Flight 1

Flight 1
 By:  Alyssa Hyatt

Since his recent career change, Steve 'Ace' McLaren had found sleep hard
to come by.

His nights were brief and interrupted, but nonetheless Ace enjoyed what
little rest he got. For in his dreams he was able to live out his
wildest fantasies - although he supposed they would seem quite tame to
most other 28-year old men. There were no World Cup winning goals in
Ace's dreams; instead, he dreamt of simple, manly pleasures. Pleasures
which had came so freely and so cheaply to him just two short months
ago.

Pleasures like the empowering fit of an expensive Armani suit, say, or
the sensation of a summer day's breeze buzzing through his short,
tussled black hair as he drove his fire-engine red convertible  just
slightly-too-fast around the streets of London. He never used to walk
anywhere. Why would he? Anything or anyone worth his while would come to
him, for he was Ace. That's what the other pilots called him. The alpha
male - the man at the top of the food chain.

As Ace's sleep deepened, fragments of his old career began to filter
back into view. He vividly recalled  the look of adulation that used to
flash onto his work colleagues' faces as he strutted confidently through
the terminal. The security staff would salute him as he thundered past
in his smart uniform. The stewardesses would giggle and throw theatrical
winks in his direction as he passed. He'd slept with most of them,
naturally. His talent was immense, his sex appeal immeasurable. He was
Ace.

Of course, Ace would never admit it, but his colleague's reverence was
more down to the fact that he had friends in, ahem, 'high places' in the
airline industry than out of respect of his considerable talent. Ace's
office room connections also greatly assisted his many conquests with
the stewardesses. He'd bagged a few with his rugged good looks and
overbearing confidence, but it was the threat of redundancy that prised
open the more reluctant of legs.


Afterwards, sometimes he'd conspire to get them fired anyway, just
because he could. He reasoned that it was important to keep a steady
rotation of disposable floozies on the go. It kept his job fresh and
entertaining. "There are a trillion untrained bimbos out there willing
to simper behind a drinks trolley," he rationalised to his fellow pilots
at last year's Christmas party, to the silent sound of a hundred
eyerolls. "But there can only ever be one Ace". Ace relived the moment
in his sleep, causing a smile to crept over his full, red lips. He
conveniently omitted the eyerolling detail.

He'd married his favourite stewardess. Well of course he did. Someone
needed to tend to his luxurious mansion while he out was sinking shots
in some far-flung strip joint. Michelle was, as Ace put it, his lucky
'Chosen One' - a striking, raven-haired young thing with enchanting
green eyes an an olive complexion that gave her the slightest tinge of
Arabic exoticism. She was petite (5"3 in heels at a pinch), intelligent
enough to do better than Ace but stupid enough to have fallen in love
with him all the same.

Thoughts of his wife caused his dream to up sticks from the airport to
the martial bedroom. A typical Sunday morning. He rolled across his
king-sized bed and slapped Michelle playfully on her silk-clad arse,
causing her to jump out of bed with a squeal. Ace smiled unrepentantly
and made a slight nodding motion which Michelle had come to understand
as her cue to begin breakfast. She rubbed her sore rump self-pityingly
for a second or two before noting the  vexed impatience on her handsome
beau's face. She pulled the hem of her floral print chemise down until
it once again covered her throbbing backside, red hand print still
visible, and sashayed gracefully towards the door.

But when her hand touched the door handle, the mood in the room suddenly
changed. She stopped still in her tracks and began to idly caress the
knob shaft, almost as if it had a phallic quality to it that made her
powerless to resist. Ace motioned again for her to make her exit, but
she ignored his command and continued to rub the handle up and down
seductively, faster and faster. But before Ace could voice his
irritation, Michelle suddenly snapped the handle clean off off the door
with a terrible thud and stubbed it out, like a used cigarette, with the
heel of her foot.


Ace suddenly felt ill at ease. Panicked, he turned to meet Michelle's
eyes, but hers beat his to the punch. She flashed her husband a sinister
smirk that caused a knot in Ace's chest to appear and tighten in quick
succession. He had suddenly remembered something. Michelle. Her. She did
this to me.

