By: Alyssa Hyatt
By the time the seatbelt light finally went out, Flight Attendant Skye
Blue had been reduced to a panting, breathy mess of boobs and curls.
Straddled in Mr Tarasov's lap, she was practically humping her chastised
crotch against his right leg, her bruised and slobber-covered tits
swinging freely between the pair of them as she thrusted back and forth.
She moaned and groaned and sighed in that adorable high-pitched squeak of
hers as she attempted to bring herself off, but the steel cage just
wouldn't allow it.
In contrast, Tarasov was the picture of tranquillity - and as well he
might be, seeing as he'd came in his boxers twice already thanks to Skye's
skilled handiwork. His right hand was firmly clenched around Skye's
tattooed left buttock, but that embrace aside he was all but ignoring the
licentious display in front of him. With earphones in place he relaxed
back in his comfy chair, sipped what remained of his champagne and
continued to engross himself in the TV set in front of him. Held tightly
in his left hand, the key to the prison that was holding Skye's maleness
hostage.
Frustrated, Skye took time out between humps to glance over her shoulder
to see what was stealing her bloated beau's attention. She recognised what
the mini-screen built into the seat in front of them was playing instantly
- it one of Layover TV's most popular shows. It consisted of footage from
a previous flight, in which Skye Blue was gangbanged senseless by several
burly 'gentlemen'. Their faces were pixellated out to protect their
identities, but Skye, as a former fan in her male days, recognised them as
an NFL team on their way back from an exhibition game in London. A wave of
dread shot through her womanly body as she relived the ordeal. Tarasov had
an altogether different reaction to the footage. His thick member hardened
for the third time around Skye's delicate fingers (which were still
entrenched in the depths of his flies), and she dutifully took the cue to
begin pumping it up and down, in rhythm with her rocking hips.
Such excellent care Miss Blue takes to ensure the needs of her passengers
are met! But the sexually-charged stewardess' hospitality wasn't down to
professionalism, or from fear of the cameras that were concealed in the
air conditioning units. Her lust was genuine - a by-product of her cock
being locked in its cage for days on end. Although Skye now had the
chassis of a goddess, the engine driving it was still very much male and
every touch on her nubile body threatened to push her over the edge. So
crazed was she in this constant state of semi-arousal that the gluttonous
gargoyle in front of her may as well have been Scarlett Johansson, the way
she caressed his distended body with her free hand and peppered his cheeks
with passionate, desperate kisses.
After a fashion, his cock erupted yet again in his trousers under the
pressure of Skye's manicured ministrations and apparently the third time
was a charm, as Tarasov suddenly unclipped the seatbelt resting just above
Skye's booty, sending the horny hostess tumbling backwards to the floor.
The impact cooled Miss Blue's jets just enough to knock some sense into
her. The sudden realisation of what she - Ace! The playboy of the skies! -
had just done to another man made her want to reach for the nearest
sickbag, but instead without missing a beat, she licked her fingers clean,
straightened the pillbox hat sitting atop her crown and quietly began
cleaning up the mess she had made in Sir's trousers, a task which required
both hands and her mouth. Showing hesitation of any kind was an instant
demerit.
Nonetheless, Skye's demeanour had changed now. She was now silent and
sullen as she licked Sir's privates clean of three loads' worth of spilt
semen, shame and sexual frustration scrunching up her pretty face in equal
measure. Mr Tarasov couldn't have cared less about his hostesses'
enthusiasm for her job though, as his attention had already been diverted
by the presence of Mr Hanson, who had taken up a vacant seat next to the
pair.
For the first time ever, Skye was grateful that the surgeon's extensive
facial surgery regime had left her so unrecognisable that even at close
proximity, her former drinking buddy couldn't recognise her. That also
meant she'd have a hell of a time convincing him of her true identity if
and when they finally got some time alone away from the intrusive cameras,
but right this second, while she had another man's testicles in her mouth,
that could be considered a blessing. After the men reacquainted themselves
with meaningless pleasantries, Mr Hanson got down to brass tacks. Skye
listened in from in-between Mr Tarasov's legs.
"Sorry to interrupt during such a tender moment, Mikhail," began Mr
Hanson, "but I presume you've had enough time to think over our offer?"
"Yes, I certainly have. And everything seems to be in order, my friend.
But I must confess, when you first approached me with this proposal, I
thought to myself: 'no way'."
"You swore and hung up on me as I recall!" laughed Mr Hanson. Mr Tarasov
chuckled in kind, the vibrations causing a sea spray of cum to splatter on
Skye's chin.
"But then I chewed it over some more. As you know, Richard, I am not a
young man like yourself. And in light of my anger management issues, and
the heart problems that have come of it, I came to the unfortunate
conclusion that maybe it would be for the best that I re-consider your
offer." He lightened. "And I'd better do it quick, because I think this
little cocksucker down here is trying to finish me off!"
"Indeed! Look at those lips of hers; I bet she could suck the paintwork
off the outside of this plane," Mr Hanson quipped, to the Russian's
approval. 'Hey, you stole that line from me!' pouted Skye miserably. When
Ace coined that zinger several years ago within earshot of a female Europa
board member, he would never have dreamt that one day it would be turned
around and used on him. She was the cocksucker now.
Skye lowered her blushing eyes as she comprehended this fact and continued
to clean the pole in front of her with her tongue in impotent fury as the
talks continued. 'What business proposal is this, anyway?' she wondered to
herself between loud slurps.
Tarasov continued his speech. "But another thing I am not, Richard, is a
fool. I knew what you were trying to do, but I promised myself that it'd
cost you. Of course, we're still playing the percentage game with a few
minor details, but now you've agreed to and acted upon my main condition,
I think the rest of the deal can be considered a formality."
"Then that means," said Mr Hanson triumphantly, "that we can go ahead as
planned and announce at this year's Airline Leaders Summit that Europa and
Imperial, the world's two biggest commercial airlines, are to merge!"
Luckless Lady Blue was unfortunate enough to have a mouth full of dried
cum when the bombshell hit. The revelation caused her to splutter her load
back over Mr Tarasov's crotch, a move which did not best please the
airline mogul. Suddenly enraged, he reached out and hauled her to her feet
with a shriek by grabbing her blonde hair with his powerful claw.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, bitch?," spat Tarasov at the
trembling stewardess, his angered face now as red as his vodka-tinted
nose. Frightened for her life, Skye could give no answer more intelligible
than a series of stuttered apologies. "Maybe I should pull out those
pretty teeth of yours, slut," he pondered, manhandling Skye's feminized
jawline with his coarse fingers. "Perhaps then you'd be able to suck a
man's cock without fucking up, no?"
Mr Hanson laughed heartedly at his business partner's over-reaction and
moved to diffuse the situation. "Mikhail, you get so worked up over the
little things when you've been drinking. Are you going to be like this
during our negotiations later?" Tarasov replied with a non-committal
grunt. "You can't blame the girl for being excited - after all, you forget
she works in our industry too. It's not every day that a common cabin crew
member gets to hob-nob with the movers and shakers at the top of the food
chain, is it?"
Given Tarasov's notoriously tempestuous nature, and the way Ace's last
meeting with him had gone a year ago, Skye recognised this was probably
not the best time to point out that actually she was the guest of honour
at last year's summit. "I suppose you're right," growled Tarasov, without
actually acknowledging that he was wrong, and as a way of saying sorry he
completed Skye's task for her by wrenching her head into his lap and
moping up the residual jizz from around his member with her platinum
tresses.
"Go get us a refill you worthless slut, our glasses are empty" roared
Tarasov, sploshing the remains of his champagne in the stewardesses' face.
"Yes, Sir," whimpered Skye submissively, finishing up her duties by
placing Sir's still-throbbing penis back into its boxers, planting a
loving kiss goodbye on its head as she did so.
Ace used to insist that Michelle do the same to him when they were an item
even though she hated it dearly, so she considered it poetic to make the
same gesture Skye's calling card now that she was the one who spent her
time on their knees. The mock captain's salute that accompanied it was
merely company policy. Job done, Miss Blue excused herself and minced back
to the kitchen area as fast as her tall, tall heels would allow.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Skye uncorked the unbelievably expensive bottle of red wine and placed it
carefully on her drinks tray, where it sat alongside a couple of bottles
of beer, an ice bucket and some glasses. The tray wobbled ominously as the
plane hit a spot of turbulence. Skye gulped. This was a ticking time bomb
of demerits just waiting to happen.
Skye figured she could afford a few moments to herself, so she took the
opportunity to tidy up her appearance. She eased her poor, aching baps
back into their bra cups and unwedgied her knickers from her arse crack.
She was just about to wash the spunk out of her hair when a powerful
sensation from deep within her backside caused her knees to buckle.
"Ooooooooooh," she mewled, grabbing hold of the taps for balance. One of
the passengers had pressed the stewardess button on their control panel,
causing the electric sensor implanted inside Skye's tush to rumble. They
were giving her the hurry up call. "Coming, Sir!" she gasped. If the cage
around her semi-erect penis had just been a tiny bit looser, then she most
definitely would have been.
Realising she had no time to waste, she scooped up the drinks tray and
sashayed out to greet her guests before they could jab at the button
again. She underestimated their impatience. "Oooooooooh, pooooooooooo" she
cried as the intruder in her anal passage vibrated wildly. Another three
steps forward and it throbbed again. Skye bit her lip and concentrated her
entire being on keeping the tray upright above her head while her girlish
body shuddered with sensation. Against all odds, she succeeded. At this
point her nipples were almost bursting out through the latex of her
uniform. Any more turned on and she would have been able to rest the tray
on them.
Skye was just a few strides away from her destination when Mr Tarasov,
still red with rage over the earlier incident, locked eyes with his
quivering prey. She flashed a warm smile in his direction as a peace
offering, but it was to no avail. His fat finger stabbed down hard on the
stewardess button. This time the wave of pleasure caught her in mid-stride
and in the ensuring panic to keep the assorted bottles on her tray upright
the ice bucket tipped over, spilling most of its freezing wares straight
down the crevice of her cleavage!
Somehow, Skye managed to compose herself against the stinging sensation of
the pile of ice bouncing away between her lady lumps, and survived long
enough to place the tray safely on the table between the gentlemen, an act
which earned her ironic applause from her lecherous guests. She began to
pick the lumps of frozen water from her breasts, but Mr Hanson's strong
hand slapped hers away and his ordered for her to kneel in front of them.
"Such slow service on this airline," grumbled Mr Tarasov as he greedily
pawed around in Skye's pillows for some ice to add to his drink.
