Mile High Nylons - Part 1 SeXStoRY

As the private jet reached cruising altitude, Steve finally allowed himself to relax; regardless of how regularly he flew, take-off and landing always made him nervous. Admittedly, the luxuriant surroundings of this chartered plane tempered his anxiety a little; it barely shuddered as it lifted off the ground, slicing through the air with the precision of a craft designed meticulously for comfort and speed, and the plush seat on which he sat hugged his body without the need for the belt. Ms. Thorpe was indeed a woman of refined taste. One had only to look at the quality of her product, at the range and success of the company Steve’s advertising firm was about to get into bed with to promote their newest line, to see the kind of superiority that Miranda Thorpe created as standard. He was being flown in style across country to meet tomorrow with Ms. Thorpe, to pitch a portfolio of ideas for marketing her new lingerie line; the meeting would make or break the contract between the two firms, and he hoped to high heaven that his proposed campaign would satisfy her. From a professional standpoint it meant an influx of cash from one of the most lucrative companies on the planet; from a personal view, to spend six months shooting with models in the kind of sensual clothing that Liquid Velvet made would be a dream come true. When the plane levelled out he finally began to relax, but nothing could prepare him for the soothing effect of Ms. Thorpe’s dedicated in-flight team. When boarding he had met only one of them, but now they were a trio, a heavenly band of sky maidens here to serve his needs. They emerged from the curtain at the front of the cabin, walking in practised, elegant unison on legs that seemed never to end, slender yet strong, encased perfectly in black seamed holdups, the band of which peeked from beneath the hem of their uniforms. Each wore matching black heels and velvet gloves, and upon their heads was perched a hat like a cherry atop a delectable treat. Ms Thorpe had selected them to appeal to any follicular pigment preference he may have: Helena’s blonde bob hung at her jaw, contrasting against full, bl**d-red lips; Veronica’s raven tresses cascaded in curls down her back; and Juliette wore her silky auburn hair in a coiling plat that d****d over her shoulder, the vibrant red hair in contrast to her freckled, dove-white complexion. Were he to be honest, he had always preferred blondes, but he certainly was not going to quibble or hurt anybody’s feelings. Each of them was a vision of feminine perfection, chosen as the cabin crew for male passengers to put them at total ease, though the swell of indecent thoughts that roiled in Steve’s mind were not doing much to leave him composed. “How are you feeling now, Mr. Johnson?” Helena asked, striding behind his free standing chair and sliding nimble fingers against his tailored suit, showing a surprising amount of strength as she kneaded the tension from his shoulders; today had been a day of meetings, last minute checks and preparations, and with tomorrow’s big meet hanging over him it had not been conducive to relaxation. These ladies were to take care of that. He moaned involuntarily at her deft ministrations, feeling his muscles relax. The stresses of the day and the prospect of tomorrow began to evaporate. “Much better, Helena, thank you. But you girls really don’t need to – ” “You’re relaxation is our goal, Mr Johnson. Ms Thorpe wants you to have the finest flight possible and the best night before your meeting tomorrow. She takes care of her clients.” On cue, Veronica produced an ice bucket with a full bottle of champagne and Juliette conjured a glass as if from nowhere, and he watched the bubbling liquid fill the flute to the brim, a small frothing drop spilling onto the redhead’s hand. With an innocent smile she ran her tongue against the cream to keep it from falling to the floor. She handed him the glass. “Enjoy.” He sipped at it, the act of taking in the delicious beverage easing him before even a single bit of alcohol entered his system. He took in every inch of the girls before him, their slender beauty and those legs, wrapped in the finest black nylon, black seams running across calves and thighs and vanishing just beneath the hem of their skirts. Getting this account was such a desire because it would bring him into contact with girls like this every day. He didn’t care how hot-bl**dedly male or chauvinistic that made him sound; he was the perfect gentleman when the situation called for it, but like any straight man he adored feminine beauty. Soft, rhythmic and wordless music drifted through the cabin from hidden speakers, and as Helena worked