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December 3, / By Hevesi “No, no, you can’t go up!” Haas’s father insisted that day in when the family went to an air show in Bennington, Vt. But when her parents left, Ms. Haas, then 19, sneaked back to the airfield, paid a dollar and, as she liked to say, “squished into a seat” for a ride on a plane. It was the first of hundreds of flights that Haas Pfister would make — dozens as a member of the Women Airforce Service Pilots, or WASPs, during World II, and more as one of the nation’s most successful female competitive pilots. (And not counting those as a Pan Am stewardess in the days when women had a much harder time getting hired as pilots.) Ms. Haas Pfister, a two-time winner of the All Women’s International Air Race, died on Nov. 17 at her home in Aspen, Colo., her daughter said. She was 90. After that first flight, Pfister said, “Mom made a deal with her father that she would stay in school if he paid for flight lessons.” By the time she graduated from Bennington College in , Ms. Haas Pfister (she went on to Pfister in ) had logged enough flight time to be accepted as a member of the WASPs — an Army Air Forces attachment created to fill the void when male pilots were deployed overseas. As one of 1, WASPs, Ms. Haas Pfister ferried planes from factories to domestic airfields or to ports for shipment overseas. WASPs also towed targets for aerial gunnery practice. Thirty-eight died in accidents. But by December , with the winding down, the women were deemed no longer needed and the unit was disbanded. Ms. Haas Pfister found work as an aircraft mechanic and, very occasionally, flying cargo planes. In , for Pan American, she became the first stewardess ever hired with more than 1, hours of flight time. “She got to travel all over the world,” her daughter said. “But she’d rather have been in the cockpit any day of the week.” 91208 married women sex
He moves his hands down her waist and they disappear from my sight. I know where they are going, and I the grin on her face as they move to her bottom. I can him push his hips against her, and I know what is growing between them. The experience is exquisite. I look away, satiated. There is no need to look back. It is perfect, beautiful. There is no further need to explain or speak, or attempt futile foible fumblings. I don’t need him to me tonight. Our shared experiences are enough for me this evening. I stand behind her at the coat check counter and look up at the large piece hanging overhead. The piece is magnificent. One of his best. I gaze at it and lose myself for a moment. I must tell the artist this one is my favorite. It always remind me of tonight. Her, him, …him and her. She hands me her coat and I assist her with it as the crowd surges, and she is once again pressed against my hard cock. Her response is slightly more animal this time and her movement is more of a grind. Hidden by the crowd I allow myself the pleasure. I close my eyes and move my hand to her hips. Mmmmmm, I purr into her ear. The crowd swirls around us and there is movement. Touch. Graze. Across the seat of my trousers. I do not turn around. There is no need. I know whose fingers they were. I gasp and chuckle at the same time, and push against her hips as the fingers move contentedly move away into the crowd. And as my eyes remain closed I image his grin as he walks away, his smile as he kisses her. They are mixed with visions of my wife’s eyes as we climax, the taste of her skin, her breasts, her pussy. I hear her speak. “Beauty gets you hot, eh?” “Yes,” I respond. Beauty gets me hot. single mon fuckThe gods only know how I stood there. The orders were simple, I was not to interact at all. Standing motionless, at a sort of parade rest, wearing only a towel, unable to anything, still drooling around the ball gag, and listening intently to the dance of two women flirting and preparing to fuck. It was unbearably hot, blisteringly so. I knew the tone in her voice so well, it gave me goose bumps, she was turned on. I could imagine from the tone and the way she talked what her body language would look like, how wet she was the type of eye contact she was making. Yes, oh yes my friends, blisteringly flesh boilingly hot. At some point I realized the talk had mostly stopped, and the small sounds I was hearing were the audible ingredients of an intense make-out session happening a room away from where I stood. The padded sounds that came next were bare feet moving from the kitchen to the couch someones flesh brushing my own unexpectedly as they passed and took a seat mere feet from me. It had to have been two hours I stood there all together. Listening to the intensity of their foreplay rise, trying to keep my breathing level my cock straining against the towel, rock hard and throbbing. I never moved. Muscles all over my body began to ache, mostly my abs, feet and calves. I could feel my own drool running over my, down my neck into my chest hair. I could hear their breathing, moving and writhing on the couch, little moans, excited grunts, the sounds of lips meeting and parting clothes being It all stopped suddenly, I could hear whispering but not what was said. They freed themselves from the couch, and silence no discernible movement, no talk nothing. Out of nowhere my towel was snagged off roughly, a hand then grabbed my cock assertively and held it forcefully. “Do it ” A hard slap to my face, unexpected, shocking, drawing my breath from my lungs by sheer surprise. I forced myself to avoid reaction. “See I told you He wont do anything Meet my toy.” dating nudes
any sexy clean ladies up and wanna cum who made a sensory experience out of all-natural elements. My clothing was picked out for me. Hiking gear rigid canvas material shorts, light jersey cotton tank, tall socks and well-lived boots. Underwear was already present on my person which is why I left it out of the articles put out for me. After I had changed I was blindfolded and a pair of soft satiny gloves were slipped over my hands. To be denied my sense of sight was a nominal aggravation but to be denied touch in what I anticipated would be such a tactile excursion was frustrating enough to make me sit, arms crossed and sullen, in the passenger's seat all the way there. Once at the trailhead he took my hand and swung me around in the seat to where my feet out the open door. My boots and socks were as my brows knit in a perplexed fashion above the blindfold. I was guided, padding through soft duff and underbrush, for what felt like an eternity. I had no concept of space or time. All I could focus on was the textures and surfaces under my feet. Sometimes at footfall would land on a stick which would subsequently snap up and jab me in the most tender spot of an arch and I would hiss out curse. In a futile gesture I kept raising my free gloved hand to feel along surfaces but finding that to be not so helpful with the barrier of fabric between my hand and each surface; mainly the bark of trees. It is amazing how sensitive one area becomes and dulled another when you cover or remove coverings. How times have you trod with bare feet and gloved hands for any length of time? I was walking and stumbling like a drunk. Eventually the terrain under my feet changed to cooler but rough stones and rocks. At one point I felt flesh tear and give in a small scrape as I half-skittered half-blundered over stones. After a minute I heard rushing water, a void of stillness and more rushing water. At the same time I felt cool soft moss carpeting my treacherous steps. Ardmore girls to fuck
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