Upon this realisation, Ace's dreams became even more lucid. He was now
in full control again, and it was time for payback. Revenge. He leapt
out of bed and made a beeline to his wife, whose sneer quickly
evaporated from her face. His strong muscular arms darted out from his
side, clasped Michelle's delicate wrists and pinned her violently
against the broken door.

"Let...let go of me" she cried, as she struggled in vain to escape her
husband's vice-like grip. "Not a chance, you fucking bitch - not after
what you did to me!" Ace countered, menacing intent obvious in his deep,
intense brown eyes. With a single tug he ripped the flimsy chemise from
her shapely body with one hand and pulled down his boxers with the
other, revealing his hard, thick, glistening member. He bit down on her
ear with a mixture of lust and spite, wrenched her right leg into the
air and then whispered to his quivering prey: "Tonight, you're the one
who's going to get fuc-"

BING-BONG.

The reading light shone directly into Ace's mascara-caked eyes,
awakening the ex-pilot with a start. Here, back in reality, the dream
ended and the nightmare begun.

----------------------------------------------


Ace moaned softly and took in a sharp intake of recycled air. His neck
was stiff from sleeping in an upright position and the economy class-
calibre pillow had provided minimal comfort throughout the night. He
unclipped the buckle from around his slim waist and sleepily looked
around his absurd new home. It was a tiny, rectangular studio flat (less
than half the size of his old master bedroom) which had recently been
converted from an old boiler room that clung to the side of a disused
factory, courtesy of Ace's now-drained savings account. The location was
poor, but it was the ridiculous décor that would really hit its resell
value. It had been decked out to look like the inside of an economy
plane cabin, with two rows of two seats (each separated by a non-
removable armrest) flanking a narrow central aisle.

Ace almost fainted when his wife had unveiled his new home to him a few
weeks ago. "I know it's a bit smaller than you're used to" Michelle
lilted, "but really, you getting your own place will be best for
everyone. It's really off-putting when my new boyfriend and I trying to
have sex and we can hear you sobbing in the spare room like a little
girl". Ace's eyes began to well up once more. The hormone shots
Michelle's boyfriend administered on a weekly basis had made him very
emotional. "Besides," she continued "the old place was a little grand
for the pay packet a pretty young air hostess such as yourself can
expect to bring home, don't you think? So we've set this place up so you
can concentrate on the only thing that really matters in your silly
little life - making your passengers feel like they're at home during
their flights. It should come naturally to you from now, because your
home is a plane! Any questions, Skye?"

The pansified pilot recognised the irritated bass in his wife's voice
and offered the only response that wouldn't earn him a spanking: "Coffee
or tea, Madam?"


'Skye Blue' was the name on Ace's new passport. It was a very clever
forgery, but it was a forgery all the same. He had travelled all over
the world as Miss Blue over the last 60 days, and he knew that with his
current looks, he wouldn't last very long in an all-male prison if
Michelle or her partner ever decided to turn him in. Thus, he was stuck
doing their bidding for the foreseeable future, with only vague promises
that they might remove his breast implants and allow him to resume his
old life once more if they ever got bored. He wished he'd never advised
his wife to go seek out a plastic surgeon in the first place, but the
time was now 6:22am and the time for wishes and dreams were over. Ace
was dead; long live Miss Skye Blue, sissy siren of the skies.


Skye briefly considered catching an extra five minutes rest, but the
whirring click of a spy camera on the other side of the room made her
think better of it. Being caught slacking at any time would earn her a
major demerit on the week's service evaluation sheet, which was marked
mercilessly by his ex-wife and her new lover.

 But then, who ever said than an air hostesses' lot was
an easy one? Well, there once was such a man, but he'd never had to walk
an air mile in a pair of Skye Blue's four inch patent court shoes, so
what would he know?

