Chapter 2
Runway Five
We arrived at Kuwait airport a few seconds before the big "whispering giant" homed its way onto the tarmac like a giant eagle. Why a Britannia is called a whispering giant I'll never know. Although I came to love the aircraft, "bone-shaker" would have been a more appropriate nickname. Following procedure, I took over from the incoming Number Four.
"No problems," she said and gave me the requirements and times of feeding the mob of babies we were carrying; most of the passengers were trooping families which consisted of mums and their babies going out to join their husbands. After about forty minutes for refueling and taking food on we reboarded the passengers. We made sure they were all strapped in and the cabin was secure for takeoff. The Brit trundled along the runway like a large hippopotamus and slowly inched its massive weight off the ground. Soon we gained cruising altitude, and the seat belt signs were switched off. We served dinner almost immediately, and it was then that things started going wrong for me.
We had almost finished handing out the trays when-being extra clever and carrying more trays than I should have done-I turned to leave the galley and caught the corner of one of the trays on the bulkhead. The contents of the trays shot up into the air, and the salad landed right on the top of a lady's hat. The hat was one of those large formal affairs quite unsuitable for air travel. It was adorned with fruit and flowers. It now had quite an extra amount of adornment in the way of lettuce, cucumber, and tomato. I glanced at the formidable face under the hat. She hadn't yet registered that anything untoward had happened. Hilary, who had witnessed the whole scene, collapsed behind the curtain of the galley. I thought the shake of her massive knockers would upset the stability of the aircraft.
When we had both almost recovered our composure, we toyed with the idea of picking the excessive vegetation off the hat with a pair of ice tongs. Our hilarity (no pun intended) disappeared when we saw Captain Frozen Knackers making his way down the cabin chatting with the passengers. I'm ashamed to admit that I locked myself in the John. I couldn't face the captain if he should spot the lady, salad and mayonnaise garnishing her picture hat. Hilary buried herself in the galley. She almost had her head in the oven when Frozen Knackers poked his cold nose through the curtains.
"Where's Miss Richmond?" he asked.
"She's just popped into the John," Hilary lied. "She's feeling a bit queasy. After all, it is her first flight," she added.
"Hmmmmmm," he snorted and marched off back to the flight deck. I emerged from the toilet. After all, it was my job to spend three-quarters of the flight in those stinking little boxes trying to mop up spilled urine and vomit.
I decided there was only one thing to do. I approached The Hat and said, "Excuse me madam, there seems to be more decoration on your hat than there was when you boarded the aircraft."
She glared up at me. "What do you mean, young lady?" she boomed.
"Well, to tell you the honest truth, I dropped some salad on your hat, and it's all mixed up with the other foliage," I explained.
She reached up and angrily snatched the hat from her head. When she saw the expression on my face and the state of her hat, she burst out laughing. "Accidents can always happen, my dear. After all, I could have got off the plane never knowing the first thing about it!" she laughed.
"I must admit I thought of letting you do just that!" I replied. I took her hat away and cleaned it up until it was as good as new. I also entered the details of the accident and the flight number in the Voyage Report. I took her name and address and told her that if the hat needed dry-cleaning to send the bill to the company. After that she proved to be the jolliest passenger on board. Mind you, every time I passed her she did flinch sideways in her seat!
We settled down all the passengers for the night, dishing out blankets and pillows. Hilary and I took it in turns to patrol the cabin while the other two girls had a rest and a meal. We were supposed to patrol the cabin about once every twenty minutes with a flashlight. Everything was serene except for the drone of the engines, so Hilary and I snatched a moment to have a quiet ciggy. We pulled out a couple of food containers to sit on, crew-rest accommodation was nonexistent on these aircraft.
I had just taken a second well-deserved puff on my cigarette when a horrific scream rent the calmness of the aircraft. Grabbing our flashes we fled up to the middle section of the aircraft to find a hysterical mother. I managed to calm her down before she created pandemonium among the rest of the passengers. She gesticulated wildly to the skycot above her seat. (Skycots were contraptions that could be fixed on the racks to accommodate babies up to about the age of nine months.) I shone my flashlight into the skycot. The baby had vanished into thin air. I calmed the mother down and told her the baby had to be on the aircraft. All this commotion had alerted the Number One who was in charge of us and who was a stern matronly girl bearing more resemblance to a prison warden than a stewardess.
