Ladyboy Airways

Ladyboy Airways

A quiet British traveller is invited aboard a mysterious ladyboy flight. Three hours. No turbulence -- unless requested.

by Miles Vane

*All characters are 18 years of age or older.*

I didn't go looking for anything that night. No plan, no fantasy, no checklist. Just a quiet drink, somewhere with air-con and low lighting. The kind of place where the staff don't hustle and the customers don't shout.

But if I'm honest, I hadn't come to Bangkok just to relax. A part of me was hungry. Curious. I kept remembering this one girl I'd seen at the gym a few nights earlier -- Thai, maybe twenty-five, lean and quiet. Short shorts, white socks, and a look that said she didn't care who stared. It was the shape of her -- the strength, the curve of her arse, the effortless femininity with something extra. I thought about her when I showered. I thought about her when I stroked myself at 2am.

So when I found that bar, something in me was already halfway there.

The lounge didn't have a name outside -- just a discreet symbol above the door, like a pair of angel wings or maybe a stylised thong. Inside, it was cool and quiet, almost posh. Marble bar. Low leather seats. Soft music. The ladyboys were stunning -- not in a plastic, dolled-up way, but clean, graceful, expensive. Like hostesses in a forgotten Bond film. They moved slow. Made eye contact. Knew exactly how to stand when pouring a drink.

I took a seat at the bar, ordered a whisky, and let the night settle around me. No one bothered me. One of the girls smiled and offered a menu -- real food, not bar snacks. Steak, grilled fish, imported wine. This wasn't Nana Plaza. This was for the men who didn't need to ask the price.

She walked away when I didn't flirt, which I appreciated.

That's when I noticed him. Sitting two stools down, glass of something neat in hand, jacket folded over the back of his chair like he'd been there a while. Silver hair, well kept. Tan suit, not flashy. Just a man with good taste and time to spare.

He raised his glass slightly -- not in invitation, just in acknowledgement. I nodded back. And just like that, the night started to shift.

He didn't speak right away. Just sipped his drink and watched the room like I was. Two men in the same rhythm. It felt... companionable. No tension. No posturing.

Eventually, he turned slightly on his stool.

"You've been here before?" he asked, voice smooth, English. Southern, maybe London.

I shook my head. "First time. A friend mentioned it. Said it was... quieter."

He smiled at that. "That's one way to put it." He held out his hand, "James."

"Nice to meet you," I said, shaking it. "I'm--" I gave a name that wasn't quite mine. A habit I'd picked up when travelling alone.

James didn't blink. Just nodded, then gestured gently with his glass. "You've got good instincts. Most first-timers end up downstairs at Cockatoo or in the back rooms of Nana with their wallet half gone."

I chuckled. "Yeah. Been warned."

"You strike me as someone who listens when they're warned." He said it lightly, like an observation, not a flirt.

I liked that about him. He didn't lean in. Didn't overplay it. He just sat there, relaxed, like someone who'd made his money and wasn't chasing anything. His eyes flicked to the ladyboys a few times, but not in that hungry way. More like he was watching the weather.

"You looking for company?" he asked eventually.

"Not tonight," I said. "Just soaking it in."

He nodded. "Good answer."

We didn't speak much after that. But he paid for my second drink without telling me -- nodded to the barman with a glance when I reached for my wallet. I gave him a look. He just smiled.

As he stood, one of the ladyboys approached me -- not the one from before, a different one, taller, in a fitted dress that shimmered under the low light. She leaned in close, resting a manicured hand on the back of my stool.

"You have very calm eyes," she said, her voice low, not quite Thai, not quite anything.

I glanced at her hand. Her nails were short, neat, painted a soft lilac. She noticed my glance and lifted one finger to her mouth, sucking it slowly while holding my gaze -- not seducing me, not asking, just showing.

Then she let it drop, brushing the tip gently across my lips as she leaned in further.

"You'd taste amazing after a workout," she whispered. "Sweat. Salt. Skin."

My cock stiffened instantly. She smiled, kissed the corner of my mouth -- just a hint of tongue -- and walked away without looking back.

James caught the moment. He raised an eyebrow as if to say see?

"Just be curious," he said, on his way to leave. "That's all you need in this city."

He dropped a card by my coaster. Plain black. No name. Just a WhatsApp number and a small silver icon -- the same winged symbol from outside the door.

