Office porn Queen

CHAPTER ONE

On the huge new 797-X, you almost could forget you were on an airplane, it was that big.

It carried 900 passengers on three decks, had a crew of twenty, showed three different movies at the same time, and had a bar and a sauna.

And also this new plane, the pride of Wanderlust Airlines, had three conference rooms. Any company's executives could hold a conference or a Board of Directors meeting in the air, behind locked doors.

Or an executive could lock up himself or herself with a secretary and catch up on confidential matters. Each conference room contained a well stocked bar easy chairs, a private washroom and even a foldout bed for any harassed executive who needed a nap.

This was a double bed by the way, so two executives could nap together, although if one didn't like the other, he or she could sleep on the couch.

This feature was unique with Wanderlust Airlines. It even had changed the way that folk pronounced "Wanderlust". Usually the accent falls on the first two syllables, like this: WANDERlust. But when some leering comedian in some night club somewhere began to call it the WanderLUST Airline, the new name caught on and the conference rooms were generally sold out weeks in advance to male executives and their female secretaries, or vice versa.

As our curtain rises, we discover that Conference Room One on a 797-X has been out of service because it had needed repairs. A game of strip poker had ended in a chair-swinging fight. It all had started with a drunken claim by a large, horsy woman that there was no bottle with a neck so long that it could fill her cunt. Her strip poker opponent called her an anti-male sexist, and then… but all that happened last week.

Today, a petite and shapely young woman, in a uniform tailored to accentuate the breasts, stood with a key in her hand at the door of Conference Room One. Her name was Helen Troy and she was one of the fourteen hostesses who pampered the passengers on the 797-X. Also got pinched, got felt, made dates, and might even marry a millionaire.

Helen Troy was never sure whether she would prefer to be married to a man or to a woman. Sometimes this sex-centered doubt as though she were sitting on her cunt on a fence, ready to fall either way worried her.

Sometimes it seemed like a lot of fun.

Like now.

Helen, about to go off duty for a couple of hours, had been parading up and down one of the plane's aisles, following her breasts. This was part of the Wanderlust hostess training. A girl was rated by the way she walked her breasts down an aisle. The second most important thing was the sway and swing of the hips. Equally important was the hostess's perfume. It was made to a secret formula, and contained rose petals, a sperm oil base, tincture of opium and the faintest trace of a famous laboratory's concentrated essence of cunt.

On this particular hip-swinging parade down the aisle, Helen Troy had become aware of a woman of about her own age – twenty-four – who wore a severe tailleur that, to a woman's eye, hinted of opulent curves beneath.

This woman, who smiled at her and ran admiring eyes over the uniform tailored by Mainbocher, didn't have the kind of figure that lends itself to a tailleur.

She should have been traveling in a bikini. Which set off a bell in Helen's mind. Awornan who hides her womanliness? Oh-ho. Could be a dyke. No. Too delicately built. Too carefully made up and coiffed. Try again. A woman who hides but coyly displays her femininity so that another woman might see it but men might not?

Hmmmm, thought Helen, getting a tingle in the nipples.

She paused at the woman's seat. "Anything I can get for you?"

"Oh, not really, thank you." A soft, sexy voice with a kind of insinuation in it. "Except that, well, look, I want to find out something about Wanderlust Airlines' policy regarding hostesses. Perhaps you…?" And oh, such a secret smile!

"Why, I'm just going off duty. Anything I can tell you…"

"It's, uh, a delicate matter. Is there any place where we could talk in private?"

Sure. Conference Room One. The paint had dried, in there, but it had been too late to open it for reservation when the plane took off.

Helen hesitated. She wondered where the huge plane's captain, Master Pilot Henry Hastings, might have gone. A little while before, she had poked into the cockpit to say hello to Hank. The copilot, reading a newspaper while a computer flew the plane, had said that Hank was off duty and ought to be around somewhere.

The copilot grinned at Helen and said he wouldn't be surprised if Hank was in one of the lays with a cute Argentinean twat who had been missing from her seat in First Class. He said that Snarly Mollie, as everyone called the chief stewardess, should have known better than to report a passenger missing. She should have checked to see weather Hank was out of sight at the same time.

Helen had felt a pang. Hank Hastings was part of her problem.

But now that tailleured but sexy passenger, Cleo Prentice, who had taken her to the bar, leaned across the softly lit, tiny table and touched her hand. At the same time, beneath the table, their knees met and Cleo began a gentle rubbing.

Helen's jealous thoughts of Hank faded when Cleo once again used her secret, knowing smile.

"What I want to know, Helen, is whether Wanderlust Airlines will accept a lesbian as a hostess."

Helen drew in an unsteady breath. Down in her crotch, a warmth and a moistness got together in a slithery tingle, and she had to wait a moment before she could go on.

