And so, still wearing her uniform, Helen at last faced the Chief of Security in Chicago. His name was Mike Pawling and he was reputed to be a cocksman of high degree.
He shouted over at his secretary: "Sylvia, you're too young to hear this. Take a break. Twenty minutes. Give you time to run downstairs and make the newspaper dealer."
Sylvia rose and left. But since Pawling had his head down, rummaging through papers, she took the occasion to make the fuck-you sign with her middle finger and point it straight at him.
In fact, the more it became known that a career hostess with a good record was to be fired because she liked women more than men, the more indignation went around among the hostesses on planes going anywhere from Bahrein to Tokyo or returning via Singapore, Rio de Janiero or little old New York.
The news also had spread around HQ, where the office help did not see why a girl could not elect to be fucked by a prick, a finger, a tongue, or even a policeman's nightstick if she so desired.
In fact, anonymous notes of protest had been sent to the President of Wanderlust Airlines.
One letter said:
"You old son of a bitch, you were a boy, once. Did you care what you stuck your prick into? I'll bet every time your mother sent you to the butcher" – the President was proud of his lower middle-class upbringing – "for a pound of liver, you fucked it behind a fence on the way home. And I'll bet you used to get together with one of your pals and do something naughty. I'll even bet you used to hide with one of your pals, at about the age of twelve, when you were just getting used to having that thing between your legs go hard and want you to give it a nice feeling, and I'll bet you tried out each other's assholes. Let alone what you might have been doing later when you found out how expensive it is to take girls out and then you found yourself jerking off when you got home because she was too smart to let you into her cunt. Maybe you looked up your old asshole friend and got back into assholing, which at your age then was homo, buddy. And so what? Even if you and your boyfriend went down on each other for the thrill of the century, so what? You married eventually and the way I hear it you have four kids and they all went to good colleges. What does Helen Troy have? Not even a job. Who is guilty, you or Helen? If she is guilty, you are guilty. Again, of what? It's all a tempest in a teapot. Who cares who fucks who with what? Put her back on the 797-X, Godammit. Sonny, let me tell you something. If you ever got off your ass and took a look at the way that gal walks her breasts down an aisle you might leave your wife, see? I hate you. Yours sincerely, Ms. Noname Anonymous."
The President was said to have looked furtive and guilty and disturbed. But he did not interfere with his efficient Security Department. So all this did not help Helen Troy, who was due to walk out of Security with her head under her arm.
Mike Pawling gave her a careful breast inspection, grinned, and at last found her file.
"And here is the tape," he announced.
"What tape?"
"The tape that Cleo had going in her purse all along. I listened in horror. How you told her of the dreadful dishonesty of girls who do not admit they are lesbians. And everything you said during your session with our valued Cleo Prentice. Would you like to hear the tape?"
"No."
"No?" He seemed disappointed. She supposed that by now he knew it by heart, and repeated it in bars.
"Well, you are entitled to speak in your own defense, Miss Troy."
"I don't feel guilty of anything."
"You know our rules."
"Yes. I also know how hard it is for you to get good hostesses, and I know I am a good hostess."
"You cannot possibly be a good hostess if you engage in activities that turn your thoughts away from men."
"Did you ever hear of the Black and Blue Contest?"
"What's that?"
"One night in Rio, a local millionbux invited all of a 797-X's hostesses to a party. A wild one. Some of those Brazilian rubber barons carry ten kinds of condoms with them, all with fancy little nobs and ribs to give a girl a thrill, and they were awfully anxious to try them out before releasing them to the public. When one of them got finished with me, I mean he was using a condom with ridges, I thought my female apparatus was all punctured, but no, it was only kind-of indented, inside."
"But you did get a thrill?" asked Mike Pawling eagerly. "Because, look, I have something in my drawer, here…"
"Never mind. I want to tell you about the Black and Blue Contest. To get away from the condom ploy, one hostess started telling about the Wanderlust passengers who had pinched her ass, and another chimed in, and boasted that she had gotten twice as many pinches. First thing you know, we had lifted our skirts and dropped our panties and were standing with our asses in the air, showing them to a committee of three Brazilian men-about-town she couldn't seem to make up their minds without feeling every ass three times."
