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Triked, Tricked, Trolloped 
by David Shaw (david@f-e-mail.com)
www.f-e-mail.com

***

Sandra finds herself with a difficult problem. She's 
way higher than she ever expected to be and coming down 
for a very rough landing. But if you're in an micro 
light aircraft and the pilot in back wants you to hold 
the steering bar while he puts his hands somewhere 
else, what's a girl to do? (M+/F, reluc)

***

There are some lovely beaches down in the south west 
corner of Western Australia. Long stretches of pristine 
sand dividing the Indian Ocean from the dense forests 
of tall karri trees. Hundreds of kilometers of 
unpolluted and mostly unpopulated coastline stretched 
like a silver ribbon between rockbound headlands. Very 
nice -- except when your idiot of an husband has bogged 
down the family four wheel drive on one of those 
deserted beaches. 

Believe me, there's no better way of exploring the 
strengths of a relationship than sharing a shovel on a 
scorching hot December day, especially when all your 
joint efforts to dig large holes in fine sand are 
proving futile. Which was one of the reasons why our 
marital relationship was sinking even faster than the 
Suzuki. Not that any of it was my fault.

I hadn't wanted to drive way out of town and down some 
bush track to go rock fishing. As far as I'm concerned 
fishing is an old man's occupation. Jeff isn't even 
thirty yet, nor am I, so I thought we could have found 
something more interesting to do on a Saturday morning. 
Still, fishing was what he wanted to do and the only 
alternative if we stayed indoors was having him watch 
cricket on the TV -- and compared to watching cricket, 
throwing a fishing line into the sea is an epic 
adventure full of drama and excitement.

So here we were, bogged down before we'd even got to 
the fishing spot and with no way of getting somebody to 
come and help us out. The nearest sealed road was five 
kilometers away, five kilometers of bare dirt trail 
bulldozed through the trees. No other signs of life on 
the beach, not even a boat in sight anywhere and Jeff 
snarling at me all the time just because I happened to 
be driving the bloody vehicle when it sank down to the 
axles. He was the one who was telling me where he 
wanted to go! The most annoying thing of all was my job 
-- I'm a nurse and I was scheduled for the evening 
shift in the local hospital. A fine fool I was going to 
look if I couldn't even phone in and let them know I 
wouldn't be able to make it.

Then something entirely unexpected happened. I was 
walking back from the tree line with an armful of old 
branches to push under the Suzi's back wheels when I 
heard an engine. At first I thought it was a car and 
then I saw a small aircraft skimming along the 
shoreline so low it was well below the tops of the 
karri trees. 

It was the strangest looking thing I'd ever seen -- not 
like a normal plane with a wing on each side. Instead 
there was just one wing that looked something like the 
sail of a yacht, with red and white patterns on it. 
Hanging underneath the wing was the rest of the plane, 
what there was of it.

Have you ever been to a fairground and had a ride in 
one of those little plastic pods that hang down from 
the edge of a big wheel? If you can imagine something 
like that, only smaller, with the pilot sitting in it 
and a windscreen down around his knees, you've got the 
idea. The only other difference was a nose wheel at the 
front and two more wheels at the back with pointy hoods 
over them. Yes, and the engine of course. The plane was 
flying so low that I could easily see it mounted behind 
the pilot, with the propeller right at the back of the 
pod, pushing the strange little contraption along. 

I suppose it was traveling about as fast as a car would 
on a normal road and as it came level the pilot waved 
to us with one hand. The other one was resting on a bar 
-- like a trapeze bar, I guess -- which was the bottom 
piece of a triangle which came to a point underneath 
the wing. There were two more metal bars that I could 
also see, from the front and back of the pod and also 
joined together underneath the wing. They obviously 
carried the weight of the pod and somehow the pilot was 
steering himself around with the bar he was holding.

Anyway, whatever he was doing and however he was doing 
it, he seemed to be having a much more enjoyable 
morning than we were. As soon as the plane was past us 
the engine revved up and the plane climbed away at a 
steep angle until my eyes were watering from the strong 
sunlight as I tried to watch it. The show seemed to be 
over, although when I got back to the Suzuki Jeff was 
still scanning the sky with his hands cupped around his 
eyes.

"That must be what they call a microlight, or an 
ultralight. Strange looking thing, like an overgrown 
hang glider. That's the way they steer hang gliders, 
with a bar attached to the wing, and they push and pull 
against the bar to move the weight of the aircraft 
underneath in relation to the center of gravity."

In case I haven't mentioned it yet, Jeff is a teacher, 
a high school teacher... oh, you guessed, did you? If 
there were any teachers on the Titanic they probably 
drowned giving each other lectures on the way icebergs 
are formed. Anyway, since he was only wearing thongs on 
his feet, I dropped the tangle of branches on top of 
them as a means of self expression. He expressed 
himself back to me and the plane was forgotten about as 
we bickered at each other. Until we heard it again.

I was a little surprised to see it coming back again 
from the same direction as before and even lower and 
slower. It looked to me as if it belonged in a Star 
Wars' movie, with its strange shape and the way it was 
hanging in the wind like a mechanical hawk. I thought 
it must be a hell of a way to fly, in a seat with 
nothing around it but empty air. Then the engine noise 
dropped off and I quickly changed my mind about even 
thinking about wanting to try it -- the wing had dipped 
lower and it seemed the ultralight was going to crash. 

The wheels wavered around unsteadily a meter or so 
above the hard packed sand left by the ebbing tide, 
like a drunk trying to get his arse back onto a bar 
stool. Then the ultralight settled down onto the sand 
with the sudden deftness of a seagull dropping onto a 
morsel of food. 

Little gusts of water sprayed out from underneath the 
wheels as the pod's weight fell onto them. The wet sand 
seemed to slow their rotation down very quickly, the 
plane wallowing to a walking speed about fifty meters 
away from us and the pilot revving the engine to keep 
his wheels turning until he was level with the Suzi. 
Then the high pitched yammering of the engine stopped 
and the propeller blades jerked to a halt. The pilot 
carefully tilted the wing over, keeping control of it 
with the steering bar he was holding until the wingtip 
nearest to us was resting on the sand.

Jeff and I were watching all this with surprise and 
interest. We kept on watching as a tall and slender man 
in tight fitting blue flying overalls unstrapped 
himself and climbed out of the pod. In fact it was only 
his figure -- or his lack of it -- which showed him to 
be a man because his head was completely covered with a 
wrap around motor bike helmet that had a tinted glass 
vision panel in the front of it. By God, I thought, I 
was right, not only does the plane look like something 
out of Star Wars but the pilot dresses like Darth 
Vader.

Before he even touched the helmet the pilot took 
something out of the pod that looked like a giant 
corkscrew, then walked along the wing to the down-
tipped end and drove the corkscrew into the sand before 
tying a lanyard at the top of the corkscrew to the wing 
tip. The intention was clearly to prevent the wing 
being blown around. At close range my first impression 
of it being like a yacht's sail also seemed to have 
been spot on. 