"They have a policy against it. They want girls who show their sexual attraction to men. Our most frequent fliers are businessmen, after all. But we do have lesbians in the hostess corps. A girl simply doesn't tell."

"I… you see… I have a tendency that way, but I'd love to be a hostess."

This was it.

Helen said very slowly, breathing hard: "You only have a, a tendency toward, uh, making love to women?"

"A leaning. A… desire." Cleo leaned close. Her breath touched Helen's cheek, warm and subtly perfumed. "I'm so uneasy talking here. They might bug a bar to find out, you know, business secrets."

Conference Room One! Vacant, and made to order for an assignation of cunts!

Helen sneaked the key off its hook when Snarly Mollie wasn't looking. Now she stood alone in the angle of the rear passageway and fitted the gimmicky three-cornered key to the pickproof lock. But as she opened the door a few inches, she stopped and looked around again. She could see a lay door. Was Hank in there with that missing, sexy, slinky, dark-eyed charmer from Buenos Aires? Fleetingly Helen wondered how they could manage in the close confines of a plane's lay. Let's see, she thought. Hank sits on the toilet, being gentleman enough to close it first, and the seductive South American gets onto his lap backward and offers her cunt to Hank's every-ready prick. Hank slides it in… the angle is a bit awkward… Missy adjusts her olive-skinned ass cheeks on his thighs… she has a tight grip around him… she is sighing with pleasure… slowly she pumps, stops, tantalizes him. Slowly she pumps, stops, but this time Hank, if Helen knew Hank, would ram it up into her and make her gasp and murmur of love in Portuguese. Meanwhile he had access to her times. Those two must be having such a good time in there! They had both been out of sight for at least half an hour. Lucky there were plenty of lays on the plane for other people who might want to do something in a lay beside fuck. The hell with Hank. Helen turned the other way, nodded reassuringly to Cleo, who watched her while casually lounging in the entrance to the bar meanwhile she had hesitated a quarter-minute with the conference-room door ajar. But nobody came along.

Unseen by anyone but Cleo, Helen opened the conference room's door.

Everything in order, and, of course, nobody there. Bed still up in the wall. Huge comfortable lounging armchair faced to the window where clouds slipped by. Couch. Bar. Great.

Cleo slipped in close behind her. Helen murmured that the conference rooms were shielded against electronic bugging. She turned and carefully locked the door.

"Isn't this clever?" she asked, and showed Cleo how at a touch of a button the double bed came down. "We're very proud of our conference rooms. Seems that some people like to confer in bed, heh-heh."

She hardly could manage the leery little laugh, she had gone so tight in the throat with the onset of hot longing. And so wet in the crotch, where the heat concentrated right on the clitoris, that funny little button they call the man in the boat. He was paddling his boat in a boiling sea. Her cunt lips were positively drooling.

Cleo looked at her and Cleo knew.

Cleo only gave her that secret little smile.

Cleo shrugged off the jacket of her unbecoming tailleur.

Helen, viewing the other woman in a lovely low-cut blouse of clinging silk, gasped and without thinking because her wet twat had her so befuddled – said, "Oh, you're not wearing a bra!"

Cleo smiled her secret smile, glanced down at the tight little nips that showed so clearly, glanced up at Helen, winked, and patted the place on the couch beside her.

"I'm glad we're alone together," she murmured. "I've noticed how Wanderlust hostesses parade their breasts, and I really think it has something to do with the airline's success. But I've wondered if I have enough up-front for the lob."

"Oh… yes…" Helen felt a strange shudder run through her as she stared at Cleo's firm, globular boobies. The woman actually had perfect hostess titties. You bent over a man to put his cup of coffee on the little table that comes down into his lap. You thus give him a view down your neckline into the regulation hostess bra that reveals much and hides almost nothing. Then, as you stand up, smiling, you just happen to bump a breast against his shoulder.

Sometimes they tremble so, after that one-two treatment, that they hardly can pick up their cup.

And don't kid yourself. Women look down other women's fronts, too.

As Helen did now while Cleo leaned forward.

And settled back, and said, "Did you notice the little scar on my left breast?"

Helen gulped. "N-no."

"Right here." Cleo opened her blouse till the clinging silk merely hung on her erected nipples, that jutted forth like tiny buds of pink. Helen could see the corollas of puckered delicate flesh above them and knew those corollas went all around, and how it felt to be kissed there, around and around and around and around…

"Warm," she gasped, and slipped out of her uniform jacket.

"Right here," Cleo said again.

Helen saw a tiny white line to one side and above the left nipple.

"Oh, Cleo dear, that's nothing. It… it…"

"My kid brother threw a sharp stick at me when I was thirteen years old."

"Oh, how dreadful. But it doesn't even…"

"I thought it might make a bump in the wrong place. That's why I wear heavy tailleurs."

"But it doesn't!"

