Landing Gear & Flaps: Tam Stripdown

Latest version 21-07-25

Story Title: Connie & The Reveal

Episode 1: The Call-Up

Tamara sat rigid at her desk as Mr. Vickers scribbled torque formulas on the whiteboard. The classroom buzzed with low energy--scribbling pens, half-lidded stares, Dean's muttered sarcasm.

"Weren't you supposed to be over with Melissa on the Connie shoot today?" Vickers asked, peering over his glasses.

Tamara blinked. "They said I wasn't required."

Dean leaned in to Gerry and muttered, loud enough for Tamara to hear, "They wanted the porkie pig Mel, not the prude."

Tamara focused harder on her page, pretending not to hear, but the heat in her face betrayed her.

Then the admin office door clicked. A student aide poked her head in. "Tamara? They need you at the shoot. Now."

The room stirred. Heads lifted.

Tamara calmly gathered her books. "Looks like they need me after all."

Dean leaned back in his chair, lazy grin spreading. "Don't forget to check the skirt length regs."

She didn't answer. She was already out the door.

Episode 2: The Setup

The sun slapped her face as she stepped onto the tarmac. Heat shimmered off the apron. Ahead, the Super Constellation gleamed like a relic, its silver fuselage towering over the bustle of crew, cables, and camera gear.

Inside the marquee, the air was cooler but tense. Makeup artists moved between mirrors. Laughter mixed with the hum of fans. Tamara was pointed toward a changing tent.

A navy-blue uniform lay neatly on a hanger: heels, stockings, bright red scarf, and a blouse that looked more like a push-up bra with buttons. The skirt was indecently short.

Jill, the director, looked up from a clipboard. "Tamara? You're Melissa's mate? Great--get changed and head to makeup. You're on in thirty."

Tamara hesitated. "This is just for a calendar, right?"

"Exactly. Retro glam. Hostie fantasy. Relax--you'll be fine."

She tried to breathe. "We're not doing anything... inappropriate?"

Jill rolled her eyes. "It's implied. Suggestive. Some girls go further, some don't. No one's being forced. You'll see."

Episode 3: The Peep Show

Dean and the boys weren't technically supposed to be there, but they came anyway--"checking out the Connie," they claimed. In truth, they were hunting for a peek.

Dean ducked behind a reflector stand and froze. There, lined up on monitors inside the marquee, were reel shots--girls in costume, heels, legs spread, bending over props, some topless, some not. Like a moving pinup mag.

He elbowed Gerry. "Holy shit..."

Then Melissa appeared onscreen from the live feed from the camera. Leaning over the pilots seat, skirt hiked, sheer top offering a full view of her tits.

Another photo popped up, and then another, then an image of Mel sitting in the seat, legs spread on the dash, index finger and thumb gently holding open her labia for the camera.

Dean's jaw slackened. Blood rushed south. He felt his cock harden as a close up image of a moist pink patch between a forest of 70's styled pubes.

Nearby, two crew members laughed.

"She could've shaved that pussy first."

"Maybe Tam will show us how it's done."

Dean's ears twitched. Tam?

Before he could say anything, the woman caught them.

"Hey! This isn't open to the public. Get out!"

"Perving little shits," the man added.

Dean staggered backwards. No one spoke until they were halfway down the tarmac. All dean could think was "is tamara going to get naked!

Episode 4: The Dress and the Dare

Tamara stepped from the changing tent. Hair styled, makeup thick. The uniform squeezed her hips and pushed her chest forward.

She headed to the tent to let jill know she was ready, then she saw the screen.

Melissa.

Bold. Back arched. Looking over her shoulder like a page-three girl.

Tamara's gut twisted. She felt them before she saw them.

Dean and his crew. Leaning on the fuel cart. Staring.

Dean grinned. "Do you reckon you can pose like that?"

She shot him a cold look. "You'll never see me like that."

He laughed, too loud. "Wouldn't want to. I'd rather die than see that."

Laughter rippled behind him.

Inside the marquee, Jill reviewed shot lists.

Tamara's voice was tight. "I can't believe Mel is posing nude?"

"It's a pin-up shoot. Retro style. Some nudity, yeah. You're ok with that right?"

"You didn't say--"

"It's in the shot list."