"Well, it's only a small private flight, Mikhail," reasoned Mr Hanson,
"it's not right to judge them by our high standards." He rummaged around
in Skye's busty ice bucket, causing her to let out an involuntary moan,
but withdrew no ice. "Erm...excuse me, miss? The ice cubes are a little on
the large side for my liking....could you grind them up for me?"
It took Skye a couple of seconds to comprehend what was being asked of
her. She choked back a tear, placed her hands on the sides of her breasts
and smooshed them together in big, circular motions, pounding them until
all that remained between them was crushed ice. When she had finished
making slush with her puppies, she was forced to press her breasts
together with her hands to stop the smaller ice shards from slipping down
her cleavage, which made them appear even larger than their already
outrageous 38E dimensions.
"I thought you English liked your beer warm?" questioned Tarasov, his mood
improved thanks to Skye's titillating display. Mr Hanson simply smirked
and scooped around deep within Skye's tits for a handful of ice. The stuff
at the bottom always tasted the best.
Skye was forced to hold this humiliating pose for what seemed like forever
as her two guests casually discussed what their plan would be later
tonight in Las Vegas. Over the course of the conversation, Ace's virile
exploits the previous year were discussed in graphic detail and both men
agreed that it was a shame that he'd left their industry so suddenly. "His
wife told me he'd gone to Asia to 'find himself', but wouldn't go into
more detail than that," Hanson explained. "Seen it happen many times
before, some pilots just can't hack the pressure."
"I guess his cavalier act was just a front!" smirked Tarasov with an
annoying sense of self-satisfaction.
"Perhaps, but it is a pity all the same. I know you had your run-ins with
him, but he was great company on these business trips!"
I didn't care for the way he spoke to me at last year's party, but I can't
take that away from him, at least," begrudged Tarasov. "Who could forget
the time he jumped up on that podium at the Glitter Gulch and convinced
two strippers to suck him off at once?"
"The stuff of legend," Hanson concurred, scooping up the remaining few
shards of ice that hadn't yet melted and dripped down Miss Blue's bosom.
"I propose a toast to Ace McLaren, a real man's man - wherever he may be."
Skye heard the glasses chink but the endless mental torture had left her
too weak to lift her heavy eyelash implants up to look. She tried instead
to think positive: at least her former persona was still in Mr Hanson's
good books despite his sudden departure. That boded well for their future
meeting, if only she could set it up. Once Richard had helped her escape
this nightmare, he'd surely use his power and stroke to keep this entire
feminine fiasco covered from the press, and Michelle and her surgeon would
likely end up doing time in some hellish foreign prison. Although the body
hair would never grow back, a few corrective surgeries and treatments and
it'd be like Skye Blue never existed.
The sound of whispered Russian snapped the stewardess out of her silly
fantasy. Her blue eyes flashed up to see Mr Tarasov discussing something
with Vlad, his brick shithouse bodyguard. Ulp. She'd nearly forgotten
about him. Nearly.
"Hostess," snapped Tarasov, dragging her back to her feet by her hair. "My
bodyguard has indicated that he would like a drink. I don't normally like
my employees drinking on the job, but this is a longer than usual flight,
so I think I shall allow it this once. Bring him a beer."
Skye Blue showed the kind of hesitancy that would later result in her
performance evaluation chart being covered in demerit-red pen. She wanted
no truck with this 6"7 bruiser. While the two suits looked upon her with
decadent lust, the look in this guy's eyes suggested something else. Hate.
Disdain. This was a guy who probably beat up on gay people for laughs, and
in her current ensemble, with her bulging tits, man-pleasing curves and
cocklicking lips, there was no-one gayer on planet Earth than Miss Skye
Blue, shemale stewardess at your service.
Nonetheless, since a Layover Airways hostess cannot refuse a customer's
request under any circumstances, her resistance was futile. Aware that her
two tormentors in the cockpit were likely spending more time evaluating
her performance than keeping an eye on the sky ahead, she sucked up all
the courage her petite little body could muster and flounced over to the
man-beast with a bottle of beer and a glass. All the while he stared
through her with eyes that were even colder than her ice-ravaged boobies.
He snatched the glass from her hands when she arrived and motioned for her
to pour. Beads of sweat dripped down her forehead as she tipped the drink
into his glass. If she spilled even a drop, she knew she'd be as good as
dead. The head of the beer was almost kissing the rim of the glass when
disaster struck.
She remembered hearing some whispering and giggling behind her. The next
few seconds were a blur. The sensor in her butt jolted, causing her to tip
the contents of the bottle all over Vlad's groin. Suffice it to say, Vlad
did not take this slip with good grace. After hurling a string of Russian
obscenities at the luckless Miss Blue (who to her credit was already
frantically attempting to pat his crotch dry with a napkin), he leapt to
his feet, grabbed her by her neckerchief and pinned her to one of the
windows as the threats continued.
Just as Skye was seriously considering defecating into her satin panties,
Mr Tarasov stepped in and broke up the moment with a single click of his
nicotine-stained fingers. "Vlad! I paid good money for that whore, put her
down right now!"
The change in the atmosphere was so sudden, it surprised Skye that the
oxygen masks didn't automatically deploy. Vlad reluctantly released his
grip on the flight attendant and muttered something apologetic-sounding
to his boss in almost inaudible Russian. As Tarasov continued berating his
bodyguard in his native tongue, it dawned on Skye that she wasn't the only
one on this flight who was at the mercy of this revolting little man. Vlad
was a paid employee of Tarasov's and likely counted on his monthly
paycheck to feed his wife and children. That meant whatever he says goes,
for him as well as her. Skye briefly felt a sense of kinship with the
brawny ape, which ended when he flashed her a hostile glance in the middle
of his dressing down.
Tarasov repeated the final line of his tirade in English, so the message
was clear to Skye, too. "If you touch her again without permission, you're
fired," he boomed. "Now sit." Vlad did so. Next Tarasov turned his
attention to the shemale.
"You clumsy bitch," he barked. "This is the second time already that
you've disturbed my flight with your incompetence. You're all tits and no
brains aren't you, you fucking airhead?"
"Yes Sir!"
"Yes Sir what?"
"Yes Sir, I'm an airhead who is all tits and no brains, Sir!" parroted
Skye, blushing furiously.
"Yes, you are. A stupid fucking bimbo." Tarasov seemed to calm now that
they had come to an understanding on Skye's mental capability. "But
perhaps we can overlook that seeing as you're as obedient as you are dumb.
Now, clean up the mess you made." Skye reached for the tissues but Tarasov
grabbed her hand and wrenched it behind her back until she let go. "Not
with that, airhead" he whispered sinisterly into her ear. "Here's how
you're going to do it..." She gasped as he explained his masterplan to
her. "Ooooh, poooooo!"
"Is there a problem, bimbo?"
"N-no, Sir!"
"That's a good bimbo."
Within seconds, the plan was put into action. Vlad was forced to sit down
in his seat, motionless except for his grinding teeth, as Skye hovered
over him, her back facing his front. She lifted her dress up, exposing her
naughty nothings, and on Tarasov's command, began Operation: Clean Up by
grinding her ass like a lapdancer into Vlad's pelvic region.
Although the technique was mildly successful at mopping up the suds of
beer around Vlad's groin mess, it was patently obvious that Tarasov had
set this mock-lapdance up to embarrass the subjugated pair for his own
perverted kicks. Just to eliminate any doubt, soon both Tarasov and Hanson
gathered round, filming the lewd display on their mobile phones while
whooping and hollering orders at the sexpot stewardess.
"Rub your tits!"
"Wiggle that ass!"
"Lick those lips!"
Skye almost tied herself in knots trying to keep pace with the demands
that were raining down on her. At the same time she could feel the heat
of Vlad's rage radiating into her back, but she didn't dare stop following
her orders. Suddenly, Skye felt something. Something that Skye would never
have imagined she would feel under these circumstances. Seemingly her
gyrations had done the trick - Vlad had grown an erection, and it was
trying to drill its way through her knickers!
After a moment's shock and revulsion, a bulb went off above Skye's head,
and it didn't belong to the reading light. It was her mood that had
changed now, for the sunnier. After administering a final jiggle for good
measure, she lifted her shapely buttocks from his loins and spun round to
look at her prey with a devious smile. He was sat perfectly still,drenched
in sweat, his hands burrowed deeply into the armrests. In the middle of
his damp crotch, the most magnificent tent you could ever hope to see in a
man's pants. Tarasov and Hanson whooped in laughter when they saw it and
shared a very unbusinessman-like high five. Their homophobic bodyguard had
just been given the biggest boner of his life, by a shemale no less! This
fact amused them greatly.
It amused Skye too, but her thoughts were primarily fixed on revenge. Not
since sprouting a pair of boobies had she ever been allowed to get the
better of someone, but at this moment Miss Blue realised the power a sexy
lady - even a ladyboy - was capable of holding over a bigger, stronger
man. She couldn't take her revenge on him for his earlier attack
physically, she mused to herself, so she would do it by humiliating him
and making him feel a little of what she had to go through every day. If
she had to give this bastard a lapdance, then she was going to give him
the best fucking lapdance he'd ever had, so he'd spent the rest of his
life doubting his sexuality.
With the camera phones rolling expectantly, the show began. Commands no
longer needed to be whooped from the audience, this girl was taking
charge. Skye kicked things off with a cheeky wink and a blown kiss as she
slowly unbuttoned the poppers on her dress, letting it fall to the floor
in a heap at her feet. Now clad in her satin underwear, she pranced over
him and and knelt between his legs, sensually rubbing the length of his
legs up and down with her delicate hands as his huge cock twitched in-
between. She looked up at him with a wickedly sinful grin and licked her
lips as she traced the head of his penis teasingly through his trousers
with the tip of her nail extension. He swallowed with some difficulty.
The truculence had faded from Vlad's scarred face. What replaced it was
almost pitiful as he whimpered to himself and tried desperately to avoid
looking at the lustrous sex show occurring between his legs. Skye could
tell that he was trying to think of something, anything, which could
deflate his organ and restore his prized heterosexuality. Skye wasn't
going to let that happen. Not while she could still feel the chaffing of
the neckerchief round her throat from the earlier assault.
"Oooh, I think you like that, don't you baby?" she cooed, while massaging
his erection between her mammoth jugs. "I think you prefer a shemale's
touch to a woman's, don't you, my big, bad gay boy?" His face said no, his
glands screamed yes.
The airline bigwigs were totally on board with what Skye was trying to do.
They yelled encouragement from the sidelines as Miss Blue continued her
lewd act. She had never given a lap dance before in her life (and never
imagined she would!), but as Ace she had received hundreds so considered
herself something of an expert on the matter. She used this wisdom to put
on a truly ball-busting display. For her next trick, she slithered up off
the floor and positioned herself squarely in his lap, her knees resting on
his hips.
