Turbulence Below Her Skirt

Summery:

Heather, a seasoned flight director, meets Riley--a bold, young flight attendant who doesn't follow orders, she gives them. Tension turns to submission at 30,000 feet as Heather's control is stripped away, body first... then completely.

Turbulence Below Her Skirt

Heather sat alone in the quiet of the crew lounge, one manicured hand wrapped around a steaming paper cup of black coffee. The early morning lights were too bright, the air stale with industrial chill and recirculated ambition. She could hear the distant roll of suitcases and boarding announcements echoing through the terminal. Her reflection in the tall, airport window was softer than she remembered. A woman of presence -- poised, put-together -- but undeniably fuller around the hips now, her uniform snug where it used to skim.

She was still beautiful. Everyone said so. But at 43, with the weight of two decades at 30,000 feet under her belt, Heather carried a kind of tired elegance that had to be earned. Flight director, yes. Commanding, composed, with that sharp smile that passengers trusted and junior crew admired. But in the last year, the waistband pinched more often than it used to. Her bra left faint red lines under her arms. Her ass, once sharp and high, now swayed with something heavier. She hated how aware she was of it when walking the aisle.

Still, her hair was thick, her cheekbones still kissed with that English rose glow, and her voice -- warm and precise -- could hush a crying baby or charm an angry businessman back into his seat.

She sighed, sipping her coffee. It was her third leg this week. Bangkok turnaround. Long haul. Tight layover. One more flight before two blessed days off.

Then the door opened.

The tap of high heels.

Heather glanced up -- and paused.

She knew, instantly, that this was the new girl.

Young. Maybe 22, if that. Tall for her age, with lean, toned legs under dark hosiery and a navy skirt that seemed to hug rather than cover. Her blouse was crisp, tucked too neatly -- like she'd practiced it. Her face was fresh, lipstick sharp. But it was her eyes -- alert, confident, amused -- that made Heather sit a little straighter.

"Hi," the girl said, with a smile that was somehow both professional and... appraising. "You must be Heather. I'm Riley. I'm the new FA on 608."

Heather nodded, masking the flicker of unease behind her eyes. "Yes. Welcome aboard. You're early."

"Always." Riley smirked and dropped into the seat across from her like she belonged there. "I like to get a feel for the crew before takeoff."

Heather blinked. It was bold, the way she said it. Not flirty -- not exactly -- but something too warm, too deliberate. There was no tension in her body. She sat like she knew the shape of every man's stare in the terminal and didn't give a damn.

"First international posting?" Heather asked, sipping again, carefully.

"Second," Riley replied. "Did Tokyo last month. LAX base, but they're trialing me on Europe and Asia routes now."

Of course they are, Heather thought. Of course they're fast-tracking her. Legs like that. A waist like that. That confidence.

Riley leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. Her perfume was something citrusy and clean, but it carried heat underneath. Amber, maybe. Sex and soap.

"I've heard you run a tight ship," she said, tone lighter now. "That true?"

Heather gave a tight smile. "I run a professional cabin. I don't do drama at thirty-thousand feet."

Riley tilted her head. "Same."

Their eyes met. Held. Something wordless passed between them. Something that made Heather's pulse tick in her throat -- just for a moment. Riley smiled again, slower this time. And Heather felt, absurdly, as though she'd just lost a small, silent point in a game she hadn't agreed to play.

She finished her coffee and stood. "Let's get to briefing."

Riley followed, rising with the smooth grace of a girl who worked hard to look effortless.

Heather didn't look back as they walked toward the gate.

But she felt the heat of Riley's gaze trace the curve of her ass -- just for a second -- like turbulence on still air.

The aircraft was halfway into its thirteen-hour haul, gliding high above the Indian Ocean. Cabin lights were dimmed to soft amber. Business Class was quiet--passengers lulled by champagne and silence--while Economy thrummed with the quiet rustle of sleep masks and occasional clicks from touchscreens. The hum of the engines was steady, lulling.

Heather stood near the galley bulkhead, clipboard in hand, poised in the familiar stillness of command. She wore the expression she always did mid-flight: serene but sharp. Professional. But behind the smile, her jaw ached. Her shoes pinched. And Riley was... everywhere.

The girl moved through the aisles like the plane was hers. Smiling at the elderly man in 12A, slipping an extra chocolate to the mother in 17D with a toddler on her hip. Her voice was soft. Warm. Like velvet on a steel edge. She was fluid, conversational, and flawless in the way that turned heads and made passengers feel adored.

It wasn't her charm that irritated Heather.

It was her confidence.

She didn't ask permission. She took initiative. She'd taken over rest breaks without running the schedule by Heather, and the others--the girls from Manila, the Dutch senior purser, even Martin, the straight-arrow guy from Cape Town--didn't question it.

They were laughing with her now in the galley.

Heather stood just outside the curtain, listening. She heard her name. Laughter. A beat of silence when she pushed through.

All eyes shifted. And Heather saw it clearly--Riley, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed, one heel propped against the wall. She looked like she owned the crew, the mood, the room.

"Break rotation was changed?" Heather asked lightly, clipboard raised like a shield.

Riley looked up, smiled. "Yes. Sarah was fading fast, and Martin wanted an earlier slot. I swapped them. Hope that's alright."

Heather's voice stayed even. "I would've appreciated a heads-up. We run this as a team."

"Of course," Riley replied. Her tone wasn't sarcastic. But it had... layers. "Didn't want to interrupt your meal service briefing."

Heather's smile froze. The comment was light--but it drew a quiet breath of amusement from Sarah.

Riley turned back to the group. "Also, we're low on sparkling water. But I've already flagged it with catering for the return leg."

Heather's stomach twisted.

She hadn't noticed.

Riley had.

And now they all knew it.

There was a subtle shift in posture from the rest of the crew. Not disrespect--but a redirection of gravity. A tilt.

They were looking at Riley now.

Listening to her.

Heather straightened. "Thanks. I'll take it from here."

She turned toward the Economy galley, blood hot beneath her collar.

But Riley followed.

Not immediately.

A few minutes later, she appeared at Heather's shoulder near the crew jumpseat. She stood closer than was necessary, her voice low, intimate--like a shared secret, not a challenge.

"You're good at this," she said. "I've flown with directors who micromanage and snap. But you let the crew breathe. That's rare."

Heather didn't turn. "Breathe doesn't mean bypass."

There was a pause. Then Riley's voice--closer now. Silk on the edge of a blade.

"No. But sometimes... the air gets thinner when someone holds it too tightly."

Heather turned slowly.

Riley was inches away.

Their bodies didn't touch--but Heather could feel the warmth radiating from her. The scent of her skin--spiced and clean. The soft gleam of gloss on her mouth. And those eyes--so maddeningly calm. So young and fearless.

"I know your type," Heather said, quieter now. "You rise fast. Charm everyone. But you're not flying solo, Riley."

Riley's lip curled at the corner--almost a smirk.

"Who says I'm not?"

Heather's pulse fluttered. "Don't get too comfortable."

"I already am," Riley replied, gaze slipping down--deliberately--to the waistband of Heather's pencil skirt, just for a second. "The crew trusts me. You're sharp, Heather. Beautiful. But you're watching me. Not the passengers."

Heather's breath caught.

That stung. Because it was true.

She opened her mouth--nothing came.

And Riley leaned in--close enough that Heather could feel the words against her skin.

"You can't lead a crew you don't see," she whispered. "And right now? They see me."

Then, with infuriating grace, she stepped back.

Smiled.

And disappeared behind the curtain.

Heather stood there.

Heart pounding.

Shoulders taut.

Her chest rose and fell with shallow, controlled breaths. Her panties were damp. Not from arousal--yet--but from tension. Heat. Something unspoken.

She adjusted her collar, forced a smile, and walked back down the aisle.

But she knew--already--she was no longer steering the current.

Riley had shifted it.

With a look. A sentence. A glance at her waist that made Heather want to pull her skirt tighter, stand taller, turn around and...

No.

Not yet.

But the burn was there now.

Between her legs. Between her pride and her need.

And it wasn't going away.

Elevator Descent

The crew hotel was one of those glass-and-gold towers near the city's waterfront -- sterile, stylish, and smelling faintly of orchids and industrial-grade carpet cleaner. The flight was over. Briefing done. Crew dismissed. And Heather's feet ached in that deep, unspoken way they always did after thirteen hours of pretending to be flawless.

She moved through the lobby with grace, still in full uniform -- navy pencil skirt snug over her hips, blouse buttoned high, neck scarf knotted with quiet precision. Her heels tapped crisply on the marble. There was still poise in her posture, but beneath it -- tension. Her shoulders were too tight. Her mouth a line.

And Riley?

Riley was already waiting at the elevator, jacket casually slung over one arm, tie loose, hair undone just enough to look effortless. Her uniform clung like it had been tailored to her bones -- flatter stomach, longer legs, that easy glow that came from youth and vanity mixed with just enough calculation to be dangerous.

The doors opened.

They stepped in.

Alone.

The mirrored walls of the elevator reflected them both. Heather stood tall, posture stiff, eyes fixed forward. Riley leaned against the rail, one leg slightly bent, her thigh brushing the hem of Heather's skirt as the doors closed.

The silence was heavy.

The floor display ticked down: 23. 22. 21.

Then:

"You looked flustered today," Riley murmured.

Heather didn't answer.

"I mean," Riley continued, voice low and deliberately slow, "you hid it well. But I noticed. Especially when you tried to correct me in front of the crew."

Heather's jaw clenched. "You ignored the chain of command."

"No," Riley said softly, "I just made things... smoother. More efficient. You're good, Heather. But you're not fast. Not anymore."