After a moment's preening to ensure that the pillbox hat still teetered
atop the cascading pile of platinum curls that now comprised her hair,
Skye swivelled from her seat and made her way to the front of the
makeshift cabin. It made for quite an undignified sight, as the central
aisle was built too narrow to accommodate even Skye's emasculated frame,
so she had to slowly shimmy sideways down the passageway, grinding both
her enormous boobs and her surgically-augmented derrière against the
rough fabric of the seats as she passed. All the while, she had to keep
her head upright and her hands fanned out to either side so as not to
knock the hat from her head. Not wearing the full, appropriate uniform
at any time was an instant minor demerit, although this particular
slight would happen with such regularity that they'd normally let Skye
get off with a spanking."You just can't get the staff these days,"
Michelle would often bemoan as her hunky boyfriend held the hysterical
hostess over his knee and paddled her plump arse until she was a
shrieking mess of blonde curls.

Skye managed to get through her Sisyphean task today with only two minor
demerits, which she considered to be a reasonable return. It was now
6:38am and it was time to get dressed for work. She removed her make-up
bag and work uniform from one of the overhead lockers and made her way
into her bathroom, which true to form resembled that of a cheap airline
toilet and thus was small enough to freak out a battery hen. Skye peeled
the too-tight authentic British Airways uniform from her shamefully
feminized body and folded it up neatly in an adjacent overhead locker,
placing it next to her impressive collection of replica hostess
uniforms, which spanned the alphabet from AirAsia to Zulu Airways. Once
done, she prepared to squeeze into an air stewardess outfit of quite
another description.

The standard uniforms, you see, weren't her working clothes - rather,
they were her designated 'street' clothes, which she'd wear whilst she
was at home, or sleeping, or fetching Madam's shopping, or cleaning
Madam's house from head to toe during her rare nights off.  Aside from a
few 'special requests' from some of her customers or Madam, Skye
couldn't remember the last time she'd worn something that wasn't a
flight attendant uniform. It was Madam's idea. She felt Skye should be
totally immersed in air hostess culture so she could be the best trolley
dolly she could possibly be, and this meant dressing the part on all
occasions.

'Madam' could have referred to any female on the planet, but this time
it referred to his wife, Michelle. Madam explained to Skye that anyone
she met could potentially be a passenger on one of her flights, and so
should be treated with the appropriate respect. As such, the former
arrogant hot-shot now found himself in a situation where he had to refer
to every male as 'Sir' and every female as 'Madam', regardless of age or
social standing. It greatly embarrassed Skye to know that this
restrictive manner of speaking placed her at the very bottom rung of
society - subservient to everyone she encountered.  Michelle - Madam -
had incorporated this rule knowing it would cause Skye a great deal of
humiliation and played up to it whenever possible.


She also loved the fact that Skye would never find out the name of her
new boyfriend - the man who had not only taken over the role of
fulfilling her sexual needs but was also responsible for ruining Skye's
oh-so macho body with his skilled scalpel. She admitted to herself that
it made her more than a little wet to see her husband, once so arrogant
and possessive, defer to his hated love rival so meekly. The lovebirds
would make a game of it, buzzing the dutiful shemale over the intercom
to enter after finishing a long, passionate bout of sex. The pair would
embrace and watch in amusement as Skye trotted into the room in her prim
and proper uniform and addressed the man who was in bed with his wife,
hands greedily roaming across her sweat-drenched breasts, with nothing
more confrontational than 'Coffee or tea, Sir?".

Yes, it made her very wet indeed. By the time Skye would return with the
orders, round two would be well under way.

Back in the present day, Skye was busying applying her make-up for the
day ahead - a task made all the more arduous by the cramped conditions
and her continued incredulity at the sight that stared back at her in
the restroom mirror through blinking bambi eyes. That bastard surgeon,
whoever he was, was certainly skilled in his work, Skye mused idly to
herself as she rooted around in her travel bag for her foundation. There
was almost no trace of the rugged looks that had once led Ace to so many
adulterous adventures. Instead looking back, plumpened lips agape, was a
vision of feminine loveliness. A Barbie bimbo - a true trolly dolly.