Helen watched her own hand go out. It did not seem to belong to her. It had gone entirely beyond her control. Her hand went out, shaking, and with one finger she touched the tiny scar.

"Not a bit of bump. Don't worry, dear. Don't," and her hand slid beneath Cleo's blouse, causing the silk to give up clinging to Cleo's nipple and fall away, revealing the entire lovely breast. "Worry. Dear. Oooh. That feels. So. Smooth. Oh yes. Better check. The other one. Oooh," said Helen, helpless with longing. Softly she rubbed and cupped both breasts, feeling the taut punctuation of the nipples on the palm of either hand.

Cleo had been quite self-possessed, but now, when she spoke, her voice had become unsteady. "I'd love to be a Wanderlust hostess on the same plane with you. To make sure." (Gasp.) "I did everything right."

Cleo's hand came up as unsteadily as Helen's had, and one by one undid the buttons of the uniform blouse and pushed the blouse off Helen's shoulders.

Then the mini-bra opened as Cleo's hand crept around in back and found the snap. The mini-bra hung on Helen's hot, thrusting nipples. She herself slid it away down an arm and dropped it.

Cleo cupped Helen's breasts, joggled them gently. "You're so firm, dear," she murmured.

"I'll show you all the – the pectoral muscle exercises. Not that you need them, dearest girl. Oh, your breasts are so lovely, so lovely…"

Somehow they found themselves standing. They were just of a height. Cleo slid her own hands beneath her breasts and pushed them up and forward.

"I'm not sure, but… I have a feeling that if we…"

She had the right instincts, thought Helen, who lifted her own breasts and held her nipples against Cleo's. They played a delightful game, rubbing their hard nips around and around each other's corollas. It got Helen so hot she went weak in the knees.

Cleo seemed to thrive on it. She had talked of having no experience with lesbian techniques, but she seemed naturally attuned to the arts of ancient Lesbos. Again she did the right thing.

She placed her nips firmly against Helen's quivering nips and she embraced her partner and took her lips in a delicious kiss.

Their tongues met and slid upon each other in the heated spaces of their sex-hungry mouths. They sucked each other's tongues and made little half-smothered cries of passion. Meanwhile they worked at each other's remaining clothing, and almost at the same moment were down to their scanty panties.

The kiss went on while they squirmed their bellies against each other, two sets of silken skin slithering and glissading together, seeming to throw off sparks as they continued their passionate hula.

Meanwhile Helen did not have to tell Cleo to slide her hands beneath her panties and feel and rub and soothe and squeeze the buttocks. Cleo even knew how to make tiny pinches back there. It didn't hurt. It stimulated the undulating waves of torrid need that swept Helen from head to toe.

She got her own hold on Cleo's ass cheeks and felt her partner's ass muscles, which were certainly in good condition, quiver in little spasms of delight.

Cleo murmured, "Darling, you have such a lovely touch. Go – you know – in between."

Slowly, letting her fingernails slightly indent the petal-smooth skin, Helen ran her fingers to the cleft of the buttocks and then pushed between with her forefinger extended.

When she found the tight bumhole she rubbed it very gently. Which Cleo now did to her at the same time, and they began to thrust their bushes together to make one Mount of Venus hit against the other, in a fucking sort of motion.

In their wild delight they collapsed upon the bed.

"I… I'm not sure what to do now, my lover," Cleo whispered into Helen's ear. Then she kissed the ear all over its inside and nipped at the lobe and tongued it. But this is a hot-pash item both with men and women. It worked on Helen and she dived at Cleo's bush, nosed her way between the silken thighs, took one long, salty, sweet, gluppy, delicious, wide-mouthed, hungry suck at the man in the boat, then remembered a technique she had learned in the girls locker room in high school.

Why not make it last? They might have no other chance to get together again, and Helen still had an hour or more left of her off-duty break. And beside, Cleo was so good to taste and so exciting to be tasted by, and so altogether wonderful in her strange, almost little girlish mixture of knowledge and ignorance – but always eager willingness – in the field of sex in which women turn their backs on the prick and the balls and find ways to hotly satisfy each other.

She lifted one of Cleo's feet and kissed the high arch, tongued it ticklishly, then roguishly took it to her own crotch and worked the big toe up and down her cunny. Then she sucked her own juices from the big toe. Not everyone knows the erogenous use of toe-sucking.

Cleo gasped and murmured, "Oh, my darling, my darling, what are you doing to me, ooooh, oh!" She held her own cunt tightly as though to keep it from melting into a pool of nearly-unbearable sensation.

Now Helen kissed and sucked the other toes. Then the ankles. Then, slowly, she made tiny kisses up the calf and paused to run her tongue along the sensitive area behind the knee. She made a little slapper of her tongue and slapped it wetly at the nerve center behind the knee.

"Ohhhh, you'll drive me mad. More, more!" moaned Cleo, pumping her hips in ecstasy.

