Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/F/FLYCHECK.TXT

Text File | 1994-07-16 | 19.0 KB | 337 lines

                               ALMA

I was in the window seat of a Piedmont 737, taxiing out at
Washington National that morning.  My destination was New Orleans
with a change of planes in Atlanta.  As we passed the transient
ramp in front of Butler Aviation, I saw my old airplane.  It had
been repainted, but bore the same numbers along each side of the
fuselage.  The sight of it brought back a memory from the 1960's
that marked the highlight of my brief career in commercial
aviation.

Officially, the airplane's registration number --- and radio call
sign -- was N-5558B.  But to my two partners and me --- and to
the tower crew at her home airport in Opa Locka, Florida ---
Beech Travelair N-5558B was "Triple Nickel 8-Ball."  She was a
outside business venture of three lawyers -- my two partners and
me -- who shared a criminal-law practice in Miami, and a love of
flying. Sherlock -- the name my father, an Arthur Conan Doyle
fan, gave me --- earned the law firm some early publicity, and we
were doing well enough to afford to buy Triple Nickel 8-Ball. Our
aviation business involved flying bags of bank checks from Miami
International Airport to Atlanta Hartsfield Airport where they
were taken by van to the Federal Reserve Depository for
processing.  The income was predictable; but the flying wasn't --
particularly in the summer when the Florida thunderstorms topped
out at about 40,000 feet.

What we admitted, to everyone but the I.R.S., was that our money-
losing business was just an excuse to fly and hang around the
airport's Fixed Base Operation trading lies with the other pilots
and would-be pilots that inhabited the pilots' lounge.

There was a flying school there -- a collection of Cessna 150's,
young instructors with their eyes set on the airlines, and
students from the local area.  Late afternoon usually found a
fair sprinkling of women in the pilots' lounge; some of them
students, but mostly the girl-friends of the students and
instructors.  They all knew about our operation, and with
suitable hints, could wrangle a ride in Triple-Nickel-8-Ball on
our Miami-Atlanta-Miami trip when we wanted the company.

A few weeks before, the female "regulars" in the lounge had
jokingly announced formation of a local chapter of the "mile-
high" club -- and that subject had replaced discussion of
instrument-approaches and engine overhaul prices.  As I
understood it, the rules were simple:  sex above 5280 feet,
unaided by co- (or auto) pilot. The novelty of the topic wore off
after a while; but one day a female student showed up with a
small pendant hanging from her neck on a gold chain: a set of
small gold wings with a cloisonne' panel in the center, bearing
the numbers "5280."  A second, and then third, pendant soon
appeared on other necks.  Although none of us had the nerve to
ask, it appeared that the mile-high club was more than talk.

My turn to fly the Atlanta run came up one Thursday. I usually
got to the field after work, about two hours before the cargo
would be ready in Miami, and had "dinner" -- which is stretching
the term, from the vending machines in the lounge.  The coffee
machine, it was said, served a dual purpose, dispensing battery
acid for the aircraft as well as slaking the thirsts of the
pilots.  That night, as I approached the machine, with quarter in
hand, a voice said "I'll trade you some real coffee and the best
pastrami sandwich in town for a ride to Atlanta."  The invitation
came from a short blond named Alma, a "primary student" in our
parlance: one who was training for her private pilot license.
She produced a picnic basket, a large thermos and an inviting
smile.  "OK,"`I said, "but I'll have to call Miami and get a
weight for the cargo, first."  "For reference, Captain," she
said, "I'm 112, pounds, soaking wet."

Actually, the "cargo weight" issue was only a ploy.  If I didn't
particularly feel like company on a given evening, it was easier
to decline a request on "weight and balance" grounds.  It also
aided some rather subtle gender discrimination:  it was amazing
how often we had room for a 130 pound woman and not a 180 pound
guy.

For Alma, however the weight and balance problem was resolved
when she first asked for the ride:  she had mischievous blue
eyes, a button nose, and pert breasts, not well-contained by a
Harley-Davidson T-Shirt.  I had heard from one of the instructors
that she was a serious, bright student with the goal -- and
apparently the talent -- to achieve an airline career.

