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Archive-name: Places/alma.txt


Archive-title: Alma


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 1960's 

that marked the highlight of my brief career in commercial 



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. 


My turn to fly the Atlanta run came up one Thursday. I usually 

got to the field after work, about two hours before the cargo 

would be ready in Miami, and had "dinner" -- which is stretching 

the term, from the vending machines in the lounge.  The coffee 

machine, it was said, served a dual purpose, dispensing battery 

acid for the aircraft as well as slaking the thirsts of the 

pilots.  That night, as I approached the machine, with quarter in 

hand, a voice said "I'll trade you some real coffee and the best 

pastrami sandwich in town for a ride to Atlanta."  The invitation 

came from a short blond named Alma, a "primary student" in our 

parlance: one who was training for her private pilot license.  

She produced a picnic basket, a large thermos and an inviting 

smile.  "OK,"`I said, "but I'll have to call Miami and get a 

weight for the cargo, first."  "For reference, Captain," she 

said, "I'm 112, pounds, soaking wet." 


Actually, the "cargo weight" issue was only a ploy.  If I didn't 

particularly feel like company on a given evening, it was easier 

to decline a request on "weight and balance" grounds.  It also 

aided some rather subtle gender discrimination:  it was amazing 

how often we had room for a 130 pound woman and not a 180 pound 



For Alma, however the weight and balance problem was resolved 

when she first asked for the ride:  she had mischievous blue 

eyes, a button nose, and pert breasts, not well-contained by a 

Harley-Davidson T-Shirt.  I had heard from one of the instructors 

that she was a serious, bright student with the goal -- and 

apparently the talent -- to achieve an airline career. 


At the 'phone, I checked the weather. The short hop from Opa 

Locka to Miami was no sweat.  It was "VFR" -- the initials for 

"visual flight rules," that permitted flying when the visibility 

was greater than 3 miles and the cloud ceiling greater than 1000 

feet. The rest of the route was another story, however.  Atlanta 

was reporting a 500 foot broken ceiling, sky obscured, visibility 

of two miles, forecast to drop to 200 feet and a half-mile in 

rain and fog. The enroute conditions were free of thunderstorms, 

but ceilings along the route were low, typically 300-1000 feet.  

The ride would be smooth, but definitely "IFR" -- Instrument 

Flight Rules --requiring a suitably instrumented airplane and a 

pilot holding the coveted "instrument rating -- which I had 

acquired from eight-months of flying with a hood over my head, 

alongside a sadistic instructor who would simulate every sort of 

system failure known to man. I filed our flight plan for Atlanta, 

with Montgomery, Alabama as a weather alternate, gathered my maps 

-- "charts" in pilot lingo, and returned to the lounge to tell 

Alma she was welcome. 


I loaded Alma in the Travelair's right seat, handed her the 

checklist and fired-up the two engines.  We, used the challenge 

and response system familiar to both of us:  "Fuel on mains." 

"Check."  "Boost pumps on."  "Check."  "Gyro set...."  When the 

gauges read "in the green" Opa Locka ground control cleared me to 

the active runway and I departed with my newly-found friend to 

Miami.  The turn-around there was short, delayed only by our 

ground-handler's hitting his head against the baggage door as a 

result of looking at Alma, instead of where he was going.  We 

reboarded the airplane; as I reached over Alma to latch the 

passenger-side door, my arm brushed the front of the outstanding 

T-shirt she was wearing,  Her reaction was to look me directly in 

the eyes, and smile. 


"Miami Clearance Delivery, Beech Triple Nickel 8-Ball at Butler 

with the numbers."  This was a game.  The same controller worked 

the ground position nearly every night; but would not yield to 

the "triple nickel eightball" informality.  So, as usual, he 

answered with: "Aircraft calling Clearance Delivery, say again 

your call sign."  Resigned to the game, I replied, slowly: 

"November five five five five eight Bravo, standing by for 

clearance."  "Roger, November five-eight Bravo is cleared to the 

Atlanta airport, as filed.  Fly runway heading after departure, 

maintain 2000, expect 4000 one-five minutes after departure.  

Miami departure control, 131.55.  Squawk 0425."  The rapid-fire 

readoff defined our route and direction of flight, the altitudes, 

radio frequencies and transponder codes that would allow tracking 

us on radar.  I read back the clearance to him for confirmation, 

concluding with "triple nickel eight-ball."   The reply was 

"readback correct, five-eight Bravo, have a good flight, ground 

point seven." 


After only a short delay, Alma and I were 25 miles from the Miami 

Airport and cleared to our requested altitude with a simultaneous 

"hand off" to the Miami Center:  "Five-Eight Bravo, climb and 

maintain 4-thousand, report reaching to Miami Center on 133.45. 

Good day sir."  We were "in the soup" -- a combination of fog and 

mist that accompanied the warm front that covered the east coast 

from Miami to New York.  Visibility was limited to the wingtips 

where the red and green navigation lights were visible only as 

large, diffuse colored circles."  We reached 4000 feet, so 

advised Miami, and sat back for a long night of flying as I 

trimmed the airplane for cruise. 


