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And with every millimeter his lips traveled along the silken skin, excitement rose in Helen's being. She felt her pulse in her cunt, going faster and faster.

She thought in her dream – as she sometimes thought when quite conscious – that although a woman's lips can thrill a breast and madden its nipple, a man's lips feel infinitely better. Because it all ties in with the hairy chest, and the way one's breasts flatten against that chest instead of merely meeting some other woman's nippled softness. And ties in with the strong arms that do not coddle one, but instead thrill by being hard and angular and different from a woman's, oh, so titillating different.

And the belly above one's belly has ridges of muscle. How could you conceive of having a soft belly pressed against yours? It's your business being soft and cuddly, not your lover's! Wonder of nature's greatest invention, the male prick.

Away with women!

Captain Hastings' manly lips traced a trail of fire along the swell of Helen's breast, and when he reached the nipple, he said, "Takeoff point."

But he landed his lips on the yearning nipple a few seconds later and said, "Landing, flaps down," and took that well-treated nipple into his mouth again.

She wanted to tell him how good it felt, but she couldn't talk because it felt so good.

And his prick had hardened against her cunt.

It lay pointing downward, its top pressed against her cunt. Her cunt began to bathe it.

"Ah, Cleopatra on the Nile," murmured her lover. "Thus she wafted her aroma of love to Julius Caesar, tong ago."

"Oh, Hank, Hank," she sighed dreamily.

"Thus did Josephine, the torrid West Indian Creole, signal her love to Napoleon, and gave him her silk kerchief drenched in her juices to wear as a life-protecting charm in battle."

"Oh, Hank, Hank, don't ever let me go."

"Mmmmm. Ahhhhh. Thus does the graduate Wanderlust hostess on my 797-X charm the male passenger into imagined seductions, mirages of belly-bouncing and ghosts of climaxes upon her lovely bod, on and on and on."

"Oh, you Hank! You're talking business!"

But she'd laugh as she said it, hugging him closer, getting another kiss.

And going breathless when he went at her cunt with his strong, bony fingers. When he trailed a finger up and down the slotted center of her eager twat. And when he replaced the finger with his entire palm, which he rubbed excitingly up and down and then made to travel in circles that never left her pudendum, and against which she pressed upward in a trance of delight.

And when he backed off a little to let his prick spring up from its partial inhibitment against her cunt. Now it lay upon her belly. Captain-sized? It reached well past her navel.

When her wonderful lover drew back a few inches to get into ramming position, his prick left, within her navel, a drop of fluid, like a kiss of promise.

The prick of her dreams now had its big knob of a head against her clitoris. The two exchanged throbs of passion and longing.

The prick of her dreams, guided by the firm hand of the man of her dreams, slid insinuatingly downward along the slot, probing, probing, now just within the outer lips, and sending radiations of thrill in every direction.

Found the place.

Pushed.

Filled the top of the glabrous tunnel while that glorious hunk entwined her again in the convolutions of a soul kiss.

Slid deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper! She found herself biting his shoulder in her wild excitement, and knowing that she only increased his passion. And then "Hey!"

A man snatched her off her feet and a car stopped alongside with shrieking brakes.

Its driver looked as though he was going to make a scene about this jaywalking woman, for Helen knew now that she had been walking in a dream. But Captain Henry Hastings in his gold striped uniform and gold-crusted cap said, "No need to make an issue of it, I am sure."

"N-no sir."

The car went on.

And, yes, this was Captain Hank, now in the present, when she was twenty-four, a hostess of experience, a fired lesbian hostess, Captain Hank who had saved her life.

He escorted her to the sidewalk and walked her along with his big hand beneath her arm till she got over her fright.

And looked up at him wonderingly.

"Don't you live around here somewhere?" he asked with his wonderful smile. "I was going to track you down and ring your doorbell."

She walked along beside him, at first having to lean on his arm because her legs were unsteady. But soon she felt better and at the same time became aware of the strength in the arm that supported her. His arms were as sinewy as she had dreamed.

It was odd to walk along in a public street, fully dressed, with a fully dressed man, yet seem to have been naked in bed with him only a few minutes ago.

She felt so dizzy and so wonderful and so lost and so found and so ashamed of herself and so happy to be alive, that as they walked she told him all about her dream.

Helen told Hank how, in her dream, he had walked invisibly past all the guards and straight to her bed in the hostess training school, six years ago.

And about how easy it had been to solve the problem posed by a narrow bed by simply having him lie on top of her.

"Naked?"

"Naked."

"Go on. I like this story."

"It's a dream."

"Dream it again."

How he kissed her and how he made takeoffs and landings from her breasts with his lips, and how she simply dissolved into a quiveringly ecstatic typhoon of ecstasy.

And how he had fucked her. Which had made the previous ecstasy not so much after all, once the fucking ecstasy took over.

"A dream, you say, Helen?"

"Such a beautiful dream."

"Well, let's make ourselves the charming couple whose dreams come true."

"All right. Sure. I mean, hey, why don't we?"

"If you'll stop here for a moment," Hank said a bit breathlessly.

They paused in a doorway. She knew he wanted to kiss her. He did. He also felt her up. His hand on her breasts had clothing to cope with, but the warmth came through from his hand to her nipple and went out from her nipple to his fingers.

He pressed against her so that she felt his hard-on against her crotch, clothing or no.

"Later," he whispered.

"You bet."

He knew she still felt shaky. Swell-headed though he was, he had his considerate side.

They went on to a restaurant so high-perched and so candle lit and so dreamily set to view the city and the lake and the sky, which had a rising moon in it, that its name did not matter. All Helen wanted was to be there with Hank. She never even found out the name of the wonderful wine he ordered. But it was good.

And Hank got good service. "Yes, sir, Captain Hastings."

He knew she was slowly coming back to herself. She told him the story of the transvestite and they had a good laugh together. But she did not feel like saying much. She hardly could think beyond the fact that Hank Hastings was going to lay her that night. This would make the second time, or the third, if you counted the dream.

The first time had been so very long ago.

He drew an envelope from his pocket. "What I was going to ring your bell about. You see, I stopped them from mailing it to you. I said, no, I wanted to deliver it to the best hostess I ever had, and that I still thought they had been crazy for firing you. Also it saved the President from having to write an embarrassing sort of letter. Embarrassing to him, I mean."

"Hank, what's this all about?"

"Well, seems you have won a prize from Wanderlust Airlines."

"Huh?"

"Probably you don't even remember entering the prize contest that the President set up about a year ago. Each employee to tell the company about some big profit-making opportunity it was neglecting."