Erotica: How To Keep Immaculate In A Restricted Space by Feathers.

Image courtesy of Tim Beach FreeDigitalPhotos.net 
 

Picture the scene. I am at work. On an airplane. A special airplane. I am wearing a uniform, which goes with my job, which is military. I am fairly senior, a Major. My job is to look after my boss who is very senior indeed, a four star General. His job is to look after his boss. His boss’s job is to look after the whole country and, well, the world.

So, we are on the special plane, upstairs. Nobody ever sees upstairs, it’s classified. Next to me on one side is a huge Secret Service guy named Chad, relaxed and chatty but vigilant even in flight. On the other side is my boss, six computer screens and a load of equipment I’m not allowed to talk about, and three other people operating it all.

A few feet away, on the deck below, is the President of the USA, and a couple of hundred of his closest staff and media are down the corridor. I am in my best dress uniform, monitoring my laptop and the other screens and trying to keep the creases out of my skirt.

The country is about to vote in an election and we have been criss-crossing the country endlessly for the last week. I have not been off the plane in all that time, sleeping in a bunk on the lower deck. Doing that is fun the first time you do it, but after a week it sends you a little bit mad. There’s another Major working with me, and between us we work around the clock. Twelve hours on, twelve hours in a tiny bunk, over and over. It’s an important job, but I can’t say much about it.

I can talk about other stuff, though. There’s a rule on Air Force One, the further back you sit the less important you are. You can’t go any further forward than your seat. The journalists matter less than anyone, and they’re the least trustworthy. They’re right at the back.

So let me tell you about my commute. My relief shows up, upstairs. We do a handover. I am relieved, I salute, then I go downstairs and walk to the back of the plane, saluting anyone more senior I see. Sometimes the President himself. He smiles and says

“Hello Major Karen, how’s the world? Nothing I need to know about?”. He knows he would already know.

I stand to attention and salute. “No sir!” I respond. He seems friendly, but rules are rules. We don’t chat much. Once he chuckled and patted me on the back as he walked past. I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Anyway, so on my commute, I turn left and walk to the back of the plane. Past the conference room, through the staff area and the military area and through between the noisy ranks of journalists, sitting in their first class seats and loudly complaining and laughing.

I like the journalists. They know I work upstairs, they know it’s secret, so they love trying to get me to spill something. I do chat to them, it’s allowed, but of course I never give anything away. Most of them are grizzled old hacks, completely indiscreet. Lots of them you’ll have seen on TV, but they’re completely different off screen… gossipy, cynical and fun. There’s a catering area right behind their seats, and they treat it like an informal bar, standing around and chatting with each other and any crew who happen to stray that way. Club Presidente, they call it.

So I’m off duty and walking to the back. The atmosphere is jovial, we have just finished the last big rally and the President is heading back to Washington. Plane psychosis has really begun to kick in for me and I am looking forward to finally getting home. I need to decompress.

“Ah, Major K”, someone says from my left. I am almost at the Club. I look around and see her sitting by the window, not in her usual seat.

“The Honorable Lucinda”, I smile back. She’s about my age, early thirties. She’s the only Brit who has stayed on board the whole time, sending reports back to the BBC. Someone told me her father is a baronet or a clarinet or a lord of the manor or something, and that she is officially a Lady. I haven’t asked, but try to gently tease her. She never rises to it.

Lucy, she’s called, apparently a very senior reporter on their most serious radio news programme.  They still have serious radio in the UK. Very quaint. I have only seen her less serious side, and she seems relatively uninterested in working.

I take the seat next to her, and she immediately starts telling me gossip about the Royal family. She used to be a Royal reporter, following them round on their world tours. She knows which one is gay, she knows about the secret love child, she knows all the many men who supposedly had affairs with Princess Di. She seems to know all their secrets, none of which have ever come out in public. She’s probably making half of it up but I enjoy hearing the tales.

She’s also completely unguarded about her own misbehaviour. She tells me about a time she ended up in bed with a photographer, which apparently happens a lot on royal tours, and how he took pictures of her sitting completely naked on the end of his bed, headphones on, doing a live report in to the morning programme in the UK. The time zones had caught her out.