Heather turned her head, eyes flashing. "Watch yourself."

Riley smirked.

And then -- she moved.

A breath of motion. A shift of weight. Her hand slid behind Heather, casual as a whisper -- and landed on the swell of her ass. Not a brush. A palm. A hold.

Firm. Confident. Intentional.

Heather gasped -- full, audible -- and spun to face her, cheeks flushing crimson.

"Don't," she hissed. "Don't you ever fucking touch me like that again."

But Riley didn't pull back.

She let her hand stay there -- warm and bold through the fabric of Heather's skirt. Her fingers flexed just slightly, squeezing.

"Why?" she murmured. "Afraid someone might see that this isn't yours anymore?"

Heather slapped her hand away -- a sharp smack of palm on skin.

But Riley didn't flinch.

She smiled.

"You've got a nice ass, Heather. Full. Soft. Like something that used to be tighter."

Heather's breath hitched -- part fury, part something darker.

Riley straightened now, stepping forward. The elevator was too small. There was no room to retreat.

"You were probably a knockout in your thirties," she said, voice silk-wrapped acid. "I bet the captains used to trip over themselves for you. But now?" She looked her up and down, slow. "Now you just wear it differently. Less tight. More... stretched."

Heather was shaking. But it wasn't fear.

It was fury.

Or arousal.

Or both.

"Get away from me," she snapped.

But Riley only moved closer -- toe to toe now. Her voice dipped to a whisper, brushing Heather's ear.

"You hate that you still want to be looked at. That when I walk down the aisle, every eye follows me. You hate that it's not you anymore. That your tits need better bras now. That your thighs brush when you walk."

Heather turned her face -- but Riley was already there, breath hot against her neck.

"I can see it, Heather. The way you tighten your jaw when I take over. The way you fix your scarf three times before entering the cabin. The way you look at my body like it's a fucking mirror you want to smash."

Heather's fists clenched. Her heart thundered.

"I said stop."

But her voice lacked edge now.

It trembled -- and Riley heard it.

"You don't want me to stop," she said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. "You want someone to remind you what it felt like to be the one with gravity."

The elevator chimed.

Floor 12.

Heather moved to step out.

Riley caught her wrist -- not hard. Just a finger hooked around her pulse.

"I'm not done with you," she whispered.

Heather yanked free and walked out, not looking back.

But her thighs were wet beneath the hem of her skirt.

And her cunt pulsed with something furious, and filthy, and inevitable.

Heather slammed the door to her hotel room and locked it behind her, chest heaving. She was shaking.

Her heels clicked across the hardwood floor. She dropped her flight bag onto the bed, her jacket next. Her blouse felt too tight, her scarf strangling. She tore it off, fingers fumbling at the top button, breathing hard as if the fabric itself was suffocating her.

The echo of Riley's voice lingered in her skull like a fever:

"You don't want me to stop."

Her ass still felt that hand -- ghost pressure, palm-shaped and lingering, like the heat of a brand. She should've reported her. Filed something. At the very least told her to fuck off in front of the others.

But she hadn't.

Because her body had betrayed her.

And now -- now the arousal was unbearable.

Why am I like this? Why is she in my head? Why does it feel like she took something from me and left me wanting more?

Heather moved to the bathroom like she was drunk. Possessed. She shut the door, locked it, stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide. Her hair was mussed from where Riley's breath had brushed against her jaw. She looked like someone who'd just been touched. Taken.

She couldn't stand the feeling any longer.

She turned from the mirror, leaned her back against the cold tile, and hiked up her skirt.

The pantyhose clung to her hips like a second skin -- damp now. Too warm. She hooked her fingers under the waistband and slowly peeled them down, inch by inch, revealing thighs soft and glistening, flushed with heat. Her breath hitched as the elastic rolled over her knees.

And beneath?

Her satin thong -- navy, matching the uniform -- was soaked.

She stared at the dark patch between her legs like it was evidence of something unholy.

With trembling fingers, she slid the fabric down her thighs. It clung to her folds, pulling away wet. A faint strand of slick clung from gusset to inner lip and broke with a soft stretch. Her thighs pressed inward -- reflex. Shame.

But her clit pulsed.

She let the thong drop to the floor.

Then -- slowly -- she slid two fingers along the slick seam between her legs.

She gasped.

God, she was so wet. So hot. Her skin burned. Her pussy throbbed. And all she could think about was Riley's voice -- low, mocking, merciless.

"Your tits need better bras now."

Her fingers moved faster. Her breath grew shallow.

She pressed her back to the tile, legs wide now, hips rolling instinctively as her palm worked between her thighs. Her middle finger found her clit -- hard and slick -- and rubbed in soft, urgent circles.

Shame curled behind her ribs.

But she couldn't stop.

"You used to be the one with gravity."

She moaned softly, eyes closed, picturing Riley's mouth. Her smirk. Her heat. The pressure of her hand on her ass. The way she looked at Heather like she was a thing to be tested and broken and enjoyed.

Heather's legs trembled. Her fingers were a blur now. Her inner thighs slick with arousal.

She came hard -- a wet, shaking, furious orgasm that took her knees out from under her. She slid down the tile, body curling forward, her cheek pressed to the cold floor.

And then came the guilt.

It crashed over her like a wave.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Her hand was soaked. Her thighs shone. Her satin thong lay in a crumpled, sticky mess near the sink.

She sat there -- legs parted, pantyhose around her ankles, blouse open, chest heaving -- and felt the full weight of what she'd just done. What she'd just let Riley do to her. Without even touching her skin.

She wasn't in control.

Not anymore.

And the worst part?

She didn't know if she wanted it back.

The Knock

Heather was still on the bathroom floor, breath shaky, fingers sticky with her own slick. Her thighs trembled, still parted, the heat of orgasm pulsing faintly through her lower belly. Her satin thong clung damply to her ankle. She hadn't even caught her breath when--

Knock knock.

Sharp. Controlled. A measured rhythm against the door.

Her body jolted. Her heart leapt into her throat.

No. No. Not now.

She scrambled up, legs unsteady, tugging her pantyhose up over sticky thighs, cursing under her breath as the elastic fought against the wetness between her legs. Her skirt followed, bunched and wrinkled. Her fingers trembled as she buttoned her blouse crookedly, shoved her feet into her heels, didn't check the mirror.

Another knock.

Heather opened the door.

And there she was.

Riley.

Still in her uniform, sleeves rolled, collar unfastened just slightly, chest subtly rising with the rhythm of controlled breath. Her cheeks were flushed. Lips slightly parted. Her hair a little messier than it had been before.

They stared at each other for a heartbeat.

And Heather could smell herself. Still thick on her fingers. Still damp on her thighs.

Riley opened her mouth first.

"I--uh..." A pause. "Look. If I crossed a line earlier... the elevator--I was just trying to keep things light. I didn't mean to..."

Her voice trailed off. There was a hint of something real there. Maybe.

"I just want to make the crew work," she said finally. "You and me. We're the face of this flight. And I don't want tension. I respect your role."

Heather blinked, arms crossed tightly under her chest.

Her skin still buzzed.

"You respect me?" she asked, voice low. "That why you grabbed my ass?"

Riley didn't look away.

"I got carried away."

"You looked turned on," Heather said flatly. "In the elevator."

Riley's eyes flashed--just for a moment.

Heather stepped forward.

"Your pupils were blown. You were breathing through your mouth. You touched me and then stood there like you wanted to unzip me and fuck me against the mirror."

Riley's lip curled--half-smirk, half deflection. "You're imagining things."

"You're aroused right now," Heather said, voice sharper. "I can see it."

And she could. The light sheen at Riley's collarbone. The stiffness in her posture. Her hand twitching faintly at her side.

"Don't flatter yourself," Riley said smoothly. But her voice was tighter now.

Heather stepped even closer--so close she could smell the heat off Riley's skin. Her own body betrayed her--nipples hard under her blouse, the heat between her legs reigniting.

Then Riley's eyes flicked down.

Paused.

Her lips parted.

And she said--too calmly:

"You should tuck in your shirt."

Heather blinked.

"What?"

"Your blouse," Riley said, her tone sweet but venom-laced. "Your belly's coming over your waistband. It's not professional. Fix it before the morning brief."

Heather's stomach turned to ice.

Her fists clenched.

But Riley was already stepping back.

And just before turning, she added softly--like it was an afterthought:

"It's okay, you know. Happens with age. Gravity gets us all."

The door shut behind her like punctuation.

Heather stood frozen.

Heart pounding. Face flushed. Thighs still sticky under the pantyhose.

And for a moment--just one raw, fucked-up moment--she wanted to cry. And scream. And pin that arrogant bitch against the wall and fuck the smug out of her mouth.

Instead, she turned slowly, back into the room, trembling with fury.

She walked to the mirror.

Lifted her blouse.

And saw it.

Just a soft, pale swell of lower belly pressing against the waistband. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obscene. But there. Undeniable.

She saw it. She knew.

Heather gritted her teeth.

And in the silence of the room, her body pulsed again.

She was angry.

But she was soaked.

Riley had seen her.

Known exactly where to touch.

And pulled back just before Heather could react.

Like she'd scripted the whole goddamn thing.

Morning Brief

The crew lounge was quiet that morning. Hushed, warm light filtered through the blinds, striping the tiled floor with gold. Heather stood at the head of the table, her navy blouse tucked in tightly, her neck scarf knotted with care. Everything about her appearance was crisp. Composed.

But under the surface?

Boiling.

She hadn't slept. Her thighs still bore the ghost of her fingers from the night before. Her belly still tingled where Riley had looked. And now she stood here, trying to look impenetrable, while inside, she was coiled so tight her bones ached.

