The Gift of Shame

by Sophie Hope-Walker

  Now, riding in this plane to an unknown future, she could not wipe away the image of Jeffrey as she had seen him in arousal, and the knowledge that behind that face, during all those excursions, had been this other man who had kept a secret.

  It was this that confused her. She had been made foolish in his eyes, which was demeaning enough, but there was also the knowledge that, somewhere in this world, was a woman with a greater claim to him than her.

  Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! These two syllables repeated endlessly in her mind, blocking out any attempt to rationalise what she was really doing by flying in this aircraft to an unknown and, until yesterday, unheard-of destination.

  When the meals had been cleared away and the duty-free trolley wheeled down the aisle she realised the flight was going on for what seemed an inordinate length of time for a domestic flight. It was only then that it occurred to her to check her ticket. The 24-hour clock system always confused her but she was still able to work out that the scheduled flying time was four hours and, she thought, that must include some time-zone reduction – maybe an hour or so – so, having been already in flight for two or more hours they must, surely, be almost there. Could it be that it was possible to fly for three hours and still be in France? It was then she realised she hadn’t the least idea where Guadeloupe was. She had imagined it might be some off-shore possession in the Mediterranean like Corsica, but even with her limited knowledge of geography she didn’t imagine Corsica to be more than two hours flying time from Paris, yet her video display showed them gaining height.

  She cornered a passing attendant and asked her for an explanation.

  ‘But, madame, the explanation is in the time zones. The flight only appears to be four hours because those are local times. To that you must add the five-hour time difference.’

  ‘Add the time difference?’ a bewildered Helen asked. ‘But surely if we are flying east the time difference is deducted?’

  ‘But we are flying west, madame,’ the girl explained in patient tones.

  ‘West? You mean across the Atlantic? But I thought this was a domestic flight.’

  ‘It is. Guadeloupe is a département of France, but it is in the Caribbean. Our flying time will be a little over eight hours.’

  The smiling girl moved off, little realising that her words had left a corpse in the shell of Helen’s body. She who had, but moments ago, felt herself betrayed was now herself a betrayer. She was flying into the ocean that had killed Kenneth. Before her eyes lay his pain-wracked death mask, which now stared at her to ask what she thought she was doing.

  Why was it she had never once in her life ever asked the obvious questions? Sometime, in the few quiet moments she had known with Jeffrey, there had been room to ask why a man of his age and affluence had not married. Surely, before so precipitously fleeing that man, she might have taken a moment to ask where Guadeloupe was? Had she known it lay in the same ocean that had taken Kenneth she would never have come. She felt totally lost in a nightmare of her own making and, but for the almost sepulchral dignity and quiet of her fellow passengers, she might have broken out into a primal scream. Instead, she sat in her seat numbed with the thought that she had already died.

  She felt trapped. Once more committed to an insanity because she had failed to ask the right question. Catching the arm of the passing attendant she asked for more champagne. If there was no physical way out of this sealed cigar in the sky she would seek escape from herself and the self-loathing that was suddenly welling inside her, and champagne seemed as good an anaesthetic as any other.

  Two or three glasses of their excellent champagne later, the movie she had chosen to watch seemed to be getting duller and more out of focus. It was a welcome relief when the flight attendant came back to lean in on her confidentially.

  ‘Madame, the Captain asked if you would like to visit the flight deck?’

  Thinking that one of the best ideas she had heard in a long time, Helen got to her feet and was surprised to find the plane’s floor seeming so unstable. The attendant even took her arm as she led her forward and through a door into the capacious cockpit.

  This was a totally different world to the passenger sections. Here was a confusing array of different coloured lights, dials and switches, most of which seemed to be displayed on monitors. It looked like a video-game player’s heaven.

  From out of the left-hand seat a shirt-sleeved man in his middle forties was smiling at her as if from a toothpaste ad.

  ‘Welcome to our workbench,’ he called in a warmly accented voice. A younger man rose and came to lead her even further into the alchemist’s kitchen of confusing technology. With the champagne singing in her blood, Helen was gently edged towards the right-hand seat.