the stresses from his shoulders and neck her colleagues began to sway in time to the beat, hips rolling, bodies coming into contact as if they were slow dancing in a nightclub to arouse onlookers; it was certainly working. He shifted uncomfortably, still too self aware. Helena’s hot breath and soft voice gentled tickled his ear. “Relax,” she insisted. “This is all for you. Everything that’s coming.” Her hands slipped around his neck and sank to his throat, deftly unbuttoning it the top of his shirt, those cool fingers vanishing beneath the silk, nails gently raking the hard flesh of his pectorals. Veronica and Juliette ground against one another with more fervour now; the brunette clutched the redhead’s buttocks and Juliette responded by lifting her leg, her skirt rolling back across her thigh to fully reveal the complex stitching of her holdup band as her leg hooked around Veronica’s waist. Steve tried to fathom the situation. Were they air hostesses who doubled as lapdancers, or perhaps even e****ts? Or merely the latter playing a role? It was futile to imagine, and would wreck the illusion. Surrender to it, Steve thought, testosterone and arousal blotting out any sense of propriety or logic he may have had. If Ms. Thorpe has laid on this treat, it would be rude to turn it down. Veronica held Juliette firmly as she arched backwards, leg still hooked against the brunette’s thigh, holding her in place as she bent with a gymnast’s flexibility. Her platted hair snaked against the floor and gravity snatched the hat from her head. Showing off her core, she whipped back to standing, giggling at her own skill, and as if with pride Veronica’s ruby lips brushed against those of her agile friend. Glistening lips parted to allow their tongues to forage, meeting hungrily, both of them quickly flushing with passionate energy. Helena’s breath was hot against his neck and her lips closed against his, kissing the finely shaven area as she scratched his chest, the rasping sensation of nails against gym-sculpted musculature and waxed flesh coupling with the two-girl show before him to bring the tension back, but this time it was all below the waist. The dancing girls were quick to notice and broke their clinch, striding to either side of his chair and, in perfect synchronicity, raising their outer legs and perching them on the armrests, giving him a close up view of their legs, wrapped so succulently in expensive nylon, the height of their six inch black heels drawing out the tautness of their calves which he so desperately desired to touch. He reached gingerly for them, and the ladies made no attempt to move. The pads of his fingers caused that marvellous friction of flesh against nylon, and they traced the seams up across the crooks of two delicate knees; he grew bolder, squeezing the flesh of the underside of their raised thighs, hands drifting closer to the goal of their nethers, both hidden beneath dark, flimsy panties. He loved the look of a lady in hosiery of any sort, and the feel of nylon was like heaven to him. For him it was the very definition of femininity; a women accentuating her natural beauty with decorative and sensual clothing, heightening the pleasures of the flesh with intricately crafted garments and creating a perfect visual and tactile experience. Tactile was the word that brought him from his revelry as the statuesque vixens pivoted at their narrow waists and clutched at the bulge in his crotch, sharing the duties evenly to unveil his hidden weapon; Veronica unclasped the belt and slid it fluidly from the trouser loops, while Juliette popped the button and unzipped. They exposed his expensive white underwear and gently raked perfectly manicured nails across the swell of his lust, eliciting a seething rasp from between gritted teeth. The brunette worked her fingertips beneath the elastic of his briefs and eased it slowly downward to unveil his hard manhood, seven and a half sturdy inches that was being invited to heaven. With an approving smile, redheaded Juliette gripped it by the well-shaven root and stroked it with devotion, allowing Veronica to work the head between thumb and forefinger. Steve’s last shred of propriety evaporated as he ran his hands across the girls nylon-coated calves as they ran theirs over his erection. From behind him, Helena unbuttoned his shirt all the way down, scraping nails against defined abdominal muscles, encouraging her friends to do the same with their free hands. As they took over, Helena came around and lowered to her knees between his legs, her lipstick glistening, her eyes hungry and full of promise. “Relax, Mr Johnson,” she winked. TO BE CONTINUED More stories at my blog: cameronlincoln.wordpress.com