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In which a routine marriage is revived by the vagrancies of the weather and the attentions of a good neighbor.

That fateful Sunday started off with the same old routine. We’d been married for just three years, Michelle and I, but that was enough for us to settle into that comfortable routine. Work was routine, play was routine, life was routine. Worst of all our sex life was routine. So, following the old Sunday morning routine, I pecked my wife’s cheek and drove off to the golf course.

This Sunday, however, did not live up to its namesake. That worthy was hiding behind a mass of low lying clouds. Nothing to stop an afternoon of golfing fun, however. But after an hour of whacking a ball around the fairways those clouds had turned ominous and soon the heavens opened up. The more sensible among us broke for the shelter of the clubhouse while a few diehards squinted into the storm, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge its presence.

The rain wouldn’t go away. It didn’t look like it was ever going away. It just, continued to fall hard, determined no doubt to drown the world and all its creatures. So I cursed Nature and the rotten luck she had dumped on me and decided to go home. Not too long after that momentous decision I found myself pulling into our driveway. A lot earlier than I had planned to. All I had to look forward to was the rest of the day, spent with my loving but routine wife.

Cursing the weather one more time I let myself in the front door. And heard voices. Oh great, I thought, visitors. The day was just getting better and better. What next? An atom bomb? Worse! It was, Jeff, one half of the sweet as apple pie couple that lived next door. Five minutes with those two would guarantee a place in heaven and a mouthful of cavities. Even routine ol’ Michelle would be in dire need of rescuing by now, I thought.

But better her than me. Grinning to myself I half-turned on my way back out. That’s when she giggled. I froze in my tracks. It was the same giggle I’d heard all those years ago. The nervous half-laugh that she laughed the first time I seduced her. Cautiously and silently (thanks to the sound of the falling rain) I shut the door, removed my shoes and padded over to the dining room door.

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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.

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Ah spring! It was the kind of day where the air is so humid you can cut it with a knife. I had just come back from lunch with my friends and was still joking about our co-worker Ralph’s dress habits. He says he was a nerd in high school, but that he is not anymore. But just looking at him in his shorts and pink shirt, trying to be cool, you can tell he lives, eats, and breathes computers. Not that he’s disagreeable, but he just seems very naive and tries too hard to fit in.

As we went up the stairs to get back to work, Eva came down. The air conditioning in the building was always cranked, and Eva’s nipples were responding by showing through her blouse. If ever there was a woman that could stop traffic, she was it: shoulder length blonde hair, dark complexion, and brown eyes. She looked particularly good in the red blouse and black skirt that she wore today.

As we passed, she smiled and said, “Hello.” Her smile was wonderful, flashing white teeth behind full lips. It was the perfect compliment to her round face.

The afternoon passed with the usual meetings and kibitzing around the coffee maker. As 5:00 approached, Ted called me into his office. All of the offices had windows into the adjoining offices, so we called them fish bowls. Most people had posters or something blocking the window so that you didn’t feel like you were on display. Ted had a PC on his desk and wanted to show me some pictures he had gotten off of the network. He told me to close the door, and then he brought up a picture of a brunette wearing only a bikini bottom, her top dangling from her upturned hand. Childish as this may seem, there is an odd pleasure in viewing naughty pictures on company equipment during office hours. Ted said he had two more, one was a crotch shot and the other was a poor resolution photo of woman in a nightgown. (click to read entire story…)

As a frequent jetsetter, I have for long fantasized about this exclusive club, which in reality probably has few authentic members who have genuinely screwed their way through the stratosphere. How can you manage to have-it-away on board a crowded airliner? Well recently I succeeded – and how! This amazing experience happened on the top deck of a BA 747 heading out of New York for Heathrow, with a beautiful girl I had never met before.

I had had a hectic day getting my work completed before flying out, got to the airport late, and consequently was glad to have got through the airport hassle and slump into my Club Class seat. The top deck of the 747 has a small cabin which some airlines use for first class passengers, but many including BA, use for Business Class; there are only 20 or 30 seats, which gives you the feeling of being in a small, but spacious airliner. The top deck is reached via a spiral staircase and you travel cut off from the masses on the main deck below. This flight, luckily, was fairly empty so I was fortunate that through the lottery of seat allocations, Karen, as she turned out to be named, took up the aisle seat corresponding to my window seat and nobody else got seated either between us or in the row on the other side of the aisle.

Karen was petite and blonde, about 25 I guessed, (rightly as it turned out), and clearly well formed in all the important places. She had remarkably light blue eyes and was obviously in some form of business, as she had a small patent leather brief case and when she took her coat off she was smartly dressed in a grey skirt and white blouse – which showed her firm, well-shaped figure to good effect. I found out later that she was Swedish, a junior salesperson for an internationally known cosmetics company, who at short notice had been given a lucky break to substitute for her boss on a business trip to the USA. Her smart but plain business-woman’s dress looked sexy on her. Her firm breasts thrust out firmly through her white silk blouse as she arched her back to remove her coat and hand it to the stewardess. Black lacy stockings showed her well shaped legs to advantage. But she also radiated something sensual which aroused the first slight stirrings in my crotch. I realized I was feeling quite horny and in the mood for conquest, but not in my wildest dreams did I guess what delights were to follow! (click to read entire story…)

My wife and I like to keep our sex life varied. We think it keeps our marriage hot, exciting and alive. One of the things we like to do from time to time is show her body off to other men. I’m not totally sure why, but it seems to reinforce our knowledge that she is still attractive to others, and I know it turns us both on. We like to think of it as a great form of foreplay. We also like to think that it’s our little way of making the world a happier place, because it also gives pleasure to others.

Once she even got a temporary job as a topless Go-Go dancer in a little, out of the way bar in a town about sixty miles away where we were sure she wouldn’t be seen by anyone we know. The place was pretty loosely run, in that the local management allowed the patrons a great deal of leeway in stuffing their one dollar tips well down the front of the dancers’ G-strings and grabbing a quick feel of their tits while they were at it. She only worked there for a week, and I used to sit right there at the bar during all her sets, closely watching her reactions and those of the male patrons. It really got me hot to see them touch her like that, and she told me it used to get her turned on as well, but that’s another story.

Arlene is a petite little woman, with long, naturally auburn hair and a picture perfect 36B-24-35 body that she’s kept in perfect condition over the years. As a matter of fact, I think her body looks better now that it did when we were first married. She keeps it in shape by carefully watching what she eats and exercising strenuously, both vertically and horizontally. When she’s in the right mood, which comes pretty often, she has an almost insatiable appetite for sex and anything related to sex. I’d like to tell you about what happened one of those times. (click to read entire story…)