystery tour. This time we could only drink grape juice, but we became quite intoxicated by the thought of the pleasure which was coming our way later on. We were serenaded by violins, and we held hands. This was quite sufficient physical contact for now.
After dinner, we drove out along the shores of the Persian Gulf and walked barefooted along the sands. I looked up at the stars, thrilled with my new love and my new life. If it continued this way, I would be more than happy. We returned to Jean-Claude's place and dissolved into each other's arms and spent hours touching each other's body with slow, sweeping caresses. There was not the breathless urgency of the night before, only the mutuality of our pleasure-a touching of breasts, the stroking of a slumbering weapon, awakening it to further prolonged delights. Each body aroused a soft sensuous awareness in the other and our lovemaking culminated in the whispers and sighs of pure unadulterated ecstasy. We parted friends and lovers, promising to meet again.
My flight was scheduled to leave in the late afternoon, when the searing sun began to lose its heat. As was the custom, all the crew met in the lobby of the hotel to check out and get into the crew transport. As I approached the receptionist, he said in a voice louder than was necessary, "No bill for you, Miss Richmond." The iceberg of a captain looked at me in complete disgust.
"What? No bill!" he exclaimed. "After two whole days! You silly girl! I suppose you've been starving yourself so you could save your allowances?"
I should explain here that "allowances" were doled out by the captain. You got a standard rate for each night out of the United Kingdom, then a lunch, tea, and dinner allowance. The amount varied according to the cost of living in each country. I didn't feel his comments were worthy of a reply. The other male members of the crew tut-tutted while the other two girls looked as pale and wan as they probably deserved to be while Hilary suppressed a giggle as she watched my face. I smiled at the thought of how well I'd been stuffed at both ends. It was none of the captain's business, but maybe it was a case of sour grapes on his part, as he hadn't got any oats so far-more like a mouth and an ass full of sand! I wasn't too concerned, as I wasn't there to be at the captain's beck and balls. As long as I did my job well on the aircraft, he couldn't complain. Feeling nicely wiped out, I set off on the next leg of my journey east.