The Flight 6

There it was in my inbox, the summons:

"You are to join me in the States for two weeks. Make your excuses to your friends and family. Be convincing. A friend from school is ill, something like that. Be creative.

"When you get to the departure lounge at the airport, go into the Ladies Room. Change into what's in your carry-on. You can wear a coat and heels...stockings and garter belt if you want...but both your cunt and your tits must be uncovered."

No signature, no discussion, just a command. From someone I had never met. Yes, we had chatted online, spoken on the telephone, seen each other on webcam, but never in person. And from someone I had learned to address simply as Lady.

At first I freaked. I wanted to go and dared not disappoint You, but how I could explain this sudden departure to family and work? Whatever excuse I used had to be one that couldn't be discovered to be false later. Work was not a problem, but family was different: dead or ill friends and relatives couldn't be trusted not to phone while I was away.

Then I remembered my ex-neighbour and lover Jean. She would no doubt help with an alibi. I phoned, we talked over old times, and I began to wish she was not so far away these days. Then I put the proposal to her: she had won a trip for two to the States and her husband could not get time off at the last minute, so she invited me to go in his place. Having gained her consent, it was relatively easy to take some overdue time off work. Leaning on my ex to take the kids was harder, but eventually he agreed to both do that and give me a lift to the airport.

The day of the flight was forecast to be hot. "Oh s__t" I thought to myself, how could I wear a coat in this weather? And You were quite specific. A jacket would cover my top, but would it be long enough to get me onto the plane? If not, would wearing a skirt with the jacket qualify as having my cunt uncovered? Probably not. Then I remembered my long red dress with buttons all down the front. If I buttoned it up as if it were a coat, it would be just as revealing. Probably more so, as the material was flimsier.

So I showered, applied plenty of deodorant, and paid particular attention to my pussy so that any smell would be minimised. Then I put on an old bra and panties (if they were to travel crushed up in my hand luggage I wasn't going to wear my nicest), my dress, fully buttoned up, and the 3 inch heels, the shortest You allow me to wear. In my hand luggage I placed a pair of tan stockings and a lacy black suspender belt. The coat I put in my suitcase.

The drive to Gatwick seemed to take forever. As a clever touch, I got Jean to ring me on my mobile to say she had checked in early and would see me in the departure lounge. I tried to relax, but my ex still commented that I seemed preoccupied and tense. I blamed it on everything other than the truth: the thought of near exposure in the airport and on the flight, and, above all, what You might have planned for me for the next two weeks.

Check-in was uneventful, but I wished I had worn the stockings and sussies instead of seeing them go through the security scanner in my hand luggage. Going straight to the Ladies, I stripped off. As I tried to fasten the stockings, my hands shook so much it seemed I would never finish. Eventually I succeeded and put on my dress. I fastened the button over my breasts, one over my tummy, then one just below the crotch, and finally one mid thigh. I then realised the flaw with my plan: unlike a coat it was obvious that I had missed fastening up the dress, and so any "flashing" would be seen to be deliberate and obvious. I hurriedly fastened the other ones between tits and thighs, hoping You would forgive me. In compensation I unfastened another top button, revealing more of my cleavage.

I left the cubicle and looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed and my nipples bulged against the thin cotton of my dress. I twirled quickly, seeing my dress open to mid thigh, revealing stocking tops and a glimpse of suspender. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I left the toilet and walked to the departure lounge. I took a seat in a quiet corner and tried to compose myself. I sat very still, trying to keep as much of my legs covered as possible. I felt very vulnerable but also excited, and to my alarm I started to perspire. I could feel the dress sticking to my back and bottom, and worse, I could feel a stickiness between my thighs.

It didn't help my state of mind when the seats around me began to fill up. I saw several men taking quick but clearly interested glances in my direction. I tried to ignore them, but I was too aware of how small a movement would expose my titties and cunt to them. My nipples began to harden and the heat from my pussy grew. I tried to relax, but crossing my legs only made it worse and I quickly had to rearrange the dress to cover myself. It was definitely not just sweat between my legs- this measured about 6 out of 10 on the wetness scale, and only my nervousness kept it that low. I was glad of the air-conditioning. I felt sure my pussy smelt aroused, but the aroma didn't reach me and fortunately there was no one in the next seat.

