Flight 2

By: Alyssa Hyatt

 Twelve months ago to this very day, Steven 'Ace' McLaren had the entire
Las Vegas Convention Center in the palm of his hand.

The occasion was the annual Airline Leaders' Summit. Ace stood centre
stage, delivering an acceptance speech to the aviation industry's most
influential figures. "In closing, I'd like to that you all again for
recognising my undoubted talents with this special Award for Exceptional
Services to Aviation." The crowd applauded. "Many people have asked me
over the years what the secret to my success is. I always tell them that
I owe it all having a lady flying instructor."

The overstuffed crowd waited in feverish anticipation for the punchline.
Ace halted momentarily to straighten the bow tie on his £500 James Bond
tuxedo before obliging. "...I used to watch what she'd do, and then make
a note to do the exact opposite!". The assorted arm candy in the front
row narrowed their eyes at the lame joke, but the fat cats roared in
sexist approval. And that was all that mattered.

"But in truth, there is no secret," he continued. "To be a successful
pilot, you only need two things. Good hand-eye co-ordination..." His
voice, deep with authority, had the crowd on tenterhooks once more.
"...and a dick!" The audience roared once more. "See you at the baccarat
table, gentlemen!"


Fast-forward a year and much had changed in Ace's life. Still, at least
one of the two things he namechecked in Las Vegas was still serving him
well. But sadly for Flight Attendant Skye Blue, it most certainly wasn't
her dick.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Miss Blue cursed under her breath as she
minced towards the terminal entrance, her swears perfectly in rhythm
with the heels of her stilettos touching the floor. Her unladylike
language mostly stemmed from the pain caused by her uncomfortable
footwear, but also partly because she knew it would be her last chance
to speak her mind before the airport cameras once again listened in on
her every word. The last and only time the camera caught Skye swearing
on tape, Michelle - Madam - forcefully washed her mouth out with soap.
After Skye had finished alternating between sobbing and coughing up
suds, Madam gleefully announced the second part of her punishment - she
would have wear an alternative nametag for the next week, announcing
that her name was "Little Miss Potty-Mouth". As you might well imagine,
many of her passengers dreamt up some suitably ironic uses for Miss
Potty-Mouth. By the end of the week, Skye was on her hands and knees,
begging Madam to wash her debased mouth out with soap again.

Despite the agony her unnaturally arched feet were in, Skye Blue
couldn't afford to slow down for a second. The earlier incident with the
luggage had cost Miss Blue valuable time and although Madam forbid that
she ever carry a watch or a phone about her person, Skye suspected that
she was dreadfully late and needed to shift her booty if she was going
to catch her flight. She hadn't missed one yet, but there had been
several near misses, and the possible consequences caused her to shiver
in her stride. "If you ever DARE miss a flight," Madam once scolded
during a break in one of Skye's service training sessions, "then we'll
stuff those overripe melons of yours with so much silicon you'll need
that service trolley to lug them around on!"

Since she was in such a rush, Skye knew she wouldn't have the chance to
duck into the ladies' room to fix her make-up, which was a concern
because she looked like...well, like she'd just been molested on a bus.
To dare turn up at check-in looking as dishevelled as she did would be a
major demerit waiting to happen. But Skye needn't have worried her
pretty little head, because this was the moment where Ace's previously
heralded hand-eye co-ordination would come to the maiden's rescue.

Tucking the handle of her luggage under her arm, Skye pulled out her
compact and stooped slightly as she walked, so she could power her nose
and primp and curl her luxurious mane of hair until she looked perfect
once more. Whilst dabbing her cheeks with blusher, Skye inwardly
shuddered at the thought of what a vain, shallow bimbo she must have
seemed to be to an onlooker. A prissy air hostess whose only concern in
life was looking good for the rich businessmen in her care so that she
might bag a husband. A boy-crazy ditz so obsessed with her looks that
she couldn't even put her make-up kit down for a second to concentrate
on walking in a straight line! What a cheap floozy!

