Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess…

by Mandy Smith

“Anyway,” she went on, “I think he went out with Kate Moss for a while, and that blonde actress, what’s-her-face – the one with the pipe-cleaner legs, always wearing Ugg boots, even in summer …”

  I wanted to share Sandra’s enthusiasm, but after the furore I’d just dealt with, I wasn’t really in the mood for hanging out with a bunch of smashed stags – or a narcissistic billboard boy whose main mission in life was to shag his way through the entire cast of OK! magazine. And besides, I had my sights on another piece of eye candy – Stephen, a doctor (so he told me when we’d met before the pre-flight briefing at Gatwick), super fit, tall, quite well-to-do and handsome in an early-nineties Hugh Grant kind of way. He was a travelling companion to one of the other dollies, Clare, and though I’d only spoken to him briefly, I sensed he would have had me right then and there over the laminated meeting table, given half the chance. I’d clocked him staring at my breasts, admiring a flash of flesh through a small gape in my shirt – and I’d felt my nipples stiffen and pinch with excitement.

  I hadn’t had sex for at least four weeks – since I’d split from Brad – and nothing had developed with Wills, the guy I met on the underground. I’d tried calling him, once, but some girl answered the phone and claimed she’d never heard of a “Wills”.

  “… and apparently he loves brunettes, so you might be in with a chance. Don’t know why he’s getting married … he’s not the faithful type,” concluded Sandra.

  “Who’s getting married?” I asked.

  Sandra sighed.

  “The model – the one I just told you about: Jamie or Mark, or something like that – I can’t remember his name, but he’s gorgeous.”

  “Sod the model,” I said, “Have you seen that doll of a man Clare’s brought with her? I wouldn’t mind getting my claws into him. It’s not her boyfriend, I checked before the flight.”

  “Well?” asked Sandra, deliberately ignoring my remark.

  “Well, what?” I said, craning my head to cop a look at Stephen, who was sitting a few rows ahead. I spied a tanned arm, a firm splayed thigh jutting from the edge of his seat. He looked good enough to eat.

  “You are coming, aren’t you … to the stag do?”

  “I’m not sure it’s really my scene, Sandra,” I said.

  “Oh, please?” she begged. “There’ll be plenty of time for him.”

  “Okay,” I agreed sullenly.

  “That’s the spirit – we’re in Vegas, baby.”

  It was mid afternoon when we arrived at the Embassy Suites – just in time to squeeze in a quick shower and beautifying session before manager’s cocktail hour.

  An hour later we emerged from our rooms, glammed-up and raring to hit the town. As usual, the girls looked amazing in tiny dresses and high heels, glossy manes of hair teased to perfection. I’d pulled out all the stops, hoping to attract Stephen’s attention, wearing nothing but a pillar-box red halter-neck dress teamed with Brazilian-style knickers and strappy sandals.

  In the manager’s lounge we joined the rest of the crew, who had already bunched up around a cluster of tables next to potted palm trees, voices drowning out an instrumental version of “The Girl from Ipanema”. I scanned the group, looking for Stephen, but there was no sign of him. Sandra sensed my disappointment.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “You’ll have your cock and eat it soon. He’ll keep.”

  “I hope so,” I sighed.

  “There’s always him if you’re desperate,” said Sandra, darting her cocoa eyes towards Roger the Rogerer, who was sitting opposite us, his tongue virtually hanging out of his rubbery mouth as more and more nubile flesh surrounded him.

  “Argh, no – I draw the line there,” I said. “I’m no flight deck floozy” – which is what we called the girls who felt the allure of the God complex.

  Roger made my flesh crawl. He was in his early fifties, pot-bellied and balding with a plump, greasy face. He’d dated an air hostess I knew, Lyn, for a while, but she’d told me she dumped him on a Joberg trip when he had asked her to partake in one of his many sexual fetishes: scatting and water sports – and by the latter activity I don’t mean jet skiing or windsurfing. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say I won’t be eating off any glass tables in Joberg for quite a while!

  I watched Roger as he draped an arm over Marsie’s shoulder, trying to envelop her in his slimy armpit. “What’s the plan for tonight, Marsie?” he said. “Casino, nightclub?” Marsie was a pretty brunette, a bit of a Penelope Cruz lookalike and well out of Roger’s league.

