Office porn Queen

CHAPTER TWO

Grimly Helen kept herself from looking around.

Despite being so close to the climax she desperately wanted and needed, she withdrew her finger from her cunt. She licked it clean. So what? But still she did not glance around at the big overstuffed armchair that faced the window.

She didn't have to. She had recognized the man's voice.

She pulled up her panties and smoothed down her skirt and at last turned and said, "Why, hello, Hank," as composedly as she could, which was not very.

Finger-fucking is one hell of an activity in which to get caught!

Hank, of course, had been sitting in that chair all along. He must have heard her open the door and hold it a quarter-minute while waiting for Cleo to arrive. So he and his lover had not been locked up in a lay. They had been whooping it up in Conference One's big easy chair all the time.

Hearing Helen open the door, they had hidden their clothing and themselves by snuggling in the armchair between its overstuffed wings, hoping that whoever had entered the conference room would soon go away.

And then they no doubt had peered at the lesbian fun that Helen and Cleo had had with each other, although, of course, it was Cleo who really had had the fun and had left Helen in a dreadful state.

Now Hank's lover's inquiring face appeared next to Hank's. The woman – girl, really – had a Latin face. A quizzical, not unfriendly expression.

Of course Hank had been sitting there with his pants and underpants off and the girl had been sucking him while he fondly watched her dark head bob back and forth between his thighs.

Helen knew Hank Hastings.

And now the fellatrice stood up beside the chair and revealed herself to be quite naked save that she wore long stockings, right up almost into her twat. This was an old whorehouse trick. Long stockings worn with nothing else whatsoever make a naked woman seemed nakeder than naked.

Hank waved a big hand negligently. "Helen. Carlotta."

"Hi."

"'Allo."

"Carlotta's from Buenos Aires. Treat her politely. She uses Wanderlust a lot." Hank said it WanderLUST, and winked.

"I see," said Helen, flushed and unhappy.

"Ah, don't take it so hard," said Hank. "If women didn't finger-fuck themselves now and then, they would drive the men crazy trying to satisfy them. Or the women," he added with an innocent look.

"You heard what that bitch did," cried Helen. "I gave her such a magnificent come and then she walked out and left me hanging!"

"One of the passengers? Well, she would have to be, of course, since she isn't one of the crew. Nothing we can do about it. If we call her a nasty cheating twat, she might take her business to another airline."

Hank Hastings tried not to sound serious, but he felt serious. He knew more about the situation than Helen knew.

At the end of his flying shift, with his hot sucking date with Carlotta all arranged, he had first made sure he had the extra Conference One key that had been made for the convenience of the redecorators.

Then he had strolled out of the cockpit and down the aisle between the rows of passengers, a striking figure in blue with four gold stripes on his sleeve, and his Chief Pilot's hat, heavy with gold braid, at a rakish angle on his nuggety chestnut hair.

He had a big jaw and a big grin, that he used with effect. Strolling among all those people who felt he held their lives in his hands, he cooed to babies and encouraged little boys and girls who wanted to grow up to be airline pilots. Also little and not-so little girls who wanted to become hostesses.

"Always a place for the right young woman on Wanderlust," he said, beaming, judging the promise in young tits.

He also made sure to be cordial to women who looked as though no one had noticed them, save with loathing, for the past forty years. This was good for business.

When he passed vivid little Carlotta, he gave no sign of recognition. But their eyes met and he nodded slightly, then looked significantly down toward Conference One, where she was due to suck him off with great style. Just then he saw another good looker in a window seat. She read the airline's travel magazine, WANDERLUST OR BUST, and paid no attention to the four-striper's promenade.

Hank paused. That woman looked familiar. His memory put her into the skirted Wanderlust hostess uniform. Wanderlust hostesses wore skirts, rather than the more practical slacks, because they were supposed to look as feminine as possible.

Well, if this gal had once been a Wanderlust hostess, she must have nice tits. But she had chosen to hide them beneath a tweedy tailleur.

Hank frowned to himself and kept on walking. Suddenly he recalled having met that woman at the company's HQ in Chicago. Yes, she was Cleo Prentice of Wanderlust Security. She had a special sort of job that kept her flying. She tried to make friends with hostesses of a certain type. And then…

Hank frowned more deeply. His frown cleared when he realized that Carlotta had risen from her seat and was strolling after him as though going somewhere to freshen up. Fact was, she was probably going to get all sopped up with jisum.