Then to my dismay, I realised I couldn't see the departure board from where I sat. Would I have to leave my seat several times to find out when we were to be called to the gate? If so, what sort of sight would I be? I decided to stay where I was until 30 minutes before the flight, and hope that I could go straight to the boarding gate.

The wait seemed endless and I wondered again what power You had over me, to put me in this predicament. How, from the very first unsolicited email You sent me, I felt compelled to respond, to open myself as I have not done for any woman before. My feelings a mixture of excitement and apprehension every time I opened up Your email or saw You were online.

I got up from my seat, pulling the back of my dress to ensure it did not stick to my cheeks. "Board at Gate 33," said the sign. I walked through the doors and onto the travelator, my bag clutched in front of me to prevent my skirt opening wide. Even whilst standing on the travelator I could feel the breeze ruffling my hem. Every 50 yards or so I had to step off and walk gingerly to the next section.

Eventually I arrived at the gate. We were not yet boarding, and I stayed standing at the back of the room as there were few vacant seats and none that were a comfortable distance from an occupied one. After an endless few minutes, the stewardess announced that we were to commence boarding, starting with rows 28-40. My ticket was for row 35. I decided to wait until everyone was in the queue before joining it, to avoid close contact with anyone. However, my plan was ruined as the stewardess called up more rows whilst I was still in the queue. I felt very vulnerable as people shuffled around and occasionally bumped into me, but somehow managed to keep my composure and my modesty.

Walking up the gangway, I was very grateful that we did not have to board via a bus and steps to the plane. The stewardess gave me a lovely smile as well as a hello. Did her glance linger on me a touch more than was usual? Whether it was her smile or the cool of the plane's air-conditioning, I felt my nipples harden and I fought not to blush.

Taking my seat was awful. I kept being bumped by people sorting their luggage, or by the guy behind whenever I stopped in the crowded aisle. I kept dreading that my skirt would get caught and reveal everything. Then I had to stretch to put my bag into the locker, which is difficult to do with one hand clutching a handbag to your crutch for safety! And when I took my seat, I realised I had left my book in the bag in the locker. Was I going to go through all that again or face seven hours with nothing to do? I decided to at least wait for a while.

Besides which, I was a little bit stuck in my seat. I was seated between a 6'3" man who was struggling to fit in his seat and an amply built lady in full chador. I felt them both pressing into my thighs and felt almost naked in my thin dress.

I tried to read the in-flight magazine to take my mind off my situation, but half an hour after take off I had finished. Holding the magazine on my lap, I became very aware of everything around. The smell of the Islamic lady's perfume started thoughts of harems and perfumed gardens and I wondered what she was like under those voluminous clothes. I looked at her, but her eyes seemed impassive and aloof. Did she notice my relative nakedness? Was she offended or jealous? What did the harem women do when alone amongst themselves? Certainly I would be aroused by the close proximity of so much female flesh. Was she also lesbian or bisexual?

I closed my eyes and my thoughts filled with harem girls, myself in their midst, lounging on couches, idly caressing one another.

Just as I felt some arousal and heat in my pussy, the stewardesses started to serve lunch. Putting the magazine back in the seat pocket, I lowered the tray from the seat in front of me. I passed the first plastic tray to the chador-clad lady, who nodded her acceptance but said nothing, and then I took mine from the stewardess. At the best of times airline food is bland, but with my senses all centred round my near nakedness, I can't say I tasted anything at all.

After the meal, the Islamic woman indicated to me that she wished to leave her seat. I had feared this, and found my fears justified. We manoeuvred out of the seats, and I tried not to let my dress open to crutch level, nor disappear up the cleft of my bum.

I realised as I stood in the aisle that I would have to go through this performance again if I needed to go before the end of the flight, so I indicated to my neighbour that he should sit down again and I followed the woman to the front of the plane, hoping that a toilet would still be free when I got there.