  ‘Would you like to sit there?’ the younger man asked.

  He helped her into the extremely comfortable control seat and she was thrilled by the thought of sitting before the controls of a powerful machine, but terrified of touching anything in case she caused a sudden disaster. The younger man was meanwhile fitting a headset over her hair and arranging it about her ears. Suddenly the Captain’s voice was a whisper in her ear.

  ‘Have you ever been taken up front in a plane before?’ he asked. The question struck her as extremely funny and she went off into peals of laughter. ‘What’s funny?’ he asked as she fought to control her giggles.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I’m willing to try anything once.’

  It took a moment for the Captain to translate his own double entendre but when he did his voice became a great deal warmer.

  ‘Well, in that case, we must see what we can do for such a lovely lady.’

  Helen looked across at the man’s face, lit as it was by the green glow of the electronic instrument panel, and decided he was extremely attractive. ‘My name is Lucas,’ he told her. ‘My First Officer is Hubert.’

  Helen turned awkwardly in the seat to shake the hand of the younger man. Hubert was even more attractive, she decided.

  ‘Are you going to Guadeloupe on vacation?’ asked the Captain’s voice close in her headset.

  The question, confused as she was about her own motivations, stilled her for a moment. Rather than launch into a long explanation she decided it would be simpler to agree.

  ‘Alone?’ was the next question.

  ‘As you see,’ she told him.

  Aware that a meaningful glance had passed between the Captain and the First Officer, Helen felt a surge of returning confidence. The questions, and the revelation that the Captain already knew she was travelling alone, made it clear to her that she had been ‘targeted’. Obviously the Captain had sent his cabin staff to scout for an attractive woman travelling alone, and she had been selected. Helen found she didn’t mind one bit!

  ‘We have a two-day stop over in Guadeloupe,’ the Captain was saying. ‘Maybe I would be lucky enough to have dinner with you one evening?’

  While looking across at his chiselled profile, Helen realised that ten days ago she would have fled, embarrassed, from such an open pass but Jeffrey had taught her differently. That, and the generous amount of champagne she had drunk, seemed suddenly to have fired up her blood and she found nothing wrong in answering the Captain boldly. ‘It might be that you could get very lucky,’ she told him. His answer came as a confident chuckle into her ear.

  It was then, keenly aware of a glow in her loins, that she noticed something missing from the area immediately in front of her. There seemed to be no control stick. ‘Excuse me,’ she asked. ‘But shouldn’t there be something here to steer the plane by? What do you call it … a joy stick?’

  ‘Not any more,’ the Captain told her and, pressing himself back into the leather of his seat, indicated a tiny lever by his left hand. ‘These days we have only this.’

  ‘It seems very small,’ Helen murmured, then hurriedly added, ‘I mean to control such a huge machine.’

  ‘Size is not everything,’ smiled the Captain. ‘Mind you,’ he added in his warm French voic
e which was, by now, insinuating through her like warm treacle, ‘we still carry joy sticks in case of emergency.’

  ‘You do?’ asked Helen innocently.

  ‘Of course,’ he smiled and, turning round, called to his First Officer. ‘Hubert will be happy to show you his …’ The Captain broke off and Helen, turning to see what had caused his hesitation, saw that they had been joined by one of the flight attendants – a somewhat subdued-looking, pretty young woman.

  The Captain greeted her. ‘Ah! Of course – our nouvelle.’

  Helen, realising that the Captain had spoken in English for her benefit, turned to study the newcomer with some interest.

  The girl had fine blonde hair and fine china-blue eyes which flashed uncertainly from one to the other of the three but finally centred on the Captain, whose voice continued to whisper into Helen’s headset.

  ‘Michelle is newly graduated from our training school. This is her first operational flight. We have a tradition of initiating our new girls in a particularly interesting little ritual. Would you be interested in witnessing it?’

