Crash Diet

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

It had taken another two weeks for the dust to settle and the girls had bummed around Miami before they heard that Sandro had found a pilot to ferry the plane back to Cracker-Jax Key. They had spent all their money and it was good to be going home to the Casino where they lived in Building “B” –the Barracks, as they called it, and the meals served up in the dining room were free for employees.

Alex was glad to be heading back to the island as well, though home for her was Virginia. She loved work, loved schedules, loved routine. And after two weeks of pretending to be young and single on Miami Beach, it was good to be back in harness.

Alex was required to take the liquor inventor on every trip. The notion of the Bikini-Bus running dry was unthinkable. When the interior of the plane had been renovated, a large wet bar had been added at the back of the passenger compartment and that’s where Alex was headed. She took a moment to check her hair in the mirror, she adjusted the strapless top she wore about her modest breasts and pulled the crotch of the bikini from her bottom where it had ridden uncomfortably high.

She moved along the center aisle on four inch heels, dodging sleek elegant bodies as she went. Alex was pressing herself between an arm rest and the bottom of a girl who was bent over serving a gin and tonic when she felt the pat on her behind. It started out friendly enough, but the hand lingered a moment too long. Alex turned and smiled into the balding man’s face. “You must like older women...” she chided him. He smiled back happily and Alex ignored the extra squeeze and curling fingertips. It happened at least once every trip.

Someone noticed the indiscretion and gleefully yelled, “Show us your tits.”

The flight-attendant straightened, and turning, she threw her arms around Alex and snuggled close. The men started hollering like adolescent sixteen-year-olds.

The girl rolled her scantily clad hips seductively against the front of Alex’s bikini. “I will if you will,” she said to Alex, loud enough for the men to hear.

There was another howl from the men. Alex broke away. “Oh no you don’t,” she scolded playfully. “I’ve got work to do. Go play with someone your own age.” The men groaned. The girls were hot but Alex, being older, was special.

The girl extended her lip in a coyish pout and went off to find another playmate. Alex got out her inventory sheet and started counting the unopened bottles locked in the cupboards. She was bent over behind the counter when she spotted Irene Ross moving along the center aisle. Irene was hesitant and watched the girls for a moment; looking oddly out of place in her navy skirt, shirt and tie. Then as she was turning to go, Irene moved close to where Carlos Sandro was seated. Alex watched them exchange words and without warning, Irene crumbled, going weak and grasping for the headrest of the empty seat in front as if to stop from falling.

Alex knew instinctively she was watching something not meant for her eyes and stayed low down behind the counter top. Irene Ross had definitely gone very pale and seemed shaken. Her eyes were glassy and she focused on the girls larking with the men. But Alex saw the shift in Irene’s stance and was very aware of what was about to happen. And it sickened her. Irene’s skirt was abruptly lifted to mid-thigh and behind, between Irene’s opened legs, Alex saw Sandro’s arm jerk. Irene lurched forward and doubled her grip on the headrest. Sandro started laughing, his hand digging and Irene staunchly taking it.

Alex well remembered Sandro’s hands on her own body. It had been at her job interview. She along with five other hopeful candidates were crowded into Sandro’s office but it had quickly become apparent that he had singled her out for the job as head stew. Sandro asked her to stand and hold back her jacket so he could assess her figure. From an early age, Alex had stopped wearing a bra. Her breasts were smallish and certainly firm enough to support themselves so she found a bra unnecessary, restricting and somewhat uncomfortable. She usually didn’t bother, particularly on a day when she would be wearing a suit jacket.

Trembling with trepidation, she had stood as instructed and in front of the other women, had opened the front of her jacket. The blouse was white and sheer. The heat came up into her neck when Sandro laughed at the sight of her prominent n*****s straining beneath the fabric. It was clear, she really wanted the job.

He got up from his desk and backed her into the wall. Alex had looked over his shoulder at the other women, pleading with her eyes to make him stop. But the women watched with vacant expressions, like dumb animals, as he rubbed his erection against her leg.

“No,” she whimpered when she realized his c**k was out and his hands were coming up under her blouse. Pinned against the wall, she had endured the humiliation until finally, to bring it to an end, she had reached down and held his p***s in her hand.

In front of the other women, he had dry humped her; then left her, withering against a filing cabinet, globs of his semen clinging to the front of her woolen skirt. With looks of disgust, the others had packed up their things and filed out of the room. Who could compete with that? God, who would want to?

After Sandro finally released Irene, Alex watched her slump towards the service area, adjusting the back of her skirt as she went.

What was that about, Alex wondered? Irene Ross was obviously a proud woman but had opened herself for Sandro. He had groped her and it was clear Irene had not enjoyed the encounter. But she had made no effort to stop him. Sandro was holding something over Irene; had to be. But what? Whatever it was, it had to be bad, or why else would Irene let a scumbag like Sandro cop a feel in front of the passengers?

Alex looked down at her inventory sheet and realized she had lost her place.

