by Kerri Sharpe
Captain Wilkinson pulled away and looked at his watch again, then suddenly rolled Natalie onto her stomach in the confined space.
‘You ready as we are, Carl?’ he said with a laugh before taking hold of his cock and guiding it between Natalie’s uplifted thighs. ‘Final approach to land,’ he joked before easing himself into the narrow but glistening channel Natalie was offering. He moaned loudly as he drew in and out, familiarising himself with the new territory and wanting to scream out as the tightness of Natalie’s sex bit back at him. ‘Steady, steady,’ he ordered as her grinding hips dipped back and forth over his cock. Captain Wilkinson guided himself by gripping her slim shoulders, as if he was in command of a delicate glider in a crosswind landing. He looked down to see the entire length of his erection being rhythmically pulled back into Natalie’s perfect body, as if there was an undiscovered force steering him ever deeper. He delved high into her, relishing every involuntary contraction from her sex, convinced that if he pumped harder he would burst into her womb. He heard her breathing quicken, noticed how her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the bunk, saw the lean muscles straddling her back tense in time with the contractions gripping his girth. Captain Wilkinson was a happy man as his aircraft cruised at thirty-five thousand feet.
‘Oh stop, please.’ Natalie pulled herself off James and shifted around to face him. ‘I don’t want to come yet. I want it to go on forever.’ She took his milky erection between her fingers and kissed off all the wetness before planting her mouth over his.
‘I think we’d run out of fuel if that happened,’ the captain said, pulling off her kiss. ‘And I haven’t officially welcomed you to Voyage-Air yet.’
Natalie playfully tilted her head and massaged her aching nipples. ‘Oh, and what might that entail?’ Before she even had a chance to think, she was flipped around again and James’s hands were underneath her flat belly, holding her firmly on all fours. She was overwhelmed by a sensation that she had never encountered before: a forbidden but delicious tingling that she had often fantasised about but never had the opportunity to explore. The captain’s wetted finger was gently priming the entrance between her buttocks, easing inside by an inch or two. Natalie moaned but instantly felt guilty. Surely such an act shouldn’t feel like this? Unable to help herself, she pushed back against his finger but was disappointed when he withdrew it. She wanted more and moved her hungry body around in search of the new and illicit sensation.
‘You like that, huh? Well, how about this, then?’ Captain Wilkinson took Natalie’s breath away by nudging the virgin hole with the head of his cock. Natalie felt his warmth pulsing in this completely unfamiliar place and let out a little cry of pain as the first fat inch stretched her open. ‘I’ll go easy, honey, but you’ve got to let me in. It’s the rules.’ The captain laughed but then began to concentrate on fitting himself in completely. He ran his hands down Natalie’s silky stocking-covered legs to her red patent shoes. The only other garments she wore were her Voyage-Air neck scarf and hat, with the rest of her uniform discarded in an untidy heap on the floor. James laughed inwardly. He’d lost count of the number of new stewardesses he’d welcomed into the airline. He reached a moist finger around Natalie’s body to tease her tender clitoris and pushed his cock deeper still, skilfully working himself close to orgasm in only half a dozen strokes.
‘I think you’re going to do it, honey,’ he whispered in her ear as the last clip fell from Natalie’s hat, allowing her long blonde hair to drop around her shoulders. He plunged his cock as far as it could possibly go and held quite still for a couple of beats to relish the feeling of being on the brink. Natalie worked her arse in slow-motion circles, encouraging her captain to send more shock waves up inside her. She never wanted it to end.
Captain Wilkinson set to work on her jewel-like clitoris with his finger. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer and wanted Natalie’s orgasm to pump every drop from him. As capably as he controlled an aircraft, James guided Natalie towards the perfect climax. His weight dropped forwards, lowering her flat onto the bunk and pinning her in place while he finished the pounding from behind.
Her cries of pain from the size of him became moans of pleasure as she bolted through the hot rods of orgasm in a place she’d never felt it before. It continued for twice as long as she was used to and touched every part of her body, as if the captain had pumped her blood with a sex drug.
