Aisle 13 Part II

[If you haven’t read part I, find it here –> ]

Before he knew it, two more flight attendants were on site to witness the carnage. The three of them, towering over him, pitying him for what was clearly his inability to function normally on an airline flight.

“You will have to come with us, we will find you a change of clothes.” said one of the attendants, with a look of disgust at what her job obliged her to do. Attend to withering men, soaked with their own worthlessness. It was at this point that Graham felt a sense of submitting to what lay before him, this was not expected. Grabbing onto the seat in front of him, he lifted his pooling self to his feet, side stepping as he dripped across the vacant seats.

The gathering of air hostesses in aisle 13 seemed to draw attention from other passengers. Some showed an expression of curiosity, others disdain. Graham was frogmarched to the front of the plane, sodden and abiding, unable to move swiftly as the hot liquid called for a compass like walk, as if all joints in his lower half were temporarily out of service.

The curtain at the front of the cabin was drawn and Graham was once again face to face with his new airline mistress.

“Look at you,” she said whilst shaking her head. “Never have I seen such a pitiful mess”

Graham came to and began to attempt to vocalise his confusion. “Nuh, uh uh” said the attendant, waggling her finger inches from his face.

“You are to be compliant, is that clear?”, Graham began to stutter, “Is that clear!?” she interjected one more time. He knew it was, he was suddenly feeling a weakness in his knees. He wanted to drop down and be smaller than her. He felt smaller than her, she knew it.

She leant closer to his face, her orange neck scarf tickling his unshaven throat. “You will wait in the toilet, until I say.”, opening the door behind his back and pushing him inside. Locking with a single sliding click.

Graham turned to the mirror. His cream shirt, splattered with coffee, clinging to his rotund stomach. His blue trousers gone black and still showing the little dignity he had left. He hadn’t quite noticed however that his dignity had also taken on a more elongated stance, unashamedly declaring itself a beneficiary of the events. Before he had a moment to question his arousal, the door clicked, opening to find his airline maiden thrusting a pile of orange and brown clothing at his feet.

“Put this on” and before he knew it, the door was clicking back into place. Graham did not need to examine the clothes further to know that this was a full air hostess outfit. The side cut blue short skirt, beige tights, a tight-fitting blue blouse complete with rough neck scarf and hat. This had to be a joke, all part of a larger ruse, courtesy of the airline crew. He knew for sure that this was driven by the black-eyed hostess, but could this have been part of a wager? A cheap way for them to get by on their meagre salaries?

Lifting up his work shirt to a reddening stomach, Graham knew he had no choice. His skin was pulsing from the heat and he needed to get into something dry. He peeled off the layers of clothes from his skin, almost hearing his body sigh as the vapor fogged the mirror. Standing in front of the fogged glass, his naked body appeared more circular than linear. Giving no more thought to his unimpressive body and his engorging genitals he pulled up the stockings. Packing his heavy white legs into the smooth finish net and tucking in all that wouldn’t play nicely. Next the mini skirt.

Delighted to see that the skirt reached his waist and hung pressed against his rear, giving him a better shape as a woman perhaps than he had ever been as a man. Followed by the blue blouse, buttoning with a mix of precision and force, compressing his weight into the shirt he supposed was intentionally too small for him, a further twist on this already maddening game. By the time he had reached the top button, he could barely breathe.

Where the uniform pushed the female features upwards into a more pert arrangement, his features seemed to be pressed down, pooling out the bottom. He felt heat rising from his belly to his ears, it was a mix of shame and something else. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Satisfaction? Pleasure? Like this is what he should look like. This is what he deserved to look like. He saw no need to put on the neck scarf and proceeded to collect his clothes and exit the toilet.

The air hostess was not where he had suspected her of being. The pleasure derived from degradation was mixed with her own sense of work compliance. She was in the middle of the aisle, serving two passengers what was undoubtedly the wrong sandwich. She marched back to him with an air of excitement and misguided resentment.
“I am so sorry Mr. Johnson, that is the only available change of clothes we have on board.” And then, leaning in closer so that only he could hear, she whispered, “What a pretty little shit you are”. The games, it appeared, had only just begun.

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