"What for?"
"The feeling didn't have anything to do with it. It was the ass-inspection that counted."
"Yeh?" said Pawling, doubtful, but at the same time licking his lips.
"Because we were trying to decide which girl had the most black-and-blue pinch marks on her backside."
"No kiddin!"
"And who do you suppose won?"
"I give up."
"Me."
"You? But you're female homo!"
"What I'm trying to show you is," said Helen, "that being a lesbian is a private matter and it does not show on a girl's face or in the way she walks nor in the attraction that her ass has for a male's pinching fingers. Do you want me to show you my bare ass right now, before all my black-and-blue marks fade, so you can see for yourself that…"
"No, no, someone might walk in," said Pawling hastily. "But if you'd like to drop around after hours? Listen, this fancy condom. See? Look, ain't it hairy? It's got more than one thousand stiff hairs cemented to it, and when you get that in your cunt you are going to…"
"I hope you find some other cunt, Mr. Pawling. I hope your prick gets plenty of exercise. But do be sure not to put on that condom inside-out. It will tickle you so much, you might die laughing. Meanwhile, if you are going to fire me, let's get it over with."
She walked out of Security in civilian dress. But still, Pawling had made sure she had his private telephone number, just in case she ever changed her mind about having a good dinner and then having a wild night with the aid of a super-tickler.
At first Helen thought she would get a job with another airline. But really, she had had enough of hostessing.
She found a job at Marshall Field's, selling lingerie. A straight female clientele, of course.
Except for the embarrassed male who might sidle up to her counter and whisper, "Need something frilly in black lace for a – a – an amateur theatrical."
He meant for his girl friend to parade back and forth in, of course, and help him get another hard-on after the second coming.
Or the guys who said frankly they wanted to get their girl friend something reckless and revealing that might change her character. Get her, y'know, interested in love, like. Meant they weren't getting it, or weren't getting enough of it.
Or the guys who came back the next day to return a hot black-lace number because it was like the new bikinis. A girl couldn't wear one unless she shaved down there. Seemed some girls didn't think shaving down there worth the bother. Maybe it was the new way to tell a fella to take off and keep flying away.
Or the occasional guy, often well-dressed and with a magnificent briefcase, and he walked all around Lingerie, looking for courage. Then he asked Helen to try on brassieres till he found one he thought was the kind his wife (oh, yeh?) had tried to describe to him before trusting him with her shopping. His wife was so busy, poor dear preparing her dogs for the dog show.
A couple of times, when she didn't have other customers waiting and the buyer was out of town, Helen did drape a few bras across her blouse. But then one of the guys wanted her to let him watch how she put a bra onto her bared breasts. Her beautiful big high-riding breasts, said this breast fetishist, drooling.
He offered her fifty dollars an hour to come to his apartment some evening with an assortment of revealing bras and try them on. On the naked breasts, of course, because he was so anxious to please his wife.
At first she refused. But her salary didn't cover her expenses and rent was terribly high for a single girl even though she had a roommate (female).
So one day, she said what the hell, it's not that I'm selling my body or anything like that.
"Okay, Mr. Wiskett, but if your wife is not at home I'm walking right out, see?"
Hamilton Wiskett lived on the 49th floor of a slender, svelte co-op building that looked out over the lake near the Elks memorial.
The Wiskett apartment reflected money and an artistic taste, although perhaps not a very good one. They had filled it with statues of nudes, some men, some women. They had nude paintings too, and Mrs. Wiskett – for the man really had a wife – confided that she liked to look from their back window at Chicago's tall buildings downtown, because they reminded her of so many erected penises. Well, one made allowances for the buildings that were too thick to make a penis of practical use, so to speak.
Now Helen knew why they lived in a tall, slender apartment house. And it was round, beside.
As fetishists go, they seemed well mated. The husband went around town bothering lingerie saleswoman, and the wife went around looking for a statue of a male nude with a hard-on.