James finally came to rest, sweating and exhausted, lying on Natalie’s back. He planted tiny kisses along her spine and wrapped her shiny hair around his fingers. ‘The beginning of a very long and productive working relationship, I hope,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘You’ve certainly earned your stripes.’
Natalie wriggled around to face him. ‘Stripes?’
James stood up, leaving a salty-cologne waft where he was lying, and breathlessly plucked something from his jacket pocket. ‘These are for you,’ he offered. ‘Let me.’ James picked up Natalie’s scarlet Voyage-Air jacket and located her name badge. Underneath the letters of her name, he neatly positioned five sparkling gems. ‘When you see any crew wearing these on their badge, you know they’re one of mine.’
‘And I thought Angela’s gems were for long service or hard work.’ Natalie smiled and watched the captain get dressed. She pulled her jacket towards her and ran her finger proudly over the glittering stones. ‘It’s like a secret club,’ she said, giggling, but then she remembered Carl, still watching from his position in the corner.
‘I’ve got an aeroplane to fly,’ James said, buttoning his jacket and adjusting his captain’s hat. ‘But if there’s anything else you need, Miss Beauman, I’m sure Carl will be happy to oblige.’ He opened the cabin door. ‘Oh, and take the rest of the flight off. You’ve earned it.’
Natalie giggled with delight as the captain left the crew quarters. Carl was already kneeling beside the bunk, quite happy to clean up the mess between the beautiful woman’s legs and, moments later, he was mimicking the captain’s actions inside Natalie’s soft, melting pussy. Suddenly the pair lurched and nearly tumbled off the bunk as the aircraft’s wings dipped sharply from side to side.
‘Looks like we’re in for a bumpy ride,’ Carl said.
‘That’s not turbulence,’ Natalie exclaimed. ‘That’s Captain Wild!’
Maya Hess is the author of the Black Lace novels The Angels’ Share and Bright Fire.
Wet Walls
Kristina Lloyd
THE BUS STATION was lit up with colour, rain falling in yellow and orange drops, headlights fraying into the drizzle.
I was trying to act natural, standing in the shelter like someone waiting for a bus. My real aim was to talk to the bunch of emo kids next to me, preferably without scaring them. A gang of moody youths with slanted haircuts, they might have intimidated some, but not me. I had them down as pleasant middle-class sixth formers, all dressed up and nowhere to go. Unable to think of a subtle opener, I came straight out with it: ‘You know anything about this Michael guy?’
They turned to me with a disconcerting group mentality. Then they glanced at each other, a herd of scarecrow goths, anxious eyes flicking beneath angled fringes. Around us, reflected lights slid across perspex shelters and shimmered in fragments on slick black tarmac.
A skinny kid in drainpipes replied, ‘You mean Michael Angelo?’
His tone was eager, and I immediately realised they knew less than I did. Just because they hung out on the streets, didn’t mean they knew the streets. Obviously, they didn’t think I was the police either. Or if they did, they didn’t mind because they’d nothing to hide.
‘It’s well weird,’ said another.
‘Publicity stunt,’ added a third, lighting a self-conscious cigarette. ‘Got to be. How else do you explain it?’
I shrugged, turning away to check an approaching bus. ‘Dunno. What’s he publicising then?’
‘Himself,’ continued the third. ‘Himself and fuck-all else. Same as everyone.’
There
was a bubble of admiring laughter. See? Smart middle-class sixth formers.
A number 25 pulled in, tyres slushing through the wet, and I got on, then got off a stop later. They didn’t know anything. There was no point me staying.
On Queen Street, I hurried into the Stationmaster’s Arms, a place of seedy theatricality and pickled eggs. Men drank there; a thin crowd of commuters, dealers and pimps, as desperate and shabby as the pub’s lost grandeur. Clenched and alone, they stood by the bar or sat at tables, eyes flinching from the deep dim mirrors.
I sipped a glass of red, head in a book, waiting for the shower to pass. I had no plan except to wander the streets in search of Michael Angelo. Or perhaps, given the email I’d received, he’d be out there searching for me. ‘I’ll find you in the darkest place,’ he wrote.
I didn’t know where that was, although the Stationmaster’s Arms seemed as good a place as any.