Evidentially at least one 'gentleman' agreed with her self-assessment,
as without warning he strolled up to her bold as brass outside the
terminal entrance and crammed one of his business cards down her
cleavage. If it were up to her, Miss Blue would have RSVP'd  to his
invite by smacking him round his cocky face with her fist. But realising
that she was now close enough to the gates to be picked up by the
cameras, she instead had to respond to this jerk's advances the only way
she was trained to: by thanking Sir warmly for his attentions and
kissing him gently on the lips. However the Sir in question, being so
much stronger than the delicate stewardess, forced a tongue through her
puffy lips and then down her throat, upgrading the kiss from economy to
business class.

Skye watched the repulsive letch swagger away in the reflection of her
compact mirror, and then checked over her make-up once more. "Oh, fuc- I
mean, oh, poo!" she hastily corrected herself. Her lipstick would need
to be reapplied yet again.

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

Skye queued up at the security check-in desk and pulled from her luggage
a clear plastic bag full of assorted liquids, as international travel
rules dictated. In her pouch, she had everything a young lady needed for
a long-haul flight - and then some. Next to her toothpaste and her
perfume were several more unorthodox items, such as Vaseline, edible
chocolate body paint, anal lubricant, whipped cream, massage oils and
more besides. All clearly labelled, of course. The rest of the queue
sniggered as they scanned the lewd contents of her bag. In fact the
crowd seemed even more amused than usual by her appearance -
particularly those who were directly behind her, but Miss Blue supposed
that could have been for any number of reasons. Skye for her part stood
there silently with her mandatory stupid shit-eating stewardess grin on
her face and tried to blot out the catcalls. She only hoped none of the
other passengers would ask her to go get them a hot drink, because that
would mean losing her place in the queue.

As she approached the front of the line, Skye grew noticeably more
nervous. She hoped against hope that none of the security guards would
recognise her, but since she stood out like a sore thumb in her whorish
ensemble, there was little chance of Flight Attendant Skye Blue ever
flying under someone's radar. Finally, she reached the front of the
queue and waited patiently to be called forward to one of the machines.

"Ace!" shrieked a shrill voice. "Oh, poo" muttered Skye, recognising the
voice instantly. This was the worst case scenario. All the security
guards were clued in on the existence of Layover Airways and the truth
about Skye Blue's true identity as a matter of national security, but
some took more delight in embarrassing the former stud pilot than
others. This particular machine was manned by Pigface and Limpdick, the
two security guards who bared possibly the biggest grudges of all
against Ace. Skye looked up sheepishly over her big, batty lashes to see
the pair grinning like Cheshire cats, greeting the hotshot-turned-honey
with a mock salute.

Needless to say, Pigface and Limpdick weren't their real names. Rather,
they were nicknames that Ace used to refer to them as for his own
childish amusement. It saved him having to lower himself to remembering
the names of his subordinates. Turns out that their real names were Pam
and Elliot, but that wasn't important any more. They were 'Madam' and
'Sir' as far as Miss Skye Blue was concerned, just like everybody else.

"How's my big, brave pilot today?," spat Pigface, a plump, slightly
mannish brunette in her early forties, as she bundled Skye's bag of sex
toys into the x-ray machine. Her portly frame had once caused her to
bare the brunt of many cruel practical jokes at the hands of an
arrogant, thoughtless work colleague named Ace McLaren. Once, Ace caused
her to break down into tears in the middle of a shift when she belatedly
discovered that Ace had stuck up a sign in front of her booth welcoming
passengers to "Miss Piggy's Weigh-In. Cakes and chocolate will be
confiscated". In-between the text was a photoshopped picture of Pam's
face with a pig's nose.

"All the better for seeing your beautiful self, Madam!" Skye replied as
rehearsed. She had been through Pigface's queues a couple of times
before and was keen to keep on her good side as best as possible to
prevent unnecessary hold-ups.