"I didn't get a shot list."

"Then that's on you."

Tamara squared her shoulders. "Im just wearing the dress ok?"

Jill sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

Episode 5: The Contract Confrontation

Tamara stared at the monitor. Melissa was naked, in the plane's galley, bent over the meals cart.

"Jill. Seriously?" she snapped. "I can't believe she's posing like this."

"It's a pin-up shoot honey. Sexy, not scandalous."

"I didn't sign'up for this did I?."

Jill spun around, voice rising. "Cut the drama, Tam. I've worked months on this. Models, permits, plane rental--you think I give a fuck about your stage fright?"

Annoyed she rustled through a pile of paperwork on the desk, she told tam to read one of the paragraphs, and then another. Tams blank look angered her even further.

"Stupid little bitch" she grunted, even those pervert idiots would understand this simple wording

Jill marched outside and shouted. "Boys! Come read some lines!"

Dean stepped forward, grinning. "Gladly."

He read from the contract: "The model shall present an unveiled aesthetic consistent with natural form and authenticity."

Tamara's brow furrowed.

Gavin followed: "Wardrobe must support vulnerability and exposure, including moments where subject appears bare."

"Word salad," Tamara snapped. "Means nothing."

Jill smirked. "Read the definition section."

Tamara did.

"'Unveiled' means without any form of clothing... skin fully visible... including full nudity...'"

Dean chuckled. "Sounds pretty naked to me."

"'Bare' means entirely unclothed, including absence of undergarments... for visual reproduction.'"

"Fuckin' hell," Gavin whispered.

Tamara's face burned. She spun and walked back to the hanger door.

Episode 6: Melissa's Lei & Tamara's Dread

Melissa strutted down the aircraft stairs with a spring in her step, her hostie dress hugging every curve. From Tamara's vantage point near the hangar, she could barely see her through the props and reflectors--but the outfit was unmistakable. Melissa tossed her hair, stepped toward the plane's nose wheel, and posed like a pro.

She headed over the the base of the planes steps. There was a trolley with some Hawaiian Lei, s. Mel put one over the head of the pilot and he headed up the stairs.

She beconned the pilot back downs again and undid her buttons and slipped off her dress.

One of the directors said "shit we are visible from from Drover Road, someone s going to get in the shit"

Now it was just high heels, her little Hostess hat, and nothing else. Cameras clicked as she stretched up to place a lei around the pilots neck, chest brushing his, nipples peeking in the sunlight.

Tamara's stomach knotted. Her skin itched with unease.

A crowd was gathering, the tafe classes knew Mel was naked and had come to get a peek, even the instructors.

The boys weren't subtle.

"Fuckin' hell," someone muttered. "Check out the cellulite on porkie"

Dean, seated on the fuel drum nearby, didn't even hide his excitement. His internal monologue spilled like a sewer.

"Jesus Christ. Mel's naked. Check out her tits. Fuck me... If Tam does this... if I get to see her clam, I'm gonna lose it.

He turned to Tamara, grinning like a scumbag. "Hundred bucks if you pose like that."

Tamara didn't break stride. "You'll never see me like that."

Dean barked out a laugh, made sure everyone could hear. "Wouldn't want to! I'd rather die than see that!"

Laughter. Gav clapped. Tamara clenched her fists but kept walking back to the changeroom.

Melissa reappeared a few minutes later, redressed, cheeks glowing. "I feel so alive!" she beamed to Tamara. "It was amazing. Just--awesome."

Tamara couldn't answer. She felt like throwing up.

Episode 7: Walk to the Gallows

Back in the change tent, Tamara sat beside the rack of uniforms, legs shaking. Melissa was humming as she wiped off makeup.

"I can't be around them, those guys are the worst," Tamara muttered.

Melissa gave her a squeeze. "You'll be okay. Just do what feels right."

Jill's voice barked from outside. "Tamara! You're up!"

The knot in her stomach cinched tight.

Click. Click. Click.

Every footstep echoed like she was walking to the gallows. Her stilettos clacked on the hangar concrete.

A makeup tech stopped her for touch-ups. "You're sweating. Deep breath."

She was led to the aircraft stairs. Posed on the bottom step. Show some leg. Lean back.