At the 'phone, I checked the weather. The short hop from Opa
Locka to Miami was no sweat.  It was "VFR" -- the initials for
"visual flight rules," that permitted flying when the visibility
was greater than 3 miles and the cloud ceiling greater than 1000
feet. The rest of the route was another story, however.  Atlanta
was reporting a 500 foot broken ceiling, sky obscured, visibility
of two miles, forecast to drop to 200 feet and a half-mile in
rain and fog. The enroute conditions were free of thunderstorms,
but ceilings along the route were low, typically 300-1000 feet.
The ride would be smooth, but definitely "IFR" -- Instrument
Flight Rules --requiring a suitably instrumented airplane and a
pilot holding the coveted "instrument rating -- which I had
acquired from eight-months of flying with a hood over my head,
alongside a sadistic instructor who would simulate every sort of
system failure known to man. I filed our flight plan for Atlanta,
with Montgomery, Alabama as a weather alternate, gathered my maps
-- "charts" in pilot lingo, and returned to the lounge to tell
Alma she was welcome.

I loaded Alma in the Travelair's right seat, handed her the
checklist and fired-up the two engines.  We, used the challenge
and response system familiar to both of us:  "Fuel on mains."
"Check."  "Boost pumps on."  "Check."  "Gyro set...."  When the
gauges read "in the green" Opa Locka ground control cleared me to
the active runway and I departed with my newly-found friend to
Miami.  The turn-around there was short, delayed only by our
ground-handler's hitting his head against the baggage door as a
result of looking at Alma, instead of where he was going.  We
reboarded the airplane; as I reached over Alma to latch the
passenger-side door, my arm brushed the front of the outstanding
T-shirt she was wearing,  Her reaction was to look me directly in
the eyes, and smile.

"Miami Clearance Delivery, Beech Triple Nickel 8-Ball at Butler
with the numbers."  This was a game.  The same controller worked
the ground position nearly every night; but would not yield to
the "triple nickel eightball" informality.  So, as usual, he
answered with: "Aircraft calling Clearance Delivery, say again
your call sign."  Resigned to the game, I replied, slowly:
"November five five five five eight Bravo, standing by for
clearance."  "Roger, November five-eight Bravo is cleared to the
Atlanta airport, as filed.  Fly runway heading after departure,
maintain 2000, expect 4000 one-five minutes after departure.
Miami departure control, 131.55.  Squawk 0425."  The rapid-fire
readoff defined our route and direction of flight, the altitudes,
radio frequencies and transponder codes that would allow tracking
us on radar.  I read back the clearance to him for confirmation,
concluding with "triple nickel eight-ball."   The reply was
"readback correct, five-eight Bravo, have a good flight, ground
point seven."

After only a short delay, Alma and I were 25 miles from the Miami
Airport and cleared to our requested altitude with a simultaneous
"hand off" to the Miami Center:  "Five-Eight Bravo, climb and
maintain 4-thousand, report reaching to Miami Center on 133.45.
Good day sir."  We were "in the soup" -- a combination of fog and
mist that accompanied the warm front that covered the east coast
from Miami to New York.  Visibility was limited to the wingtips
where the red and green navigation lights were visible only as
large, diffuse colored circles."  We reached 4000 feet, so
advised Miami, and sat back for a long night of flying as I
trimmed the airplane for cruise.

Although we were seated less than a foot from one another, we
both wore headsets, which, when not being used for radio
transmissions, worked as an intercom.  I pressed the push-to-talk
button, and, for lack of a better introduction to the night's
conversation, asked Alma; "I've seen the new wings in the pilot's
lounge; who's running for the president of the mile-high club?"
She replied "they can't elect a president yet; all their flights
have been illegal."  "Illegal?" I said.  "Yeah, there are only 3
members so far and they all earned their wings with a student-
pilot."  That was the "illegal" part of it:  student-pilots were
"signed-off" for solo flights, but were absolutely forbidden, by
FAA rules, to carry passengers, much less engage in sexual
acrobatics with them.  "Funny you should mention the club," she
said, "would you like to see why I asked to come on this flight?"
Without waiting for an answer, she produced a small black velvet
jewelry case, and handed it to me."  I retrieved a small penlight
from my pocket, and illuminated a set of gold wings -- with 5280
inscribed in the middle -- and hanging below, suspended by thin
gold chain, three small panels inscribed: "Instrument," "Multi-
Engine, and "Commercial."