The rest of the team were gathered--reviewing service roles, load reports, safety checks. Heather had her clipboard, but her voice lacked edge this morning. She felt eyes on her. Not because she was commanding. But because she was exposed.

And then--Riley arrived.

Late.

Of course.

Striding in with confidence that wasn't earned, but claimed. Her hair was tied up in a relaxed twist, just a few strands falling perfectly down her neck. Her blouse was unbuttoned one snap lower than protocol allowed. Her skirt tighter than necessary. Her lips glossed, freshly done.

She didn't apologize.

She walked right past the other crew and stood beside Heather, close--too close.

Heather kept speaking. Notes. Timings. But her voice caught slightly when Riley leaned forward, resting one hand flat on the table beside her.

And the other?

Slid behind her.

Palm flat.

Fingers open.

Heather froze mid-sentence.

Riley's hand cupped the soft swell of Heather's lower belly--right at the spot where the blouse met the skirt. That barely-there curve she'd tried to smooth this morning with shapewear. Riley touched it through fabric. Pressed into it.

Then she whispered, low and deliberate, her lips brushing Heather's ear:

"Mmm. You tucked it in today. Good girl."

Heather's heart slammed against her ribs.

Riley's hand stroked gently--too gently--across her belly, fingers gliding left to right, like she was caressing something intimate. Something secret. Heather's thighs tightened, her eyes wide, her breath shallow. No one saw--but it felt so public.

Then--pinch.

A soft, deliberate squeeze of the flesh just above the waistband. Right at the edge of control.

Heather gasped, barely audible.

Riley leaned in. "Better," she murmured. "Almost tight again."

And then--

Her hand slid lower.

Down across the side of Heather's hip.

Then behind.

Onto her ass.

Heather stiffened, eyes locked forward, but Riley didn't stop. Her hand cupped the full curve of her backside through the thin wool of the skirt. Not a grope. Not crude.

It was worse.

It was possessive.

Erotic.

Measured.

Heather dared not move.

Then--Riley's middle finger dragged down.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Right down the center seam of Heather's skirt--between the cheeks of her ass. Just enough pressure to follow the curve. Just enough friction to be unmistakable.

Heather's pulse went wild.

The seam of her panties had vanished under her skirt, pressed deep between the softness there. And Riley's finger followed that invisible path.

Heather trembled.

Every nerve screamed.

The finger paused--right at the base of her spine. Then slid back up, just once. A caress disguised as nothing.

And then--Riley pulled away.

Casual. As if she'd done nothing more than adjust a lanyard.

She turned to the crew, smiling. "All set? I've got the cabin report when you're ready."

Heather couldn't breathe.

She stood there, her thighs wet beneath her pantyhose. Her face warm. Her heart hammering.

And no one else had seen it.

No one.

But Riley looked at her with a knowing little smile.

Like she'd just fingered her in public and gotten away with it.

Because she had.

The Complaint

Heather stood in front of the hotel desk phone, her hands still trembling slightly as she punched in the international number for the airline's HR liaison. The call was rerouted, a crackle on the line, then the polished, clipped voice of Marianne, her direct superior--based in London, hundreds of miles away, yet suddenly too close.

"Heather! Lovely to hear from you. Everything alright on the Bangkok--Hanoi route?"

Heather licked her lips, throat dry.

"I--" She faltered, already hating the weakness in her voice. "It's about Riley Thorn."

A pause.

Then the sound of a keyboard clicking lightly. "Yes, she's logged on your rotation this month. Is everything alright with her? She's one of our fastest-rising talents."

Heather's chest tightened. Fastest-rising. Of course.

"I... I just think boundaries may have been crossed," Heather said slowly. Carefully. "Professional boundaries."

"Crossed how?" Marianne's voice stayed crisp. Even. She wasn't leading. But she wasn't comforting, either.

Heather's eyes flicked to her reflection in the mirror above the hotel desk. She looked exhausted. Her scarf undone, her blouse slightly wrinkled from where Riley's hands had gripped her. She didn't look like a leader.

"She's... overly familiar," Heather said, trying to thread the needle between truth and what she couldn't say. "Physically. Inappropriate comments. She undermines my authority in front of the crew."

Marianne made a soft sound. Not quite sympathetic.

"Familiar how, exactly?"

Heather's mouth opened. Closed. She stroked my ass in front of the crew. She called me a good girl while grabbing my belly. She pressed her fingers into the seam of my skirt like she owned it.

But the words wouldn't come. Not cleanly. Not without sounding insane.

"She--puts her hands on me," Heather said, voice brittle now. "Touches me in ways that aren't... standard for crew interaction."

There was a longer pause this time. Heather could hear the shift in Marianne's posture. Could feel her adjusting.

"Has she threatened you?"

"No."

"Made explicit sexual remarks?"

"No. Not--directly."

"Insulted you in front of passengers? Violated safety protocol?"

"No."

Another silence.

Then: "Heather, I want you to understand, we take inappropriate behavior very seriously. But we also have to work within our policies. From what I'm hearing, there's no formal grounds for discipline. Perhaps you're misreading a generational difference in tone?"

Heather's jaw clenched.

"She called me a good girl," she said sharply, the words like venom slipping from her lips.

Marianne chuckled softly -- chuckled. "Well... that's not exactly hostile workplace behavior, is it?"

Heather's stomach sank.

"She touched my body."

"Do you mean in a friendly way? A pat on the back? Casual contact?"

Heather's hands curled into fists.

"She cupped my stomach." Her voice cracked. "She stroked it. She said it was better tucked in."

A pause again. Marianne's tone was calm, but it shifted--cool, careful.

"Heather, if you'd like to submit a written complaint, I can begin a review. But I have to be honest--Riley Thorn is one of our most celebrated new hires. She's being fast-tracked for management. We've had glowing reviews from senior staff. Captains adore her. She's a high-performer. Very well-liked."

Each word was a nail.

"She's... strategic," Heather whispered. "Manipulative. You don't see what she's doing."

"Perhaps not," Marianne said lightly. "But what I do see is her stepping up. Taking control. Leading. Maybe she's making you feel a little... challenged? You've been flying a long time, Heather. Maybe it's just about adjusting."

Heather felt her throat tighten, her vision blur just slightly.

"Right," she said. "Adjusting."

"Would you like me to schedule a mediation?" Marianne offered. "Or perhaps you two can work it out privately. You're both professionals."

Heather forced a tight smile that no one could see. "Yes. Of course. Professionals."

"Excellent," Marianne said, cheerful again. "Now--have a wonderful layover in Hanoi. Riley will be the in-flight lead on tomorrow's segment, yes?"

Heather's mouth went dry.

"... yes."

"Lovely. She'll be shadowing for senior management on next month's evals, so I imagine she'll want to see how you work firsthand. We're excited about her."

Of course you are.

The call ended with empty pleasantries.

Heather lowered the receiver slowly.

The silence in the room was deafening. She stared at her reflection again. Her belly. Her neckline. The faint red line where Riley's finger had pressed along the seam of her ass.

She had tried to fight back.

And no one had believed her.

Worse -- they adored her.

Riley had already won.

Heather pressed her palms against the edge of the desk until her knuckles went white.

Then whispered--broken, furious, turned-on beyond reason--

"Fucking bitch."

The knock came just after midnight.

Heather had just stepped out of the shower. A towel clung to her body, another wrapped around her damp hair. Her skin was flushed, her chest still tight with anger from the call with HR, from the sting of Marianne's soft voice dismissing her like she was a relic.

She opened the door without thinking.

Riley.

Still dressed in her tight navy skirt, her shirt sleeves rolled, no tie. Her blouse slightly rumpled, collar open, skin glowing faintly with heat.

They locked eyes.

Heather froze.

"What do you want?" she whispered, throat dry.

Riley stepped inside without asking. Closed the door. Locked it.

Heather stepped back instinctively, towel clutched tighter to her breasts.

"You went to HR," Riley said flatly, voice low and hard.

Heather swallowed. "I didn't name anything."

"Oh, I know," Riley said, stepping closer. "Because you couldn't. Because you didn't have the words. Because you're so fucking wet for me, even when you hate me, that you choke on your own shame."

Heather's lips parted. Her body betrayed her again -- heat blooming low in her belly, a throb between her legs.

"Riley--"

But Riley grabbed a fistful of Heather's damp hair.

Hard.

Heather gasped, head yanked back, throat arched. The towel fell loose around her chest, slipping to her waist.

"You fucking bitch," Riley growled against her ear. "You really thought they'd believe you? You--pale, tired, soft-ass flight matron? You think they'd choose you over me?"

Heather whimpered -- not in pain. Not exactly.

Her legs trembled.

Her nipples, still damp, hardened in the cool air. Riley saw. Smiled.

"You're getting fat," she said coldly, one hand dragging down Heather's side. "This belly? This softness?" She ran her hand possessively over the curve of Heather's lower stomach. "No wonder your shirt won't stay tucked."

Heather's breath hitched.

Then Riley's fingers slid down. Bold. Uninvited. Through the damp towel, pressing directly between Heather's thighs.

She didn't hesitate.

She cupped her.

Heather's pussy was soaked.

Riley's fingers curved, pressed. The heat was immediate, undeniable. She laughed softly into Heather's neck.

"Oh, you like this," she whispered. "You fucking mess. You wanted me to find you like this. I bet you played with this needy cunt right before my knock, didn't you?"

Heather tried to speak, to deny it -- but her breath hitched. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

Riley shoved her backward, the towel falling to the floor entirely.

Heather stumbled, bare, her hands awkwardly crossing over her stomach, her thighs, trying to cover herself.