She didn't see her TAFE classmates--they must've gone back inside. A small mercy.

She remembered Jill's words: They take 300,000 shots a the week. Only ten make the cut.

Odds were she'd vanish into the archive.

Next shot: nose wheel. Classic pinup poses. Legs crossed. Heels flexed. Her breathing leveled out.

Morgan the pilot approached for the co-shot.

Her heart fluttered. When he smiled at her, her ovaries practically applauded.

Episode 8: Shit Gets Real (Extended Cut)

Checklist time. Jill had a shoot schedule to finish. Dean had a hard-on to chase. Tamara had her dignity--barely.

She climbed the rear stair into the galley, every step echoing like a countdown. Each click of her heel on the metal stairs reminded her how exposed she already was. She clutched the hem of the skirt, tugging it down even though it wouldn't go further. The wind tugged at her scarf, the skirt teased her thighs, and the voices below made her skin crawl.

"First setup," Jill said flatly. "You're wheeling the trolley down the aisle, like a hostess. Smile, serve, flirt a little."

Tamara froze.

Down the aisle, across the seats--they were all there.

Dean. Gavin. Fucking all of them.

The very boys who cracked jokes about her arse, who stuck photocopies of cleavage to toolboxes, who saw women as entertainment between smoko breaks.

They weren't meant to be here.

"This was supposed to be just for the camera," Tamara said tightly, her voice nearly lost in the whir of the generator. "They shouldn't be in the cabin."

"They're background," Jill waved it off. "Look, Tam, we're already behind."

Tamara held her ground. "I didn't agree to perform in front of them."

Jill's eyes narrowed. "It's a serving shot. Not a fucking striptease. Just grab the cart and walk."

Tamara's jaw clenched. She knew arguing would make it worse--and now Dean was watching. That was the real punishment. That stupid grin of his, the way he nudged Gavin with his elbow like he'd just won a bet.

"Let's go, people!" the photographer barked. "Light's changing!"

Tamara moved like she was sleepwalking. Hands tight on the trolley, she wheeled it forward, heels echoing over the cabin floor.

She smiled, or tried to.

Pretended to pour tea. One cup. Then another.

"Tam, undo a few buttons," the photographer called out. "Show some cleavage."

She froze again.

Dean let out a low whistle.

Gavin muttered something that made the row behind him burst into laughter.

Tamara's throat tightened. Her hands trembled as she reached for the top button. Just two. She left the third done--barely. The fabric already strained over her breasts. She adjusted the trolley, then tried pulling her skirt down discreetly, but it kept riding up as she walked.

More direction.

"Lower, Tam. Arch your back a little. Bend as you serve. More hip."

She bent, awkwardly. Her legs were stiff. She felt the hem rise. Again, she tugged it down.

"Hold it, Tam. Smile! More natural."

Her face ached. Her gut churned. She wasn't afraid of showing skin--she'd worn less at the beach--but this wasn't Coogee on a summer day. This wasn't sunbathing. This was a stage. And the front row was a pack of leering jackals she worked beside every damn day.

Someone said, "Bet she's wearing Y-fronts under that."

Laughter.

Tamara stiffened, every nerve on fire. She instinctively pulled the dress down again, fingers white on the fabric.

Jill stormed over, sunglasses perched on her head like horns.

"Boys--cut the shit. You're slowing us down. We need to get to the finish line."

Dean leaned toward her, all mock innocence. "What's the finish line look like?"

Jill didn't miss a beat. "Her pussy in your face, leave that one with me."

Tamara's blood went cold.

Dean leaned back in his seat like it was Christmas morning, shifting the pillow in his lap with a not-so-subtle twitch. His eyes locked on her legs, already fantasising.

And Tamara? She felt like she was shrinking inside her own skin.

The dress clung. The cabin lights felt like spotlights. She tugged the hem down again, and again. Every inch she gave the camera, the boys devoured with their eyes.

But worse than the leering was the realization that she had no control--not over Jill's tone, not over the schedule, and certainly not over Dean's disgusting little smirk.

Not yet.

Episode 9: Power Shift

Back in the galley, the air was cooler, but Tamara's skin burned. Not from heat--something deeper. Humiliation? Resentment? A gnawing, reluctant arousal that she couldn't quite place? Whatever it was, it made her stomach tight and her scalp tingle.