Although we were seated less than a foot from one another, we 

both wore headsets, which, when not being used for radio 

transmissions, worked as an intercom.  I pressed the push-to-talk 

button, and, for lack of a better introduction to the night's 

conversation, asked Alma; "I've seen the new wings in the pilot's 

lounge; who's running for the president of the mile-high club?"  

She replied "they can't elect a president yet; all their flights 

have been illegal."  "Illegal?" I said.  "Yeah, there are only 3 

members so far and they all earned their wings with a student-

pilot."  That was the "illegal" part of it:  student-pilots were 

"signed-off" for solo flights, but were absolutely forbidden, by 

FAA rules, to carry passengers, much less engage in sexual 

acrobatics with them.  "Funny you should mention the club," she 

said, "would you like to see why I asked to come on this flight?"  

Without waiting for an answer, she produced a small black velvet 

jewelry case, and handed it to me."  I retrieved a small penlight 

from my pocket, and illuminated a set of gold wings -- with 5280 

inscribed in the middle -- and hanging below, suspended by thin 

gold chain, three small panels inscribed: "Instrument," "Multi-

Engine, and "Commercial." 


Alma turned to me, unfastened her seatbelt, removed her headset, 

and mine, put her lips to my ears, and said: "I've completed all 

my ground school courses, Sherlock.  I can't think of anyone 

nicer to give me the check ride for my advanced ratings."  I 

turned, in time to see Alma's T-shirt disappear over her head, 

revealing a taut pair of breasts in the red lighting  of the 

cabin.  It was only hours of training that forced my eyes back to 

the panel where I found the airplane 20 degrees east of its 

assigned heading at an altitude of 3800 feet, 200 feet below our 

assigned altitude.  As I banked left and corrected the altitude 

discrepancy, I felt Alma's hand between my legs.  I bent over to 

kiss her and soon received a warm tongue, deep in my mouth, 

producing the clearly intended effect beneath her hand. 


While Alma's`plans were perfectly clear, the associated logistics 

posed certain problems;  the Travelair was a small aircraft, the 

back seats were full of mail bags, and the fact that we were on 

an instrument flight plan, with our progress monitored on radar, 

meant I would have to devote at least some attention to flying 

the plane.  She snuggled up closer and I played with her left 

breast, rolling the nipple between my thumb and forefinger. 


The speaker crackled:  "58 Bravo, Miami Center, now, on 123.35.  

Good day sir."  "58 Bravo, roger, 123.35," I replied, and with 

one hand still on Alma's breast, I reached over and tuned the 

radio to the new frequency: "Miami Center, Beech 5558 Bravo with 

you on 123.35, maintaining 4000, requesting higher."  The request 

for a higher altitude was essential to the matter at hand:  we 

still were below the magic one-mile figure. The response was 

discouraging:  "Unable higher at this time, 58 Bravo," the 

controller said, "you are overtaking traffic at 6 thousand, a B-

747 heavy; converging traffic, an Aztec at 5 thousand, 12 

o'clock, fifteen miles.  I'll try to work out a higher for you 

after Orlando.  Maintain 4000."  I uttered the airman's universal 

complaint for circumstances like this:  "Shit!" I said.  Alma 

laughed, "Relax, Sherlock, it's a long way to Atlanta.  Could you 

turn up the heat a bit."  That was a reasonable request under the 

circumstances:  while I had been talking to the Center, Alma had 

divested herself of all of her clothes and was shivering 

slightly.  I flipped on the gasoline-fired cabin heater which 

immediately filled the cabin with warmth.  I moved my hand down 

to the soft blond hair between Alma's legs, an act that filled me 

with warmth. 


There were equal amounts of passion and humor present now.  We 

were still below the official altitude for mile-high 

inauguration, and I --- and, I suspect, Alma --- were wondering 

just how to "assume the position" in the cramped cockpit.  I was 

reaching the point where the higher altitude was going to be 

needed soon.  We had passed Orlando some time ago, and just as I 

raised the microphone to press the request for a higher altitude, 

the radio came alive "58 Bravo, Jacksonville Center, no joy on 

the higher altitude.  Atlanta Center reports all altitudes above 

5000 are occupied on your route of flight; maintain 4000."  This 

was getting desperate.  Perhaps the airways to our west would be 

less crowded: "Center, could we have a new routing that would 

permit a higher altitude?"  "Standby" was the response, and as I 

set the microphone down, I felt a pull at my zipper.  Alma's hand 

reached in and freed my cock from what had become, by that time, 

almost painful confinement.  Bending down, she engulfed me with a 

warm, wet mouth and began making slow up and down motions.. 