Alma turned to me, unfastened her seatbelt, removed her headset,
and mine, put her lips to my ears, and said: "I've completed all
my ground school courses, Sherlock.  I can't think of anyone
nicer to give me the check ride for my advanced ratings."  I
turned, in time to see Alma's T-shirt disappear over her head,
revealing a taut pair of breasts in the red lighting  of the
cabin.  It was only hours of training that forced my eyes back to
the panel where I found the airplane 20 degrees east of its
assigned heading at an altitude of 3800 feet, 200 feet below our
assigned altitude.  As I banked left and corrected the altitude
discrepancy, I felt Alma's hand between my legs.  I bent over to
kiss her and soon received a warm tongue, deep in my mouth,
producing the clearly intended effect beneath her hand.

While Alma's`plans were perfectly clear, the associated logistics
posed certain problems;  the Travelair was a small aircraft, the
back seats were full of mail bags, and the fact that we were on
an instrument flight plan, with our progress monitored on radar,
meant I would have to devote at least some attention to flying
the plane.  She snuggled up closer and I played with her left
breast, rolling the nipple between my thumb and forefinger.

The speaker crackled:  "58 Bravo, Miami Center, now, on 123.35.
Good day sir."  "58 Bravo, roger, 123.35," I replied, and with
one hand still on Alma's breast, I reached over and tuned the
radio to the new frequency: "Miami Center, Beech 5558 Bravo with
you on 123.35, maintaining 4000, requesting higher."  The request
for a higher altitude was essential to the matter at hand:  we
still were below the magic one-mile figure. The response was
discouraging:  "Unable higher at this time, 58 Bravo," the
controller said, "you are overtaking traffic at 6 thousand, a B-
747 heavy; converging traffic, an Aztec at 5 thousand, 12
o'clock, fifteen miles.  I'll try to work out a higher for you
after Orlando.  Maintain 4000."  I uttered the airman's universal
complaint for circumstances like this:  "Shit!" I said.  Alma
laughed, "Relax, Sherlock, it's a long way to Atlanta.  Could you
turn up the heat a bit."  That was a reasonable request under the
circumstances:  while I had been talking to the Center, Alma had
divested herself of all of her clothes and was shivering
slightly.  I flipped on the gasoline-fired cabin heater which
immediately filled the cabin with warmth.  I moved my hand down
to the soft blond hair between Alma's legs, an act that filled me
with warmth.

There were equal amounts of passion and humor present now.  We
were still below the official altitude for mile-high
inauguration, and I --- and, I suspect, Alma --- were wondering
just how to "assume the position" in the cramped cockpit.  I was
reaching the point where the higher altitude was going to be
needed soon.  We had passed Orlando some time ago, and just as I
raised the microphone to press the request for a higher altitude,
the radio came alive "58 Bravo, Jacksonville Center, no joy on
the higher altitude.  Atlanta Center reports all altitudes above
5000 are occupied on your route of flight; maintain 4000."  This
was getting desperate.  Perhaps the airways to our west would be
less crowded: "Center, could we have a new routing that would
permit a higher altitude?"  "Standby" was the response, and as I
set the microphone down, I felt a pull at my zipper.  Alma's hand
reached in and freed my cock from what had become, by that time,
almost painful confinement.  Bending down, she engulfed me with a
warm, wet mouth and began making slow up and down motions..

"58 Bravo, Jacksonville.  Clearance."  "Go ahead," I gasped, as
Alma's ministrations below became more intense.  "58 Bravo is
cleared to the Atlanta airport, present position radar vectors
Taylor, Victor 3 Alma, Victor 157, Atlanta.  Maintain 4000 until
passing Taylor. After Taylor, climb and maintain 6000.  Cross
Alma at or above 5000.  Turn left now, heading 330."  I grabbed
my charts to identify the navigation fixes the controller had
specified --- thinking I had misheard the "Alma" instruction.  A
warm, bare back served as a convenient chart table.  There it
was, a fix called "Alma;"  it consisted of a VHF Navigation
Station named after a nearby Georgia city.  I read back the
clearance to the Center, set course for Taylor, and sat back
marvelling at the coincidence of names, and at Alma's talents,
which were making both of us incredibly hot. As we passed over
Taylor, I could take it no longer.  I rolled the trim wheel up a
notch, putting the airplane in a gentle climb, raised Alma's
head, kissed her deeply and said "sit in my lap."  I slid my seat
back, Alma pulled herself up by the edges of the instrument
panel. She said "like this, Sherlock?" And settled a very warm,
wet cunt over my cock, easing me into her.  "Mmmm, yeah," I
replied, and she began moving up and down with shallow strokes.
I reached around her, grasping the airplane's control yoke with
one hand, squeezing the nipple of her right breast with the
fingers of the other.