Jill leaned against a bulkhead, clipboard under her arm. "Look, Tam. I need skin. I don't need full nudity, but I need suggestion. Shape. Form. Sell the fantasy."

"I'm not stripping," Tamara said flatly.

"I don't need you to. Lose the bra. Drop the panties. Keep the dress. Show skin where it counts." Jill's tone was brisk, businesslike. "You get to keep control of the zipper. Just give me movement."

Melissa leaned in from the doorway, still glowing from her earlier shoot. "It's kind of empowering, Tam. I thought I'd hate it--but watching their jaws drop... it's like flipping the script."

Tamara hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. But no upskirt. No nip slips. I keep the dress."

Jill smiled. "Deal."

A few minutes later, Tamara stepped into the aisle, killer stilettos, dress fluttering slightly with every breath, no underwear underneath. The soft brush of fabric against her bare skin made every movement feel amplified, exposed. A camera tracked her from behind as she reached up to adjust a window blind--arch in her back, skirt inching higher. She bent to retrieve a dropped paper cup--slowly, deliberately, legs closed, knees bent. Not out of seduction. Not at first. But because she could feel the eyes.

Boys watching. Breathing slower. Shifting in their seats.

Gavin leaned toward Gerry. "Fuck me. Did you see her arse cheeks?. Just a flash. She's not wearing anything under that dress."

"Jesus," Gerry muttered, half-entranced, half-panicked. "I think she's doing it on purpose."

"She's not just doing it. She's killing it."

Dean sat frozen, a cushion awkwardly planted in his lap. His leg bounced--then stopped when he realized how obvious it looked. His eyes followed every rise of the hem, every curve of Tamara's thigh. The anticipation was eating him alive.

Then Jill's voice cut through: "Tam, I need a shot on someone's lap. Just a playful hostess thing. Pick a seat."

Tamara paused in the aisle, head tilted slightly, scanning her options like a hostess choosing her guest of honor. But she wasn't feeling generous. She was feeling vengeful. Embarrassed, yes. Exposed, absolutely. But suddenly... also in control.

Her eyes settled on Dean.

He looked terrified.

The pillow--lumpy and misplaced--rested unnaturally across his lap like a white flag of surrender. His hands were gripping the armrests, white-knuckled.

Tamara stepped forward, the clicking of her heels echoing like a countdown. Dean's expression shifted from cocky detachment to pure, naked panic.

She reached down and snatched the pillow from his lap like she was pulling off a sheet.

Deans mind went crazy -No no no--don't do this, don't fucking do this. She knows. She knows. My dick's harder than the damn yoke in the cockpit. She's going to feel everything. I can't move. I can't breathe. Don't sit down. Please don't sit down. I'm not ready. I'm too ready. Oh god--

Tamara didn't hesitate.

She dropped herself onto his lap, square and deliberate. Her full weight pressed into his groin. His erection--undeniable, insistent--was now sandwiched between the cheeks of her bare ass under the thin cotton of her dress.

She felt it.

He knew she felt it.

And she stayed there.

Let the photographer get his angle. Let the boys gawk. She adjusted her hips slightly--just a fraction, just enough to remind him she wasn't oblivious.

Dean's eyes were wide, lips parted like he was drowning without water.

She leaned in slightly, turned her head like she was whispering something flirtatious for the camera--but in truth, she was just listening.

To the hitch in his breath.

To the way his thighs tensed.

To the silence from every boy in the cabin who was now imagining themselves in that seat.

Tamara smiled with her eyes only.

He wasn't the one in control here.

She was.

But she wasn't finished.

"Next?" she said softly, rising off Dean's lap like it meant nothing. He exhaled sharply, a man who had just survived a lightning strike.

She turned to Gavin.

He looked cocky at first. Smug. But the second she took a step toward him, his expression changed. Not to fear--no, Gavin was more primal than Dean--but to caution. Desperate self-preservation.

"No," he said under his breath, too quiet for the camera to hear but loud enough for Tamara.

She stepped in front of him and angled herself for the lens.

"Gav," she said sweetly. "Smile."

Then she moved to sit.