Mimi Wiskett had been a bit pissed of bourbon by the time her husband came home with Helen Troy in tow with her stock of brassieres. When they settled down for a drink, preliminary to having the bra try-on, Mimi had more bourbon and got pissier.
She asked Helen to call her Mimi, and after a bit she confided something of her life's story.
She said she had had four brothers, so she got to know what a penis looked like and balls too. But she never could see any of her brothers when he had a hard-on.
A couple of times she had walked into the male dormitory, as they called the large room where the brothers slept before any of them married. And there they were, tickling each other around the balls or helping each other jerk off. But they wouldn't let her look. They said it wasn't nice for a young girl to see a man with a hard-on.
She said, well, she had seen them running around naked between the bathroom and their bedroom and if she could see them without a hard-on why couldn't she see them with a hard-on?
They said, no, and all she had to do was to go to the museum and look at male nudes, the ones that had forgotten to put on their fig leaves, and she would see plenty of marble pricks and balls but she would not ever see a statue with a hard-on. That was because it was not considered decent to show a man's stiff prick in public.
So she made a ten-thousand-dollar bet with her eldest brother Toby that somewhere she could find the statue of a male nude with a hard-on. The bet was to run for twenty years. She really was becoming desperate to find a statue that had a hard-on. Often, if she heard that some art dealer had a male nude statue, she would buy it sight unseen. She couldn't very well ask him in advance if the statue had a hard-on, could she? After all, she had her reputation as a lady.
Maybe she was a three-crack woman, thought Helen. A crack along her cunt, a crack along her ass and a crack in her head.
Finally everyone agreed they should get on with the business of the evening, which was bras, or, more accurately, breasts, tits, boobs, or whatever your favorite word may be for those wonderful bumps that girls carry in front.
Mimi had no objection to her husband's viewing Helen's bare breasts. She didn't even object to his personally putting on each bra and taking it off, during which time he made sure to finger Helen's boobs and worm a finger across each nipple.
It had been difficult for Helen to arrange to borrow two dozen assorted bras from the store. But they would be happy tomorrow when she brought in Ham Wiskett's check, because Mimi decided to buy the entire batch.
But first she made sure that Mimi tried-on every one of the frilly, peek-a-boo creations.
"You see, dear," she murmured to Helen, "I'll get a thrill out of wearing bras that you have worn on your perfect, perfect, lovely breasts. We both wear the same size but my breasts droop while yours stand up so proudly, and oh, dear, your breasts just put mine in the shade."
Mimi asked Helen not to redon her own bra until she had felt her pectoral muscles and had received advice on exercising for a firm, high bustline. Helen had learned all about that in the Wanderlust hostess school.
While Ham was trying to find his checkbook, Mimi hefted and tested and pressed and bounced Helen's breasts. Then she asked Helen to come to her bedroom, where she had a full-length mirror, so she too could strip to the waist and compare her breasts with Helen's, side by side.
Helen began to feel warm in the crotch.
She made sure she had Ham's check tucked away before she went into Mimi's bedroom. The couple had separate rooms.
"Let me try something," said Mimi. "I'll kiss you here" – just below the nipple – "and then I'll kiss myself in the same spot and see if the difference in firmness can be felt by the lips. Because the lips are our most sensitive feeler, Helen dear. I always believe what my lips tell me."
She kissed Helen's left breast near the nipple and said, "No, I don't think that's the right place." Helen quivered.
She kissed the breast near its top, in the area generally exposed by an evening gown, and said, her voice growing shaky: "No, that's too high." Helen felt moist in the box.
Mimi bent and kissed Helen's breast way underneath and said, her voice so shaky that she hardly could form the words: "That's… so sweet… I think the nipple area, after all. Look. See how I can kiss my own nipple?"
Her breasts were so floppy that she was able to turn one up and by craning her neck and pursing out her lips, kiss the nipple and run her tongue around it.
"Do you mind if I sit down?" Helen asked tremulously. She knew where she wanted to sit. On the bed. She had gone too far. She could not stop now. She was Mimi's.
"Why don't you sit on the bed, dear?"
Again the older, flabby Mimi eyed Helen's figure hungrily as she once more sucked her own nipple, did it again, said breathlessly, "Okay, now I can remember the feeling of the breast, right there."