From this position, Skye's breasts were level with Vlad's face and she
made sure he got an eyeful as she rode him up and down like a cowgirl.
Thanks to her extensive experience in bed (from both sides of the gender
divide), she was able to sense when he was near to cumming from his body
language alone. When his body began to stiffen, she slowed down her
gyrations just enough to keep the wolves from the door, amusing herself
during the downtime by smothering his face with her cleavage.
Once this had run its course, Skye flipped herself over and began rubbing
her pantied ass up and down his body, not unlike the way she did during
Operation: Clean Up, but this time with more vigour, enthusiasm and sass.
As the vinegar strokes approached, she stopped dead in her tracks and laid
back on her client's body, rubbing her tits suggestively right in his line
of sight as he physically shook with sexual desire. She reached behind
with her left arm and cupped the back of Vlad's head, allowing her to
pull herself up to within earshot. "I bet your wife has never treated you
like this, huh stud?," she purred into his cauliflower ear. He bit his lip
and gave no response.
"C'mon honey, be honest with me and I might finish you off." She clenched
her ass cheeks around his dick once more, so the question wouldn't get
lost in translation. It sucked the oxygen from his lungs. "So tell me, do
I turn you on more than your wife back home does, mmm?"
"Da," he answered mournfully between gasps.
"That's what I thought, gay boy!" she replied with a smirk, a hint of
victory colouring her deceptively sweet voice. With that, she went back to
work, grinding her surgically-augmented ass into his crotch a few more
times for good measure, before strutting off him triumphantly just as he
was on the verge of release, leaving him with balls bluer even than Miss
Blue's uniform. The show was over. The beer had long since dried but there
was a wet spot in Vlad's groin region all the same. She received her
second round of applause of the flight, but this time it was genuine.
As she curtseyed to show her gratitude, she found her eyes gravitating
automatically towards the businessmen's crotches. Ugh! Now why did she
keep doing that? Still, the unmistakeable bulges in their trousers told
her that she was back in her passenger's good books, which was a nice
side-benefit from her revenge-dance. Although not a hard and fast rule,
happy passengers tended to mean less beatings.
Plus, she needed to start buttering up Mr Hanson now if she was ever to
convince him that he wanted to spend some, ahem, 'private time' with her
outside of the airport, so she could explain the situation to him. She
decided to kick things up a notch. She eyed him wantonly as she shimmied
back into her dress, even going as far as to blow him a kiss, and was
pleased to see the gesture returned. The male mind locked inside her hated
that she was forced to use these feminine wiles to seduce her former best
friend, but she knew it was her only chance to reclaim her lost
masculinity.
As she was buttoning the poppers on her uniform, the handsome executive
approached, causing her to get flustered and muddle up her buttons. He
placed his hand on her curvaceous behind and motioned for her to join him
at his seat. She gushingly accepted the invite, with a little more
genuineness than she was comfortable with. Never mind, the plan was
working perfectly. Within a week her body would be free of these
bothersome female hormones.
As she was led away she glanced back at Vlad, who still hadn't moved from
his chair, seemingly apoplectic with rage and sexual frustration. She shot
him a smug look that said 'don't fuck with me, I'm queen bee around here'
and flipped him a very unladylike hand gesture that she did well to hide
from the roving cameras that connected the cabin to the cockpit.
The best thing about winding up that big lug, Skye thought to herself as
she poured Mr Hanson a glass of wine and snuggled up to his chest, was
that there was no way it could possibly backfire on her.
18 January 2012
Flight 3
By Alyssa Hyatt
Skye Blue knew very well that littering was an instant demerit. The last
(and only) time she got caught, her penance was to spend her next day
off rooting around Victoria Park's many rubbish bins for a single used
condom that had been planted by Michelle's boyfriend earlier in the day.
The prize waiting inside? Her front door key. It turned out to be a late
night for the bedraggled flight attendant, even with all the male
passers-by who volunteered their help.
But right at this moment, a possible repeat of that mortifying
experience barely registered in Skye's tiny bimbo mind. She was too
shook up by the sight of her wife standing before her, in full regal
pilot regalia, to think of anything else. Or to address Michelle in a
manner befitting her lowly station as an air hostess, it seemed.
"M-Michelle!" she stammered. "W-what the fuck are you doing here?"
Instantly realising her mistake, she clamped her manicured hands over
her mouth the second the question mark left her collagen-enhanced lips.
Michelle's face turned to stone. Before Skye could squeak out a pathetic
apology, Michelle shot her arm into the depths of her husband's bra and
twisted her right nipple as far as it would possibly turn, causing Skye
to shriek in agony and dance a hilarious little jig on the spot. The
other Layover hostesses burst into fits of laughter from the other side
of the room.
"You will address me," spat Michelle behind gritted teeth, "with the
proper respect." She twisted Skye's nipple just a few degrees more,
causing the dance to quicken. "Do you understand what I am telling you,
airhead?"
"Aargh - yes, Madam, I understand," she wailed. "Please forgive my
stupidity Madam, for I am just a dumb trolley dolly - no good for
anything other than looking pretty and pouring cups of coffee!"
"Don't forget cocksucking" Michelle added spitefully, tweaking the
nipple with such force that it caused Skye's other tit to pop out of its
satin encasing. Cue more giggling for Skye's Layover sisters. Finally,
she released her deathgrip on the teat and soaked in her husband's
humiliation with regalement as Skye frantically blew on her red raw
udder in an attempt to stem the pain. The extreme hormonal regime had
made those big ol' tits of hers incredibly sensitive, Michelle observed
to herself.
"I trust now we've heard enough insolence from you?" asked Michelle,
although the intonation suggested it was no question. In-between sobs,
Skye indicated that they had. Michelle gave her sissified spouse a
moment's peace to stuff her funbags back in their playpen, before
getting to the meat of the matter.
"Look at me, Skye," commanded Michelle. She obeyed. Although Skye
towered over her wife by almost seven inches in her heels, she felt so
tiny in comparison. "You seem surprised to see me in a pilot's uniform,
my dear. But you really shouldn't be. You do remember our first date, do
you not?" Michelle bit her lip as a brief flash of hurt shot through
her, before continuing: "And how you lied to me to get me in bed with
you?" Skye's baby blue eyes fell to the floor in shame as she took a
trip down memory lane.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ace had met his future wife as a passenger on an Imperial Airlines
flight between London and Miami several years ago. Michelle was looking
after the first class compartment of the cabin at the time. As an
aspiring pilot, it wasn't her first choice of career, but scholarships
were expensive so she'd resigned herself to a few year's graft in an
undesirable profession to pay for it. She figured getting a job as a
flight attendant would be as wise a choice as any, because it would
allow her to sample for herself what the long hours and time away from
family would be like. Plus, it presented invaluable networking
opportunities.
But on this particular flight, Michelle was wishing she'd taken her
mother's advice and became a vet. The cabin was stuffy, her bright red
stewardess' uniform tight, chaffing and restrictive, and her feet worn
out from endlessly pivoting up and down the aisle dealing with every
last obnoxious request from some of the rudest men she'd ever
encountered in her life. And the worst of the bunch was a young man sat
right at the front of the section. Michelle had just about managed to
forget about him when his help light flashed on for the umpteenth time.
She sighed, put down the rubbish bag she was empting, and went to attend
to his needs. "It's a good job he's cute," she thought to herself. "Or
else I'd have to throttle him."
"Hey doll, what kept ya?" slurred the man upon her arrival. "I dropped
my bag of peanuts. Could you pick it up for me, kitten?" Michelle looked
across to see said bag lying peacefully in the centre aisle, perhaps no
more than eight feet away from the gentleman's seat. She exhaled
irritably at this needless intrusion into her working day but managed to
retain her sunny disposition. "No problem, Sir."
She bent over as far as her tight skirt would allow, and that's when the
man's masterplan came together. He delivered a sharp pinch right on the
hostesses' rear end, causing her to yelp in pain. She turned round
sharply to admonish the grinning chauvinist, who was showing little
remorse for his crime. "Sir,," she spoke calmly but firmly, "the Cabin
Crew aren't your personal playthings. We're here to assist the pilot and
ensure the safety of the passengers, and your unnecessary distractions
are prevent-"
"Oh hush, sweetheart. Believe me, this plane will get to its destination
regardless of whether you rush around like chambermaid on crack, or
spend the rest of the flight powdering your nose in the toilet" He
paused to sip his beer, before slipping in not so subtly: "Believe me,
I'm a pilot myself."
She was busy re-assessing her decision not to throttle him when the
final sentence pricked her ears up. "You're a pilot, Sir?"
"Only the best in the world, honey. I fly for Europa Airways."
Europa Airways! They were the biggest commercial airline in the world.
Not even Imperial Airlines, with all their wealthy Russian benefactors,
could compete with Europa. Only the very best pilots could hope to find
gainful employment with them. Michelle saw networking potential.
"I...I'm hoping to be a pilot one day, Sir. Once I've saved up enough
money..."
He smirked inwardly at the thought of it, but his outward demeanour gave
her a little more hope. "You're a bit too pretty to be a pilot, aren't
you?" he asked, his seductive brown eyes gleaming. Her face turned as
red as her blazer.
"But I see potential in you, sweet tush. Europa could do with an up-and-
comer like you in their ranks." Ever the master orator, he paused for
dramatic effect and pretended to mull something that was on the tip of
his tongue. "Now I think about it, they do give out bursaries for
talented youngsters. It won't be as easy as me clicking my fingers, but
I might be able to pull some strings."
'He'd do that for me?', thought Michelle. Perhaps this guy wasn't such a
jerk after all. "That's really kind of you to offer, Sir, but..."
"You can call me 'Ace', dollface. Why don't you come into my, ahem,
'office' and we'll discuss your prospects in more detail?" he suggested,
pulling her down forcefully into his lap and closing the curtains to
block out the prying eyes of the elderly couple across the gangway.
Michelle swivelled round to face him, her legs straddling his. It was
hard to miss the bulge in his trousers - you could probably see it from
the ground.
Ace reached behind his new-found playmate and pulled out her hair clip,
causing her long mane of jet-black hair to tumble down her back. Then,
his strong arms began to gruffly explore her curves. Michelle hesitated
for a second, but offered no resistance. She wasn't that kind of girl
normally, but she really needed that bursary and ehhh, he WAS kind of
cute. He expertly unhooked her bra with a single flick of his hand and
from there, the negotiations began.