A noble hard-on made Captain Hastings limp the rest of the way to the door of the conference room where the hour of blissful sucking was scheduled to take place.

Once Carlotta had slipped into the room to keep him company, Hank had removed his pants and his underpants and had seated himself in the big, inviting armchair that faced the window, its back to the door.

Carlotta had removed everything but her stockings.

He gave her soul kisses and a good all-around feel that reassured him as to the silken, exciting qualities of female skin.

He had on occasion fucked her, but when he had let her know he was simply dying for a good suck, she had readily agreed to take care of the matter.

She kneeled between his thighs and regarded what she saw with admiration. She took it into her hands and stroked it gently.

She turned the stroke to a rub up and down in a circle made of her thumb and forefinger, but did not carry this too far.

She patted it as though it were a puppy.

She licked it as though it were a candy stick.

She tickled it with her hair, smiling as Hank Hastings gasped and said, "Wow!"

She blew air on it to cool it.

She rubbed it again to heat it.

She took it in her hand and counted carefully as drops of precoital fluid appeared at the tiny slit in its business end. One, two, three, four five, in Portuguese.

If you do not know what I mean by "it", you had better go back to school.

I mean prick. But I wonder if you know how many other words refer to the same several inches of meat that make up a man's most prized belonging.

For example:

Baloney, bat, chingus, cock, dick, dingbat, dingus, dofunny, doodle, fag, gadget, meat, pecker, pencil, peenie, ramrod, rod, peter, pud, reamer, wang (or whang if you prefer).

Although prick will always do. So Carlotta, having tickled, stroked, partly masturbated, cooled, heated, licked, and, oh yes, fervently kissed Hank's prick, let alone admired it for the handsome prick it was, settled down to suck it.

She began at the bottom of the shaft and ate her way up to the head. She did not, of course, take anything away from the healthy flesh of the noble pole. Rather, as she ate her way along, it grew achingly bigger. And it throbbed, and Hank, his eyes closed and his big jaw hanging, said, "Ohhhhhh." And, "Ohhhhhh, that's great."

Now Carlotta kept to the underside of the pulsating cock. When she reached the frenum, the nerve center, she tongued hard. Hank almost jumped out of the chair.

Now only the big purplish head remained unexplored by Carlotta's eager lips and tongue. So she went at it.

Somehow she got that huge bump into her small mouth and, closing her lips around it, narrowed her cheeks by applying heavy suction.

"Eee-yah!" moaned Hank in his ecstasy.

That was when the dark hair began to bob between his thighs. Meanwhile Carlotta's clever hand went beneath his balls to tickle. She made the ravening rod slide in deeper, feeling it rest, throbbing, against the back of her throat.

She felt the quivering that meant jisum was on its way. Her tongue flitted about as though it were a tiny squirming animal, and as Hank beat upon the arms of the chair, out of this world with sexual delight, Carlotta caught the first great sticky squirt, then the second, then the third, swallowing madly, never spilling a drop.

Gradually the hard-on faded. When the heavy prick lay limp in her mouth, she sucked on it still to make sure she had not missed any of the salty, delicious come.

Then they had a drink.

Then they snuggled in the big chair and Hank played with her tits and twiddled her cunt and in other ways showed her he had appreciated her attention to his rampant sexual apparatus.

Since they did not have much time, Carlotta took ice cubes from the frig at the bar and rubbed them up and down Hank's limp dick. Then she hotly sucked away the coldness. Then she got her hand in between Hank's muscular ass cheeks and tickled the little hole she found there. Then she scratched with her fingernail in the area just behind the balls, and he muttered, his eyes closed:

"Hey, yeh, do it again."

Gradually the rod stood up, ready for action. She kissed it to congratulate it.

He settled himself, she put a cushion beneath her knees and happily began the second installment.

First she jerked him longer than before to get things stirred up.

Then she jerked him while she sucked him. This really sent him. He lay back, saying "Oh, oh, oh, oh," so far away in a cloud of bliss that he seemed almost to have traveled to another.

She made with her tongue around and around the base of the glands, the head of the prick, an area in which a man carries his wildest sensations.

She put in time on his balls, twiddling them and hefting them gently. And she mouthed his prick and took it out and looked at it, and mouthed it again and took it out and looked at it, full of mischief, until he said that if she did it again he would die right there and she might have a bad time explaining.

She had the rod deep in her mouth and she was bobbing away again when she felt that certain vibration.

