As we were getting out of the crew bus at the hotel in Arusha, I picked up my own bag and then went to carry Hilary’s, before being reminded by the captain, as he shook his head, “Flight deck crew do not carry stewardess’s bags, no matter how pretty they are.”
Duly reminded of the need for me to act out my role as realistically as possible, I put the bag down and left her to carry it herself.
It turned out that Hilary’s bag was packed full with miniature bottles of alcohol from the onboard bar, which was heartily drank later that evening at the opening-night room-party.
We both got along really well together and, after leaving the party, we joined two or three other members of the crew for a spell of midnight skinny-dipping.
With me dressed only in a pair of boxer-shorts and Hilary dressed only in a towel, we kissed goodnight. Instead of going into my room I was invited into the room next-door-but-one, for a small brandy as a nightcap.
Over the past twenty years, or so, I had had the good fortune to be able to fly, just about, every type of aircraft. There wasn’t enough room in the ‘Types Flown’ section of my log book to list them all. From tiny microlights, through helicopters and autogyros to fast jets, airliners and even the supersonic Concorde.
Whilst under instruction I was lead to believe that I had, what was known in the trade, as ‘a great pair of hands’. This meant that I could ‘feel’ whatever I was flying, through the air. Rather than having to resort to memorising, and trying to set arbitrary figures; pitch angles, speeds, power settings and angles of bank, all seemed to come naturally to me rather than me spouting off numbers and then struggling to set them accurately. Over many thousands of flying hours, and across a hugely diverse range of flying machines, my ‘great pair of hands’ had finally superseded, even my ‘excellent feet’.
Now in total darkness, and with nothing to keep me ‘on target’, other than my sense of feel, I am fighting to maintain control. Only, by summoning every ounce of concentration available to me, am I able to keep things moving in the right direction.
The gentle movement of my fingers must be maintained at just the right tempo. The amount of pressure I apply is crucial – too much could be even worse than too little. Most important of all is, keeping the damned, elusive ‘button’ under control. Any excessive movement in this slippery environment and it could be lost – like a bar of soap in the bath.
Everything was going well. She grabbed my wrist to make sure that my hand stayed, right where it was, and I didn’t allow the ‘soap’ to slip away at this crucial time.
‘Yes… yes,’ she gasped, arching her back and pressing her bum hard against my stomach.
I was now in the final stages of the ‘glide-path’, pushing up inside her.
Her orgasm seemed to take control of her whole body. The uncontrolled spasms emphasised by staccato gasps, and squeals of delight.
I shuddered to a halt.
‘Fucking hell’. We gasped in unison, before cracking up into fits of laughter.