Peanuts
“Peanuts,” muttered Melinda, “everyone wants more peanuts.”
This unusual remark was made as the comely young stewardess pushed her heavy beverage cart down the central aisle of the Boeing 737. The plane had made a lengthy detour around bad weather and the passengers were uniformly cranky and hungry. The complimentary packets that each contained nine sugary peanuts did little to assuage the problem.
Melinda had a “peanuts” issue of her own. Her college loans and house payments had been overwhelming to her in the last several months; she had been forced to borrow money from her parents and ate mostly macaroni. To make matters worse the union had recently bowed to economic reality and had given the airline permission to cut employee pay in order to minimize a round of unavoidable lay-offs. Melinda was stuck in a hole that she couldn’t afford to get out of and that seemed to get deeper the longer she waited.
“Miss!” a passenger cried, “Do you have any idea how much longer it will be?”
“Fucker,” Melinda thought, but managed to hold it in. “The captain has estimated that we will only be about 45 minutes late,” she said, smiling sweetly.
The man grumbled about connecting flights and irresponsible airlines, somehow managing to imply the Melinda was to blame. She pretended to ignore it and moved the next aisle, distributing packets of peanuts and asking for drink preferences.
“At least I can fit through the aisle,” she thought, making an effort to keep her spirits up. The other stewardess was a prosperous looking affair who had to turn sidewise to fit between seats and was constantly apologizing for bumping into people. Melinda, on the other hand, had room to spare on either side. She had, like everyone else, gained 15 pounds her freshman year of college but had lost all hint of it by the time she graduated. Her trim waist, ample chest, and blond hair had earned her a position on the cheer squad, which strongly encouraged its members to stay thin. She had graduated the year before and worked hard to stay in shape. Long runs somehow helped her feel free again after cramped hours on an airplane.
Now she found that it was a small comfort indeed, so she gritted her teeth and moved on to the next passenger.
“What can I get you to drink sir?”
Only two hours to go, she reminded herself. It felt like an eternity.
“Thanks for flying with us, have a nice night,” Melinda was saying. They had landed at last and she was doing her best to be polite as the tired people shuffled off her plane. Most tried to be civil and gave her a smile or a friendly comment. Some ignored her. A few were visibly angry, such as the one who had demanded to know how much longer it was going to be at least ten times. The younger men all gave her the once-over as they stepped off, most obviously thinking that they were being discrete. They failed in varying degrees, although the clear winner was the fifteen-year-old who tripped on his way out and knocked over the old woman in front of him.
Melinda leapt forward and sorted out the mess as quickly as possible so that the other passengers could get by. As she turned back to the plane a tall man in a dark coat and hat stepped out. He was a bit swarthy and hadn’t shaved in at least a day; black stubble evenly coated a strong jaw. Neat, dark hair framed a pair of steel-gray eyes. “Thank you, ma’am, for your patience. You are a saint.” He had a deep, rich voice that seemed to flow over her. One leather-clad hand held a slim, black briefcase. The other was offering her a business card. “If you ever want to… seek greener pastures, give me a call.”
“Thank you,” said Melinda automatically, returning his smile, “have a nice night.” She took the card, not knowing what else to do. He winked at her, tipped his hat, and walked up the ramp without looking back. Melinda slipped the card into a pocket.
“Thanks for flying with us, have a good night,” she said to the woman brushing past her.
“Anderson and Sanderson” the card declared in embossed, jet black lettering. Also, “Private Air Transport.” There was a phone number, almost as an afterthought, and nothing else. Melinda regarded it briefly as she boiled her macaroni that evening, then tossed it (the card, not the macaroni) into the garbage. It was not her habit to call numbers given to her by strange men on her flights, and she’d gotten more than a few from overly confident, or desperate, admirers.
Her decision that night was countermanded by the events the following day, and she found herself digging violently through the trash, searching through tear-blurred eyes.
“Laid off? I’ll give them laid off. How dare they?” But Melinda knew how they had dared. In spite of doing her job well and honestly she was among the most junior of the union members. So even though the fat unpleasant broad that she had shared her latest flight with was about half as effective, in spite of being about twice as much woman, Melinda was out of work while the other was protected by the union. Melinda had arrived home to find that the water company had shut off her service as a result of non-payment (“I swear I paid that bill!”) and the landlord was raising the rent in the upcoming year.