This time she sucked so hard, she hurt her cheeks, but she kept on sucking, forming a vacuum in her mouth that enticed the jisum to leave its hiding place. She knew when the dam broke, because Hank let out a blissful sigh.

As soon as the first jet hit the back of her throat, Carlotta knew that Hank's jisum glands had been working overtime. But she swallowed one great gout after another, until finally the flow slowed and the ravening prick began bit by bit to lose its hardness.

Hank had just about returned from the planet called Venus, after the Goddess of love, when they heard someone put a key into the door's lock. They acted fast, then, grabbing their clothing and sitting on it, tucking themselves into the chair and making themselves as small as they could behind its big back, that shielded them.

Not that Hank was much worried. After all, he was a valuable man and he was sporting with a passenger on his time-off. But still a Chief Pilot should not be caught in an undignified situation.

They sat silent, listening to Helen and Cleo make woman-to-woman love, and sometimes peeking at them. They exchanged an indignant glance when Cleo marched off with her snotty, "I owe you one," leaving poor Helen with a hot, unsatisfied cunt to ravage her nerves.

Then, having revealed themselves to startled Helen, they agreed with her that she had been badly used by her lesbian companion on whom she had worked so hard to insure an orgasm, while getting no climax of her own in return. But some passengers did treat airline personnel like dirt.

To make Helen smile, double-naked Carlotta patted her tummy as though to say she would want no lunch, she was so full of jisum.

At least Hank smiled, but his heart wasn't in it. He knew Helen's sex partner's name and he knew that woman's nasty undercover job and he knew that Helen was in trouble. His dear friend Helen was a fine hostess and a lovely person, but Hank knew that she had been uncovered as a lesbian and so she was going to be fired.

He had been only pilot, not a Chief Pilot, and Helen Troy had been high-school junior, when they had met.

At first she was just another fresh young face in a sea of fresh young faces, each with its high young breasts to match. The girls came to find out about being airline hostesses, maybe. Often the high school would set aside a room where Captain Hastings could fill-in this gap in their unsophisticated wondering about the world of jobs.

The trick was not to be too obvious about the sexual angle, especially when some gimlet-eyed dragon of a female Occupational Counselor chose to sit-in.

On the other hand, Hank Hastings enjoyed the challenge. He had to get over to these dewy girls, somehow, that being an airline hostess had a lot to do with sex. And when a girl hostessed for Wanderlust Airlines, the job oozed sex at every pore.

He had to make this clear but not say it out loud, so to speak. And especially he had to make clear that any girl who knocked at Wanderlust Airlines door would deal with an outfit that gave sex first place.

At first this gave him plenty of trouble.

Take a virile man standing before a dozen or twenty dewy young things, shuffling his notes, clearing his throat. And all the time he is imagining how great it would be to line them all up naked and feel his way along a row of pairs of pink-tipped high-borne breasts, cupping, patting, gauging size and weight, perhaps kissing here and there to judge nipple sensitivity. And then say, along with a pat on the rump: you and you and you, report for hostess training.

A fantasy, of course, but even imagining it gave him a hard-on. All he could do was to hold his sheaf of notes across his crotch. But even so, some girls would whisper and giggle.

The Occupational Counselor might even shuffle her feet uneasily. This could be bad for business.

But he had to make the girls know they would be getting into a job in which their possession of pretty faces, handsome and generous tits, swingy hips and a tolerant attitude toward pinchers meant more than their ability to pour coffee without spilling it into a customer's lap.

During the months he had put into hostess hunting while the first of the 797-Xs had been made ready, he never had found the one right way to handle the sex-or-else ploy. Then, out in a Corn Belt auditorium, he noticed a Bible on a reading stand.

He remembered that he also had a Bible in his room at the local hotel, put there by well-meaning people.

That night he found the six words he had vaguely remembered and he copied them onto a card.

"Now, ain't that the Bible truth?" he said to himself. "And who could deny it?"

After that, before he spoke to any group of dewy girls and their dragon-guardian, he first glanced at the card.

Then he stood, with a serious face, until he had everyone's attention. Then he said in his resonant voice:

"I want you to know that everything I have to say is founded upon six words from the Holy Bible. These words are, male and female created he them. I hope that when you get home, and of course I know every one of you has a Bible in her home, you will read these words for yourself. You will find them in Genesis, one, twenty-seven."

