Microburst Read online

  Contents

  LICENCE NOTES

  HI FROM TELMA

  SOMETHING IN THE AIR

  MICROBURST

  MORE FROM THE AEROROMANCE SERIES

  MICROBURST

  By Telma Cortez

  Copyright © 2012 by Telma Cortez

  Aerosexual Series©

  AeroRomance Series©

  Discover other titles by Telma Cortez

  Adult Reading Material

  *****

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Kindle.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dear Reader,

  Aviation is a strange world and the kinship you feel with your fellow aviators is unique. Entrusted with a fifty million dollar plane, you and the rest of the crew take it far across the globe and if you are lucky, you deplane somewhere nice, knowing you have a job well done and proud of it. And the best part is, you did it together.

  When you meet fellow aviators in a bar, or on a social occasion, you immediately are closer once you learn they either are, or were, airline crew. Its this bonding that often leads to the intimate moments we enjoy and that you will experience when you come with me and the rest of your crew on our Aerosexual, or AeroRomance adventures.

  Please enjoy a very personal story from me: Microburst.

  Telma Cortez

  xxx

  Telma Cortez is the Senior Flight Attendant for VisionAire, and she meets every kind of passenger, handling every kind of pass lustful men can invent. Everett Samson is not like other men, there’s something more to him that draws Telma… into something much more serious than a casual dalliance.

  MICROBURST

  We may have already met, but I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Telma Cortez, Senior Flight Attendant for VisionAire and I’m an AeroRomantic and of course, an AeroSexual. I’m one of the fortunate few whose vocation and avocation are intertwined so closely as to be inseparable. I’m a woman whose Spanish heritage is evident in my appearance, I’m small and dark, and I’m told my long straight black hair and my flashing dark eyes are attractive to men. I certainly get a great deal of attention, but I’ve always attributed that to the fact that in the air, I’m often in a state of arousal. Specifically on those long haul flights where the pace is slow, with the prospect of a night or two somewhere exotic. See what I mean about being fortunate?

  Usually I write about the escapades of my co-workers, but I have a personal story that I want to relate, a story that I honestly would never have imsgined a week ago. You might find it difficult to believe that a woman who makes her living by flying (I’m also am a privately licensed pilot) would experience terror on a normal flight, but I do. What enables me to keep doing my job is my complete faith in the pilots (all personally handpicked by Charles Stross, our CEO) and the unbelievably professional maintenance crews at every airport we service. Charles never skimps on equipment or personnel, not for any reason. He’s the sole owner of VisionAire and as such he answers to no boards or stockholders. Charles will accept a lower profit margin rather than stint on anything regarding his airline… He’s a true aviator in the sense of the word, like the pioneers of old who understood what it means to own an airline. As a result he has the best, most experienced, and the most loyal aircrews flying today.

  And he’s hot as hell.

  Where was I? Oh yes, I get terrified when we encounter severe wind shear. There are all kinds of wind shear and neither you nor I are meteorologists, (and if you are, great, email me with simple explanation) so I’ll leave the instruction to the college professors. All wind shear doesn’t frighten me, but when the aircraft plummets suddenly in-flight, or we go through severe turbulencia, I search for that face of utter calm and confidence, belying my inner feelings so I might settle the passengers. I tell them what I told you, our pilots are the best in the air. The wind shear that troubles me though is called a Microburst. It can occur anywhere but we encounter it most frequently on approaches to one particular airport, KCI. Kansas City International Airport.

  Its the old case of where not to build an airport. Some Einstein decided to put it right where the great plains meet the rolling hills of Missouri, estupendo. Microbursts are sudden downward thrusts of clear air that can grab an aircraft and slam it into the ground. On that happy note, such a crash is not a regular occurrence, but violent drops are not uncommon. Take me to the fairground and fire me off on a roller coaster, I love it. But honey, that’s what rollercoasters do! Dear god, airplanes are meant to glide gracefully towards the earth, while you and I enjoy the in-flight entertainment in whatever form it takes, not plummet a hundred feet leaving yours truly swimming in midair with my dignity wrapped around my head along with my skirt. Are you seeing my point now?

  So I brush myself off, fix my hair with a flourish before calming and reassuring the passengers.

  These days there are all sorts of sophisticated equipment to detect turbulence, and the pilots are trained to react to Microbursts, but sometimes it just catches you totally off guard. I was giving the last call for drinks before we started to descend from 35,000 feet to KCI on a flight from New York. I was delivering a vodka and orange juice to an incredibly striking passenger, and taking my time because he definitely had raised my libido by several degrees.

  He had a handsome but rugged face and the lean rangy body of a cowboy. There was a tiny shock of gray at the temples of his wavy black hair, and when he looked at me I felt naked… and I didn’t mind at all. I spend most of my earnings on clothes, its my weakness, but what this man was wearing made my pulse race. One of the most expensive hand tailored English cut three-piece I’ve ever seen. Startling white French cuffs peeked out from under the sleeves of his suit coat to reveal gold cuff links with some sort of logo on them. A heavy gold Breitling Chronometer just like our Chief Pilot wore graced his right wrist, not his left. His big hands bore the traces of hard work, but his nails were manicured. He wore hand lasted cowboy boots of some exotic leather. Everything about this man screamed culture and class, until you looked at his gray eyes and the go to hell set of his jaw. Gorgeous and scary.