A harsh slap to the cheek brought Skye back to the present day. "But the
bursary never came, did it, 'Ace'? Against all the odds I fell in love
with you, thinking I was your one and only and that you wanted to help
me out - but you didn't have any intention of doing that, did you? No, I
found out much too late that you were too much of a misogynistic pig to
ever allow your wife to get above her station in life."
Michelle slapped her husband again, before any excuses could dribble out
of her ruby red mouth. "When we married, it was like you thought you
owned me. You halted my pilot training, ordered me not to cut my hair
and banned me from wearing anything other than skirts or dresses. Even
in Winter! Well!" Her voice was hoarse now with pure hatred. "Look who
wears the trousers in our relationship now!"
Embarrassed by the reminder, Skye instinctively fiddled with the hem of
her latex mini-dress. There was no doubt who was the power-dresser of
the couple now. If clothes maketh the man then they also maketh the
woman, and the woman Ace McLaren had become was straight out of a cheap
porn flick.
A third slap rang out, leaving Skye on the verge of tears. "But I'm sure
you secretly wanted me to continue on with my training, didn't you, dear
hubbie? You just never got round to pulling those strings in-between
pulling on all those sluts' g-strings. That's why I took the liberty of
restarting my course with the money you had saved in that off-shore
account. You know, the one that you never got round to telling me
about."
Skye's eyes expanded as wide as saucers. "Oh...oh, poo!" she uttered in
total panic. Shit! Michelle found out about that? That was his
contingency plan! As soon as this demented woman got bored of ruining
his life and allowed him to be a man again, he intended to rush straight
to his guys and withdraw the several thousands of pounds he had saved.
Not a fortune compared to what he once was worth, but enough to get him
back on his feet again. But now he was completely broke! As poor as a
church mouse! He wouldn't even have enough to buy a pair of trousers!
"Now I think about it, you didn't get round to a lot of things, did you,
Miss Blue? Perhaps I won't get round to removing these," teased
Michelle, slapping the underside of Skye's udders with such ferocity
that they sprung out of their confines once more and struck the
stewardess on her dimpled chin. Michelle was merely playing with her
food here. She had no intention of letting Skye go back to her former
life. After a decade or so after she'd outlived her shelf life as a sky
high prostitute, she'd decided she would probably sell Skye off to Pam,
or someone. Whoever had the most sadistic plan going forward. Perhaps
she'd hold interviews. Ace had made a lot of enemies in his short time
on Earth, so it was going to be a seriously competitive bracket of
entrants.
But as wet as all this tormenting was making her, Michelle realised that
it was important to keep that tiny carrot affixed to the end of that
enormous stick if she was to keep her servant girl onside, so she
changed the subject. "Oh, by the way dear, do you like my new haircut?"
She removed her pilot's cap, revealing her new short pixie hair cut.
Just a few months ago, Ace would have had her over his knee for daring
to have such an unfeminine 'do, but now she was willing to tell this
crazy bitch whatever she wanted to hear, just to avoid further
punishment. "It's very beautiful, Madam. I love it!" she lied.
"Hmpf. I was going more for handsome, but that'll do." She pulled out a
packet of peanuts that had apparently been resting in her hat and
dropped them symbolically in front of her. She gave Skye a nasty leer.
"Pick them up, kitten."
Neither the symmetry nor the poignancy of the moment was not lost on
Skye. She gulped and then bent down at the waist, once more exposing her
panties to the world. The tip of her inch long nails had just about
brushed past the packet when she heard an ear-shattering CRACK, followed
by a searing pain on her bubble butt. The force of the blow was enough
to rocket her forwards, her bulbous breasts breaking her fall like
airbags.
Tears trickled down Skye's beautifully re-sculpted face as she gingerly
picked herself back up to her feet. Although she could feel her wife
burning a hole in the back of her head with her gaze, she was reluctant
to turn around and let her see that she'd been crying. There was still
some residue male pride in that oestrogen-ravaged body of hers.
Eventually however, Michelle grew tired of waiting for her toy to
compose herself and pushed the issue. "What do you say, Skye?"
"Th-thank you for punishing me, Madam."
"Oh, it wasn't me, blossom. Meet my co-pilot, who'll be mentoring me on
my first flight. I believe you've already met."
Skye turned round apprehensively and the sight that greeted her gave her
the third (or was it fourth?) heart attack of the day - and it was only
half past nine! There standing next to her estranged wife, wielding a
riding crop was her former arch-nemesis, an insufferably camp man named
Randy McCloud. He worked for Imperial Airlines, and truth be told, was
probably a better pilot than Ace ever was, but Ace used to pull his
political weight to keep Randy's reputation in check. The airline
industry was still a pretty homophobic one at the top and Ace knew how
to turn that to his advantage. Seven consecutive 'Pilot Of The Year'
awards were testament to that.
"Well, don't just stand there staring hungrily at his crotch, Skye. Dip
your wings in deference to the the 2011 Pilot Of The Year!"
And with that, the blonde performed a soul-crushing curtsey, and the
last Y chromosome turned off the lights.
---------------------------------------------
As a rare treat, Randy and Michelle allowed Skye to stay in the cockpit
during the pre-flight preparations - a real honour for a lowly bimbo
stewardess such as herself! The only concession was that Skye had to
make herself useful whilst the pilots talked through their grown-up
stuff, and Michelle had just the job for her. As Randy ran through the
take-off protocol one last time, Skye found herself on her knees in the
space underneath the flight deck, enthusiastically slurping and sucking
away at her former professional rival's dick like it was a chocolate-
coated banana.
"It's good to see you two getting on so well, Randy" remarked Michelle.
" Ace used to bitch and moan about you all the time when he got home
from work, but it seems he had a soft spot for you all along."
"Well, 'Chelle, hun, you know what they say: girls will gossip"
"Ha ha! That they do. I guess my macho husband was always a bit of a
sissy deep down! Good job I was around to help you unlock your girlish
potential really, wasn't it Ace?
"Yrrrth Mrrrdrrrm. Thrrrnk yrrr frrr trrrrning mrrr intrrr r
srssy!"
With practice, Skye had become a skilled cocksucker, but she had yet to
master the ability to speak coherently whilst an erect penis was
thrusting into her mouth like a piston. Nonetheless, the rest of her
performance was to Randy's satisfaction. Her blow job technique was
flawless. In-between slurps, she'd expertly run her tongue up and down
his shaft, keeping him on the brink of orgasm, just as she'd been
trained. Ace had always been a quick learner, and it was a trait that
continued to serve him well in his new life. Skye was as skilled a sex
worker as Ace had been an aviator.
Randy let out a satisfied grunt. "Oh, she IS good, Chelle. You were
right about that! As an admirer of the male form, I can't say Ace's new
look is entirely to my liking, but this new attitude of hers is a
definite upgrade!"
"Did you hear that, Skye? The nice man paid you a compliment. Show your
gratitude!"
"Thrrnk yrrr, Mrrr MrrrrClrrrd"
Michelle watched in silent satisfaction for a moment as Skye's blonde
tresses bobbed up and down violently between Randy's legs. Such an eager
BJ Queen! She was sucking off that thing like her life depended on it.
Perhaps she thought it did. The sight of her husband's oral desecration
was capped, literally, by the oversized pilot's hat that constantly
slipped down past Skye's eyes as she licked and sucked on Randy's flight
instrument. It made her look like a silly little girl who was playing at
being a pilot.
"Oh god, she's VERY good, Michelle," Randy panted. "With a mouth like
that, are you sure she's single?"
"Heh. Well, she was married once, but that pretty mouth of hers got her
into a spot of bother. Why do you ask, are you interested? Maybe I can
set you two up. I think it's about time Skye went steady."
" Wrrrrrrt?"
Randy ignored Skye's contribution to the conversation. "Well, shemales
aren't usually my bag, but I could do with a beard, especially with all
these public appearances I'm going to have to make now I'm the number
one pilot in the world." He stopped to let out a gratified moan. "Plus,
I could get used to having blow jobs like this on tap! What do you say
we head out to Soho next Friday, Skye? I think we have a spare Imperial
Airlines uniform that's just your size"
"Buuhhht..."
"She'd be delighted, I'm sure," interjected Michelle on Skye's behalf.
"Isn't this exciting, Skye? You have a new boyfriend! Perhaps there will
even be wedding bells in the air if you play your cards right"
"Imagine Ace as a blushing bride!" laughed Randy. "Mincing down the
aisle as she prepares to become Mrs Randy McCloud!"
"How humiliating would that be," pondered Michelle out loud. "To be
forced to love, honour and obey your worst enemy!"
This had gone far enough! Skye loosened her lips from around Randy's
member and worked up the courage to tell her two tormentors than in no
uncertain terms, that she didn't want to go on a date with him. But what
terrible timing! She got as far as "I do-" before a thick sea of hot
spunk spurted down the back of her throat, leaving her gagging on the
floor.
"She said 'I do' already!" Michelle howled with amusement. "Control your
ovaries, woman! You're not at the altar yet!"
-----------------------------------------------------
Finally, the passengers were aboard and the flight was scheduled to
take-off. Skye Blue couldn't help but note that the build-up to this
flight had been quite unusual, though. Normally it was her job as the
perky air hostess to greet the passengers as they entered the plane, but
for reasons unknown to her Randy was currently fulfilling this duty
while she remained in the cockpit, diligently cleaning Madam's shoes
with her tongue as she read her morning paper. Skye's new-found woman's
intuition told her that the reason behind the change in routine almost
undoubtedly spelled bad news for her. Her intuition also told her not to
raise the subject with Madam.
Neither party said a word until it was nearly time for Skye to head out
into the cabin and deliver the safety instructions to the passengers.
Michelle fumbled around in her handbag and fished out an item from
within, an action which naturally piqued the interest of her put-upon
slavegirl.
"Now, Skye, the reason you're in here is because today's clients are
very important people, and we want to give a professional first
impression. I mean, we know how insatiable you can be when you're in the
company of a gentleman, sweetheart - we've all seen the camera footage!
We want them to be able to at least get into their seats before you
attempt to jump on their cocks!"
Skye responded with a sullen pout. She was instructed to act like a boy-
crazy hussy at all times when around her passengers, or else she'd be
hit with a veritable hailstorm of demerits. She just couldn't win. "Now,
Miss Blue, look up at me."
She obeyed, and before she could blink, Michelle reached out and dabbed
something onto both of her contact lens with the tip of her finger. To
her horror, Skye realised she was blind! She began to thrash around in
panic, but a slap to the face soon settled her down again. "Oh, don't be
so flighty, Miss Blue. It's only while you give the safety
demonstration, then I'll remove them. The safety instructions are a
vital part of the flight, don't you know, and I don't want you getting
distracted by all those trouser bulges on display. You used to tell me
you could do my job blindfolded, well here's your chance, hot shot!"