All of these factors funneled together caused Melinda to through caution to the winds.
“Anderson and Sanderson, how may I assist you?” A smooth, friendly female voice answered on the first ring. Surprised, Melinda looked at the clock. It was well past eight, and it was a local number. She hadn’t really expected a response.
“Ah, yeah. Hi, I uh, I got this card from…” Melinda paused, not really sure how to explain her situation. Fortunately the girl on the other end came to her aid.
“Oh! Are you a job applicant?”
“Um, yeah. Yes. I am,” Melinda regrouped herself, breathing deeply and trying to get her thoughts in order.
The conversation flowed smoothly from there, with Melinda explaining that she had experience as a stewardess and the receptionist taking down some preliminary information. In the end an interview was arranged for the following day. The company fortunately seemed to be based locally, which Melinda seemed surprised at initially, but the receptionist explained that recruitment was only done locally to expedite hiring. The company was apparently young and understaffed, which Melinda thought boded well for her chances.
Indeed, the interview went swimmingly. The tall, dark man who had given her the card turned out to be Mr. Anderson himself, and he asked only a few general questions before leaning back and gently directing the conversation to idle banter. Melinda would not have pegged him for a conversationalist, but within fifteen minutes she found herself explaining how her family lived two states over and that she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. About how she had moved here for a job at the local news station and had ended up as a stewardess when that had fallen through. She almost started crying again when she came to the bit about losing that job too, but Mr. Anderson deftly steered the conversation back to professional questions again, and a few minutes later offered her the job.
Melinda was overjoyed. The position had flexible hours and what would amount to a 30% pay raise from her previous job. When she had gasped at the money offered to her she got the ambiguous explanation that “we make up for high salaries in other ways.”
She was then shuffled out to see Mr. Sanderson.
Mr. Sanderson was a short, trim man with an abundance of energy. “How does an airline make money?” he demanded. “Simple! Two things: keep the customer happy so he comes back, and keep your weight down. All costs are negligible next to jet fuel! Once you’ve carted even a paper clip across the Atlantic a couple of times you can see it in your fuel bill if you look hard enough. Airlines don’t seem to get this simple fact. What’s the last thing that happens before a customer gets on the plane?” he demanded suddenly.
“What? Sorry…” Melinda was taken completely by surprise.
Mr. Sanderson paused a moment, eyeing her. “The ticket! You take their ticket before they get on the plane. Good Lord, I thought you worked for an airline!”
“I did,” protested Melinda, “I just didn’t understand…”
Mr. Sanderson cut her off, “And what do you do after you take their ticket?”
“Let them get on the plane?” Melinda ventured.
“No!” howled the excitable Mr. Sanderson, “You scan it and GIVE IT BACK TO THEM. Just think of all those thousands of pounds of tickets carried to and fro over the years. Think of all the barrels of jet fuel used to carry them.”
“So we don’t give them their tickets back?” asked Melinda timidly.
“Perdition! If you don’t give them their tickets how will they be able to find their seats?” Mr. Sanderson glared at her accusingly.
Melinda slouched in her seat, nonplussed.
“And stewardesses – we can’t forget them. Let’s say you gain ten pounds. Do you have any idea how much it would cost us to lug that ten extra pounds around the country?” Melinda briefly thought of the unfortunate woman on her last flight. “But no,” Sanderson went on, “we couldn’t DESCRIMINATE. That would be illegal. God forbid that we make sensible economic decisions in the best interests of ourselves and our clients. The government has to step in and make our decisions for us. Is that fair?”
Melinda sank lower into her seat as Sanderson went on for another twenty minutes about how new regulations limiting liquids taken onto planes were saving millions of dollars a year because people weren’t taking on water bottles and shampoo and toothpaste. And he spent a full ten minutes explaining how much money could be saved by getting beverage cans without pull tabs and instead having a simple, reusable device to open them. Every few sentences he would fire a question at Melinda, never giving her enough time to respond, unless it was clear that she didn’t know the answer. To Melinda it felt like standing on the wrong end of a firing range, but Sanderson was obviously enjoying himself, and went off on other weight-related topics for another ninety minutes.
