Alma
I was in the window seat of a Piedmont 737, taxiing out at Washington National that morning. My destination was New Orleans with a change of planes in Atlanta. As we passed the transient ramp in front of Butler Aviation, I saw my old airplane. It had been repainted, but bore the same numbers along each side of the fuselage. The sight of it brought back a memory from the 1960s that marked the highlight of my brief career in commercial aviation.
Officially, the airplane’s registration number — and radio call sign — was N-5558B. But to my two partners and me — and to the tower crew at her home airport in Opa Locka, Florida — Beech Travelair N-5558B was “Triple Nickel 8-Ball.” She was a outside business venture of three lawyers — my two partners and me — who shared a criminal-law practice in Miami, and a love of flying. Sherlock — the name my father, an Arthur Conan Doyle fan, gave me — earned the law firm some early publicity, and we were doing well enough to afford to buy Triple Nickel 8-Ball. Our aviation business involved flying bags of bank checks from Miami International Airport to Atlanta Hartsfield Airport where they were taken by van to the Federal Reserve Depository for processing. The income was predictable; but the flying wasn’t — particularly in the summer when the Florida thunderstorms topped out at about 40,000 feet.
What we admitted, to everyone but the I.R.S., was that our money-losing business was just an excuse to fly and hang around the airport’s Fixed Base Operation trading lies with the other pilots and would-be pilots that inhabited the pilots’ lounge.
There was a flying school there — a collection of Cessna 150’s, young instructors with their eyes set on the airlines, and students from the local area. Late afternoon usually found a fair sprinkling of women in the pilots’ lounge; some of them students, but mostly the girl-friends of the students and instructors. They all knew about our operation, and with suitable hints, could wrangle a ride in Triple-Nickel-8-Ball on our Miami-Atlanta-Miami trip when we wanted the company.
A few weeks before, the female “regulars” in the lounge had jokingly announced formation of a local chapter of the “mile-high” club — and that subject had replaced discussion of instrument-approaches and engine overhaul prices. As I understood it, the rules were simple: sex above 5280 feet, unaided by co- (or auto) pilot. The novelty of the topic wore off after a while; but one day a female student showed up with a small pendant hanging from her neck on a gold chain: a set of small gold wings with a cloisonne’ panel in the center, bearing the numbers “5280.” A second, and then third, pendant soon appeared on other necks. Although none of us had the nerve to ask, it appeared that the mile-high club was more than talk.
My turn to fly the Atlanta run came up one Thursday. I usually got to the field after work, about two hours before the cargo would be ready in Miami, and had “dinner” — which is stretching the term, from the vending machines in the lounge. The coffee machine, it was said, served a dual purpose, dispensing battery acid for the aircraft as well as slaking the thirsts of the pilots. That night, as I approached the machine, with quarter in hand, a voice said “I’ll trade you some real coffee and the best pastrami sandwich in town for a ride to Atlanta.” The invitation came from a short blond named Alma, a “primary student” in our parlance: one who was training for her private pilot license. She produced a picnic basket, a large thermos and an inviting smile. “OK,”`I said, “but I’ll have to call Miami and get a weight for the cargo, first.” “For reference, Captain,” she said, “I’m 112, pounds, soaking wet.”
Actually, the “cargo weight” issue was only a ploy. If I didn’t particularly feel like company on a given evening, it was easier to decline a request on “weight and balance” grounds. It also aided some rather subtle gender discrimination: it was amazing how often we had room for a 130 pound woman and not a 180 pound guy.
For Alma, however the weight and balance problem was resolved when she first asked for the ride: she had mischievous blue eyes, a button nose, and pert breasts, not well-contained by a Harley-Davidson T-Shirt. I had heard from one of the instructors that she was a serious, bright student with the goal — and apparently the talent — to achieve an airline career.