Skye had no response to that, because the time for talk was over.
Michelle hauled the screaming flight attendant to her feet by her hair,
and then guided her towards the service curtain by pinching her rump
until she was across the threshold.
Returning to her seat, Michelle mimed the pinching action to Randy with
her fingers and said matter-of-factly, "You know, I quite enjoyed that.
I can see why men do it so often."
-------------------------------------------------------
Miss Skye Blue stood nervously at the front of the plane's central
aisle, acutely aware that all eyes in the cabin were affixed firmly on
her shapely body. But were there one pair of eyes, or a hundred? Thanks
to whatever it was that was gunking up her bright blue contacts, it was
impossible to tell. She stood attentively with her hands crossed in
front of her, with a big vacant smile on her face which belied the fear
she was feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her tight, tight latex mini-
dress left almost nothing to the imagination. Dressed as she was, she
was being literally thrown to the wolves. She didn't know how many
wolves there were, but with her long, long legs and heaving bosom on
display, she knew that they'd be hungry. Ravenous, even.
After a few moments, Michelle's familiar voice rang out over the PA
system. "Good morning, gentlemen, and welcome to this non-stop Layover
Airways flight from London Heathrow to Las Vegas McCarran International
Airport. At this time allow us to introduce to you your in-flight
entertainment unit, Miss Skye Blue"
Clapping. Even a wolf-whistle. Skye dipped her wings in appreciation.
The spiel continues.
"Miss Blue will be attending to your EVERY need during the flight. There
is no request too vanilla and no request too depraved, so please feel
free to ask! Now, each of you have been issued with a remote control -
should you require Miss Blue's services, please feel free to press the
red button in the middle of the remote. That will send an electric jolt
to a receiver that has been surgically transplanted in her backside"
OUCH! OUCH! OUCH! They always test it out during that part of the
speech! At least Skye now knew how many passengers were aboard - three.
"Each passenger has also been issued with a key that will unlock your
stewardesses' chastity belt - but we must advise you that we'll be
counting them up again at the end of the flight, so don't lose them!
Now, in the case of an emergency, your nearest exits are here and
here..."
Skye performed the classic sweeping hand gesture, indicating where they
were. ."..and in the case of a sexual emergency, your stewardesses'
entrance holes are here and here."
After she'd finished pointing out the location of her orifices to the
men in attendance, Skye rooted around blindly on the floor for her next
prop - a ballgag dressed up to look like an airline seatbelt. Michelle's
voice continued on calmly and professionally. "Fasten your stewardesses'
mouth gag by clipping the buckle and pulling until snug. If you need a
condom, simply pull on the safety lever in front of you and an emergency
pack will drop down from the panel above your head. Please remember to
affix your own condom before attempting to fit anybody else's."
It continued: "Any electrical items inserted inside your stewardesses'
bottom should be switched off for take-off and landing. Thank you for
flying Layover Airways, and we trust you'll all have a very, very
satisfying flight." With the ordeal over and done with, Skye scampered
back behind the curtain to have her sight restored and to refresh her
make-up one last time before take-off.
------------------------------------------------------
When Flight Attendant Miss Skye Blue re-emerged from the curtain, she
was the very definition of sex on legs. She was on company time now, and
her job description was to walk, talk, suck and fuck like her client's
wet dream come true. Holding a tray of complimentary champagne glasses
high above her head with her left hand, she planted her other hand on
her right hip and pranced through the cabin, rolling her hips in an
exaggeratedly sexual manner as she moved.
Every single flounce, every single flick of her hair, every single
movement of her body was designed to advertise her sexual promiscuity to
any and all men in the nearby vicinity. A neutral observer would have
never guessed in a million years that behind Skye Blue's saucy veneer
lay a red-blooded, heterosexual male.
It embarrassed Skye to her core to have to act like such a wanton slut,
but she didn't have a choice in the matter if she ever harboured hope of
regaining her lost status as an alpha male. The numerous surveillance
cameras around the cabin were providing a direct feed to the pilots in
the cockpit and Michelle had made the situation quite clear: if she ever
suspected that Skye Blue had been anything less than a compliant,
pleasing bitch to her passengers, then Skye could kiss goodbye to what
remained of her male genitalia for ever!
Skye was so busy perfecting her catwalk model strut whilst balancing the
teetering tray of glasses that she neglected to look directly at her
passengers until she was less than two metres away. Scanning the seats
quickly with her baby blue bambi eyes, she noted that she didn't
recognise the two men to her left, but when her fluttery eyes swept
right towards the third and final gentleman, she almost spilled the
champagne down her cleavage in shock! There, sitting in front of her,
undressing her latex-clad hourglass figure with his trademark sleazy
salesman leer, was Richard Hanson, Europa Airways chairman - and Ace
McLaren's former best friend! Oh, poo!
Miss Blue's pretty little head swam with conflicting emotions as she
tried to take in the enormity of this situation. Her first thoughts were
of salvation. Richard wasn't just Ace's closest friend, he was one of
the richest and most influential men in the entire world - if anyone
could get him out of this emasculating bind, it was Rich. Oh, how could
Michelle be this stupid? Skye made a promise to herself: once this mess
was sorted out and she'd got those titanic tits removed from her chest,
she'd fuck that bitch over, both figuratively and literally. After he'd
sued her arse off, Michelle would need to spend eight hours every night
fucking strangers under a streetlamp just to keep up with the interest
repayments! Skye's locked-up cockette twitched in its prison at the very
thought of it.
But her moment of triumph evaporated when she suddenly remembered that
she still was under the gaze of the cameras. Explaining to him how it
came to be that she was working as a ladyboy prostitute would be a
delicate operation and she needed time to not only get her point across
but also convince him he was telling the truth. In short, she needed to
make him like her so much that he would agree to meet her away from the
work place. But in this body, there was only one service she had to
offer that he'd be interested in. And that's when the reality of the
situation hit home - shit! He was going to want to have sex with her -
and she wouldn't be able to say no!
"Hey, sweetheart. Earth to Toots, Earth to Toots," snapped Rich,
clicking his fingers irritably in front of Skye's spaced-out face.
"Sorry...Sir," came the meek reply. "I was just thinking about...umm..."
"What I'm packing downstairs, I bet," he sneered, indicating at his
crotch - which was visibly in the upright position. "Well, don't get
flustered, babe - you'll meet him soon enough, and he'll 'fly' you
straight to heaven!" He laughed at his own joke. Rich had clearly still
not taken Ace's advice to drop the cheesy chat-up lines, but on the
other hand, Ace didn't take Rich's advice to never marry, so it worked
out even in the end.
Most girls would have thrown their drink over him and left, but Skye
Blue wasn't most girls. She laughed affectedly at his awful joke,
touching her bosom lightly with her limp hand, and complimented Sir on
his wit.
"My name's Richard, but you can call me Mr Hanson. And this" he motioned
towards the rotund gentleman sitting to Skye's left, "is Mr Tarasov, the
chairman of Imperial Airlines. He flew in from Moscow this morning so he
must be feeling pretty low on energy. Why don't you strut over there and
show him some sugar while I go over these documents?"
"As you wish, Mr Hanson, Sir" complied Skye, relieved to have earned a
temporary reprieve from sexually servicing her closest friend. She bent
down to pour him a glass of champagne and then, without warning, he
grabbed her by the scoop neck of her dress, pulled her in close and
French kissed her! "I'll be back for you later, hotstuff," he promised,
before dismissing her with a wave of his hand and a condescending pat on
her butt.
A red-faced Miss Blue thanked Mr Hanson for his attentions and minced
across to greet and attend to the needs of her other guest, Mr Tarasov.
Perhaps he just wanted a cuddle and a chat? Judging by the way he was
looking at her, and the way he was rubbing his crotch through his
trousers, Skye suspected not. Brrr. Even by her standards, satisfying
this slob was going to be a unenviable task.
The Russian oligarch might have been rich but he was not an aspiration
figure. His portly frame threatened to overspill not only from his
business suit but also from the generous dimensions of his luxurious
seat, while his receding hairline and general poor hygiene made him look
much older than his years. Such a contrast to Mr Hanson, whose virile
blond locks, athletic body and toned buttocks made Skye shudder
with....oh god, what were these hormones doing to her?
Skye placed the champagne bottle into a holder next to Mr Tarasov's seat
and introduced herself to him, dipping her wings in subservience as she
did so. Tarasov returned the gesture (sans curtsey, of course) and
proceeded to bore her to tears for the next few minutes with boastful
tales of his wealth and importance. Miss Blue, ever the professional,
was attentive and alert and hung on his every word. It was quite the
contrast from the last time they met, at last year's Airline Leaders'
Summit, when Mr Tarasov approached the daring young pilot everyone
called Ace at the after party with an offer of work, only to be met
with a torrent of abuse.
"How dare you offer me work, you disgusting, bloated Ruskie" Ace boomed,
loud enough to be heard over the music. "Imperial is what, the second
largest airline in the world? To me, that just means they're the largest
loser. Your tinpot outfit couldn't afford me even if they sold marketing
space on your belly, you fat fuck. You've got more chance of touching a
woman's tit than you have of gaining my services"
As Skye held that thought, Mr Tarasov's clammy fingers seized the
initiative and grabbed hold of her right hooter. "Honk, honk!" he
laughed in that thick Russian accent of his. "I tell you, comrade
Hanson, I wasn't sure about this idea of yours to hire a shemale
hostess, but this he-she is really something."
"You should learn to trust my judgement better, Mr Tarasov," peering
over his papers. "After all, we're going to be business partners soon.
Plus, if you really want to see what she can do, you should check out
some of the instructional videos on your personal TV set."
"Hahaha! I might just do that!" he roared and turned his attentions back
to his ladyboy servant, but Skye's eyes had wavered to the enormous 6"7
young man who was sat on his own at the back of the cabin in tracksuit
bottoms and a Tapout! T-shirt. He looked up over the MMA magazine he was
idly flicking through, noticed Skye gawking at him and flashed her a
disdainful look. When Mr Tarasov explained that Vlad was just his
personal bodyguard and that she should not concern herself with him,
Skye's relief was palpable. He looked like he could have ripped her in
half!
Michelle's voice rang out over the tannoy. "Cabin crew, two minutes
until take-off." Miss Blue turned to take her seat, but Tarasov grabbed
her wrist tightly, causing her to yelp in that high-pitched womanly
voice of hers. "Why don't you stay here, princess?" he offered in a tone
which suggested refusal was not an option. Nonetheless, safety
procedures meant Skye had to fight her corner. "I apologise Sir, but I
must return to my designated-"
Her sentence was interrupted by a sudden, violent and as it transpired
quite deliberate jolt as the plane braked suddenly, causing Skye, ever-
vulnerable because of her skyscraper heels, to fly directly into the
path of Mr Tarasov's lap. When she landed, his bear-like hands wrapped
themselves around her, making escape impossible.