By the time she finally made it out into the lobby Melinda felt utterly drained. The receptionist, who seemed to be the same girl Melinda had spoken to the night before, smiled sympathetically.
“I’m sorry about Mr. Sanderson; he sometimes gets carried away.” The receptionist (Ashley, according to the name tag pinned to her modest blouse, above a less than modest bust), without rising from behind the massive counter that hid most of her otherwise gorgeous form, grabbed a mug. “Coffee?” she asked, tossing back a silky auburn curl and filling the cup from a nearby urn without waiting for an answer.
“Umm, no thanks,” said Melinda, “it’s too late in the evening for me.”
“It’s decaf,” Ashley assured her, giving another winning smile and setting the mug on the counter without waiting for a reply. “Now, we just have a few quick forms, if you don’t mind.”
And so Melinda spent another forty-five minutes doing paperwork to promise the IRS that she would pay her taxes and to convince the INS that she wasn’t an illegal immigrant. Finally she signed the last form and breathed a great sigh. She was worn out, and she told Ashley so.
Ashley gave a sympathetic grimace, “I know, it’s a long day. We just have one last item.” She set a packet of papers on the counter. It wasn’t terribly thick, maybe ten pages, but to Melinda it looked insurmountable. Ashley saw the look on her face and laughed. “Don’t worry; it’s just the company policy. All you have to do is sign the last page that says you’ve read it.” She winked at the relieved Melinda and turned back to her own affairs.
Melinda quickly flipped to the last sheet and signed on the line below the statement that read, “I the undersigned attest that I agree to abide by all company policies at all times.” She signed it, tossed the pen down and gathered all the various papers together.
Ashley glanced up only briefly, apparently engrossed in her own work. “Great,” she said, “look, I’m really in the middle of something, could you do me a favor and drop it on Mr. Anderson’s desk? He should be gone by now so you can jet afterwards.”
Melinda acquiesced and headed toward Mr. Anderson’s office when Ashley called her back, “Don’t forget your coffee! It’s probably cold by now.” There was a hint of admonishment in her voice. Melinda held back a sigh, turned, picked up the mug and went into the office. She didn’t want any coffee, but she didn’t want to offend either.
To her consternation she found that Mr. Anderson was not gone for the day. He sat at his desk, assiduously reading a file. He glanced up as she entered and smiled inscrutably. “I see Ashley has foisted her coffee onto you. She brews it herself. She won’t let anyone work here who won’t drink her coffee.” He extended a hand for the papers she held, which she gratefully surrendered. He leafed through them, then turned to the last page of the company policy, which he regarded briefly. Then he turned those deep grey eyes to Melinda and said slowly, “you read all the company policies?”
Melinda thought her heart had stopped for a moment, but then she realized that just the opposite was true – it was going unbelievably fast. In an attempt to hide what must have been a ridiculous look on her face she took a gulp of coffee.
The coffee had indeed gone cold, but it still wasn’t bad. It had a rich, creamy flavor and a sort of nutty aftertaste. It didn’t really taste like coffee at all. In spite of being cold it made a warm splash in Melinda’s belly and rapidly began to spread to other parts of her body. She closed her eyes and savored the sensation. A moment later she remembered that she’d been asked a question, and pried her eyes partway open, but before she could rouse herself to respond she saw that Mr. Anderson was smiling benevolently.
“Never fear, my dear,” he said, “nobody ever reads it at first. It’s really best that you do though.” He walked over to his office copy machine and copied the page with her signature. He handed the packet to her and placed the copy on his desk. He regarded her for a moment, then said, “Read me the first two company policies.”
Melinda looked down at the page and read aloud, “Number one, obey all instructions given by superiors in the company. Number two, always tell the truth to company employees.” Her brow furrowed. “Those are a bit odd,” she remarked.
Mr. Anderson smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Just finish your coffee. And read the first and last lines again.” Melinda read again ‘obey all instructions given by superiors in the company,’ as she did she felt her face relax and her concern slip away. She flipped to the last page and read again, ‘I the undersigned attest that I agree to abide by all company policies at all times,’ followed by her signature. She drained her coffee in one long pull and stood for a long moment with her eyes closed, enjoying the warm feeling spreading through her.