Helen got Cleo to bend her knee upward. This exposed the tender pinkness of her inner thigh. Helen murmured over its svelte curves and whispered that no man was good enough to possess Cleo's delightful body.

Now her tongue found the thigh and drew along it, upward, upward, leaving a trail of passionate tremblings. It was as though Helen were drawing little tongue-paths up the thigh in the direction of the throbbing cunt that was her goal.

As she came within an inch of the cunt, well into its aura of exciting aroma, Cleo took her hands away and sighed, "It's yours, it's yours!"

But Helen teased her, going down to the top of the knee again. Cleo cried, "Please, please!" and opened her cunt lips with both hands to show Helen the inviting interior, all moist pink and proclaiming its deliciousness. But Helen once again drew her tongue very, very slowly up the thigh along a different path.

She watched that yummy cunt. She rejoiced in its spasms, and saw how the fuck tunnel watched her, so wet with female sex secretions the very basis of her own on-duty perfume – that it seemed almost like a weeping eye.

She wanted desperately to fling herself upon that cunt, mouth-wide open, tongue protruding, and tongue-fuck Cleo, going like a jackhammer, till her lover screamed and beat her fists on the bed and pumped her hips wildly and came.

But still Helen held back. A quarter-inch at a time, she drew that second trail of passion up Cleo's inner leg, savoring it, letting the other woman know something about the wild passions that women used to give each other in the ancient Isles of Greece and still do today.

Cleo begged her, "Take my cunt, take it, take it, I can't bear this any more!"

But Helen intended once again to travel her cunt aspiring way to within an inch of its musky moist sticky goal. Then again she would go back to the lower thigh. And again she would tease and cajole Cleo into an exquisitely tuned yearning. And only then would she plunge her face into that desperate crotch.

But suddenly Cleo grabbed her by the hair, yanked Helen's face to her cunt, and with surprising strength slammed her mouth and nose down into it. Helen couldn't breathe! Gamely she thrust her tongue down the tunnel as far as it would go and hoped Cleo would come before she fainted.

And fortunately she had already brought Cleo to the threshold of wild climax. Her tongue seemed to feel how the nerves took fire in all the sensitive area of Cleo's cunt. Cleo bucked so hard when the great spasm of sexual delight took hold of her, that she bucked Helen's head away from her crotch.

Helen gasped for air. She felt dizzy. But it would be her turn now. Tenderly she stroked Cleo's breasts while the novice moaned in the aftermath of her initiation.

Then Cleo got briskly to her feet and began to dress!

"But what about my turn?" Helen wailed.

"Oh, I'm sorry darling, but I just looked at my watch and I have to be at the short-wave telephone in ten minutes to call my office exactly when I said I would. So I have to run, but don't worry, sweetie, once we get to Buenos Aires we'll find a hotel room together."

Miserably, Helen said, "We have a turn-around flight. Fuel-up and return. No leave till New York."

"Oh, dear. Well," said Cleo, briskly returning to her shape-hiding tailleur. "Take care, now. And remember, I owe you one." She walked out, waving a casual goodbye. With her cunt burning and her head whirling, Helen tried to think. Let Cleo go fuck herself. Must be some kind of sex nut.

She, right now, must get the bed in order and return it to its place in the wall. And get back into her uniform. And get out of that Goddamed Conference Room One.

She took care of the bed. She gave herself a quick wipe down in the bathroom, then dressed. Then paused.

Damn, she needed an orgasm. It was hellish to get so excited and have no relief. Her cunt quivered. It begged to have its taut nerves relaxed.

Her still hot twat bothered her so much with its unrequited agony that she decided she might as well sit on the rug and finger-fuck herself.

She got her skirt up and her panties down and two fingers sliding slickly down into her ready and-willing fuck canal. With the first five or six thrusts she could almost feel her labia major and her labia minor and all the rest of her female apparatus sigh with relief.

And then take notice and get ready.

And then gather speed and steam. Hot musky steam.

The orgasm lurked just beyond her reach. She lay back on the soft rug and jammed her fingers deeper, deeper, deeper, giving them a vibratory motion, and she let out a gasp of delight as the greatest feeling in the world promised to burst within her like a skyrocket if she gave herself just a few thrusts more.

Her clitoris throbbed. Her heart leaped. She didn't seem to be in Conference Room One any longer. Instead, she rode the puffy white clouds outside and the hot equatorial sun was making her cunt sizzle. Now! Just one thrust more, deep, deep! But she fell back into Conference Room One.

Where she lay on the rug with her skirt up and her panties down as though she had just gotten off the toilet. Let alone that she had her fingers in her cunt. She lay helpless and miserable, her sexual climax utterly lost, her shame showing in her flushed cheeks and her wide, startled eyes. All this because a male voice had drawled from nowhere: "Why, hello, Helen."