Then he left. No goodbye, no lean in, no second glance.

I slipped the card into my wallet without thinking. But I didn't stop thinking about him.

A few days later

Bangkok has a way of melting time. Mornings disappear into street food and sweat. Evenings blur into cool showers, rooftop bars, and the soft moan of air-con units struggling to keep up. I messaged James, he messaged me, but we were always in different parts of the city. Figured it was just one of those chance encounters that hangs in the air for a bit, then fades.

Then I got the message.

No subject line. Just a sender name I didn't recognise -- wings@lbair. cc. I almost binned it.

Inside was one line:

"If you're still in the city, I'd like to invite you to something private. No cost, no pressure. You'd be flying as my guest. Discretion is absolute."

Underneath was a link, password-protected. Below that, the password: firstclass

My pulse ticked up. I clicked the link.

It opened to a single page -- clean white background, no branding. Just a high-resolution image of a silver service button. Next to it, a single red heel, kicked off, resting against the wall of what looked like an airplane cabin. Underneath:

Your journey begins the moment you surrender.

There were no photos of women. No pop-ups. Just a clean booking form with a single dropdown:

• VIP Class (3h) -- Suvarnabhumi to Suvarnabhumi (New First Officer Test Flight)

And below that, in smaller type:

Sponsored by: James L.

My cock stirred -- not from the form, but from the confidence of it all. No sales pitch. No sleaze. Just calm invitation.

I clicked, almost out of spite, half-expecting it to ask for a credit card.

Instead, a final message appeared:

Your boarding pass has been confirmed. Dress well. Stay sober. Be ready at 19:00. A car will collect you. No phones. No questions.

Underneath, a little signature flourish:

Ladyboy Airways. We service gentlemen.

I exhaled hard. My cock was swelling now -- not throbbing, but heavy. Curious. It had nothing to do with porn. Just the idea of being selected. Of something orchestrated behind the scenes. Of beautiful, knowing creatures waiting for you behind a locked door.

I stood up, cock pressing awkwardly against my shorts, and headed to the shower. I decided to clean myself thoroughly -- female pornstar clean, inside and out -- just in case.

Boarding

The car was black, low, and clean. The driver didn't speak. He just nodded as I slid into the back seat and offered me a cold towel and a bottle of water with a silver winged logo.

We drove east, to Suvarnabhumi Airport, down a service road lined with palms and shuttered warehouses. I started to wonder if this was legit. Then we passed a gate, security waved us through, and the hangar doors opened.

Inside, under soft lights, sat a private Gulfstream -- the kind of jet billionaires don't brag about, because they don't have to. Sleek. White. No airline branding, just a small silver wing on the tail.

A woman stood by the stairs. No--not a woman. A ladyboy. Tall, elegant, black hair in a twist, dark lipstick, black heels that made her calves look like sculpture. Her uniform was navy blue, cut to flatter -- short skirt that hugged her hips, crisp white blouse, a dark neck scarf knotted neatly at her throat. She looked composed, seductive, almost regal. She smiled when she saw me.

"Good evening, Mr. Vane. Welcome aboard, my name is Nam."

She knew my name.

She took my hand lightly, led me up the stairs.

As we reached the top, she looked me over with a small, approving smile. "Very well presented, Mr. Vane," she said. "The cabin notices things like that."

Her compliment was subtle, but it landed. I felt seen -- not just as a man, but as a guest who belonged here.

I had dressed with care. Navy trousers, white linen shirt, no belt. Clean lines, subtle watch, shoes polished. Not flashy -- just quiet confidence. I wanted to look like I belonged.

Inside, the cabin was hushed. Cream leather, dark wood, soft lighting. Three other men were already seated, each with a drink in hand. Across from each of them, a ladyboy in uniform. One reading a menu with her guest. One already with a hand on his thigh.

The third man looked up and met my eyes. It was James.

He was seated at the rear of the cabin, more like a host than a guest. Tonight, he wore something different -- a midnight blue blazer over a pale open-collar shirt, no tie. Crisp slacks. Casual elegance, the kind that whispered wealth instead of shouting it. Same unbothered calm. He gave me a nod -- not formal, not intimate. Just... welcoming.