His hands shot up, fast--landing square on her ass, trying to hold her in the air.

"I'm good," he muttered, muscles straining, pushing her upward.

Tamara let him try.

And then she wiggled.

A slow, determined twist of her hips, grinding against the resistance.

Gavin grunted, and finally gave in. His hands slipped. She dropped onto him like gravity made the decision.

She didn't even need to shift to feel it.

Hard. Just like Dean. Maybe even more.

She met his eyes.

He was flushed. Caught.

Tamara adjusted her weight slightly--testing him.

His breath hitched.

She didn't need confirmation anymore.

She had them.

Episode 10: Mel's Power Move

"Tam," Jill said, clipboard clutched to her chest, "You're killing it. Honestly. And we're almost done."

Tamara nodded tightly, keeping one eye on the lens and the other on the cabin full of leering boys. Every pose, every stretch, every fake-smile pour of tea--it was a performance. But the audience? She wouldn't have chosen this crowd. Not in a million years.

"Now," Jill continued, "I'm gonna ask something. It's optional."

Tamara stiffened.

"I want one final series--no dress. Just heels and the hat. We'll shoot fast. Artistic. Glamorous. But only if you're good with it."

Tamara didn't answer immediately. She stood, frozen near the trolley, hands clenched at her sides.

The cabin air thickened. Even the boys had stopped breathing.

Oh shit. Dean thought, Oh fuck. She might actually do it. No way. No fucking way. Tamara? The one with the attitude? I'm gonna see her tits. I knew it. I fucking knew it. This is happening. Don't get hard again. Shit, too late.

Tamara's stomach twisted. Her heart thudded. She wasn't afraid of being nude. She'd been nude before--at home, on beaches, in changing rooms.

This wasn't fear. It was disgust. These boys weren't worthy of the view. They hadn't earned it. They'd catcalled, sneered, gossiped. And now they got front-row seats? Why should they get the privilege?

"I don't know..." she said, her voice low, faltering. "Feels like a lot... with them here."

That's when Melissa reappeared--walking casually into the galley, barefoot and still flushed from her earlier shoot. She wore only her Qantas overalls.

"You're lucky," Melissa said, smiling. "I didn't get to wear anything cute. Jill had me naked before I even saw a lens."

A chorus of snickers rose from the boys. Dean elbowed Gavin, barely hiding his erection.

Tamara rolled her eyes but couldn't help the smirk tugging at her mouth.

"Lucky?" she said. "I feel like a stripper at a sausage sizzle."

Melissa stepped closer. "Tam. Look, I didn't want to either. At first. But then I realised--I wasn't doing it for them. I was doing it to them."

Tamara blinked. "That's not the same."

"No," Melissa said. "But the feeling after? When they freeze--when you're the one in control? That's the real payoff."

There was no smugness in her voice. Just something raw. Earnest. Recognition.

Tamara scanned her from head to toe. Melissa wasn't flustered. She was glowing. Radiant. Every curve, every step--the boys weren't laughing anymore. They were stunned. Silent. Owned.

Tamara let out a low chuckle.

"Watch this," Melissa whispered.

With a deliberate calm, she reached for the clasps on her overalls. One by one, the fasteners came undone. The fabric slid from her shoulders, then her hips--until it crumpled at her feet.

Naked. Unapologetic.

The hangar held its breath.

She turned and walked the aisle, barefoot, skin kissed by the tarmac light. Every eye tracked her. Jaws slack. Boys frozen like statues in a museum built just for her.

She didn't strut. She glided.

Tamara watched it all. She understood now--what power looked like when it wasn't asked for, but taken.

Melissa stopped in front of her.

"That's your play, isn't it?" Tamara said. "You drop the clothes, I cave, and you stroll off in my dress."

Melissa smirked. "Only if it fits."

Tamara exhaled slowly. The weight of the moment pressed against her ribs.

"Fine," she said. "But if you sweat in it--I'm making you dry clean it."

She turned to the cabin. All eyes locked on her.

One button.

Then two.

She's doing it. Gavin thought Jesus Christ, she's actually doing it. Her fingers are shaking. Fuck, she's nervous. That's hot. Like, extra hot. She's unravelling in front of us and still doing it. Who is this woman?