Irene would not usually make a tour of the passenger cabin in-flight. It was the exclusive domain of the head flight-attendant and as pilot, Irene shouldn’t intrude. So under normal circumstances, Irene would wait until the plane was on the ground before chatting with the passengers as they disembarked. But today, curiosity got the best of her and she decided on a quick look around.

When Irene departed the flight-deck and sighted down the center aisle of the passenger compartment all she saw were a hatch-work of naked legs. Eight pairs. Some were scissoring along between the seats, others, with knees crossed, were swinging playfully with high heels dangling from toes; their owners, with high round tushies parked on arm rests, were chatting gaily, their chins up, expressions bright and animated. The men, she noticed, were free and easy with their hands and the girls didn’t seem to mind; were very tolerant, in fact.

The flight-crew was undeniably breathtaking in their assorted swimwear. The bikinis were fashionable, colorful and revealed copious amounts of tempting flesh. It looked like a cattle call for Victoria Secret.

There were only a couple of dozen passengers, which was understandable, considering the unexpected departure that morning. They were mostly business men with a few seductively dressed women scattered about; women with hooded eyes and roving hands. Two of the bikini-girls were kept busy ferrying complementary drinks back and forth from the wet bar. In the DC-9’s tight aisle, they squirmed by each other, breast to breast or pubis to bum, much to the delight of the men who watched and fantasized. The girls smiled gaily, in complete knowledge of the effect they were having on the male passengers, and enjoying the attention.

Irene paused. Did she really want to follow that act? In her shirt and tie?

She thought better of it and was turning to leave when she saw Carlos Sandro lean out and beckon her closer. He was sitting in an aisle seat off by himself and sucking back scotch like a toilet bowl sucks water. He was pale, sweating profusely, and when she got close, Irene could see his hand tremble as he rattled the glass against his teeth. The man was clearly, deathly afraid of flying.

“Enjoy the take off?” Irene inquired. “Nice and smooth.” She stood beside his seat.

“Yeah, congratulations.” He gulped a mouthful of scotch “Now just get us the hell back down again, honey.”

Irene tried not to gloat. “Not quite yet, please. We’re forty-thousand feet above the water. Take a look out the window.”

At the thought of looking out the window, Sandro paled. “No thanks, I’ll stay put if you don’t mind.”

Irene noticed he hadn’t taken off his seat-belt. “This is quite a party,” Irene looked about the cabin. “You not joining in?”

“I’ll make my own party. Thanks.” And Irene felt a jolt along her spine as the fingers of his free hand stroked the back of her knee.

She was sickened but didn’t pull away. Apparently the job interview wasn’t over. “You’ll be happy to know we are right on schedule, Mr. Sandro. We’ll land shortly before eleven o’clock. You’ll get to enjoy that lunch on the beach.”

He was stroking her leg, higher along the inside of her thigh and forcing the back of her skirt up. She placed a hand against the headrest in front and leaned closer. Not to be nearer to him but to shield the fact that he was feeling her up from anyone who might glance in their direction.

“Open your legs for me.”

“Please,” Irene said weakly. “Not in front of the passengers.”

Sandro was unsympathetic. “Go on. Open your legs,” he repeated, his words silky smooth.

Irene swallowed hard and looked toward the back of the plane where her crew entertained the men. No one seemed to have noticed her interaction with Sandro. She moved her left high heel over.

“Further,” Sandro whispered.

Irene widened her stance, then bucked at the waist as his hand came up. He grabbed her by the crotch, squeezed and dug a finger in. Her pantyhose saved her from being invaded but that didn’t quell the shock and disgust that rose in her chest.

“Nice,” Sandro chuckled and pulled his hand free.

Flushed and humiliated, Irene limped back along the aisle toward the service area. She hurried toward the head, hoping to avoid vomiting up her coffee.

As Irene sat on the lid of the john, holding a wet towel to her forehead, she felt the gentle slide and the sound of the engines humming. The plane yawed to the left and started to descend. There was the sound of air buffeting the plane.

Irene disposed of the wet towel, checked her appearance in the mirror then, fighting nausea, she slipped out of the head compartment and made her way forward. “We starting our descent?” She dropped into the left-hand seat and adjusted her head set around her ears. She looked over at Bev who was perched on the very edge of her seat so she could see. She looked like a kid riding a Tonka Toy.

“Should sight the island in twenty minutes.” Bev confirmed. “You okay? You look a little shaky.”

“Touch of morning sickness. It’ll pass.”

Bev’s head came up. “You’re pregnant?”

Irene groaned. “I’m fifty-two years old. Get over yourself.”

“Geez,” and Bev checked the flight-computer. “You look pretty hot for fifty-two.”

There was the sound of the flaps extending and the engines went quiet. “Look. As soon as we get lower, I want you to do a pass over the landing strip. I need to get a sense of it. After, circle around and clear for landing. Got it?”

“s**t. You want me to actually fly the plane?”

“That’s what you get paid for.” Irene checked the nav-computer. The beacon for Cracker-Jax Key was cued up at the top of the screen and highlighted.