The ladyboy beside him was older than the others, maybe mid-thirties, with short hair, red nails, and a diamond stud in one nostril. She wore the same uniform but slightly looser, tailored for confidence. Her hand rested on the arm of his chair.

James raised his glass slightly. "Glad you came," he said, his voice barely audible over the soft engine hum.

I nodded back, unsure if I was supposed to approach. I didn't. My girl guided me to my seat at the front.

She didn't sit. She just bent slightly, adjusted my seatbelt for me, fingers brushing my lap like it was part of the service.

"Champagne?" she asked, face right next to mine, breathing on me, eyes sharp but warm.

I nodded. My cock was already responding. Just the tone of her voice. The scent of her perfume. The closeness.

She handed me a glass and took the seat opposite, legs crossing slowly. Her thighs were long and toned, smooth with a faint gleam that suggested stockings, not bare skin, but the sheer, whisper-thin kind you rarely saw in Bangkok. Uncommon here, and that made it feel deliberate -- a choice, not a default. Her calves were shapely, ankles elegant, heels lifting just enough to shape her legs into something dangerously refined. Just looking at them made my breath slow. My cock throbbed gently against my trousers -- not from movement, just from the idea of her. Her eyes never left mine.

"This is VIP Class," she said. "Three hours. No turbulence. Unless you ask for it."

There was a soft chime overhead. The cabin door sealed with a heavy click. A moment later, the turbines began to rise -- a smooth, growing hum that vibrated gently through the leather.

"Cabin secure," someone said behind me.

My girl smiled, leaned forward, and clipped in her seatbelt.

We began to taxi. The lights dimmed slightly, champagne flutes catching the glow. I looked across the aisle and saw another pair -- the ladyboy had one heel off and was pushing her nylon-clad foot into her guest's crotch, slowly and deliberately, watching his reaction with a coy smile. One row up, someone was already whispering something that made his ladyboy giggle.

Then the engines surged, pressing us softly into our seats. My girl reached over and rested her fingers on my forearm.

"We're airborne," she whispered, as if I couldn't feel it. "Now you belong to me until we land."

She reached into the seat console and pulled out a glossy leather-bound menu, placing it gently in my lap.

The cover was embossed with the silver wing symbol. Underneath, in elegant script:

LADYBOY AIRWAYS - TEST FLIGHT

Route: Bangkok to Bangkok. Duration: 3 hours.

Inside, the contents were neatly divided into sections. Some were tastefully titled, others blunt. The menu was optional, but offered "a structure for mutual pleasure."

Options included (but were not exclusive to):

Worship of attendant (cock, balls, rimming)Guest worship by attendant (same)Fucking LadyboyLadyboy Fucking Guest

She leaned forward as I flipped through the options, her voice a soft hum in my ear.

I hesitated. Not from shame -- I was hard, and she knew it -- but something flickered in me. A doubt. A question I couldn't quite voice.

She saw it. Tilted her head slightly, smile never fading. "You're wondering about health, aren't you?"

I didn't answer. I didn't have to.

"Our patron is a billionaire," she said calmly, like she was talking about the weather. "He keeps us on retainer -- very generous retainers -- under one condition. We stay healthy. Very healthy."

She brushed the palm of her hand along my knee. "Every girl on this flight is screened regularly. Every guest, too. Including you. Even if you didn't know it."

I frowned slightly. "How--?"

She gave a delicate shrug. "Billionaires don't ask. They just... arrange. If you received this invitation, it means you passed."

I exhaled, still half-hard, half-reeling. Something about it was insane. But something about it also made perfect sense.

"You can circle anything that interests you... or you can leave it blank and let me read your body instead."

I looked around the cabin. Soft laughter. A shifting of limbs.

To the right, one of the ladyboys was already naked -- except for stockings and suspenders. She had fairly large breasts, pert and firm, as she shifted in her seat. Her guest looked dazed, very into her.

The seats behind them, the guest was giving head to his stewardess.

I felt fingers on my cheek gently pull my attention back to her before I could glance at James.

"I'm a little shy," I said quietly. "But curious. Some of this... it's intense."

She didn't flinch. Just nodded.

"That's why you're here," she said. "Would it help if I told you what the others like?"

I blinked. "You know?"

"Of course. It's all part of the preparation." She leaned in and began, casually, like she was listing items from a wine list.