  “Sorry Roger, I’m going out with the girls,” she said. Marsie got up and moved to a seat next to me. Sandra helped herself to a Cosmopolitan, downing it in one. “Ah, that’s better,” she said, slamming down her glass and picking up another. “I’ve got an idea,” she added, turning towards Marsie and me. “Who’s up for playing a little prank on Roger?”

  “I’m game for that,” Marsie said.

  “What type of prank?” I asked.

  We huddled together, giggling, as Sandra outlined her plan, which was to trick Roger into believing he was in for a treat that night: a threesome with Marsie and Sandra. They’d entice him up to one of their rooms, get him to undress, then tell him it was all a joke and maybe run off with his clothes. A crowd of us would also be hiding at various locations – the bathroom, wardrobes or under the bed, ready to burst into the room shouting “Surprise!” at the appropriate moment (when Sandra coughed), armed with cameras, of course.

  “We’re going to have to flirt a little,” instructed Sandra. “Otherwise it won’t be realistic.”

  “It’ll be funny as fuck, though,” said Marsie, pulling her room card out of her handbag. She passed me the card. “Room 111,” she said. “Gather a few people.”

  We downed a couple more cocktails, then Marsie and Sandra went in for the kill, while I surreptitiously gathered a group of spectators.

  “Hey Roger, you like a good Rogering, don’t you,” blurted out Sandra, throwing him a lascivious look across the table.

  “Yeah,” added Marsie, “What’s it like to Roger Roger?”

  Roger grinned and licked his rubber-dinghy lips. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  As Sandra and Marsie continued their game plan, the rest of us disappeared, leaving in small groups at a time.

  There were at least a dozen of us hiding in Marsie’s room. I was crouching in the wardrobe next to John, peeping through the crack in the sliding door. There were two more people in the second wardrobe, a few under the bed and the rest of the crew were hiding in the bathroom. John was holding his nose, snorting. “Be quiet,” I said, giving him a gentle nudge, “You’ll ruin it.”

  He snorted again. “I can’t help it.”

  “Shhh,” came a voice from under the bed. “They’re coming in.”

  I had a good view. I could see the door and the bed. Marsie came in first, followed by Sandra, then Roger, whose face was flushed molten red.

  “Would you like a drink, Roger?” said Marsie, “Or shall we just get down to business?”

  Roger sat on the bed and wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. “No, just come over here and ravish me.”

  Sandra joined him on the bed, then crossed and uncrossed her velvety legs, Sharon Stone–style. “How about some water sports to get us in the mood? You like that, don’t you, Roger?”

  Now I was finding it difficult not to laugh. Sandra and Marsie were playing their roles to perfection.

  Roger slapped a hand on Sandra’s thigh, kneading his podgy fingers into her flesh. “You’ll piss on me?”

  “Not just yet,” teased Marsie, joining them on the bed. “First we need to get you out of those wet clothes. Look how sweaty you are.”

  “Not a problem,” he said, already unbuttoning his shirt, his doughy white gut spilling over his waistband.

  Sandra helped him out of his shirt. “I’ll take that for you,” she said. “Now take off the rest. We’re in charge of this threesome.”

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nbsp; Roger stood up, shuffled out of his deck shoes and whipped off his chinos, followed by his boxers. Sandra and Marsie stood in front of him, waiting to nick his clothes. I cupped my hand over my mouth. What a sight. Roger’s cock was tiny – it looked like a raw cocktail sausage, lost in a mass of greying pubic hair.

  “I’ll just put these on the chair,” said Sandra, picking up Roger’s trousers and boxers.

  “Wow, what a big boy you are,” Marsie remarked, reaching for his shoes.

  “Ready when you are,” said Roger, throwing his flabby body back onto the bed.

  “Come here,” Marsie said. “I want you to lie on the floor. We don’t want to piss on the bed.”

  Roger jumped off the bed. “Where do you want me?”

  “Right there,” said Marsie, pointing to a spot on the other side of the room.

  Roger walked across the room, out of view. A couple of seconds later, Sandra coughed.

  As planned, we all sprang from our hiding spots to a chorus of “Surprise!” howling with laughter, cameras flashing.