Mr. Anderson laughed again, this time a bit coarsely. “You think that’s good? You should try it while it’s still hot. Go out and get a fresh cup, then come back here so we can chat a bit more.
Melinda reluctantly opened her eyes and left the office, returning a few minutes later with a fresh, steaming mug of coffee. She had been intending to ask how he knew her coffee had been cold, but her first sip blew that thought out of her mind. This coffee couldn’t possibly be the same stuff as before. It was almost flavorless, tasting more like green tea than anything, but the effect as it went down was electric. What she would have described as warmth before was now a raging heat. It quickly suffused up her body and into her breasts and brain, both of which felt as if they were on fire. What she felt there was nothing compared to what was going on in her vagina though. Her eyes flew open as she realized that she was getting wet.
“May I go sir? It’s been a long day and I need to get home.”
“Sure,” he said, “welcome to the company. Be sure to read the company policy tonight. Don’t worry about anything you find odd, just remember that you agreed to follow them all. Same goes for anything else around here. Don’t worry about things that seem unusual to you right now. It’ll all make sense later. Oh, and finish your drink.”
So Melinda gulped down the rest of her wonderful coffee and opened the door to go.
“Oh Melinda,” called Mr. Anderson, “one last little thing.” Melinda closed her eyes, praying for patience. If she had to wait much longer she was going to have a big wet spot on the front of her pants. “Read company policy number two again and then tell me the main reason you’re in a rush to get out of here.”
Melinda turned slowly, confused. She looked down at the forgotten paper clutched in her hand. ‘Always tell the truth to company employees,’ she read. She didn’t understand what was going on, but nonetheless she found herself answering quietly, “I’m really horny and need to go masturbate.”
Mr. Anderson looked at her severely. “At little louder if you please. And read company policy number eighteen before you rephrase.”
Melinda’s face was bright red, but the floating, glowing feeling from the coffee was still with her. She turned to policy eighteen. She had to read it twice. It was long and complicated, but the meaning was clear. A company couldn’t actually have a policy like that, could it?
She looked back up at her new boss and said loudly, “If you please sir, my cunt is sopping wet and I need to get off right now, so unless I can find someone to fuck me I’m going to run down the hall to the bathroom and frig myself blue.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Anderson, “you may go for the evening. Tell Ashley about your problem and do as she says from now on. I’m sure she’ll be able to help you.” He turned back to his work disinterestedly.
Melinda was unable to contain herself any longer. “Thank you sir,” she gasped, rubbing herself through her slacks as she stepped out into the lobby.
“Hi, Ashley. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but Mr. Anderson told me you could help me. My cunt is about to boil over and…”
Ashley cut her off. “Don’t worry, I get this problem all the time. Here, just sit in my chair and relax. Ashley stood and came around the counter. To Melinda’s astonishment (although it seemed that she couldn’t bring herself to worry about it) Ashley had complemented her modest white cotton blouse with a pair of six-inch silver heels and nothing else. Her hairless pussy was open and wet to the point that it was leaking down her thighs.
Ashley followed Melinda’s eyes downward and laughed. “I never bother wearing skirts in the office anymore; they just get soaked through in minutes, you know?”
Melinda couldn’t find words, but didn’t resist as Ashley pulled off Melinda’s sensible black flats, then helped her shuck off her pants and white cotton panties. As soon as clothes were out of the way Melinda’s hand went to work with a vengeance. Two fingers were eager pistons while her thumb feverishly rubbed her clit.
“Hold on a moment now,” said Ashley, guiding Melinda to the chair. To Melinda’s delight there was a large vibrator attached to the chair, slick with the slender secretary’s pussy juices.
When it sensed the pressure of Melinda’s enveloping cunt it began to vibrate wildly. Melinda sank to the haft and threw her head back, moaning and clutching at her tits. Ashley came around and began doing something with Melinda’s coffee mug.
“Come on dear, drink up,” coaxed Ashley, “it’s the third cup that really makes it all count.”
