"I love it, I love it!" Trish whispered to herself. "It's just like getting balled by a terrific stud!" She felt the muscles of her stomach clench and unclench, just as they always did a moment before orgasm.
Excitement embraced Trish like an oversexed lover on the verge of climax as she watched her partner slip a folded note to the airline stewardess who had introduced herself to the passengers as Sandra. Heat jumped into the eighteen-year-old redhead's loins, bringing instant moisture to her vagina. Green eyes turned somnambulistic and a blush crawled across her beautiful face to tint her cheeks. Breasts quaked with her suddenly ragged breathing, and nipples hardened behind the half-bra that held them captive, their imprints showing through her boyish white blouse. Heart hammered; blood bubbled along her veins like red lava looking for a way out. She licked her ripe red lips, pressed her creamy thighs together. Her mind raced, keeping miles ahead of the Boeing 707 that was cruising through the night at top speed. This was it. The first step of a job that had been six months in the planning. One that would either go down in the book as a monument to calculated insanity… or as the most successful and profitable skyjacking in history.
We'd better be successful, Trish thought vehemently. I'm tired of being a loser. I'm tired of eating beans and drinking water while others feast on steaks and wash them down with champagne.
The tension-induced flames continued to blaze behind the webbing of Trish Asher's panties as she watched the uniformed girl accept Gabe Penner's note, but the flames turned into ashes a moment later as she saw Sandra's hand carry the still-folded scrap of paper toward her shoulder bag. Trish stiffened in her seat. Instant shock mirrored in her beautiful face, and a groan seeped past her ripe red lips. Something was going wrong, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what that something was. The stupid stewardess thought that Gabe was trying to hustle her for a date at flight's end. An icy smile told Gabe that she wasn't interested. The same frigid smile added the postscript that she wasn't even going to read the note.
Sickness filled and proceeded to slosh around inside Trish's stomach. The color drained from her face, and her mouth dropped open. A dream was on the verge of dropping dead at her feet. She shook her head. No, it wasn't going to happen. She wouldn't let it happen.
Goddamn it, Gabe! Trish's mind shrieked as she watched Sandra open her purse and drop the note into it. Don't just sit there like a lump of shit! Do something!
Gabe Penner did. His face contorted in anger as he leaned toward the girl and snarled, loud enough for Trish to overhear, "That hunk of paper I just gave you isn't an invitation to a shack-up, pretty bird, but it could turn out to be one for a lot of funerals if you don't read the damn thing."
The stewardess thought that Gabe was kidding. She made a sour face. Then she laughed and started to turn away. Trish came alive with motion. She leaned out into the aisle, slapped the air hostess on the fanny to get her attention, then hissed. "Do as he asks, damn you!"
The stewardess whirled toward Trish and opened her mouth, probably to give some smart-ass retort. A moment later she remembered her training and calmed down. Then she dipped her hand into the shoulder bag, delivered her anything-to-humor-a-pair-of-nuts sigh and read the note. The moment hung suspended, tense and marked NOW OR NEVER, becoming NOW as the finger of truth goosed the girl and made her come to attention. Her eyes widened, and horror traced its pattern across her face. Her heart pounded, breasts heaving wildly. The note made a slight rustling sound in her quaking hand. Alarm scurried through her brain like a furry beast with sharp claws! My God, we're being skyjacked!
Trish watched the girl wilt and almost laughed in her face. The air bird looked as though she were on the verge of peeing in her funky panties.
She might make it yet, Trish thought. When Gabe hits her with the rest of our plan… she'll probably crap all over herself. A cold smile tugged at her lips. Do your thing, Gabe. Lay it on her.
"You know what to do," Trish heard Gabe growl, "but before you have second thoughts and ask the pilot to do something stupid, feast your eyes on this." He shifted the attach case on his lap, opened it and flipped up a secret compartment that had escaped the attention of both the airport inspectors and the metal detector. "That's a bomb you're looking at, pussycat. The note you're holding explains why we brought it aboard. That's right, we. There are three of us. Now, we're not interested in blowing this plane and everyone on it out of the wild blue yonder, but if our demands aren't met, we'll sure as hell do it. Dig?"
"Beautiful! And now that we understand each other, go up front and do your thing."
Trish slipped out of her seat as the stewardess moved forward to inform the pilot that they had the beginning of a nightmare on their hands. A man seated behind her stood up, also. She smiled at him. His name was Hank Lockridge. At forty, he was the senior member of their group… and the mastermind behind the fantastic caper in progress.
"Now?" Trish asked quietly.
Hank Lockridge nodded.
Gabe joined them in the aisle. Carry-on bags were opened, and momentarily all three of them started to undress, but it was Trish who attracted the most attention from the suddenly wide-eyed passengers as she unbuttoned her boyishly cut blouse and brought her bra-covered breasts trembling into view.
"Eat your stinking hearts out," Trish told the gasping women, and to the gawking men: "Have a hot, wild cum on me, you hungry-eyed bastards."
"Cut the shit," Hank Lockridge growled as he removed a pair of insulated arctic coveralls from his carry-on bag and proceeded to struggle into them. "Save that strip act you were doing when I found you for another time. Just change your clothes and forget about the goddamn audience. They aren't going to clap their hands to feed your hammy ego."
Trish laughed and shrugged out of her blouse. She shook her big breasts at the bug-eyed passengers, simply to spite Hank Lockridge. Then she unlocked the zipper on her skirt and followed it down to her ankles. She toed it aside, straightened, and sensuously caressed the crotch of her bikini panties for a few seconds before she glared at Hank and said scathingly, "Keep your big nose out of my ass, old man. I know what I'm supposed to do, and when the time comes, I'll do it. Mean- while, do your growling at someone else, or I'll wish a Roman candle on your carcass when you bail out into the night."
Hank let his breath out slowly. "Get fucked."
"I intend to, old thing," Trish retorted. "Right after we land on the ground again." Her voice licked at him. "Talk sweet and I might even let you do the fucking."
Gabe Penner cut into their exchange of words by saying, "Looks as though the fly jockey is going to play ball with us. We're starting to circle."
Hank grunted. "One of us better check to make sure."
Gabe jerked a thumb in Trish's direction. "That's her job, old man." Trish said, "He's right, Hank."
"Then do it."
"All right if I make myself decent first?"
Gabe smiled mirthlessly. "It will take more than clothes to do that."
She gave him a stiff finger. "Up your ass, prick."
Gabe lost his temper and started to slug her. Hank Lockridge stepped between them and said tightly, "Cool it, Gabe."
Gabe did. Reluctantly.
Trish climbed into her U.S. Air Force surplus coveralls. Then she encased her feet in a pair of lace jump boots, removed a.25 automatic from her bag and made her way toward the pilot cabin. The stewardess paled as Trish entered, and rasped, "Here's one of them, Jock."
"That's right," Trish said, "one of them." She focused her attention on the chief pilot. "What's the good word, fly bird?"