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As Jim rode the Metro North train from the Connecticut suburbs into New York’s Grand Central Station, he was eagerly anticipating the coming hour’s event. The previous night he had telephoned in a response to an ad in Screw Magazine’s “Hells Belles” section. Along with the myriad ads for mistresses and dungeons, promising to do all sort of unspeakable things to one’s body, was one featuring “total physical domination” and wrestling. Jim had long fantasized about being physically dominated by a strong, attractive woman, being forced to submit repeatedly to painful [tag]submission[/tag] holds. After talking to Carol, the placer of the ad, Jim felt that he had just found the answer to his fantasies. Carol promised that she could easily make him beg to be released. She especially liked to work scissors and choke holds, and really got off on totally dominating her “victim.” Even more than her more “normal” trade, dominating men by bondage and spanking, she really loved using her body to punish them. After hearing all that, Jim immediately made an appointment with Carol for the next afternoon. Now his dream was about to be realized.

The walk from Grand Central to the 27th Street address Carol had given Jim seemed to take forever, Jim was so anxious for his match to begin. As he walked along, Jim dreamed of being held by Carol in various holds, but failed to understand how a girl who sounded so sexy on the phone could manage to squeeze a submission out of him. He had watched many videos of mixed matches where the women had the men yelling out agonized submissions, but it was always obvious that the holds were staged and the men were submitting “for the camera.” Although Jim was slightly built, at 5’8″ and 140 pounds, he felt he was strong enough to take any woman. Carol’s promise to make him beg for mercy seemed remote.

Finally he reached the address. He rang the doorbell, and someone buzzed him in. He climbed the two flights of stairs promised by Carol and knocked on her door. After a minute the door was opened by a very tall pretty blonde wearing an electric blue housecoat. “Hi, you must be Jim,” she said pleasantly. “I’m Carol. Come on in.”

Jim walked in to a pleasant apartment, dominated by several large wrestling mats placed on the floor. What furniture there was was pushed to one side. “As you can see, I have everything ready for our match. Do you have something for me, Jim?” said Carol.

Jim fished in his pocket and found the $200 they had agreed on. Carol took it into another room and quickly returned. “While you strip down to your shorts, I’ll go over the ground rules. Ok?”

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Mary had been working for me for three weeks and she was driving me crazy. She’s a petite little thing with a fantastic figure and full, mouth-watering tits. Since I had hired Mary as my secretary all I could think about was fucking her in that perfect little [tag]ass[/tag].

Maybe if Mary didn’t wear those damn tight jeans that push right into the crack of her ass, I would have been okay, but as things stood, all I could think about was that ass.

Both sides of her chubby little lips were fully defined by the clothing she wore and I wondered if they gave her a kind of sexual push. Everything about Mary spelled sex. Just 20 and with her blonde mass of curls and big brown eyes, it seemed that a kind of sensual steam flowed from every part of her.

I was always threatening to jump on that cute [tag]ass[/tag]. She would wiggle it playfully then laugh her way out of the office. All in good fun, until the night we had to push hard to get a rush order out.

Mary and I were alone. I had always made it a rule to never fuck around with my help. I had kept to that rule all my life, but for some reason Mary tempted me to break it.

There was so much paperwork that we had to do some of it on the floor. I found myself just standing there, watching her little ass sway back and forth as she crawled around on the floor. That ass was so cute and sexy that I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

I guess the animal in me took over then, because I don’t even remember getting down on the floor. Fully clothed I wrapped my arms around her and slipped my fingers into the crotch of her jeans. Mary dropped the papers she was holding and I felt her warm ass rolling against my huge boner.

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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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When I walked into the bar, I didn’t notice her at first. I sat in a booth in a dark corner and ordered a drink from the waitress.

The waitress returned with my drink, and when I went to pay her for it, she said it had already been taken care of by the blonde at the end of the bar. I looked, and there was Sandy, sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. God, she was gorgeous! Wearing a white blouse, short black skirt, and black fishnet stockings, she sat with her legs crossed, and I could see far up her skirt. She was, without a doubt, the best looking woman in the place.

Sandy smiled at me, and, as she walked over to my table, I couldn’t help but notice her nipples, erect against the soft white silk of her low cut blouse, and the slow swaying of her breasts. She stood in front of me and asked if she could sit with me. “Sure”, I said, and she slid into the booth with me.

She told me that she was a receptionist in the hotel, and that she had just gotten off work a few minutes before. She said I looked like the kind of man she’d like to spend some time with, as she traced patterns on the inside of my thigh with her long nails. As she stroked my leg, her firm, warm breast pressed against my arm with urgency.

Sandy looked me in the eyes, and said she had a room upstairs and she’d like to take me there. She stood, took me by the hand, and led me out of the bar to the elevator. Arm in arm, the warmth of her body and the scent of her perfume were really getting to me! My cock was straining against the front of my pants, my balls tight and full.

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