Melinda grabbed the cup, trying not to spill too much on herself as her back arched and her hips bucked automatically. She gulped it as fast as she could, barely registering its foul flavor and odor. Moments later she dropped the forgotten mug, spasming and crying out in the strongest orgasm she’d ever had.
“Ok, that’s enough,” Ashley said sharply, “it’s my turn again.”
Melinda rose unsteadily, reluctant but obedient and got out of the way. Ashley knelt down and lovingly cleaned the vibrator with her tongue, then lowered herself back onto it with appreciative noises.
After a moment of bliss Ashley was all smiles again. “Ok dear,” she said, gesturing at Melinda’s discarded clothing “just toss that shit in the trash on your way out and I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, and we have a short welcoming video you should watch tonight.” Melinda took the DVD that was offered to her and walked to her car in a daze.
Melinda was halfway home before she realized that she’d have to get into her apartment building without any pants. For some reason she didn’t feel as worried as she thought she should be.
Like all wise car owners Melinda kept an emergency blanket in her trunk, which she wrapped around her nude lower body as she sneaked into her flat. As soon as she was in she flopped down on the coach and rapidly read through the papers she had. It was getting late and she wanted to get to bed. The raging horniness seemed to have been completely quelled by her super-orgasm, but she gently frigged herself as she read anyway after she found an article in the company policy that addressed the issue.
She felt that the company policy was a very strange document, not at all like she would have expected. Melinda very much doubted that it was standard, but she was tired and she wasn’t able to summon up any real concern, so she shrugged, finished reading, and tossed it in the recycling bin. She popped the DVD she was given into her player machine and prayed that it was as brief as advertised.
Mr. Anderson came on the screen. “Welcome,” he said in his resonant voice, “to the company.”
Melinda awoke the next day on the couch with a pounding headache.
“What did I drink last night?” She wondered, “And where are my pants?”
After thinking hard she managed to find vague memories of the previous day, mostly only that she had applied and gotten a new job. She wondered if she was supposed to be in that morning, and if so, was she late? Suddenly panicked, she grabbed a slice of toast and her purse and pelted out the door.
A moment later she was back, realizing that she had forgotten to put on shoes. Although she couldn’t remember clearly she felt certain that there was a firm company policy about shoes. She grabbed a pair of four-inch heels, the company minimum, she somehow knew. She had gotten them for clubbing while she was still in college but hadn’t worn them in months. They were shiny red and taller than any of her other shoes by at least two inches. Melinda sighed. She would have to go shopping soon. She ran out the door again, this time a bit more carefully.
A moment later she was back, shaking her head. “I can’t go like this! This is the same shirt I wore yesterday. The secretary (what was her name? She seemed nice, I think) at least would notice. She tore it off and tossed it in the trash, then grabbed the first thing to catch her eye in the closet, which turned out to be a tight, low-cut tank top. “Whatever,” she muttered, it was better to look a bit skanky than to be too late she figured.
This time she made it all the way down the stairs before racing back up. “What am I doing?” she admonished herself, “I can’t go out in public with my cunt flapping in the breeze!” A moment later she thought, “Cunt? I don’t use that word.” But it was quickly forgotten in her rush to get ready. She laid out a pair of panties and grabbed a skirt, figuring that she wouldn’t have to bother taking off her shoes if she didn’t wear pants, and raced out the door.
The elderly man who lived next door stared at her, mouth agape, his keys grasped loosely in his hand as she tore past him, skirt clutched tightly in one hand and panties forgotten on the bed. She didn’t even take notice.
Once at her car she paused a moment to slip her skirt on, waved at a passing boy who was watching, and sped off towards work.
“Fucking stick shift,” she shouted. She had always preferred the control of a stick, but today it seemed terribly annoying. She was constantly pulling her hand out of her pussy to change gears and she was having trouble getting off. “How did I manage in the past?” she wondered idly as she waited at a stop light, enjoying the chance to use her other hand to pinch her nipples. The man in the truck next to her gave her a thumbs-up. Melinda turned her head away, her cheeks bright red. She thought about pulling her top back up to try to cover her tits, but thought better of it.
“Good morning!” called Ashley as Melinda walked in, “how are you?”
