3:00 PM MONDAY - NOVEMBER 5

I woke up on Monday at three o’clock in the afternoon. On a different day I would have sought out my big brother George, and seen if he had a little time to make love with his little sister. George is the very best big brother any girl could ever hope to ask for. I may have been the one that seduced him ten years ago, but he knows me better than I know me. He knows what I like, what I want, and what I need. More than that he truly loves me, and he tries to give me exactly what I need.

George has this gift, what some might call a super-power: vision. Not comic book x-ray vision, something real and far better, attentive vision ... He pays attention to me and notes how I react when we are together. He gently pushes my boundaries in the direction that my reactions indicate, then he waits for confirmation, and adjusts his actions. My body reacts to his touch like Pavlov’s dog reacted to that damned bell.

But today was Monday, which meant Katherine and Gabe our parents were in town. Although I would be with George in a few minutes, we would not be alone. It was not a hardship giving up some alone time. I wanted to spend some time with mom and dad watching them enjoy their four grandkids. Their grandchildren being our children. So I got dressed and inquired of Kristin where the wonderful man we shared, my big brother, her husband was. Then I walked down the street to the neighborhood park and playground.

Kristin was making Jambalaya, a spicy Creole recipe of chopped chicken, shrimp and andouille sausage. It would be stewed in a pot with sweet red bell peppers, tomatoes, onion, celery and garlic. It was seasoned with spicy tabasco peppers. Jamie and Lillian were helping by mixing a batter that would be cornbread muffins when we gathered together for dinner at six that evening. One of our planes left at seven o’clock every evening, 363 days a year, so dinner was always at six sharp.

It was a sunny 45 degree day in early November in Bridgeton Terrace, a suburb just west of the airport in Saint Louis Missouri. The kids were playing on the playground structure; they had another two hours of daylight remaining. Mom and dad were having fun with George’s two children with Kristin, his one with my Jamie, and my child with Punch. Eva, home from her studies at Eden Theological Seminary in Webster, was there with our other four children.

Biologically our kids are all siblings, cousins and half-siblings, to one another. But more significantly they are all the precious children of God. We seven adults all consider ourselves to be brothers and sisters in Christ and to one other. Therefore all of our children are brothers and sisters to one another as well. George had been talking to dad for some time. He told me we had to find some time to talk later. We both had flights tonight, at seven and nine, so it would have to be tomorrow.

We had a wonderful dinner back at the house, all of us together. It was a little crowded but having seventeen together all in one place was heaven. After dinner George drove over to the airport, he had the seven o’clock flight to the west. Dad excused himself and took a little nap before I drove him and mom to the cross dock to pick up their over-the-road tractor and semi-trailer. They would drive to Arizona before turning around Wednesday night.

They would be back in Saint Louis late Friday night or Saturday morning. For them life was four on, three off every week. It was eerily similar to our weeks here, three on, two off. As they pulled out of the lot dad drove and mom slept. They would switch places down in Springfield or Joplin around midnight. After saying goodbye, I continued on to the airport, I had the nine o’clock flight south. The kids should be in bed and asleep about the time I lifted off.

Punch had the eleven o’clock flight to the east, so once the children were in bed he was able to join in this evening’s playtime with Eva, Kristin, Jamie, and Lillian. We usually used the larger, rectangular servant’s room off the butler’s pantry for our playtime. George and I would just have to go without tonight. My six wonderful lovers spoil me, I hate to go even a day without their affectionate touch.

The flight south was to Cape Girardeau (CGI), Jonesboro (JBR), and Little Rock (LIT) then returning to Saint Louis (STL), was usually a ten hour duty day. Five of those hours were loggable in the air time. A late fall storm to the south of us made it a longer trip tonight.

The ground crew was apparently unable to get to the Cape Airport in the storm. So I was alone getting the many large white cotton bags that we were not allowed by company policy to call “mail bags” off of “Ferdinand,” my airplane tonight. I left them on the concrete hangar floor there at Cape.

Not that the actual Cape on the Mississippi River still exists; it was dynamited into oblivion a century ago in the name of progress. Having successfully left those items that wanted to be in the town named for Jean Baptiste de Girardot; I was on my way to the town named for Senator Jones.