That's three buttons. Her chest is showing. Dean could not believe his eyes Shes almost showing her cunt. Fuck me. Wait--she's looking right at me. Why is she--oh god, she's looking this way. Don't move. Don't blink. Don't fuck this up. Dont scare her off You already came once today thinking about this. Act cool. Fuck, I'm not cool. I'm a mess.

Tamara turned back to Melissa, who was now standing near the galley door with nothing but a cheeky smile and expectation in her eyes.

Tamara unfastened the last button. Her dress slipped from her shoulders.

Heels. Hat. Nothing else.

The boys were statues.

Melissa stepped forward, arms open.

Tamara handed her the dress without breaking eye contact.

As Melissa slipped it on, Tamara took a slow, purposeful step back toward the aisle.

She'd given the dress away.

But for the first time all day--she wasn't the one exposed.

Episode 11: The Money Shot

For a split second, Tamara felt it--regret.

Not shame. Not embarrassment. Just the dawning realization that this moment wasn't contained. What happened here, in the fuselage heat and flash glare, wouldn't stay in this aircraft. Next week, it would echo across classrooms and hangars, filtered through second-hand stories, warped by gossip and bravado.

Unconsciously, she backed up against the cockpit bulkhead, arms crossing instinctively to shield her breasts and crotch. Her skin prickled. Her heart pounded.

Jill, watching from behind the lens, didn't miss a beat.

Truth was, she didn't need any more of Melissa's shots. Mel had already done her part--the great deed--getting Tamara out of her clothes. That was the real prize. Mel was useful, but Tam... Tam was the money shot. The kind of girl who could sell calendars. Perfect ass. Perfect tits. And if she played this right--maybe even the perfect labia.

Jill's fantasy was simple: Tamara bent over, serving the pilot, looking back with a playful smirk... everything visible, framed by the cabin. Bonus points if the boys in the back could be seen watching. She wasn't going to push it--not directly--but God, it would be gold.

Melissa had already drifted forward toward the cockpit, playfully chatting up the pilot. Tamara clocked it and smiled faintly. Morgan. Melissa was talking to Morgan.

Tamara's pulse skipped. She'd crushed on him for months--an instructor at the training centre, tall, sharp, absurdly calm. Neither she nor Melissa had ever worked up the courage to speak to him. Now, the first time he might hear her name... she'd be completely naked.

Great. First impressions count, right?

Back in the cabin, Dean was seething--equal parts horny and frustrated.

She was right there. Nude. But she'd managed to shield everything. She'd turned her back when she dropped the dress, crossed her arms when she turned, and now stood half-concealed behind the trolley. It was infuriating. All that skin, all that tension--and no real view.

Jill sensed the unease and casually handed Tamara a jumper between setups. Not to wear--just to hold. Tamara clutched it tightly against her chest, folded over her front, hiding both her breasts and her groin. It was a compromise. Control, in its own way.

Jill then called for the next location. Cockpit shots.

Flashes, reflectors, and stands were rolled forward. Tamara stepped through the arch, flanked by Melissa and Morgan. The equipment obscured the view from the boys in the cabin--intentionally.

Jill gave her subtle cues--lean forward, touch this, adjust that--and Tamara delivered. She smiled, flirted, and flowed through the motions. Morgan responded, surprised but composed. Their chemistry was electric. Not romantic--but charged. Tamara felt it. So did Jill.

Tamara could tell--she was getting to him. There were moments where his gaze lingered. Moments where her movements sharpened. She leaned too far once. Got a little too hot. Almost lost herself in it.

Time to dial it back.

The assistants shifted the flash gear again, rolling it back toward mid-cabin. Jill wasn't done--not by a long shot. She had a vision: Tamara at the centre, perfectly posed, beautifully framed.

But Tam was spent. Jill could tell. So she pivoted.

Melissa in the navigator's seat.

Morgan still in the pilot's.

Tamara off-camera.

Jill crouched low, setting up the wide-angle lens. If she could just--just--get one more dynamic, cheeky shot, this set would be untouchable.

Then--it happened.

Tamara's hat slipped.

