Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess…

by Mandy Smith

  Meanwhile, Brad’s mission to get my phone number continued. “If you won’t give me your phone number, then I’ll make do with an email address?” he persisted. “We can message each other?”

  Eventually I caved in. “Okay, you can have my number,” I sighed. “But I don’t have a pen.”

  “I’ll get a pen, I’ll get a pen,” he said, springing to his feet. I’ll admit, when he ran into the next room I couldn’t help but check out his bum. It was so high and firm I imagined it to resemble sculpted marble in the flesh. He returned a few minutes later, pen in hand and an eager smile on his face. “I’ve got a pen, Mandy.”

  I snatched the pen out of his hand. “Oh dear, I don’t have any paper.”

  Brad slapped his forehead. “Bloody hell. I forgot about the paper … I’ll find some.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, pen poised, I’ll write it on your T-shirt.”

  Brad recoiled. “No way, man, this is my favourite T-shirt.”

  “Forget it then,” I laughed, throwing the pen on the floor. “You can’t like me that much after all.”

  This is the last flashback I have of that party: throwing the pen on the floor and watching Brad’s muscular face drop. I must’ve passed out soon afterwards. I woke up mid morning curled up on a sofa … with Brad spooned behind me. The cheeky so-and-so, I thought. I left him there sleeping and caught a taxi back to our hotel, my head spinning, stomach churning.

  It was my last day in Narita … and I spent it with my head down the illuminated toilet bowl, lemon hais, noodles and bean sprouts exploding from my gut, water spraying my face every time I flushed the loo. It was one of those state of the art Japanese sensor toilets that squirted water up your bum when you flush. I couldn’t keep anything down – not even water. I had to cancel my planned trip to Shinshoji Temple; I was in no fit state to go anywhere. Thank God I’d packed so much in the previous day. In the morning Hayley and I had hit the charming wooden shops of Narita town, where I’d treated myself to a kimono, several Japan Airlines fridge magnets and a few Hello Kitty knick-knacks. The afternoon had been spent trying on puffy dresses at a wedding fair at our hotel. No one had even questioned the fact neither Hayley nor I were wearing engagement rings. She was to be a “winter” bride and I was due to marry my heart surgeon fiancé at a lavish summer ceremony in the Cotswolds.

  Later the next day, when all I could bring up was stodgy, acrid bile, I heard a knock at the door. It was Brad.

  “What are you doing here?” I said, ushering him into my room before anyone spotted him. “How did you get my room number?”

  I had no make-up on and bean sprouts in my hair … I looked terrible.

  “Hayley gave it to me,” said Brad. “She’s still with Paul … I thought I’d give them some space. They’ve been at it all morning – you should’ve heard them. It sounded like someone was being murdered in Paul’s room.”

  Brad strode over to the window. He seemed far too energetic and fresh for someone who’d been on the lash all night. “Lovely view,” he said, then, flashing me a cocksure smile over his shoulder, “Not as lovely as you though.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t give up, do you.”

  He stayed for a while and we got along fine, discussing trips and surfing and exchanging snippets of crew gossip. When he left he asked, very politely, “Can I kiss you, Mandy?”

  “You don’t want to kiss me,” I said. “I’ve been throwing up all day.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said. “Please let me kiss you.”

  I couldn’t kiss him. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. However, I did scribble my email address on a napkin. “You can email me if you want,” I said, passing him the napkin.

  “Unreal,” he said, and pecked me on the cheek.

  I had an inkling I wouldn’t hear from Brad ever again. I assumed a man as good looking as him would have women throwing themselves at his feet and, after my refusal to put out, would simply move on to the next, more willing, candidate. But the day after I returned to the UK, I was surprised to find my inbox flooded with messages from Brad. “Hey Mandy,” he wrote in one email. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I really feel as though we connected and I would love to see you again.”

  In another message he urged me to think about visiting him in Sydney. “I’ll cook for you,” he wrote. “I’m an awesome chef.”