The red beam from the cabin light, directly above her, gave
Alma's shoulders a hypnotic, fiery aura.  To her right, I could
see the "DME" --- the Distance Measuring Equipment indicator ---
clicking off the miles remaining until the Alma VOR.  The plane
climbed in synchrony with our excitement.  Alma removed my hand
from her breast, directing it downward between her legs, where my
finger had no trouble locating her now prominent clit.
Moistening my finger with the wetness that virtually flowed, now,
from her vagina, I began rubbing the area around her clit in
slow, circular motions.

Only five miles remained on the DME.  I thrust up into Alma, but
could not penetrate her as deeply as I wanted, because of the
awkward position.  Suddenly, the navigation indicators swung
wildly, indicating our passage over the Alma VOR, with the
altimeter reading 5000 feet.  I was now both over, and in, Alma,
and cleared for the higher altitude.  Thrusting up again, I
pulled back sharply on the control yoke, raising the nose of the
airplane rapidly, and pushing Alma's body down on my cock with a
force of 2-G's. The altimeter spun up past 5300 feet.  Alma, the
stall-warning horn and I went off simultaneously.  I pushed the
nose down just as the airplane complained of its mistreatment
with a pre-stall buffet.  Reaching around Alma's right side, I
fire-walled the throttles.  The result was positive G's which
pushed Alma and me toward the roof of the cabin, with my cock
still deeply in her.  She gasped, screamed and her pussy
contracted around me as she reached the peak of her orgasm.

The rest of the flight was too routine to merit discussion,
except to say that Alma flew for a while as I used my mouth to
play with her breasts and pussy.  That little bit of flight
instruction was revenge: I wanted her to feel what it was like to
have to concentrate on altitude, attitude and airspeed, while
waves of pleasure distract you.

After we off-loaded the cargo in Atlanta, I called back to Miami
to report that the right engine was running roughly.  "Nothing
serious," I said, "probably just a fouled plug; but I think I
should stay here tonight and have it looked at in the morning."
Alma and I found the airport motel with the 2-foot concrete
walls.  They were intended to protect guests from the noise of
the landing and departing jets.  That night, they isolated our
neighbors from some pretty amazing sounds from within the room.
Alma proved herself a very vocal, athletic lover.  It wasn't
until two days later that Alma appeared in the pilots' lounge
wearing the set of wings bearing the instrument, multi-engine and
commercial endorsements.  She took a lot of kidding about the
"commercial" endorsement, but refused to divulge where, when and
with whom she took the check ride.  I didn't see her again.  That
week, Uncle Sam decided my flying skills were needed more in
Southeast Asia than in Florida.  I spent two years flying the
military big-brother of my airplane -- the Beech Baron --
ferrying various important Army types, working diligently to lose
the Vietnam conflict for us.  After that, I moved to Washington,
DC as an associate in a large, anonymous law firm.  Partnership
in the firm came six years later. Although the money was good, it
came at a price:  the medication I was taking for high blood-
pressure caused the FAA to revoke my medical certificate. My
flying days were over.

As the Piedmont jet climbed over the Virginia countryside, my
reverie was broken by a cabin announcement;  "Ladies and
gentlemen, this is Al Carey, your captain speaking.  Along with
our first-officer today, Alma Whitley, I'd like to welcome you to
the continuation of Piedmont flight 232 to Atlanta.  We will be
cruising at an altitude of ......"  Alma Whitley.  Damn.  The
woman had a flair for coincidences.

I waited until the other passengers exited the long aluminum
tube, and followed the crew down the jetway.  "Triple Nickel 8-
Ball," I said, coming up behind a slim, short body topped by a
shock of blond hair.  She turned with an expression that was half
annoyance, half quizzical.  Then, recognition spread across her
face in the form of a big smile.  "Sherlock.  My old check
pilot."

"Cathy," I said to my secretary on the airport pay phone, "call
Al Mason's secretary in New Orleans and postpone our meeting
until tomorrow morning.  It looks like I'm going to have a long
layover in Atlanta."