At the ‘phone, I checked the weather. The short hop from Opa Locka to Miami was no sweat. It was “VFR” — the initials for “visual flight rules,” that permitted flying when the visibility was greater than 3 miles and the cloud ceiling greater than 1000 feet. The rest of the route was another story, however. Atlanta was reporting a 500 foot broken ceiling, sky obscured, visibility of two miles, forecast to drop to 200 feet and a half-mile in rain and fog. The enroute conditions were free of thunderstorms, but ceilings along the route were low, typically 300-1000 feet. The ride would be smooth, but definitely “IFR” — Instrument Flight Rules –requiring a suitably instrumented airplane and a pilot holding the coveted “instrument rating — which I had acquired from eight-months of flying with a hood over my head, alongside a sadistic instructor who would simulate every sort of system failure known to man. I filed our flight plan for Atlanta, with Montgomery, Alabama as a weather alternate, gathered my maps — “charts” in pilot lingo, and returned to the lounge to tell Alma she was welcome.
I loaded Alma in the Travelair’s right seat, handed her the checklist and fired-up the two engines. We, used the challenge and response system familiar to both of us: “Fuel on mains.” “Check.” “Boost pumps on.” “Check.” “Gyro set….” When the gauges read “in the green” Opa Locka ground control cleared me to the active runway and I departed with my newly-found friend to Miami. The turn-around there was short, delayed only by our ground-handler’s hitting his head against the baggage door as a result of looking at Alma, instead of where he was going. We reboarded the airplane; as I reached over Alma to latch the passenger-side door, my arm brushed the front of the outstanding T-shirt she was wearing, Her reaction was to look me directly in the eyes, and smile.
“Miami Clearance Delivery, Beech Triple Nickel 8-Ball at Butler with the numbers.” This was a game. The same controller worked the ground position nearly every night; but would not yield to the “triple nickel eightball” informality. So, as usual, he answered with: “Aircraft calling Clearance Delivery, say again your call sign.” Resigned to the game, I replied, slowly: “November five five five five eight Bravo, standing by for clearance.” “Roger, November five-eight Bravo is cleared to the Atlanta airport, as filed. Fly runway heading after departure, maintain 2000, expect 4000 one-five minutes after departure. Miami departure control, 131.55. Squawk 0425.” The rapid-fire readoff defined our route and direction of flight, the altitudes, radio frequencies and transponder codes that would allow tracking us on radar. I read back the clearance to him for confirmation, concluding with “triple nickel eight-ball.” The reply was “readback correct, five-eight Bravo, have a good flight, ground point seven.”
After only a short delay, Alma and I were 25 miles from the Miami Airport and cleared to our requested altitude with a simultaneous “hand off” to the Miami Center: “Five-Eight Bravo, climb and maintain 4-thousand, report reaching to Miami Center on 133.45. Good day sir.” We were “in the soup” — a combination of fog and mist that accompanied the warm front that covered the east coast from Miami to New York. Visibility was limited to the wingtips where the red and green navigation lights were visible only as large, diffuse colored circles.” We reached 4000 feet, so advised Miami, and sat back for a long night of flying as I trimmed the airplane for cruise.
Although we were seated less than a foot from one another, we both wore headsets, which, when not being used for radio transmissions, worked as an intercom. I pressed the push-to-talk button, and, for lack of a better introduction to the night’s conversation, asked Alma; “I’ve seen the new wings in the pilot’s lounge; who’s running for the president of the mile-high club?” She replied “they can’t elect a president yet; all their flights have been illegal.” “Illegal?” I said. “Yeah, there are only 3 members so far and they all earned their wings with a student-pilot.” That was the “illegal” part of it: student-pilots were “signed-off” for solo flights, but were absolutely forbidden, by FAA rules, to carry passengers, much less engage in sexual acrobatics with them. “Funny you should mention the club,” she said, “would you like to see why I asked to come on this flight?” Without waiting for an answer, she produced a small black velvet jewelry case, and handed it to me.” I retrieved a small penlight from my pocket, and illuminated a set of gold wings — with 5280 inscribed in the middle — and hanging below, suspended by thin gold chain, three small panels inscribed: “Instrument,” “Multi-Engine, and “Commercial.”