  I’m no rookie when it comes to men, but this specimen brought my heart up into my throat and made my knees tremble. And when he spoke, Madre de Dios! He sounded like that actor Sam Elliott on one of the western movies on TV. I swear if he had ordered me to sit down and make love to him I would have! As it was, he had ordered vodka and orange juice, and I was taking my time mixing it for him… I really wanted to get to know him.

  The Microburst came on us without warning and the world fell out from beneath me. I crashed into his lap, spilling orange juice all over his perfectly pressed suit, and incidentally pressing my breasts against his firm chest. Our lips were mere inches apart and my fear must have been obvious despite my best efforts, because he wrapped his arms around me and held me tight.

  There was never a blink of fear in his eyes as we fell for what seemed like hundreds of feet. I felt the pilots raising the nose of the aircraft about fifteen degrees and heard the rush of the jets going to full power and the bird recovered after long heart stopping moments. I was shaken, but it was my responsibility to get everyone seated and reassure them that it was just a minor difficulty and that it had already been taken care of. I did my job, but I could still feel his arms around me, reinforcing the calm my training and experience had given me.

  We landed at KCI with no further incidents and I watched as the Fi
rst Class passengers departed. Glancing at the manifest I noticed that his name was Everett Samson. He was approaching me and I was racking my brain to come up with some excuse to start a conversation with him. I felt like a silly schoolgirl. As I was about to open my mouth the cockpit door opened and Captain Edwards beckoned me inside.

  My passenger heartthrob was forgotten in a split second as I saw the blood splattered on first officer Swift’s white shirt. Ron Swift was a new co-pilot, ex-military and very starchy but we were gradually bringing him around. “Oh my god, are you all right?” I asked as I turned to get the first aid kit.

  “No, we already took care of the first aid, Telma, but thanks. What I really need you to do is go below decks to the crew rest area and bring Ron a fresh shirt and a handful of handi-wipes so he can clean up. We can’t have him walking through the terminal looking like this,” Grant said. Grant Edwards was our new Chief Pilot and was steel to the core. “I wouldn’t bother you, but I’d rather the other attendants didn’t see him this way either. It’s nothing major, but the CAT (clear air turbulence) caught him by surprise and he bit his lip. It looks nastier than it is.”

  As I made my way down to the forward hatch and the lower deck, the handsome stranger was completely out of my head.

  There were already two other aircrew members in the rest area and I just grabbed Ron’s overnight bag and a box of the handi-wipes and rushed back up the ladder to the cockpit.

  “Thanks Telma,” Ron said in a thick and muffled voice. I could see how puffy and bruised his bottom lip was and I felt so sorry for him. Remembering belatedly that I had left the front exit unattended, I rushed back out of the cockpit in time to see that Trella had taken my place and most of the passengers were already off the aircraft. My face fell as I saw that my handsome passenger was already gone.

  Trella turned to me with a white card in her hand. “Telma, some guy left this for you and asked if you’d be free to join him for a drink after the flight… god he was gorgeous!” Trella gave me a sly grin. “I didn’t tell him anything except that I’d give you his card. He said he’d be in the restaurant for a while if you would please join him.”

  I’m a mature, intelligent, fun loving woman, and I’m very much aware of my sexuality… so why was my heart racing as I entered the KCI restaurant? Two steps inside and I spotted him sitting at a table speaking with a waiter. He rose as I approached and took my hand in his, gently, though not as if he was afraid I would break. I couldn’t help a slight shiver of pleasure at his touch and I don’t think he missed my reaction. A slight pang of irritation flashed through me as he smiled. He was so damned sure of himself! What is it about arrogance in a man? In some men it’s annoying as hell, and in some it’s almost an aphrodisiac. This man’s arrogance fit him somehow.

  My irritation passed as quickly as it had arrived as the waiter brought back a single red rose in a vase, a split of a very fine Argentine champagne, and two fluted stems. “I took the liberty of ordering a drink and a snack in the event you decide not to accept my invitation to dinner,” he said. “My name is Everett Samson.”

  “I know,” I murmured, “I read it on the manifest Mr. Samson. My name is Telma Cortez.”

  “I know,” he murmured with a smirk, “I read it on your name tag.” I blushed, and then, I swear, I giggled like a high school cheerleader.

  We shared a laugh then, amused at our own timidity. Neither of us was timid by nature and it seemed as if we both were aware that something unusual was happening. The waiter brought out a very nice wedge of Stilton and some crackers, as well as a tiny pot of Beluga Caviar. I hardly tasted any of it. Everett was witty and charming and he treated me as an equal.

  He asked me about the CAT and it turned out that he had, as I do, a private pilot’s license and had experienced his own difficulties with wind shear and Microbursts. Soon we were chatting away as if we’d known each other for our entire lives, and I was more and more drawn to this gorgeous man. I even forgot I was still in my uniform.