“Now if THAT ever ends up on the internet, I’m screwed” she says, roaring with seemingly unconcerned laughter. “Don’t worry, I have worse stuff on him”, she adds, roaring again. “Thank fuck I work on the radio”.

These staid BBC types are so much more fun than the americans. Some of the White House correspondents take themselves a bit seriously, truth be told.

So, we’re chatting away, me and Lucy. I’m winding down from my shift, she’s telling me all sorts of implausible gossip I want to believe, and I’m enjoying myself. One more shift and then I am home for the week. She has worked her way through the Royals, her fellow reporters, her own naked antics, a little rumour about the First Lady I just can’t bring myself to believe, and she starts asking me about the crew.

“Oh, now, you know, I don’t really know them”, I reply. “If there’s any gossip nobody tells me”.

She persists. “Come on! You work in the secret nerve centre. You probably have a direct line to the CIA dedicated solely to crew gossip. You need to know.”

I know what she’s doing and I’m having none of it.

“You know, all I do is work my shifts and commute to and from my little pod”, I say. “I hardly speak to anyone, if there’s any gossip I don’t know it.”

She changes tack.

“Your little pod? Is that a Borg thing? You sleep in a docking station?” she asks incredulously.

“Pretty much, yes” I reply.

“Let me see” demands Lucy.

Now, I know how to keep a secret because that’s what I do. I am guessing that strictly speaking the lower deck is off-limits to journalists but I have never seen a rule which actually states that. And the pod is below Club Presidente; she won’t be any further forward than her seat. Just underneath it.

“OK” I reply simply.

“Really!?” she asks, disbelieving. “Wow, this is a cool story”

“This is NOT a story, understand?” I reply. “I only have to tap into the secret database to find those pictures of you” I add. Complete rubbish, but she doesn’t look sure.

“OK. No story” she says.

We get up and walk through Club Presidente to the row of toilets behind. There are four toilets but five doors. The fifth is a tiny elevator. I punch in a code and we squeeze inside.

“Jesus I never even noticed this” says Lucy. I’m always amazed how unobservant journalists are. The elevator is only designed for one, but we’re both small girls. I quite like being squashed in with her, truth be told, as the tiny high pitched motor whirrs us down to what on most 747s is the cargo deck.

“Jesus christ, look at this!” squeals Lucy as we get out.

“Don’t look too hard” I reply. There’s nothing truly classified within sight, I’m pretty sure, and she probably wouldn’t notice if there was.

Immediately in front of us is a tiny corridor formed by a stack of what are grandly called ‘crew quarters’. They’re sort of like a cross between coffins and those tiny pod hotels in Japan. Six of them, three high on each side, all currently unoccupied. Mine is the middle one on the left.

“Some crew have to stay on the plane”, I explain. “This is where we stay. I get a pod of my own because my relief is a man”

“It’s tiny” says Lucy, “can I have a look inside?”

“Sure”.

Lucy climbs up, ungainly, her ass almost in my face. It looks good close up, and I make sure to take it all in. I give it a little shove to help her in.

“God, I would make a terrible soldier”, she complains. “Can’t ever climb into bed without looking like a complete klutz”. She turns around a few times, like a dog ready to sleep, then sticks her head out. “It’s truly tiny. How do you stay looking so pristine, if you have to live in this little box?”

“It’s a question of military precision”, In inform her. “Rule number one: you never wear your uniform inside the pod. It has a built-in clothes-creaser”.

I wiggle out of my jacket and hang it on a hanger in a tiny locker at the end of the bunks.

“Uh-huh” she says, seriously, looking at me intently.

“Second, you always wear pull-ups instead of tights, for quick comfort breaks”

I unzip my skirt, slide it off and hang it carefully. This causes a little surprised squeak from Lucy.

“I see”. She is smiling now and looking at my legs.

“Third, you always have a spare shirt”

I remove my clip-on tie and unbutton my shirt, throwing it in a ball in the corner.

“Ah yes, essential” she nods, trying not to stare at my tits.