“Not too well,” admitted Melinda, “I have this terrible headache, and I couldn’t get off on my way here. I spent the last ten minutes fucking my gear shift in the parking lot, but I just could seem to cum.” She clapped her hands over her mouth, feeling that she ought to be mortified.
Ashley laughed, “You just need some coffee.” The buxom red-head filled a mug, added something to it, and brought it to Melinda. Melinda took a sip of the minty, smooth beverage and felt her headache vanish. She took another gulp and felt her body come alive. She threw her head back and gave a lusty moan, clutching at her pussy and gyrating her hips. She tossed back the rest of her ‘coffee’ and came like a firecracker. At last she came down from her high and turned to apologize to Ashley.
“I’m sorry, for some reason…” she trailed off. “Ashley, where are your clothes?” Melinda was shocked.
Ashley giggled. “We’re not expecting guests today, so I wore my favorite three piece suit. Do you like it?” Melinda had to admit that Ashley was wearing three things: her left 6-inch pump and its twin on her right foot, and a thick black leather collar with silver studs. Firm, round breasts and wet pussy were on proud display for any who might care to look. And to her surprise, Melinda found that she DID care to look. With a mixture of envy and lust she drank in the secretary’s soft curves.
“Well,” said Ashley pretending to ignore the increasingly hungry look in Melinda’s eyes, “we need to see if your uniform fits. Let’s go to the women’s locker room.”
Melinda obediently followed Ashley down the hall to a room labeled “Ladies.” Inside were several tall lockers, one of which had a placard that said “Mel.” Melinda hated that name and opened her mouth to say so.
“Oh look,” gushed Ashley, “they made you your own tags already! And don’t you just love ‘Mel,’ so much easier than ‘Melinda.”
“Plus you can make lighter name tags if you have fewer letters,” said Mr. Sanderson, warming to the subject immediately. “Just think of all the fuel it would take to carry that superfluous ‘inda’ around all the time, eh?”
Melinda whirled, surprised, “I thought this was the ladies room!”
Ashley rolled her eyes. “That means this is the room girls are allowed in, silly. As opposed to the men’s room where we can’t go.”
“Oh,” said Melinda slowly, “so anyone can come in the ladies’ room, but only men can go in the men’s room?” Ashley nodded and Melinda relaxed, relieved to have figured out how that worked.
“Now then,” said Sanderson enthusiastically, “Let’s see how you look in your uniform. I designed it myself, you know.” He proudly opened the locker and pulled out a shimmery, Navy blue dress and a pair of 7-inch, navy heels and stood looking at her expectantly.
Melinda uncertainly began to undress. She knew it was expected of her, but something about the situation seemed odd. As soon as she slipped her skirt off any thought of impropriety was banished by the enraged look on Sanderson’s face. She reflexively flinched.
“Didn’t you read the company policy?” He roared, “Didn’t you hear my lecture yesterday? What are the two most important things when trying to turn a profit in this industry?”
Melinda was terrified, but she bravely offered, “Cutting weight and pleasing the customer?”
“Right!” shouted Sanderson, gripping her cunt suddenly with his right hand, “Now look at this hairy twat. Think of all the fuel it’s going to take to carry your fucking pussy hair around the country. And the customers! Nobody likes hairy cunts! The customers will all say, ‘Oh yes, Anderson and Sanderson is very reasonably priced, but you don’t want to fly with them – the stewardesses don’t even care enough to shave their damn cunts.’ If you care at all about this company you will truncate your name and you will shave daily!” Livid, he threw down the uniform and stalked out.
Ashley led the weeping Mel to the showers to shave.
Half an hour later Mel was feeling much better. She had tried on her new uniform and found that it just felt… right. It was made of soft, slinky material that one could see right through in spite of its dark color. At its acme it just covered, although did not at all conceal, her nipples, and at its nadir it dipped just low enough to not quite cover her freshly shaven pussy. In between her impressive bust the neckline dipped to her naval and at her sides the hem rose to just above her hips. A small placard with “Mel” engraved in it was pinned above her right breast. It did indeed look like it was designed by someone who was fanatical about cutting down on weight. Matched with the navy shoes and a choker similar to Ashley’s, but in dark blue, Mel had to admit that she looked positively… fuckable. She giggled at that thought.