The whole thing was just a collection of aluminum 
battens wrapped around with colored fabric. It seemed 
incredible to me that anybody would trust their life to 
such a flimsy support. Still, it wasn't my worry, 
though as the pilot finally removed his helmet I 
watched with interest to see what sort of a madman he 
was. A pity there was no chance of him being Harrison 
Ford.

It was another surprise to see that he was pretty old. 
In his forties for sure, though very well preserved, 
with a lot of dark hair turning gray at the temples, a 
sharp angled face with a wide smile that showed off 
excellent teeth and crisp blue eyes with crinkles of 
smile lines around them. 

Behind the good looks there was confidence as well, 
self confidence and self assurance. If I'd seen this 
guy in hospital whites I'd have tagged him straight 
away not only as a doctor but as a highly skilled 
consultant. Success smells on some men like after 
shave, an enticing aroma which never fades away. And as 
we were looking at him he was looking at us: at Jeff, 
briefly, then at me, for a longer time.

"Hi, I'm Brett Reynolds." A nice voice, sharp but well 
controlled.

Jeff introduced us: "Jeff Pearson, and this is my wife 
Sandra. You've caught us at an awkward moment. We've 
got bogged down and can't seem to get out of it."

"Yeah, I could see you were in strife. I can't give you 
a tow but I thought you might want some messages passed 
on. I couldn't see any antennas on your wagon and I 
guess you'd be well out of phone coverage in this neck 
of the woods."

"That's right. We tried to use the mobile but it was a 
waste of time."

The pilot was still looking at both of us but I knew 
that most of his attention was on me. Not that I could 
really blame him for that because I wasn't wearing 
anything underneath my sweat soaked tee-shirt and my 
shorts were cut about as short as they could be. In 
fact I felt quite flattered that I could get a guy like 
that taking a lot of second looks.

"Is there anybody around here who could help you out?" 
Brett asked.

"Eddie Turner would come out," I said.

"Yeah, Eddie would be great." Jeff turned to the pilot 
to explain. "Eddie Turner is a mate of mine, got a Land 
Rover with a winch on it. He'd come and pull us out if 
we could let him know where we are. He lives quite a 
way down the road though, in Kilkenny Ponds. Must be 
about fifty or sixty k's from here."

Brett smiled widely, showing off his teeth even more: 
"It's rather less. It's forty seven point two 
kilometers from here. Or at least it is to the Kilkenny 
airstrip as the crow flies. I suppose it must be 
another five or six k's into the town itself. I've got 
it nailed down on the GPS because I flew out from there 
this morning. My car's still there."

"Oh." Jeff smiled a little himself, clearly as relieved 
as I was at the prospect of being saved a lot of 
walking and a lot of trouble. "Maybe you could phone 
through to Eddie when you get back?"

"No problem. It's a lovely day for a flight and I 
doesn't matter to me which direction I fly in. I can go 
back to Kilkenny Ponds now and call in from the strip. 
With the wind blowing the direction it is I should be 
there in about half an hour. What's your mate's phone 
number?"

Jeff told him and Brett wrote it down on the back of 
his hand.

"Could you do us another favor and phone the local 
hospital as well? Let them know that Sandra won't be 
able to come in for her shift tonight."

Brett nodded and seemed concerned: "You're a nurse, 
Sandra?"

"Yes."

"Can't have the hospital short of nurses -- you never 
know when there might be an emergency. Why don't I give 
you a lift back to Kilkenny Ponds in the trike and then 
drive you into town?"

I didn't quite realize what he meant by a trike until 
he nodded towards the ultralight and my stomach flipped 
over like a tossed pancake: "Me! Go up in that thing!"

The obvious fear in my voice made him shake his head in 
rueful amusement. "Sandra, it's not like bungy jumping 
off Sydney Harbor Bridge -- it's fun, and safe. I'm a 
licensed and insured pilot and my passengers are all 
insured as well. I've got a spare helmet and a spare 
set of overalls on board, though you'll hardly need 
them in this hot weather. Believe me, you'd be safer on 
board a trike than you would be on a 747." His eyes 
crinkled up in another sudden smile. "And I should 
know, I fly 747's for QANTAS for a living."

It was an exciting idea and an attractive one in many 
ways, provided I didn't find myself gripped in total 
panic once we were off the ground. Rather stunned, I 
walked over the ultralight and had a second look at it. 
True, there were two seats in it, one behind the other, 
but that was about all you could say there was in the 
way of accommodation. 

It was only at the front of the pod that the top of the 
plastic windscreen came up to about waist level. On 
either side of the front seat the bodywork was hardly 
ankle high, and barely much more than that around the 
back seat. I imagined myself looking straight down from 
one of them, down into a drop of hundreds of meters, 
and my intestines wriggled around like a nest of angry 
snakes.

"It's just like riding a motorbike, only with a better 
view and without all the road hazards," Brett said 
soothingly. "Why don't we go up for just five minutes 
and if you don't like it I'll bring you straight back 
down again."

"How would I tell you what I was feeling with all the 
noise?"

He held up a cable that hung from his helmet, showing 
me a plug at the end of it: "The helmets have earphones 
and a mike built into them. We can talk to each other 
as easily as we are doing now. Believe me, you'll never 
want to come down once you've tried it."

Then he sort of looked sideways, to where Jeff was 
standing a few paces away, and lowered his voice a 
little: "Or would you rather spend the rest of the day 
stuck here?"

I didn't think Jeff heard that. Or if he did I'm sure 
he didn't hear the insinuation in it that I did, a hint 
of surprise that somebody like me was wasting her time 
in this sort of situation. Or maybe I was hearing 
things which weren't really there. While I was standing 
undecided Brett reached underneath the back seat and 
took out a helmet, then a neatly folded set of overalls 
like the ones he was wearing.

"I can adjust the headband on the helmet for you, 
Sandra -- there's not much I can do about the flight 
suit, I suppose. Normally, you'd need at least a jacket 
to keep the wind off but not now. A day like today, the 
only cool way to enjoy yourself is flying."

Jeff came over and looked at the helmet and overalls I 
was holding: "You're surely not going to try this, are 
you, Sandra? You'd be scared stiff."

If he'd wanted to stop me flying then it was the worst 
possible thing Jeff could have said. Of course he 
doesn't really think of me as a weak woman -- he often 
says that he'd faint if he had to deal with some of the 
bloodier situations that come along in my job. It was 
simply a typical case of a male opening his heart and 
his mouth without remembering to put his brain 
somewhere in the loop between them. And he knew it as 
soon as I did, hastily trying to back off without 
totally backing down.

"I mean I'd be frightened myself, to go up in one of 
these things. Anybody would be, to fly around hanging 
underneath a few strips of alloy and fabric. And the 
hospital can certainly get by without you for one day."