  Roger looked as though he was about to have a heart attack. “You fucking … you little … you … you … bitches,” he yelled, cupping his hands over his teeny little willy. Everyone was in hysterics, collapsing on the floor. Roger scrambled to his feet. “Give me my clothes,” he demanded. But his sweaty clothes were now being thrown from person to person as he chased them around the room, his pasty bum rippling.

  We gave Roger back his clothes … eventually. He stormed out of the room. You could almost see steam gushing out of his ears. He didn’t make a move on anyone during the rest of the trip.

  Later that night, as promised, I accompanied Sandra to the model’s stag do. As expected, he was a complete tosser – a real pretentious arsehole with floppy hair. His name was Marcus and he spent the entire night trying to fondle my arse, while incessantly gabbing on about his previous celebrity conquests and random aftershave ads he’d appeared in: Armani, Calvin Klein, Bulgari.

  “Ever done one for Brut?” I interrupted, “Or Old Spice?” He didn’t laugh. On the plus side, the party was an extravagant affair, held in three sprawling marquees along the poolside of the nightclub. We had our own waitress and there was a centre table topped with a gleaming champagne fountain and jugs of every spirit going on ice along the other tables. Pete had come armed with a generous supply of pure cocaine and he and Marcus kept nipping away to the loos for a fix. I was quite happy guzzling the free Cristal champagne and assorted shots being handed out by our waitress, who was dressed as a showgirl. Towards the end of the night I was completely off my face, blabbering incoherently to Sandra about how I was going to give Stephen the ride of his life. “He could be the one, Sandra,” I said. “Imagine being a doctor’s wife? I could do some charity work in the community.”

  Alas, the only ride I got that night was the taxi journey back to the hotel.

  I awoke the following afternoon, totally parched, teeth coated in fatty clumps of saliva, hair like a scarecrow’s, with a slice of pepperoni stuck to my cheek. I rolled over. There was a takeaway box containing a half-eaten pizza on the other pillow. I didn’t recall ordering a pizza – or eating one. My heart was thumping; I was still wearing my red dress and the phone was ringing, stinging my temples. I answered. It was Sandra, calling from the lobby.

  “Mandy, get your sweet arse down to the bar now,” she shrilled.

  I sat up and met a ghastly creature in the full-length wall mirror. Christ, I looked rough.

  “Bloody hell, Sandra,” I said, “What was I doing last night? I’ve got a Whatever Happened to Baby Jane look going on here.”

  “Never mind last night. Stephen’s in the bar – we’re having drinks. Get in the shower, give your lady chamber a good old scrub, slip into something sexy and get down here now. He’s been asking for you.”

  It was the best wake-up call ever, obliterating all symptoms of my hangover.

  “Give me half an hour,” I said.

  I showered, doused myself in Angel perfume, slipped into my raciest underwear and scooped my hair up into a loose tumbling twist. A dusting of bronzer, slick of lip gloss, sweep of kohl and mascara, and a change into heels and a little black dress later, I was good to go.

  Stephen was the first person I noticed when I sashayed into the bar. He was so hot: mid thirties, at least six-four with ice-blue eyes and tousled fawn hair. He was standing at the bar with Sandra, Clare and a few of the others, laughing riotously at something Sandra was saying. I joined them in time to catch the tail end of Sandra’s story.

  “So, I had all my weight resting on my forearms on the floor,” she giggled. “Butt-naked with him behind me, holding my legs in the air, doing me wheelbarrow fashion. And every time he pounded into me, I was getting pushed further along the carpet. And just as I was coming, the bloody maid walked in.”

  “Oh my God,” Clare piped up. “You must’ve been mortified. “What did you do?”

  Sandra paused and took a sip of her cocktail. “We carried on, of course. I wasn’t going to waste an orgasm like that.”

  We all laughed. Stephen and I exchanged flirtatious glances. I was pleased to see he was staring directly at my cleavage. So far, so good, I thought.

  “Here Mandy, have a daiquiri,” said Sandra, motioning towards the tray of cocktails on the bar. “I was just explaining how I got these carpet burns on my forearms. Look.” She rotated her slender limbs to show off her fresh pink grazes.

  “Ouch,” I said, reaching for a cocktail. “Pete?”

  “Yeah, I went back to his hotel after we dropped you off last night. I’ve been walking like a cowboy all day.”