Ace's wiry designer stubble was no more; zapped off via electrolysis,
revealing a smooth chin with an achingly cute dimple which had been
created during facial feminization surgery. Other legacies of this
unwanted invasion were apparent all across Skye's visage - her
cheekbones, for instance, had been reset so they sat higher, giving her
face a ladylike heart shape appearance. Ace's piercing brown eyes were
now permanently encased behind a pair of baby blue contact lenses (in
keeping with her Skye Blue gimmick), and were flanked from above and
below by extra-long eyelash extensions which caused men's pulses to race
with every flutter. In the middle of it all was an adorable button nose,
reconstructed almost from scratch. Skye wrinkled her girlish snout as if
to confirm it was really hers, and was disappointed with the
reflection's answer.

After much fuss, Skye finally applied her make-up to perfection, so she
set about putting the finishing touches to her appearance. A light
yellow neckerchief was tied around her neck, to conceal the lovebites
that concealers couldn't quite conceal. Next, she affixed her new
pillbox hat onto her crown of curls, stringing her long hair extensions
through little eyelets at the base. This one wouldn't be coming off
quite so easily. It was made of a light blue latex material, and it was
decorated at the front with a gold emblem shaped like a man doing a
stewardess doggy style. The stewardess in turn was supporting her weight
with one forearm, with the other performing a mock salute. It was the
logo of Skye's new employers, Layover Airways.

Layover Airways, if you're unaware, is a private charter airline for the
rich and powerful, with the main draw being  that its passengers are
granted unrestricted sexual access to the stewardesses. The whole
practice was in breach of several national airway guidelines, and was
probably quite illegal, but as mentioned, it was a service for the rich
and famous, and when that's the case guidelines and rules  don't matter
as much as perhaps they might. The existence of Layover Airways came as
a surprise to Skye, who was never short of money during her past life as
Ace, but had never quite managed to break into the financial elite. The
same wasn't true for Michelle's plastic surgeon friend, however, who was
very familiar.

 When he was comforting her the night she discovered that her husband
was bullying her fellow stewardesses into sexual relations, he mentioned
in passing an opening at Layover Airways that could potentially teach
Ace some respect about how hard it is to be an air hostess. After at
first laughing it off, Michelle thought it over more carefully and fell
in love with the idea and, in time, with her surgeon, too.

The opening in question was for a shemale hostess. Layover execs were
initially surprised how much demand there was for one of these, but when
you mull it over, it does make sense. When you're rich enough to afford
vanilla ice-cream every day, some days you're going to want to
experiment by sticking a flake in it. And so after pulling a few
strings, Skye Blue was hired before she even existed. The next night,
Ace stumbled home drunk for the last time, full of booze and incoherent
explanations as to why he reeked of  ladies' perfume. The excuses were
hushed by a doused rag from an unseen figure, and he was soon wheeled
off to the operating theatre in preparation for his new role. Ace would
never have expected then that he'd spend the rest of her life having to
explain why he wasn't coated in ladies' perfume.

Skye fidgeted awkwardly with the hem of her dress as she departed the
bathroom. It was so ridiculously short - no further than mid-thigh - and
so prohibitively tight that it threatened to expose his work-issue
knickers at every opportunity. Not that they weren't nice knickers -
they were powder-blue satin, certainly not cheap - but flashing your
undergarments is rarely becoming of a lady in public, especially if
she's packing a small but noticeable cock and ball combo at the front.
Since the back end of the bikini-cut panties were emblazoned with the
flirtatious phrase 'Arrivals', she was also keen to keep that side under
wraps too, but more often than not, like so many other things in her
life nowadays, it was out of her control. On the bright side, at least
she didn't have any tights to worry about laddering.

The dress itself was a tight latex affair, fashioned in the same sky
blue colour as her hat and decked out to resemble a horny teenage boy's
idea of an air hostess uniform. Pairs of big brass buttons running down
the front of the dress gave the air of military chic; in reality they
were disguised popper fasteners, designed to provide quick and easy
access to the delights within. Skye's huge rack, packaged tightly within
the scoop-neck design of the dress, would ensure that any man who
witnessed her would instantly be thinking about accessing them.

