Adventures of the Aviatrix
A Choose Your Own Erotic Story
By Callista J. Hawkes
Follow me on Twitter @CallistaJHawkes
Text Copyright © 2018 Callista J. Hawkes
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be copied or reproduced in any format, electronic or otherwise without prior written permission.
Cover photo:
© Scott Griessel / Dreamstime.com (Photograph)
© Andreykuzmin / Dreamstime.com (Border)
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. All persons portrayed in this eBook are 18 years of age or older.
This eBook contains sexually explicit situations and terms and is intended for a mature audience only.
Introduction
As a choose your own Erotic story, this book contains multiple paths leading to several different endings. At the end of each section, you will generally be given two or more choices. To progress, simply select your preferred option to continue the story. (No need for the page-flicking back and forth of similar books of yesteryear!) When you reach an ending, you can either skip back to the previous choice or choose to go to the chapter menu. Here you can start the story from the very beginning and enjoy an alternative path through the whole story, or skip to a later section to see how events might play out differently.
The roughhewn floorboards creak underfoot as you cross the bar. ‘Bar’ might be overselling the joint. It’s more like a beachside shack, but it serves liquor and affords a fantastic view of the sun setting over the Caribbean Sea. A good place to unwind after a long day. Ignoring the lecherous glances of several of the men, you make your way to the bar. You know most of them pretty well now and they’re harmless enough. As you reach the bar, the bartender is already pouring you a glass of rum and slides it across to you. You nod in thanks and raise the glass to your lips.
“Well darlin’, wos a sweet thing like you doin’ in a place like this?” The man next to you slurs. You cast him a sideways glance. Thickset with a crumpled, oil stained shirt. Unshaven and unkempt with tattoos on both his forearms. A sailor by the looks of him. Probably off one of the big Atlantic freighters. You wrinkle your nose, the smell of drink on his breath strong and overpowering. Looks like he’s been spending most of his shore leave staring at the bottom of a beer glass.
“I was just asking myself the same thing.” You reply dryly, turning back to your drink. “But then I remembered, it’s the pleasure of meeting fine gentlemen like yourself that keeps me coming back.”
“Huh?” He replies. You glance at him, watching as the cogs slowly turn and the penny finally drops. “Now, listen here missy.” He growls. “Ain’t no call for that!” You take a breath and wonder if you were perhaps a little harsh.
“Perhaps not.” You admit. “I’m just not much in the mood for company right now.”
“Suit yourself, sister.” He replies and then you feel his hand grasp your right buttock.
Let it slide
Punch him
You twist away and glare at him. The drunk guffaws before wandering off.
“You’re getting soft in your old age.” The bartender chuckles in his West Indian lilt. “Most days, he’d have been crawling around on the floor looking for his teeth!”
“It makes a mess of my knuckles.” You shrug, reaching for your glass and drinking down the last of your rum.
“Can I buy you another?” A voice inquires beside you. American accent. East Coast. You glance up into the face of a tall, willowy man, wearing a panama hat and a beige colored suit. A city guy by the looks of him and from the way he’s dressed, certainly new to the island.
“Sure.” You grunt, sliding your glass back across the bar to the bartender.
“And I’ll have what she’s having.” He adds. The bartender nods and pours you both a drink.
“Cheers.” The man smiles, raising his glass to you before drinking it, his gray eyes regarding you thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m Noah Wheatley.”
“Elyse Blake.” You reply.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Blake.” He replies before he winces slightly. “I’ve got to confess, I have an ulterior motive for buying you a drink.” As you roll your eyes, he raises a hand apologetically. “No, no, it’s not like that. I hear you’re the owner and operator of that little seaplane out there.” He nods towards the twin engine Grumman Goose moored at the end of the jetty outside the bar. The burnt orange of the sunset reflects off the silver hull as it gently bobs on the waves rolling in.
“I am.” You reply warily.
“Good, then I’d like to hire you.” He tells you, setting his glass down. “First thing tomorrow if possible?”
“I guess that depends, Mr Wheatley.” You reply. “What’s the job?”
“Please, call me Noah.” He smiles. “I’m an archeologist working for the Metropolitan Museum in New York. I’ve got a lead on a culturally significant find and I believe it’s to be found on the western peninsula of this island.” You frown, thinking of the remote, uninhabited spit of land on the far side of the island.
“Nothing out there but palm trees and sand.” You reply, sipping at the rum. “You sure you’ve got your facts right?”
“I think so.” He replies, glancing cautiously about him before reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. He carefully pulls out an ancient looking yellowy-brown parchment before slowly unfolding it. A map with an outline of an island drawn on it. While crude, the familiar shape is unmistakably this very island. As you lean over to examine it, Noah quickly folds it away and slips it back into his pocket. “Uh-uh,” He smiles, “Don’t want you looking too closely before you take the job.”
“What are we looking for?” You tell him, your voice low. “Buried treasure?”
“Perhaps, but it is a particular relic that interests me.” Noah tells you. “A compass. Not particularly valuable in itself, but something that would be of historical importance and a valued exhibit in the museum. I just need to get there.”