Her heel twisted. She dipped to catch it--legs spreading for balance, dress long gone, jumper tossed aside. One hand hit the pilot's armrest, the other the co-pilot's. Her back arched instinctively, every curve framed in perfect tension. No thought, no vanity--just reflex.

And Jill nearly dropped the camera.

"Tam! Don't move!" she shrieked.

Tamara froze.

Jill's voice sliced through the cabin. "Turn around--smile! Over your shoulder! Just like that!"

Push you butt out Tam, as far as you can.

Tamara twisted her neck, unsure. Her eyes found Melissa and Morgan beside her, still seated--still, silent, and watching.

Jill's eyes went wide. Her whole body snapped taut.

"You two--smile! Big smile! Perfect posture--now!"

Morgan and Melissa obeyed like statues coming to life. They sat upright, matching each other's pose exactly. One hand on each throttle. One arm on each rest. Mirrored. Framed. Perfect.

And between them, Tamara, naked, strong, vulnerable and glowing--dead centre in the shot. Her bottom square to the camera, the line of her spine leading straight up to that half-turn of her head, where her hair fell just-so and her eyes twinkled with mischief. A smile bloomed--not forced, not fake. Real. Playful. Powerful.

It was art. It was sex. It was control.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

And then--

Jill dropped the camera into the assistant's arms.

"That's it. That's the fucking one. I don't care what else we shoot."

Without another word, she tore down the aisle, heels clacking, ponytail bouncing, out the aircraft door, across the tarmac and into the production tent. She barged past two crew and slapped the SD card into the main editing monitor.

Her fingers trembled as the image loaded.

There it was.

Melissa and Morgan, grinning like hired actors.

Tamara, in the middle--strong, bare, owning the frame. No fear in her eyes. No shame in her pose.

Just her.

Jill stared at the screen.

That shot was going to define the whole calendar.

She didn't need thirty great pictures. She didn't even need ten.

She just needed this.

And she had it.

Episode 12: Revenge in Heels

Morgan had to stand to help Tamara up before she toppled over. Her balance was shot, her breath shaky--but she was laughing. Still naked, she stayed in the cockpit, holding his gaze, lingering in the moment.

This was it. Her chance to finally talk to him.

She scooped up the jumper for modesty and hugged it to her chest, suddenly shy. "So... do you actually fly this thing?"

Morgan grinned. "Most days."

They exchanged awkward smiles, the tension easing with every word. Tamara shifted from foot to foot, naked but no longer self-conscious--just giddy.

Back in the cabin, Melissa took the cue and strolled toward the rear stairs. Everyone was starting to disembark. She intercepted Dean and Gavin as they loitered at the back, clearly stalling.

"Are you two getting off the plane, or just lingering like creeps?" she asked.

Gavin smirked. "Dean's waiting for her to walk out. Wants to see the clam."

Melissa barked a laugh. "Didn't you just see what she had for breakfast?"

They looked sheepish.

"Nah," Dean mumbled. "Cameraman blocked it."

Melissa rolled her eyes. "You missed your chance. And for the record--none of you have a shot. She's chatting up the pilot. You don't beat the guy with wings."

Gavin glanced down toward the cockpit.

There was Tamara, still naked, back to them, ass dimpling slightly as she giggled and shifted her weight from one hip to the other, talking to Morgan like she'd known him for years.

Perfect.

Defeated, the boys turned to leave.

Tamara glanced around for her clothes--and froze.

Out the cabin window, she spotted Melissa down on the tarmac, laughing, pointing at the dress. Next to her, Dean stood awkwardly... wearing it.

Tamara snorted. Hugging the oversized jumper tightly across her chest, she stepped down the stairwell barefoot, each click of her heels echoing with confidence.

Halfway down, she turned to the photographer. "Let's get a few in front of the plane."

His eyes lit up. "Wasn't even on the list. Brilliant."

Tamara walked onto the tarmac. Naked. Confident. Iconic.

She struck a pose in front of the Super Connie. Hat tilted. Hips out. One arm by her side, the other tossed back. Full-frontal. No cover. Just pride.

A patrol car rolled by. The cops did a double take.

Tamara giggled.

Jill peeked at the live monitor and grinned wide.

"That's the fucking money."

