Tasting Candy: Over 60 Erotic Pregnancy Stories

Or I could tell you about the time I walked on in to find a movie cast all drunk out of their minds, trashing the plane and fucking each other up, both literally and figuratively. Took the cleanup crew a week to get the cum out of the upholstery, I swear.

But no, that’s not the time that sticks out most in my mind. Nor the dozens of other flights where the rich and powerful went wild, like unchained pubescent boys with nobody to tell them they were being bad.

The time that sticks out to me was when a handsome but unsuspecting man stepped on board the jet. Tall, dark and handsome is the cliché, but that’s what he was. Sleek, glossy black hair, an outdoorsy tan combined with his casual attire made me think he was nobody special, some guest of an important person maybe. A brother of a CEO, maybe.

But I was so wrong.

Unlike the other usual guests, of powerful out of control men, this guy came on, sat quietly and bided his time. When I first came to him he was polite, which was a refreshing change. I know that commercial flights have their own set of annoyances, but I’m convinced you don’t know true annoyance until you realize how callously these people treated their servants. Anyone who was able to hold their tongue and not slap my ass was someone noteworthy to me, but usually meant they were just as poor as I was.

But as I was talking to the captain, he let me in a little something I couldn’t quite believe.

“Oh yeah, you didn’t hear?” he said, peering back at the closed cockpit door. “That’s James Dartmouth, director, author and songwriter. Guy’s been responsible for half the big hits across all three mediums. You never heard of him?”

My mouth nearly dropped to the floor, because though I’d heard of him, I’d never seen him before in all my life. He was a middle aged guy, but clearly took care of himself. And though he was rich, he’d kept his fame low on purpose. He never did interviews or courted his fans.

Down to earth was the term for a guy like him.

Which didn’t make sense to me, since he could likely buy and sell anything or anyone he wanted. Could’ve had groupies and prostitutes all over the plane, making my job a little less fun and a lot more annoying.

Instead, he simply sat, like a normal human being.

“He certainly hasn’t seemed to let it go to his head,” I murmured to the Captain. I suddenly found myself wanting to look a bit nicer, and so I fixed my black belt along my navy dress, cinching in the couple extra pounds that had creeped on me since the Holidays.

I pat my brown hair, making sure it was neat and tidy beneath the little stewardess hat we still wore on this private airline. The men that flew with us wanted to go back to a time when they were still able to get away with cheating and boozing and treating women like disposable playthings, and the airline paid me well enough to put up with it.

Sauntering on back to check on my one and only passenger, he was gazing off out the window, hand to his chin as he looked deep in thought. I’d come back there full of intention to be all inquisitive and sultry, but seeing him so brooding and thoughtful, I felt like I’d be disturbing a precious moment.

Instead, I found myself standing there like a fool for a while. Appreciating the hard line of his jaw, the way his broad shouldered body filled his button-down shirt and pants so well. He was obviously a man who took care of himself, who looked to the basics of life even as the decadence and frivolousness of wealth and power tempted him elsewhere.

I must’ve been staring overlong though, because he turned to look at me, catching my gaze as I stood in the aisle watching him.

“You seem lost in thought too,” he remarked to me, his voice deep and creamy, like listening to him was the same as enjoying a fine Belgian chocolate.

I’d always been pretty good at hiding my flush, and I was grateful for it then because I hated to be caught staring. But he had me transfixed.

“I was just coming to check on you, see if you needed anything. Hot towel, massage, champagne,” I offered. Massage was definitely not on the standard list of requirements for my job, though.

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Can’t blame a girl for trying, can you?

His stony facade was cracked with a smile.

“That’s quite the list of services,” he said, and I worried for a moment that I’d overdone it. “You’re quite the all-service flight attendant, aren’t you?” he remarked, shifting in his seat and looking to me, not as an employee, as so many others did, but as if I was just another passenger. “Tell me,” he said, licking his lips and looking anxious, “what does the crew do up there behind the privacy wall to pass the time?”

Oh lord, on the spot!

If he was really a down to earth guy, maybe he’d appreciate the truth.

“Gossip about how horrid all the passengers are,” I said, forcing a grin to my face so that he might be uncertain if I were joking or not. But then my stomach was in knots and I was wondering if that was really the smartest thing to say.

There was a moment of uncertainty, his chiselled good looks frozen in place. But then suddenly he broke into laughter and was grinning at me widely.

“I figured,” he said, looking at me with such a genuine expression across his face. “Say,” he said, leaning forward towards me. “How about you and I break into some of that champagne the airline is always trying to push on me, huh?” His words said in such a conspiratorial tone, as if we were good friends about to break the rules.

And rules would have to be broken of course, because I was strictly not allowed to drink on the job. Or do drugs, as so many rich guys offered me.

My company sometimes had no idea the things they were asking me to pass up, and the things that were offered to me in exchange for breaking them.