Riley didn't give her a second.

She stepped forward, grabbed the waistband of Heather's cotton thong -- the last thing she wore -- and yanked the fabric down.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Heather's pussy was glistening, swollen, soft hair damp with arousal. Her thighs clenched. She shook her head in disbelief.

"Stop--"

But Riley was already behind her.

"Turn around," she snapped.

Heather didn't obey.

Riley made her.

A firm hand on the shoulder, a shove -- and Heather was facing the mirror now. Her bare ass exposed. Her soft waist. Her flushed thighs.

Riley stood behind her, gripping her hip with one hand and her ass cheek with the other, spreading it slightly.

"I should punish you," she murmured. "But honestly, you're already fucking pathetic enough like this."

Heather whimpered -- the humiliation searing.

"You think this is my fault?" Riley hissed. "That I did this to you? No, baby. You gave me this power. Every time your cunt pulsed when I touched you. Every time you got wet being called a good girl."

She let go.

Heather stumbled forward a step, nearly falling, legs trembling.

Riley smoothed her skirt, her tone icy again.

"Pull yourself together. You've got a report to deliver in the morning. Try not to look like you've been finger-fucked by your replacement."

Then -- she left.

Heather stood naked in front of the mirror. Her thong around her ankles. Her pussy exposed. Her lips parted, breath shallow.

And she realized her hand was already between her legs.

She was dripping.

She hated her.

She wanted her.

And she had no idea where this would end.

The airport crew lounge was far too bright that morning. The fluorescent lights hummed, white and merciless, catching every crease, every glisten of sweat. Heather stood at the edge of the table, uniform neatly pressed -- but her skin betrayed her. Too flushed. Her eyes slightly hollow, cheeks ruddy, lips bitten raw from chewing through the shame of last night.

She felt bare, even fully dressed.

Her blouse was snug -- she'd chosen one with structure to try and hold her in. The waistband of her skirt bit gently into the soft flesh at her waist, and the shapewear beneath only amplified the truth it tried to hide. She had powdered her face, tied her scarf with precision. But none of it could mask the trembling beneath.

Because Riley was already there.

Leaning casually against the far wall, her arms folded beneath her perfect breasts, legs crossed, mouth smirking. Her uniform hugged her body like sin. The skirt high and tight over her hips, her blouse unbuttoned just far enough to tease the valley of smooth, sun-kissed cleavage. Her hair was pulled up into a high twist, a few strands curling loose around her face, softening her look -- but her eyes were pure blade.

Cool, commanding, and radiant with smug arousal.

The other crew trickled in. They chatted, laughed, unaware of the undercurrent flooding between the two women at opposite ends of the room.

Heather opened her folder, trying to focus on the pre-flight checklist, but her hands trembled just slightly as she flipped pages.

Riley moved across the room.

Silent. Smooth.

Like a wolf approaching a doe mid-meal.

And then -- she was behind her.

Close.

Too close.

Heather smelled her -- that soft citrus and amber, clean skin and sex and night sweat. And then a hand -- soft, smooth -- landed gently on her lower back.

Heather tensed.

Riley's voice was low and sultry, close enough for only her to hear -- but not quiet enough.

"Good girl. Tucked in again."

Heather's eyes widened. Her breath caught. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat.

Riley's hand slid around her side, slowly, lazily -- palm gliding over the curve of Heather's waist, right where the fabric stretched over softness. She squeezed -- gently, possessively -- as if measuring.

Then louder, smiling toward the rest of the crew:

"Heather's always so neat. Always tucked and smooth. Even when it gets a little... snug, right here."

She gave the soft belly a small, deliberate pinch.

Heather's face flushed crimson.

A few of the others laughed -- awkwardly, uncertainly.

Heather tried to speak. Tried to move.

But Riley wasn't done.

Her hand trailed lower.

Down across the curve of Heather's ass -- slow, like she had every right.

"I love how these skirts sit on us differently," Riley purred. "Mine hugs tight. Yours kind of... pours."

Heather jerked away -- but not fast enough. Riley's fingers had dipped again -- gliding, subtle, right into the cleft of her ass where the skirt seam split the softness.

Just one finger.

Just a whisper.

But Heather's body lit with shame and heat.

The others had gone silent.

Something in the room had shifted.

Power.

Heather turned, breath heaving.

"Riley," she hissed, barely holding composure. "That's enough."

But Riley just smiled.

Stepped forward again, casually brushing Heather's hair back from her cheek. She leaned in, eyes locked to hers.

"You made this happen," she whispered. "You moaned for me. You came for me. You wanted to be mine. And now... I'm just helping you remember."

She kissed her cheek. Light. Not even lips -- just breath and skin.

Then she turned back to the crew, picking up the clipboard.

"Alright. Who's ready for takeoff?"

Heather stood there, shivering inside her uniform.

Her nipples were rock hard against her bra.

Her panties were soaked.

And every pair of eyes that had watched Riley touch her was now watching her -- waiting to see if she'd crumble.

She almost did.

But she swallowed.

Stood tall.

And said nothing.

Because deep down, she knew the worst part.

She didn't want it to stop.

Not yet.

Not ever.

It was midway through the flight -- the cabin hushed under dimmed lights, passengers either half-asleep or silently flicking through their seat screens. The hum of engines surrounded them like white noise. Business class had been served, galley carts rolled away, and the economy cabin was quiet.

Heather moved through the galley with practiced ease, but everything about her was fragile.

Her blouse clung tighter than she liked. Her pantyhose pinched at her waist. Every step felt off, her thighs brushing, the seam of her panties pulled taut between wet, pulsing folds. The aftershock of Riley's morning taunts still buzzed under her skin. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about it -- the stroke of fingers along her ass seam, the soft, humiliating pinch of her belly, the word "pours" echoing in her ears like a cruel lullaby.

And now... she was alone in the aft galley.

Or she thought she was.

The curtain rustled.

And Riley stepped through.

Flawless.

She hadn't broken a sweat all flight. Her blouse still perfectly tucked, her skirt molded to every curve of her hips and thighs. Her legs bare, sleek, her lips tinted just enough to be dangerous. And her eyes -- that confident, simmering stare -- already stripping Heather down.

Heather's mouth went dry.

"Don't," she whispered, backing up against the counter.

But Riley didn't stop.

She stepped in.

Body close. Heat radiating.

She reached out -- slowly -- and pulled the service tablet from Heather's hands, setting it down without breaking eye contact.

"I told you," Riley murmured, voice low and sharp, "you gave this to me."

Heather shook her head, but her legs parted slightly -- reflex, shameful.

Riley's hands were on her before she could think.

One gripped the back of her neck -- firm. Not painful, but unmistakable. The other slid around her waist, down to her ass.

Heather gasped -- and Riley leaned in close, pressing her mouth to her ear.

"I've seen how you walk now. Always adjusting your skirt. Trying to hide that thick, soft bounce." Her hand slid lower. Gripped Heather's ass cheek through the uniform. Squeezed. "But I like it. I like how it shakes when you pretend to be in control."

Heather whimpered.

She hated how wet she was.

God, not here. Please not here.

Riley's hand dipped -- palm flat, firm -- and pressed between Heather's legs.

Right on the seam.

Heather's knees buckled.

"Ohh," Riley whispered darkly, lips brushing her temple. "You're soaked."

"Stop--" Heather's voice cracked.

"No," Riley hissed. "You don't get to beg now. You begged last night. You spread your thighs and got finger-fucked in front of a mirror, remember? You wanted me to see you come. You needed it."

She slid a finger into the waistband of Heather's pantyhose -- not inside, just enough to threaten. Heather's breath hitched sharply.

"You want me to rip these down right here? Make you come bent over the cart?"

Heather's head rolled back against the cabinet.

"No," she whispered.

But her hips said yes.

Her body arched into the touch.

Riley licked her lips and smiled.

"Oh, honey. You're already coming undone. We're not even on descent."

She pushed -- just once -- palm grinding up between Heather's thighs, not even inside her panties, just applying pressure through fabric. Wetness soaked through instantly. Heather's legs shook. Her hands gripped the counter behind her. She moaned -- barely audible -- her cunt twitching with need.

"Look at you," Riley murmured. "Pussy leaking into your fucking tights like a schoolgirl in heat."

Heather gasped. "Riley--please--"

"You love this," Riley snarled. "You need to be used. Owned. You're not in charge anymore. You're a soft, horny, soaked little stewardess who gets fingered behind the galley curtain while the world sleeps."

Heather's body shuddered.

Her climax was sudden, involuntary, humiliating.

She bit her lip -- hard -- but the tremble in her legs gave her away. Her thighs quivered. Her panties were drenched. A tiny wet patch formed on her skirt where Riley's palm pressed.

Riley felt it.

She grinned.

"That's what I thought."

She stepped back.

Wiped her fingers on the edge of Heather's skirt like she was done handling something messy.

Then--calmly--smoothed her hair back into place.

"I'm going to refill the champagne cart," she said sweetly. "You should freshen up. You look like you've just been fucked."

She vanished behind the curtain.

Heather collapsed against the counter.

Thighs trembling. Pussy dripping.

Her hands shook as she tried to adjust her skirt.

She could still feel Riley's hand on her.

Inside her.

Everywhere.

And the worst part?

Her cunt still pulsed.

She wanted more.

The hallway was quiet--sterile carpet, beige walls, low hum of ice machines and distant doors clicking shut. Heather's heels clicked softly as she walked beside Riley toward their rooms, the stretch of silence between them thick with unspoken heat and tension.

Heather swallowed hard.