"Miss Richmond, what is going on?" she demanded to know.
I explained the situation at great speed.
"These babies are your responsibility," she said firmly. "If you had done your job properly and fastened the safety net into place, this wouldn't have happened." She stormed off saying, "You'd better find that baby or else."
Hilary and I exchanged looks. I said, "You look on the floor while I search the racks." Trying not to disturb any passengers, I flashed my light along the racks. Right at the far end, sitting on a blanket and making goo-goo noises, was this moon-faced child. He was precariously poised on the edge of the rack, as happy as the day is long. How he had completed the obstacle course, for it was nothing less than that, to have clambered over all the coats, hand luggage, and other bits and pieces and still remain intact remains inexplicable. I grabbed this sturdy little stud in my arms and plonked him on his weeping mother's knee.
Sour-faced Sally, the Number One, strode down the aisle and informed me that the captain wished to see me immediately on the flight deck. I entered the inner sanctum of the flight deck and stood behind the engineer's seat. Fortunately, that was the nearest I could get to the captain, who was strapped in his left-hand seat as though constricted by a straightjacket. From the expression on his face, it seemed as though he needed to be in a straight-jacket! He ordered the first officer to take over the controls, unstrapped himself, pushed his seat back, and said, "Miss Richmond, I understand you've lost a baby."
I replied, "Not exactly, sir. It just went for a walk."
His voice rose to a shout. "Please, just remember that babies do not go for walks on my aircraft, and if I have any more trouble from you on this trip, you'll never board another aircraft with this airline."
Overbearing, supercilious sod, I muttered to myself as I barged out of the cockpit. I returned to the galley, and Hilary, all of a quake, told me I had better keep my cool if I wanted to keep my wings.
"Wings!" I retorted. "When I think of what I went through to get them!" I sat down on the cold container and my mind drifted back to my training-six weeks of utter hell, during which time one's mind was crammed with vast amounts of useful and useless information.
The first day of training, I got into trouble, and it progressed from there. Our training units consisted of a a mock-up of a twenty-seater aircraft and a few concrete-block lecture rooms on the maintenance side of Heathrow airport, next to the massive hangars which house the aircraft. We were collected on the first day at Heathrow Central and taken across to the training area. Twenty were in the class, six stewards and fourteen girls. We were broken in gently, at least by their standards.
The Mama of the Stews came in the first day and gave us a lecture. It didn't exactly open my eyes, but it gave me a laugh. The first piece of equipment we had to get ourselves was a "plonky kit" which contained every conceivable item we might require during a flight-scissors, Scotch tape, bottle opener, can opener, needle and thread, rubber gloves, and so forth. Big Mama opened her lecture by telling us two very important things that as stewardesses we must remember: when handling equipment in the galley, her motto ran "Use it, wash it, wipe it, and above all, put it away"; and her second gem of information was that if on any occasion you should see the engineer come out of the flight deck with a tool in his hand, you should smile at him because your life might depend upon it. Of course, I just hooted with laughter because I thought it was the funniest thing I'd ever heard and got sent to the back of the class for my trouble. I was marked out from then on, and a close eye was kept on me for the rest of the training period.
We had lectures on the theory of flight, how to conform to customs in different countries, and how to make up baby bottles, carry trays, mix cocktails, and clean up toilets. You name it, we learned it. For our further delight, we were show a series of films. One showed a baby being born; we were told how and where to cut the umbilical cord and to wait for or induce the placenta. The next film we were shown was a gruesome simulated air crash made by Americans in glorious Technicolor. We saw the plane crash, and all four of the victims stumbled out. Then we were shown gory close-ups of their injuries. One by one the stewards left the lecture room ashen-faced, clutching their stomachs. One of the victims had a large wound in the middle of his chest which spurted forth fountains of blood. Another had three-quarters of his intestines hanging out. The third had fractured legs with bones poking out at all angles from the bleeding flesh. The fourth guy, after vomiting violently, proceeded to show us how to deal with these wounds. After this we were treated to a slap-up lunch of which nobody could eat a morsel.
Day-to-day training took place mostly in the mock-up, with two members of the class taking it in turns to serve lunch to the remainder until bit by bit everybody had been able to familiarize himself with the galley equipment which he or she would have to use on the real aircraft.