It was too late though, my temper was up. "I'm not 
going to miss a shift if I can help it. Anyway, I'll 
probably never have another chance to do something like 
this and I want to give it a go, just to see what it's 
like."

"Aww, come on, Sandra, people crash in these things. It 
happens all the time."

"People crash in cars as well and that happens all the 
time."

He was genuinely concerned about me, not simply trying 
to carry on the squabble we'd been having before, I 
knew that. But I wasn't going to let him stop me now 
that I'd made my mind up. After all it had been pretty 
much of a wasted day so far and here was a chance to do 
something I could talk about for weeks afterwards, 
something exciting. It would have been hard to live 
myself if I'd turned it down. The only real question, 
the one I was being very careful not to ask myself, was 
whether I was as excited by Brett Reynold's obvious 
interest in me as I was at the idea of flying in his 
plane.

Adjusting the helmet was no problem: trying to get into 
the flying suit was. It was cut for a man's body, a big 
man, and I'm a short girl, yet the seams around my hips 
almost reached breaking strain; I had to go behind the 
wagon and take off my shorts before I could wriggle 
into the suit. The real problem was in front though. As 
much as I tugged at the zip, I couldn't get it up past 
my breasts. Like my hips, they've always been too large 
for easy packaging. Eventually I had to go back to the 
men with everything hanging out over the zip and only 
the damp material of the tee-shirt between me and them. 
Not only that, but carrying my shorts in my hand as 
well.

Brett's mouth twitched a fraction before he looked away 
at the horizon as I held the sides of the overalls 
together while Jeff pulled the zipper together with 
brute strength. It was a minor demonstration of 
gentlemanly modesty which ended as soon as Jeff wasn't 
looking at him, because Brett's eyes immediately 
fastened on my squashed tits with frank interest. Like 
Sylvester eyeing Granma's canary, I thought, and hoping 
to find a way into the cage. If that was really what he 
hoping for he was in for a disappointment.

I watched in surprise as Brett knelt down behind one of 
the back wheels. There were three protruding metal legs 
that attached the wheel to the pod and in between them 
was a piece of metal about as long as my arm curved 
into a 'C' shape. It was apparently held onto the top 
leg by a clamp at each end, which he undid. Then he 
stood up and reclamped the 'C' onto one of the support 
arms of the control bar. I asked him what he was doing. 
He smiled and began doing the same job on the other 
side of the flying thingy.

"I'm just fitting extensions to the control bar so I 
can steer from the back. You'll have to sit in the 
front seat, Sandra, to keep the weight distribution 
right. The control bar will be in front of you but I'll 
have my hands on these extensions to do the piloting. 
That's what I like about these ultralights, everything 
is very simple. A control bar and a foot throttle and 
that's about it."

He bowed like a courtier and stretched out his hand 
towards the pod: "My lady, your sky carriage awaits."

After all the trouble he'd gone to I couldn't refuse to 
give it a try however nervous I felt. I wasn't any more 
nervous than Jeff though, who watched Brett strapping 
me into the front seat with a kind of desperate look on 
his face as if I was going up on shuttle flight. Mind 
you, I don't think I would have felt much different 
myself if I had been about to blast off into space. It 
was hard to believe that I was really going to go up 
into the sky in this thing. Brett held the helmet over 
my head and quietly talked to me as I smoothed my hair 
back.

"As soon as this is on, I'll plug in the intercom cable 
and switch it on. All you'll hear is static until I 
plug in as well. Nod your head if you're OK and then 
I'll untie the wing tip and straighten the wings. When 
the bar is horizontal in front of you just hold it 
steady while I get in the back. All clear?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Fine. I've pinned the front throttle so it can't be 
worked. The only thing you have to worry about are the 
bars underneath your feet -- they're for steering the 
nose wheel, so don't press on them when we're taking 
off and landing. The rest of the time you can waggle 
them around as much as you like. OK?"

I nodded, and again after the helmet was on. It looked 
bulky but it was surprisingly light. I'd never worn one 
before, never even been on a motorbike because I 
thought they were dangerous. No wonder I held onto the 
control bar nervously when it settled over in front of 
me. I could feel my hands trembling on the rubber 
handgrips and then realized it wasn't just me that was 
twitching but the wing as well, shivering and bobbing 
at the wind's touch. 

I saw Brett speak to Jeff, and afterwards Jeff took off 
his own shirt and walked down the beach with it, off to 
one side on the soft sand. I wondered what he was 
doing. Then Brett came back with the corkscrew securing 
pin hanging by its lanyard from his wrist. He knelt 
down by the front of the pod, grinned up at me, put his 
hands on my knees and spread them wide apart.

I gasped in surprise, the noise muffled inside the 
helmet, and then found that he was bending forward to 
stow the pin away underneath my seat. Which was a 
totally innocent thing to do, maybe, but what wasn't so 
innocent was where his knuckles brushed against me as 
he slipped the lanyard off his wrist. But again, it 
something that was over and done with before I had a 
chance to even let go of the control bar. 

It might even have been a genuine accident, but I 
didn't think so. It was a clear message, as if I 
already needed one, about what Mr Brett Reynolds would 
like to do with Mrs Sandra Pearson if given even half a 
chance. Well, there was one thing about it, I thought, 
at least I was a lot safer from his advances in his 
plane than I would have been in his car. I thought!

The pod settled down on the wheels as Brett got into 
the back seat. The back ledge would probably be a 
better way of describing it, higher than the front seat 
and so close to it that Brett's legs were stretched out 
on either side of me with my elbows brushing against 
his knees. Never again would I complain about economy 
class seats in passenger jets.

A moment later the engine started and everything began 
vibrating as though I was sitting in a massage chair. 
That wasn't bad but even with the helmet on the engine 
noise was uncomfortably high. A hundred meters along 
the beach Jeff was standing still, holding his shirt up 
above his head. I realized it was to show which way the 
wind was blowing.

My headphones clicked and I heard Brett's voice very 
clearly: "OK, Sandra, I've got the control bar now. 
You'll probably want to hold onto the sides of your 
seat to begin with. This damp sand will hold us back a 
little but we've got eighty horsepower pushing us and 
we'll soon reach flying speed. We'll take off about 
where Jeff is now. Is everything OK with you?"

I clutched the handgrips on either side of the seat and 
tried to swallow a lump of solid air down my dried out 
throat: "Yes, I'm fine."

"Good girl. Feet off the pedal bars and hands off the 
control bar for a moment or two. Apart from that relax 
and enjoy the views . . . "

The engine roared even louder, the ultralight began 
moving, I held onto my seat with a death grip, we were 
moving faster, much faster, a small wave was breaking 
along the beach, toppling over into white water, Jeff 
was getting closer and closer, the vibration was 
getting worse -- oh fuck, I must be mad to be here!