Our final destination before returning to the town named for King Louis IX, was the town Jean-Baptiste Bernard de la Harpe named for a stone outcropping in the Arkansas River. Well at least nobody had thought to dynamite Little Rock’s rock.

The weather was better as I flew north back to the ‘Lou. Like all urban areas, Saint Louis is a heat island. The masonry, concrete, and asphalt absorb and store thermal energy. Because of the overnight release of this stored heat energy it had remained above freezing there. It had actually been colder south of the ‘Lou, Both Jonesboro and Cape Girardeau had snowfall and worse, ice.

The ‘Lou sits at a geographic point where three weather systems converge. It has predictably unpredictable weather. The predominant easterly flow of winds aloft creates a low pressure area that sucks moisture up the Mississippi valley.

That siphon often runs out of steam right over the city, dumping that moisture as rain, snow or ice. The really nasty weather, late winter storms, tornadoes and other destructive winds usually develop from an occluded front, at the intersection point, coming south-south-west from central Illinois.

I had planned to go home and have a nice shower, and change into something more casual before my ten o’clock appointment with Mrs. Mouequay, Stuart’s first grade teacher. But arriving two hours late back to Lambert there just wasn’t time.

The rectangular clock on the dashboard of my little red Karmann Ghia read nine-forty as I pulled out of the parking lot beside the old Flying Tigers building, and onto Banshee Road, named for James S. McDonnell’s first jet fighter. Ten minutes later having driven south along the perimeter road around Lambert Airport to Long Road and Carollton Elementary School.

10:30 AM TUESDAY

After a mind-numbing conversation with the school secretary. A conversation that would have been unnecessary had they correctly typed the information they had asked us to provide, but never so much as read. I waited to see Trudy Mouequay. Trudy apparently needed someone to read all of those confusing forms to her because Mrs. Sangfroid, the Principal, was in the classroom as well.

After my third explanation to a certifiable idiot. As to why they could either speak to the woman who gave birth to Stuart, or the person that the school specified on the note which Stuart brought home last Friday. The Principal finally said, “we asked you here to talk about problems with Stuart’s Cognitive Development Worksheet and his intrangence in dealing with Mrs. Mouequay.”

“Yes, Stuart said that you seemed really confused,” I replied, thinking that that was a gross understatement. Stuart had been going to school here for five quarters and these morons still didn’t know who his parents were, although it was written down on their own forms, “perhaps I can shed some light on the subject matter.”

“WE are not the ones who are confused,” Principal Sangfroid said.

“I am beginning to see where Stuart’s intrangence comes from,” Trudy interjected.

“Here,” Mrs. Mouequay said holding a mimeographed sheet, “the first, second and fifth questions measure a child’s ability to differentiate fact from fantasy.”

In too small of a chair, I sat in a first-grade classroom, in my polished black low-quarter shoes, my black “oh, girl those make you look so gay” socks, black uniform trousers and white uniform shirt. Silver wings were pinned to my left breast and each of my shoulders held an black epaulette with four silver stripes.

I started to giggle, and then to laugh. My big black leather Jepp case, black uniform jacket, hat and tie were out in the car. That was why they were so confused. The first question on the paper read, “my mommy can fly.” Stuart’s answer of “yes” was crossed out in red.

“What is so funny,” Mrs. Mouequay said sharply.

I said, “I’m a pilot, I fly airplanes for a living.”

I looked at question two, and then read it aloud, “my daddy can fly,” I said laughing just a little more than before, “his father does fly, he is a pilot too.” Question five read “I have two mommies,” I was really fighting the laughter now.

“But you KNOW as well as I do that’s NOT what those questions MEAN!”

I broke into full laughter while looking at them, “I’m really sorry that after my explaining it three times you still can’t comprehend that I am Stuart’s mother. That his other mother is Jamie Saunders, not Jamie Stuart. That Stuart is his first name. But please ... Please let’s talk about Stuart’s imagined inability to process information.”

“This worksheet comes straight from Collingwood Children’s Cognitive Development Third Edition” Trudy said. It now seemed to me she was the one becoming intrangedent.

“But the questions,” I said, “they are just very poorly worded if not clearly wrong.”