“So that’s where I come in, huh?” You nod.
“Yes, you and your little seaplane.” He grins. “From the air, I will be able to see the exact location shown on the map. You will be well paid of course. How does a thousand dollars sound?” You whistle.
“Sounds just swell.” You reply, before your eyes narrow suspiciously. “And you have the money?”
“Not in cash.” He winces. “But I can have it wired to you as soon as the job is complete. What do you say, Miss Blake? Do we have a deal?”
Take the job
Refuse
You turn and smash your fist into his jaw. The sailor’s head rocks back and he staggers away before stumbling to the floor. The dive erupts in spontaneous laughter.
“Bitch!” He snarls, scrambling back to his feet, his face bright red.
“You deserved that, mister.” The bartender tells him, the tone of his voice a warning. “You can’t go grabbing the butts of any broad you please, let alone this one. I’ve seen her put men in hospital for less.”
“This slip of a girl?” The drunk guffaws before the sincere nods of several of the drinkers causes his smile to fade and he glances back at you. “I apologize if I offended you, ma’am.” He mumbles. “Just came in for a few drinks is all.” You nod and watch as he slinks off to the far end of the bar. As you reach for your glass of rum, you notice a man in a beige colored suit cross the bar towards you. He’s a good looking, tall drink of water, though his uncertain glances around the bar and the way he fans himself with his Panama hat suggests he hasn’t been on the island long.
“Good evening, ma’am.” He grins. “Saw how y
ou handled yourself there. Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of you, Miss...?”
“Blake.” You reply with a polite though guarded smile. “Elyse Blake.”
“Please to meet you Miss Blake.” He grins, extending his hand. You warily shake it. “My name’s Noah Wheatley and I have a business proposition that may be of interest. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Sure.” You reply. He nods to the bartender who pours two glasses of rum.
“Your accent.” He comments, raising the glass to his lips. “I can’t quite place it. Almost American, but not quite. English, Irish perhaps?”
“I was born in England, but moved to Chicago in my teens.” You reply. “I guess my accent’s a bit of a mid-Atlantic mish-mash.”
“Ah, like Cary Grant, the movie star.” He smiles.
“I guess so.” You chuckle. “If I live on the island much longer, I’ll probably pick up a West Indian twang to go with it. So what can I do for you, Mr Wheatley?”
“Please, call me Noah.” He replies before nodding to the twin engine Grumman Goose moored at the end of the jetty outside the bar. The burnt orange of the sunset reflects off the silver hull as it gently bobs on the waves rolling in. “I understand you own and operate that little seaplane outside.”
“You heard right.” You nod.
“Good, then I’d like to hire you.” He tells you, setting his glass down. “First thing tomorrow if possible?”
“I guess that depends, Mr Wheatley.” You reply. “What’s the job?”
“Please, call me Noah.” He smiles. “I’m an archeologist working for the Metropolitan Museum in New York. I’ve got a lead on a culturally significant find and I believe it’s to be found on the western peninsula of this island.” You frown, thinking of the remote, uninhabited spit of land on the far side of the island.
“Nothing out there but palm trees and sand.” You reply, sipping at the rum. “You sure you’ve got your facts right?”
“I think so.” He replies, glancing cautiously about him before reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. He carefully pulls out an ancient looking yellowy-brown parchment before slowly unfolding it. A map with an outline of an island drawn on it. While crude, the familiar shape is unmistakably this very island. As you lean over to examine it, Noah quickly folds it away and slips it back into his pocket. “Uh-uh,” He smiles, “Don’t want you looking too closely before you take the job.”
“What are we looking for?” You tell him, your voice low. “Buried treasure?”
“Perhaps, but it is a particular relic that interests me.” Noah tells you. “A compass. Not valuable in itself, but something that would be of historical importance and a valued exhibit in the museum. I just need to get there.”
“So that’s where I come in, huh?” You nod.
“Yes, you and your little seaplane.” He grins. “From the air, I will be able to see the exact location shown on the map. And you will be well paid. How does a thousand dollars sound?” You whistle.
“Sounds just swell.” You reply, before your eyes narrow suspiciously. “And you have the money?”
“Not in cash.” He winces. “But I can have it wired to you as soon as the job is complete. What do you say, Miss Blake? Do we have a deal?”
Take the job
Refuse
“I’m not a bank, pal.” You reply coolly. “I can’t extend you a line of credit. I’ve got bills to pay, same as everyone else.”
“I appreciate that.” Noah replies. “I can’t carry that sort of money around on my person but I’m good for it, I promise you.” He adds sincerely. “If it makes you feel any better, you can hold on to the artifact until you get paid. Please Miss Blake, I really need you and your plane.”
Take the job
Refuse
“Sorry, Mr Wheatley, but no money, no plane.” You tell him firmly. Noah’s shoulders slump as he resigns himself to your decision.
“That’s a real pity, but I understand.” He sighs. “I shall have to inquire elsewhere. In any case, it’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Blake.” He puts his hat back on and politely touches the brim before turning and leaving the bar. You turn your attention back to your glass of rum before draining it and sliding it back to the bartender, who quickly refills it.