Suddenly the vibration stopped, the engine seemed a lot 
further away and I was looking down at Jeff's upturned 
face. Then the control bar was pushed away from me and 
the nose of the pod lifted up towards the sky as if it 
were a rearing horse. I couldn't help myself from 
looking down, to see the sea suddenly growing wider 
with the breaking waves along the edge of it like 
crinkled up tearings of white tissue paper.

"How are you feeling, Sandra?"

"Alright -- I think."

"OK, we'll level out now, and fly straight on for a few 
minutes while you get used to things."

Getting used to so many conflicting feelings was going 
to take longer than that. In one sense I felt totally 
exposed, with only the finger thick vertical support 
bar in front of me and the wind drumming against my 
overalls, yet behind the helmet's faceplate there was a 
peaceful little world where I could talk to Brett 
without any effort at all. The wind seemed to be 
blowing away the noise of the engine as well, making a 
combined background noise which wasn't really 
bothersome at all. I suppose it would have been a 
miserable experience on a cold day without thick 
clothing, but it had been a scorching forty degrees 
Celsius down on the beach and the blast of moving air 
was as wonderfully cooling as Brett had promised it 
would be.

In another sense I was totally confined, by the straps, 
and by the control bar pressed close against my chest. 
In another way -- a breath takingly marvelous way -- 
I'd never felt so free in all my life. Who hasn't been 
a kid dreaming of finding a way of flying like a bird? 

Not being shot through the sky miles high watching 
movies, but real flying, down around the tree tops and 
hurdling over hilltops with giant's steps, being able 
to lift your eyes up to the distant horizons or down to 
something so close you feel you can reach out and touch 
it. Of course we've all felt like that, and most of us 
have grown up and forgotten the dream. And now, 
suddenly and totally without expecting it, I was living 
my dreams for real.

Out on my left were kilometers and kilometers of trees, 
and an occasional movement of something brightly 
colored scuttling underneath them. I was catching 
glimpses of the coastal highway between the tall 
trunks, or at least of the cars driving down it. On the 
right I could now see through the top of the sea, to 
dark patches with green stains behind them. 

It was puzzling until I realized that the dark patches 
were rocks just under the water with patches of seaweed 
growing where they were protected from the waves by the 
rocks. It seemed so strange that an area I thought I 
knew quite well looked so different from up here.

"How do you feel now, Sandra?"

"Pretty good." I was surprised how calm I sounded.

"Not frightened?"

I thought about how to answer: "Yes, but I'm too busy 
looking around to think much about it."

His chuckle came through the earphones: "Good answer. 
OK, we'll turn around now and fly back over your 
husband. Give him a wave to let him know you're OK and 
then we'll head for Kilkenny Ponds."

The turn was indeed frightening, at first, with the 
wing dipping over and the pod skidding around. Then I 
forgot about it as we dived back over the Suzuki and 
Jeff and I exchanged waves. Then another turn, but not 
so stomach churning now I had some idea of what to 
expect.

Brett started singing over the intercom.

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, 
Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one horse open 
sleigh..."

"OK, Sandra, we'll go up higher now and follow the 
coast for a while. There's something on the other side 
of the next headland I saw just before I landed that 
might interest you."

When we went over the headland I looked down the sheer 
drop of a cliff face to where the sea was continually 
slapping against the land, and felt only curiosity at 
the odd feeling of looking down at birds flying, the 
stiff winged gulls whirling and turning along the cliff 
as if they were scraps of paper caught inside a 
spinning gust of wind. Somehow it seemed that the 
height wasn't bothering me, which was the last thing 
I'd expected.

"There you are, Sandra, down on the right. That's 
something you don't see ever day, not even up here."

We were passing over the headland on the other side and 
where Brett was telling me to look was down in a corner 
of the sea between the cliffs and the beach. There was 
movement in the shallow water, a shimmering cloud 
continually changing shape and flickering with sudden 
sparkles. Running in and out of the cloud were dark 
lean shapes which seemed to cut passages through it by 
their mere presence, the tiny individual slivers of 
silver which made up the cloud constantly closing ranks 
again behind the intruders as they moved on.

"What's happening down there, Brett?"

"It's sharks feeding off a school of sardines. Is 
school the right word for sardines? Or should it be a 
can of sardines?"

I laughed and he laughed with me.

"Hey, Sandra, check out that boat ahead."

There was a high topped cabin cruiser anchored off the 
beach, a kilometer or so ahead. I thought how odd it 
was that the crew should be so close to a bunch of 
sharks in a feeding frenzy and not even know about it, 
while we could see so much more merely by being a 
couple of hundred meters higher up. 

As it turned out, I soon saw more than I'd expected, 
because Brett put us into other turn over the boat, and 
kept on turning, so the left wingtip seemed to be 
pointing straight down at the deck while the boat 
looked as if it were slowly rotating underneath us. It 
was an expensive looking boat and a couple were 
lounging on sun chairs at the back. They looked 
expensive too, in their own ways, he with his big pot 
belly, her with her blonde hair and good figure. It was 
easy to see these things because neither of them had a 
stitch on. Not that it seemed to bother them. The man 
casually waved his hand to us without moving from his 
seat.

"I told you there was something interesting here," 
Brett said. "She's nice but I'll bet she doesn't look 
as half as good as you would stretched in the raw."

I decided not to respond to that remark. I saw the 
woman stand up and look up at us, a glass in one hand, 
the other one also waving.

"Oh, dear, she's drooping a bit now. What about the 
guy, what do you think about him?" Brett laughed: "A 
real hunk, hey?"

"He hasn't got anything I haven't seen lots of times 
before."

The man reached out his hand towards the woman's bottom 
and began stroking it.

"Yeah," Brett continued: "I think the lady with the 
natural blonde hair could say the same thing. I suppose 
we'd better leave them in peace now." The control bar 
flicked over to one side to bring us out of the turn 
and the boat was whirled away out of my vision.

"OK, Sandra we'll go along the beach for a couple more 
kilometers, climb a bit, then turn right. We'll be 
going along a valley with a lot of cleared land that's 
used for grazing cattle. I wouldn't want to be low over 
the forest if the engine suddenly quit for any reason. 
Even a trike needs a little bit of space to land in."

Trike -- he'd used that word before. I supposed it was 
because of the three wheels underneath the pod. Again I 
could see more rocks, some of them sticking up out of 
the sea in streaks of white water, and then a small 
figure on a blue and white motorbike driving along the 
beach. 

The trike's nose twitched up, and when we passed over 
the motorbike it was dwindling in size as we climbed 
higher. So many times I'd heard bike riders talking 
about the wonderful feeling of the wind in their faces 
as they rode their machines and now I understood what 
they were saying, but in a way even they didn't know. 
Compared to a sky trike, a Harley-Davidson as a freedom 
machine was just a very efficient device for turning 
fuel into noise.