"You think I'm beautiful, do you?" Pigface snorted, raising one of her
thick eyebrows above Skye's plastic bag of toiletries, which she was
playfully inspecting. "Oh yes, Madam, when I was a man, I used to fancy
you so very much" Skye simpered, bobbing at the knee as she spoke. "In
fact, I used to think about you when I tugged my little dicklet at
night. Oh, your beauty made my heart flutter so".

Pigface stared coolly at Skye and waited for the air hostess to continue
her spiel. "Of course, now I'm a member of the fairer sex, I now see you
as a role model, Madam! I hope I can be as pretty and as...ample as you
when I grow older! You're a real woman, Madam, not a skinny little twig
like me!" A sly smirk crept across Pigface's mouth. She seemed somewhat
sated by the flight attendant's fawning display. Skye sensed this and
sighed inwardly with relief. She still knew how to give a good speech.

"That can be arranged, can't it Ace, my dear?" countered Pigface as she
continued to make a song and dance of inspecting the contents of the
clear bag. "You know that if I win the upcoming company lottery and earn
your services as a slave for a week, Michelle has given me permission to
fatten you up! Wouldn't that be wonderful, Ace? I think you'd make a
stunning BBW!" The thought caused a lump to appear in Skye's throat.  "I
understand that little uniform of yours goes up to a size 32. You'd look
so cute waddling down the aisle! All the chubby chasers would want a bit
of you!" Skye swallowed but the lump remained.

Skye knew better than to take threats like this with a pinch of salt.
Michelle loved the idea when Pam broached it to her, and she would often
threaten to fix the results of the lottery in Pam's favour if Skye
didn't chew her food 32 times before swallowing. "If I ever catch you
eating like a pig, then a pig you shall become," Michelle would often
chide as she served Skye up another helping of three-day old withered
airline salad, garnished with her boyfriend's spunk.

"Perhaps I'll buy multiple tickets. Or even a whole roll" Pam murmured
idly to herself as she opened up the bag and pulled out a tub of anal
pain relief cream. "This looks like it's over the legal limit, I'm
afraid" she lied, dropping it unceremoniously in the bin beside her.
Skye's eyes welled up slightly as the loss of her cream but she was at
least grateful that she got to keep the lubricants. She must have said
something right, then. Skye composed herself enough to say "Thank you
Madam!"

"Don't mention it, sweetheart. Now be a dear and go through the metal
detector machine...while those curvy hips of yours can still fit through
it!"

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

'Limpdick' was manning the metal detector machine. He was a small,
effeminate man with a slightly boyish look and a floppy emo hairstyle,
and like Pam he also had no love lost for Ace McLaren. The animosity
arose from Ace publicly outing Limpdick as a homosexual on the Heathrow
Airport Intranet Noticeboard a few years ago. Lucky guess on Ace's part,
as it happened. And once his guess was confirmed as fact, the resolutely
homophobic Ace went out of his way to make Limpdick's life a misery
every morning by boorishly barracking him over his sexuality and
treating him like he had some kind of contagious disease. So you can
imagine that few people were happier to learn of Ace's faggoty feminized
fate than Elliot. And he had no qualms with taking out his residue anger
on the sweet, meek little air hostess that Ace had become.

Skye beamed her biggest stewardess smile at Limpdick as she approached
the scanner, in the rather fruitless hope that she might earn a reprieve
from her tormentee turned tormentor today. "Stop right there at the
white line, little lady. So, you wish to fly today, do you?" Limpdick
enquired, as if addressing a child. "That's right, Sir! I'm part of the
plane's crew, Sir!" Skye lisped in response. If she played along with
this sham of a conversation, she reasoned, she might be spared the
embarrassment of going through the metal detector.

"Is that so, my love. Are you the pilot?" Eliott tittered to himself.
Skye cringed slightly before giving the desired response. "No, no, no,
I'm too much of a bimbo for THAT, Sir," she giggled, placing her hand
lightly over her mouth. "All those buttons and levers, I wouldn't know
what to do! I'm the trolley dolly, Sir! It's my job to serve food and
drink to all the hunky men on board and tend to their every need, Sir!"