There are many, many more aspects of training, but I won't go into every detail. I'll just acquaint you with a few of the more amusing ones. We did a crash course on first aid which included mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a life-size rubber doll. However, when it came to the exam, I was given a "patient" who was supposed to be suffering from a broken jaw which I had to bandage. The patient, in fact, was one of those really odious teacher's-pet type of girls. You know the sort I mean. Every school class has at least one. I couldn't wait to get my bandages around her, for she never shut up in the lectures and always had her hand up first with the answers! I got a large quantity of bandage, and much to the delight of the rest of the class. I proceeded to bind up her jaw and the rest of her head until she was completely mummified. The doctor came around to check what I was doing.
"Now, young lady, what is the matter with your patient?" he asked.
"I think she's probably dead of suffocation!" I replied. I could hear the others tittering behind me.
"A nice neat job," he said, suppressing a smile. "But I think you've been over-zealous. Now shall we undo her?"
The patient, of course, was livid and never spoke to me again during the rest of the six-week training, but I was the heroine of the day with the rest of the class!
We also had to learn how to give injections. If a dire emergency occurred we could, with the captain's permission, use the morphine which was carried on board. The girl whose head I'd bandaged backed away from me as she watched me fill my syringe with water. But in fact we tied bread rolls on each other's arms and practiced pumping these full of the supposedly dangerous drug.
How to react in emergencies-which was the most important part of our training-turned out to be the most fun. First of all came the fire training. We were taken along to a special area equipped to initiate novice stews into the art of using the appropriate extinguisher for the different types of fires one might encounter. We dressed in asbestos coveralls and went out into the bitter cold air. The instructor laid out the fire extinguishers and then lighted massive fires in long tanks. Flames shot twenty feet into the air. We were all doing reasonably well grabbing and operating the correct extinguisher for the appropriate fire until I got hold of one extinguisher and managed to cover the fireman and everything in sight with white foam. The thing had gone mad in my hand, and I lost control. Finally they wrested the uncontrollable extinguisher out of my hands and said I'd done enough. I thought that was an understatement. The next hazard was a little hut full of smoke, and we had to crawl around it and find our way out of it. It took me ages. I thought the bastard I'd sprayed with foam had closed the door, but eventually, black-faced and triumphant, I emerged into the fresh air!
Most passengers believe the primary function of a stew is to serve meals, but it's not. It is an Air Ministry requirement that a certain number of stewardesses must be present on every aircraft during flight to assist in the event of any emergency. The stewardess is there to operate escape chutes if the aircraft crashes and dinghies if it ditches into the sea. The session on the chutes was as much fun as bobbing up and down on a hobby horse at a fun fair. On the Brits some of the chutes were stowed on the racks and, after having located them, you had to attach them to the "D" rings on the floor and throw the chute out, making sure that two able-bodied men had gone down one of the escape ropes which were located at each emergency exit so that they could hold the bottoms of the chutes in place. You then took off your shoes and plonked your ass on the slide, taking care not to hold the canvas sides with your hands, as the speed and friction would burn them. Nowadays on the BAC One-Eleven 707s and 747s you actually have inflatable chutes which are attached to the doors at all times in flight, and the action of opening the door releases and inflates the chute so your pathway to safety is a lot less hazardous than on the old Brits. But we were stuck with the Brits and very pleased to be so!
The wet ditching drill was a riot, or at least it turned out to be a riot! We all congregated at the local swimming pool late one night in various types of swim wear, I of course in my teeny-weeny bikini. Those who couldn't swim were allocated life jackets. The two instructors for this drill were more than a little dishy. They were in fact ex-stewards now become instructors. We were shown a small canvas pack and told it contained a twenty-six-man dinghy. It seemed quite impossible that twenty-six men could get into this little pack. But one of the instructors pulled the static line attached to the dinghy and set off the COa bottle which inflated the dinghy. Suddenly it looked as though ten little boys were fighting to get out of a sack, heads bobbing in all directions. With a great snorting and flapping of canvas, like a gigantic cock swelling to preposterous proportions, the large circular dinghy-complete with roof-appeared before our very eyes. Then came the hard part. The instructors tipped the dinghy over so all that was visible was its large black bottom. There was a strap going right across the dinghy from one side to the other.
"Now, who's going to be first?" asked the instructor.