"58 Bravo, Jacksonville.  Clearance."  "Go ahead," I gasped, as 

Alma's ministrations below became more intense.  "58 Bravo is 

cleared to the Atlanta airport, present position radar vectors 

Taylor, Victor 3 Alma, Victor 157, Atlanta.  Maintain 4000 until 

passing Taylor. After Taylor, climb and maintain 6000.  Cross 

Alma at or above 5000.  Turn left now, heading 330."  I grabbed 

my charts to identify the navigation fixes the controller had 

specified --- thinking I had misheard the "Alma" instruction.  A 

warm, bare back served as a convenient chart table.  There it 

was, a fix called "Alma;"  it consisted of a VHF Navigation 

Station named after a nearby Georgia city.  I read back the 

clearance to the Center, set course for Taylor, and sat back 

marvelling at the coincidence of names, and at Alma's talents, 

which were making both of us incredibly hot. As we passed over 

Taylor, I could take it no longer.  I rolled the trim wheel up a 

notch, putting the airplane in a gentle climb, raised Alma's 

head, kissed her deeply and said "sit in my lap."  I slid my seat 

back, Alma pulled herself up by the edges of the instrument 

panel. She said "like this, Sherlock?" And settled a very warm, 

wet cunt over my cock, easing me into her.  "Mmmm, yeah," I 

replied, and she began moving up and down with shallow strokes.  

I reached around her, grasping the airplane's control yoke with 

one hand, squeezing the nipple of her right breast with the 

fingers of the other. 


The red beam from the cabin light, directly above her, gave 

Alma's shoulders a hypnotic, fiery aura.  To her right, I could 

see the "DME" --- the Distance Measuring Equipment indicator ---

clicking off the miles remaining until the Alma VOR.  The plane 

climbed in synchrony with our excitement.  Alma removed my hand 

from her breast, directing it downward between her legs, where my 

finger had no trouble locating her now prominent clit.  

Moistening my finger with the wetness that virtually flowed, now, 

from her vagina, I began rubbing the area around her clit in 

slow, circular motions. 


Only five miles remained on the DME.  I thrust up into Alma, but 

could not penetrate her as deeply as I wanted, because of the 

awkward position.  Suddenly, the navigation indicators swung 

wildly, indicating our passage over the Alma VOR, with the 

altimeter reading 5000 feet.  I was now both over, and in, Alma, 

and cleared for the higher altitude.  Thrusting up again, I 

pulled back sharply on the control yoke, raising the nose of the 

airplane rapidly, and pushing Alma's body down on my cock with a 

force of 2-G's. The altimeter spun up past 5300 feet.  Alma, the 

stall-warning horn and I went off simultaneously.  I pushed the 

nose down just as the airplane complained of its mistreatment 

with a pre-stall buffet.  Reaching around Alma's right side, I 

fire-walled the throttles.  The result was positive G's which 

pushed Alma and me toward the roof of the cabin, with my cock 

still deeply in her.  She gasped, screamed and her pussy 

contracted around me as she reached the peak of her orgasm. 


The rest of the flight was too routine to merit discussion, 

except to say that Alma flew for a while as I used my mouth to 

play with her breasts and pussy.  That little bit of flight 

instruction was revenge: I wanted her to feel what it was like to 

have to concentrate on altitude, attitude and airspeed, while 

waves of pleasure distract you. 


After we off-loaded the cargo in Atlanta, I called back to Miami 

to report that the right engine was running roughly.  "Nothing 

serious," I said, "probably just a fouled plug; but I think I 

should stay here tonight and have it looked at in the morning."  

Alma and I found the airport motel with the 2-foot concrete 

walls.  They were intended to protect guests from the noise of 

the landing and departing jets.  That night, they isolated our 

neighbors from some pretty amazing sounds from within the room.  

Alma proved herself a very vocal, athletic lover.  It wasn't 

until two days later that Alma appeared in the pilots' lounge 

wearing the set of wings bearing the instrument, multi-engine and 

commercial endorsements.  She took a lot of kidding about the 

"commercial" endorsement, but refused to divulge where, when and 

with whom she took the check ride.  I didn't see her again.  That 

week, Uncle Sam decided my flying skills were needed more in 

Southeast Asia than in Florida.  I spent two years flying the 

military big-brother of my airplane -- the Beech Baron -- 

ferrying various important Army types, working diligently to lose 

the Vietnam conflict for us.  After that, I moved to Washington, 

DC as an associate in a large, anonymous law firm.  Partnership 

in the firm came six years later. Although the money was good, it 

came at a price:  the medication I was taking for high blood-

pressure caused the FAA to revoke my medical certificate. My 

flying days were over. 


As the Piedmont jet climbed over the Virginia countryside, my 

reverie was broken by a cabin announcement;  "Ladies and 

gentlemen, this is Al Carey, your captain speaking.  Along with 

our first-officer today, Alma Whitley, I'd like to welcome you to 

the continuation of Piedmont flight 232 to Atlanta.  We will be 

cruising at an altitude of ......"  Alma Whitley.  Damn.  The 

woman had a flair for coincidences. 


I waited until the other passengers exited the long aluminum 

tube, and followed the crew down the jetway.  "Triple Nickel 8-

Ball," I said, coming up behind a slim, short body topped by a 

shock of blond hair.  She turned with an expression that was half 

annoyance, half quizzical.  Then, recognition spread across her 

face in the form of a big smile.  "Sherlock.  My old check 



"Cathy," I said to my secretary on the airport pay phone, "call 

Al Mason's secretary in New Orleans and postpone our meeting 

until tomorrow morning.  It looks like I'm going to have a long 

layover in Atlanta." 



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