Eliott flicked through Miss Blue's passport and seemed to like what he
saw. He looked up at Skye, who was still grinning at him like an idiot
with that plastic smile of hers. Eliott knew full well she was in a rush
and savoured every last second that he wasted in pretend deliberation
before again speaking. "Very good, Miss Blue. Why don't you give us a
little twirl so we can see that you're appropriately dressed for work,
and then we'll let you through without any further ado". Skye did just
that, but when she completed her spin, the look on Eliott's face was not
one of approval.

"Miss Blue," Eliott spoke slowly, "you do realise that you're not
allowed to bring liquids onto the plane, don't you?" Skye looked at him
blankly. "Here, let me show you what I'm talking about". And with that,
he grabbed Skye's right hand and wrenched it violently behind her back,
causing her to let out a high-pitched squeal. Next, Eliott took her hand
and smeared it all over her bulbous backside, the moist sensation
suddenly cluing her in on what he was referring to.  Unbeknownst to her
until now, that disgusting hobo on the bus had left a 'deposit' all over
her backside. Mortified and shocked in equal measure, her mouth gaped
open in an o-shape and her cheeks blazed a beetroot red as she fondled
the soaked latex stretched over her rear end in disbelief.

It was a good job that Skye's latex dress was wipe-clean by design.
Eliott used Skye's right hand to scoop up the rest of the cum lying on
her rump and then took a step back, crossed his arms and stared at her
in mock indignation. In response Skye just stood there shaking, open-
mouthed and knock-kneed, with a mound of tramp cum gumming up her right
paw.

"Dispose of it" he commanded. "Not in there" he snapped as Skye shimmied
meekly towards a waste bin. "Safety hazard, don't you know. You'll have
to...I don't know...eat it, I guess."

"S-s-s-s-sir!" Skye almost began to hyperventilate when the
ramifications of this order hit home. Eliott was unmoved by her
stuttering appeal. She  realised there was no way out of this
predicament: she was going to have to swallow this cold, clumpy load of
cum - cum which belonged to that repulsive wino. Who knew where his dick
has been in the past?

After a moment's hesitation, her desire not to eat the spunk was
overcome by her desire not to miss her flight, so she steeled herself
before licking each single finger on her hand dry of cum, a task which
required two or three slurps per finger before Eliott was satisfied that
the trolley dolly had wolfed down every last drop of hobo juice.

"Expertly done. Now pass through this metal detector, Miss, and you're
ready to board".

"But, but..." But Skye knew it was pointless to argue. Both she and he
knew what would happen if she passed through that metal detector. She
sighed a sigh that smelled intensely of stale cum, and then walked
through the threshold.

The detector, with stunning predictability, went off, filling the room
with an ear-piercing siren. If it seemed everyone in the airport was
staring at her, that's because they probably were. She continued to grin
airily like a moron while Limpdick frisked her curvy body with a
handheld metal detector. All the while, the loud beeps of the alarm
continued to ring out

He scanned her arms. Nothing. Then her breasts. Nothing. Then her feet
and legs. Nothing. "Get to the point, dickhead" Skye thought to herself,
bitterly. She knew he was dragging this out unnecessarily. Finally,
Eliott scanned her groin region and to the surprise of neither of them,
the detector went crazy.

"Excuse me, Miss" Limpdick grinned. "Would you mind stepping behind this
curtain? We have to perform a strip search".

Skye Blue momentarily lost herself in her exasperated state. "Listen
here, Elliott," she whispered behind a clenched smile. "This is
ridiculous. You know full well what is setting that detector off. Can't
you just let me pass? Don't you think I'm suffering enough as it is?".

The tirade failed to intimidate Eliott, who calmly fanned himself with
Skye's forged passport for the duration of her speech. At one time,
Ace's bellowing rants were ferocious enough to strike terror in the
heart of the recipient. But after Michelle's boyfriend tightened her
vocal cords up an octave or two, they now just sounded like the whining
of a spoiled little princess. All that was missing from Skye Blue's
protestations was the sight of her petulantly stamping her foot on the
floor.