"Me first!" I shouted with girlish enthusiasm, dying to show off my scanty bikini and my swimming prowess.
"Okay, Miss Richmond will now give us a demonstration on how to right a twenty-six-man dinghy single-handed," said the instructor.
"I'm going to do what?" I cried. Before I could protest further, he pushed me into the pool. From the side of the pool where I had been standing the dinghy looked reasonably large, but once I was in the water with it, it took on unbelievable dimensions. I was told to climb onto the dinghy's slippery rubber back. I must have resembled a mermaid trying to mount a large blown-up rubber condom, because all the bystanders started to laugh at my efforts. I eventually made it and stood astride its uneven surface.
"Now," the instructor shouted, "stand on the extreme rim and grab hold of the strap to support yourself." I did as I was instructed. "Now lean backwards and pull on the strap."
When I started I was vertical, and the dinghy was horizontal, but by pulling on the strap and leaning back as far as I could, I made the massive dinghy rise inch by inch like a whale from the water. I pulled and pulled, and eventually the dinghy was vertical, while I was horizontal almost under water. Once the dinghy passed the halfway mark it came crashing down unceremoniously right on my skull. The sensible thing to have done would have been to swim out backwards as the dinghy descended, but I was mesmerized, and when the dinghy finally fell, I tried hopelessly to swim underneath it in the opposite direction. Every time I tried to surface, my head hit the underside of the dinghy, and at last it hit the C02 bottle attached to the bottom. Then everything went black.
I came to and found the instructor pumping water out of my lungs, using the Revised Silvester (chest-pressure-arm-lift) Method of Respiratory Resuscitation. I was fine, but decided to play possum because I was sure the next method attempted would be mouth-to-mouth resuscitation! I had taken a sneaky look at who was pumping away at me, and it was the beautiful blonde bombshell with his tantalizing thighs astride my head. What a position! As he tilted my head back and grasped my chin in the correct hold for your actual mouth-to-mouth, his mouth came down on mine, and I shot my tongue up into his wide gaping mouth. He drew back immediately and asked the crowd to back off, as he could manage on his own. He certainly did, too! We spent a sensational ten minutes having the best bit of resuscitation of all time! I found it very hard not to squirm with pleasure. I sat up, smiled at my rescuer, and said, "I think I'm cured!" I was pleased to see that his brief swim suit was hardly providing coverage for the growth that was swelling underneath the multicolored material.
The rest of the class went through the same routine, and finally we got into the dinghy and were shown the equipment and where it was all stowed-distress signals, paddles, a knife, fishing tackle, radio beacon, and equipment for removing salt from sea water and everything else we might need if we were cast adrift at sea. The object of this exercise was to show that if such an emergency happened, the chances of the dinghy landing the right way up in a swelling sea were almost nonexistent. So we had to know this essential maneuver.
The class broke up, but a few of us were asked to go and have a drink with the instructors. I noticed they had singled out the better-looking of the girls and none of the fellas. So we piled into our cars and drove off to a large terraced house which seemed to be situated at the end of runway five. At least that's what it felt like because once we were settled in the comfortable lounge on the ground-floor flat the conversation was blotted out completely every two minutes by the roar of an aircraft passing overhead. Duty-free drinks and cigarettes were liberally passed around and, having been submerged in water for the better part of two hours, we were all in the need of something. The girls outnumbered the fellas by about ten to two. It looked as though we weren't all going to strike it fucky. Mind you, the fellas were very strong and muscular, and maybe they planned to take us all on. I thought of shouting "Me first," again, but decided to cool it and wait for someone else to make the first move. Suddenly there was a screeching of brakes and slamming of car doors, and another eight fellas poured into the house. Our guys had obviously got the finish of a wet ditching drill down to a fine art and alerted the rest of their randy friends.
Everyone mingled very well. I'd become quite friendly with a very pretty plumpish girl called Erica who giggled nonstop about my exploits in the water. My mouth-to-mouth friend was giving me the nod and edging toward the door. While kissing him had been a very pleasant interlude, I wasn't sure if I wanted to carry it any further. There were now so many more fish in the sea. It was quite apparent from the conversation that they were all airline people. I getting slightly pissed off with the chat about what had happened "down route"-airline terminology for trips out of the UK-so I said in my best and loudest English accent, "Let's talk about fucking for a change."