She held her nipple in her mouth while her skirt, which she had unzipped at the side, slowly slid down her legs.
"Oh dear," she said, laughing a little. "Now, why don't you take off your skirt too, so you won't have the advantage on me? I'd like to compare legs with you anyway."
Helen rose, slipped out of her skirt and without allowing herself to think slipped out of her panties too.
"It's warm in here, isn't it," Mimi breathed, her face hungry with desire.
She slipped her own panties to her feet and kicked them away.
Her eyes went glazed. Her hands went out almost as though she were blind. She half-felt her way to Helen's side, where she suddenly came-to as she sat beside Helen, their hips touching. That was when Mimi dropped all pretense and with a gasp of desire went open-mouthed for Helen's breast.
For the nipple. She took it in deeply. She tongued it. She gasped, "Oh, how I love you, how I love you!" and swallowed the nipple again and the portion of delicate flesh around it.
While Helen sat dazed in wave after wave of hot-flushed passion, Mimi kissed her all over her breasts, then went to her lips and sucked hungrily at them. Their tongues intertwined. Their tongues and lips created hot shivers and long surging billows of tremulous desire. Even Helen's ass quivered, and her toes and her fingertips tingled with passion.
Suddenly Mimi was pushing Helen down toward her lap and moaning, "Please, please!"
Helen slid down in front of her and Mimi lay back. Helen didn't like the slack skin of the inner thighs she found here, especially when she compared them to the taut silken litheness of Carlotta's body… Carlotta, her last lover, oh, so many weeks without the precious sensation of another body to share her want and need! The cunt lips were growing moist and she added the moisture of her own tongue, lapping frantically all over the folds and recesses of the vulva. Muskiness filled her mouth and the scent in her nostrils made her head whirl.
She tongued the tunnel, evoking a gasp of pleasure from her new sex partner. She tried Carlotta's trick, taking each outer lip, in turn, within her lips and pulling it across the center of the cunt.
Whatever she did brought gasps and cries from Mimi, interspersed with moaning whispers: "Oh, how I love you! Oh, what a darling girl you are! Oh, I want you to stay with me, I don't want my husband profaning my body any more, I only want you, you, you!"
At length Helen's own cunt cried out for attention and she settled herself with a knee on either side of Mimi, who lay on her back, and presented her cunt to the gaping mouth below it.
"Press down," murmured Mimi.
Helen pressed her twat down upon Mimi's mouth and was rewarded by a firmer contact with the tongue that eagerly sought to lose itself in her hot, moist, depths of vulvae excitement. The feeling in Helen's cunt felt somewhat like warm molasses with electricity running through it. It felt like a tornado whirling inside her womb, and whirling faster and faster. It felt like honey drip-drip-dripping. It felt. It FELT. She thought she would float right out over Lake Michigan on the wings of that tremendous surge and swell of pure wild pleasure.
When she felt herself near coming she wanted to prolong the pleasure. Mimi was just a second ahead of her in suggesting sixty-nine. Helen turned and quickly got in the sixty-nine position she had enjoyed so much with Carlotta… and others.
Mimi quickly entered into the spirit of the thing. Each cunt now had a busy tongue flicking it, and each cunt now seemed to be racing the other toward a great and growing blaze of lustrous silver light.
"Good, good, have at it, girls, you're both going to sleep well after this session of cunt-bunting."
Ham Wiskett had walked in noiselessly, on bare feet, being naked. All Helen saw of him was his hairy legs as he climbed onto the bed, which groaned beneath the triple weight.
Helen lay on top of Mimi, so Mimi's ass was out of reach while her own firm pink buttocks offered a resting place to Mimi's husband.
All in one motion he separated Helen's ass cheeks, slathered her with something greasy, worked some into her rectum while she felt Mimi gripping her to hold her helpless.
Then he was pushing the head of his prick at the tight ring of muscle that controlled Helen's bumhole. Insistently and remorselessly he was forcing his way in.