“It’s not WRONG! It CAN’T be WRONG!” she said loudly.”It was developed by a TEAM of EXPERTS in childhood cognitive development. YOUR stupid child answered it WRONG! You aren’t TRAINED, you don’t KNOW anything about education.”

I got up and walked out the door. It was almost eleven in the morning when I got back to the big shabby-chic hundred year old victorian we all shared. With its three floors, eight bedrooms, and servant’s quarters, it was a relic from a different age. George and Punch were already home, they had showered and were asleep in those servant’s quarters. No penises for Lisa today.

Lillian was waiting for a call and passing the time swapping spit with Kristin on the sofa in the living room. The pork shanks which they had obviously been working on were sitting marinating in a casserole pan of white wine in the kitchen. Jamie was doing something in the laundry room off the kitchen pantry.

I took her hand, and gave her my best “I need you right now look.” Talking could wait. I led my beloved sister, my sweet lover, through the butler’s pantry to the bathroom between the servant’s rooms. I needed a shower; then I needed a really good hard fuck. I climbed into the shower and a moment later after getting naked Jamie joined me. I kissed her deeply.

“I am so tired of banging my head against a brick wall of stupidity,” I said.

“Same shit?” she asked.

“Same shit, different day,” I said.

She was playing with my breasts and my nipple studs, and she was magically making me feel better already. The hands of a caring lover are truly the hands of God.

“I want to talk to Stanley. Check out some other options,” I said, “if everyone agrees.”

“I’m OK with it,” she said putting my right nipple in her mouth, “never hurts to listen.”

I turned the water off, and we toweled each other off before moving to the counter in the butler’s pantry. Both of the beds in the smaller square and larger rectangular rooms behind us, those rooms having once been the servants’ bedrooms were already occupied. Jamie lifted me up and started licking the parallel folds of my labia. I bit my lip so as not to wake the boys as I came.

Jamie took her braided leather belt from her pants, and tied my wrists behind my back, and then led me to the living room. We were both naked. “Intervention needed,” she called to Kristin and Lillian as we walked through the doorway from the parlor. My lovers pushed me backwards on the soft cushions of the sofa, and Kristin started finger fucking me. Jamie straddled my face and I returned the kind favor she had just offered me, nibbling on her loveliness as it was presented to me.

After Kristin got me all warmed up, Lillian pushed her hand into me and pumped hard. It was heaven; it was just what I needed. A few thrusts and I could not think of anything except Lillian’s expert skilled hand moving about within me and Jamie’s sweet fragrant cunt in my face. After Jamie squirted me and Lillian made me come again Kristin took Lillian’s place.

Lillian stripped and sat on my face taking Jamie’s place. I lapped at her eagerly. After my fourth or maybe my sixth orgasm ... I wasn’t really counting it spoils the mood; I slowly rose from the sofa. Kristin kissed me; she tasted me, Jamie and Lillian together. Jamie removed her belt from my wrists and Lillian helped me upstairs. I fell upon my bed and started to drift off to sleep.

My last waking thought was, we needed to make some sort of a change.

5:00 PM TUESDAY

I woke up on a sunny Tuesday afternoon at five o’clock. Five hours of sleep just was not enough. I needed a cup of coffee badly. Kristin was in the kitchen making Osso Buco alla Milanese con Risotto, bone with a hole in the style of Milan with rice, another wonderous dinner for us. I kissed Lillian who had stayed behind to cover the truck dispatch telephone and was helping Kristin with dinner. George and Punch had the kids, who had been released from school a bit over an hour ago, over at the neighborhood park.

The beautiful smell of pork shanks being tenderized by brazing in white wine, garlic, lemon and a bit of parsley filled the kitchen. Later those shanks, the bones with holes, would be served after being cooked in a sauce of plum tomatoes, diced carrots, onions and more garlic. You really can’t have too much garlic can you. Then served atop rice cooked in beef stock with saffron.

Eva walked into the kitchen, being Eva she was gorgeous, and she was naked. Dinner was always at six so the pilot for our seven o’clock, that would be Lillian tonight, did not have to rush. Since the children wouldn’t be back from the playground for half of an hour, I kissed Eva deeply and used my fingers to play gently with her left nipple ring. I took her right breast into my mouth before walking over and getting her a cup of coffee. When I returned she gave me a tongue kiss and took a sip of coffee.

