This is the first part of a seven chapter story. I have never been an air stewardess, but if I had this is how I wish it had been. The story is set in the early 1970s; I wasn’t born till 1971, but I have always loved the fashions and hairstyles of that era. Any resemblance to real persons or places is purely coincidental.
copyright: Lesley Tara, 2009
It is a cliche that a significant proportion of male airline cabin crew are gay, but it is less well-known that this is true of the female stewardesses as well. This was all the more the case back in the 1960s and 1970s, when repression elsewhere combined with the racy ‘jet set’ lifestyle of the aircrews to make it an especially attractive career for homosexuals. The result was an international melting-pot of lesbian activity, ignored by the authorities and police.
I already knew that I was a lesbian before I got my first job as an air stewardess, aged eighteen and a half, in June 1970. However, I had very little sexual experience – even in the so-called ‘free love’ liberated days of the late 1960s, finding same-sex partners in a small provincial town was very difficult, even possibly dangerous. By the time I was sixteen, I had realised that boys’ bodies didn’t interest or excite me, but girls’ ones did. Whenever I was watching a TV drama or a movie, I would always be fantasising about the beautiful leading woman actress, and imagining myself in her arms for the embrace in the final scene. I made very careful and tentative overtures to a few of my friends, all on the supposed basis of curiosity (such as, ‘I wonder what it feels like from the boy’s point of view’), but only one girl made moves back in response. Jenny and I had few opportunities, but we managed some kissing sessions and, two or three times when her parents were away and I had a sleepover at her house, we undressed each other, kissed and played with our breasts, and lay naked together on her bed, rubbing our pussies against each other – we really didn’t know what else to do. But then her father changed jobs and they moved to a town about 150 miles away; it was too far for visiting at our ages, and we lost touch.
When I was seventeen, I had a brief affair with a student teacher who was training for a term at our school – how she realised that I was available (gagging for it, in fact) and why she took what was a big risk, I’ve never been sure, but my attractiveness must have played a large part in it. I was quite tall, five foot nine inches, and both slim and curvy. I have striking Nordic looks, maybe thanks to some long-ago Viking ancestor: high cheekbones, clear blue eyes, and long straight blonde hair which I usually kept out of the way in a pony-tail. All in all, whilst I might not get stopped in the street and offered modelling contracts, I garnered plenty of second glances and wolf-whistles. My open face looked sweetly pretty and innocent, whilst the curves of my tits, waist and ass suggested quite different possibilities. The student’s name was Sharon, and she was aged twenty-two – whilst she wasn’t outstanding, she had nice looks and a neat body, and she was still young, fresh and eager. Her seduction method was fairly crude: she invited me to call at her flat on a Sunday afternoon for ‘tuition’ on a project I was working on, and when I arrived she took one look at how I was dressed (I’d chosen with care: tight pink velvet ‘hot pants’ and a skimpy cheesecloth halter-neck that tied under my breasts – and no bra), and she almost dragged me into the bedroom, slipping her hands inside the skimpy top to squeeze my erect nipples. We made love for a long time that afternoon, with all pretence that I was there for any other purpose completely abandoned. During the rest of the term, I was able to visit her one evening in the week and every Sunday. On the third visit, I begged her to take my virginity, which she did with loving gentleness and a purple plastic vibrator. It hurt for a moment and was tender for the rest of that day, but by the following weekend I was ready for the strap-on, and discovered my favourite position: on my hands and knees, getting doggy-fucked from behind with a strap-on, having my breasts squeezed and then my head pulled back by my pony-tail as I came.
So I had only really had one lover, just for nine weeks, when I left school and began applying for jobs. For years, it had been my ambition to be an air stewardess – my family had taken a few holidays by air, and the sight of the women in their smart but sexy uniforms kept me squirming in my seat for the whole journey, and occupied my masturbatory fantasies for long afterwards. In those days – the end of the 1960s – it was still a glamorous job, as foreign travel was a rare opportunity for most people. Stewardesses were respected and quite well paid, especially compared to other jobs open to school-leaving girls. I didn’t want to be a nurse, and certainly not a teacher, librarian or a secretary – which was about it for the alternatives. So I studied hard to get good grades in my ‘A levels’, and to find out what you needed to know to be selected. I knew that looks were a large part of it, but that you had to have personality and the right attitude; being blonde would help, but not if I seemed like a fluff-head. I applied to several of the large airlines, and got to an interview stage with three – and then, to my great joy, was offered a place in the aircrew training programme of one of the largest companies. I won’t say which one, but it flew short-haul to many European destinations and longer distance to all the other continents, including about ten major cities of the USA.
