Message-ID: <24693asstr$961038619@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: "paulinusfang" X-Original-Message-ID: <8i8qma$ajl$1@lure.pipex.net> NNTP-Posting-Date: 14 Jun 2000 20:41:46 GMT X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Subject: {ASSM} Mileage Plus (oral exposure and nuns) Date: Wed, 14 Jun 2000 23:10:19 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: newsman, IceAltar All the usual warnings apply, if you think Britney Spears is cool then you are too young to be here. Go to Yahoo.com and look at BluesClues or something more fitting. If you can imagine Britney Spears smeared in Anne Summers strawberry flavoured massage oil with a vibrating butplug, then you are probably looking at the right newsgroup. So warnings over, on with the story. By the way, all comments can be sent to paulinusfang@mailcity.com MILEAGE PLUS I had sat patiently through the first hour of the flight, dreading as always the seven hours ahead of me. I knew that after four hours I would be climbing the walls, not that the cabin wall panels of a B747 are exactly very high, nor with the lip around the window would they really be very hard to climb, but I think that you get the impression. I hate long haul flights. I loathe with all my heart the little parcels of "food" that arrive on plastic trays; I detest the kerosene fruit delivered as part of this feast of fun. I have never worked out why all the airlines marinade their fruit slices in something tasting like kerosene: do they think it is part of the "aerospace engineering experience?" I once sat down and worked out that in an average year I spend anything up to a full week staring at the seat in front of me in long haul. I could never sleep on aircraft. Long haul is a dirty tiring business, even before the early 1990s recession when business class travel was an option, the only benefit was really being uncomfortable in a bigger seat, with better food. Oh and except for British Airways, you get more smiles in business class. The thing I abhor above all other abhorrence in airline travel though, is British Airways: "The word's favourite airline (tm)" And so, post recession, I was sitting in an economy seat, booked through a Bangladeshi back street sweatshop style travel agent who could get tickets for a good price. To make matters worse I was staring at the navy blue seat fabric of British Airways. In the galley of every British Airways aircraft they have a little special container full of insolence and bad attitude that is liberally sprinkled on all the cabin crew as they board the aircraft. It is stored in one of the food trolleys, next to the pot of bright orange face cake make up worn by the cabin crew. Bright orange and navy blue -- such a flattering colour scheme for a girl. With the usual unenthusiastic song and dance act created by the Civil Aviation Authority to brighten up the pre flight check, the surly staff demonstrated how a plastic picnic cup and a polythene bag could supply the vital oxygen required to keep your brain alive in the event that the other 30 million dollars worth of aircraft failed to work properly. So this brings me back to the point where I started the story, about an hour into the flight, in a seriously stroppy mood. Cynical to the end, and knowing how these things were really built and maintained, I stuck my nose into a book and read quietly. When boredom stepped up a level, I tried to sleep but found the seat too small, the temperature too high, the humidity too much. My temper frayed at the edges until, out of spite I selected the vegetarian pasta from the menu on the grounds that it is usually the only thing that has not been cooked with an oxy-acetylene torch and then left to desiccate in the Mojave sun for two days. I also had a nasty little hope that by selecting this, I could inconvenience somebody else. When I fly I am not a happy teddy, I can get quite petty and mean. For the tenth time in half an hour I put my book down and stared hard at the seat in front of me, willing something exciting to happen. Perhaps a woman would go into labour and sprog on the aircraft; now that would alleviate the boredom. I could send cabin staff to boil water and fetch towels. No, where on earth are they going to get towels from at forty thousand feet? Why do they need all that boiling water? I think it is something for the man to do whilst his wife wonders whether her knees will ever meet again. For another ten minutes I concentrated, hoping my weak brain waves would distort the time/space continuum, cause a minor catastrophe; where was the call for a medic on board? I was snapped from my thoughts by the passenger next to me touching my arm and asking, in a quiet tone, "Are you alright?" I turned and looked at her. "Yes, I just hate flying," I answered, not too civilly, I regret to admit. "Scared?" she enquired, a small smile breaking from the corners of her mouth. "No, I just do too much of it." The conversation wilted at this. She remained quiet for a few moments then spoke again. "Why do you fly so much, if you don't mind me asking?" I did mind her asking, it was none of her bloody business but at least she was attractive enough. "I have to travel to the states every month to see customers, usually in New York or San Francisco." I tried to add a smile to this comment. It didn't come out with too much supporting sentiment. The conversation wilted again, leaving a slightly pregnant atmosphere. Now here is a thought: can you be