  Her interest even more aroused, Helen turned fully in the seat to study the stewardess even more closely. She saw the young woman’s lips parted in an uncertain smile with the lower lip visibly trembling. Helen clearly read aroused sexual excitement, barely repressed, in Michelle’s expression. She not only saw it but began to feel it herself.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she breathed.

  The Captain nodded as if this confirmed his own judgement. Looking across at his maturely handsome face, Helen felt a stab of insight. This man, in charge of a highly sophisticated aeroplane, was all that stood between her – along with approximately two or three hundred others – and plunging to her death. It was his skill that kept her safe and, quite suddenly, she thought of him as no longer a man but, given his power of life or death, some kind of latter-day deity. That thought combined with his obvious good looks – not to mention the uniform – caused her body to heat up as an air of highly charged eroticism blanketed the flight deck.

  Meanwhile, the Captain was addressing the apprehensive Michelle. ‘Are your passengers settled down?’

  ‘Yes, Captain,’ murmured the girl.

  ‘And so you have some time to devote to us?’

  The girl flashed a side-long glance at the attentive Helen before nodding.

  The Captain’s voice came once more into Helen’s headset. ‘There is a strict dress code for the new recruits,’ he said, his voice light and amused. ‘It is my duty to now check that Michelle has conformed to that code.’

  ‘What “code”?’ asked an avidly interested Helen.

  ‘You will see,’ said the Captain, before turning to address Michelle directly. ‘Are you properly dressed?’ he asked.

  She nodded, her hands already anticipating his next order as she reached for the buttons of her blouse.

  ‘You understand it is necessary for me to confirm your report?’

  Michelle, anxiously nodding, whispered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. Continue.’

  Helen’s eyes grew rounded with excitement as she saw the woman’s trembling fingers complete the opening of her blouse to reveal her pleasantly rounded, pink-tipped breasts.

  The Captain continued his commentary. ‘New girls are not permitted underwear on their inaugural flights,’ he told Helen.

  Helen found herself, enormously aroused, unable to take her eyes from the woman now unzipping her uniform skirt and handing it to the First Officer, who was hovering behind her ready to take it. Michelle then turned to face the Captain wearing only a pair of high-heeled shoes, hold-ups and an apprehensive expression.

  ‘At this point …’ the Captain said through the headset, ‘it is necessary to check if the initiate is truly enjoying herself. Would you care to assess her condition?’

  Barely believing she was doing this, Helen agreed enthusiastically and, with no doubt of what was being asked of her, removed the headset and stood to look directly into the face of the startled flight attendant.

  Feeling that the past few days had primed her for this unconventional moment, Helen spoke words which, even to her ears, sounded alien. ‘Hands on your head.’ The girl nervously obeyed but visibly shuddered at Helen’s next order. ‘Spread your legs.’

  Michelle almost stumbled and fell as she shuffled her uncertain feet apart and the First Officer had to extend a steadying hand.

  Filled with a surging sense of power, Helen held her gaze as she reached down and, with her fingers, felt the woman’s spread inner thighs which were seemingly melting with excitement. Helen’s voice came out burdened with an unfamiliar huskiness as she reported Michelle’s condition. ‘She’s ready for anything.’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do with her?’ he asked.

  Helen looked to him. ‘You need me to tell you that?’

  The Captain shook his head. ‘But what about me?’ he asked. ‘Do you not wish to check on my “readiness”?’

  Helen hesitated a moment as her impulse to go immediately to the man was tempered by an even greater impulse to survive. ‘Who’s going to fly the plane?’ she asked.

  ‘Madame!’ protested the Captain. ‘Computers have been flying the plane since we left the Charles de Gaulle air-traffic control. You have nothing to fear but my penis.’

  Fearlessly, Helen went forward and, kneeling at his side, felt a surge of unutterable daring as she reached for his trouser zip. He was standing tall and aroused as she searched him out and leant forward to tease him before plunging him deep into her throat.