"To your right -- he's into spanking. Giving and receiving. Last flight, he laid her across his lap for a full ten minutes before she bent him over the seat and gave it back twice as hard. Said he liked the contrast."

"Behind them, the guy sucking cock -- voyeur. Likes to watch. Strokes himself while the others play. Sometimes he joins in if it's encouraged."

She tilted her head toward James. "And James... he's versatile. Some nights he's in charge -- giving orders, not touching, just watching. Other times, he lets her top him. Depends on his mood."

She glanced at the older attendant beside him. "They've flown together a long time. He likes cum. Occasionally piss too. But for him, it's more about the dynamic -- who has control, and when it shifts."

My mouth was dry. My cock throbbed.

"What happens onboard," she added, "stays onboard."

I looked down at the menu again. One last glance.

I hovered over "worship." That felt right. Clean. Safe. But the more I read, the more my cock throbbed. My mind said careful. My body said go. And then -- fuck it -- I circled almost everything. She watched me do it. Said nothing. Just smiled -- slow, approving -- and took the menu from my lap like I'd just signed a contract.

"I thought so," she said. "Good boys rarely travel this far unless they're ready to be ruined."

I zoned out. The other passengers, the cabin, even the gentle vibration of the engines -- all of it faded.

It was just her now. My attendant. My temptress.

She stood silently, unclipping her blouse one button at a time. No rush, no seduction dance -- just confident exposure. Beneath, black stockings hugged her toned legs, clipped to a thin suspender belt. Her chest was flat, almost boyish, with two small, erect nipples that stood out sharply in the cabin's cool air. It was exactly my type -- exactly the kind of body I'd always clicked for when I was alone and searching. It felt like someone had scrutinised my internet history and hand-picked her just for me.

Her cock, already swelling, curved away from her proudly. Bigger than mine. Heavier. Beautiful.

She gestured for me to stand. I obeyed.

She stripped me herself, piece by piece, folding each item and setting it on the seat. When I was naked, she stepped close, took my hand, and wrapped it around her shaft. It was fully hard and pulsed in my grip.

"Feel that?" she whispered. "That's for you."

I knelt.

The smell hit me first -- warm, slightly sweet, raw. Then the taste: skin, salt, and the faintest tang of pre-cum. I kissed the head softly, tongue swirling, then pressed my mouth along the shaft like it was a ritual. I worshipped her with reverence, her cock resting against my cheek, my lips, my tongue.

I couldn't stop. I pushed my face into her body, licking from her balls up to the base of her cock, then over it and under -- trying to find her anus from the front, but struggling to reach properly.

She looked down and read my intention instantly. A small smirk touched her lips.

Without a word, she turned around and climbed up onto her seat, getting on all fours with effortless grace. Her back arched, arse tilted just right. She looked over her shoulder and waited.

From behind, I could see everything -- the soft curve of her arse, the gentle sway of her balls beneath, and the proud line of her cock resting heavy between her thighs. Her anus, looking impossibly small and beautiful. It was art. Erotic geometry. A body made for worship.

Now, I had access.

I leaned in and moaned against her, tongue working slowly, reverently, like I was tasting divinity. Her scent was rich and warm, earthy but clean, and every movement of my tongue drew a quiet twitch from her hips. Her skin was hot against my face. I could feel the weight of her balls in my palm, the way she opened her arse slightly under the pressure, the soft resistance of her rim yielding to my worship. It was raw, intimate, and I didn't want to stop.

Then she moved, turned to face me. We stood and she embraced me tight and kissed me deeply. It was different from kissing a woman -- not better, not worse. Just... different. Her lips were soft, but the way she held me was firmer, more deliberate. There was less yielding, more mutual tension. Her frame was leaner, taller. Her bones felt closer to the surface, like she was built for motion, not softness.

I could feel her cock, thick and hard, pressing against my stomach -- a slow, steady reminder of everything she was. The contrast lit something up in me. Her tongue moved with certainty, not hesitation. It felt like being kissed by someone who'd chosen femininity -- and wore it like silk over steel.

It turned me on more than I could admit.

She pushed me gently back onto her seat -- the kind of seat that probably cost more than a top-end BMW -- now transformed into a half-bed. Her eyes were locked onto mine, focused and calm, lips parted just slightly, her breath shallow but steady. She lifted my legs with ease, folding me without resistance, feet behind my head, like she'd done it a hundred times. The air felt cooler against my exposed skin, heightening every nerve ending as I lay vulnerable beneath her gaze.