"Sandra, Eddie, says he'll be on his way in about ten 
minutes."

"What? What did you say, Brett?" I'd been staring down 
at the coastal highway and a queue of cars held up on 
the twisting road behind a slow moving semi-trailer.

"Well, to tell the truth, I have my mobile phone with 
me when I fly, plugged into the radio communications 
circuit. There was no point in trying it down on the 
beach, it wouldn't have worked any better than yours 
did. But we're fifteen kilometers closer to Kilkenny 
Ponds now and mobiles use line of sight radio waves, so 
the higher up you are the more range they have. I got 
through to Eddie first try and told him exactly where 
your husband is stuck."

"I didn't hear anything," I said. This all sounded 
pretty suspicious to me.

"No, I thought it would simplify matters if I cut you 
out of the circuit. Anyway, he said to tell you that 
he'd phone the hospital and let them know you wouldn't 
be coming in today -- oh, yeah, and he said he'd make 
sure he set his VCR up to tape  'Red Dwarf' for Jeff in 
case they were late back."

I turned all this over in my mind. One thing was sure, 
Brett must indeed have talked to Eddie to know what 
Jeff's favorite TV comedy program was. It certainly 
hadn't been mentioned on the beach. On the other hand: 
"Why would Eddie tell the hospital that I'm not coming 
to work today? We're going to Kilkenny Ponds, aren't 
we?"

"Oh, eventually, yes. In the meanwhile though I've told 
your friend that I've got an engine problem and I've 
got to land on the beach again."

I was bewildered: "Have you got a problem?"

"I don't have a problem in the world. I simply thought 
I'd spend some time feeling your tits. As fair payment 
for the ride, you might say."

"What!"

"What!" he mimicked me. "Well, what you do first is to 
put your hands up on the control bar. Then I'll put my 
right hand around underneath your right arm and grab 
your right tit."

"No way!"

"OK, Sandra, then I'll have to find another way of 
amusing myself."

The next second the wing tipped over onto one side and 
the pod went into a horrifying spiral which convulsed 
my hands into clutching claws on the seat handles as I 
screamed in terror. It was far, far worse than being on 
a roller coaster. Finally, at long last, Brett stopped 
throwing the plane around.

"Now, Sandra, before I ask you again, I'd like you to 
look up to where the support bars are attached to the 
wing. You see that bolt there? That's called the Jesus 
bolt, because that's what both of us will be screaming 
if it breaks and we drop off the wing. Now, which would 
you rather have, some more strain imposed on the Jesus 
bolt, or my fingers around your nipples?"

It was not a decision I had to spend a lot of time 
making: "I don't want the bolt to break." I said 
breathlessly.

"Fine. An excellent career move. Now put your hands on 
the control bar and sit quietly like a good girl."

I did as he wanted. Immediately a hand slipped around 
my body and touched the side of my right breast. It 
seemed to be as far as he could reach, so hard luck, 
Brett -- let him be as sick as a dog with frustration. 
I looked down at the pattern of fields and dirt roads 
below and mentally rehearsed what I was going to say to 
this two timing shit once we were safely back on the 
ground.

"You know, you're the first girl I've had in that front 
seat who's got boobs so big I can't reach them properly 
from the back." Brett sounded proud of the fact. "I 
knew you were something special when I saw you from the 
air for the first time. I've just got to get my hands 
on them properly."

"Brett, I'm a married woman," I protested.

"That's OK, I'm not going to steal you from your 
husband, I'm just going to borrow you for a bit, like a 
library book. What the hell, you must have acquired a 
few dirty finger marks on your virginal white pages 
somewhere along the line by now."

"You're a real bastard, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry, Sandra, but this thing is bigger than both 
of us. Your things are, anyway. OK, what I'm going to 
have to do is to unfasten my harness and lean forward 
so I can really get a grip on you. It's no fun unless I 
do it with both hands, so you'll have to fly the trike. 
No matter what happens, you hold the control bar level 
and everything will be fine. Of course if you fuck it 
up I'm liable to fall out."

I was as mad as hell at his insolence: "Well, fall out 
then, you prick, and get yourself killed."

I could hear him chuckling through the background hiss 
of the headphones: "Sandra, have you really thought 
about that? I mean, if I do fall out, you're going to 
have seventy eight kilos of desperate man holding onto 
your tits like they've been held before. And even if 
you eventually shake me off it still leaves you up here 
on your own. How do you think you'd go at your first 
solo landing?"

"Oh shit!"

"Come on, Sandra, a nurse shouldn't talk like that, a 
nurse should be caring and gentle towards those in 
need, and I need you. But before we start I want you to 
unzip the front of your overalls and then pull up that 
tee-shirt so I've got plenty of bare skin to play with. 
I know you're not wearing anything else, I could see 
that on the beach. I don't know how I managed not to 
get stiff just looking at you then."

"Brett..." It was a forlorn wail of protest.

"Twenty seconds to get ready for me, Sandra. Otherwise 
we'll give the Jesus bolt another strain test."

"God!"

"No, I told you, just Jesus. Come on, let me see you 
doing something -- or better still, undoing something."

I took my hands away from the sides of the seat and 
tugged at the zip until it was down around my waist. 
Then I struggled to free myself from the tight folds of 
the flying suit until I was back where I'd started 
from, with both of my tits hanging out, though held 
together tightly and pushed up almost as high as my 
chin by the narrow opening of the garment. Just to make 
it even more fun the zipper teeth seemed to be doing a 
good job of trying to saw both of my boobs off. But 
much better all of that than dropping out of the sky 
and getting spattered across the ground like a lump of 
seagull shit.

"Come on, Sandra, what are you playing around at? 
You've got an impatient man back here!"

"Shut up! I'm being as quick as I can..."

The tee-shirt was a tight fit as well, and as I clawed 
it up inch by inch  the loose folds collecting up 
underneath my throat fluttered wildly in the wind. We 
were passing over a farm house, a tractor moving 
between the sheds like a picture on toy box. I hadn't 
realized how much higher we'd gone up since leaving the 
beach. It was cooler, too, even cold. When I lifted the 
last fold of my shirt up over my nipples the wind 
chilled them into a firming response. Brett was going 
to enjoy finding out about that!

"Sandra, surely you're ready by now? Or do I have to 
shake you up again?"

"I'm ready, you rotten bastard!"

"Both of them hanging out and bare?"

"Yes," I confessed.

He chortled with delight: "Don't worry if they're 
getting cold, I'll soon warm them up for you. Now, put 
your hands on the control bar and do your best to keep 
the wings level with the horizon. Don't worry, it's 
easy to do."

Maybe it was for him but I couldn't imagine it being 
easy for me. Yet when I held the bar nothing much 
seemed to happen, except we began wobbling more than 
before. I wondered if Brett was still holding onto the 
extensions. Then I suddenly found out for a fact that 
his hands weren't on the control bar because they were 
slipping around my arms. And this time they didn't stop 
until his fingers were cupping both of my breasts and 
making my nipples respond as if they'd been touched 
with live wires from a battery. 

