It was the closest I've ever been to hell, and heaven, on this earth.
My name is Christine Wonderle. I'm a divorced, 32 year old small transport plane pilot in Alaska, one of the hundreds of "bush pilots" that earn their living in Alaska, ferrying people and goods from small town to encampment, and back again. Alaska is pretty much as wild as people picture it, with many areas only accessible by plane or boat. I'm good looking, and don't lack for dates, but I'd been working hard on my business, so I didn't get out much socially.
I had been contracted to bring a pictorial team for "Venture" magazine out to a pretty wild part of the state, but a particularly picturesque one. The stay was supposed to be for 3 days, arriving in the mid afternoon the first day, setting up, shooting pics the second day, then returning at first light of the 3rd day. I was carrying a photographer, Mike Shannon, and a young 'supermodel, ' Misty Wikkins, an up and comer in the business. She was supposed to model a series of summer and fall outfits for a pictorial. It was springtime, and darn chilly where we'd be headed.
I'd never met either of them, but I'd done work for Venture before, and knew the routine. I only hoped that turbulence in my Cessna wouldn't cause either of them to get sick. After all, small planes aren't much like a 767! As it turned out, they were both troupers. Unfortunately, just before landing at an unnamed lake identified only by its GPS coordinates, we hit a wind shear and slammed into the lake sideways.
The plane tore off the right wing, skated on the pontoons for about 200 yards, then settled in the chilly water upside down. I had slammed my head against the instrument panel, losing consciousness momentarily, but came to when I heard a woman screaming. I struggled back to consciousness, and took necessary action to aid survivors.
It was obvious that Misty was alive, from her cries in the back. I looked next to me at Mike. I could see from the blank, staring look in his eyes, and the unnatural angle of his neck, that he hadn't made it. Although we were in no danger of sinking as long as the pontoons retained air, water was coming in and hypothermia was an immediate problem. I reached back to Misty, and on feeling my touch, she immediately calmed down.
"Misty, we've got to get out, now," I said. She nodded, and said, "Mike?"
"I'm sorry, Misty, Mike didn't make it. But we can survive, If we do the right things, right now," I said, looking directly into her brown eyes. She nodded again, and I followed my training. We soon found ourselves on shore, with almost no supplies. Soon, we were spotted by a search plane, and picked up, to return to our lives.
A month later, I had worked hard to forget what had happened, and put my life back in order. Insurance had paid for the plane, and I was working to put my small business back on an operating basis.
That's why I was so surprised to receive a call from Misty Wikkins.
"Christine, I'd like to come visit you. May I?" Misty said.
"I'm pretty busy, Misty, I'm trying to get started again, and-" I began.
"Please, Christine, please." Simply that, no explanation of what she wanted. I sighed.
"Okay, if you must. I'm at-" I began again.
"I know," Misty said. What could this 18 year old budding superstar model want with me, an aging female bush pilot? Yes, we had a tragedy in common, but it needed to be put behind us, I thought.
Three days later, I heard a quiet knocking on my apartment door. I opened it to see Misty standing there, much as I remembered her. About 5'9" tall, maybe 95 pounds, long, silken brown hair, deep brown eyes, perfectly complexioned, perfect, white teeth, a modest bosom and perfectly proportioned ass, and an absolutely beautiful face. You've seen her on countless fashion runways since then. She's still a wildly successful model.
I compared her to myself and thought there really was no comparison. I'm 5' 5", 130 pounds, light blonde hair that's already got a few, stray silver hairs, tits that are too big, an ass wider than I'd like, though on the good side, people say I'm quite attractive, though I've noticed faint crows-feet at the corners of my blue eyes. I sighed.
"Uhh, hi Misty, won't you come in?" I said, with as much courtesy as a roughhewn pilot could muster. "Please, have a seat. Can I get you a tea, or coffee, or-" I said, but not knowing how to finish.
"Water would be fine, really," she said. She looked at me then, for a long time, not saying anything, after I brought her a glass of spring water. Finally, though, she spoke.
"You don't remember, do you?" She said.
"Remember what? The crash? The rush to get out of the plane? The rescue? Misty, I can't sleep at night because that's all I think about." I said, with a sigh. "That's all I think about."
"You don't remember, do you?" She said again. "You're blocking out. Think about what you just said."
"What do you mean?" I said. "The whole spectrum of events still parades through my mind. How about you?"
"Don't change the subject," she said. I looked at her curiously. "The whole spectrum, you said," Misty repeated. "But it's not."
"But it is," I said. "From start to finish. Crash, 5 minutes out of my life. Leaving the plane and pulling out essentials, 3 hours. The rescue a few hours after that, 5 hours from pickup to landing in Anchorage. That's it."
"Christine, we weren't found for 5 days," Misty said quietly.
"Oh, god, I, I, don't, know- I don't know what, what you, you mean-" I began. For some reason I started crying. Misty took me in her arms and held me as I sobbed, and I didn't even know why I was crying.
"It's okay, baby, let it out, let it go," she said soothingly. Here I was, a 32 year old blue collar female sobbing and shaking in the willowy arms of an 18 year old kid, with absolutely no idea of what was going on. I felt the brush of her lips on the back of my neck as she held me, and the gesture brought images of lips meeting in passion, of hands softly stroking necks. I don't know where they came from.
Eventually, my soft crying slowed and stopped. I pulled back from her, and looked at her again. Something was familiar about seeing Misty's beautiful, placid face from such a close distance. "It's coming back to you now, isn't it... baby?" Memories flooded my mind now, images of my putting together a small structure to protect us from the weather, of drying out our wet clothing so that we wouldn't suffer hypothermia, of our sharing our bodies' warmth to keep from freezing. And then, our first shared kiss, our thrusting our loins together, and exploding in passion, the feel of her wet pussy as I thrust my fingers inside her. Her cries, and moans, and my equally passionate replies, as we brought each other to orgasm after orgasm in our simple little shelter. Praying for rescue, but dreading it too, as it would mean an end to our... what?
.... There is more of this story ...