“Fourth, you always wear white underwear and black stockings”

This was self-evident by now.

I am wearing just my bra – smooth and white, to disappear under the uniform, my white boy-short panties, my pull-ups and my hat. There is a moment of silence, Lucy is staring at me.

“So tell me”, I ask, “how do YOU stay so perfect and alert on air the whole time?”

“Oh well, it’s quite simple” she replies. “Just a few rules”.

“First, always have a happy thought in the back of your mind. Do happy things” she says, looking me up and down with a smile.

“Second, be reckless.” she jumps out of my bunk, reaches for a hanger in the locker and carefully takes off her shirt and trousers, hanging them neatly. “Besides, it would’t do for me to go back all rumpled by your clothes crumpler, would it? National security and all that”. She taps her nose, standing next to me in her underwear.

“Thirdly, always obey orders from soldiers” she adds.

“I’m in the Air Force”, I tell her.

“Ah yes of course. Quite right, Squadron Leader. Never say no to an air, er, person” she corrects herself saluting. “Especially not an armed air, um, whatever. Are you armed?”

“We check our guns at the door” I tell her. “So technically, as of right now, no. But it’s only a matter of time”.

“In that case I shall so what I’m told.” she tells me.

“Very wise”, I tell her.

I look at her with detached interest. I had never really paid much attention to how she looked, other than her precise black bob haircut, like something out of the 1920s, her mischievous, smiley eyes and her precisely applied red lipstick, all of which was attractive and the opposite of the bitch-from-hell power persona carefully cultivated by other White House correspondents.

Now the hair and the eyes and the lipstick are standing in front of me wearing a black vest, lacy and see through. No bra. Her boobs seem bigger and perkier then I imagined. Well, than I would have imagined if I had ever given them any thought. Her panties match her bra, and she has hold-up stockings underneath.

“I see you have already followed my orders regarding underwear”, I say, and she glances at her stockings and looks back, giving me another salute.

I am beginning to feel the stirrings of something within me. Must be the plane psychosis, because women aren’t my thing. Not any more.

On the other hand, I am probably breaking about a dozen rules, facing a potential court-martial for something or other, and a gossipy, posh Brit who I hardly know is getting undressed in front of me. I am not exactly in full dress uniform myself. Something about the situation starts to feel a little bit exciting, but I’m not sure it’s in a good way.

“Back in the pod”, I bark. She clambers back up and I vault in behind her, pulling the curtain.

“So… Karen”, says Lucy, looking me in the eye, suddenly serious, a journalist again. “We’re on Air Force One”. I nod. “The most secure and exclusive aeroplane in the world. We’re in flight, the president is on board. The media are above us.” I keep nodding.

“We’re in a secret area on the lower deck of the plane, surrounded by probably top secret equipment and weapons” I frown. Can’t talk about that stuff.

“The nuclear button is right here on the plane, and we are surrounded by armed guards and warplanes”. It is all true.

“We’re sitting here half naked, and if we were caught we would be subject to ridicule, sacking and court martial”. Oh dear. Right again. “We can stay flying for weeks at a time if we need to, and some people live on the plane for days or weeks if they need to.” Yes, all right.

“And you’re telling me there is no scandal on this aeroplane?”

“No, really, everyone is always very professional” I protest.

“As I see”, she replies, staring at my boobs and then up and down my body, with a grin on her face.

“You have never walked in on the First Lady attending to the President’s physical and emotional need for a blow-job?” she demands

“Never popped your head round the cockpit door and asked the Captain to show you his instrument?”

I am laughing now, and shaking my head, denying it all.

“I shall resist the temptation to enquire about Secret Service men and their impressive weaponry. Nor shall I ask you about White House staff and their extensive West Wings. And I’m not even going to start on the hacks, who are implanted with a misbehaviour gene when they become journalists.”

“As I see”, I said, eyeing her up just as she had just done to me. “Does the misbehaviour gene come along with the sharp haircut gene and the perfect tits gene?”