I’m a journalist but, strictly speaking, this investigative stuff was way beyond my remit. I’m an agony aunt, writing the problem pages for a local property mag called On The Up! Problem pages, TV listings, lifestyle and other articles. That week, for example, I’d been writing a piece entitled ‘A Day in the Life of an Estate Agent’. I’d been struggling with it, to be honest, because estate agents don’t actually have lives.
But my problem page, oh boy, does that have life. And if it’s ever flagging (because even problem pages have problems) then Mike and Aaron in design will offer me material. I never use it but it cheers me up. ‘Dear Janie, What’s the best way to remove hair from private parts?’ or ‘Dear Janie, My penis is too big. Please help.’
I wondered what letters the men in the Stationmaster’s Arms might write, scribbling for help in the dark lonely hours. An old guy in a beige raincoat had been watching me, drinking steadily and offering an occasional smashed smile. His lank hair was nicotine yellow. I wondered if he could even write.
I confess I’m not cut out to be an agony aunt. I lack empathy and practicality, two attributes I’d say are fairly fundamental. Take the drunk in the raincoat, for example. Shouldn’t I be wondering what damaged him and whether he might benefit from the twelve-step programme and some basic adult education? But, no. Instead I think: Sleaze-bag, get your eyes off me.
I only got lumbered with the problem page after Moira, our regular columnist, quit. She fell apart when her husband discovered she’d been having it away with his younger brother. ‘Haven’t I got enough problems of my own?’ she used to yell, sobbing in front of her Mac, and I’m sure she’d have chucked letters around the office if all the stuff didn’t come by email.
I inherited her desk. It’s littered with self-help aphorisms: ‘A ship is safest in harbour but that’s not why ships are built’. Or ‘A strong relationship is made not of two halves, but two wholes’. I crossed out the ‘w’ on that last word. Sometimes I think I inherited Moira’s slump towards disenchantment. ‘Haven’t I got enough problems of my own?’ I want to shout.
My problems, however, aren’t as specific as hers. It’s more formless stuff that goes on inside me, you know, at my edges and underneath. ‘Dear Janie’, I might begin, but then I’m pretty much stumped.
There’s something I can’t reach, a fluttery unsettled part I wish I could tame. Sometimes I feel I have it. It’s almost there. For a moment it comes to rest, usually when I’m far from the city, and I’ll be struck by, say, the light in a high golden barn or over a white wintry field where mist drapes the stubble. When that happens, I’m fooled by a fleeting sense into thinking everything’s all right, now and forever.
But it isn’t, is it? It’s never all right. The days keep on coming and I can’t get out of them. There’s nothing I can pin down. There are no sentences such as: ‘I’ve got the blues’ or ‘My dog died’ or ‘I wish to God he’d leave me.’
Like I say, I’m not really up to agony-aunting.
Recently though, some of the letters have started to get to me. I’m puzzled and unsettled by them, and I know the usual platitudes I dish out won’t suffice.
Dear Janie,
I don’t know who else to turn to. I met a man recently and can’t stop thinking about him. I know this sounds stupid but it was a one-night stand and he didn’t ask for my number. We hardly spoke but I felt as if he truly understood me . . .
Dear Janie,
I’ve been going out with my boyfriend for eight months but I cheated on him at the weekend and now I don’t know what to do. You see, I’ve fallen in love with this other guy though I know I’ll never see him. again . . .
Dear Janie,
I’ve been walking the streets at night, looking for a man I once had sex with. I know it’s dangerous but I can’t stop myself. I need to see his face. I didn’t see it the first time and now I’m desperate to know him. It’s like an addiction, an obsession, driving me on . . .
Dear Janie,
A man approached me on Queen Street after I got off the bus and before I knew it, he’d seduced me up against a wall. I thought about going to the authorities but didn’t because he means everything to me, even though he’s a total stranger . . .
Idiots! Get a grip, get a hobby, get a life.
I haven’t published these letters though I’ve read them so often I practically know them off by heart. One line haunts me. It’s there in every letter, an unvarying refrain: ‘With him, I found another side to myself.’
