Free Sexy Book of Sexy Sex by Kristen Schaal Page B

he was used to dealing with amorous SandWhispers clientele and let them off easy. Still, the experience was mortifying. With a planeful of laughing eyes upon him, Rex couldn’t have gotten another erection even if he wanted to. And he definitely didn’t want to.
    When they finally landed, the humbled newlyweds made their way to the baggage carousel to claim their suitcases full of SandWhispers erotic souvenirs. As Rex and Stacee waited for their bags they silently hoped none of the other passengers would approach them for one last indignity. But their luck had been lost along with their luggage. The old man from the flight shuffled their way, his mocking French cackle echoing through the baggage claim. As he drew closer, he ogled Rex and Stacee head to toe as though trying to conjure a better mental image of them in the act. “Eef eet eesn’t zee leetle lovebairds,” he sneered.
    Rex tried yet again to make sense of his botched postcoital alibi. “Diabetes! I was holding her hair, er, I mean needle—”
    Rex didn’t have a chance to finish. The Frenchman pulled a canister from his coat and sprayed a fine purple mist in Rex’s and Stacee’s faces. The smell reminded Stacee of cupcakes and how nice it was to take a little nap after eating six or seven of them.
    Then everything went black.
    Stacee and Rex woke with a jolt. It felt like an earthquake.
    “Oh, lovebairds! Are you awake, mon chéries?”
    Stacee lifted the rosewater-infused cucumber slices from her eyes. Her head was throbbing, and she was having trouble focusing. “What the—?! Where are we?”
    The Frenchman eased her back onto the massage table. “Eet’s joost tairbulance.”
    It was only then that Stacee became aware of the gentle hum of an engine. They were on an airplane. And not just any airplane, but one with a beautifully tiled Russian spa and working steam room.
    Their attacker had traded his rumpled travel clothes for a crisp butler’s uniform and now presented them with a bottle of champagne. Rex, an ex-sommelier, read the label and gasped. “That’s Louis Roederer, Cristal Brut 1962. It’s $17,625 a bottle!”
    The Frenchman just sniffed. “Eet ees compliments of zee president.”
    As if on cue, the oldest woman Rex and Stacee had ever seen made an entrance. She looked like a skeleton, the flowing white scarf around her neck seemingly the only thing keeping her head attached to her body. Despite this, she held herself with an air of superiority, taking a long drag off her cigarette holder before she spoke. When she did, the words came quick and urgent like a reporter in an old movie, staccato puffs of smoke punctuating each syllable.
    “Stacee, Rex, sorry for the Shanghai treatment. My man was a little trigger-happy with that voodoo gas. Hope the fancy booze made up for the crop dusting. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Amelia Earhart, Presidentrix for Life of the Mile High Club.”
    The words nearly blew Rex and Stacee out of their cashmere slippers. Could it be? Had they really been kidnapped by the shaggy-haired heroine of the skies, the woman who single-handedly took the cock out of cockpit, only to tragically put the Ms. in missing? Before Stacee could challenge their captor, Rex spoke for both of them.
    “Bullshit. If you’re Amelia Earhart, you’d be like two hundred years old!”
    The scarved mistress ignored Rex and looked to Stacee. “Your hubby sure has a way with words. It’s no wonder he talked you into bumping uglies in the bathroom.”
    Stacee felt as though she’d been slapped in the face. Having strangers know about her bathroom tryst was embarrassing enough. But hearing the famed aviatrix mention her skanky sky-romp was like having Susan B. Anthony walk in on her giving a blow job in a voting booth.
    The Frenchman pussyfooted up to Earhart balancing an impossibly long-stemmed martini on his tray. Amelia plucked the glass off the tray and took a graceful sip. “This is Fred Noonan, my manservant and