She had rehearsed it in her mind on the way here--how she would speak to Riley, how she would assert herself, set a boundary. She was senior. Older. She needed to remind this sharp little upstart that professionalism mattered.

"Riley," she said, voice firmer than she felt, "I need a word with you. In private."

Riley didn't stop walking. She didn't even look at her.

"Fine," she said flatly, coldly. "My room."

Her keycard slipped through the reader with a practiced flick. The green light flashed. Heather followed her inside.

The door closed with a soft thud.

Riley tossed her carry-on on the chair and turned around, arms crossed. "Well?"

Heather took a breath. "Look. I don't know what game you're playing, or what exactly you think you're doing with all the innuendo and eye-fucking--"

But that was all she got out.

Smack.

Riley's hand cut across Heather's cheek in a sharp, sudden slap.

It wasn't violent--it was precise. Controlled. But it stung.

Heather gasped, stumbling back slightly, one hand flying to her cheek.

"You need to shut the fuck up, Heather," Riley said, her voice low and lethal now. "I'm tired. I'm annoyed. And I'm sick of hearing your mouth pretend like it has any control left."

Heather blinked at her, stunned.

Riley stepped forward, toe to toe.

"You've been staring at me since boarding. You've been eyeing my legs, my tits, biting your lip like some desperate, hungry housewife. You think I didn't notice?"

"I--I wasn't--"

"Strip," Riley snapped.

Heather froze.

"What?"

"You heard me. Take. Your. Clothes. Off. Now."

"I'm not--Riley, this is completely out of line--"

"I said strip, Heather," she said again, voice lowering. "Or I make it hurt."

Heather trembled.

She was supposed to be the authority. The older woman. A uniformed professional. But her knees were already going weak, her face flushed with shame--and something deeper.

"I... I can't--"

"Then I'll do it for you. And I won't be gentle."

That stopped her.

With trembling fingers, Heather reached up and undid the top button of her blouse. Then the second. Then another. Her breath came fast and shallow.

Riley moved to the edge of the bed and sat, arms draped over her thighs, watching with open contempt.

"Slower," she said. "Make it sexy. You've been begging for this."

Heather's fingers shook as she slipped the blouse off her shoulders.

Her bra was beige. Practical. Slightly too small, digging into the softness of her skin. Her breasts--full, heavy, sagging from years and gravity and motherhood--spilled over the cups like a secret that couldn't be hidden anymore. Her nipples were flushed, puckered from the slap, the tension, the humiliation.

She reached for her skirt. Fumbled.

"Slower," Riley snapped. "Show me what kind of wife your husband doesn't touch anymore."

Heather bit her lip.

She pushed the zipper down. The skirt slid over her round hips and fell to the floor.

Beneath it: simple cotton panties, stretched taut across a wide, fleshy ass.

Her thighs were soft. Pale. Cellulite rolled gently across their surface. The soft apron of her belly folded over the waistband, trembling as she bent slightly to step out of the skirt.

"Take the bra off," Riley said.

Heather reached back.

The clasp stuck.

Her hands fumbled.

Riley rolled her eyes. "Jesus. No wonder no one wants to fuck you."

Heather winced--but finally, the bra slipped free.

Her breasts sagged beautifully, huge and heavy, pendulous, the areolas wide and darker now, a map of motherhood and forgotten hunger. Her nipples were stiff. Not from cold.

From being seen.

"Now the panties."

Heather hesitated.

Riley's tone went ice-cold. "Panties. Off. You fat, slutty bitch."

Heather whimpered--but obeyed.

She hooked her fingers under the waistband, sliding them down past the curve of her belly, over her thick thighs. They were damp.

Soaked, in fact.

Her cunt lips were swollen, flushed and sticky with her own humiliation. A dark patch of hair crowned the mess--untrimmed, real, older. The scent of it filled the space between them: sharp, warm, undeniably aroused.

"Jesus Christ," Riley muttered, eyes dragging across her naked body. "You're disgusting."

Heather's lip trembled.

But her thighs parted wider.

Her hands hung at her sides.

Her body was trembling with shame--and heat.

"Please..." she whispered.

Riley raised a brow.

"Please what, Heather?"

Heather's voice cracked. "Please don't stop."

Riley stood slowly.

Approached her.

And slapped her again--harder this time. Heather cried out, her head snapping sideways, hair falling into her face.

"Get on your knees," Riley said, unbuttoning her pants. "You're not even close to done being degraded."

And Heather--naked, flushed, soaked and humiliated--fell to her knees without hesitation.

Her body had already chosen.

She was hers now.

Fully.

Finally.

Heather knelt on the hotel carpet, naked and trembling, her knees aching slightly from the pressure of the floor, her skin flushed from the sting of Riley's slap. She looked up, dazed, humiliated, her full, sagging tits heaving with every breath, her pussy already slick with the betrayal of her own desire.

And then Riley began to undress.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

She didn't speak at first--just looked down at Heather with that same calm, cruel smirk, her eyes dark with hunger and power. Her hands slid down to the waistband of her charcoal pencil skirt. It hugged her like skin, stretched tight over the ripe curve of her hips and ass. She had a dancer's frame, tall and wickedly toned, every movement like a tease wrapped in precision.

She turned slightly as she began to unzip--showing Heather her profile: long legs, flat stomach, that round, high ass swaying with every inch of motion. The zipper came down in a whisper. And then the skirt slid off her hips and dropped in a pool of fabric at her heels.

Heather gasped.

Riley was wearing a pair of impossibly small black mesh panties--barely-there fabric stretched thin between two satin strings. The front was sheer, snug against her perfectly trimmed mound. The back? A thin, tight T of material swallowed between her round, flawless ass cheeks--firm and sculpted, the kind of ass that didn't jiggle when she walked, the kind that demanded worship, not attention.

The tiny triangle of cloth shimmered with her heat, her scent. And she stood there, one hip cocked, one eyebrow raised, as if she knew that even in Heather's mind--even in shame and fear--she was being worshipped.

"You want to know the difference between us, Heather?" Riley said finally, her voice a lazy purr laced with poison. "I walk into a room, and eyes follow me. You walk in, and they look through you."

She turned.

Slowly.

Exposing that tight, perfect ass, framed by straps, each cheek firm and glowing in the hotel light. A light sheen of sweat glistened across her lower back.

Heather's breath hitched.

"I want you to sniff my ass," Riley said, matter-of-fact. "Bury your nose in it. And breathe me in like the good little cum-dumpster you are."

Heather blinked. "What...?"

"You heard me," Riley said, backing up a step. "You want to be beneath me, Heather? Then start where you belong. Face in my ass. Sniff. Obey."

Heather's face went pale. She looked at the curve of Riley's ass, trembling with humiliation and disbelief.

"No," she whispered. "Riley, I... I can't--"

Smack.

This time the slap was louder. Sharper. Riley's palm cracked across Heather's other cheek, spinning her head to the side. The room echoed with it.

"You don't get to say no," Riley hissed, grabbing a fistful of Heather's hair. "You've been wet for me since the flight. I smelled you when you bent over in the galley. Don't pretend you're not dying to taste every inch of me."

Heather whimpered.

But her thighs were wet. Her cunt was leaking down her leg.

"You want to serve a real woman?" Riley growled. "Then start where you belong."

She turned again, her back to Heather, then bent forward slightly--arched like a queen demanding worship, one leg cocked, her panties disappearing between her cheeks.

Heather stared.

The swell of her ass. The thin black strap cutting deep into that dark, perfect cleft. And the scent--earthy, sweet, sweat and heat and pussy and power--hit her like a wall. Sharp. Animal. Gorgeous.

"Sniff it, slut," Riley said again, reaching back to pull one cheek wide. "Get your fucking nose in there."

Heather whimpered.

Her face lowered.

Inch by inch, her nose hovered closer, her breath trembling, lips parted in awe and shame.

And then she did it.

She inhaled.

The scent of Riley's ass filled her lungs--hot, salty, human--and Heather moaned despite herself.

"That's it," Riley chuckled darkly. "That's how we break nice little wives. One breath at a time."

Heather whimpered again, her nose pressing against that hot, tight seam, the thin fabric barely a barrier.

Riley ground back slightly, pressing her ass into Heather's face.

"Lick next time," she whispered. "You don't get to stop. You're not a woman anymore. You're just a body I use when I'm bored."

Heather shook.

Broken.

Ashamed.

Soaking wet.

And unable to stop.

Riley turned around, cupped her cheek, and smeared her thumb along Heather's mouth.

"Did you like the way I smell?" she asked, voice velvet and venom.

Heather didn't answer.

So Riley slapped her again.

"Say it."

Heather whimpered.

"... Yes."

"Say it like you mean it, or I sit on your face until you pass out."

Heather sobbed.

"I love how your ass smells, Riley. I want it on my face. I--I want to be your chair."

Riley smirked.

"Good girl," she said, thumbing her chin again.

"Now. Lie on the bed. Face up. Legs open."

Heather obeyed.

Tears streaming.

Cunt glistening.

Riley climbed on top of her--panties still on--and began to grind.

Riley straddled Heather's chest with cruel elegance, her thighs parting wide as she settled her weight just above Heather's face, still clothed in those soaked, near-transparent panties. The black mesh clung to her pussy lips, tight and swollen beneath it, glistening with her heat--every curve framed, every fold visible. The scent was overwhelming now: hot, sweet, slick. Pussy, sweat, and hunger.

She looked down at Heather--naked, pinned, eyes wide and glistening, her flushed face already streaked with tears and shame--and gave her a smile that cut.

"Lick," Riley said simply.

Heather didn't hesitate.