"Well, we can't MAKE you agree to a strip search," he conceded. "But I'm
sure those police officers over there could try. And do you really want
them taking a look at this precious passport of yours?" Skye's face
paled from beetroot red to ghostly white in under a second. "I'll follow
you behind the curtain, Sir," she yielded. "Good girl". Although gay, he
couldn't resist giving that plump shemale ass of hers a good hearty slap
as she minced through the curtain. Like Pam, he too hoped he won her
services the intra-airport lottery. Skye Blue would make for a very
sensual showgirl dancer on the Brighton Gay Pride float parade, given a
week's training.

Skye was afforded little more dignity in the privacy of the side-room.
"Lift up your dress and lower your knickers please, Cumbreath" ordered
Pam, as Eliott watched in amusement from afar. Skye obliged, pulling
down her knickers (the very same ones with the flirtatious 'Arrivals'
slogan on the backside) until they rested around her ankles. This
revealed the source of the metal detector's ire - a metal chastity belt
clamped tightly around the sissy's shrivelled penis, with the word
'Departures' engraved on the side. Very cute. Furthering the theme, the
public patch above Skye's cock had been trimmed into a landing strip and
dyed a light blue.

"Oh goodness," exclaimed Pam in mock shock. "I didn't realise you were
still a Mister! Not much of one though, by the looks of this little
cutie though, mmm?" she added, giving it a flick. "Eliott, you'd better
take over from here. See if Mr Skye Blue here is withholding any liquid
from us, can you?"

And with that, Eliott scuttled over and immediately set to work fondling
Skye's hairless balls, causing the air hostess to writhe around in lust.
It had been so long since she'd last had release, and although she
wasn't exactly enjoying having her privates rubbed by a gay man, she'd
endured so much sexual stimulation over the course of the day that this
latest intrusion on her privacy was enough to set her over the edge. She
grunted and groaned softly as Eliott toyed with her gonads with his
skilled hands, but of course the chastity belt prevented any form of
sexual release.

Not in his wildest dreams did Eliott imagine that one day he'd be
cupping the balls of his former  gay-bashing harasser while he was
dressed up like Barbie's slutty sister. And not only that, but enjoying
it! Skye continued to pant and moan like a bitch in heat under the power
of the man's ministrations, and her wanton lust only got worst when
Eliott reached behind and suddenly jammed one of his gloved fingers
straight up her anal passage! By now irreversibly worked up, Skye now
soon found herself rubbing her crotch shamelessly up against the male
security guard, practically humping his leg in a futile attempt to
achieve sexual satisfaction.

After milking it for all it was worth (the moment, not her penis - the
steel cage made that impossible), Eliott withdrew his attentions,
leaving Skye to sit there and quiver from sheer sexual frustration.
"Well, that little session should help encourage you to be an attentive
little hostess to your passengers today. You're almost ready to fly".

"One thing I don't get," interrupted Pam as she slowly circled the
sexpot stewardess, whose dress was still hitched around her waist, "is
why she was so reluctant to come behind the curtain. She's normally such
a well-behaved gir-"

The sight of Skye's bare bum cheeks caused her to lose her train of
thought for a few seconds, and then break out into a laughing fit. She
even laughs like a pig, thought Skye to herself. "Eliott, darling, come
look at this!"

They huddled round to stare at her exposed tush. There, emblazoned
across her cheeks in floral blue type, was the phrase 'Cock Pit'. It had
clearly been a labour of love for the tattooist - the 'I' in pit was in
the shape of an ejaculating cock and balls, with a drip of sperm
representing the dot. Both words were underlined with an extravagant
arrow design which pointed directly to Skye's hole. She had absolutely
no idea how a certain well-known rock band had managed to smuggle an
entire tattooing kit onto their flight last week. But then she heard the
pair of security guards sniggering at her anal motif, and at least one
possibility for how that might have occurred entered her blonde head.

"You're - snrk! - free to go, Mr Blue!" cackled Pam, as she stuffed the
forged passport in-between Skye's breasts and pulled her dress back down
over her hips. Skye bent over at the knees and began to hoist up her
knickers, but Pam swatted her hand away. "Nuh-uh, dearie, I think you're
in too much of a hurry to be fiddling with your naughty nothings, don't
you?"