Hank would then pause before he said solemnly, "Remember those words. Our business is founded upon them. Male and female created he them."

This made it difficult for anyone to take objection to what he told the girls. Not that he told them anything that might be called outright improper, but he gave them plenty of hints. And showed, in his ease and sincerity, how good it is to have the Bible on one's side.

He told the attentive, fresh faces that the majority of any airline's passengers was made up of businessmen. And that these men liked to feel relaxed during their interim of travel between one office and another.

He told the seventeen-year-olds – meanwhile wondering if any of them were still virgin – that a man feels at his best when he has the attention of a well-groomed, attractive young woman. And it is the duty of any airline to help its passengers feel at their best. Why, Wanderlust Airlines had in its files letters from grateful wheelers and dealers who said something like: "Your delightful hostess made me feel so relaxed that I was able to put over a big deal that no one else in my office could handle."

Wanderlust knew how much of its success depended upon its corps of hostesses. Young women who, to put it simply, never doubted the eternal truth that male and female created he them.

He went on to make it sort-of clear that once any young woman had been well coached in the art of creating an aura of sex around Wanderlust's male passengers, she would see those same male businessman passengers again and again. They would ask for her. They would give her valuable investment tips.

The truth was that those men returned to fly Wanderlust merely to enjoy having their aging cocks stand at throbbing attention for most of a flight. But they did hand out tips on stock. Anything to keep the girls talking so they could make a date.

"Of course we know that many a hostess marries a millionaire, but I'm not making any promises," Hank would say. Pause. "Any questions?"

Salaries, fringe benefits, free travel, yes indeed and so forth. Hank also remembered to say, now and then, standing there in his uniform, broad shouldered and flat-bellied, "MY hostesses." The gals liked this.

"So, when you graduate high school, thanks to the excellent teaching of dedicated people such as Miss Fidditch, here, phone our eight-hundred number you will find in your phone directory and setup an interview. Perhaps I will meet you aboard one of our new 797-Xs, the world's largest planes. I know I will say, 'Glad to have you aboard.'"

Well, in one little high school surrounded by mile after mile of golden wheat, one of the girls raised her hand.

One look at the thrusting bosom and Hank said, "Yes?"

"Uh, Captain Hastings, well, I mean, is a girl in any, you know, danger when she works as a hostess?"

This was not the first time that Hank had fielded the question. He had an answer ready: "Absolutely not."

No hostess was likely to be raped aboard a plane. What might happen to her on a date with a passenger, later, he presumed was not covered by the attractive little girl's blushing question.

Hank took note of the kid. Ash-blonde hair, perfect. Those breasts, more than perfect. He watched her walk and he murmured, "Wow."

He wished he could meet her again, and then he found himself face to face with her in the local department store. He had gone in to buy socks. He passed her where she was trying-on winter mittens.

"Hello, there! Aren't you the young lady who…?"

"Oh! Captain Hastings!"

"Guess you have an early winter up here in the Dakotas."

"Oh my, and does it ever get cold!"

"Well, you join us and I'll see what I can do to put you on our route to Hawaii."

"Oh, my!" She had a lovely laugh.

"Then we all can see how you look in a grass skirt."

"Oh, dear!"

But not too much embarrassed. And not at all trying to get away from him.

"Ice-cream soda? I was just going to get one for myself and wishing I had someone to talk to."

"Oh well sure"

As innocent as that. And didn't she love it when other high-school girls in the old-fashioned ice-cream parlor took notice of her date. Too bad he had to leave that evening because he was speaking tomorrow at a high school in Kansas City.

Well, they each had another soda and gradually he knew that this tender bud, this beautifully bosomed Helen Troy, wanted to tell him something. At last he got her talking.

"Look, Captain Hastings, I'd love to train for a Wanderlust hostess as soon as I get my high school diploma next year. But about being, you know, sexy like you said. Well. I don't know if it shows in me, but. I got an awful scare about sex last year. Only don't tell my parents."

"Won't breathe a word," said Hank, leaning forward to hear better.

"Because it was my Uncle Hiram, my father's brother."

It is often someone in the family.

"He was out of a job, the way he mostly is, and he'd been drinking, and his wife had left him, and he wasn't attractive to women, so I suppose he was – you know?"

"Horny?"

She flushed. "Horny. And there I was. I mean, Mom and Pa went to hear a lecture on bringing out the best in teenagers, for parents only, and there I was alone in the house with Uncle Hiram."