“Actually journalists are notorious for having awful tits”, she replies. “I have to keep mine hidden to avoid being drummed out of the corps of hacks.” Before I could make the obvious response she carried on. “But that’s all beside the point. The point is this. You’re really trying to tell me there’s no scandal in the midst of all that?”

“None whatsoever. I would know. I know everything that goes on”.

“Well then Major Squadron-Leader nearly-naked Karen. It’s too good to resist. This plane needs more scandal.”

I haven’t had a thing to drink in weeks, but I feel a little, joyfully, recklessly drunk. I also feel something I haven’t felt for years too, a powerful attraction for this funny naughty woman in front of me. I don’t have to wait long to find out what scandal she has in mind,

She reaches down and whips off her vest. Her breasts are indeed rather lovely, larger than mine and beautifully shaped, perky and with large puffy nipples. I reach out and touch one, enjoying its soft weight in my hand. Old feelings are being stirred inside me.

She watches me touching her, fascinated, then looks at me with an eyebrow raised. I feel strangely shy, almost boyish compared to her voluptuousness. But she reaches over and unclips my bra, hardly needed anyway, and immediately grabs both my boobs.

“Wow”, she says. “This is kind of amazing”. She doesn’t say why. “Can I kiss them?” Just hearing the question makes my nipples start to harden, and she doesn’t wait for an answer, kissing and then nibbling and sucking first one and then the other, her hands wandering as she does. Something she did has re-wired my nipples to my pussy and I was feeling electric twinges down there whenever she nibbled, getting wetter by the moment.

“You have fabulous tits”, she looks up and informs me. “I would never have guessed…”

I take the opportunity to take charge again, pushing her back on her elbows and helping her out of her panties. She lifts her bum and I slide them down, then gaze up at her flat stomach and trimmed little bush, looking coy between her legs.

She sits up and looks at me seriously.

“This is proper scandal”, she says. “I have never done anything like this before. Not on a plane. Not with a stranger. Not with a woman. It’s fucking incredible.”

I smile and lean in to kiss her. I am long past the point of worrying about what could happen; it can’t be worse than it already is if anyone finds out. She kisses me back and I know the old urges are there as strong as ever. I feel drunker than ever, and my pussy is demanding attention. She kisses me harder, her tongue flicking in and out of my mouth, and pushes me onto my back on the bed.

Her hands are back on my tits, squeezing, then pinching my nipples, and then they are everywhere, fluttering lightly across my belly and then under my head, pulling me into her kiss, then running down my back and down to my ass, and inside my panties, then back out and down the outside of my leg and up the inside and then back on my tits. Up and around again.

She is next to me, and I can reach round and touch her beautiful, firm ass, but she keeps her pussy out of reach. Lucy is teasing me. Her hand never stops moving, she never stops kissing me. That amazing kiss, her hands, her ass and beautiful tits which are brushing against me; they have my hyponotised. The pod, the plane, the madness have all evaporated and there is nothing but Lucy and the incredible sensations I am feeling, drifting dangerously close to ecstacy.

It is incredibly horny and frustrating as hell. Her hand comes near my pussy, and as I arch upwards to meet it, darts away. Mine creeps closer to hers, and she wriggles away. Every time she gets a little closer, my pussy gets a little wetter, I just get more and more turned on. I want her to stop teasing, and I never want it to stop.

She stops. Looks at me intensely, with a slight look of panic in her eyes. I feel a stab of fear.

“Karen. This is serious. I have never done this before, this is absolutely not me. This is a secret, OK? An official secret. It’s classified. Nobody can ever know.”

I nod. I keep secrets for a living, after all. She lets her stare linger, as if checking for any hint of uncertainty.

“Yes! Jesus fuck! It’s a fucking secret, of course it is. Now can you please continue”, a almost shout, exasperated.

She pauses, then, a moment after I think I can’t bear it any more, she smiles and dips her head back down, kissing me harder and deeper than before. Her hand continues its wandering and finally dips inside my panties, finding my wet slit, then my even wetter hole, then plunging inside, one finger, then two, then three. I gasp, then suppress a scream as her thumb finds my clit. I feel my orgasm beginning and she must feel it too because it’s too soon and she slows the pace.

