Brad struggled for composure. His stomach knotted. He felt hot and sweaty and his hands were trembling. And for once, he was at a loss for words.
“Is– Is that what you want?” he finally managed, sounding stupidly juvenile.
She didn’t answer. Only took his hand and led him back to where the bar dominated an open space in the rear of the plane. She set her handbag down and turned her back to him. “Undress me.”
Jack followed the curve of her spine with the zipper tab. Once she had placed her dress on the bar, she was back in his arms. “I’ll do it any way you want, but please. You can’t get me pregnant.”
Jack quickly agreed. “I won’t cum inside you.”
“But I want you inside,” she said sweetly, tilting her head, and dropping her hands between his thighs, she got his penis out. On her knees, she sucked gently until he was ready. Then, dropping on all fours, she presented him with her narrow bottom.
“Oh my God,” Brad heaved as she reached back with one hand and pulled aside a buttock.
“Take me here,” she said.
Brad quickly dropped to his knees and rubbed the head of his penis in her anus.
It’s not every man who gets offered a pretty poo-hole, Brad thought smugly, especially one puckering between the youthful buttocks of such a delectable creature. A gift; a freebie; no strings attached! Christ, here she was spreading herself for him and he didn’t even know her name.
She squealed like a piglet when he gently expanded her rectum. From pain or pleasure, Brad didn’t know, nor much else cared. She had given her permission and now he was fucking the tightest ass he had ever had the pleasure of stretching. Nothing else mattered until the time came to unleash a stream of semen into the deep reaches of her bowels.
After, Brad sat in one of the passenger seats, still reeling from what had just occurred. Sure, he’d had a couple of women up the ass before, but they were nothing like this sweet little thing. He hadn’t cum in over a week, foolishly saving himself for Melissa, so when he did, he had flooded the poor girl’s tiny rectum. She had scooped up her bag and, holding a tissue tightly to the crack of her bum, she had disappeared into the john located behind the bar.
Brad couldn’t believe his luck and was so captivated with what had just happened that he didn’t notice that, when she returned for her dress, that she no longer carried her bag. He watched her tight body move as she stepped into the stretchy fabric. He got up to help with the zipper– what a guy!
When they walked back across the tarmac they found the guard studying his watch. “Twenty minutes,” the man chuckled. “Didn’t do the poor girl justice.”
At the villa, Jack lay on top of the bed with Irene straddling his hips. She inserted his penis and rolled forward in lithe, half-circle moves, efficient and pleasing.
Jack watched her heavy breasts sway. “God you’re good,” he exhaled.
Irene arched her spine, pulled back and rolled forward again, taking the length of him. “Take-offs and landings,” she grappled with an orgasm. “It’s what I do best.” She held momentarily then started up again, increasing the intensity. Jack was a skilled lover, but there was nothing like controlling the play yourself; controlling the surge and wane of the sensations and emotions. She rotated her hips and worked herself up for another release. Her moans turned to little cries that rose in volume.
Irene suddenly stiffened. “Oh Jesus Christ. The bottle!” And she pounded a balled fist on Jack’s chest.
Jack struggled onto his elbows. “Ow. What’dya do that for?”
Irene skewered him with a look. “That fucking bottle. I left the bottle at the restaurant. It’s still sitting under the table with my damned photograph inside.”
Jack looked at her a moment, and started to laugh. He knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t help himself. Irene lifted up on her knees and was about to land a second punch when she felt the spurt. “Oh that’s just great.” She scrambled, reaching for the tissues on the bedside table. Jack was splattering semen all over her thigh. “Is that all you can think about?”
“Actually I was thinking about the look on that waiter’s face.” Jack dropped his head back, “… a cheeky little vintage; a bit fruity but somewhat understated,” he mimicked the waiter. “One thing for certain, this time tomorrow, that bottle will be the center of attention on Pichichi’s bar.”
“Lucky for you we fly out in the morning, Mister. I’d make you go back for it.”
Irene was sitting in the cockpit of the Bikini-Bus the following morning and was double checking the navigational waypoints she had entered into the computer.
Brad came through the cabin door, threw his jacket across the back of his seat and tossed a flight-bag into the bottom of his locker. “What’s the latest on the hurricane?”
“Last advisory was at eight this morning,” Irene said. “Category four with sustained winds of one hundred and fifty-four and moving to the west at fifteen miles per hour.”
Brad slid into the right-hand seat. “If we got a wiggle on we could probably beat it.”
“No thanks,” Irene went back to her nav-computer. “We fly around the back of it, that way it will always be moving away from us. We’ll head further west, cross over Venezuela and turn north. When we’re over Puerto Rico we’ll adjust our course for Miami.”
Brad was clearly annoyed. “You know how much extra fuel that’s gonna cost?”
For a second time, Irene was abruptly aware that this was Brad’s charter. “Can’t be helped.” She stood firm. “The safety of the passengers takes precedence.”
Brad fidgeted for a moment. “I have to make a phone call,” he announced and pushed himself up.
“What, now?” Irene didn’t try to keep the indignation from her voice.