slightly pregnant? I never got to the end of this thought before she spoke again. "You would be quite an attractive man if you weren't such a miserable bastard." I put my book down and looked at her. She had blazing eyes and was obviously riled by my insolence. I stared at her for a few minutes, taking in her neatly cut black bob haircut and red lipstick. Her nose was aquiline, yet it suited her face, she was a woman who certainly had matured very nicely from what was probably a pretty gangly teenager. "And what charm school did you graduate from?" was the obvious response which escaped my lips before I could consider the damage that a loose tongue can do. She grinned at me for a moment, then unfastened her seatbelt and stood up. Straightening her skirt, she walked back toward the rear of the aircraft, I assumed to make use of the facilities. I read on for a few minutes before deciding to pop out of the seat row myself, and check out the facilities. Toward the back of the aircraft, I could see the girl who had been next to me was next in the line for one of the toilets. Oddly she waited until the two people behind her had entered the tiny cubicles before she asked me a question. "I have a problem with my contact lens; could you check it for me please?" I nodded my assent and stood closer to her whilst she tilted her head back. "Just look and see if you can see any dust in my eye." She instructed. I peered at her eye, my hands holding her head gently, but I couldn't see anything. "Nope, can't see a sausage in there." I explained, reluctant to let go of her, well, she was quite cute in a big noses severe haircut sort of way. She had one of those "bite me, beat me, whip me, fuck me," sharp bobs. As the toilet cubicle in the tail of the aircraft opened, she grasped my arm. "We need more light I think, let's try in here." I followed, slightly reluctantly, unused to the concept of being dragged into toilet cubicles for conversations. Let's face it: this is my life; toilet cubicle conversations take place in the strange world of Ally McBeal but not in my world. The rear cubicle in some of the B747s is triangular and much bigger than the norm. She must have known this. She pushed the split door shut behind us and slid the bolt across. There was a two second delay whilst the fluorescent lights debated whether to bother joining in the experience, then, with the light level suddenly doubled she grasped my face in both hands and pulled my head down to her level. Her lips were soft, moist and extremely red with her lipstick. I could feel the slight greasiness as it spread across my face. Her tongue forced open my lips as her fingers slid up the back of my neck, cradling my head. I have to confess at this point I stood there like a lemon, hands by my side whilst she swivelled her face enthusiastically in front of mine, her tongue excavating, searching deeper. I swear she was a tonsil thief doing a breaking and entering job on my throat. She suddenly let go of me and swept her hands round to the front, quickly grabbing my belt and unfastening it. Within seconds my trousers were round my ankles. 'I mean, what the fuck is going on here?' my brain screamed at me but before I could get my thoughts in order she had knelt down and swallowed the whole thing. Bang! There it was, one minute ago it was slumbering in my trousers and the suddenly the poor little dick is being devoured by some woman in an aircraft toilet. She took my cock deeply into her mouth and ran her whole tongue underneath it, a warm smooth pressure ran around it as she moved skilfully. Something gave me the impression that this was not the first blow job she had done. She pulled her head backwards, sucking vigorously and gripped the base of my cock in her hand. With a strong sucking pressure she moved her head slowly backwards and forward as her tongue again searched and examined every cease and fold. God, this was seriously good; she spent plenty of time working on the end, not too much time on the deep throat trick. I can tell you that deep throat is all well and good in its place, but you can't beat some serious helmet attention for accelerating a climax. And that is exactly what she did. The whole thing can't have taken more than three or four minutes. I felt my leg muscles tighten, followed rapidly by the contraction in my balls, and I was there. It was one of those intense climaxes where the pulsing in my cock almost hurt, any additional stimulation would have been too much as I came in a series of jerks. I was surprised that she kept her mouth there, I was sure she would pull away at the last minute but no, just a quick gulp and it was gone. I leant back against the sink unit to stop myself falling as she stood up. She smiled briefly as she adjusted her clothes again. "Perhaps that will put a smile on your face, you miserable bastard." She grinned and slid the door catch open. I saw her pull the door inward and step smartly out into the corridor, yet the door didn't close: she held it open as an act of courtesy to a small grey haired nun who was next in line. The nun started to enter the cubicle but stopped dead in her tracks as she stared down at my now rapidly wilting cock jutting out from between the flaps of the front of my shirt. "I take it you thought this was a confessional, Sister?" I said quickly with a grin. Visit the Lair of The Fanged One at http://pages.whowhere.lycos.com/arts/paulinusfang/ -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+