Seat

Single Engine Aerial Tanker. All of the participants in this story were aged 48 or over when the events depicted in this story took place.

1397 words, a 'Mile High Story' reject.

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Jamie broke through the radio traffic and called out my target and the Initial Point using my tail number, "Two." She was the "Air Boss," sitting behind Lillian in the rear seat of "Four," calling out the hot spots as she observed them. I was following George in "Three." He had just dumped 820 gallons of lake water on the inferno. Paul, arriving from civilization in "One" - our only single seater - was giving his expert opinion on the wind's speed and direction over the fire after watching the smoke and George's last run. All while everyone was reporting their fuel levels to him.

We had a fancy - read: unnecessary and expensive - electronic "Dispersal Management Computer," but the nearest weather station was 150 miles away and 2000 feet lower. The terrain and intense heat from the forest fire created a local weather system here that bore no similarity to the numbers we were given. So, we had to trick the computer into giving us a good "dump profile," what military guys call an "aiming solution." Lillian made her long approach and skimmed the lake surface. Seven seconds after her scoop entered the water, the overflow vent opened directly in front of her windscreen providing her with a very localized rainstorm.

Her tank refilled, Lillian rose into the air and set her course to attack the hot spot Jamie had just called out to me. I set my DMC with our wind guesstimates, my course heading, airspeed and water volume - which I checked visually through a large window in the center of my instrument panel. I made my IP and flying at one-hundred-twenty miles and hour sixty feet above the ground I touched the button when the target entered the crosshairs projected on a sight. It was far more complicated and less accurate than the "archaic" etched parabolic lines in the Catalina.

With flaps at twenty degrees, I was pushing the stick forward to counter the aircraft's desire to rise as it lost 6800 pounds, more than its empty weight, in mere seconds. The tanks empty, I rose and made my way back to Paul on the course Jamie had given us. It was a five pilot job, the Air Boss keeps us all safely away from each other flying a "racetrack" course, and picks out the targets, three pilots scoop water, dump it on her targets and return, while the fourth in the single seater spends half his time fighting the fire and half running back to town to provision us.

I landed in the lake near Paul who was beached, and taxied over to him. The single seater has a fuel transfer pump and a coiled hose taking the place of the rear seat and baggage compartment of the two seaters. The main tank can be blown out with compressed air and carry either enough Jet-A to refill all four aircraft or a full water load. I extended my wheels, came ashore to his right, cut power to my 1350 shaft-horse-power Pratt and Whitney turbo, and watched the nearly ten-foot diameter five-bladed propeller come to a stop.

Working together it only took a couple of minutes for us to pop the access hatch, open the single point refueling cover, stretch the hose and run the pump to transfer a couple hundred gallons of fuel. I barely had time to take a couple of steps on the sand, unzip my one piece fire retardant sweat/flight suit, and relieve myself. As I finished and zipped up Paul was stopping the pump. I uncoupled the hose and screwed the cap on it to keep it clean while Paul rolled it back up. Then he goosed my ass and gently stroked my left nipple rings under their Nomex covering as I closed the access hatch.

He handed me a bottle of water, and I kissed him deeply before I climbed back into the cockpit, buckling myself in and grabbing the "hot-start" checklist. George and Lillian would be landing soon and, thanks to Paul's fuel run, the three of us now had another four hours or so to move the lake onto the land one long oval at a time. I started the engine as I had shut it down, with the big prop at zero pitch and then reversed it to back off the beach. "Three" was landing and we passed one another as I positioned "Two" for takeoff.

Penises are very useful things - not just for nocturnal, and diurnal, pleasure - but for urination too. Not having been born with one, I often see clear advantages that Paul and George take for granted. Like just "whipping it out" when time is short. Many of the ex-military aircraft that I have flown were built with "relief tubes," small funnels attached to a hose and pipe arrangement so a male pilot could unzip and urinate while flying. Fortunately the Soviet Space Program showed us gals a fun workable solution.

This morning we rose at o-dark-thirty, to fly here to the middle of nowhere, To fight the fire as the sun rose, we aren't set up for Instrument flight, and engaged in multi-aircraft Visual in the near complete darkness to stage for the battle once day broke. Before we did, Kristin got me ready for my busy day. After a cup of strong coffee, I laid across the sturdy kitchen table with my legs spread and she used a small tube of HR to lubricate her little finger before pushing it into my urethra. Pinching the head of my clitoris and rolling it just a little, she worked her digit into the smallest and tightest of my orifices.

Her little finger was moving in and out of me and the stimulation she was providing to the bulbs located on either side of my urinary opening was driving me mad with desire. Each push in compressed them sending electrical impulses from my nerve endings to the pleasure center of my brain. Then every pull repeated the biological-electro-chemical process. I was panting and drooling and soon my overstimulated glands dumped a copious quantity of a very thin lubricant all over Kristin's hand.

Leaving me on the table recovering from my first orgasm, she went to get a small box from the closet. When she returned she showed me the items that she would use to get me ready for work this morning. There was a medical catheter, and a small stainless steel item that looked a little bit like a skinny oval beetle walking on six legs. Then, she lubricated her longer, and thicker middle finger and proceeded to unceremoniously push it into my urethra. More intense in-and-out followed with me coming again and squirting her again.

This time she used the lube that I provided to coat a stainless steel plug that was shaped like three co-joined golf balls before she inserted it into my vagina. Then she lubricated the end of the urinary catheter and pushed it slowly, steadily into the still quaffing opening that her middle finger had just vacated. Once it was deep inside, she stopped and used a syringe to fill the bulb which was now located in my bladder with water. The point was to expand it, keeping it in place to hold the tube and sealing my urethra to prevent leaks.

Over time we had dilated my hole and it now accepted the larger size catheter with a larger bulb. One that I could really feel inside me, especially once she it was weighted. She slipped the "beetle" into my slot and threaded the catheter through a hole in its center. A rubber band over the tube prevented movement and then a couple of heavy lead fishing weights were threaded over the end, held in place by the clip that prevented the flow of urine. Then she unscrewed the balls of my six labial rings, removing them one-by-one and slipping the 'legs" of the beetle through the holes screwing the beetle's balls on the ends.

My cunt was occupied, my clit head blocked from direct access, my labia minor trapped and my labia major locked into place. My bladder held a large indwelling catheter which was tied to the lock and weighted. It was a penis of my very own, not as useful as George's or Paul's, except for urinating but functional for a long work day.