You could have heard a prick drop. Everybody stared at me aghast. Hypocrites, I thought! After all, that's exactly what the fellas had in mind, so why not sort it out now? I decided this was a good line on which to exit, so I asked for the John and left them. I came out of the John switching off the light as I left, and found the place plunged into complete darkness. Whoops! Maybe all the girls had fled, and the fellas had decided I was the ideal object for their undivided attention. I edged my way back to the sitting room, where to my relief I saw a light coming from under the door and heard a great hubbub of voices.
I had just inched my way past a door when it opened and a hand shot out and pulled me into a darkened room.
"You want it, you're gonna get it, madam!" a rough voice said.
"Look," I said, "I have no idea who you are. You might even be one of the girls with a deep voice, but if you put the light on, and I can have a look at you, I may even decide I like you. I'm not into rape, and if you lay one finger on me against my will, I'll scream blue murder and kick you straight between the goulies."
"I thought you wouldn't say no to anyone," he said, with a laugh.
"I'm very fussy," I replied, "and you might not come up to my high standards."
So I repeated my request. "How about a light?"
He reached out and switched on a dim light. I saw that very conveniently we were in one of the bedrooms and that my would-be rapist was stark naked. I looked between his legs before I looked at his face. I just continued to stare arrogantly at his equipment. I sensed that he was the one who was getting a little jumpy now. My eyes traveled up his body and focused on his face. He had been one of the latecomers. Let's hope he was always that way.
I bent down, and if I'd had a monocle. I would have put it to my eye to take a closer look at what was being offered. I felt like a ringmaster about to crack my whip and make him jump to every flick of it. His member wasn't exactly flaccid. It moved gracefully toward me His balls hung down like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. I wondered how he managed not to trip over them. "I asked him to lie on the bed while I prepared myself. Then I quickly snatched up all his clothes and fled the room, locking the door behind me.
I dumped the clothes outside the door and calmly walked into the living room. From the look on their faces one would have thought I'd caught them all with their drawers down and their cocks out. I don't think they expected to see me for the rest of the evening. My blonde mouth-to-mouth resuscitator looked delirious with delight. My locked-up rapist had obviously bet them that he'd have my panties off and legs apart in a flash.
I sat down and remarked on the disappearance of Mike. "Perhaps he's locked in the john," said one of the girls. I'd heard her earlier bragging about what a great lay she was. I, being one of the quiet ones, say little (except in print, of course) and do a lot, but I'm not and never have been in the habit of telling people I'm the greatest fuck of all time. (I just think it quietly!)
"Why don't you go and look for him, dear?" I said. I misdirected her to the john, and the next thing we heard was a scream of horror. Mike had pounced on her thinking it was me as she entered the room. Me thinks the lady didn't protest too much, we heard the sound of rapid quick-fire conversation followed by silence and the harmonious creaking of bedsprings at peace with the world. Every ear had been bent in the direction of the bedroom. Now every pair of eyes was searching out others in the hopes of getting their own beds creaking.
I'd found mine-Graham, I'd heard one of the others call him. I knew all along that it was going to be him, and I'm quite certain he received the message loud and clear. He was a little on the sturdy side with a mass of curly hair graying at the temples, a beautiful black Zapata mustache, and a square jaw. His lazy brown eyes said everything. When he spoke and smiled, his teeth gleamed beneath his dark mustache. He was dressed in an almost piss-elegant manner, giving the impression that he was gay, and yet there was such a strong smell of masculinity about him I just knew he couldn't be. His attire had just the right degree of camp and masculinity. He wore a beautiful black velvet suit with a hydrangea-pink shirt underneath. Although the room was warm, he'd kept his black fur-collared coat draped exquisitely around his shoulders.
He was for me. I was sitting dead opposite him and let my knees drift slightly apart while continuing to chat with the guy on my left. I immediately felt a red hot flame shoot into my loins. I knew Graham's eyes were fixed on my prettily displayed pussy. He'd hardly spoken a word all night, but he was obviously a man who didn't need to chatter on aimlessly and bore the pants off a chick. He would definitely have a more experienced way of getting a girl to drop them. I'd decided I'd had enough of aircraft chit chat and smoky, boozy, sodden air. I got up, making sure my skirt slipped a little higher as I did so. I turned my back on Graham and bent to retrieve my handbag from the floor. That way he got a good glimpse of a shapely long leg and even a hint of white lace panties. I knew all the others were looking, too, but Graham knew it was only for him. I put my coat over my arm, said my thanks, and made my leave. My resuscitator looked very dejected. I could almost see his disappointed dick droop in his drawers, but I knew he wasn't man enough to follow me. I'd just made it to the front door when I noticed a hot strong male smell behind me.