Her tongue slid out, tentative at first, tracing a line up the center of Riley's panty-covered slit, tasting the heat of her through the fabric, the slickness soaking into her lips. She moaned before she could stop herself.

"That's right," Riley purred. "Kiss it. Worship it."

Heather licked again--slow, wet, longer this time. The mesh clung to her tongue, pulled taut between Riley's glistening folds. Her nose pressed against the cleft of Riley's cunt, and she breathed her in like perfume--each inhale sharper, each lick more desperate.

Riley rocked her hips--grinding her soaked pussy against Heather's mouth, smearing her scent, her filth, her ownership across her former superior's face.

Then--

CRACK!

Riley's hand came down hard on Heather's ass--a brutal, echoing slap that made Heather cry out beneath her, muffled by cunt.

"WORSHIP MY FUCKING PUSSY, SLUT!" Riley screamed, another slap landing just above the thigh, making Heather jerk and gasp into her wet heat.

Heather's legs kicked uselessly. Her back arched.

But her tongue kept moving.

She licked harder now--sloppier, louder--dragging her mouth back and forth across Riley's panties like a bitch in heat.

Riley laughed.

"You love this," she sneered, grabbing Heather's hair with both hands and grinding her cunt harder into her face. "You've got that saggy, empty mom-body down there dripping because you're getting smothered by a real woman's cunt."

Heather moaned into her, her lips soaked, nose pressed into the sticky gusset, tongue flicking, chasing the taste through mesh.

And then--finally--Riley lifted her hips just enough to hook her fingers in the waistband.

She peeled the panties down slowly, deliberately, baring herself.

Heather's eyes fluttered.

Riley's cunt was perfect.

Plump. Glossy. Shaved bare, save for a delicate trimmed strip above the hood. Her inner lips were flushed and puffy, already dripping with slick, strings of arousal clinging between her folds. Her clit peeked out, fat and pink, swollen from being teased.

"Open your mouth," Riley ordered.

Heather obeyed, lips trembling.

Riley spit directly into her mouth--a thick glob, messy and wet, hitting Heather's tongue and sliding down her throat.

"Swallow."

Heather gulped.

"Now lick it," Riley growled. "With your tongue flat. I want your face covered."

She lowered again--bare pussy meeting Heather's mouth, and this time it was skin to skin. Wet to wet.

Heather moaned like a woman possessed.

Her tongue dragged up the entire seam of Riley's cunt, lapping at the slick, licking inside the folds, sucking on her clit, her nose mashed into her hole, drinking her scent like oxygen.

"Slower," Riley hissed. "Make it nasty."

Heather obeyed--long, slow strokes, her tongue wide, dragging across Riley's drenched folds. She dipped her tongue inside, lapped deeper, sucked her clit between her lips and moaned, fingers digging into Riley's thighs as if anchoring herself to the only thing that mattered.

Riley leaned back slightly, riding her face, her slick pussy glistening against Heather's chin. Strings of saliva and arousal connected them--sticky, messy, raw.

Then Riley slapped her again.

Hard.

Across the cheek.

Then again.

Heather sobbed into her cunt--but didn't stop licking.

"You're my fucking cunt rag now," Riley whispered. "You're going to sleep tonight with my taste in your throat and my scent in your fucking pores."

She spat again--right onto Heather's tits, watching it drip between them. Then she reached down, rubbed her fingers into her own pussy, pulled them out soaked and glossy, and shoved them into Heather's mouth.

Heather gagged, choked--but sucked. Licked. Moaned like it was dessert.

"You like that taste, slut?"

Heather nodded frantically, still lapping.

"I want you drooling on my cunt," Riley growled, grabbing the back of her head. "Make a mess. Make it disgusting."

Heather obeyed--spit pooling around her lips, sliding down her chin. Her whole face was a blur of pussy, tongue, sweat, and desperation. She was panting between licks, moaning into Riley's folds, her tongue sloppy, her lips red and raw.

And Riley was close.

Her hips started rolling. Her thighs trembled.

"You gonna make me cum?" she hissed. "You gonna make me cum on your saggy, broken old face?"

Heather whimpered something that sounded like yes, please, more.

Riley grabbed her hair with both fists, pulled her tight, and rode her mouth, grinding her cunt over Heather's lips, chin, nose, her clit mashing against her tongue.

The sounds were wet. Filthy. Obscene.

And then--with a sharp cry, Riley shuddered, her thighs clamping tight, her pussy jerking in Heather's mouth, leaking hard, hot waves of cum as she came.

Heather sucked all of it.

Didn't stop.

Not until Riley pulled away--face flushed, pussy drenched, breathing hard.

She looked down at Heather--a mess of spit, tears, and cunt--and smirked.

Then spit again.

Right into her hair.

"Clean yourself up, flight leader," she sneered. "You've got a long night ahead of you."

Heather lay on the hotel bed, her face glazed in spit and cunt, her thighs trembling, her breath ragged. Her cheeks burned from slaps, her lips glistened from Riley's pussy. She'd licked until her jaw ached. Worshipped until her dignity was puddled beneath her.

And then--

She heard it.

The unzipping of a side pocket.

The rustle of nylon straps.

The low metallic clink of a buckle.

She turned her head slowly, dazed, eyes wide, and saw Riley standing at the end of the bed... holding it.

The strap-on.

It was monstrous--thick, glossy, almost jet black, with a head like a weapon and veins molded into its surface. It hung heavy from the harness like it was alive--at least ten inches, with girth that made Heather's stomach tighten in instinctive dread.

"Riley," she gasped, pushing up on her elbows. "No. No, that's--this is too far. You made your point--this isn't okay--"

Riley just smiled.

And spit.

Right onto Heather's fat, upturned ass.

The wet splatter landed with a smack, sliding down one wobbling cheek.

SLAP!

Riley's hand followed immediately, cracking across the flesh, making Heather jolt and cry out.

"Too far?" Riley said, voice sharp, mocking. "Oh, sweetheart--we crossed that line the moment you sniffed my fucking asshole and begged for more."

Heather whimpered.

"But you still think you have a say?" Riley sneered, stepping forward. The base of the thick dildo swung between her thighs like a promise of violence. "No, no, no. You're just a hole now. And I haven't even claimed the best one yet."

She grabbed Heather's hips and yanked her down toward the edge of the bed. Heather's soft ass jiggled, her thick thighs parting, her puckered asshole exposed--flushed, quivering, untouched.

"Please," Heather gasped, humiliated. "I've never--"

"That's the fucking point."

Riley spat again--a thick gob right onto Heather's asshole. Then she slipped two fingers into her mouth, coated them in saliva, and reached between those wide, trembling cheeks.

Heather jerked at the first touch.

"Breathe, pig," Riley said. "Or I won't bother stretching you."

One spit-slick finger pressed against the tight ring.

Then pushed.

Heather moaned in panic and shock as it slipped past the resistance and sank inside.

"Oh fuck--Riley--please..."

"You're tighter than I thought," Riley smirked, working the finger deeper, twisting it. "But not for long."

She added a second finger.

Heather screamed into the mattress--her ass stretching, spasming as Riley drove both fingers in to the knuckle, scissoring them slowly, brutally.

"You feel that burn?" Riley hissed into her ear. "That's shame opening you. That's the sound your ass makes when it realizes it's not yours anymore."

Heather sobbed.

But her pussy dripped.

Her whole body shook.

Then Riley pulled her fingers out with a wet squelch, wiped them across Heather's ass cheek, and stepped back.

"I want you to look at it," she said.

Heather turned.

Saw Riley now fully strapped in--the dildo hanging low, shiny with lube, veined like a monster, the tip thick, fat, menacing.

"I'm going to fuck your ass with this, Heather."

Heather shook her head, tears streaming.

"No... I can't take that..."

"You will."

Riley lined herself up behind her, one hand gripping the base, the other grabbing a handful of Heather's fat ass, spreading her open.

The tip pressed against her hole.

Heather trembled.

"No--please--"

Riley thrust.

Not all the way--just enough to force the first inch of that thick black strap-on past her clenching rim.

Heather screamed.

Her legs kicked. Her hands clawed at the sheets. Her ass tried to close but the head was inside now, prying her open.

"Shhh," Riley cooed mockingly. "You're doing so well, fat little slut. Just a few more inches until you're full of real cock."

She pulled back.

Then slammed forward.

Heather's body jolted up the bed as four more inches disappeared into her ass.

The sound was wet--a sticky, muffled squelch of lube, flesh, and pain.

Heather sobbed. "It's too big--oh god--it's too much--"

Riley just laughed.

She grabbed Heather's hips, angled them up, and drove in again--to the base.

Every inch of cock buried in Heather's fat, twitching, virgin ass.

Heather shrieked.

Her back arched. Her thighs trembled. Her hole was stretched to the limit, stuffed full, pulsing around the thickness, leaking slick and spit.

"You feel that?" Riley hissed, starting to move--long, brutal thrusts, the fake cock sawing in and out with obscene slaps. "You're getting fucked like a bitch in heat. Like a sow in a stall. Your asshole's clenching around me like it doesn't know what to do."

Heather was screaming into the sheets now--sobbing, trembling, moaning through her tears.

And Riley was loving every second.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The sound of her thighs hammering against Heather's wide ass echoed in the room. She spit again--right onto Heather's back--and grabbed her hair, pulling her head back.

"Say it," she growled. "Tell me what you are."

Heather choked.

"I'm... I'm your ass slut," she whimpered. "Your fat, crying, hole-stuffed ass slut..."

Riley grinned, never stopping the relentless pounding.

"You're goddamn right you are."

The dildo punched into her, stretching her deeper with each brutal thrust. Heather's eyes rolled back. Her mouth hung open. She was drooling onto the sheets.