I sipped my wine, aware I was still being ogled by nicotine-hair. Perhaps he thought I was a whore and that gave him the right. But what kind of whore, I wondered, wears knee-length skirts and flat-heeled boots, and sits with a glass of Merlot, reading Barbara Vine? Not one he could afford, that’s for sure. It was time I left.
The rain had stopped and I headed up Queen Street. It was early autumn and mild, the kerbs stuck with wet golden leaves. Few people were about. A couple of times I checked over my shoulder but as far as I could tell, I wasn’t being followed.
I’ll find you in the darkest place.
Was that a threat? Or the first sweet sting of seduction? Either way, as I strode past glass-fronted shops, the thought made me hot and loose. He wanted me and I was scared to imagine the possibilities of his wanting and the state I might be in when he was through.
In a recent half-page article for On The Up! I’d written: ‘Michael Angelo might think he’s an artist, but to many he’s just a yob with a spray can. From boarded-up shops to newly painted buildings, no wall is safe from his defacement. The city is his canvas and we, the tax-payers, are footing the bill.’
I didn’t actually believe what I’d written. Much of it was paranoia and sensationalism but I’m a hack, unschooled in truth and moderation. Anyway, these days people want a lot more than truth for their buck, especially in a property listings mag.
And the truth is, Michael’s graffiti is beautiful. It has an astonishing luminosity, a softness that belies its weird jarring colours, and the first piece I saw of his brought tears to my eyes. (‘Undoubtedly, his daubs have merit,’ I wrote.) I was walking into work, crossing a dead-end street called Jubilee Gate and, when I glanced right, instead of the usual hoardings concealing the NCP car park, I saw a vista of paradise which briefly stopped my heart.
In a silvery sky, an olive-green sun shone over meadows of purple grass. Unearthly woodland clustered the hills, red-leaved canopies above cobalt-blue trunks. Snaking through the foreground was a river of molten copper, its shimmering bronze tones rippling with pink, and nodding in the breeze were fleshy daffodils of coral, apricot, vanilla and rose.
And yet how could there be a breeze? How could the river ripple? It was a painting, a mural perhaps, although mural is too flat a noun to describe the world I saw. It gleamed as if it were still wet. Perhaps it was. I walked towards it, feeling its dazzle of light on my cheeks. In its presence, I grew radiant, mesmerised by fierce magical colour, convinced I was on the brink of entering an altered, Photoshopped world where normality was oh so slightly out of whack.
There was a smell around me, a half-remembered scent. What was it? The closer I got, the stronger the odour until I felt quite engulfed by it. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs, and my entire body tingled in response. Ah God, yes! Scents of sweat, skin and warm genitals unfurled in my brain. Sex! This world smelt of sex! I breathed in female arousal, strong and musky, and was embarrassed to think it might be me.
Worried, I glanced back. At the top of the street a man was gawping at the wall just as I was. I could smell cock and hair, so potent there might have been an erection by my lips, a jewel of pre-come quivering on its tip. My body answered, my groin its sudden centre of gravity, thrumming with an deep internal weight.
Ahead of me, paradise glimmered while behind me two people – the man and now a woman – glided towards the wall, equally dumbstruck. The three of us stared, steeped in that maddening air of lust. Did they smell it too? It was inconceivable we might speak, and yet the enchantment was such I could imagine us dropping to the floor and making mad crazy love, all three of us right there on the dead-end street that is Jubilee Gate.
Obviously, I didn’t write this in my piece on Michael Angelo.
I stayed staring for several minutes while slowly, imperceptibly, the image and scent began to fade. By the time I walked away, it was just another example of very good graffiti, Michael Angelo’s tag in the bottom right-hand corner. Perhaps good graffiti was all it ever had been.
And yet it left me in a state of desire so acute I felt demented. I could barely move. My vulval lips were exquisitely tender, so plump and soft that simply walking roused me further. Pavement to pussy, pavement to pussy; the rhythm drummed in my veins. I was all groin and longing. Each step cranked me higher until, aching for release, I had to nip into the ladies’ in Starbucks to have a little wank. Or perhaps, given the locale, I should call it a regular and upgrade my normal fare to a grande.
That didn’t go in the article either.