Yet for the first time in my life I was being felt by a 
strange pair of hands and hardly noticing them beyond 
an involuntary bodily response. What was taking up the 
really major part of my attention was stopping the 
trike from toppling out of the sky. My eyes were 
flicking from right to left and back again as I checked 
each wingtip, desperately trying to keep them balanced 
against the horizon. In comparison to the difficulty of 
doing that having Brett playing with my breasts was 
just an annoying distraction.

"Aaah, that's nice. I never know which is best, flying, 
or getting a grip on a new pair of tits for the first 
time. When you can do both together that's magic. And 
when they're nice juicy melons like yours, Sandra, 
that's a real bonus."

"Shut up, I'm trying to drive this thing!"

"Better do a good job then, sweetie, because if we pile 
in now in this position the accident investigation guys 
won't need any black box to know what happened. They'll 
put it on my tombstone: 'He had too much cock in his 
cockpit'."

I couldn't prevent myself from giggling at that crack, 
which stopped abruptly as we hit an air pocket or 
something and the trike quivered like a puppy shaking 
off water. I squealed as the horizon dipped and began 
to slide around us.

"Don't worry," Brett told me calmly. "Push the bar 
forward -- forward!" He emphasized the command by 
jerking my nipples away from me. It was quite painful 
but that was the least of my worries as I pressed as 
hard as I could against the bar. Things seemed to 
change, not that I was quite sure how, but we were 
still turning.

"Tilt the bar up to the right," Brett ordered, 
reinforcing the command by squeezing my right tit in 
his hand as hard as he could. I gasped and did as he 
wanted, until we were flying properly. Somehow we'd 
turned completely around again though, because the sea 
was in front of us now.

"Handling techniques taught with sensory input 
reinforcement -- works wonders, every time. We call it 
stimulation flying. Hey, Sandra, I can hear some heavy 
breathing in your microphone. It's about time you 
showed some reaction after all the effort I've put into 
getting you turned on."

"I'm frightened, not excited!"

"Like hell. I told you you'd look better than that 
sheila on the boat when you were stripped off and now 
you're wondering when it's going to happen. What you'd 
like is for me to land as soon as I can and then give 
you a good deep fucking -- with another afterwards for 
luck."

He spread his fingers out as wide as he could and sank 
them into my soft flesh as I swallowed air again, just 
as I had at the beginning of the flight. I'd done it 
then because I'd suddenly found myself involved in 
something I knew I was going to go through with and now 
I felt the same way again. If we landed in a remote 
place and Brett kept pressuring me in the same places 
as he was now there was only going to be one outcome, 
because he was right, I was getting as eager to be laid 
as he was to lay me Then he started crooning a romantic 
little seasonal number:

"Rudolph, the red titted reindeer,
with your nips so tight, 
won't you pull my sleigh tonight?"

His hands suddenly moved off me: "OK, I've got the bar. 
We're seven kilometers from a nice little spot for a 
bit of quiet nookie out in the open air, so let's wend, 
Pancho!"

"Pancho -- what does that mean?"

"Before your time, Sandra, before your time."

The trike turned around tightly, back towards the 
hills. Brett kept talking. "There used to be a fire 
lookout tower on that ridge ahead. It's been taken down 
now but the Forestry Commission made an airstrip a few 
hundred meters down on the opposite slope. Just enough 
for a little biplane to land and change the fire 
spotters over every two weeks or so. It was never worth 
the cost of putting in a road. So we use it now."

"What do you mean by 'we'?"

"Trike flyers. We're the only ones who can get in that 
area now, unless you walk, and not many people do that. 
It's an ideal place for some open air fucking."

His assumption that I was putty in his hands to do 
whatever he liked with made me grate my teeth in anger. 
I was torn between wanting to put scratch marks on his 
back or across those smiling eyes of his.

"You know something, Sandra, sometimes I teach people 
how to fly trikes. And one thing I have to show them is 
how difficult it is to fly on instruments alone and why 
they should stay clear of clouds. To do that I have a 
hood which fits over a flying helmet. It covers their 
eyes but it's cut away underneath so they can still 
breathe and look down at the instrument panel. I think 
that's a good idea, don't you?"

I couldn't understand what he was talking about: "What 
are you asking me for? I don't know anything about 
flying."

"OK then, I'll tell you something entirely different. 
When they were training hunting falcons back in 
medieval days, they always used to tame a falcon when 
it landed by putting a hood over its head. I think you 
might be tempted to use your claws on me when we land 
so I think I'll tame you with the same technique, by 
putting my blind flying hood over your helmet. What a 
piece of good luck I just happen to have it handy."

The sarcastic bastard was really enjoying himself.

"Hold onto the control bar again, Sandra, and listen 
for any orders I give you."

I put my hands back onto the rubber grips. A second 
later a piece of black fabric was pulled down around 
the helmet, then a cord around the bottom of it jerked 
tightly underneath the helmet and around my neck. It 
all happened very quickly. As Brett had said, a large 
rectangular piece was cut out at the bottom of the hood 
but to see anything I had to literally look down my 
nose -- or past it anyway.

"OK, Sandra, I've got the control bar again now. 
Incidentally, that cord is tied up behind your head 
now, and you wouldn't find it a very easy knot to undo. 
Nor can you undo the helmet straps underneath your chin 
while the bag's on. You've heard of the man in the iron 
mask? Well, you're going to be the lady in the plastic 
helmet until I let you out of it. Which will be after 
I've had the pleasure of your company."

Brett sounded about as happy as a man could be. Which, 
under the circumstances, was probably justified. A nice 
day flying around, see a woman you fancy, swoop down, 
pick her up, squeeze her teats, make her helpless and 
then spend a happy afternoon giving the stupid bitch 
the thorough shafting she deserves for her trusting 
stupidity. I wondered if he was as inventive a lover as 
he was a liar and a flier.

The trike began turning and turning, presumably over 
the place where he intended to land. With my head 
craned back as far as I could get it I could just 
manage to look straight down into a frustratingly 
narrow field of vision. There were the slopes of the 
ridge, littered with large stones, then some trees 
close together, an open expanse of grass, a kind of 
large wooden framework which must have been the base of 
the fire watching tower. What looked like a sheet of 
canvas had been tied between the stunted wooden legs to 
cover the ground between them.

I saw something else as well, small differently colored 
scraps of material fluttering gently from the sides of 
the four legs, like bunting outside a used car lot. The 
difference was that I was sure this bunting was 
exclusively composed of girls' panties. Not bunting, 
but little flags of triumph, two or three tied to each 
leg.

"Can you see our wind markers, Sandra? You're not the 
first flying fuck up here, not by a long way."

"You're the most arrogant man I've ever met!"