Skye squirmed and wiggled and jiggled for a brief few moments in an
attempt to escape her rotund suitor's clutches, but she soon resigned
herself to her fate. Her attention switched to whatever it was she was
sitting on that was poking sharply into her buttocks. "Please fasten
your seatbelt Sir, I think I may be sitting on the buckle!" offered
Skye, before realising that the brute was holding either side of the
seatbelt in his hands. That was no buckle!
Tarasov clipped the belt over the combined waists of himself and his
blushing playmate as the plane began its taxi, and by the time the craft
was in the air, Tarasov was making full use of his in-flight
entertainment unit, biting and kissing Skye's ears and neck aggressively
while kneading the stewardesses' breasts roughly like they were lumps of
dough. Skye responded as per the Layover Airways employee handbook
dictated; by panting and moaning like a bitch in heat. By the time they
reached altitude, however, Skye was horrified to discover that her
nipples were as hard as bullets and that her moans were no longer
voluntary.
"Well, we're on our way, then" said Mr Hanson, raising his champagne
glass. "This calls for a celebration."
"Couldn't agree more, my friend," replied Tarasov, discarding the
ravaged flight attendant for a second to return the gesture.
And then he tipped the entire glass down Skye's décolletage, popped open
the top few buttons of her dress and began to savagely lick and suck on
her champagne-coated cans. Skye could feel her right hand being forced
down Mr Tarasov's trousers as her left grabbed hold of the handle on the
overhead locker above her for balance. It was going to be a long flight.
Skye Blue knew very well that littering was an instant demerit. The last
(and only) time she got caught, her penance was to spend her next day
off rooting around Victoria Park's many rubbish bins for a single used
condom that had been planted by Michelle's boyfriend earlier in the day.
The prize waiting inside? Her front door key. It turned out to be a late
night for the bedraggled flight attendant, even with all the male
passers-by who volunteered their help.
But right at this moment, a possible repeat of that mortifying
experience barely registered in Skye's tiny bimbo mind. She was too
shook up by the sight of her wife standing before her, in full regal
pilot regalia, to think of anything else. Or to address Michelle in a
manner befitting her lowly station as an air hostess, it seemed.
"M-Michelle!" she stammered. "W-what the fuck are you doing here?"
Instantly realising her mistake, she clamped her manicured hands over
her mouth the second the question mark left her collagen-enhanced lips.
Michelle's face turned to stone. Before Skye could squeak out a pathetic
apology, Michelle shot her arm into the depths of her husband's bra and
twisted her right nipple as far as it would possibly turn, causing Skye
to shriek in agony and dance a hilarious little jig on the spot. The
other Layover hostesses burst into fits of laughter from the other side
of the room.
"You will address me," spat Michelle behind gritted teeth, "with the
proper respect." She twisted Skye's nipple just a few degrees more,
causing the dance to quicken. "Do you understand what I am telling you,
airhead?"
"Aargh - yes, Madam, I understand," she wailed. "Please forgive my
stupidity Madam, for I am just a dumb trolley dolly - no good for
anything other than looking pretty and pouring cups of coffee!"
"Don't forget cocksucking" Michelle added spitefully, tweaking the
nipple with such force that it caused Skye's other tit to pop out of its
satin encasing. Cue more giggling for Skye's Layover sisters. Finally,
she released her deathgrip on the teat and soaked in her husband's
humiliation with regalement as Skye frantically blew on her red raw
udder in an attempt to stem the pain. The extreme hormonal regime had
made those big ol' tits of hers incredibly sensitive, Michelle observed
to herself.
"I trust now we've heard enough insolence from you?" asked Michelle,
although the intonation suggested it was no question. In-between sobs,
Skye indicated that they had. Michelle gave her sissified spouse a
moment's peace to stuff her funbags back in their playpen, before
getting to the meat of the matter.
"Look at me, Skye," commanded Michelle. She obeyed. Although Skye
towered over her wife by almost seven inches in her heels, she felt so
tiny in comparison. "You seem surprised to see me in a pilot's uniform,
my dear. But you really shouldn't be. You do remember our first date, do
you not?" Michelle bit her lip as a brief flash of hurt shot through
her, before continuing: "And how you lied to me to get me in bed with
you?" Skye's baby blue eyes fell to the floor in shame as she took a
trip down memory lane.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ace had met his future wife as a passenger on an Imperial Airlines
flight between London and Miami several years ago. Michelle was looking
after the first class compartment of the cabin at the time. As an
aspiring pilot, it wasn't her first choice of career, but scholarships
were expensive so she'd resigned herself to a few year's graft in an
undesirable profession to pay for it. She figured getting a job as a
flight attendant would be as wise a choice as any, because it would
allow her to sample for herself what the long hours and time away from
family would be like. Plus, it presented invaluable networking
opportunities.
But on this particular flight, Michelle was wishing she'd taken her
mother's advice and became a vet. The cabin was stuffy, her bright red
stewardess' uniform tight, chaffing and restrictive, and her feet worn
out from endlessly pivoting up and down the aisle dealing with every
last obnoxious request from some of the rudest men she'd ever
encountered in her life. And the worst of the bunch was a young man sat
right at the front of the section. Michelle had just about managed to
forget about him when his help light flashed on for the umpteenth time.
She sighed, put down the rubbish bag she was empting, and went to attend
to his needs. "It's a good job he's cute," she thought to herself. "Or
else I'd have to throttle him."
"Hey doll, what kept ya?" slurred the man upon her arrival. "I dropped
my bag of peanuts. Could you pick it up for me, kitten?" Michelle looked
across to see said bag lying peacefully in the centre aisle, perhaps no
more than eight feet away from the gentleman's seat. She exhaled
irritably at this needless intrusion into her working day but managed to
retain her sunny disposition. "No problem, Sir."
She bent over as far as her tight skirt would allow, and that's when the
man's masterplan came together. He delivered a sharp pinch right on the
hostesses' rear end, causing her to yelp in pain. She turned round
sharply to admonish the grinning chauvinist, who was showing little
remorse for his crime. "Sir,," she spoke calmly but firmly, "the Cabin
Crew aren't your personal playthings. We're here to assist the pilot and
ensure the safety of the passengers, and your unnecessary distractions
are prevent-"
"Oh hush, sweetheart. Believe me, this plane will get to its destination
regardless of whether you rush around like chambermaid on crack, or
spend the rest of the flight powdering your nose in the toilet" He
paused to sip his beer, before slipping in not so subtly: "Believe me,
I'm a pilot myself."
She was busy re-assessing her decision not to throttle him when the
final sentence pricked her ears up. "You're a pilot, Sir?"
"Only the best in the world, honey. I fly for Europa Airways."
Europa Airways! They were the biggest commercial airline in the world.
Not even Imperial Airlines, with all their wealthy Russian benefactors,
could compete with Europa. Only the very best pilots could hope to find
gainful employment with them. Michelle saw networking potential.
"I...I'm hoping to be a pilot one day, Sir. Once I've saved up enough
money..."
He smirked inwardly at the thought of it, but his outward demeanour gave
her a little more hope. "You're a bit too pretty to be a pilot, aren't
you?" he asked, his seductive brown eyes gleaming. Her face turned as
red as her blazer.
"But I see potential in you, sweet tush. Europa could do with an up-and-
comer like you in their ranks." Ever the master orator, he paused for
dramatic effect and pretended to mull something that was on the tip of
his tongue. "Now I think about it, they do give out bursaries for
talented youngsters. It won't be as easy as me clicking my fingers, but
I might be able to pull some strings."
'He'd do that for me?', thought Michelle. Perhaps this guy wasn't such a
jerk after all. "That's really kind of you to offer, Sir, but..."
"You can call me 'Ace', dollface. Why don't you come into my, ahem,
'office' and we'll discuss your prospects in more detail?" he suggested,
pulling her down forcefully into his lap and closing the curtains to
block out the prying eyes of the elderly couple across the gangway.
Michelle swivelled round to face him, her legs straddling his. It was
hard to miss the bulge in his trousers - you could probably see it from
the ground.
Ace reached behind his new-found playmate and pulled out her hair clip,
causing her long mane of jet-black hair to tumble down her back. Then,
his strong arms began to gruffly explore her curves. Michelle hesitated
for a second, but offered no resistance. She wasn't that kind of girl
normally, but she really needed that bursary and ehhh, he WAS kind of
cute. He expertly unhooked her bra with a single flick of his hand and
from there, the negotiations began.
A harsh slap to the cheek brought Skye back to the present day. "But the
bursary never came, did it, 'Ace'? Against all the odds I fell in love
with you, thinking I was your one and only and that you wanted to help
me out - but you didn't have any intention of doing that, did you? No, I
found out much too late that you were too much of a misogynistic pig to
ever allow your wife to get above her station in life."
Michelle slapped her husband again, before any excuses could dribble out
of her ruby red mouth. "When we married, it was like you thought you
owned me. You halted my pilot training, ordered me not to cut my hair
and banned me from wearing anything other than skirts or dresses. Even
in Winter! Well!" Her voice was hoarse now with pure hatred. "Look who
wears the trousers in our relationship now!"
Embarrassed by the reminder, Skye instinctively fiddled with the hem of
her latex mini-dress. There was no doubt who was the power-dresser of
the couple now. If clothes maketh the man then they also maketh the
woman, and the woman Ace McLaren had become was straight out of a cheap
porn flick.
A third slap rang out, leaving Skye on the verge of tears. "But I'm sure
you secretly wanted me to continue on with my training, didn't you, dear
hubbie? You just never got round to pulling those strings in-between
pulling on all those sluts' g-strings. That's why I took the liberty of
restarting my course with the money you had saved in that off-shore
account. You know, the one that you never got round to telling me
about."
Skye's eyes expanded as wide as saucers. "Oh...oh, poo!" she uttered in
total panic. Shit! Michelle found out about that? That was his
contingency plan! As soon as this demented woman got bored of ruining
his life and allowed him to be a man again, he intended to rush straight
to his guys and withdraw the several thousands of pounds he had saved.
Not a fortune compared to what he once was worth, but enough to get him
back on his feet again. But now he was completely broke! As poor as a
church mouse! He wouldn't even have enough to buy a pair of trousers!