  Inwardly, I was thrilled Brad was still pursuing me. His messages were funny and sweet, and I realised I’d maybe been a bit harsh towards him in Japan. So I wrote back, and over the next few weeks, our messages went from being mildly flirtatious to highly erotic. We began instant messaging on MSN, describing what we’d like to do to each other. He told me about a spot on the beach where we could have sex. We discussed orgasms and sexual positions. “I can’t wait to make you come,” he said. “I have to see you again.” And on that note, I requested a trip to Sydney.

  From the moment I left Heathrow I was beside myself with excitement; all I could think about was getting to my destination and having hot, passionate sex with Brad. I was to meet him at the Shangri-La Hotel, where he’d booked us a plush suite overlooking the Opera House.

  During the two night stopover in Hong Kong en route to Sydney I pampered myself at the local spa: facial, full body massage, leg wax, bikini wax – if there’s one thing a pilot deserves it’s a clean, tidy landing strip – manicure and pedicure. Some of the girls were going for colonic irrigations and tried to persuade me to join them. I declined – the idea of having a tube shoved up my bum and watching my poo being sucked out of me ahead of meeting my new boyfriend didn’t really appeal. What would I say to Brad? “Go easy on me love, I’m feeling a little delicate – just had a colonic.” I don’t think so.

  The flight from Hong Kong to Sydney was torturous, my excitement building to an almost agonising level as ten hours passed slowly. Just before we began our descent into Sydney Airport I nipped into the loo to slip into the sexy new underwear I’d bought: black silk-and-lace sussies, matching knickers and sheer black, lace-top stockings. Well, I was hardly going to rock up for my steamy liaison wearing my support tights and Bridget Jones pants. I touched up my make-up, restyled my hair, sprayed perfume on my wrists, neck, inner thighs, navel and boobs – all the spots I anticipated Brad’s lips to explore – and floated out of the toilet.

  We touched down in Sydney just after 7am local time and, surprisingly, I didn’t feel tired. During the taxi ride to the hotel, stuck in rush-hour traffic, Brad texted: “Hey sexy, can’t wait to see you. Head straight to the presidential suite when you arrive. Hurry up, I’m waiting …”

  I wasn’t sure what impressed me most: the sight of Brad’s bare legs, or the view of Sydney Harbour through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. “Welcome to Sydney, babe,” he said, opening the door to the presidential suite. He was wearing one of his tight muscle T-shirts and surf shorts, skimming thighs that could have been crafted by Michelangelo. I’d never seen such a magnificent set of pins: smooth, defined, golden. The next moment we were in each other’s arms, slow dancing around the room, kissing. His mouth was minty and gentle, and he smelt so manly and fresh – a spicy, woody aroma. My hands ventured down his back, pressed into the dip at the base of his spine and fanned his taut bum as his hands crept beneath my jacket, under my shirt, up over my breasts. I pulled him closer, stepping backwards until my back was against the door. Brad reached behind him, peeled my hands off his bum and tacked them to the door above my head, his lips travelling down the side of my neck. My heart walloped. I was so turned on – and slightly hypoxic after the flight – I thought I was going to faint. Every arousal point in my body hummed. I was light-headed and breathless, and only when I started seeing black dots dancing before my eyes and my knees began to give way did I have to ask Brad to stop.

  “I think I may have to sit down for five minutes,” I said, letting out a deep breath ending in a weak laugh.

  Gently, Brad lowered my hands, kissed my forehead. “It’s so great
to see you, Mandy,” he said with a hedonistic smile. “I’ll warn you though, that was just a warm-up.”

  I laughed. “Glad to hear it.”

  “Come here, let’s get you a glass of champagne. I’ve got some gifts for you, too.”

  Brad had transformed the presidential suite into a lovers paradise. There were bottles of vintage champagne on ice, a table topped with crystal bowls filled with chocolate-coated strawberries, and square plates loaded with seared beef carpaccio and figs. Beside a sumptuous white sofa bopped three heart-shaped red helium balloons.

  “Wow, you’ve gone to so much effort,” I said, wandering over to one of the giant windows. The view was phenomenal: the harbour waters glistening like a trembling sheet of silver and ice-blue sequins in the morning sunlight; I could see the Harbour Bridge, the Opera House and little yellow water taxis whizzing across the harbour.