The next morning and nursing a slight hangover, you walk along the beach towards the beachside bar. As you reach the jetty, your eyes widen and your blood runs cold. Your seaplane is gone!
“Son of a bitch!” You snarl, alarming a couple of fishermen who glance up from their nets. You run along the jetty and stare out to sea, but there is no sign of your plane. “If I ever see that bastard again, I’ll kill him.” You mutter darkly.
You never do see Noah Wheatley or your plane again. Your telephone inquiries to the Metropolitan Museum turn up no records of anyone of that name having ever worked there. With your livelihood gone, you take a job working behind the bar, biting your tongue every time you collect glasses and feel some drunken lowlife grabbing your butt. In your quieter moments, you find yourself occasionally glancing out at the jetty, wondering what would have happened had you taken the job. Who was Noah Wheatley and what was he really up to?
“Hey, two glasses of rum over here, sugar-tits!” One drunk yells, breaking your reverie. You glare across the bar at him before sighing and reaching for the bottle and a couple of glasses.
THE END
Go back a few moments and rethink your actions
A thousand bucks will keep you flying for months. Besides, if you hold on to the collateral until he pays, there’s no risk of him reneging on the deal.
“Okay.” You sigh. “The compass, if it even exists, is mine until I get paid.”
“Agreed.” He flashes you a grin and extends his hand. You shake it before reaching for your glass and drinking the last of your rum.
“Meet me on the jetty tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp.” You tell him, turning to leave. “And call me Elyse.”
“Great.” Noah grins. “See you tomorrow, Elyse.”
The next morning, you pull on your leather flying jacket and a fedora hat and stroll down the beach. As you step onto the jetty, you notice Noah casually leaning against a stack of crates with a cigarette smoldering in the corner of his mouth.
“Morning Miss Bl… Elyse.” He smiles, flicking the cigarette away. “I’ve been admiring your airplane. She’s a beauty.”
“We’ve been through a lot together.” You reply, affectionately patting the silver fuselage. “In the last years of prohibition, I used to fly crates of whiskey from Canada down to Chicago for the D’Abruzzo family.”
“A bootlegger for the mob, huh?” He remarks, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds like quite a life you’ve led.”
“I guess so.” You reply, pulling open a low hatch in the tail of the plane. “After you.” You gesture inside. Noah steps through and you follow him inside, closing the hatch behind you. You walk through the small cabin and into the cockpit. Noah is already sitting down in the co-pilot’s seat and you slide into the pilot’s seat next to him. You switch on the ignition and the engines fire with a puff of exhaust smoke, the propellers rapidly spinning up. Grasping the yoke with one hand, you reach up to the throttle levers overhead and ease them forward. The drone of the engines grows louder and the airplane moves away from the jetty.
“I’ve never seen a takeoff from the cockpit before.” Noah comments, leaning forward and peering out of the window. “Kinda like having the best seat in the house.” You nod, concentrating on the instrumentation dials before you as the hull cuts through the waves. Pulling the yoke back towards you, the nose rises into the air and the Caribbean Sea drops away beneath you as you climb into the sky.
Swinging the plane around in a wide loop back towards the island, you glance across at Noah.
“So what’s so special about this compass we’re looking for?” You ask him. “It made out of gold and encrusted with diamonds or something?”
“Somethin
g.” He replies cagily.
“Keeping your cards close to your chest there, pal.” You comment, cocking an eyebrow.
“The compass alone is virtually worthless, but what it can lead to is absolutely priceless.” He tells you. “Men have hunted for it, killed for it for centuries.”
“I don’t know how to break this to you, mac, but compasses all tend to point the same way.” You smirk, meeting his gaze. He smiles enigmatically before turning away and peering out of the side window of the cockpit. You shrug, glancing ahead of you as you fly parallel to the coastline.
Ask Noah about himself
Ask him about the map
“So, tell me about the map.” You ask him. “How’d you find it?”
“I had been researching the fate of the pirate Anne Bonny.” He replies.
“A pirate?” You reply. “As in skull and crossbones, peg legs and parrots?”
“That’s right.” He replies with a wry smile. “She was a notorious pirate back in the golden age of piracy. Sailed with Jack Rackham and a number of other famous pirates back in the eighteenth century. Eventually she was captured and sentenced to hang. There is no record of either her execution or release from prison. Rumors persist that she somehow ended up in South Carolina. I tracked her to a plot of land outside Charleston and managed to find a buried trunk of her possessions including a journal as well as the map I showed you yesterday. Within the journal are references to the compass which while vague, are intriguing.”
“Intriguing enough to send you to the Caribbean on a wild goose chase.” You remark dryly.
“Worse places to waste your time.” He shrugs. “And worse company to waste it with.” You cast him a sideways glance and roll your eyes.
Ask him about himself
Concentrate on your flying
“So tell me your story.” You glance across at Noah. “How’d you end up looking for ancient relics?”
Adventures of the Aviatrix Page 1