The outfit was topped off with dark blue epaulettes on both of the short
sleeves, each bearing the same golden doggy-salute emblem which also
adorned her hat, her wheeled luggage bag, and each of her sky blue one
inch nail extensions, via the magic of spray-on fingernail decorations.
She clipped her name tag onto her dress just below her cleavage - which
read 'Air Stewardess Skye Blue - How may I make your day more
pleasurable?' - and then waited patiently by the exit. Skye Blue was
ready to fly.

Except, the door wasn't. The airlocked mock-up of a plane exit was
rigged to open at 8.00am on the dot - a time which would (deliberately)
leave Skye little time to catch her flight and would mean she'd spend
the rest of the morning in a terrible rush. So as per her daily routine,
she spent the next fifteen minutes posing seductively and suggestively
in front of the spy camera, so as to prove she was dressed appropriately
for the flight. Sir and Madam would likely still be asleep at this time
on a Sunday, but they'd be sure to give the footage a once over during
breakfast. Finally, the door swung open and Skye bolted out the door as
fast as her four inch heels would allow, tottering off into the horizon
as quickly as one possibly can when their boobs and their arse are
simultaneously competing to break free of their latex confines.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Skye's apartment was located a short drive away from Heathrow Airport -
however, the keys to Ace's Ferrari California now belonged to a certain
surgeon. Skye didn't even have a full driving licence any more. So she
was forced to walk the four mile journey every morning, unless she
agreed with Madam  to 'work off' the cost of a weekly bus pass. This
involved her washing her former pride and joy, her Ferrari, wearing
nothing but a tiny string two-piece bikini. Which might not have been so
bad, if only Sir wouldn't insist on driving the thing to a parking lot
adjacent to a building site full of horny workers before the cleaning
could commence. And it would certainly have helped make the ordeal more
bearable if Sir wouldn't continuously forget to bring the towels along,
forcing Skye to pat the paintwork dry with her pendulous boobs to a
chorus of wolf-whistles from her pot-bellied audience. At the very
least, he could have stuck around to give her a lift home. Sigh.

Still, Skye would agree to the deal nonetheless, because the alternative
- to mince all that way in  stilettos  - was more than her overworked
feet could bare. The half a mile journey to the bus stop was traumatic
enough as it was, taking her as it did through a busy high street packed
full of unsavoury characters. Skye attempted to keep as low a profile as
possible, but that is a fool's errand when you're six foot tall in heels
and dressed as if you were on your way to a strippogram. The constant
clack-clack-clack of her shoes against the uneven cobblestone pavement
might as well have been a foghorn for all the noise they made, and her
progress was constantly hindered by a wonky wheel on her carry-on
luggage which caused her to meander wildly across the street - usually
into the path of some unassuming gentleman who would be sure to cop a
feel during the exchange.

Somehow, miraculously, she made it onto the bus with seconds to spare,
although to make it she had to practically run the last few hundred
yards, the effort causing her dress to hitch up all the way to her
waist. By the time she was safely aboard, her fellow passengers had all
caught a glimpse of the tiny bulge hidden away in the front of her
panties. Skye's cheeks burned red under the disgusted gaze of her new
travel companions. Somehow her situation humiliated her all the more
when strangers knew the truth about her gender.


After covering her modesty (or as best she could in that minuscule
little blue number), Skye attempted to find a seat so she could rest her
aching feet, but the other passengers were in uncharitable mood,
shifting their bags onto the seats beside them and warning the shemale
away with disdainful scowls. Defeated, Skye returned to the front of the
carriage and gripped hold of one of the overhead handles. And there she
stood, on full display to the rest of the bus, their disapproving
utterings blocked out only by the sound of the engine as the bus took
off sharply, nearly knocking Skye off her heeled feet.

