I often saw aircrew in the hotel bar in Singapore, usually in noisy, obnoxious groups. Changi's a major hub, and the hotel's cheap enough for miserly airlines and comfortable enough for picky pilots. Seeing one airhostess, alone at the bar, was unusual.

She was Oriental, petite, with short, black hair, in her smart uniform - including a neckscarf and jaunty little forage-cap-style hat - and looked dejected. My day hadn't been easy; Singaporean businessmen are tough negotiators and can subtly and skilfully gain more from you than you realise, so you have to be constantly on your guard. I felt I'd earned a cold beer. And I wondered if I could cheer her up.

I put my bag on an adjacent barstool. "May I sit here?" I asked, smiling at her. She nodded.

"A pint of Tiger, and another of those for the lady," I said, pointing to the two empty glasses beside her and the third, almost drained.

"Singapore Sling," the barman informed me as he went to fulfil the order.

The girl looked up and smiled. "Thank you. I need stiff ones." I smiled back.

"Can I ask - has something happened? You look unhappy."

"I'm on layover. Twenty-four hour here." She sighed. "My boyfriend - my ex-boyfriend - in room 705 with co-worker. He dump me." Her voice had that slight fuzziness between l and r that westerners find amusing.

"He must be insane, or have very poor eyesight."

"That your best line?"

"Probably," I shrugged. "I'm Jonathan. Jon for short."

"Hello Jon for short. I'm Mandy." She indicated her lapel badge. "Not real name. Westerners can't pronounce."

"Has anyone ever mentioned..."

"Oh yeah." Her eyes rolled. "Old men say all the time. 'I'm Mandy, Fly Me.' Pain in ass. How you know about it?"

"My dad loved 10cc. He played their music incessantly."

Our drinks arrived as I engaged her in small talk: where she was from (Hong Kong), how long she'd been with the airline (three years), places she'd visited (most of Asia). We talked for an hour, and she slowly relaxed, laughing and smiling more.

"So, who's this ex-boyfriend?" I chanced the question.

Her expression changed. "He fucking pilot. American, tall, dark, handsome; asshole. He want ass sex with other girl. I don't do." Wow! Not quite the answer I expected, but very direct - and informative.

"You like Western men?"

"Another line?" She smiled. "Yes. More than Chinese men. Kinder, good in bed; at least, some."

"Which ones? I'm British, by the way."

She laughed. "Mostly tall, handsome ones. Nationality, hair colour not important." Her eyes were large, dark brown - and looking straight into mine. Her face had that cute China doll look about it.

"Would I - would I fit the criteria?"

"Maybe. You have big cock?" An interesting question, and one that took me by surprise.

"Er - is eight inches enough?"

"Maybe. It thick?"

"Pretty thick. Would you - would you like to find out?"

As the lift doors closed, I swiped my room card and pressed eighteen - and then we were kissing. She seemed small, slim, delicate in my arms.

In my room, she dropped her bag and headed to the window.

"Nice view from up here. Usually stay on lower floor. Better for layover activities."

"Which are..."

"Smoke weed on balcony. Drink. Snort coke. Fuck."

She turned back to me and smiled. I liked that smile. It promised... It promised.

An air hostess's uniform is sexy, like a nurse's or French maid's. Under the jacket, the silk blouse hugged nicely rounded breasts. She kicked off her heels and slid onto the bed.

"You say big cock. Show me."

I quickly - maybe too quickly, betraying my increasing lust - deposited my jacket and tie over a chair-back, unbelted and unzipped. Watching Mandy on the bed, toned brown legs slightly spread, short uniform skirt raised, I was mostly hard. She was impressed.

"Nice. Wanna eat?"

Under the skirt she wore just a tiny, lacy thong. My trousers, socks and underpants ended up on the floor. Out of my clothes, after more kisses and finger-work, I followed the directions of the aircrew. Unlike most Oriental girls I'd met, Mandy waxed. She also whined, like an aircraft engine running up, as I nosedived into the moist valley and cruised around, my tongue exploring her spicy cleft. Five minutes in, I experienced turbulence as her hips bucked. She moaned, "Stop! Please stop!" But I didn't come up for oxygen until a second bout of turbulence almost broke my neck.

"Fuck, you lick pretty good!" she breathed. "You wanna fuck? You got rubber?"

The condom I quickly retrieved from my wallet went on, her blouse and lacy bra came off, together with the uniform skirt that I'd pushed up around her waist, leaving her in just the neck-scarf and the cheeky little hat, which must've been pinned on. She looked fabulous, especially her surprisingly large breasts. Then she lay back and spread her legs, so I could admire the very wet, smooth pussy that I'd just been devouring.

"Mandy, please say the line from the song"

She laughed. "Ha! Pervert!"

"Yes. And?"

She smiled, her arms and legs wide. "I'm Mandy. Fly me."

I almost came. I climbed aboard. "Again?"

She grimaced. "I'm Mandy. Fly me!"

"Again."

"I'm Mandy, f-FUUUUCK!" I entered slowly, but she was tight. I started a gentle in-and-out, gradually sliding deeper into that well-lubricated tube as she wriggled, moaned, held me close and bucked her hips.

"Oh fuck! You big!" she gasped, wide-eyed.

"You like?"

"OH! Oh, fuck yes!" she gasped.

I eased back, pushed deeper, hit her cervix. She squealed.

"How's that?"

"Oh my God! Again!" she gasped. I obeyed the crew's instructions.

The rhythm built, her face and body betraying her excitement.

"What - what do you - say?" My breath was getting ragged.

She understood. "I - I'm Mandy, f-fly - fly me. I'm Mandy, fl-fly, fuck, fuck, me. Fuck me, FUCK ME!"

I think we came at around the same time.

The following morning, I watched her leave with the rest of her crew. The guy in the uniform with the stripes on the sleeve - and another cute, but slightly sad-looking oriental girl next to him - seemed a little surprised to see Mandy, smiling.

A month later, we met again in Bangkok. In a city known for easily accessible sex, I had no trouble accessing delightful sex with Mandy. This time, she trusted me enough to allow me access without the rubber. God, she was hot, wet, and very responsive. Once again, I asked her to repeat my favourite words, as she's done for me every time we've been able to meet up. On an overnight flight to Tokyo, she couldn't, because her mouth was full of my cock as she knelt in an alcove in first class, sucking me off. She'd upgraded me, which wasn't the only frequent-flyer benefit I received. In return, I gave her an in-flight service, in rubber, as she didn't want semen running down her legs. She whispered "I'm Mandy, fuck me!" in my ear as I stood and effectively screwed her to the bulkhead, her legs around my waist.

Tonight, we're meeting again in Singapore, where it all began, almost two years ago. I'm going to surprise her with an engagement ring. She's finally agreed to offer me another ring. I can't wait to hear her say "I'm Mandy. Fuck me - up the arse!"

*******

Author's Note: Apparently, back in the early 1970s, National Airlines ran an advertising campaign featuring air hostesses, with the headlines 'I'm [insert female name here]. Fly me.' The deliberate innuendo wasn't lost on the male public, and the British band 10cc brought out a song called "I'm Mandy, Fly Me," which (according to Wikipedia) peaked at No. 2 in the UK charts. Great song - gets hardly any airplay these days. I heard it the other day while listening to 10cc's Greatest Hits and thought - ideal for this competition!