And her pussy?

Dripping.

Soaking the bed beneath her.

Her clit pulsed with every slap of Riley's hips, and soon--even in pain, even in shame--she was moaning again.

Begging.

"I'm gonna come," Heather sobbed. "Oh fuck--oh fuck--it's too much--"

"Come with your ass full," Riley snarled. "Come around my cock like the filthy, used pig you are."

And Heather did.

She came hard--shaking, crying, legs kicking, clit twitching, her ass clenched so tight around the strap-on that Riley groaned.

She collapsed forward.

Ruined.

Plugged.

Trembling and twitching on the bed, her ass red, stretched, leaking lube, and still pulsing around the cock buried inside her.

And Riley?

She leaned down. Bit her ear.

"You're mine now, flight director," she whispered. "Next stop? Your mouth. Let's see how you taste with my cock still wet from your ass."

Heather lay crumpled on the hotel bed, her body a trembling wreck--ass stretched, thighs slick, cunt still clenching from the ruin Riley had just left inside her. Her breath came in shuddering gasps, every nerve buzzing. Her skin was slick with sweat, spit, and Riley's scent.

And behind her, Riley stood--cock still strapped to her hips, gleaming with lube, slick, and glistening with the filth of everything she'd just forced into Heather's body.

The thick black shaft glistened in the hotel light--shiny with spit, streaked with lubricant, smeared with the wet, messy proof of Heather's broken-in ass. The rubber base glistened with sweat and the faint trace of pressed flesh.

Riley didn't bother wiping it down.

She walked calmly to the end of the bed and stood over Heather.

"Up," she said. "On your knees. Face my cock."

Heather didn't move at first.

Her arms trembled. Her eyes were wet. Her body was exhausted--her ass raw, her pussy still leaking.

But Riley grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her upright, shoving her forward until she was face-to-cock--her nose an inch from the used, dripping strap-on.

"Look at what you did to it," Riley said, her voice low and cruel. "Look at the filth you left. That's you, bitch. That's your ass all over my cock."

Heather whimpered.

It smelled like sweat, rubber, and something darker--faintly musky, faintly wrong, sharp with her own slick and Riley's spit, all melted together into the shame-slick stench of submission.

"I want it clean," Riley hissed. "Use that mouth. Worship it like the altar that made you cum."

Heather's lips trembled. "Please, Riley--don't make me--"

SLAP.

The flat of Riley's hand cracked across her face again--once, then again, the sound wet and brutal.

"Shut up." Riley leaned down, snarling. "You let me use your ass like a public urinal. You came like a bitch while I pounded it. Now lick it clean. Be a fucking good girl for once in your used-up life."

Heather sobbed--but leaned forward.

And opened her mouth.

The first taste was sharp, rubbery, but coated in the unmistakable slick salt of her own body. Her tongue dragged along the shaft--slow, shaking, desperate, cleaning her shame one inch at a time.

"Lick it like it fed you," Riley growled. "Every inch. I want it dripping with your spit."

Heather whimpered and obeyed--sucking the head of the cock between her lips, tasting herself, the sweat, the humiliation. Her tongue traced the veins, dragging up the shaft, around the base where Riley's body had rubbed, catching the messy residue pooled at the edge.

Riley thrust forward lightly.

The tip hit the back of Heather's throat.

She gagged.

"Take it," Riley hissed, grabbing the back of her head, shoving the strap-on deeper into her mouth.

"Choke on it. Choke on what your ass couldn't handle."

Heather was crying now--fat tears streaming down her cheeks as she sucked the strap-on like a starving woman. Her hands clutched Riley's thighs as she took more and more of the thick rubber into her mouth, slurping, sucking, moaning through the filth.

"That's it, good little ass-licker," Riley moaned. "So obedient now. Just a drooling, broken hole with a mouth that cleans what it gets filled by."

The sounds were obscene--wet, desperate, the slap of spit against rubber, the gag and moan of surrender.

Heather's lips were slick and swollen, chin drenched, drool mixing with streaks of lube and the slick shame of her own submission.

"Tell me what you are," Riley said, holding her hair tight, grinding the slick cock into her open mouth.

Heather sobbed around the shaft--then pulled back, gasping, coughing, spit hanging from her lips in long, sticky strands.

"I'm your... your filthy strap-licking whore," she whispered. "Your used-up, ass-fucked, cumless flight-slut."

Riley's smile was slow. Triumphant.

And then--without warning--she pulled the strap-on off, unbuckling it with one hand, holding it in the other like a scepter.

"Open your mouth one more time," she said.

Heather obeyed.

And Riley slid the strap-on into her mouth by hand, fucking her face slowly, deeply, until Heather gagged again--not on flesh, but on rubber soaked in her own submission.

She moaned.

Because now it wasn't about pain.

It was about belonging.

About being broken in all the right places.

When Riley finally pulled the cock free, it glistened clean.

Heather's mouth was red, raw, soaking wet.

Her face?

Ruined.

Her dignity?

Gone.

Her body?

Worshipped. Used. Owned.

And Riley?

She looked down at her with a smirk and said:

"You make a good fucking maid, Heather. Tomorrow? You're gonna wake up plugged. And we're gonna find out how long you can wear it while smiling in front of passengers."

The air in the hotel room was heavy now--thick with sweat, spit, and submission. Heather knelt on the floor, used and shaking, her lips swollen from licking, her chin slick with drool and filth. She looked up at Riley like a wrecked worshipper at the altar.

Riley stood before her--naked now, strap-on discarded, her body flushed and gleaming with arousal. She wasn't laughing anymore. She wasn't mocking.

She was hungry.

And when she spoke, her voice dropped into something lower--feral, wet with heat.

"Fuck," she muttered, running a hand through her tousled hair. "You have no idea what you do to me."

Heather blinked up, still trembling.

Riley's eyes burned.

"I've never been this horny," she admitted, voice dark and breathless. "Not with boys, not with women, not even with toys. But you--" she leaned forward, cupping Heather's flushed cheek, "--you, this saggy, sobbing, fat fucking mess of a woman, dripping and ruined and kneeling like a born slut--you make me so fucking wet I could drown you."

Heather whimpered. Her thighs squeezed together.

"Get on the bed," Riley said. "Now. On your back. Head over the edge."

Heather obeyed--climbing shakily onto the mattress, her full tits swaying, ass still twitching from the strap-on pounding. She laid back, head dropping over the edge, mouth open, eyes glassy.

Riley climbed up after her.

And straddled her face.

No panties now. Nothing between them. Just heat. Just cunt.

Riley's thighs were strong, tensed on either side of Heather's face. Her skin was damp with sweat, her pussy glistening--puffy, flushed, open, lips dark with blood and hunger. Her clit was swollen and peeking out, twitching with each breath. The scent was overwhelming--musk and sweat and slick, raw and intimate, ripe like she'd been soaking in her own want for hours.

She lowered herself slowly.

And Heather's lips met her.

First lick.

Heather moaned into her--a long, slow, reverent drag of tongue from the base of her slit to the tip of her clit, tasting every salty, warm inch of her. Her tongue flattened, then curled, lapping, sucking, her nose pressing into Riley's folds, inhaling the pure heat of her.

Riley gasped.

"Fuuuck, Heather..."

She rocked her hips, grinding down just slightly, spreading her pussy wider across the older woman's face.

"Lick me," she growled. "Lick my cunt like it's your only fucking purpose."

Heather obeyed.

Her tongue went to work--slick, slow strokes at first, tracing the outer lips, then dipping between them, scooping slick, drinking Riley's arousal straight from the source. She moaned against her, the vibration making Riley shiver.

Heather's hands clutched Riley's thighs, fingers sinking into the flesh as her mouth opened wider, tongue swirling, dragging across Riley's clit, then flicking it faster, messier, wet and nasty.

Riley was panting now--hips grinding harder, her hands in her own hair, her body swaying on Heather's face.

"You eat like you've been starving for it," she hissed. "Like my pussy is the only meal you've ever earned."

Heather couldn't speak--her mouth was full of wet, messy cunt. She slurped, moaned, licked up and down, her tongue pressing deep into Riley's hole, then flattening again against her twitching clit.

Spit dripped down Heather's cheeks.

Riley's slick coated her chin.

The room was filled with sounds--sloppy licking, Riley's soft cries, the sticky wet of sex.

Heather sucked Riley's clit into her mouth, rolling her tongue against it, lips sealed tight.

Riley screamed, grinding down.

"Oh god--yes, fuck--Heather--don't you fucking stop--"

Heather didn't.

She buried her face deeper--lips locking onto the swollen clit, tongue flicking ruthlessly, back and forth, up and down, wet and raw.

"God, you're disgusting," Riley moaned. "You're filthy. Just a fucking face to sit on. You make me cum so hard it scares me."

Her thighs began to tremble.

"Right there--fuck--don't stop licking--"

Heather's tongue was relentless--sucking, lapping, moaning into her, holding her hips down as Riley began to thrash, her breath catching.

Then--

Riley cried out, loud and raw, her whole body going stiff--

And she came.

Hard.

Flooding Heather's face with a gush of warm slick, her thighs shaking, her body jerking, pussy pulsing in Heather's open mouth, grinding through it.

Heather swallowed it.

Every drop.

And when Riley collapsed forward, slowly pulling her soaked cunt from Heather's lips, she looked down at the wrecked older woman--face dripping, eyes dazed, mouth still open--and whispered:

"You taste like home, bitch."

The room still pulsed with the scent of sex. The sheets were a ruin of sweat and slick. Heather lay on her side, thighs sticky, mouth raw, body wrecked and open.