This was a vain hope of course, and I stood in the space between the toilets and the galley, once again trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

This hope too was extinguished as the stewardesses made their way past me with empty food trolleys, jugs of tea and coffee and all the other paraphernalia of in-flight service. Every time they squeezed past I felt sure my lack of underwear was obvious.

To my relief, in more ways than one, a toilet became vacant and I dashed inside. I looked at myself in the mirror, and the sight didn't help my composure. My stocking tops were visible through the front of my skirt, the lack of a bra was obvious, and my face was flushed.

Perhaps I could stay in here for the rest of the flight, I thought, and not have to face the journey back down the aisle. But realising this could not be the case, I did my best to settle myself and arrange my dress before returning to the seat.

Rather fortunately the Islamic woman was just in front of me and I took refuge behind her much larger frame as we walked back to our seats.

When we settled down again, I found my dress trapped by the chador and it pulled open to reveal a stocking top and possibly more to the guy on my right. I froze, worried that if I tried to pull the dress free, the act itself would reveal my lack of panties. I glanced at him and saw him looking at my lap out of the corner of his eye, whilst pretending to read his book. Was it my imagination, or was he pressing his thigh harder against mine? I pulled the tray down again from the seat back to block his view. The pressure relaxed, or I imagined it to, and I relaxed also.

I must have relaxed too much because I found myself dreaming, or daydreaming, that my neighbours each had a hand on one of my thighs and were stroking them all the way from my knees to the bare skin above my stocking tops. As I came out of it, I could smell my pussy odour and feel a wetness between my legs. I wondered what would have happened if I had cum while dozing! I was certainly not far off, perhaps 8 on the scale. I glanced at both neighbours, but they seemed not to be aware of me. I closed my eyes and tried to think of the kids, work, and anything else un-erotic to calm me down and keep me out of trouble.

At last the flight ended. Helpfully, my "pressing" neighbour took my hand luggage from the locker, saving me at least one further embarrassment. I still felt uncomfortable with the close proximity of my fellow passengers as we made our way to immigration. I took out Your picture, so that I could recognise You, fearful that You might not spot me in a dress instead of the coat as instructed.

With my mind both on You and on the state of my dress, I was not paying much attention to what was going on around me. Suddenly I felt a hand grip my elbow and a female voice roughly rasped, "Come with me."

I turned my head to see that it was an immigration officer. She was rather butch looking: short dark hair, stocky, almost flat-chested with muscular legs, and I realised as she led me to an office at the side of the hall, she had fairly muscular arms too.

Inside there was a female immigration officer sitting behind a desk with a male officer standing to the side. In contrast to the officer still holding my arm, the female behind the desk was a rather attractive woman in her early 30's, with light brown/blonde shoulder length hair and a full but firm figure. The man was fiftyish, balding, and paunchy. They both looked at me impassively and said nothing.

"Empty your bags on the desk," my captor ordered. I felt myself flush from head to toe as, after emptying my handbag with its makeup, keys, documents, and usual kitchen sink contents, I pulled out my bra and panties from my carryon bag. It was obvious that this was not spare underwear, as any glance at my scantily clad body would confirm.

After I emptied the bag, the attractive female lifted my bra and panties and moved them away from the rest of my things. I tried to avoid looking at any of them, as the male officer checked through my documents and inspected my bags to ensure they were empty.

"You better search her now," he barked.

"Arms out," said my captor, releasing my elbow and pulling my arm up to indicate what she meant. As I did so, I felt the dress rise up a little and open over my thighs. Worse, as it stretched open, my entire cleavage was visible, making it obvious that the bra on the desk was not simply for a change of clothing. The butch officer began to frisk me, at first in the way I had seen done on TV, but then the hands began to roam over my tits in a much less professional manner. To my horror, my nipples responded to her grasp.

"I can't find anything here, at least nothing very much," she said, cupping my small breasts with her hands.

"Well, search her properly then," he replied.

"Take your dress off please, Madam," the butch requested.

"Sorry?" I muttered, not believing what I was hearing.

"Take your dress off, Madam," she repeated. This time an order, not a request.