Episode 13: Star Jumps & Stripped Egos

The hangar was hot, the sun was brutal, and the concrete under his feet felt like a stage he hadn't meant to step onto. Dean stood tall--well, tried to--wearing Melissa's tight navy dress. It clung in all the wrong places, rode up with every breeze. The guys were howling. He grinned along like it was a joke he was in on.

It wasn't.

Then Tamara walked over, still not dressed, still covering her front.

The cameraman had stopped shooting, she was still wearing the little hostie hat.

He expected her to be walking with a bit more haste, considering she was still naked but was free to go and dressed.

The camera man said something to her and she spun on the heels, her gorgeous ass bare for inspection, the jumper lifted a little, but unfortunately her extremely elusive map of tassy did not revela itself.

Dean's cock twitched.

He tried to play it cool, throwing a smirk her way. She didn't smirk back. She stalked toward him, hips rolling like she owned the tarmac, and god it worked.

He couldnt believe melissa won two bets against him. Who'd have thought this prissy little princess, who with wouldnt know sex appeal if it dropped out of the clouds and hit her on the head, would end up but naked modelling. For that he has to wear the dress.

Now fuck me dead, shes walked from the aircraft to he hanger, stopping to wave to a couple of coppers, butt naked. For that he has to strip.

To be honest he would rather be naked than wear this silly dress.

He saw tam notice them and she walks up to them. Smiling at his current state fo dress.

She looked him straight in the and asked every one in braod question, did everyone enjoy the show?

Dean felt a wave of embarrassment, he knows she turned him on and he saw her tell mel and the both looked at him and laughed.

"Did you get to see my boobs?" she whispered, so close he could smell the citrusy sweat on her.

Dean blinked. Nodded. Too fast.

"You liked them," she said.

He didn't even get to answer before she turned to the group and asked, louder now, "You like my ass?"

And then--she pushed it out. Wiggled.

Dean's brain short-circuited. Laughter from the boys faded into static. She was putting on a show. But not for them. Not really.

She bent over--slow, legs apart. The jumper slipped a little. Not enough for a full reveal, but enough to send Dean's blood pressure into orbit.

He could feel it--his cock swelling under the dress, completely out of his control. His heart pounded. He clenched his fists, thinking maybe that would stop it.

Wrong.

Tamara turned. Smiling like the devil. "Now," she said, "time to strip."

Dean froze.

The deal. The star jumps. He'd agreed.

He glanced at Gavin. Gavin just shrugged like, You're fucked, mate.

Dean took off the dress.

The breeze hit him like a slap. He was already half hard. The boys saw. Everyone saw.

He started jumping. Legs flailing. Cock bouncing. Humiliation in real time.

He couldn't even make it to twenty before stumbling.

Only the hangar was cleared for nudity--so someone tossed him the dress and he had to slip it back on like a shield. Except it didn't cover shit.

As they walked back, the boys kept flipping it up like they were twelve.

Tamara walked ahead, now clothed, laughing, radiant. Untouchable.

Dean adjusted the dress for the tenth time and muttered, "Should've stayed in the fucking simulator."

Part 8 -- The Aftermath

Back in 1995, word of Tamara's Airstrip Magazine shoot spread through Qantas--not with photos or headlines, but whispers. Camera phones didn't exist. Nothing went viral. Just rumors, traded between toolboxes and tearooms, growing wilder with each retelling.

In the weeks that followed, it barely made a ripple. By the end of the year, the chatter had faded into memory, another story folded into hangar folklore.

Fifteen years later, Tamara sat in the staff café--a senior aircraft engineer now, running a team of sixty. Steady hands. Steadier reputation.

Outside, a gleaming Lockheed Constellation rolled past the window. She caught Gavin's eye and shared a faint, knowing smile.

A few seats down, a young apprentice named Ryan elbowed Gavin and whispered, "Hey... that's the plane from the poster in our locker room."

Gavin shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah. Too bad the naked chick isn't here to stand in front of it."

Tamara raised an eyebrow, amused. "Wait, what?"

Gavin cracked a guilty grin. "British mag. Airstrip. We paid fifty bucks for five posters. Been hanging up since, oh... '96 maybe? We're on our third one now--old ones get pinched."

Tamara paused, a flicker of irony in her smile.

"Can I have one?" she asked quietly.