Fay Flywright

Sky-High Seduction

Chapter 1

Gabriel

My name is Gabriel Du Champe. I am twenty-eight years old and a Libra. I am an airline stewardess and work for World International Airways. I've been with the company for almost seven years and since I am usually senior I bid for the New York-London flight and almost always get it. This is important to me because I have a fiancй in New York and a fiancй in London. I usually have a fiancй in New York and a fiancй in London even though they might not always be the same two men. A "fiancй" usually lasts for about two years-if he's good, that is. They're very exciting when new, but after a year or so they've run through their bags of tricks and funny stories and their biographies begin to fade. It's at this point that they begin to insist that I finally quit my job, which is important to me, to marry them and settle down to a life of quiet contemplation, weekly sex and daily diapers, which is important to them. That's when I start looking for another fiancй!

Currently I have the best parley of my career, with Bob in New York and Noel in London. Two beautiful men, both inexhaustable fuckers, both devoted to me. It works this way: My flight is 602, leaving Kennedy at 8 PM EST, arriving Heathrow, London at 8:35 AM, GMT. Since I try to avoid jet-lag, I leave my watch set to New York time, which makes it 3:35 AM at London touchdown. I'm usually in bed with Noel, fucking his brains out, by 5:30 AM, NY time. Then after about six hours sleep I awaken to an evening at home with Noel, or an occasional night out on the town, starting at about 12 noon, according to my New York watch. We're back in bed by 8 PM, NY time and after four or five orgasms and about five hours of deep sleep, I'm ready to leave for Heathrow and the return to NY. My return flight is 609, scheduled for 11:15 AM London time. At take off, my watch tells me it is 6:15 AM in the Big Apple. By 3 PM EST I am in bed with Bob, fucking his brains out. He has to take a break from his photo studio in order to do this, but I insist on being fucked at the end of each run… it's kind of a good luck charm.

Of course there are many exceptions to the routine I've outlined. Quite often, I'll spend time shopping or sightseeing or "adventuring" in London, and quite often Bob is too busy at the studio to meet me for our afternoon fuck. Then too, there is the occasional extra-curricular sex session… but more about that a little later. It boils down to a twenty-four hour (plus) turn around in London and a forty-eight hour (plus) turn-around in New York. I've succeeded in making the whole thing a series of pleasure trips! The beauty of this arrangement is that neither of my two "fiancй's" knows about the other!

I think I might be in love with Bob… I mean, no one has lasted as long as he has… three years! A world record with me. He is my fifth New York "fiancй," so you can gather how long the others lasted. Three years and I still feel as if I'm cuming every time he so much as kisses me! He excites me more than any other man ever has! He makes me laugh and he knows my moods and he even brings me breakfast in bed. He's funny, intelligent, creative (both in bed and out), and he loves me for something other than my body… a demand I've never even considered making.

As for Noel, he's new, only about five months old. A lovely chap with upper class breeding and a wry sense of humor. He's a writer of spy and intrigue novels and is currently in fashion. He's made a fortune from his last two books, both of which are soon to be filmed. Of course, I'm the perfect thing for him-I don't make demands of any kind, particularly demands on his time. He knows to expect me "home" every third day and I serve as a kind of holiday from his writing. Underneath it all, Noel has a lovely romantic soul. He professes to love me and surprisingly I think I am falling in love with him. Actually, I am ideal for him. With me he can have his cake… me, and eat it too… which he does, with gusto! He is beyond doubt the best male eater of pussy I've ever experienced. I hope he lasts.

The reason for all this is that it's nice to have something to come home to and it's even nicer to have some one on both sides of the Atlantic. Unlike most of the other stews of my acquaintance, I'm not forced to live in a plastic hotel room on one side of the pond and a stews-nest shared with two or three other girls on the other side. During my first year as a stewardess I lived exactly that way, sharing a two bedroom apartment with two other stewardesses. I very shortly got tired of the panty hose hanging in the bathroom and the bitchiness of one of the girls, Fran, her name was. It just wasn't home, I mean there wasn't even enough closet space. I was really more comfortable on the other end in a hotel room in London. At least there I had privacy.