Alma turned to me, unfastened her seatbelt, removed her headset, and mine, put her lips to my ears, and said: “I’ve completed all my ground school courses, Sherlock. I can’t think of anyone nicer to give me the check ride for my advanced ratings.” I turned, in time to see Alma’s T-shirt disappear over her head, revealing a taut pair of breasts in the red lighting of the cabin. It was only hours of training that forced my eyes back to the panel where I found the airplane 20 degrees east of its assigned heading at an altitude of 3800 feet, 200 feet below our assigned altitude. As I banked left and corrected the altitude discrepancy, I felt Alma’s hand between my legs. I bent over to kiss her and soon received a warm tongue, deep in my mouth, producing the clearly intended effect beneath her hand.
While Alma’s`plans were perfectly clear, the associated logistics posed certain problems; the Travelair was a small aircraft, the back seats were full of mail bags, and the fact that we were on an instrument flight plan, with our progress monitored on radar, meant I would have to devote at least some attention to flying the plane. She snuggled up closer and I played with her left breast, rolling the nipple between my thumb and forefinger.
The speaker crackled: “58 Bravo, Miami Center, now, on 123.35. Good day sir.” “58 Bravo, roger, 123.35,” I replied, and with one hand still on Alma’s breast, I reached over and tuned the radio to the new frequency: “Miami Center, Beech 5558 Bravo with you on 123.35, maintaining 4000, requesting higher.” The request for a higher altitude was essential to the matter at hand: we still were below the magic one-mile figure. The response was discouraging: “Unable higher at this time, 58 Bravo,” the controller said, “you are overtaking traffic at 6 thousand, a B-747 heavy; converging traffic, an Aztec at 5 thousand, 12 o’clock, fifteen miles. I’ll try to work out a higher for you after Orlando. Maintain 4000.” I uttered the airman’s universal complaint for circumstances like this: “Shit!” I said. Alma laughed, “Relax, Sherlock, it’s a long way to Atlanta. Could you turn up the heat a bit.” That was a reasonable request under the circumstances: while I had been talking to the Center, Alma had divested herself of all of her clothes and was shivering slightly. I flipped on the gasoline-fired cabin heater which immediately filled the cabin with warmth. I moved my hand down to the soft blond hair between Alma’s legs, an act that filled me with warmth.
There were equal amounts of passion and humor present now. We were still below the official altitude for mile-high inauguration, and I — and, I suspect, Alma — were wondering just how to “assume the position” in the cramped cockpit. I was reaching the point where the higher altitude was going to be needed soon. We had passed Orlando some time ago, and just as I raised the microphone to press the request for a higher altitude, the radio came alive “58 Bravo, Jacksonville Center, no joy on the higher altitude. Atlanta Center reports all altitudes above 5000 are occupied on your route of flight; maintain 4000.” This was getting desperate. Perhaps the airways to our west would be less crowded: “Center, could we have a new routing that would permit a higher altitude?” “Standby” was the response, and as I set the microphone down, I felt a pull at my zipper. Alma’s hand reached in and freed my cock from what had become, by that time, almost painful confinement. Bending down, she engulfed me with a warm, wet mouth and began making slow up and down motions..
“58 Bravo, Jacksonville. Clearance.” “Go ahead,” I gasped, as Alma’s ministrations below became more intense. “58 Bravo is cleared to the Atlanta airport, present position radar vectors Taylor, Victor 3 Alma, Victor 157, Atlanta. Maintain 4000 until passing Taylor. After Taylor, climb and maintain 6000. Cross Alma at or above 5000. Turn left now, heading 330.” I grabbed my charts to identify the navigation fixes the controller had specified — thinking I had misheard the “Alma” instruction. A warm, bare back served as a convenient chart table. There it was, a fix called “Alma;” it consisted of a VHF Navigation Station named after a nearby Georgia city. I read back the clearance to the Center, set course for Taylor, and sat back marveling at the coincidence of names, and at Alma’s talents, which were making both of us incredibly hot. As we passed over Taylor, I could take it no longer. I rolled the trim wheel up a notch, putting the airplane in a gentle climb, raised Alma’s head, kissed her deeply and said “sit in my lap.” I slid my seat back, Alma pulled herself up by the edges of the instrument panel. She said “like this, Sherlock?” And settled a very warm, wet cunt over my cock, easing me into her. “Mmmm, yeah,” I replied, and she began moving up and down with shallow strokes. I reached around her, grasping the airplane’s control yoke with one hand, squeezing the nipple of her right breast with the fingers of the other.