After Kristin had put everything in the casserole pan she came over and started playing with Eva’s pussy. Eva was sitting in my lap, her head was turned to her right we were kissing over her shoulder. I was holding her atop me as I was playing with her nipple rings. Kristin started two fingering her brushing her thumb across Eva’s swollen clitoral head with every stroke.

Eventually Kristin got on her knees and started licking Eva. My love Eva, she was in another plane of existence. I held her tightly as she was moaning and squirting, coming and groaning and making other cute little sounds. She did not return to earth until we heard the boys knocking on the kitchen door.

George and Punch walked into the kitchen with their posse in tow as soon as Eva left to go get dressed. The boys had walked our children the four or five blocks from Coldwater Creek Elementary. Once the kids were all cleaned up from their outside play in the small amount of snowfall that we had in the ‘Loo today, the children would set the table for dinner.

Kristin had a skillful way of serving a family of fifteen an impeccable dinner. Moreover, she made it all seem so easy. After enjoying it, Jamie gave my brother’s wife a deep lingering tongue kiss as she traversed the kitchen on her way to her car. She had the seven o’clock flight to Springfield. Kristin returned the affectionate kiss by grabbing Lillian’s lovely ass playfully.

George and I helped clean up after dinner before he left to take the nine o’clock flight south. I had the eleven o’clock flight to Carbondale and Evansville, so I was able to join in the evening’s festivities, a fun little game we called ‘riding Punch,’ with Jamie, Kristin and Eva.

Before Eddie Rickenbacker was the President of Eastern Airlines he was a Dayton Ohio race car driver. When the United States entered the maelstrom of that “Great War” over in Europe he trained as a pilot at Kelly Field in San Antonio Texas. Then he went to France to fight in the U. S. Army’s 94th Aero Squadron.

The red white and blue top hat in a hoop insignia of America’s first aviation pursuit squadron was a consistent theme through the faux French farmhouse restaurant I was driving past on James S. McDonnell Boulevard along the northern perimeter of Lambert-Saint Louis Airport, near the buildings those Curtiss Commandos we would be flying next year in the Caribbean were manufactured.

Although the restaurant was right next door to our hanger, we very rarely ever went there. Maybe twice or three times in three years. We worked nights. I have logged 7255 hours in the Beechcraft Model 18, almost all of them IFR, Instrument Flying Rules, flying the “Night Express.”

With five qualified pilots and three airplanes we ran a fixed three on, two off schedule, about 220 times during our three year stint in the ‘Lou. While we flew Eva went to Eden Theological Seminary, and Kristin kept us from going insane. It was institutionalized monotony, we flew that same exact schedule every night except Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

The Beechcraft Model 18 had perfect timing. It first flew just before the Second World War broke out. The army bought thousands as trainers, liaison aircraft and light transports. Forgiving of newly minted aircrew and easy to fly, the passenger versions seated from seven to eleven passengers with room for their suitcases in back.

The Eighteen was a ubiquitous small market feeder aircraft; it remained in continuous production in Wichita Kansas for thirty-five years until the ‘69 Crunch and ‘73 Oil Embargo and its resulting inflation briefly killed general aviation manufacture in the United States. Our three were set up as freight haulers. We could carry an honest ton an honest thousand nautical miles. It was a perfect airplane for what we did with it.

Set up for a single pilot; our three aircraft had a “five pack” and a clock centered on the left yoke. To the immediate right of those were stacked the three IFR instruments, then you had a dozen outside condition, fuel and engine gages in the center. It was truly a one-pilot airplane, the passenger sitting in the co-pilot had only a four instrument “T.”

The radios, transponder, fuel selector switches, engine controls, flap and gear levers, and trim controls, were in the middle console. All the of the electrical switches and circuit breakers were on the left side under the instruments.

My flight east to Carbondale (MWA), and on to Evansville (EVV) before returning to Lambert normally took two and a half hours flying time at 140 nautical miles per hour. We were on the ground loading and unloading for about four additional hours. So having left at eleven o’clock I was back on the ground at Lambert before six the next morning.

I spent a few minutes clearing up some paperwork so I could go home and shower at the same time as George. In the same shower as my big brother who had just walked into the hangar as I was putting the last of the completed forms in their appropriate baskets.