“I got a schedule,” Brad snapped. “I’m supposed to meet someone.” And pulling his cell phone from his jacket, he slammed out of the cabin.
Irene sighed, picked up the handset and a moment later Alex answered. “‘… morning Captain.”
“Alex, how are we doing?” Irene asked.
“Just packing the last of the overhead bins and starting the seat-belt check. Need another five minutes. And just to let you know, we’ve got two no-shows.”
“Someone failed to show up for the flight?”
“Scirocco and his buddy sent word that they’d be staying on. Must have found a couple of accommodating girls.”
Or unaccommodating Colombians, Irene thought. “Okay. I’m just waiting for final clearance. You and the girls get yourselves strapped in.”
“Roger.” Alex hung up on her end.
Irene lifted her headset from where it was slung about her neck and adjusted the earphones. “Control, this is Bikini-Bus. Please advise.”
“Bikini-Bus,” the controller came back, “you are clear, Irene, runway two-niner. Have a good flight.”
“Roger, Control, and thank you. We’re rolling.” The Bikini-Bus lurched toward the end of the runway.
At forty-thousand feet, Irene turned command of the aircraft over to the nav-computer. The plane made a gradual turn to the southeast and leveled out. Ahead, Irene got her first look at the snowy Andes mountain range. They looked formative, bounded by the horizon both to the north and south. A vast empire of emptiness, inhospitable for neither man nor beast.
Irene clinked off the seat-belt sign and picked up the handset. “We’ve leveled out,” she told Alex. “You can start serving.”
They were almost an hour into the flight. Everything was functioning normally and it was sunny and clear, a beautiful day for flying. Irene had missed her breakfast. She was enjoying a cup of coffee and had just taken a second bite of the carrot muffin that Alex had brought forward when she felt the jolt, even before she heard the explosion. Her coffee cup lifted straight up, spilling its contents across the console and Brad was jarred from his nap as the plane slew to the port side, the screech of the Off Course Alarm filling the cockpit.
“My plane!” Irene shouted and got her hands on the yoke, releasing the autopilot just as a second explosion staggered her aircraft.
Another alarm sounded. “Your plane,” Brad shouted back over the sound of the shrieking alarms and pulled his hands away from his yoke. “What the shit?”
“Rapid decompression,” Irene said. “Oxygen! Now!”
Irene pulled the oxygen mask from its locker and struggled one-handed to position it over her face. “Emergency descent.” The vibration that rattled the aircraft was so violent, Irene had to strain to focus on her instruments. She jammed the yoke forward. “Engine one has stopped functioning. Shut it down. Brad? Do you hear me? Engine one!”
Brad had gone as pale as death and appeared incapable of moving. He stared ahead at the approaching mountains. “Oh no! It can’t be…”
“Brad!” Irene screamed and she took a hand off the yoke to reach for the emergency fuel cut-off before shutting down the electrics to the left-hand turbo. She pushed the yoke further forward. Irene needed to get the plane lower to the ground where there was air to breath but the plane was sluggish. To her horror she realized that the elevators, the flaps in the tail section that controlled ascent and descent, weren’t fully functional.
Irene hit the air brakes, extended the flaps and the nose finally dipped. She throttled up throwing the DC-9 into a rapid descent. It was a mind numbing dive and as the aircraft hurtled down toward the mountains, Irene was momentarily baffled by a sound, like a steam-whistle, until she realized it was the cries of her passengers screaming for someone to save their lives. With an eye on the altimeter, Irene struggled with the problem of how she would pull up with no elevators. Memories came crashing back along with the unbelievably nagging thought that history was about to repeat itself. This time with more dire consequences.
“Pull up– Pull up– Pull up– ” the automated alarm was warning her of impending impact with the ground. Then suddenly, at ten-thousand feet, the plane started porpoising. Irene pulled the yoke all the way back and got the wing flaps re-positioned. The plane bucked and made another elevator-drop of two-thousand feet with Irene struggling to gain control but, after another violent shock jarred the plane, Irene felt the lift in respond to her hands.
The cabin door flew open and Alex fell forward onto the floor. “Jesus. I don’t want to die!” she cried frantically. Blood was spilling from a gash in her forehead and fear shone in her eyes.
“I had to shut down engine one,” Irene, cursing the alarms, shouted through her oxygen mask.
“Engine one?” Alex yelled back incredulously. “There is no engine number one. Not any more. Just a fucking four foot hole in the side of the plane where engine one used to sit.”
“W-what?”
Alex leaned forward and covered her face with her hands. “And we’ve lost Jordan.” Alex started to shake violently. “God. There was that sound and suddenly the door to the rear john caved in. It was like a whirlwind; a horrid shrill, high-pitched howling. Everything in the lounge was sucked away. Jordan was at the bar serving two passengers and I saw her get lifted off her feet. She’s gone, Irene. Sucked out the hole and the two passengers along with her. I saw her get a hand on the door frame, struggle to hold on, but an instant later one of the men tumbled into her and she lost her grip. She’s gone Irene, sucked out through the side of the plane.” Alex rocked forward, her body convulsing bitterly.