As the bus thundered through London, it gradually began to fill up with
more and more passengers until space was at a premium. The males who
boarded, having not witnessed her earlier indecent exposure, assumed
Skye was nothing more untoward than a dirty stop-out, probably returning
home from a night of passion with a man she'd picked up at a fancy dress
party or something. So, they saw little reason to afford her the same
respect they might give the other women on the bus, making sure to take
the opportunity to molest her latex-clad backside as they made their way
to the now-vacated seats at the back. Embarrassed beyond comprehension
at her plight, Miss Blue could only squeak her apologies to the assorted
Sirs for her gigantic arse being in their way,  as she slowly pushed
herself up against the window to avoid being groped further until her
boobs were almost pushing against the glass.

The bus took off once more, travelling at such an excessive speed that
Skye was forced to grip the handles tightly and slowly spread her legs
outwards to maintain her balance, pushing her shapely can in the air in
the process. Skye blew a stray platinum curl from her eyes and locked
eyes with the driver via the rear view mirror as if to plea for
clemency, but the man simply glanced back with a spiteful leer and then
deliberately drove full-pelt over a couple of speed bumps. The first
impact caused the poppers on Skye's dress to part, the second freed her
obscene hooters from the confines of their bra, her jugs coming to a
rest, after much jiggling. against the glass of the window pane. Her
assets were now on display to anyone who cared to look in the buses'
direction. Nothing she could do about that now, while they were still
moving.

Skye attempted the block out the horror of her situation by closing her
fluttery eyes and reminiscing about better times. Last summer's Airline
Leaders' Summit in Las Vegas was one of Ace's favourite memories. He'd
attended at the behest of Europa Airways chairman Richard Hanson, and
even gave a well-received speech about the leadership qualities which
had made him one of the world's elite pilots. It was a heavy weekend,
even by Ace's standards. The two of them had licked so much champagne
from the bodies of so many expensive call girls, that when they got
back, the airline had to bump up their fuel tax duty by 5% just to
balance its books again.

A strange rubbing sensation on her ass cheeks woke Skye from her idle
daydream. She slowly peered over her shoulder to discover the cause of
the friction, and what she saw revolted her to her core. There behind
her stood an dishevelled wino with a wiry grey beard, flashing a lusty
yellow smile as he rubbed the crotch area of his stained trousers up
against her bum crack. Panicked, Skye pushed out some flustered
protestations. "Please Sir! I'm n-not that kind of girl, Sir..."

The wino grunted a primitive form of acknowledgement, but continued to
rub his genital region against her all the same. Skye could only let out
a little wimper in response - her extreme hormone regime had left her as
weak as a kitten, and she would be no match physically for even an
unsteady drunkard such as this. Her only hope was that another gentleman
on the bus would gallantly step in to protect her dignity. Sadly for
her, a look around the cabin saw that on the most part, they were
enjoying the sight of the shemale's debasing.

Then, Skye remembered that she'd be in even bigger trouble if this
terrible man discovered her, ahem, tiny secret. So she gingerly released
her right hand from the overhead grip and darted towards what remained
of her penis, cupping it protectively from the tramp, who was growing in
confidence. "That'sss it, finger yourssself, bitsccchh," he slurred, as
Skye's head and boobs banged against the glass in time with her
assailant's thrusts. He reached the vinegar strokes just as the bus
pulled up at the terminal, cumming at the precise point the driver
applied the brakes, causing the shocked sissy to relinquish her grip on
the support beam and collapse unceremoniously in a pile of tits and arse
on the floor.

After the other passengers had departed, the driver hopped out of his
seat and confronted the dazed air hostess, who was still sat on the
floor, attempting to stuff her tits back into their inadequate
enclosures. "Get the fuck out of my bus, you freak," he snapped,
spraying spit all over her face. Fearful of what he might do, Skye
hurriedly tucked her knockers into her dress and clattered down the
steps as fast as she could, landing in an exhausted heap on the
pavement. "Sir, my luggage is still on your-"

Her sentence was interrupted by the sight of her bag flying overhead.
The zip opened on impact, scattering its contents - an assortment of
handcuffs, dildos, condoms, whips and gags - far and wide. After hastily
collecting together her worldly belongings to the amusement of
onlookers, she teetered towards the security check-in desk to begin her
shift. The easy part of the day was now over and done with.