  As she hungrily sucked, she fantasised about the context. The Captain had her life in his hands since he controlled the sophisticated machine that contained them all, and it thrilled her to imagine that her safety depended on this man’s pleasure. It was, therefore, with some affront that she felt Michelle’s breasts brush past her bobbing head and realised that the attendant was being bent over her own kneeling figure to plunge her tongue into the Captain’s mouth. She was even more distracted to feel Michelle’s knees pressing against her and, breaking off for a moment, she turned to see that the First Officer was vigorously taking Michelle from behind.

  A slight pressure on her head brought her attention back to her ‘duties’ and she took the Captain once more into her mouth as Michelle started screaming in orgasmic ecstasy. Then, pressing forward, Michelle all but thrust Helen to one side in her anxiety to reach and straddle the Captain in his seat, where, having torn his cock from Helen’s grasp, thrust it deep into her own spread thighs.

  Helen had little time for resentment when she, at the First Officer’s urging, turned to be confronted with an enormous, risen penis standing out from his uniform trousers. The distant roar of the engines sang in her ears. This was a moment out of time and she felt like a woman truly privileged to be breaking every one of polite society’s conventions. Thinking only of the hurt Jeffrey had delivered to her, and revelling in this opportunity for instant revenge, she took the risen flesh deep into her throat where her taste buds were immediately assailed by the taste of strawberries. It was the first flavoured condom she had ever tasted and, for some reason, it struck her as hilariously funny.

  11

  HELEN STEPPED FROM the plane feeling more an alien than a visitor. Even the pristine blue sky and the all-embracing heat seemed to mock her – and ask her what she imagined she was doing. Having left Paris in precipitate haste, feeling feverish and confused, she now found herself filled with the doubts and bewilderment of a refugee and the suspicion that she might have made a momentous mistake. Since the flight from Paris to Guadeloupe was classified as domestic, there were few formalities on arrival other than to reclaim the baggage.

  It was in the baggage hall that Carla, accompanied by a stick-like young man, found her. ‘There you are!’ she cried, closing to embrace Helen as she might have her oldest and dearest friend.

  Surprised as much by the warmth of the greeting as anything else, Helen relaxed, aware tha
t everyone in the baggage hall was excited to find a famous face – Carla’s – in their midst.

  ‘Qito is beside himself with excitement,’ Carla told her as she supervised the young man retrieving her one, sad-looking, bag. ‘Did I introduce Jimmy?’ she asked as they started from the baggage claim hall. ‘Jimmy travels with me everywhere. He claims to be my hairdresser but actually he simply cannot live without me.’ Only Carla’s self-deprecating shout of laughter took the edge off her remark. ‘We are only two minutes from the harbour,’ she added.

  ‘Harbour?’ asked Helen.

  Carla nodded. ‘We are guests on my friend’s yacht.’

  Coming out of the airport was, for Helen, fresh from the wintry north, like stepping into an oven. On the short walk to the waiting car, Helen was struck by the fetid balmy air, perfumed by the scent of uncountable flowers striking at her nostrils like a cheap perfume. There was a spiciness to it that caught at the back of her throat like the very essence of excitement.

  It seemed impossible to believe that this place, drenched in sunshine and filled with the colour of flowers, could be on the same planet as the wintry grey streets of Paris or London.

  ‘I’m surprised Jeffrey hasn’t come with you,’ murmured Carla as they sped through the alien streets of this other world.

  Distracted from gazing in awe at the colours of the overwhelming green of the flora and the equally colourful dress of the people, Helen turned to her. ‘He doesn’t know I’ve come yet,’ she said adding, in the face of Carla’s incredulous stare, ‘he was still in Germany when I made up my mind.’

  This seemed to give Carla pause for some thought until, her brow clearing, she smiled. ‘Qito will be flattered,’ she said.

  As the car started drawing into what appeared to be a mixed mooring for expensive boats and workaday fishing boats, she was reminded of the yacht. ‘Whose yacht is it?’ she asked.

  ‘It belongs to a man called Martinez. He has loved me for twenty-two years and will do anything for me – or, of course, Qito.’