  The champagne and cheese, as well as the surprisingly delicious caviar were all gone and he suddenly sat up straight in his chair. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, “I never asked if you have anything planned for this evening. Do you have some place you need to go or something you have to do?” I told him that all I had to do was check into the Westin Crown Center in Kansas City (I told you Charles doesn’t skimp on his aircrews, and besides, he owns a good sized chunk of stock in that chain) and that I had nothing scheduled for the next four days. “I’m booked in the same hotel. Would you like to join me for later? I used to live in Kansas City and I know the best places to eat.” I told him I would love to have dinner with him and we rode to the Westin in their own shuttle limo.

  We checked into our rooms at the front desk of the impressive hotel. There was a full-fledged waterfall in the lobby that fell from the top floor to the bottom, and the rooms were arranged around the free space so that every single room had a view of the impeccably lit display.

  “Which do you prefer,” he asked, “One of these fancy places that steam three pieces of asparagus and serve it with a rare piece of beef that has a French name I can’t pronounce or do you want a real Kansas City meal?” I laughed and told him the truth, I may be small and dainty, but I love to eat. Everett laughed then. “I thought as much, so jeans it shall be.” We arranged a time for him to meet me in the lobby, and then discovered to our chagrin that we were only two rooms apart on the same floor.

  I answered my door an hour later and was as impressed with Everett in his casual attire as I had been with him dressed in his tailored suit. He wore faded denim jeans and a similarly faded chambray western shirt open at the throat, and a blue corduroy sport coat. His feet were clad in the same fancy handmade Mexican boots and he wore a very expensive but old and well-worn Stetson hat. What was amazing was that he made the tux wearing denizens of the lobby look like rag pickers… he just naturally carried himself as if he owned the place.

  I was surprised to find that he had rented a vehicle, and even more that it was a pickup truck. I have to confess it was a very fancy pickup truck, but it was still a bit of a shock. He opened my door and I climbed up into the high seat, giving Everett a spectacular view of my denim clad butt and my running shoes. I wore a dark blue turtleneck sweater that really made my small breasts stand out, and the jeans were snug but not tight. My long hair was pulled to one side in a Liza Doolittle ponytail… I had taken his suggestion at casual dress at face value. The end result was that we were going to be very comfortable for our first real meal together.

  Everett seemed to be as familiar as he said he was with the streets of Kansas City, and he reminisced as we drove past some of the more famous name restaurants in the city. He turned onto East Eighteenth street and drove through some dubious looking neighborhoods to a brick restaurant with a large number of cars parked around it. The smell outside was absolute heaven.

  Inside, the floor was covered with cheap, light colored linoleum and the tables were stainless steel with red Formica tops from the sixties. There was a counter about thirty feet long and several large men were opening steel doors in a monstrously long brick oven, large knives in their hands as they trimmed dried and blackened pieces of barbecued beef off the rounds and butts. The bits and pieces were tossed in a stainless steel tray at the front of the counter where a hand lettered sign read “Burnt End Sandwich $2.50.”

  “Do you want to taste something totally amazing?” Everett asked me. Wide eyed, I simply nodded yes. He ordered two of the combination platters and a burnt end sandwich. We took the two gigantic platters to the end of the counter, where a smiling girl greeted Everett by name and placed two huge glasses of iced tea on our trays.

  We sat at a table by the window and Everett took the greasy bag with the burnt end sandwich and opened it. He took out two pieces of plain white bread and lay them on a paper plate, and then pulled out a folded piece of what looked like kraft paper and began to fork out pieces of the burnt en
ds of the meat from the oven. He stacked the meat at least three inches high and there was still more left in the package. There were three kinds of barbecue sauce in plastic ketchup bottles and I picked the regular instead of the mild or the spicy. Everett capped the sandwich with the second piece of bread and cut the whole thing in half, handing me half of his creation. I bit cautiously into the thick sandwich, uncertain as to whether Everett was playing a trick on me. What I bit into was the most incredibly delicious barbecue I had ever tasted. I gobbled the rest of my half down in seconds, and was licking the barbecue sauce off my fingers. The platter was even better, and neither of us bothered to talk as we obliterated the food in front of us. I felt so stuffed I could barely move.

  We took a ride through the downtown area, which was surprisingly pretty at night, and cruised around looking at all the fountains. Outside of the city of Paris, I had never seen so many fountains and statues. Kansas was a surprise. We stopped and parked in Westport and took a carriage ride. The night was cool and glorious, and I snuggled close to Everett in the night air.

  Our first kiss was tentative, searching, and outrageously erotic. One moment I was gazing into his steel gray eyes and the next moment I closed mine as his soft full lips molded to my own. Everett was a man who knew how to take his time with a kiss, lingering over it and savoring each minute detail. I realized that one of the characteristics of this man that appealed to me most was that he was very tactile. He wasn’t grabby or forward, but he had constantly touched me unobtrusively from the time he had picked me up at my hotel room. He offered me his arm when we walked, or placed a large warm hand on the small of my back. He touched my wrist or my forearm when we talked. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but sometime during the evening the constant attention transitioned, at least in my mind, from friendly to erotic. By the time he kissed me I was dying for the taste of his lips.