"Now I think about it, you didn't get round to a lot of things, did you,
Miss Blue? Perhaps I won't get round to removing these," teased
Michelle, slapping the underside of Skye's udders with such ferocity
that they sprung out of their confines once more and struck the
stewardess on her dimpled chin. Michelle was merely playing with her
food here. She had no intention of letting Skye go back to her former
life. After a decade or so after she'd outlived her shelf life as a sky
high prostitute, she'd decided she would probably sell Skye off to Pam,
or someone. Whoever had the most sadistic plan going forward. Perhaps
she'd hold interviews. Ace had made a lot of enemies in his short time
on Earth, so it was going to be a seriously competitive bracket of
entrants.
But as wet as all this tormenting was making her, Michelle realised that
it was important to keep that tiny carrot affixed to the end of that
enormous stick if she was to keep her servant girl onside, so she
changed the subject. "Oh, by the way dear, do you like my new haircut?"
She removed her pilot's cap, revealing her new short pixie hair cut.
Just a few months ago, Ace would have had her over his knee for daring
to have such an unfeminine 'do, but now she was willing to tell this
crazy bitch whatever she wanted to hear, just to avoid further
punishment. "It's very beautiful, Madam. I love it!" she lied.
"Hmpf. I was going more for handsome, but that'll do." She pulled out a
packet of peanuts that had apparently been resting in her hat and
dropped them symbolically in front of her. She gave Skye a nasty leer.
"Pick them up, kitten."
Neither the symmetry nor the poignancy of the moment was not lost on
Skye. She gulped and then bent down at the waist, once more exposing her
panties to the world. The tip of her inch long nails had just about
brushed past the packet when she heard an ear-shattering CRACK, followed
by a searing pain on her bubble butt. The force of the blow was enough
to rocket her forwards, her bulbous breasts breaking her fall like
airbags.
Tears trickled down Skye's beautifully re-sculpted face as she gingerly
picked herself back up to her feet. Although she could feel her wife
burning a hole in the back of her head with her gaze, she was reluctant
to turn around and let her see that she'd been crying. There was still
some residue male pride in that oestrogen-ravaged body of hers.
Eventually however, Michelle grew tired of waiting for her toy to
compose herself and pushed the issue. "What do you say, Skye?"
"Th-thank you for punishing me, Madam."
"Oh, it wasn't me, blossom. Meet my co-pilot, who'll be mentoring me on
my first flight. I believe you've already met."
Skye turned round apprehensively and the sight that greeted her gave her
the third (or was it fourth?) heart attack of the day - and it was only
half past nine! There standing next to her estranged wife, wielding a
riding crop was her former arch-nemesis, an insufferably camp man named
Randy McCloud. He worked for Imperial Airlines, and truth be told, was
probably a better pilot than Ace ever was, but Ace used to pull his
political weight to keep Randy's reputation in check. The airline
industry was still a pretty homophobic one at the top and Ace knew how
to turn that to his advantage. Seven consecutive 'Pilot Of The Year'
awards were testament to that.
"Well, don't just stand there staring hungrily at his crotch, Skye. Dip
your wings in deference to the the 2011 Pilot Of The Year!"
And with that, the blonde performed a soul-crushing curtsey, and the
last Y chromosome turned off the lights.
---------------------------------------------
As a rare treat, Randy and Michelle allowed Skye to stay in the cockpit
during the pre-flight preparations - a real honour for a lowly bimbo
stewardess such as herself! The only concession was that Skye had to
make herself useful whilst the pilots talked through their grown-up
stuff, and Michelle had just the job for her. As Randy ran through the
take-off protocol one last time, Skye found herself on her knees in the
space underneath the flight deck, enthusiastically slurping and sucking
away at her former professional rival's dick like it was a chocolate-
coated banana.
"It's good to see you two getting on so well, Randy" remarked Michelle.
" Ace used to bitch and moan about you all the time when he got home
from work, but it seems he had a soft spot for you all along."
"Well, 'Chelle, hun, you know what they say: girls will gossip"
"Ha ha! That they do. I guess my macho husband was always a bit of a
sissy deep down! Good job I was around to help you unlock your girlish
potential really, wasn't it Ace?
"Yrrrth Mrrrdrrrm. Thrrrnk yrrr frrr trrrrning mrrr intrrr r
srssy!"
With practice, Skye had become a skilled cocksucker, but she had yet to
master the ability to speak coherently whilst an erect penis was
thrusting into her mouth like a piston. Nonetheless, the rest of her
performance was to Randy's satisfaction. Her blow job technique was
flawless. In-between slurps, she'd expertly run her tongue up and down
his shaft, keeping him on the brink of orgasm, just as she'd been
trained. Ace had always been a quick learner, and it was a trait that
continued to serve him well in his new life. Skye was as skilled a sex
worker as Ace had been an aviator.
Randy let out a satisfied grunt. "Oh, she IS good, Chelle. You were
right about that! As an admirer of the male form, I can't say Ace's new
look is entirely to my liking, but this new attitude of hers is a
definite upgrade!"
"Did you hear that, Skye? The nice man paid you a compliment. Show your
gratitude!"
"Thrrnk yrrr, Mrrr MrrrrClrrrd"
Michelle watched in silent satisfaction for a moment as Skye's blonde
tresses bobbed up and down violently between Randy's legs. Such an eager
BJ Queen! She was sucking off that thing like her life depended on it.
Perhaps she thought it did. The sight of her husband's oral desecration
was capped, literally, by the oversized pilot's hat that constantly
slipped down past Skye's eyes as she licked and sucked on Randy's flight
instrument. It made her look like a silly little girl who was playing at
being a pilot.
"Oh god, she's VERY good, Michelle," Randy panted. "With a mouth like
that, are you sure she's single?"
"Heh. Well, she was married once, but that pretty mouth of hers got her
into a spot of bother. Why do you ask, are you interested? Maybe I can
set you two up. I think it's about time Skye went steady."
" Wrrrrrrt?"
Randy ignored Skye's contribution to the conversation. "Well, shemales
aren't usually my bag, but I could do with a beard, especially with all
these public appearances I'm going to have to make now I'm the number
one pilot in the world." He stopped to let out a gratified moan. "Plus,
I could get used to having blow jobs like this on tap! What do you say
we head out to Soho next Friday, Skye? I think we have a spare Imperial
Airlines uniform that's just your size"
"Buuhhht..."
"She'd be delighted, I'm sure," interjected Michelle on Skye's behalf.
"Isn't this exciting, Skye? You have a new boyfriend! Perhaps there will
even be wedding bells in the air if you play your cards right"
"Imagine Ace as a blushing bride!" laughed Randy. "Mincing down the
aisle as she prepares to become Mrs Randy McCloud!"
"How humiliating would that be," pondered Michelle out loud. "To be
forced to love, honour and obey your worst enemy!"
This had gone far enough! Skye loosened her lips from around Randy's
member and worked up the courage to tell her two tormentors than in no
uncertain terms, that she didn't want to go on a date with him. But what
terrible timing! She got as far as "I do-" before a thick sea of hot
spunk spurted down the back of her throat, leaving her gagging on the
floor.
"She said 'I do' already!" Michelle howled with amusement. "Control your
ovaries, woman! You're not at the altar yet!"
-----------------------------------------------------
Finally, the passengers were aboard and the flight was scheduled to
take-off. Skye Blue couldn't help but note that the build-up to this
flight had been quite unusual, though. Normally it was her job as the
perky air hostess to greet the passengers as they entered the plane, but
for reasons unknown to her Randy was currently fulfilling this duty
while she remained in the cockpit, diligently cleaning Madam's shoes
with her tongue as she read her morning paper. Skye's new-found woman's
intuition told her that the reason behind the change in routine almost
undoubtedly spelled bad news for her. Her intuition also told her not to
raise the subject with Madam.
Neither party said a word until it was nearly time for Skye to head out
into the cabin and deliver the safety instructions to the passengers.
Michelle fumbled around in her handbag and fished out an item from
within, an action which naturally piqued the interest of her put-upon
slavegirl.
"Now, Skye, the reason you're in here is because today's clients are
very important people, and we want to give a professional first
impression. I mean, we know how insatiable you can be when you're in the
company of a gentleman, sweetheart - we've all seen the camera footage!
We want them to be able to at least get into their seats before you
attempt to jump on their cocks!"
Skye responded with a sullen pout. She was instructed to act like a boy-
crazy hussy at all times when around her passengers, or else she'd be
hit with a veritable hailstorm of demerits. She just couldn't win. "Now,
Miss Blue, look up at me."
She obeyed, and before she could blink, Michelle reached out and dabbed
something onto both of her contact lens with the tip of her finger. To
her horror, Skye realised she was blind! She began to thrash around in
panic, but a slap to the face soon settled her down again. "Oh, don't be
so flighty, Miss Blue. It's only while you give the safety
demonstration, then I'll remove them. The safety instructions are a
vital part of the flight, don't you know, and I don't want you getting
distracted by all those trouser bulges on display. You used to tell me
you could do my job blindfolded, well here's your chance, hot shot!"
Skye had no response to that, because the time for talk was over.
Michelle hauled the screaming flight attendant to her feet by her hair,
and then guided her towards the service curtain by pinching her rump
until she was across the threshold.
Returning to her seat, Michelle mimed the pinching action to Randy with
her fingers and said matter-of-factly, "You know, I quite enjoyed that.
I can see why men do it so often."
-------------------------------------------------------
Miss Skye Blue stood nervously at the front of the plane's central
aisle, acutely aware that all eyes in the cabin were affixed firmly on
her shapely body. But were there one pair of eyes, or a hundred? Thanks
to whatever it was that was gunking up her bright blue contacts, it was
impossible to tell. She stood attentively with her hands crossed in
front of her, with a big vacant smile on her face which belied the fear
she was feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her tight, tight latex mini-
dress left almost nothing to the imagination. Dressed as she was, she
was being literally thrown to the wolves. She didn't know how many
wolves there were, but with her long, long legs and heaving bosom on
display, she knew that they'd be hungry. Ravenous, even.
After a few moments, Michelle's familiar voice rang out over the PA
system. "Good morning, gentlemen, and welcome to this non-stop Layover
Airways flight from London Heathrow to Las Vegas McCarran International
Airport. At this time allow us to introduce to you your in-flight
entertainment unit, Miss Skye Blue"
Clapping. Even a wolf-whistle. Skye dipped her wings in appreciation.
The spiel continues.
"Miss Blue will be attending to your EVERY need during the flight. There
is no request too vanilla and no request too depraved, so please feel
free to ask! Now, each of you have been issued with a remote control -
should you require Miss Blue's services, please feel free to press the
red button in the middle of the remote. That will send an electric jolt
to a receiver that has been surgically transplanted in her backside"
OUCH! OUCH! OUCH! They always test it out during that part of the
speech! At least Skye now knew how many passengers were aboard - three.