Then she leaned in.

Her tongue met my balls -- warm, wet, deliberate -- the contrast making me shiver. She didn't rush. She took her time, letting her mouth wander lower with maddening precision. Each lick felt like a claim, each pause like a tease. And then -- I felt her.

Her tongue brushed my rim. A slick, circular touch that made me gasp -- not just from shock, but from how right it felt. She didn't hesitate. She licked again, slower this time, pressing just enough to make my whole body tense. And then she pushed in.

I could barely breathe.

The sensation was overwhelming -- a soft, wet invasion that shouldn't have felt as good as it did. My hole fluttered around her tongue, instinctive, desperate, trying to adjust to the heat and pressure. My cock leaked freely, untouched but fully alive. Every nerve below my waist was awake, tingling, straining for more. She licked deeper, then slower, then deeper again -- rhythmic and reverent -- as if she were tasting something sacred.

I was panting now, hips lifting, squirming against her hold. I wanted to moan, but all that came out were helpless little noises -- the kind you make when your body gives in completely. When all you can do is feel.

When she rose, her cock brushed my thigh -- hot, smooth, undeniably real. My skin tingled where it touched, as if heat alone could mark me. I looked up -- and she was watching me. Calm. Certain. Powerful.

"Ready?" she asked, her voice low, intimate.

I nodded, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and surrender.

She lined herself up, the head of her cock pressing gently against me -- a warm, insistent pressure. Her hands gripped my thighs, grounding me, spreading me just enough. Her thumbs stroked the crease where thigh met hip, almost tender. And then... she entered me.

Slowly.

Deeply.

Inch by inch, she filled me -- steady and controlled, like she was savouring the stretch of me around her. I felt it all -- the glide, the heat, the pressure building as her cock pushed past the tight resistance of my rim and deeper still.

And then -- she hit it.

A jolt of pleasure radiated from inside me, sharp and deep like someone had reached into my core and flicked a switch. My prostate throbbed at the contact, alive and swollen, suddenly the centre of everything. I gasped, my body arching slightly. The sensation wasn't just pleasure -- it was need. Hot, helpless, aching need.

She paused there, fully inside me, the weight of her pressing down in all the right places. My muscles clenched around her instinctively, trying to adjust, to hold her there. She smiled -- not cruel, but knowing.

"Now," she whispered, "you do belong to me."

And then she began to move.

Slow strokes at first, deliberate and deep. Her cock dragged across my prostate again and again, sending ripples through me -- tightening my belly, making my cock twitch untouched. Every thrust made me leak, my body caught in that perfect balance of fullness and friction, stretching and release. My prostate throbbed with each pass, like it was being massaged from the inside -- coaxed, claimed, worshipped.

I could feel myself unravelling -- not just from the intensity of the sensation, but from what it meant. She was inside me. Moving in me. Owning me. And I didn't want her to stop.

She picked up pace, her breath hitching now, rhythm sharpening, hips snapping harder. Her body was a machine of focus and control, but I could feel the edge creeping in -- her restraint fraying.

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath, the first crack in her voice. "You feel too good."

She drove into me, again and again, her grip tightening. Her thighs slapped against me now, fast, powerful, relentless. My prostate was on fire -- not pain, just pure overstimulation. I could feel every thrust like a pulse, deep and electric, until I was moaning with every breath, cock throbbing untouched.

Then she growled -- low, raw, deep in her chest.

She slammed in one final time, burying herself to the base, her cock pulsing, twitching.

And then she came.

Hot, thick spurts filled me, flooding deep as she held me open and still. Her cock jerked inside me, each spasm making my hole flutter, my body writhe. She stayed buried to the hilt, riding it out, groaning through her teeth as her orgasm poured into me.

When it was done, she collapsed forward just slightly, breath on my neck, body still joined to mine.

"You took all of it," she whispered, almost reverent. "Fucking perfect."

She eased off me slowly, cock slipping free with a wet, lazy sound that made me twitch. I lay there, body still trembling, a mess of sweat and cum and overstimulated nerves.

Then she turned.