"Well, it was summer, long days, and I went jogging with some of the other kids, came in all sweaty. Waved to Uncle, who was sitting on the porch, and ran on upstairs and I guess he heard the shower going and I guess he heard when I turned it off. And even when I opened the glass door of the shower stall. Because by then he was listening at the bathroom door, you see."

"I see," said Hank Hastings grimly.

"And I hadn't been able to lock the bathroom door. That was because he had jammed the lock. He knew we'd be alone and I'd be taking a shower."

"He walked in me. I was naked. I made a little scream and grabbed a towel around my waist and put my arm across my, you know, my bosom. He laughed and just grabbed me and dragged me through the hall. I screamed louder and he hit me so hard I went half-fainting and I just about knew he had me in the spare room and had tossed me on the bed."

"Well, I managed to kick him in the, you know, where they tell girls, if a man ever attacks you, kick him there."

"In the crotch. Good advice."

"And hurt him and got away again but he tackled me out in the hall and slapped me half silly. He banged my legs apart and he took hold of my, uh, down there, and he had a hand on each side of it and he was like prying it apart and saying, 'Ooh, I want to look in, I want to see where the women hide their sin, I want to look in.'"

"It hurt terribly. I kicked him in the face but I was barefoot and couldn't hurt him much. I jumped up but he caught one ankle and tripped me and this time I fell on my face and he was on top of me in back and he was pushing his, his male member into my rectum. I think he had his member all greased beforehand."

"It hurt terribly but he got it in and he, you know, slid up there, in there, and then he pumped up and down and he didn't seem able to, you know, satisfy himself. And meanwhile biting me on the backs of the arms and pulling my hair and hurting me in any way he could."

"Well, I was almost unconscious with pain except that it began to let up and I thought I would let him continue and satisfy himself and let me go."

"But what he did, was, he got out of my rectum and went for my…" she said it this time, "… vagina. But he said he would first break my legs so I couldn't kick him. He had gone mad. Well, he really tried to break my leg but I pulled his hair so hard, he stopped."

"He raped me madly, and I've always been afraid someone would do it again. Then he found out I wasn't a virgin. I mean, I guess you know how it is, a girl gets fond of her finger and. Well, when he found I wasn't a virgin he beat me and kicked me and called me a, a slut and he knocked me down again and got into my vagina again and this time he, you know, satisfied himself and then he just lay there holding me down and gasping and groaning."

"Well, then we heard my parents car in the drive and he got up and ran, holding his pants up. Out the back door and he saw another girl and tried to rape her right out in the street but someone hit him with a rock. He ended in the insane asylum. Well, my parents had run out to see the noise was all about, so I dragged myself back to the bathroom and washed again and said I had taken a fall while jogging."

"But you see, after that I wanted nothing to do with men, ever. And I heard some of girl friends saying men are vile and women don't need them to, you know, get their rocks off. Meaning they were lesbians, and pretty soon they were breaking me in."

"Well, I stopped believing that all men are vile, and right now I don't know where I stand. But I know I'll try it with another woman sometime."

"Well, what I wanted to know," said the forlorn girl, twisting her hands together, "is whether you'll take a lesbian for a hostess on Wanderlust."

He evaded the truth. He wanted to see this girl again. Anyway, everyone knew that lesbians got into hostessing because they often found lesbian friends that way. But it was all under cover.

"It's your right not to state your sexual preference," Hank Hastings said. "And I hope to see you on my plane. I'll know you, Helen."

"Watch for me, Captain… Hank."

And so it had worked out.

And she had gone to bed with him from time to time and they had gotten along very well together. But he sensed her unsureness. She still didn't know if she was a man's woman or a woman's woman.

Now here stood Helen in great trouble. She had been enticed into lesbian cunnylapping by Cleo Prentice, who herself had been fired as a lesbian hostess. Then, out of inward hate or something, Cleo had become Wanderlust Security's undercover woman. And she knew how to do her job.

Hank wondered what Cleo was doing right then. Might be going to the short-wave phone to call Security in Chicago and tell what she had proved about Helen Troy.

Maybe he could stop her. Demand the phone. Pilot's priority.

He gave Carlotta a wink and he nodded toward Helen. Carlotta grinned.

Hank ran out and down two decks to the shortwave phone. But Cleo sat in the glass phone booth and she was just hanging up.

She saw him, noticed his upset condition and gave Hank a very knowing smile.