"Each passenger has also been issued with a key that will unlock your
stewardesses' chastity belt - but we must advise you that we'll be
counting them up again at the end of the flight, so don't lose them!
Now, in the case of an emergency, your nearest exits are here and
here..."
Skye performed the classic sweeping hand gesture, indicating where they
were. ."..and in the case of a sexual emergency, your stewardesses'
entrance holes are here and here."
After she'd finished pointing out the location of her orifices to the
men in attendance, Skye rooted around blindly on the floor for her next
prop - a ballgag dressed up to look like an airline seatbelt. Michelle's
voice continued on calmly and professionally. "Fasten your stewardesses'
mouth gag by clipping the buckle and pulling until snug. If you need a
condom, simply pull on the safety lever in front of you and an emergency
pack will drop down from the panel above your head. Please remember to
affix your own condom before attempting to fit anybody else's."
It continued: "Any electrical items inserted inside your stewardesses'
bottom should be switched off for take-off and landing. Thank you for
flying Layover Airways, and we trust you'll all have a very, very
satisfying flight." With the ordeal over and done with, Skye scampered
back behind the curtain to have her sight restored and to refresh her
make-up one last time before take-off.
------------------------------------------------------
When Flight Attendant Miss Skye Blue re-emerged from the curtain, she
was the very definition of sex on legs. She was on company time now, and
her job description was to walk, talk, suck and fuck like her client's
wet dream come true. Holding a tray of complimentary champagne glasses
high above her head with her left hand, she planted her other hand on
her right hip and pranced through the cabin, rolling her hips in an
exaggeratedly sexual manner as she moved.
Every single flounce, every single flick of her hair, every single
movement of her body was designed to advertise her sexual promiscuity to
any and all men in the nearby vicinity. A neutral observer would have
never guessed in a million years that behind Skye Blue's saucy veneer
lay a red-blooded, heterosexual male.
It embarrassed Skye to her core to have to act like such a wanton slut,
but she didn't have a choice in the matter if she ever harboured hope of
regaining her lost status as an alpha male. The numerous surveillance
cameras around the cabin were providing a direct feed to the pilots in
the cockpit and Michelle had made the situation quite clear: if she ever
suspected that Skye Blue had been anything less than a compliant,
pleasing bitch to her passengers, then Skye could kiss goodbye to what
remained of her male genitalia for ever!
Skye was so busy perfecting her catwalk model strut whilst balancing the
teetering tray of glasses that she neglected to look directly at her
passengers until she was less than two metres away. Scanning the seats
quickly with her baby blue bambi eyes, she noted that she didn't
recognise the two men to her left, but when her fluttery eyes swept
right towards the third and final gentleman, she almost spilled the
champagne down her cleavage in shock! There, sitting in front of her,
undressing her latex-clad hourglass figure with his trademark sleazy
salesman leer, was Richard Hanson, Europa Airways chairman - and Ace
McLaren's former best friend! Oh, poo!
Miss Blue's pretty little head swam with conflicting emotions as she
tried to take in the enormity of this situation. Her first thoughts were
of salvation. Richard wasn't just Ace's closest friend, he was one of
the richest and most influential men in the entire world - if anyone
could get him out of this emasculating bind, it was Rich. Oh, how could
Michelle be this stupid? Skye made a promise to herself: once this mess
was sorted out and she'd got those titanic tits removed from her chest,
she'd fuck that bitch over, both figuratively and literally. After he'd
sued her arse off, Michelle would need to spend eight hours every night
fucking strangers under a streetlamp just to keep up with the interest
repayments! Skye's locked-up cockette twitched in its prison at the very
thought of it.
But her moment of triumph evaporated when she suddenly remembered that
she still was under the gaze of the cameras. Explaining to him how it
came to be that she was working as a ladyboy prostitute would be a
delicate operation and she needed time to not only get her point across
but also convince him he was telling the truth. In short, she needed to
make him like her so much that he would agree to meet her away from the
work place. But in this body, there was only one service she had to
offer that he'd be interested in. And that's when the reality of the
situation hit home - shit! He was going to want to have sex with her -
and she wouldn't be able to say no!
"Hey, sweetheart. Earth to Toots, Earth to Toots," snapped Rich,
clicking his fingers irritably in front of Skye's spaced-out face.
"Sorry...Sir," came the meek reply. "I was just thinking about...umm..."
"What I'm packing downstairs, I bet," he sneered, indicating at his
crotch - which was visibly in the upright position. "Well, don't get
flustered, babe - you'll meet him soon enough, and he'll 'fly' you
straight to heaven!" He laughed at his own joke. Rich had clearly still
not taken Ace's advice to drop the cheesy chat-up lines, but on the
other hand, Ace didn't take Rich's advice to never marry, so it worked
out even in the end.
Most girls would have thrown their drink over him and left, but Skye
Blue wasn't most girls. She laughed affectedly at his awful joke,
touching her bosom lightly with her limp hand, and complimented Sir on
his wit.
"My name's Richard, but you can call me Mr Hanson. And this" he motioned
towards the rotund gentleman sitting to Skye's left, "is Mr Tarasov, the
chairman of Imperial Airlines. He flew in from Moscow this morning so he
must be feeling pretty low on energy. Why don't you strut over there and
show him some sugar while I go over these documents?"
"As you wish, Mr Hanson, Sir" complied Skye, relieved to have earned a
temporary reprieve from sexually servicing her closest friend. She bent
down to pour him a glass of champagne and then, without warning, he
grabbed her by the scoop neck of her dress, pulled her in close and
French kissed her! "I'll be back for you later, hotstuff," he promised,
before dismissing her with a wave of his hand and a condescending pat on
her butt.
A red-faced Miss Blue thanked Mr Hanson for his attentions and minced
across to greet and attend to the needs of her other guest, Mr Tarasov.
Perhaps he just wanted a cuddle and a chat? Judging by the way he was
looking at her, and the way he was rubbing his crotch through his
trousers, Skye suspected not. Brrr. Even by her standards, satisfying
this slob was going to be a unenviable task.
The Russian oligarch might have been rich but he was not an aspiration
figure. His portly frame threatened to overspill not only from his
business suit but also from the generous dimensions of his luxurious
seat, while his receding hairline and general poor hygiene made him look
much older than his years. Such a contrast to Mr Hanson, whose virile
blond locks, athletic body and toned buttocks made Skye shudder
with....oh god, what were these hormones doing to her?
Skye placed the champagne bottle into a holder next to Mr Tarasov's seat
and introduced herself to him, dipping her wings in subservience as she
did so. Tarasov returned the gesture (sans curtsey, of course) and
proceeded to bore her to tears for the next few minutes with boastful
tales of his wealth and importance. Miss Blue, ever the professional,
was attentive and alert and hung on his every word. It was quite the
contrast from the last time they met, at last year's Airline Leaders'
Summit, when Mr Tarasov approached the daring young pilot everyone
called Ace at the after party with an offer of work, only to be met
with a torrent of abuse.
"How dare you offer me work, you disgusting, bloated Ruskie" Ace boomed,
loud enough to be heard over the music. "Imperial is what, the second
largest airline in the world? To me, that just means they're the largest
loser. Your tinpot outfit couldn't afford me even if they sold marketing
space on your belly, you fat fuck. You've got more chance of touching a
woman's tit than you have of gaining my services"
As Skye held that thought, Mr Tarasov's clammy fingers seized the
initiative and grabbed hold of her right hooter. "Honk, honk!" he
laughed in that thick Russian accent of his. "I tell you, comrade
Hanson, I wasn't sure about this idea of yours to hire a shemale
hostess, but this he-she is really something."
"You should learn to trust my judgement better, Mr Tarasov," peering
over his papers. "After all, we're going to be business partners soon.
Plus, if you really want to see what she can do, you should check out
some of the instructional videos on your personal TV set."
"Hahaha! I might just do that!" he roared and turned his attentions back
to his ladyboy servant, but Skye's eyes had wavered to the enormous 6"7
young man who was sat on his own at the back of the cabin in tracksuit
bottoms and a Tapout! T-shirt. He looked up over the MMA magazine he was
idly flicking through, noticed Skye gawking at him and flashed her a
disdainful look. When Mr Tarasov explained that Vlad was just his
personal bodyguard and that she should not concern herself with him,
Skye's relief was palpable. He looked like he could have ripped her in
half!
Michelle's voice rang out over the tannoy. "Cabin crew, two minutes
until take-off." Miss Blue turned to take her seat, but Tarasov grabbed
her wrist tightly, causing her to yelp in that high-pitched womanly
voice of hers. "Why don't you stay here, princess?" he offered in a tone
which suggested refusal was not an option. Nonetheless, safety
procedures meant Skye had to fight her corner. "I apologise Sir, but I
must return to my designated-"
Her sentence was interrupted by a sudden, violent and as it transpired
quite deliberate jolt as the plane braked suddenly, causing Skye, ever-
vulnerable because of her skyscraper heels, to fly directly into the
path of Mr Tarasov's lap. When she landed, his bear-like hands wrapped
themselves around her, making escape impossible.
Skye squirmed and wiggled and jiggled for a brief few moments in an
attempt to escape her rotund suitor's clutches, but she soon resigned
herself to her fate. Her attention switched to whatever it was she was
sitting on that was poking sharply into her buttocks. "Please fasten
your seatbelt Sir, I think I may be sitting on the buckle!" offered
Skye, before realising that the brute was holding either side of the
seatbelt in his hands. That was no buckle!
Tarasov clipped the belt over the combined waists of himself and his
blushing playmate as the plane began its taxi, and by the time the craft
was in the air, Tarasov was making full use of his in-flight
entertainment unit, biting and kissing Skye's ears and neck aggressively
while kneading the stewardesses' breasts roughly like they were lumps of
dough. Skye responded as per the Layover Airways employee handbook
dictated; by panting and moaning like a bitch in heat. By the time they
reached altitude, however, Skye was horrified to discover that her
nipples were as hard as bullets and that her moans were no longer
voluntary.
"Well, we're on our way, then" said Mr Hanson, raising his champagne
glass. "This calls for a celebration."
"Couldn't agree more, my friend," replied Tarasov, discarding the
ravaged flight attendant for a second to return the gesture.
And then he tipped the entire glass down Skye's décolletage, popped open
the top few buttons of her dress and began to savagely lick and suck on
her champagne-coated cans. Skye could feel her right hand being forced
down Mr Tarasov's trousers as her left grabbed hold of the handle on the
overhead locker above her for balance. It was going to be a long flight.
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?"
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?"
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