Without a word, she climbed onto my seat and got onto all fours, facing to the rear of the cabin. Head down. Arse up. Her thighs spread wide, back arched, her slick, flushed cock still half-hard beneath her. She looked over her shoulder at me, hair loose now, lips parted in something between a smirk and a dare.

My seat. My view. My turn.

"Go on," she said, voice low and teasing. "Have your fun."

I rose to my feet behind her, heart still hammering, legs unsteady but hungry now -- not just for release, but for her. For this. Her back was broad and sculpted, strong in a way I wasn't used to. A fighter's frame. Smooth shoulders, deep lines tapering down to her waist. Still feminine, but not soft. Not fragile. She was beautiful in a way that demanded respect -- not for how she looked, but for how she owned it.

Her arse was perfect. Round, firm, flushed with colour. Her hole still slick, open, glistening. Her cock hung low beneath her, still twitching, still leaking. She was waiting.

I reached out and placed a hand on the small of her back -- steadying her, steadying myself. My cock brushed against her entrance, and I paused, just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to understand what this moment was.

Then I pressed forward.

She was tight. Hot. Alive.

My head slipped in first, slowly, reverently, stretching her with care. She exhaled sharply but held still, letting me in. Inch by inch I filled her, her body adjusting around me with a slow, steady pull. She clenched a little -- natural, instinctive -- but didn't resist. She welcomed it. And when I bottomed out, buried to the hilt, I let my forehead rest between her shoulders and just stayed there, feeling her heartbeat in my cock.

"You feel... incredible," I whispered.

She laughed softly, breath hitching. "Then fuck me properly."

And I did.

Slow strokes at first -- long, deep, grounding. My hands slid up her back, feeling the strength under her skin, the tension in her shoulders. She pushed back into me with quiet precision, meeting every thrust with just the right angle, the right rhythm.

We moved like we'd done this before -- not fast, not frantic, just real. Her body took me in fully, again and again, and every pass over her prostate made her moan low and needy, hips shaking beneath me. I wasn't using her. I was with her. Holding her open. Keeping her safe. Giving her everything I had.

And it was perfect.

I looked up for a moment, breath heavy, hands still resting on her hips. The cabin felt like a dream -- hushed, golden, heavy with sex but somehow still elegant. Nobody was hiding. To one side, a ladyboy in heels was kneeling on her seat, slowly grinding back against her partner's lap, both of them locked in a rhythm that was almost tender. Across the aisle, another passenger was laid bare, a silk blindfold over his eyes while his ladyboy kissed his stomach, her touch slow and affectionate. Every scene felt curated -- not crude, not loud, but deeply filthy in a way that respected the ritual of it. And then, directly ahead, my eyes settled on James. He was facing me now. Still seated, shirt undone, his ladyboy straddling his lap in reverse. Her long back arched as she moved on him, her hands on his knees for balance. She looked at me. Our eyes locked. She saw me inside her colleague. I saw her riding James. And neither of us looked away.

Her body clenched around me -- not hard, not forced, just enough to let me know she felt it too. The weight of my cock inside her. The rhythm. The eyes on us.

I held her hips and fucked her just a little deeper, breath catching as her muscles fluttered and pulled at me, guiding me toward the edge. And still, just ahead, her colleague held my gaze. She was moving on James like she'd been made for it -- slow, sensual, dripping confidence. And the whole time, she watched me. Saw how I moved. How I held her friend. How I gave in.

The pressure inside me surged.

My strokes faltered, hips jerking. And then I came -- hard, deep, spilling into her with a gasp I couldn't hold back. My whole body shuddered as I emptied myself, balls tight, every nerve in my legs alight. I stayed buried inside her, cock throbbing, pulse hammering in my ears.

She sighed, soft and warm, and sank onto her elbows as I leaned forward, wrapping my arms around her waist.

We stayed like that -- joined, quiet, breathing into the stillness.

Eventually, I eased out of her, slow and careful. She turned, still flushed, and reached for a warm towel from the armrest compartment like it was nothing. Like this was all just part of the service.

She cleaned me up with calm precision, folded the towel like it meant something, then placed it gently over my lap -- not rushed, not casual, but like a ritual. Her cock still glistened beneath her, her eyes still locked on mine. I leaned back, drained and dizzy, stomach warm, cock twitching. She smiled faintly, and just before turning away, she murmured:

"That was just your welcome aboard."