"Can I give you a lift, Graham?" I asked. I waited for his reply.
"Yes." Turning me around, he simply took my hand and placed it on his fly. He helped me into my little sports car and climbed into the passenger seat. I started the motor, and he calmly reached over and switched it off. It was freezing cold outside, and within seconds our heavy breathing had steamed up all the windows. It wasn't a matter of his place or mine. It was a matter of there and then!
He threw my coat on the back ledge and quickly unbuttoned my cardigan and blouse. I shivered as his cold hands grasped my breasts and his juicy mouth began to suck them fiercely. His mustache felt prickly, but very pleasant, and he bit my breasts like Adam in the Garden of Eden taking a munch of the Forbidden Fruit. I somehow maneuvered myself across the seat partition, with Graham helping me ease my legs over the dangerous looking gear knob. I was not looking to be stuck on that hard, plastic, unfeeling knob all night! I squirmed so that I was sitting facing him, legs squashed against the door and the gear-box casing. I tried to stand and nearly put my head through the canvas roof. Graham slipped off my cardigan and blouse and wrapped me in his heavy coat, placing it around my shoulders. I snuggled my bare breasts against the delicate voile of his shirt and nuzzled my face and cold nose into the warm V of naked flesh. He reached down and pulled my hair back so my face tilted up, and we kissed for the first time-a slow, soft exploring of mouths and tongues. The icy air in the car became electrified. His tongue went everywhere-flicking around my nostrils, behind my earlobes, into the complex curving of my ears, and deep down into the drums themselves. I was covered with goose bumps, but not from the cold, from the sheer pleasure I was receiving.
His tantalizing tongue was bewitching me! I hastily undid his shirt buttons and ran my hands underneath his shirt. I was really making a mess of his shirt. It was all crinkled and smudged with makeup, but he didn't care in the least. It certainly would have been a passion-killer if he'd said, "Just a moment while I fold my clothes and place them on the back seat." But his need for me had dismissed any such thought from his mind. By now I had unbuttoned the top of his trousers and was easing down his zipper. I struggled manfully with his underpants, and still kissing me he lifted his bottom off the seat to enable me to slide his trousers and underpants down. His cock looked like a pale silvery, tapered wand in the dim light which was filtering through the car windows from the street lamp-as did the fingers on his elegant hands. I must be quite honest and say he didn't have a terrific cock stand, which is hardly surprising in the arctic conditions in the car, but I was more than willing to help rectify the situation.
"My hands are freezing," I said, "but if you'll let me warm them up on you, I'll really get you up."
I slipped onto my knees and plunged my hands under his soft hairy balls. He yelped like a wounded dog as my icy fingers took a firm grip on him. I squeezed, massaged, and caressed the warm hairy well between his thighs. Within seconds the ice melted as my fingers plowed through the masculine mixture of fuzz and pliant balls. Graham laid his head back and spread his legs as far as he could, despite the fact that his trousers and underpants were constricting his ankles like a pair of bicycle clips. His penis was still shivering and shriveled with cold. I placed my fingers at its base, and while I moistened my lips I kneaded the base of his stalk. I didn't mess around with preliminaries, for his poor weapon was badly in need of warmth. I opened my mouth and bore down on him until the whole slim length was welcomed by my mouth like a train steaming into a warm dark tunnel. I let it stay still, and Graham was quite content not to let it slip out into the cold air. I sucked and sucked and sucked until I felt it begin to pulsate in my mouth.
Graham meanwhile hadn't been inactive-something I adore in a bed ... sorry ... car partner! He wasn't prepared to lie there just letting me take the stick. He had pulled his coat up over my head, lifted my skirt, and was valiantly trying to push my tights (must stop wearing them) and pants down the cheeks of my ass. While I was giving him head, he was slipping his slim fingers between my buttocks and around as far as he could reach. He pulled playfully at the growth of hair around my pussy like a doggie not wanting to let go of a fluffy slipper. Then he rubbed the steamy area between my legs with his whole hand. Not venturing inside, he moved with a gentle sweeping motion. His hand was becoming saturated with my love juices while my mouth was slobbering, stuffed full of cock. The slender wand in my mouth had turned into a wide wedge of solid manhood.
