Unknown
Office porn Queen
CHAPTER ONE
On the huge new 797-X, you almost could forget you were on an airplane, it was that big.
It carried 900 passengers on three decks, had a crew of twenty, showed three different movies at the same time, and had a bar and a sauna.
And also this new plane, the pride of Wanderlust Airlines, had three conference rooms. Any company's executives could hold a conference or a Board of Directors meeting in the air, behind locked doors.
Or an executive could lock up himself or herself with a secretary and catch up on confidential matters. Each conference room contained a well stocked bar easy chairs, a private washroom and even a foldout bed for any harassed executive who needed a nap.
This was a double bed by the way, so two executives could nap together, although if one didn't like the other, he or she could sleep on the couch.
This feature was unique with Wanderlust Airlines. It even had changed the way that folk pronounced "Wanderlust". Usually the accent falls on the first two syllables, like this: WANDERlust. But when some leering comedian in some night club somewhere began to call it the WanderLUST Airline, the new name caught on and the conference rooms were generally sold out weeks in advance to male executives and their female secretaries, or vice versa.
As our curtain rises, we discover that Conference Room One on a 797-X has been out of service because it had needed repairs. A game of strip poker had ended in a chair-swinging fight. It all had started with a drunken claim by a large, horsy woman that there was no bottle with a neck so long that it could fill her cunt. Her strip poker opponent called her an anti-male sexist, and then… but all that happened last week.
Today, a petite and shapely young woman, in a uniform tailored to accentuate the breasts, stood with a key in her hand at the door of Conference Room One. Her name was Helen Troy and she was one of the fourteen hostesses who pampered the passengers on the 797-X. Also got pinched, got felt, made dates, and might even marry a millionaire.
Helen Troy was never sure whether she would prefer to be married to a man or to a woman. Sometimes this sex-centered doubt as though she were sitting on her cunt on a fence, ready to fall either way worried her.
Sometimes it seemed like a lot of fun.
Like now.
Helen, about to go off duty for a couple of hours, had been parading up and down one of the plane's aisles, following her breasts. This was part of the Wanderlust hostess training. A girl was rated by the way she walked her breasts down an aisle. The second most important thing was the sway and swing of the hips. Equally important was the hostess's perfume. It was made to a secret formula, and contained rose petals, a sperm oil base, tincture of opium and the faintest trace of a famous laboratory's concentrated essence of cunt.
On this particular hip-swinging parade down the aisle, Helen Troy had become aware of a woman of about her own age – twenty-four – who wore a severe tailleur that, to a woman's eye, hinted of opulent curves beneath.
This woman, who smiled at her and ran admiring eyes over the uniform tailored by Mainbocher, didn't have the kind of figure that lends itself to a tailleur.
She should have been traveling in a bikini. Which set off a bell in Helen's mind. Awornan who hides her womanliness? Oh-ho. Could be a dyke. No. Too delicately built. Too carefully made up and coiffed. Try again. A woman who hides but coyly displays her femininity so that another woman might see it but men might not?
Hmmmm, thought Helen, getting a tingle in the nipples.
She paused at the woman's seat. "Anything I can get for you?"
"Oh, not really, thank you." A soft, sexy voice with a kind of insinuation in it. "Except that, well, look, I want to find out something about Wanderlust Airlines' policy regarding hostesses. Perhaps you…?" And oh, such a secret smile!
"Why, I'm just going off duty. Anything I can tell you…"
"It's, uh, a delicate matter. Is there any place where we could talk in private?"
Sure. Conference Room One. The paint had dried, in there, but it had been too late to open it for reservation when the plane took off.
Helen hesitated. She wondered where the huge plane's captain, Master Pilot Henry Hastings, might have gone. A little while before, she had poked into the cockpit to say hello to Hank. The copilot, reading a newspaper while a computer flew the plane, had said that Hank was off duty and ought to be around somewhere.
The copilot grinned at Helen and said he wouldn't be surprised if Hank was in one of the lays with a cute Argentinean twat who had been missing from her seat in First Class. He said that Snarly Mollie, as everyone called the chief stewardess, should have known better than to report a passenger missing. She should have checked to see weather Hank was out of sight at the same time.
Helen had felt a pang. Hank Hastings was part of her problem.
But now that tailleured but sexy passenger, Cleo Prentice, who had taken her to the bar, leaned across the softly lit, tiny table and touched her hand. At the same time, beneath the table, their knees met and Cleo began a gentle rubbing.
Helen's jealous thoughts of Hank faded when Cleo once again used her secret, knowing smile.
"What I want to know, Helen, is whether Wanderlust Airlines will accept a lesbian as a hostess."
Helen drew in an unsteady breath. Down in her crotch, a warmth and a moistness got together in a slithery tingle, and she had to wait a moment before she could go on.
"They have a policy against it. They want girls who show their sexual attraction to men. Our most frequent fliers are businessmen, after all. But we do have lesbians in the hostess corps. A girl simply doesn't tell."
"I… you see… I have a tendency that way, but I'd love to be a hostess."
This was it.
Helen said very slowly, breathing hard: "You only have a, a tendency toward, uh, making love to women?"
"A leaning. A… desire." Cleo leaned close. Her breath touched Helen's cheek, warm and subtly perfumed. "I'm so uneasy talking here. They might bug a bar to find out, you know, business secrets."
Conference Room One! Vacant, and made to order for an assignation of cunts!
Helen sneaked the key off its hook when Snarly Mollie wasn't looking. Now she stood alone in the angle of the rear passageway and fitted the gimmicky three-cornered key to the pickproof lock. But as she opened the door a few inches, she stopped and looked around again. She could see a lay door. Was Hank in there with that missing, sexy, slinky, dark-eyed charmer from Buenos Aires? Fleetingly Helen wondered how they could manage in the close confines of a plane's lay. Let's see, she thought. Hank sits on the toilet, being gentleman enough to close it first, and the seductive South American gets onto his lap backward and offers her cunt to Hank's every-ready prick. Hank slides it in… the angle is a bit awkward… Missy adjusts her olive-skinned ass cheeks on his thighs… she has a tight grip around him… she is sighing with pleasure… slowly she pumps, stops, tantalizes him. Slowly she pumps, stops, but this time Hank, if Helen knew Hank, would ram it up into her and make her gasp and murmur of love in Portuguese. Meanwhile he had access to her times. Those two must be having such a good time in there! They had both been out of sight for at least half an hour. Lucky there were plenty of lays on the plane for other people who might want to do something in a lay beside fuck. The hell with Hank. Helen turned the other way, nodded reassuringly to Cleo, who watched her while casually lounging in the entrance to the bar meanwhile she had hesitated a quarter-minute with the conference-room door ajar. But nobody came along.
Unseen by anyone but Cleo, Helen opened the conference room's door.
Everything in order, and, of course, nobody there. Bed still up in the wall. Huge comfortable lounging armchair faced to the window where clouds slipped by. Couch. Bar. Great.