TITS ON A PLANE

PROLOGUE. 2178. July. 65 light-years from Earth.

Thank you all for wanting more TITS ON A PLANE. This exciting story WILL CONTINUE in the very near future. In the meantime, I am too too thrilled to unveil a newer, steamier, MORE INSANE saga HIGHER IN THE SKY, with BIGGER TITS, GROWING EVEN BIGGER:

SPACE BABES IN SPACE;

Or,

The Stowaway

This sexy space opera is being uploaded almost daily STARTING IMMEDIATELY. Please like and subscribe and check back here soon for more tits on more planes. The prologue is below and please, please follow this story here:  www.wattpad.com/913470047-space-babes-in-space-or-the-stowaway-prologue-2178

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The portal to the hotel room opened and a drunken man staggered in. Floating in the center of the cabin was one of the foxiest, curviest girls he had ever seen. Her head was shaved and her body was covered from head to toe with makeup – a wild, laser-like, rainbow pattern. It looked like the stars streaking past a spaceship window when it breaks the speed of light. She seemed to be about 19-years-old but with misty, brownish green eyes. Her measurements, 42-24-35, were especially exaggerated with no gravity to pull down on her flesh, and the drunken man had to squint his eyes to fully believe that the girl was not some vision caused by the Space Crazies.

"Hello, little bird," he stammered. "I can't believe I'm really with the Space Babe from the picture..." In the holographic selfie he had seen of her, she had been nude, without makeup, and with long, brown hair. But this was unmistakably the same girl.

"You must be Mr. Gordon," the girl replied. "My Madam has me scheduled to escort you for the next hour. I'm Francesca."

"I know who you are," he replied. "I meant, it's hard to believe I was able to get facetime with the 'intergalactically famous supermodel,' as they call you. There's quite a waiting list." Gordon was a good-looking middle aged man, and the girl might have been attracted to him had he not had a slightly creepy vibe. He was wearing a black turtleneck and black jeans. His brown hair was full and artificial looking, either a comb over or a hairpiece, and his smile was stretched up to his ears, the result of a few too many facelifts. He flailed his arms and legs as he stumbled drunkenly through space over to the bar. "Would you care for a drink, Francesca Durham?"

"It seems like you got a head start," she joked. "What've you been drinking?"

Gordon pulled a spaceflask out of his jeans pocket. "I've just been sippin' on some rum and water," he said. "What do you take?"

"At this time of the morning, I usually just stick to mimosas."

"A mimosa it is," he said. He placed the order on the room service menu tablet and two spaceflutes immediately appeared in the delivery portal. The oblong glass cylinders were designed for drinking sparkling wine in zero gravity, with a metal straw coming out near the top. Gordon brought Francesca her drink. As she took a sip of the mimosa, he reached over and began fondling her large, free-floating boob.

Classy, thought the Space Babe. Nine months into her volunteering contract aboard the Funship Hurricane, Francesca had been on dates with all sorts of men. Some of them were chivalrous and courtly, some were complete douchebags. Many of them liked to wine and dine her before inviting them back to her cabin. There was one man that she went on regular dates with who just liked to share her company at the Hurricane's finest restaurants – he had never even tried to touch her. Other dates – like this sad, inebriated gentleman – just arranged for her to show up in an anonymous hotel room and would then proceed right away to molest her.

"You'll smear my makeup," she warned as he kept squeezing her rainbow-painted tit. Gordon pulled her closer and she could feel a bulge in his black jeans. Since he was moving a little fast, Francesca figured she had better attempt to engage him in conversation to cool off his pace.

"What did you do on Earth to afford an astrocruise like this one?" she asked.

"Meat," he grunted, starting to feel up her lower back with his other hand. "I manufactured meat. I'm originally from Nebraska, but I haven't worked on Earth for decades."

"Oh, that sounds interesting," she said, keeping her voice high and girlish. "So how do you make meat in space?"

"Meat cultures," he explained. "Regenerating, non-suffering meat cultures. Funships used to have Red Decks aboard their astrocruises, but the Hurricane doesn't seem to do that anymore. It's a shame: the meat I make is tastier and more humane than the way they produce it here these days."

"Hmm," Francesca replied, trying not to sound bored. She opened her clutch and took out a small antique perfume bottle, misting a little behind her ear. "Will you kiss me right there?" she asked, pointing to her nape. He did so, and she felt her skin heating up around his kiss. A pleasurable sensation spread like a wave down her back. She closed her eyes. He kept fondling her breast with increasing fervor, and she started to feel a little something resembling arousal.

"How come you rented this hotel room?" she asked. "What deck is your cabin on?"

"Oh, I like to stay a free agent," Gordon shrugged, kissing her down her neck to her shoulder. "Sometimes I'll rent a room here on the Pink Deck, sometimes I'll crash other places."

"Yeah, but you know, everyone's assigned a deck when they board," she said. "Where did you start the cruise?"

"Well, I suppose I came in on the White Deck," he answered.

"There is no White Deck," Francesca laughed.

"I suppose you're right," he said, smiling and groping at her other boob.

"What else do you do for fun, Gordon from Nebraska?" she asked.

"I've been breeding birds," he said. "Not for eating – just as, you know, a hobby."

"Fascinating, fascinating," she said dreamily. "Do you want to rub my back a little?"

"Okay," he agreed. Gordon pulled off his black turtleneck. Shirtless, he was in pretty good shape for a middle aged man, and she ran her hand down his chest. He spun her around in the air and started to massage her hourglass-shaped, rainbow-streaked back. She let out a small moan.

"You ask a lot of questions, but what about you, Francesca Durham?" he asked her softly in her ear. "You're not like any of the other escorts on the Hurricane, with your strange sense of style and your modeling career. How'd you end up working on the Pink Deck?"

"You know, a girl's got to earn her rent," she replied. "Would you like to screw?"

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