  I heard a cork pop behind me. “You’re worth it,” said Brad. “Champagne?”

  “Please.”

  While Brad poured the champagne I slipped off my shoes, jacket and made myself comfortable on the sofa.

  “God my feet are killing me,” I said.

  “I’ll massage them later,” he said, passing me a flute of bubbly.

  He knelt at my feet and we chinked glasses. “Cheers,” we harmonised.

  The fizz warmed my stomach, an instant hit, dissipating through my body, melting every muscle.

  “Ready for your first present?” said Brad.

  “You didn’t have to buy me anything.”

  “This is just a little something I put together for you – I’ve got more gifts for you in the bedroom.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  Brad reached beneath the sofa and produced a thin square parcel, beautifully wrapped in fuchsia satin paper tied with purple ribbon.

  “A CD?” I guessed.

  “Open it and see.”

  “It’s so pretty,” I said, tearing off the paper. It was indeed a CD – a blank CD in a clear case.

  Brad folded his arms on my knees, grinning expectantly. “Like it?”

  “It’s fabulous – just what I’ve always wanted,” I said, staring at the blank CD.

  “It’s some tunes I threw together – songs that make me think of you. Want to hear it?”

  I laughed. “Sure.”

  Brad strode over to the stereo and popped the CD into the tray. How sweet, I thought. No man had ever made me a compilation CD before. I was then overcome by fits of giggles as the overindulgent strains of Luther Vandross boomed from the stereo. Even the helium balloons appeared to dip their foil atriums in embarrassment. Brad turned round gradually, hands outstretched, and, with closed eyes, crooned along to “All the Woman I Need”, which made me laugh harder. Then he danced out of the room, motioning with his head for me to follow.

  Brad’s dance led me to the bedroom, and onto the four-poster bed where a cluster of glossy gift bags had been assembled among a scattering of red rose petals.

  “What’s all this?” I said, climbing onto the mattress. There were bags from Agent Provocateur, Bulgari, Billabong, Godiva – it was like the product of a shopoholic’s final spending spree sprawled before me.

  “I wanted to spoil you,” said Brad, kneeling on the bed opposite me. “Go on, open them.”

  I picked up the black Agent Provocateur bag. “This looks sexy. I didn’t know they had an Agent Provocateur in Sydney.”

  “I ordered it online.”

  Inside the bag, wrapped in tissue, was a skimpy gossamer black negligee.

  “Wow, this doesn’t leave much to the imagination,” I said, pinning the spaghetti straps to my shoulders.

  “That’s the idea,” said Brad, reaching for my face. He leaned across and kissed me, gently pushing me backwards onto the bed until we were horizontal. Brad lay on top of me, his mouth delicately slugging mine, and soon we were moving in fervent rotations over the bed – him on top, me on top, him on top again, steam rolling gift bags, the Opera House coming in and out of focus with every turn. In the next room Brad’s CD played on – Terence Trent D’Arby was singing “Sign Your Name” now. “I’ve got a present for you, too,” I said, lifting my head.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Brad said.

  I rolled off him, rising to my knees by his shoulder. “It’s just a little something I threw together,” I said with a terrible Aussie accent. I unbuttoned my shirt slowly and tossed it over my shoulder. Brad’s eyes enlarged. “Whoa, that’s some present.”

  “Stay where you are,” I warned, reaching for the hem of my skirt. “There’s more.” I lifted my skirt to the tops of my stockings, paused for teasing effect before hoisting it all the way up to my waist, offering a full view of my new undies.

  Brad let out a long whistle.

  I laughed. “Get your kit off then.”

  He was naked quicker than you could say didgeridoo.

  It was the most powerfully orgasmic sex I’d ever experienced. After making me come with his tongue during foreplay, he flipped me over and slipped into me … and that was the moment I discovered Brad’s banana dick could reach places no other man’s dick had touched before. I came immediately – and just kept on coming, warm contractions spreading from my stomach to every part of my body. I felt as though I was levitating in a state of permanent arousal.