"Yes, but am I the most arrogant man ever to fuck you?"

"You haven't done it yet."

"Well, Sandra, I hoisted up most of those panties 
myself, and yours are definitely going to be the next 
pair to go up."

"And did you have to blindfold the other girls too?"

Brett laughed: "Every one a blind date, Sandra, every 
one of them. Until it was time for them to suck my 
cock. Then I let them see what they were doing."

I would have given my life's savings for a chance to 
get some of my own back on the bastard. Even just to 
scream abuse at him, but it didn't seem like a good 
idea while he was landing the trike. Nor did it seem 
sensible to have my head twisted over to one side as 
the grass came nearer and nearer. Better to sit upright 
and ramrod straight in case it was a hard impact.

Staring into the black depths of the material over my 
face plate, I held on and waited for the thump. There 
was one, hardly noticeable, then the same vibration 
from the wheels as had happened when we were running 
along the beach. I hastily took my feet off the foot 
bars, where I'd been resting them after forgetting 
Brett's pre-flight instructions. Mind you, I'd had a 
lot of distractions happen to me since then.

Then the vibration ended and the engine stopped. No 
more wind blowing past, only the chilled skin on my 
breasts as a reminder of it and the hot sun warming 
them already. The pod creaked as Brett got out.

"Hold the control bar, Sandra."

This time, after Brett had taken the wing tip ground 
pin out from under my seat, he put his hand right up 
between the legs of the flying overalls and rubbed me 
slowly. I think what he enjoyed most about it was that 
I made no protest, no effort to stop him. The truth was 
that I was unable to make up my mind what to do. I 
hadn't resisted Brett in the air because I'd been 
afraid of us crashing. I couldn't do much to stop him 
now, even if I wanted to, not being almost totally 
blind. Even if the mask and the helmet were taken off, 
I'd still be on my own with him way out here in the 
bush. But the first thing to do was to try to persuade 
him to undo the stifling mask, no matter what I had to 
do for him afterwards.

"Please, Brett, let me take this helmet off. It's like 
having my head in a bucket with it on."

"Later, Sandra, later. When you ask nicely enough I'll 
let you give me a blow job. Tilt the bar now and hold 
it while I secure the wing tip. Gently, gently, that's 
far enough."

His shadow across my legs moved away as he went to 
secure the wing. Now I could feel that a breeze was 
blowing up here in the hills,  a hot gentle breeze 
fluttering around the open flying suit and the tee 
shirt drawn up tight around my throat, almost as tight 
as my throat muscles were inside. It would have been 
wonderful to have felt the wind on my flushed face. 
Something hit the ground, probably Brett's helmet. He'd 
wasted no time in taking his off, I noted angrily.

"Put your hands down by the sides of your seat, Sandra. 
I want to take a good long look at the scenery."

He was standing next to the trike. He had to be for me 
to hear him through the helmet -- anyway, I could see 
his shadow falling across my knees again. God, Brett 
must be loving this! I imagined myself as he was seeing 
me, helpless and undone, my big boobs scrunched up and 
hanging out like ripe fruit in the sunlight, ready for 
the picking. Brett's shadow blotted out everything else 
as he bent lower and I was surprised when his hands 
went down to unfasten my seat straps, rather than 
further up or lower down. It occurred to me that 
perhaps he wouldn't risk a struggle anywhere near his 
precious microlight. 

He helped me out of the pod anyway, then led me away by 
the hand as I stumbled along behind him, trying to keep 
my eyes on my feet as we stepped through the rough 
grass. Spears of it stabbed through my beach sandals 
and made me gasp in pain. One thing was certain, I 
wouldn't be running away, not here, even if there had 
been anywhere to run to.

"Almost there, now, Sandra. A few more paces."

A few paces it was, into the shade that I felt more 
than saw on the ground. No dapples in it, no flecks, 
but a total shield overhead from the sun. We weren't 
underneath a tree, so we must be below the canvas sheet 
I'd seen flying overhead in the trike. The wind was 
still fluttering over my nipples though, so it wasn't 
like a tent, there were no canvas walls. We were still 
in the open air, standing in the remains of the old 
fire watching tower. The ruins that were decorated with 
all those intimate feminine articles presumably left 
behind by other visiting trike fliers. My knees began 
trembling.

"OK, Sandra, shake them for me."

"What?"

"Put your hands up underneath your tits and shake them 
up and down for me."

I tried to summon up my remained of my self respect. 
"And what if I don't?"

Even with the thick plastic dome over my head I heard 
Brett's chuckle: "Then the helmet will have to stay on 
until you decide to do what you're told."

It was the obvious response, an easy and effective one. 
He knew how much I wanted to take it off. I sighed and 
did as he wanted, gently juggling myself for his 
benefit. Brett had won at every deal in the game and 
now he was starting to claim his winnings. And he was 
probably sighing too, if he really thought I was as 
fuckable as he kept on saying I was.

"Now that's a job I wouldn't mind helping you with. In 
fact I think I will help you with it."

Yes, Brett did sigh with satisfaction, as he put his 
hands back on top of my nipples and plucked them into 
hardened points. It was skillfully done work which had 
me holding them up to him for the treatment to 
continue. He obliged with his tongue, his lips and his 
teeth. A very odd experience, not to be able to see but 
to be seen, to be almost blind and yet to be right out 
in the open air. I wondered if there were any bush 
walkers in the area with binoculars held to their eyes 
as they watched the performance. Especially when Brett 
suckled me so fiercely that I had to hold onto his 
shoulders to stop from overbalancing.

"You bastard, Brett, you bastard!"

"I think it's time we stripped you off some more, 
Sandra."

I felt his hand tugging unzipping the front of the 
flying suit, all the way down to the bottom. He was 
moving around me, behind me I thought, then knew I was 
right as he tugged at the collar of the suit and pulled 
it down along my arms and off over my hands. The suit 
fell down, leaving me with the tee-shirt still hauled 
up over the tops of my breasts and my panties. I felt 
their waistband pulled back behind me and then I yelped 
as Brett twanged the elastic waist band against my 
spine.

"Beautifully posed, Sandra, beautifully posed. Just one 
slight adjustment and you'll look perfect."

One fast tug and the panties were down where the flying 
suit was, below my knees, with Brett laughing aloud at 
my instinctive and totally useless attempt to grab them 
as they were plucked away.

"Brett!"

"Christ, Sandra, you're built like a brick shithouse. 
Love those legs, you must be a blood stirring sight in 
a miniskirt. Now let's see if your cunt feels as good 
as your tits do."

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that I out in 
the middle of the bush, naked between the pulled up 
shirt and the panties around my knees, with a hand 
creeping up between my legs, another on my right nipple 
and a mouth over the left one. And what did I do about 
it? What I did about it was to grip Brett's shoulders 
again to keep my balance while I stood there like a 
knocked kneed cowgirl so the exploring fingers could 
have all the room they needed. 

