Chapter 8: Flying Lessons

Our airplane was a Cessna 172—high wing single engine monoplane with four seats. The back was filled with cartons of books, films, and photos. The old me, Donald Knight, had a few hours in an L-4 Grasshopper and a Bf-108 Taifun. I had passed my written tests and just needed to accumulate hours as Jackie Dunn. Billie and I wore blue coveralls and Wellingtons.

And we wore Ruger .22 automatics under our coveralls. Nine-shot magazines, but otherwise very similar to the Colt Woodsman or High Standard sporting pistols that I sometimes carried on assignment and often used for pistol practice.

“Here’s your knives,” Athena handed me that silver-colored Victorinox Pioneer, a Swiss-made boy scout knife issued to Swiss soldiers. She also gave me a Black Cat, the K55K, a German-made flat folding knife. “You seem to like European weapons.”

“Jackie has spent more time overseas than here in America,” Billie reminded her. “I’ll stick with my Camillus.”

“Give me a kiss, girls,” Athena ordered. We complied—a three-way embrace with my kiss becoming something more. Athena stopped me. “Whew! You’ve been training Jackie well. Keep up the good work, Billie.”

Minutes later we were lined up on the runway. It was my first take-off with tricycle landing gear. Soon, we were winging our way over the mountains en route to Chicago. I was racking up hours in my logbook. Billie was instructor-rated.

“Too bad we can’t fly naked,” Billie complained. “I really hate wearing clothes!”

“It’s kind of hard to conceal weapons without clothes.”

“So says the girl who killed six guys with her bare hands,” Billie snickered. “You are about as helpless as the Marines, twin!”

“As usual, you win,” I grinned.

“Ever hear of the Mile High Club?” Billie asked. She had to explain it to me. I swear that my ears were burning because of my abysmal ignorance—not because the actions embarrassed me. “This plane is stable but there’s no autopilot. We can make out a bit. Hold this course while I get undressed.”

Why argue! I found Billie’s body quire attractive. I lacked the words to describe how aroused Billie became when she finished undressing. No underwear—nothing but her flight suit. Where was HER gun, I wondered? Not that we’d encounter anything at eight thousand feet that we could use a gun on—I was concerned over nothing. Billie handed me a strip of velvet-padded black leather.

“Will you accept me as your slave, Jackie?”

It took me a moment to recover from my shock.

“I’d really like that, Billie,” I admitted. Yes, I was conflicted. I loathed being under someone else’s heel. On a whim I accepted because Billie looked needy. I couldn’t’ refuse her on two grounds. I liked pleasing Billie. If I didn’t accept her as my slave, she might seek someone else. I made up my mind to take care of Billie for the rest of my life, however long or short that was. “I’ve never had a slave before.”

“First things first, Master. Put my collar on.”

Afterwards, Billie curled up in her seat and placed her head in my lap. I was as if I had a large cat cuddled up against me. I stroked her bare shoulder. She shivered.

“Cold?”

“I just had a mini orgasm,” Billie explained. “I could do this forever.”

We flew on at a cruising speed of 140 MPH for the next four hours. With obvious reluctance, Slave Billie dressed, and we landed, refueled, and visited the ladies room. The café was open. Pie and coffee and we were back in the air. After we got into the air, Billie undressed again.

“How do you like being a girl?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” I said. “I distanced myself from my feelings in 1936. They seem to be coming back, but I divorced myself from my feelings as a survival measure.”

“I know what you mean. I used to do that. It caught up with me,” Billie didn’t elaborate. I touched her flat chest, stroked a nipple, and she writhed and moaned. “Wake me in three hours.”

When someone gives me time, I look at a watch—in this case, the dashboard clock. The drone of the engine, the darkness broken by stars above and artificial lights below, and where is that moon? Billie’s face was pressed against my belly. I don’t know how she managed, but Billie was comfortably relaxed curled up in her seat, her head in my lap. I was feeling things and recognizing my feelings. I hadn’t felt that way for nearly thirty years, when my sister had fallen asleep curled up in my lap while we were listening to Mother reading us a bedtime story.

I woke Billie after three hours. She poured and drank some coffee from a vacuum flask, dressed, and I was impressed with how hot the coffee remained after over four hours in the jug. It struck me that we were quite domestic as Billie talked me through a landing just after midnight at a small airfield to refuel. We stayed only long enough to fuel up, check the plane for damage, pee and leave. No coffee.