If I passed through the training course successfully, they would give me a job. I was determined to look my best and do my best, and my enthusiasm and commitment must have shown through. The training centre was on the edge of London, with a large Victorian manor house that was used for the offices and accommodation, and a modern flat-roofed building next to it which contained the training area. There was a complete section of the fuselage of a plane, about thirty rows of seats plus the crew areas and galley, and also some rooms with smaller mock-ups, such as just a few rows of seats on one side only. These were used for early training, so everyone in our group could stand around and see the instructor, and also during the final test. I was quite nervous when this finally came, but the first parts in the big fuselage section seemed to have gone well, and I was more confident as I entered one of the small rooms for the last part of the test.
This was done individually, so there was just me and the two instructors who were examining this part. I was wearing the trainee version of the company’s stewardess uniform, which varied from the actual only in having less adornment and, it seemed to me, being even shorter in the skirt length. The current uniform was a short tight skirt in dark red, with a vent at the back, and it came with matching dark red boots – though for practicality they had no more of a heel than any sensible working shoe. There was a white blouse with a red and white necker, and a light blazer in the same burgundy colour, but edged with white and with a white lip to the pockets; finally, there was a small cap in similar pattern. My two examiners were striking women, experienced air crew, tall and slim, with trim figures and stylish make-up. The one who looked in her early 30s had brown hair streaked with blonde, cut at collar length; the other, who looked a little older, had black hair wound up and pinned with a hair clip. They were also in uniform, but with the shoulder bars and sleeve stripes of senior crew supervisors. The attitude was professional but friendly, brisk but not without warmth. I correctly answered a series of questions on safety procedures and the layout of different types of aircraft that the company flew, and also about the routes and destinations.
This took the first ten minutes of the forty-five minute exam, and then came the first practical exercise. The room had five rows of seats which were set up as one side of an aircraft’s central corridor – the size of the corridor and position of the seats on its other side being marked by white lines on the floor. The younger instructor sat in the aisle seat in one of the rows, and then beckoned me to her. I approached down the imaginary corridor, and stopped just in front of her seat, bending forwards so that I would not have to speak at a volume which in a real flight would be intrusive to other passengers. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, ‘can I help you?’ She looked at me speculatively for a few seconds and then, as if coming to a decision, she asked: ‘How would you handle it if a passenger did ... this?’
I nearly jumped, for ‘this’ consisted of her hand going up between my legs like a homing missile, under my skirt to grip the front of my panties between her thumb and index finger. I was too surprised by this sudden assault to do anything for a few seconds, and then I replied: ‘If it was a man, I would firmly remove his hand and – without making a scene of it – say that doesn’t come included in the ticket.’ But I made no move to remove her hand, which was now tracing up and down the slit of my vagina, pushing the thin material of my cotton panties into its increasing wetness. She immediately picked up on the qualification in my answer, and asked: ‘And if it was a woman ... let’s say, an attractive woman?’ I decided to chance it, although with her insistent fondling of my pussy there was really little risk, and I bent further down and whispered in her ear; ‘Ma’am, would you be interested in seeing some of the more private parts of the plane?’ The instructor gave a throaty laugh, and at the same moment with a dextrous twist of her wrist slipped her hand inside the gusset of my panties and probed right into my labia, feeling the openness and wetness. She looked past me to her colleague, who had been watching the by-play silently but attentively, and said: ‘OK, Andrea, she’s in.’
Andrea smiled and nodded, put down her clipboard and took off her glasses, and walked to the door of the room and locked it. Then she strode up behind me, slipped her hands under my armpits to grasp my breasts, and kissed me firmly on the side of the neck. I moaned under this dual assault, and the first woman – I later found out her name was Ruth – removed her hand from my cunt to undo the uniform skirt. It dropped from my hips to the floor and I stepped out of it, kicking it away behind me. Andrea released my breasts to take the blazer from my shoulders, and then she unbuttoned my blouse from behind, removing it and my hat, but leaving the uniform necker. She then unclipped my bra, and that went as well. Next, the two women moved me away from the rows of seats and into a side room which had previously always been closed and locked. It turned out to contain a large mattress on the floor, and I was eased down to this, on my back. With a swift motion, Ruth pulled my panties down my legs and off, and now all that remained of my clothes were the dark red boots and the uniform neckerchief.