Oh, and as a final touch of encouragement, he must have 
been able to hear my grunts of satisfaction coming from 
beneath the helmet. Even to my own ears I sounded like 
a pig snuffling through garbage. Brett snorted too, he 
snorted with laughter when he stopped sucking my nipple 
because he knew I was shivering with eagerness for 
everything and anything he wanted to do with me.

"OK, Sandra, take two steps forward and put your hands 
out in front of you." His voice was brisk and 
commanding.

"There's a table there, a wooden one we found here. On 
top of it there's a mattress. Don't worry about it 
slipping, it's tied to the table. Turn around and sit 
on the end of the mattress, then lie down on your back 
and spread your knees out to show off your cunt."

"You're a real charmer, Brett, aren't you?"

"Right now, I'm not interested in massaging your ego, 
Sandra just the rest of you. Get your arse on that 
table and spread them, because I'm coming for you, 
ready or not."

I did as he wanted. The edge of the table came into 
view underneath my chin as I shuffled forward, and the 
mattress as well. It seemed low enough for me to able 
to lift myself up on it without much difficulty. The 
mattress was thin and old, dirty and sticky. None of 
which was surprising considering what it was used for. 
Yet although I'd reached the stage where I really 
wanted to be on it with Brett on top of me, it was 
still a humiliation to be sitting there with my 
clothing twisted around my legs as though I was sitting 
on a toilet bowl.

"On your back, Sandra."

There was no point in trying to argue. I leaned back on 
the tacky mattress cover, to find that the helmet 
supported my head quite comfortably. Through the gap 
underneath the hood I peered down my body, but my 
flattened breasts blocked out almost all the view, 
except for an occasional glimpse of movement at the end 
of the table. Then I saw Brett's dark hair for a second 
as he lowered himself between my legs. His hands spread 
my knees even wider apart than they already were.

"Ah, my favorite food -- a gently simmering cunt that 
needs a long slow steaming."

The first touch of his tongue set me quivering. After 
the first few minutes I was not only shaking but 
surprised  that he was taking this much trouble to put 
me on heat when he already had me helpless. But he was 
and I was. The only real trouble was that the helmet 
was on the wrong person -- I could hardly find the 
breath to encourage him underneath it, and Brett must 
have needed some head protection as I pinned his ears 
back with my thighs. Big licks, slow licks, fast licks, 
quick licks and all artfully crafted licks, with an 
occasional halt while he took off my sandals, the 
flying suit, and then my panties. Each pause left me 
seething with impatience for him to start again. 
Another pause then, as he used his fingers to make sure 
I was properly on the boil after being the well nibbled 
entree.

"I've got you where I want you now, you big titted 
bitch," Brett gloated as he worked me, the table 
creaking underneath my spine. I wondered if I was the 
heaviest girl that had ever been laid on top of it and 
whether it was going to collapse when Brett started 
fucking me.

"Now I think we'll take that helmet off so I can watch 
your face while I'm sticking my cock into this mincing 
machine yours." His fingers were doing the mincing, 
churning around inside my inner muscles as I began to 
go crazy. "But we have to go by the rules here, so 
there's one little job left to do."

He seemed to more self control than I did. Probably 
because he was older. I didn't care what rules he was 
talking about. Not until I felt a tingle from a length 
of thin metal links thrown over my stomach.

"Before you ask, sweetie, I'll explain what I'm doing. 
There's a length of fine chain looped around the table 
top with a small padlock securing it. I've undone the 
padlock and now I'm going to refasten the chain again, 
around the table and around your middle. There's no way 
you'd ever got hips or tits like yours past it, so 
you'll stay on top of the table until I undo the 
padlock. But I will leave it slack enough so you can 
turn over, or crawl up to the end of the table to give 
me a blow job."

His entire hand seemed to be inside me now.

"I think they're satisfactory arrangements, don't you, 
miss big tits? Because there's no way you're ever 
getting off this table now until I decide to let you 
off it."

"God, yes, anything you want, Brett, anything you 
want."

He didn't answer. I tried to look around and saw 
nothing, though I heard movement. I guessed that Brett 
was taking off his flying suit. Afterwards he put his 
fingers underneath my neck and undid the knot behind 
the hood. It seemed to take a long time before it came 
loose. It seemed to take even longer for him to snap 
open the chin strap and to ease the helmet off. The 
light was dazzling and the rough material of the 
mattress was scratchy against the back of my head. 
Above me the canvas was flapping gently.

"Well, hello, Nurse Pearson."

I screamed in shock as hands grabbed my wrists and 
elbows. There were men, naked men, all around the 
table. But the only one I had eyes for was the one 
between my held out legs, the swarthy man with black 
hair all over his body who was carefully sheathing his 
cock inside me as if he was slipping into a hot bath.

"Doctor Gottlieb," I whimpered. Only the most 
detestable medical man I'd ever met, the one with the 
ugly cow of a wife who was always trying to make up for 
his miserable marriage by trying to chat up the nurses. 
I despised the ugly creep and now he was fucking me in 
front of an audience!

"And the doctor is in!" He jammed everything he had 
into me and I gasped. The bastard had more to him than 
I'd ever expected, but when it came to pure bastards. 
"Brett!"

He was at the end of the table, looking down and 
laughing. "Don't worry, Sandra, I'm next. But when I 
called all the guys up on the radio and told them I was 
going up to the tower with a red hot nurse one of my 
mates said he had a passenger who was a doctor at the 
Kilkenny hospital. We thought it might be a good gag to 
have you meet like this -- the Doc was all for it, 
especially when he found out who you were. Of course I 
didn't let you see the parked up trikes when we landed 
but you'll get to meet all the guys pretty soon. You're 
our Christmas box."

Two of the guys had already grabbed hold of my tits, as 
a convenient way of encouraging me to rub their cocks 
for them. Two more of them were holding my legs as 
Gottlieb ploughed away between them and I writhed away 
under his increasing weight as he spread himself on top 
of me. Never, never, never would he allow me to forget 
this and all the other things he was to going to see. 
And they'd all been standing there with their hands 
over their mouths, nearly bursting with laughter as I'd 
shaken my tits for Brett and let him strip and lick me. 
I burned in anger, and in fear at the thought of Jeff 
finding out about this.

"Brett, you fucking bastard!"

"Sorry, Sandra, but that's not really my name. I'm 
really Monty Python, the pilot with the big cock, and 
this is my flying circus..."

He had a can of coke in his hand, he held it up. "Can't 
drink when I'm flying, but a Christmas toast everyone. 
Here's to a happy time stuffing our Christmas turkey." 
The men guys cheered and whooped in encouragement. "And 
God bless us all, everyone..." Brett leaned forward, 
watching what Gottlieb was doing with a sardonic smile 
on his face "...even Tiny Tim!"

THE END

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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 34