  As the drinks flowed I finally found myself alone with Stephen, the others tactfully slipping away to a corner booth where more crew had gathered. The sexual chemistry between us was palpable: we couldn’t take our eyes off each other. I loved the way he threw his head back when he laughed, crinkling his eyes shut – genuine, soulful laughter. We talked. He told me he worked in a hospital in Surrey, that he had a brother and a sister and a dog called Blondie. I revealed a few mundane details about myself, but let him do most of the talking. He said he was looking to settle down but had had no luck to date finding a “genuine” girl. I could hear wedding bells chiming in my ears.

  A few cocktails later, the conversation turned to sex: our favourite positions, our fantasies, the number of partners we’d both had. Emboldened by daiquiris and Stephen’s profuse compliments – apparently I had the sexiest legs he’d ever seen, beautiful eyes and an arse he wanted to bite and slap – I spoke candidly, seductively, all my desires tumbling out of my mouth, words charged with hormones and lust, ending in a breathy: “Do you want to come back to my room?”

  It started in the lift: a three-floor ascent filled with passionate, piquant kisses. Stephen slammed me against the mirrored wall, pressing his erection into my stomach, one hand anchored tightly in my hair at the crown of my head, the other sliding beneath the neckline of my dress, firm palm teasing a nipple through the lace of my bra. “Amazing tits … are they real?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I wheezed. He tugged at my hair, forcing my chin skywards, kissed my throat, skin effervescing in the hot, heady current of his breath. My erogenous zones burned and my legs began to buckle at the anticipation of the spicy sex that was about to season the bland hotel room of the Embassy Suites.

  We practically fell through the door, hands all over each other, breath fast and fervent.

  “Get on the bed,” I ordered, breaking free from a daiquiri-flavoured kiss.

  Stephen obeyed, took off his shoes and sat on the bed, legs outstretched, torso propped against the headboard.

  “Do you want to see me naked?” I asked, thrusting my boobs as I reached for the zip at the back of my dress.

  He grinned. “What do you think?”

  My dress fell to the floor. I stepped out of the silky circle, enjoying Stephen’s reaction.

  “Wow,” he said.

  I
knew I looked good. Slim and toned from hours spent in various gyms around the world, I’d often been told I had a “fuck me” body. Still in my heels, I unhooked my bra and slowly peeled it from my chest. Then, teasingly, I tucked my thumbs into the sides of my knickers, hesitating slightly before sliding them down my legs. I stood naked at the foot of the bed in front of the mirror. “Well,” I giggled, hands on hips, “What do you reckon?”

  Stephen’s response was to the point. “Come here, now.”

  I stepped out of my shoes, climbed onto the bed to meet him. I sat on my knees astride his groin, grinding gently against the stiffness beneath his jeans while he kissed and caressed my breasts. Diana Ross’s “Upside Down” played on the cable-TV radio I’d left on and the air con nipped at my flesh. Being fully exposed while he remained dressed felt highly erotic – submissive and forbidden.

  Unlatching his mouth from my nipple, Stephen grabbed my hips and, in one deft movement, slid down the bed and pulled me onto his mouth. Good boy, I thought, you understand the meaning of foreplay.

  I leaned forward, palms pressing the wall, unable to stop myself from moaning as contact was made. I writhed like a porn star, arching my back, hips circling, thighs taught, controlling my movements over his face. Diana Ross accompanied Stephen’s tongue as it swirled and danced. He knew exactly what he was doing. I relaxed into it and let his mouth claim me, his tongue teasing, lips warm, caressing me until I came – a full-body orgasm, my yelps ricocheting off the wall, trembling round the room, rattling the cups on the tea-making tray.

  “Oh my God,” I exclaimed, retreating from Stephen’s face.

  He looked up, eyes sleepy, lustful, hair all ruffled.

  “I take it you came,” he said.

  “No,” I joked, unbuttoning his jeans, “I faked it.”

  I pulled off his jeans, followed by his boxers. He removed his T-shirt to reveal a beautifully toned, sun-blushed chest and abs. Everything about him was neat and ordered. He had the most handsome dick: smooth, well-fashioned and set in a carpet of trimmed curls – he had a full-on bikini line going on. I parted his legs, knelt between them and went down on him, bringing him to the brink of orgasm. At which point he groaned: “Stop, I want to fuck you.”