At first, the two instructors remained fully clothed. They knelt on either side of me, and each took a breast in one hand whilst sliding her other along my upper thigh to caress my opening. Ruth asked if I was a virgin, and when I shook my head she smiled, and said: ‘That’s good, honey, we can have some real fun.’ They took it in turns to slip their fingers in and out of me, pushing deeper and harder, and my back arched as I felt a climax building. But they were expert girl-fuckers, and paused short of my orgasm. I needed no encouragement to undress them, kissing their lips and then, when I had uncovered them, their breasts and finally licking at their cunts. They positioned me as meat in the sandwich: Ruth lay back with legs apart as I munched on her pussy, whilst Andrea knelt behind my upthrust buttocks, fingering my vagina. She was good at timing, bringing me to orgasm at almost the same second that Ruth gasped and jerked under my oral onslaught, juddering and releasing a flow of her juices onto my tongue. Ruth rolled aside, and Andrea flipped me over to lie where she had been, on my back. The older instructor then straddled me in the 69 position, and we thrust our tongues into each other’s vaginas, searching for the nugget of gold that was the clitoris. Not surprisingly, the adept Andrea found mine first and began to both lick and nibble it, sending waves of arousal radiating through my body. Almost desperately, I pushed my tongue further into her moist crack, and was at last rewarded by finding my quarry. I returned her favours, and within a few moments her pelvis was heaving, and – muffled by the blanket of my pussy – her moans were converted into a series of barking shrieks of ascending intensity.
After Andrea’s orgasm, she stepped off me, leaving me sprawled on the mattress, my face sticky with her cum and my pussy dripping with my own. Slightly dazed, I saw the instructors open a filing cabinet in the corner of the room, and from the drawer remove two strap-on cocks. They stepped into them and buckled them up with practiced ease, and stood over my prone over-stimulated body. I was a bit frightened, for although I had had that brief experience with the student teacher’s strap-on, that was it – and these two items looked monsters compared to hers. They were knobbed and ridged, and had a wicked curve near the tip – they were also very long. I started to give a protesting whimper, that I would never be able to take those, but they paid no attention to me. Ruth positioned herself in Andrea’s former place, lowering her cunt to straddle my face, and I willingly applied my tongue to the opening at the base of the strap-on, where I could see and smell her puckering slit. However, instead of going down into the usual 69 position, she remained upright. This gave ample room for Andrea to kneel between my legs and impale my cunt on her strap-on with one fluid forward thrust. She took a firm grip behind my upper thighs, and began slamming the dildo in and out with sharp thrusts of her hips. Whilst she was doing this, her colleague reached for her breasts and began to fondle and squeeze them – which had the effect of shifting Andrea up a gear in her fucking of my cervix. Not to be outdone, I found occupation for my hands by reaching upwards to find Ruth’s tits and perform the same service on them. For a few moments there was the mingled sounds of my tongue slurping on pussy and the wet slaps of the faceplate of the strap-on impacting on my sweaty moist Venus mound. Then, almost simultaneously, all three of us shuddered into a mounting wave of orgasms, with a variety of yelps, moans and cries. The two instructors finished by French kissing each other, and then they slid off my body and raised me upwards, each of them kissing me deeply in turn.
Amazingly, there was still nearly fifteen minutes of my exam time left, before the next candidate was due. Ruth guided me through another side door, where I found a small bathroom. I took a quick shower, towelled my hair dry, and slipped back into my uniform. Returning to the main room, I was greeted with smiles from the two sexy experienced lesbians. ‘You’ve passed, of course’, said Andrea with a grin, ‘you’re just what we are looking for’, at which her colleague chuckled. They told me that quite a lot of the female aircrew were lesbians, and gave me two valuable pieces of inside information. The first was that if you wanted to find out if another stewardess was open for a fuck, the thing to do was to work the conversation around to the routes she had flown on, and ask ‘Have you ever done the Colombo run?’ I looked puzzled, and Ruth explained that the airline had never flown to that city, and due to a route-sharing agreement with the Ceylonese national carrier, it never would. So it was an effective code: a heterosexual woman would naturally reply no, she hadn’t, whilst a gay woman would say something about how much she had enjoyed it, etc. The other thing they told me about was the ‘Pink List’, which they said they would ensure I was put on. This was a completely unofficial and secret list kept by some gay staff in the personnel crew-assignment office, who did their best to put together all-gay crews if they could (and, of course, all-hetero crews for the majority – partly to avoid frictions, and with the result that the straight crew never realised how many of their colleagues swung the other way). So, for much of my career, the cabin crew that I flew with – male and female – were all same-sex lovers, and we all knew it, which gave us an easy camaraderie in flight and a lot of freedom during rest periods and over-night stopovers. The gay and lesbian cabin crews made sure to reward the office staff by inviting them to their periodic parties – although orgies would be a more accurate deion of them.
Other chapters to follow later ...
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