Flygirl! Pilot issue

Multiple instruments in front of you speak variables, variables that determine your chances of survival, the chances of doing your job properly, and the chances of you assisted somebody while in the air. Suddenly your radio came to life and spoke words in a voice of another superhero.

“Flygirl!” Your call sign, “I need support on the rooftop of the Lyn Johnson building rooftop. Our old friend Dr. Nefarious has some kind of contraption and we’re all tied up right about now!”

You nod to the device and quickly turn your plane around, the ball compass drastically revolved to satiate the progressive variables. Navigating through the cracks and slits of skyscrapers, always keeping an eye out and trying to remember the name of each building that had some significance and used them as your map, then you spot the Lyn Johnson building as well as machine that Dr. Nefarious had built with turrets firing upon some obstacles, most likely where your allies were hiding behind. Fingers now hugged the trigger of the six .50 caliber machine guns and was promptly squeezed, igniting the dark sky with lights of yellow before anyone realized the strange screeching all over the air.

Whatever the dancing little enigma inside the glass dome of his contraption was doing it seemed like it was its weakness. However strong the glass was, the hail of .50cal had punctured through it and letting the enigma free, killing the power to the turrets and the scheme of Dr. Nefarious whose face was in awe and shocked as his gaze was locked at your plane.

“Thanks for the assist Flygirl, we’ll handle the rest from here.” You salute to the radio and fly back to the Acropolis International Airport to rest.

Dawn was breaking fast, orange rays of light from the newly wakened sun baptized your plane ‘The Whispered ****,’ a nod to its legendary status during the Second World War. Contacting Air Traffic Control you were granted permission to land and crews were preparing to open your private hangar for you, bracing for impact as the friction of the runway’s asphalt to your tires were trying to correct each other in a very blunt way(a bit like math) until everything smoothed out(unlike math).

Using whatever momentum you had left along with the half-dead propeller of the plane, you guided each other to the hangar, resting your eyes for a second while leaning back to your chair and sighed a breath of relief, thankful that you survived as well as another superhero in the city. Opening the cockpit of the fighter plane, you quickly jump to one of the bent wings and unto the dirty concrete floors. A quick nap would do you good.

Before you could head out to the nearest bed a voice behind you caught your attention.

“Miss Flygirl!” It wasn’t from someone that you knew, squinting your eyes and turning around you see a young man dressed in civilian clothing while an ID hung from his neck that said ‘Journalist,’ “Welcome back ma’am. If you don’t mind, the magazine I’m working for is wondering if you can have an interview.”

You were tired all-night out, but an interview was harmless right? For a moment you couldn’t feel your face but you were able to give a small nod before returning to the small changing room you’ve decided to call a second home. Your muscles ached, your eyelids can’t even stay open but the fragrant aroma of coffee was trapped in your little chamber and it hit you when the door was opened.

Removing the flight suit the League had provided for you, you sip from a cup of coffee while in your undies, thinking of what to wear; The first thing to hit you was your old stewardess uniform but it didn’t seem fitting, at least not for a hero compared to the standards of others; you’ve already removed the flight suit and even if you haven’t it was bulky and unappealing; there was that replica that was given to you, a B-10 Jacket with the League’s logo and a cap, but that seemed a bit too tomboyish, besides, while you weren’t a fan of the camera, people will most likely frown upon you as most costumes of others paid no attention to decency with the side-boob peek and tight spandex material used in making them.

Then you remember something, an old suit that’s been collecting dust all these years in a wardrobe to your right. The smell of stale mothballs was picked up but that wasn’t important, what was important was the leather jacket that was hanging there along with some khaki jeans under it. You’ve been planning to wear this costume for an important event but since you weren’t invited to parties much, it would be a waste to not wear it even if it was for a magazine. Breathing in a sigh, the cup of coffee was put down on the wall-mounted table before one slender hand found its way out of one long sleeve before the other hand found itself out of the other. Then the pants came before the boots were worn with a leather aviator’s headgear completing the set.

The outfit felt a bit tight but you were able to at least move and breath; turning to check yourself, you noticed that the khaki did something absolutely wonderful: The non-existent rump of yours was being given an illusion of it being inflated and something to brag about, so much so that you can't help but smile; looking at a mirror, a smile fitted you just like the leather jacket and went with it as you strutted outside towards the interviewer.

A smile was shot back at you before a flash of blinding light met your face.

"Sorry!" The interviewer apologized and fiddled with the camera's options but it didn't really matter, as after a few more flash-less photographs and poses that most likely will catch the attention of passers-by or page flippers; after the photo-shoots came the actual interview and the two of you sat down on nearby folding chairs.

One on one came a question or two but they quickly got boring, 'these were the questions?' you ponder as it seemed every damn question only mattered to those that were obsessed with you as they were mind-bogglingly mundane with questions such as 'What is your true first name,' 'Where were you raised,' 'What inspired you to be a hero,' and many more with many of them being given vague answers or asked to move along.

The light at the end of the tunnel eventually came as the numbing process of each and every question began to hit you in the head like a rubber mallet. Both of you stood up, shook hands, and the reporter was ready to leave much to an amalgamation of despair and gratitude. It's been a rough day and looked over to the Whispered ****, climbed on one of its wings and sat inside the cockpit with the feeling of the comfortable seat covers surrounding you.

A hand swiftly maneuvered itself to the button of your trousers and liberated it from the captivity of the eye while a zipper divided the union of one side and the other to where white cotton underwear was visible and the same hand made its way underneath each and every layer of lower garments that you put on before you kicked them on the floor of the cockpit and felt your dry clitoris needing attention. Slow rotation of your index, ring, and middle finger started to soothe the dry and unattended clitoris of yours. Lubricating your fingers, you once more addressed the underlying issue of the arid womanhood of yours by gently fondling it as you sit back and bite your lips.