I quickly released my limpet-like grip on his cock, slid my head out from under the coat, and moved as fast as was possible in those cramped conditions. Keeping my hand at the base of his cock, I poised my pussy ready to press it home. Just as I reached the tip of his cock I thought a great draft of wind had blown into the car, for the wand below me went on the bend. Graham clasped me to him. "Angel, I'm so sorry," he murmured.
"There's no such word as 'sorry,'" I said, "and there's certainly no need to be. Don't be in such a rush."
I kissed him reassuringly. I wasn't going to let this divine creature give up so easily. I sat down very slowly on his drooping penis and gently rotated my pubes and soaking pussy on it. like a babe sucking at its mother's breast, it felt cosseted and comfortable in the surroundings which were best suited to it. Slowly its life force flooded back. I lifted off a little and said to Graham, "See, look what a fine creature it is! It only needs a light on its head, and it would look just like a glowworm."
Graham laughed, and his frustration with himself and the cold disappeared.
"Now you're going to fuck me nice and slow with that marvelous weapon. Go to it," I said. "I want you badly."
This time, not even a gale force wind could have bent his cock. Straight and sure, it rammed into me. I wasn't certain who was fucking whom in the end, but we were thrusting together. Graham came before I was ready and again looked dejected. I pushed him back in the seat and told him to remain perfectly still. I ground my pelvis 'round and round until my bones were almost scraping the skin and hair off Graham's lower regions. He tried to move with me.
I said, "Keep still. Don't move."
The rotation of crotch to crotch, the meshing and entwining of hairs, the sexual smells mingling together were all driving me wild! Just an inch of Graham's languid cock was within me. I came, snorting like a dragon, almost breathing fire and smoke from nostrils, navel, and cunt. Graham kept crying, "Angel! Angel!" over and over again.
But I wasn't finished with him yet. "What's your favorite position?" I asked.
"I love to eat pussy while my cock is being sucked," he answered, "but it's impossible in this car."
I immediately replied, "Where there's a will, there's a way." If I'd been a contortionist I couldn't have done a better job. I placed my hands on the floor and my legs over Graham's shoulders, and I grasped his head between my strong thighs. There was no escape. Pussy he had to eat. My lips could once more encompass his cock. His tongue was between my legs, and his cock, unlike previously, was rigid and mobile. He was obviously very fond of tongue-fucking.
My mouth found his cock, which tasted salty and sticky, but oh, so good! We were really having a ball when we heard footsteps approaching. A frozen face and a blue nose pressed themselves against the window pane. The uniform was immediately recognizable as that of a policeman on the beat! I dived to the floor. Graham covered me with his coat. I thought we were going to be treated to an "Evenin' all" or " 'ello, 'ello, 'ello. What's goin' on 'ere?" But the friendly face beamed.
"Are you in trouble?" he asked.
"No, it's okay, officer," Graham replied, winding the window down. "The lady lost her ring, and we were looking for it on the floor."
I popped up. "It's okay. I've found it," I said.
"Good, miss," said the police constable, and he moved off.
I slipped back into the driving seat, and returning Graham's coat to its rightful owner, I slipped into my own clothes and started the motor. The policeman was plodding his way up the quiet road and gave us a friendly wave as we passed. I dropped Graham off, refusing an invitation for coffee, as I was off early on my first flight the very next day, but we exchanged phone numbers. He worked in Admin, and I knew we'd be seeing a lot more of each other. He got out and thanked me.
I said, "Please don't. It was great!" and he replied, "Good night, sweet angel! You're so very good and above all generous in bed." I roared off up the road, ready to tackle the world.
Hilary shook my shoulders. "Get a move on," she said, "we've got to serve the passengers before we arrive in Colombo. You've been sitting there ages smiling to yourself. What were you thinking about?" she asked.
"Oh, glowworms," I replied.
"I think you're some sort of nut, Fiona," she said. "Get a move on. They're hollering to be fed and watered."
Duties completed, I strapped myself into my jump seat, wondering what lay in store for me in Colombo. No doubt something would come my way...