  We didn’t leave the hotel all day. We drank champagne, devoured the strawberries and oysters and washed each other’s hair in the marble Jacuzzi bath, where, again, we had sex. Brad was fascinated with my body and eager to learn exactly what turned me on.

  That evening we decided to leave our love suite and explore Sydney. “We’ll go for dinner and then I’ll take you to Luna Park,” Brad enthused. “You’ll love it – we can catch the ferry there, it’s lit up. We can go on the rides … trust me, it’s unreal.”

  He didn’t stop talking about Luna Park. “I can’t wait to see your face, Mandy?” he said as we dined alfresco on tapas at the Opera Bar, that rising inflection creeping into his voice again. “You enter the park through a huge, smiling clown’s mouth … it’s legendary. There’s a magic castle, Ferris wheel … you like rides, Mandy?”

  “I like riding you,” I teased.

  Brad reached below the table and touched my knee. “Not as much as I enjoy riding you.”

  “Guess what,” I said in a loud whisper.

  “What?”

  “I’m not wearing any knickers.”

  Brad grinned and took a quick peek under the table. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, smiling like a naughty schoolgirl. I was wearing the Billabong denim mini skirt Brad had given me earlier.

  It was a beautiful Friday night in Sydney – hot, with a gentle, caressing breeze carrying wafts of fresh seaweed off the harbour. After dinner we strolled to Circular Quay to board the ferry to the famous Luna Park. Circular Quay was like an outdoor circus, packed with street performers juggling fire, riding unicycles, and buskers playing didgeridoos.

  The ferry journey across the harbour was short – maybe less than ten minutes – but highly romantic. We stood outside on the deck, Brad cocooning me against the breeze with his action-man arms, kissing my neck, whispering sexy thoughts into my ear. But when the ferry chugged beneath the harbour bridge and docked at Luna Park Wharf, Brad suddenly fell silent. I looked up, expecting to see the dazzling illuminations of Luna Park Brad had raved about. But there were no bright lights … or Mr Moon Face. “Where’s the light show?” I asked, as we made our way up the ramp towards the park entrance. The place was in darkness, apart from a gentle glow from a few lamp posts, which made the clown’s face look even scarier than I’d imagined. I’d never been a fan of clowns.

  “Fuck,” said Brad at length, “Looks like it’s shut or something. This is normally all lit up, Mandy, honestly – and it’s supposed to be open until eleven tonight. I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, then, spotting a group of people spilling out of the clown’s mouth, added: “Loo
k, it is open – there are people coming out.”

  There were only shops, restaurants and the games arcade open at Luna Park; for some reason, all the big rides were closed. I could sense Brad’s disappointment as we trundled arm in arm through the park, the rides looming over us in darkness, appearing to cackle: “Look what fun you could have had.” Inside the games arcade, Brad tried to win me a teddy from a claw crane machine but, despite numerous attempts, it just wasn’t happening. “Let’s go,” I said, circling my arms around his waist as he lowered the claw for what must’ve been the thirtieth time. This time the open claw fell on the head of a soft green turtle. “Yes,” said Brad, his smile a friendly ghost reflecting in the glass. The claw closed, skimmed the turtle’s head and lifted once more, leaving the toy on the fluffy pile with its mates. “Fuck,” cursed Brad, smacking his palm against the glass, “I can’t even win you a teddy bear.”

  I didn’t even want a teddy bear – he’d spoiled me rotten already.

  I steered him away from the machine. “Those games are a fix,” I said. “Besides, I’m having a great time.”

  The park was deadly quiet by the time we started making our way to the exit. We stopped at the entrance to the Scenic Railway roller coaster for a kiss. “God, I wish we could do it right here, right now,” said Brad, sliding a hand down the back of my skirt.

  I rested my head on Brad’s shoulder while his fingers mingled with the breeze under my skirt. “What’s stopping us?” I said.

  “Where will we go?”

  “In there,” I whispered, nodding sideways at the mock Indian temple facade.

  Brad liberated his hand from my skirt. “After you,” he beamed.

  We hurried into the temple and climbed over the gate into the station, where, against the temple wall, in semi-darkness, we put the Luna back into Luna Park.