"But please, not in front of him," I protested, my mind whirling. Why on earth was I in this office? What were they looking for? Was the Muslim woman involved in terrorism and I got caught up in it by being next to her? How would they react when they found I had no underwear? Is that illegal in the States? Perhaps in the South but surely not in California.

"Its OK," said the attractive officer in a pleasant, soothing voice, cutting across my thoughts. "He has been through this many times. He just needs to make sure that we are thorough."

Trembling, feeling dreadfully embarrassed and nervous, I fumbled with my buttons until finally they were all undone. I held my dress together to hide my body, hoping they would relent, but no.

"Remove it from her, Officer Wilson!" the woman in front of me ordered, and a rough hand seized my collar and swiftly pulled the dress off me, leaving me in just stockings, suspenders and heels like some out of place porn star.

"Spread your legs," Officer Wilson commanded. "Now bend over, hands and head on the desk,"

I dared not do anything other than I was ordered. As I bent over, I realised that putting my head as well as my hands on the desk forced me to expose my butt and pussy much more than if I simply put my hands on it. I put my forehead on the desk and closed my eyes, trying to block out what was happening to me. For what seemed an eternity, I could hear no sound or sense any movement. Slowly my mind calmed down into a state of calmness or resignation, I am not sure which.

Suddenly my hair was grabbed from behind and Officer Wilson said, "Look at Officer Young!" I opened my eyes and looked into those of the pretty officer sitting less than two feet away from me. She opened a drawer in the desk, pulled out a box of latex gloves and passed a pair to the butch officer.

I could hear the rustle of the latex as Officer Wilson put the gloves on. I clenched my bottom, an instinctive reaction to the assault I feared was coming. I looked at Officer Young for reassurance but she sat impassively. I tried not to think of the male officer and what he might be doing or seeing.

A few seconds later, I felt a latex clad finger sliding along my pussy lips. Despite my predicament it felt good and I closed my eyes and murmured something beneath my breath.

"Open," I was ordered by the Officer Young. Assuming she meant my eyes, I opened them and looked into hers. However, the other female officer seemed to take another interpretation of this and she poked a finger straight into my pussy. I jerked forward and Officer Young leant forward and held my head between her hands, her eyes now only a few inches from mine.

Another finger was inserted, and then a third. "God," I thought to myself, "I must be soaking, despite my distress and humiliation, for her fingers to have gone in so easily." As I stared into the other officer's now smiling eyes, I felt my arousal intensify. The fingers worked back and forward, and then another, from another hand perhaps, worked its way into my little hole.

"No, no, no," I thought, "I cannot cum like this," trying to fight back my feelings. But the more I fought, the more my being seemed to be concentrated in my pussy and ass. The fingers pistoned back and forth in my pussy, the one in my arse was twisted round and round, and all the time I had Officer Young's lovely blue eyes penetrating mine. I was on the point of giving in and letting myself cum when the fingers were suddenly withdrawn and Officer Wilson said, "She's clean."

"No she's not. She's a dirty bitch," said a male voice.

I wanted to drop through the floor with embarrassment. I had forgotten all about the male officer. I was probably already flushed from the near orgasm, but I still felt myself blush from head to toe.

"Don't pay attention to him," said a soothing voice from across the desk. "Just get dressed and you can be on your way"

"But I am keeping these," said Officer Wilson, picking up my bra and panties.

I got dressed. That is, I put on my dress and fastened it as I had before, looking down at the floor and trying to avoid looking at anyone. Then I put back all the contents of my handbag.

Officer Wilson led me out of the office, reunited me with my suitcase, and directed me to the terminal exit.

It was there that I saw You waiting, looking even more beautiful than in Your pictures or on Your webcam. Overjoyed and excited, a big smile on my face, I rushed over to You, expecting to be embraced.

"You are late," You said.

I could feel the smile evaporate from my face. "I got searched by Immigration," I said, blushing.

"Ah, so you have met my friends, Sue and Janice. Did they have a man with them?"

"Sorry?" I muttered, confused.

"Sue and Janice, the Immigration officers. Was there a male officer with them?"

I nodded, my blush deepening.