"Goddamn fool," said Mimi indistinctly, her lips moving against Helen's twat as she spoke. "I'm under here, you dope, and I can't take your weight on my mouth. What do you want to do, ruin all my bridgework?"
"So move her down a bit, my sweet."
Helen wanted to get away but Ham had her pinned through the ass and his weight upon her. Mimi squirmed her face up between his legs, so she could breathe and also not ruin her bridgework.
"Suck my balls while you're there," Ham ordered.
He pushed down slowly, slowly into the ring of sphincter muscle that gave him a delightful sensation as it slipped upward along his prick. He made sounds of eager enjoyment and pinched Helen along the ribs as though to invite her to enjoy with him.
She would rather have hit him with a chair, but she could barely move.
She had to endure the slow, remorseless invasion of her rear by Ham's slick and relentless prick.
When he had sunk all the way in she felt the tickle of his pubic hair upon her ass cheeks and heard him say to Mimi: "I told you she would have a good ass to fuck."
He slid in and out, zing, zang, whoops-a-daisy. He had used a lot of grease, which made it a little more comfortable than a dry fuck in the rear would have been, but still Helen felt far from comfortable.
And yet, as had happened at the time of her rape, when she had been sixteen, despite her resentment she began to get used to the sensation.
She began to understand why women (and men) can order, by mail, sent in a plain wrapper, objects of penis length and texture, made of plastic, and provided with changeable heads. As with condoms, there are prickly kinds and knobby kinds and spiral kinds of interchangeable heads for flexible plastic penises, and still other sorts, to suit anyone's taste.
She even had seen pictures of monstrous knobs that it seemed impossible to fit into a rectum. The trick was, those knobs folded back under pressure, than sprang out to their full exciting dimensions once they were deep inside.
Ass-fuck is simply not appreciated. It had taken a lot of brave women (and men, one should not forget) to allow their rectums to be penetrated and their lower intestines filled with prick, before it got whispered around that the asshole and what lies below it are very sexy areas.
You only have to grit your teeth and bear pain the first few times. After that it feels better every time. Soon it feels real great.
The fucker, of course (the live fucker, whom many prefer to a plastic prick) benefits by the tight sphincter that can be made even tighter through a natural effort by the fuckee. No cunt muscle can approach this tightness. On the other hand, the ass is not equipped with the cunt's lubricating glands, nor with the cunt-odor that in itself seems to whisper, "Come on and fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Cunt and ass present an interesting choice. A good cocksman can avail himself of both. Two holes to one come. Include a good suck and you have it made.
But not all people have the same sexual tastes.
Ham now pumped away, and Mimi encouraged him despite Helen's groans and her plea for mercy.
"Go it, boy," she cried. "Bang that bunghole. Crash that keister."
"Put your finger up my ass!" gasped Ham, now pumping furiously.
Helen couldn't see, but she supposed that Mimi somehow managed to do penetrate his asshole with a finger.
"Fuck me!" Ham Wiskett shouted.
Quite a circus. But it was what he wanted, to be fucked in the ass while he fucked in the ass, and really, he needed another man with a tremendous prick, not a woman's finger. But again, each to his taste, thought Helen in a few seconds of being able to think clearly.
Then Ham whammmed her again, off on his final sleigh ride, getting his prick up into areas where he surely hit the remains of her lunch. I am going to smash him on the head with a handy sized statue, thought Helen as she received the bang-bang corn holing. No, I am going to choke him with a brassiere. Then I am going to pull Mimi's hair out by the roots. Her twat hair too. She trapped me!
Somewhere in the mishmash of fucking, squirming, bouncing and gasping, Ham Wiskett came, howling. Mimi patted his back and soothed his exhaustion. "There, there!"
Eventually they let Helen roll herself off the bed and stand, woozy.
"Take a shower," offered Ham generously.
"Let me out of here," whispered Helen through the hair that fell over her face. "Let me OUT!"
"Ah come on," said Mimi, standing naked in her naked husband's embrace. "That's the only way he can get his rocks off, don't you understand? So what if! Meanwhile I had a little girlish fun."
"It's wonderful when a man and wife understand each other," said Ham.
Mimi kissed him. "Isn't it, dear?"