Because I'm French, Parisian by birth, privacy is quite important to me. I value it highly. Even though I've been an American citizen for almost four years now, I am still possessed of a sensuous French soul. This inspite of the fact that I speak in the American idiom and sometimes come on like an American. These are habit patterns picked up since I started flying for World International, almost seven years ago. I'm French from head to toe and that includes all that lovely stuff in-between! Two facts: my accent is barely discernable and I make love like a Frenchwoman. You'll soon see what I mean.

I'm beautiful, with very long, shiny, jet black hair and full breasts tipped by two sensitive, pink nipples that when aroused are almost half an inch long. And, all it really takes to arouse me is the delicious, gratifying knowledge that a man, even one single man on the street, is developing an erection while looking at me. Then my juices start flowing! Sweet, pungent juice gushing to such an extent that by the time I arrive home I have to change but of my wet panties! That's because my lovely little pussy is shaven and there is no pubic hair to catch and absorb the moisture.

And while I'm on the subject, I really have to admit that I have a beautiful cunt. I know it may sound immodest but I've heard it from so many men, so often that I've come to believe it myself. Of course, the proof is in the pudding, so to speak; I mean, I get sucked almost as much as I get fucked. Something is attracting the men down there! At first I thought it was my Calendre… that's the perfume I use, very sexy stuff, it seems to react fantastically with cunt juice, which I'm certain is a catalyst for the perfume. The hornier I get, the more spicy and sweet the Calendre!

As I said, I thought it was the perfume, so for a period of almost a year I stopped wearing it, but the compliments continued as did my batting average with cunnilingus. So I'm convinced I have one of the prettiest pussies in the western world… I'm just being honest. You know, when you've got it, flaunt it! Right? And I take good care of my beautiful pussy. I exercise muscle control every day. I've reached the point where I have enough control to project a ping-pong ball across the room! In fact, even when I'm wet and juicy I have the ability to tighten up to where my cuntal muscles can offer considerable resistance to the withdrawal of even a tiny finger! You really have to pull to get it out and then when it finally emerges it does so with an audible pop!

My clitoris is not quite an inch long but I'm working on it. Exercise can work wonders! Bob says it's like a juicy little cock and he loves to watch it come erect. He usually brings about this phenomenon just by blowing on it two or three times.

Well, as you've no doubt guessed by now, my cunt is my pride and joy. My delicious little educated pussy! I'm even proud of its taste! I mean I've never used those flavored douches that have become so popular or attempted to disguise its taste in any way. I want to taste like me and the most I've ever done was to use, on rare occasions, a douche of rose water which applies more of a scent than a taste, although it primarily just enhances the natural scent. As for perfume… hmmm! The idea of perfuming one's cuntal area with expensive magic is to me the height of sensuous cosmetology… how about that?

Of course, the reason I'm shaven is because I want my soft, warm, pretty pussy to be seen and not hidden behind a wiry black bush.

As you've no doubt surmised, I'm somewhat of an exhibitionist and… well, when I'm standing there, naked in front of a man, my legs together, my eyes locked onto his cock, savoring the sight of it as it grows thicker and longer? I can usually feel his eyes gliding erotically down the curves of my body. Then, when I'm certain that his discerning view has finally descended to the inevitable hairless triangle, I part my legs slowly… ever so slowly, opening my cunt lips… spreading them to reveal just a hint of wet coral flesh. Then my impudent little clitoris comes erect as his cock comes erect, gradually making itself known. Try that with a hairy cunt! Impossible, right? Anyway, that's when the guy generally grabs me and buries his head between my legs! My Shick Injector is the best investment I ever made! And I keep everything soft and nice with Johnson's baby oil and powder (I'd be happy to give the Johnson people a testimonial to that effect, if there are any of them out there). I realize that ladies with pubic hair get sucked also, but certainly not as consistently arid as well as I do.

I've a firm ass and long, well-shaped legs. My ass is also one of my pride and joys. Two firm balloons, not too large, not too small, not too hard, not too soft; squeezable, with a long, deep valley separating the two pneumatic cheeks. I love to feel fingers or tongues gliding back and forth across it… and oh! to be diddled lightly between the cheeks with a wet tongue daintily passing over my asshole! Or better yet a long, hard cock fucking in the deep furrow, rubbing back and forth across the little puckered opening! Noel, my London fiancй, cums that way sometimes.