She didn’t have long to admire though, because Ashley quickly shepherded her out for her final orientation with Mr. Sanderson before she began regular duties.
Mr. Sanderson gave her an approving once over. Mel couldn’t help but giggle again as he closely inspected for pubic hair but failed to find anything he could criticize.
“Now then,” he said briskly after he finished his inspection, “in air travel, what is the heaviest item, the thing that consumes the most fuel?”
Mel thought hard, slipping two fingers into her twat to help her concentrate. “The beverage cart?” she ventured hopefully. She would very much like to not have to push that heavy thing around anymore. It was a pain in the ass. Besides, it would restrict passengers’ view of her. And she knew how important it was to keep the passengers happy.
“No!” cried Sanderson, “it’s the plane, of course. Nothing results in more jet fuel consumption than the jet!” Mel just blinked.
“Erm,” she protested, but at that moment her fingers started working harder. She arched her back, hard nipples protruding clearly from the sheer uniform. She gasped, moaned, then came loudly.
Sanderson waited patiently until she finished panting to continue. “We found that after eliminating the excess weight of the jet we cut fuel costs into the negligible range.” He beamed at her, obviously proud of his innovation.
“Isn’t an airplane, ah, important in the airline industry?” asked Mel, who was still idly diddling herself and was only vaguely curious in the afterglow of her orgasm.
Storm clouds instantly condensed on Sanderson’s brow, “Look, slut! Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve been saying?”
“I’m not a…” began Mel indignantly, but Sanderson cut her off as usual.
“There are TWO parts to making a healthy profit in this industry: cutting weight and keeping the customer happy. We have obviously reached the ultimate in the first department. Now, unfortunately this results in us being unable to get our clients to their desired destination, which is going to make them unhappy,” Sanderson’s body language made it clear that he was coming to the most cunning part of his scheme, “so what we do, here at Anderson and Sanderson, is to provide the customer with a commensurate service that makes up for that loss.”
Mel slowly pulled her fingers out of her pussy and sucked them clean, thinking hard. “So… I’m a stewardess… But there’s no plane… So what is my role here? And in what way am I a stewardess?”
Sanderson gestured at her voluptuous form, “Obviously you’re a stewardess in the sense that you wear a stewardess uniform. And your role clearly, is to make up for the inconvenience of there being no plane. You’re here to make the customers happy.” Sanderson smiled at the completeness of the logic.
Mel was still struggling with it though, “Why a stewardess? And what exactly do you mean by ‘make the customers happy’?” She was starting to have a sneaking suspicion, however, that Anderson and Sanderson’s intentions were not entirely honorable, and she had half a mind to say so.
Sanderson shrugged. “Some people like stewardesses,” he remarked. “Don’t worry, we also have nurses and maids and schoolgirls and,” he gestured vaguely towards the lobby, “secretaries. You won’t be working alone.”
Mel rose to her feet, feeling, trembling with rage. “How dare you? You think I’m going to turn into some bimbo and entertain a bunch of sleazy low-life scumbags just because you’re paying me a lot? Well it won’t work!” Mel paused to pull up her dress and put her fingers back into her cunt, “unnggh,” she remarked. She raised her voice even higher to be heard over the sloppy sounds coming from her fingers at work in her pussy, “Well guess what, I’m not, unnggh, that easy. I didn’t sign any contract to be a stripper or hooker or whatever it, ohyeahthat’sfuckinggood, is that you’re trying to make me into.” She paused to marshal her thoughts, “Oh God yes! You can shove this job up your ass!” She plunged the thumb of her other hand up her ass to demonstrate what she meant.
“Quite right;” said Sanderson placidly, “you didn’t sign any contract at all. In fact, the only document that you actually signed that we haven’t already shredded says something to the effect that you’ll do whatever I tell you to. I’d hate to have to take you to court over that. Now listen, don’t tell anyone about your new job. Go out to a bar tonight and find a nice young man to stretch out your pussy for you a bit and come back here by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow for your first assignment.”