I take my opportunity and finally reach around, teasing her slit and feeling its wetness, letting the tip of my finger probe gently inside. My hand is on her breast, we’re still kissing. Whatever was going to happen is definitely going to happen now.

“Is this really your first time with a chick?” I ask

“Yes!” she says, sounding shocked. “Is it not yours?”

“First time for a long time” I say.

“I’ve always been curious, um, you know… I guess it’s OK?” she asks.

I’m not sure what she’s talking about, but I am also guessing it’s OK. She shuffles her bum and leans over me, yanking my panties down my legs and then spreading them. She leans over, between my legs, and hovers close to my pussy lips, breathing on them and then tentatively brushing her tongue along them and then eventually her tongue inside where her fingers had been and greedily kissing my hole.

“Tastes amazing”, she gasps when she comes up for air. “Who’d have thought” and then plunges back in. Her tongue finds my clit and does what, I guess, comes naturally to anyone who has ever been on the receiving end.

I grab her leg next to me and swing it over my head, so she is straddling me, 69-style. I pull her pussy down to meet my mouth and I start teaching her the way I like things done by doing it to her. I lick up and down her lips, letting my tongue plunge in and out of her hole, tongue-fucking her.

She starts to do the same to me, so after a short while I move on to the next lesson. This time I let my tongue move along and find her clit. It’s tiny, hiding away, and I feel like I am probing her innermost secret.

She gasps when my tongue flicks it, and I start to play my favourite game, pressing it hard with my tongue before licking gently around and across it, then up and down, flicking it faster and faster.

I push my index finger slowly inside her and then let it move in and out, rhythmically, in time with my tongue, probing and feeling for her G spot.

She has started copying me again, and as I get lost in the rhythm of my own movements she falls into the same pace, and for a few minutes we’re as one, a single pulsating orgasm machine. The two of us exist for only one reason.

I can feel her orgasm approach. Her pussy clenches around my finger, her back arches, then she grinds against me and I can feel the uncontrollable pulsing energy about to explode. She is panting, and still licking, and thrashing around and then she is released and she screams and bucks as a huge orgasm tears through her and reverberates, aftershocks coming back again and again.

I am close too, and I let my hands take over from her mouth, wanking myself and pinching my nipples until, as her orgasm subsides, she pushes my hand away and her tongue starts its magic again.

It only takes seconds to come, a warm and gushing wave up and down my body and she licks until I have to make her stop. Then she turns around and lies on top of me, those beautiful boobs squashed against me and her face next to mine, an exhausted embrace.

Eventually we have to peel apart. Even after that it’s a while before either of us can speak.

“Jesus”, says Lucy.

“Fuck”, I reply. And we both start laughing.

It has been nearly an hour since we came down. There’s no way we can have avoided being noticed.

“I should go”, she says, and climbs down from the pod to start getting dressed. I stay put, I’m off duty.

I watch her transform back into the immaculate Brit. She emerges from the bathroom completely unruffled.

“See”, I say. “You should thank me for showing you how I keep my uniform so perfect”.

“Thank you”, she smiles. “I always enjoy practical demonstrations of useful techniques. Did I get to my fourth rule, by the way?”

“No”.

“Fourth. Always take a souvenir”. Before I notice, she has snapped me with her cameraphone. I am completely naked, reclining post-orgasmically in my pod.

“It’s an official secret, remember? Classified.” I remind her.

“Quite right”, she replies, then reaches in and grabs my panties. “These are the souvenir”.

And she vanishes. I hear the lift whine as it brings her back up to Club Presidente. Four hours later, when I go up to take my seat for landing back at Edwards, I pass her seat and she is sitting there, typing on her laptop, looking her usual self. She smiles and salutes as I walk past. Nobody seems to notice.

Back upstairs, my boss starts giving me the usual pre-landing briefing. If anyone on the plane knew what had happened, it would be him. He doesn’t say a word. It is easy to wonder if it really happened at all.

But I reach into my pocket. I can feel my own lacy souvenir inside and I know it was real.

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