At times I believe my ass is even more sensitive than my breasts. I'm speaking from limited experience really, because I've never been fucked in the ass, not even by a finger. However it's nice to know that I still have some virginity to lose.

Actually, the fact that I'm an anal virgin is somewhat strange since most of the men I meet are very attracted to my ass. Bob has tried once or twice, but his cock goes soft before it can be inserted. He maintains that he hurt a girl very badly once in trying to fuck her ass and he can't seem to get it out of his mind. (Bob has a horror of inflicting pain that dates back to some Korean War incident that he refuses to talk about.)

Well, anyway, I've yet to be fucked in the ass, which is somewhat unusual considering the fact that most of the groovy men I feel attracted to usually turn out to be leg-and-ass-men as opposed to tit-men. I'm pleased at this, because men who are more attracted to a pretty ass then they are to big breasts are usually better men. They are, more often than not, more sophisticated, more intellectual, more witty and in general better lovers than those guys who are looking for a tit to suck on. At least that's been my experience.

All of this goes to prove that I love sex… love it! The feel of a big, hard, juicy cock! The voluptuous feeling of grabbing a man's hard ass-cheeks as he pumps his juice into me! The bitter-sweet taste of gism on my tongue! The tender thrill of a rock-hard cock as it parts my cunt lips and enters slowly, slowly! The electricity of a wet tongue across my naked clit! All of it; the thrusting, the hardness, the softness, the flowing juices; nibbling and licking and fucking and sucking… I love it all! All! And then the cuming, the overpowering spasm of a giant cock spewing wonderful white cream! In my cunt, on my face, between my breasts, over my buttocks, in my mouth! I want to feel it, to drink it all in, to wallow in it!

Chapter 2

So, back to that day six years ago when I decided that the "stews nest" was not for me and that what I really needed were men to live with, preferably in something at least approaching luxury. The particular month I speak of had me flying New York-St Thomas. It was nice, I'd been a stew for about two years and St. Thomas was the best run I'd gotten so far-it was winter in New York. Also the company was expanding that year and taking on new stewardesses and because of that I had enough seniority on the St. Thomas run to finally get out of Tourist Class galley for the first time and find myself in First Class cabin, an improvement resulting in less work and more intimate relationships with the customers (there are fewer of them in first class). Incidentally, I don't mean sexually intimate-that came quite a bit later.

Well, one morning our flight didn't get off because of weather in the Caribbean. It seems as if there is a peculiar type of clear air turbulence at low altitudes which occasionally plagues the American and British Virgin Island area. Because of the extremely short runway at Harry S. Truman Field on St. Thomas, landing becomes impossible, or almost so in the buffeting, invisible winds which have been known to switch direction almost 180 degrees in thirty seconds! All of this, on perfectly clear sunny days. At the best of times, the cockpit crews and the more sophisticated passengers consider H.S.T., which is just barely adequate for the equipment we use, one of the hairiest landing approaches in the business. The landing-abort-line is painted on the runway just a short distance from the end and since the approach is over water onto a runway right can be somewhat of an optical problem. Of the nine trips I made there, all were pleasant except the first. We encountered violent turbulence during the approach, overshot the abort line, touching down about 25 yards beyond it, and took off again into even more violent air directly toward a large hill at the other end. The Captain fought her around again in a steep bank and attempted another approach, but was waved off about a quarter of a mile from touchdown by the tower who informed us that the wind had shifted and now we were landing in a very off-again on-again erratic cross-wind. We diverted to St. Croix which doesn't have the problem and it was four hours before the phenomenon cleared up on St. Thomas. Fortunately, this strange turbulence doesn't occur very often and the pilots, who are totally aware of the approach and runway problem, exercise extra caution when coming into HST. It helps to explain why there have been very few landing or take-off fiascos.

Since these periods of turbulence can last for many hours in that part of the Caribbean, and since our Captain had recently experienced the results of such turbulence it's easy to understand why flight 312 was postponed. It was eight-thirty in the morning and to be safe the flight was rescheduled for two-thirty that afternoon. That totaled up to six hours and I'd be damned if I'd spend them sitting around the airport. I decided to go home, back to the "stews nest," which was twenty minutes away in Queens, and wash out a few things.