“Oh, oh. Fuck. I… Oh fuck,” responded Mel, her fingers a blur as she worked her clit and her ass, “yes, yes, fuck YES!” She came for the second time in ten minutes, this time even harder than the first (which she found hard to believe). She licked her fingers off while glaring at Sanderson, and stomped out of the building, not even acknowledging Ashley’s cheery goodbye.
“Who the hell does he think he is?” she fumed, “trying to turn me into some cheap tramp.” She pulled into the first bar she saw, checked her make-up in the mirror, and went in.
The bar went quiet as she walked in, her generous cleavage on display and her pussy coming into view with each step. She sat in the first available stool, causing her dress to ride up even further. She sat casually, her knees about two feet apart. “What am I doing here?” She demanded of herself, “I should be going to the police.” She turned to go, her legs spreading wider as she did, and came face to face with a very drunk man about her age.
“Hey sugar,” he slurred, “can I buy you a drink?”
Mel crossed her legs demurely and let her eyes roam over his body from behind half-closed eyes. He was reasonably fit, but no prize by any standard. In her heels she would tower over him. She put one finger on his collarbone and slowly traced it down his chest.
“I’m not really looking for a drink,” she purred. She waited a moment for that to sink in, but the poor boy seemed to be too inebriated. Mel had a lot of practice hiding impatience, however. She brought her exploring hand down to the front of his pants and got off her stool. “You want to get out of here?” She cupped his rapidly growing penis and squeezed.
“Sure,” the guy answered, clearly considering himself to be very suave. He winked at his buddy, who was gawking at him from down the bar and sauntered out with the most beautiful, and apparently the skankiest, woman he’d ever seen.
He paused, frowning.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mel, who felt she couldn’t wait much longer.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m an English major and I, well. Which do you think is proper, ‘skankiest,’ or ‘most skanky’?”
Mel grabbed his arm and pulled him out the door.
“Where are we going?” he asked. The cool evening sobered him slightly.
“Nowhere,” Mel answered, kissing him hard. “I need my pussy stuffed and I need it now.” She pushed aside his feebly protesting hands and opened his pants. She grabbed him by the cock and led him to the side alley, yanked his pants down and proceeded to give the most enthusiastic blowjob either of them had ever been party to.
The boy, who was actually a senior at the local university, majoring in computer science (he had once had a crush on a girl in the English department and had somehow ended up with the idea that English majors were hot, so that’s what he told everyone in bars he was, assuming it would help him score pussy. So far it hadn’t panned out, but then he was currently getting sucked off by the hottest babe he’d ever met), was not used to this kind of treatment. He tried to cover the awkward feeling he had by making idle conversation.
“So… What’s your name? I’m Paul,” he tried. All he got in response was slurping and “mmmm.” He gave up a moment later as his eyes rolled back in delight.
To Paul’s disappointment Mel stopped before he came. He forgave her however, when she disengaged whatever black magic had been holding her dress up and revealed two enormous, milky globes of feminine perfection. He reached out to maul them, but Mel was all business. She pushed him down, hiked up her dress so that all ~8 oz of it was bunched about her waist, and without preamble impaled herself on his stiff rod.
Paul watched in wonder as the big-titted angel straddling him bounced wildly, blonde tresses and boobs jiggling. She moaned and squealed without restraint. Paul was grateful that most of the bar patrons were serious drinkers and rarely left early. Mel was grateful that she had finally gotten some real cock in her needy pussy.
With Mel going wild on top of him Paul felt that he wasn’t going to last very long. He reached up and squeezed the tits hanging in his face and felt himself explode into her. He was embarrassed, but before he could apologize he saw, to his delighted shock, that Mel was thrashing about, clearly in the throes of a powerful orgasm of her own.
“Fuck yeah, Paul,” she screamed, “Oh God yes! Oh, unngh, ohhh.” After a long time she finally relaxed completely, sagging slightly. Then she suddenly came alive again, pecked him on the cheek and pulled off of his still-hard cock. She reached one delicate hand down to cup her mound and catch the gobs of cum dripping out and smiled gratefully at him. “Thanks, I needed that,” she said, and walked to her car.
Driving home and licking the nectar from her fingers Mel thought that perhaps her new job wouldn’t be so bad after all.