And so Skye Blue was forced to shuffle through the duty-free area with
her panties around her knees until finally she was out of Eliott and
Pam's sight. From there, it was a short walk through to the Layover
Airways employee's lounge, where she could at last escape the public's
roving eye. It would prove to be a very temporary respite.

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

The Layover Airways employee lounge was uncharacteristically empty for
this time in the morning. Usually by the time she stumbled in, her
flight's designated pilot would be stood at the door, tapping his foot
impatiently at her tardiness. There were a few genetic girl hostesses
getting changed in the adjacent locker room, but Skye Blue knew very
well they wouldn't want to socialise with her. Their professional duties
were far more respectable than hers, you see. Although they were still
expected to have sex with their clients if required, they were treated
with dignity and respect, like high-class call girls. Typically they'd
spent around 90% of their shift curled up in their client's lap, sipping
champagne, eating grapes and watching the latest movies on the
entertainment screen. Not a bad way to earn £50,000 per annum, all told.

The shemale wing of the business, however, was quite another matter
entirely. They existed to fulfil the darker end of the market. Literally
nothing was off limits if the customer ordered the shemale special.
Thus, Skye's fellow stewardesses wanted nothing to do with someone who,
as far as they were aware, was nothing more than a cock-hungry little
tranny who was willing to debase herself in any way possible just to
taste more man flesh. "Heck," they gossiped, "that faggot even travels
to and from work wearing her costume! Imagine that! I wouldn't even wear
this silly get up for my boyfriend at home!"

So this was how low the 2010 International Pilot Of The Year had fallen.
Even a bunch of glorified prostitutes turned their noses on her now.
Perhaps they would have been a bit more kinder if they'd realised she
had been feminized into a sexpot stewardess against her will. Or if they
knew she only earned £9,000 per annum, all of which went straight into
her estranged wife's bank account. Or if that cute little French
brunette - Framboise, was that her name? - had realised that they'd
shared a night of passion once, a few years ago, when she was still a
man. Skye even overheard her once telling the other girls in the locker
room in that outrageously sexy accent of hers that Ace was ze best fuck
she'd ever had, non? Well sorry to be the bearer of bad news ladies, but
thanks to a 'no lesbian' clause in her contract, Ace's penis would never
again bother the insides of a woman.

In any case, there was no sign of her pilot anywhere, which struck Skye
as being a bit odd, but c'est la vie. She decided to make the best of
this rare bit of downtime by taking a seat (crossing her legs at the
knee in ball-crushing fashion, as Skye's enforced etiquette dictated)
and rooting around in the magazine pile for something to read, hoping
that she'd find something that could take her mind off the horrors that
awaited her on the flight. Her hand brushed past a copy of the morning
paper, which made her instinctively want to flip it over to check the
sports results. She had absolutely no idea how her beloved Manchester
United were getting on these days. But sports results were most
definitely not on Skye's authorised reading list, which was how she came
to be fitted with those permanent baby blue contact lens in the first
place. She dreaded to think what Michelle and her boyfriend would do to
her eyes to top THAT, so she picked up a copy of Cosmopolitan sadly and
began reading.

She was half way through an article entitled '15 Ways To Make Him Hard!'
when her pilot finally arrived. She heard the confident thud of men's
footwear approaching and waited to be addressed.

"Hello, Skye. You'll be flying with me today."

The familiar voice turned Skye's blood cold. Her heartbeat raced with
fear, causing her gigantic knockers to heave up and down comically. She
began to tremble. The magazine fluttered to the floor.

"Littering, Skye? Really?"

Skye slowly turned around to face the pilot. There, standing before her,
dressed in a majestic male pilot's uniform, stood Michelle. She
straightened up the tie hanging over her well-covered breasts, removed
her wayfarer sunglasses and then addressed her husband once more.

"Don't you realise that's an instant demerit?"