The red beam from the cabin light, directly above her, gave Alma’s shoulders a hypnotic, fiery aura. To her right, I could see the “DME” — the Distance Measuring Equipment indicator — clicking off the miles remaining until the Alma VOR. The plane climbed in synchrony with our excitement. Alma removed my hand from her breast, directing it downward between her legs, where my finger had no trouble locating her now prominent [tag]clit[/tag]. Moistening my finger with the wetness that virtually flowed, now, from her vagina, I began rubbing the area around her clit in slow, circular motions.
Only five miles remained on the DME. I thrust up into Alma, but could not penetrate her as deeply as I wanted, because of the awkward position. Suddenly, the navigation indicators swung wildly, indicating our passage over the Alma VOR, with the altimeter reading 5000 feet. I was now both over, and in, Alma, and cleared for the higher altitude. Thrusting up again, I pulled back sharply on the control yoke, raising the nose of the airplane rapidly, and pushing Alma’s body down on my cock with a force of 2-G’s. The altimeter spun up past 5300 feet. Alma, the stall-warning horn and I went off simultaneously. I pushed the nose down just as the airplane complained of its mistreatment with a pre-stall buffet. Reaching around Alma’s right side, I fire-walled the throttles. The result was positive G’s which pushed Alma and me toward the roof of the cabin, with my cock still deeply in her. She gasped, screamed and her pussy contracted around me as she reached the peak of her orgasm.
The rest of the flight was too routine to merit discussion, except to say that Alma flew for a while as I used my mouth to play with her breasts and [tag]pussy[/tag]. That little bit of flight instruction was revenge: I wanted her to feel what it was like to have to concentrate on altitude, attitude and airspeed, while waves of pleasure distract you.
After we off-loaded the cargo in Atlanta, I called back to Miami to report that the right engine was running roughly. “Nothing serious,” I said, “probably just a fouled plug; but I think I should stay here tonight and have it looked at in the morning.” Alma and I found the airport motel with the 2-foot concrete walls. They were intended to protect guests from the noise of the landing and departing jets. That night, they isolated our neighbors from some pretty amazing sounds from within the room. Alma proved herself a very vocal, athletic lover. It wasn’t until two days later that Alma appeared in the pilots’ lounge wearing the set of wings bearing the instrument, multi-engine and commercial endorsements. She took a lot of kidding about the “commercial” endorsement, but refused to divulge where, when and with whom she took the check ride. I didn’t see her again. That week, Uncle Sam decided my flying skills were needed more in Southeast Asia than in Florida. I spent two years flying the military big-brother of my airplane — the Beech Baron — ferrying various important Army types, working diligently to lose the Vietnam conflict for us. After that, I moved to Washington, DC as an associate in a large, anonymous law firm. Partnership in the firm came six years later. Although the money was good, it came at a price: the medication I was taking for high blood-pressure caused the FAA to revoke my medical certificate. My flying days were over.
As the Piedmont jet climbed over the Virginia countryside, my reverie was broken by a cabin announcement; “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Al Carey, your captain speaking. Along with our first-officer today, Alma Whitley, I’d like to welcome you to the continuation of Piedmont flight 232 to Atlanta. We will be cruising at an altitude of ……” Alma Whitley. Damn. The woman had a flair for coincidences.
I waited until the other passengers exited the long aluminum tube, and followed the crew down the jetway. “Triple Nickel 8-Ball,” I said, coming up behind a slim, short body topped by a shock of blond hair. She turned with an expression that was half annoyance, half quizzical. Then, recognition spread across her face in the form of a big smile. “Sherlock. My old check pilot.”
“Cathy,” I said to my secretary on the airport pay phone, “call Al Mason’s secretary in New Orleans and postpone our meeting until tomorrow morning. It looks like I’m going to have a long layover in Atlanta.”
–end–
anonymous author