And Riley--already up, moving with purpose--stood at her suitcase, unzipping a small side compartment.

"You're not wearing that dull regulation shit tomorrow," she said casually, pulling out a folded scrap of black lace. "You're going to wear this under your uniform."

Heather turned her head, dazed. "... What is that?"

Riley smirked and held it up.

A bra.

If it could be called that.

Tiny black lace cups, unlined and sheer, designed for breasts much smaller, younger, perkier than Heather's. The underwire was thin, decorative. The straps? Barely more than thread. It looked like something a college girl would wear to a frat house--not something a forty-three-year-old mother of two should ever be seen in.

And the thong--even worse.

A triangle of mesh in the front, thinner than a napkin, designed to bare the mound more than conceal it. The back was a single elastic string--meant to vanish between tight, high cheeks.

Heather blinked at it.

"Riley, I can't--"

"Shut up," Riley said, throwing the pieces onto the bed. "Put them on. Now."

Heather's mouth opened to protest--but the look in Riley's eyes silenced her.

She reached for the thong with shaking hands.

She stood--naked and dripping, body soft and reddened from abuse, breasts sagging naturally from gravity and time. Her stomach folded slightly when she bent to lift a leg, and her wide, dimpled ass still bore the faint red imprint of Riley's earlier slaps.

She pulled the thong up slowly.

The front rode low across her belly, the mesh doing nothing to hide the shadow of her pussy lips, already flushed and puffy. The waistband cut sharply into her hips, forming deep indents. The string disappeared immediately between her cheeks, slicing her ass in half, the soft, quivering flesh jiggling as she adjusted.

Riley watched, one brow arched, arms crossed. "Jesus," she murmured. "You look filthy."

Heather reached for the bra. She tried to fasten it behind her, but her breasts were too heavy, too full, and her arms trembled.

"Turn around," Riley said, stepping forward. She did it for her--tightening the back, pulling the straps taut.

The cups barely held anything.

Her tits spilled out over the edges, round and heavy, stretch-marked and natural, nipples dark and soft and exposed right through the lace. The underwire didn't lift--it just sat beneath the weight like a defeated shelf.

And Riley stepped back to look.

Heather stood there--middle-aged, thick, sagging, vulnerable. Her body was no longer the fantasy it once had been. Her belly was soft and rounded, her thighs full, her ass spread wide and framed by nothing but a single elastic thread.

She looked like a woman past her prime trying desperately to pretend she still had one.

And Riley?

Riley grinned.

"Look at you," she murmured. "You're everything I hate in a woman... and I can't stop wanting to ruin you."

Heather tried to cross her arms. To cover something. Anything.

"Uh-uh," Riley said. "Arms at your sides. Let me see it."

Heather obeyed.

The full view was obscene.

Tits hanging, nipples showing through, thighs thick and dimpled, ass spilling out around the tiny thong strap. Her pussy lips were visible through the mesh, and the thong dug in so tight that her cheeks looked inflamed, soft flesh puffing around the elastic.

"Tomorrow," Riley whispered, stepping close. "You'll wear this under your skirt. No covering. No adjusting. You'll know it's there with every step."

Heather swallowed.

"You'll serve drinks while soaked. You'll bend down in front of the pilots with this floss between your cheeks. And if I see even one attempt to hide those big tits, I'll rip the bra off in the lav mid-flight."

Heather whimpered.

Riley leaned in and bit her earlobe gently.

"You're going to love being seen," she whispered. "Because you were meant to be exposed. You were built to be degraded."

Heather trembled.

Her nipples stiffened.

And Riley?

She slapped her ass one more time.

Hard.

Heather cried out.

And smiled.

The morning hit Heather like a slow, cruel burn.

She woke to the hum of the hotel air system, body sore, thighs slick, asshole aching with a dull, persistent fullness. She gasped as she shifted--something still inside her.

She reached back instinctively.

And touched it.

A plug.

Thick. Firm. Smooth silicone with a flared base nestled between her soft cheeks. It was lodged deep, her hole clenched around it, fluttering as if trying to reject and beg for it at once.

The note beside the bed read:

Keep it in. Bra. Thong. New skirt. Hair up. Lipstick. We leave in 30. -- R

Heather's throat dried.

The uniform Riley had chosen hung neatly on the back of the door: a newer model, tighter cut, shorter skirt, and a blouse one size too small. The kind the younger attendants liked to modify. The kind Heather had always scolded them for.

Now... she would wear it like a second skin.

She slipped the thong back on. It disappeared immediately into her swollen cheeks, string vanishing between flesh still red from the night before. The plug pressed outward, obvious beneath the thin fabric. The bra? Useless. Her tits overflowed, nipples fat and dark, clearly visible beneath the sheer stretch of the white blouse. No padding. No lining. Just soft lace on sagging, heavy flesh.

Then the skirt.

Tight. So tight. She had to shimmy into it. Her belly folded slightly, the waistband cinching into her middle, muffin-topping over the edge. It barely contained her ass. When she looked in the mirror, she froze:

Her plugged asshole made the thong rise unnaturally--you could see the shape, the indent, the outline of her shame. Her cheeks quivered with every breath.

And the skirt? It clung like paint, outlining every ripple, every dimple, the seam splitting her backside into two enormous, obscene halves.

Heather tried to smooth it.

But there was no hiding it.

Riley appeared behind her--already dressed, flawless, lipstick sharp, eyes alight with heat.

She whistled.

"Goddamn," she said. "You look like a cum rag wrapped in Lycra."

Heather flushed deep red.

"Riley--this is too much. People will see--"

Riley stepped close. Slid a hand over Heather's belly, then lower. Pressed the plug through the skirt.

Heather gasped.

"Let them see," Riley whispered. "Let the other girls see what happens when the boss opens her fat legs for someone who actually knows how to use them."

**

The walk through the airport was a slow-motion public undoing.

Heather tried to walk carefully, but the plug shifted with every step. Her thighs brushed. Her thong tugged deeper into her crack. She could feel the plug pressing outward, as if threatening to fall out. Each heel-click echoed with the weight of her shame.

Her blouse stretched across her chest--nipples prominent, jiggling beneath thin lace, impossible to miss.

The skirt rode high in back. Too high. You could almost see the base of her cheeks. One wrong bend and the plug would be exposed.

And Riley?

She walked just behind her.

Close.

Fingers grazing Heather's ass as they waited at security. Leaning in at Starbucks to whisper:

"Bend for the sugar packets. Show them your breakfast plug."

Heather obeyed--flushed and breathless, feeling eyes linger on her back as she bent, plug shifting, thong tugging even tighter.

But worse was still coming.

**

At the crew meet-up near the gate, the others were already gathered--two junior girls, both twenty-somethings, tight buns, perfect teeth, bright lipstick. They glanced up as Riley and Heather arrived.

"Morning, Heather!" one chirped, sipping iced coffee. "Looking tight today."

Heather gave a weak smile, her face burning.

Riley leaned casually on the counter. "Doesn't she, though? She's finally taking my style advice."

The girls giggled.

Riley stepped beside Heather and, with a subtle but firm motion, let her hand rest on the small of Heather's back--right above the plug. Heather stiffened.

Then Riley whispered--loud enough for the others to hear:

"You wouldn't believe what she's hiding under that skirt."

One of the girls raised a brow. "Ooooh? New lingerie?"

Riley smiled.

Heather looked away.

Riley leaned closer to the girls, conspiratorial.

"Let's just say... the senior crew's getting a lot more flexible this year."

The girls laughed.

Heather stood, stiff, wet, utterly humiliated, thighs slick, ass twitching around the plug.

But her pussy?

Soaked.

And Riley knew it.

She brushed past Heather's arm, lips grazing her ear.

"You're going to serve drinks with your cunt dripping, plugged and gagging to be stretched again. And if I see you flinch when a pilot checks out your fat ass, I'll make you sit on my lap in the jumpseat. Plug out."

Heather's knees nearly buckled.

And the day had only just begun.

The late flight had landed with a whisper of rubber on tarmac, but the silence between Heather and Riley in the crew shuttle was deafening. The sun had set. Airport lights glowed outside, casting their tired reflections across Riley's perfect, unreadable face.

Heather sat stiffly, thighs pressed together, the plug still deep inside her, grinding subtly with every bump in the road. Her uniform clung with heat and tension--bra soaked, thong sticky, her skirt still riding too high in back, leaving nothing to the imagination.

She tried not to meet Riley's eyes. But she could feel her smirking just out of view.

When they reached the hotel, the crew dispersed to their rooms in small clusters, laughter and rolling suitcases disappearing down the corridor.

Heather just wanted to shower. To breathe. To take the plug out and remember she was human.

She was halfway to her door when her phone buzzed.

Room 414. Now. Knock once.

It was from Riley.

Heather stood still for a moment, pulse fluttering. She stared at her door.

Then turned.

She walked slow.

Room 414 was at the end of the hall--corner suite, of course. Her heels clicked dully on the hotel carpet. Every step shifted the plug inside her, every stride reminded her how exposed she'd been all day, how wet she still was beneath her clothes.

She reached the door.

Hesitated.

Then knocked.

Once.

The door swung open.

Riley was standing there--already barefoot, wearing nothing but a silk robe, loose and black and barely tied. Her hair was down, wild. Her lips were painted darker than before. Her eyes shimmered with something dangerous.

And behind her--

Five other women.

All flight attendants.

All young.

All gorgeous.

And all staring directly at Heather.

Heather froze.

One of the girls--tall, curvy, blonde, with glossy lips and a short satin chemise--whistled softly. "Wow," she murmured. "She actually came."

Another one, raven-haired, dark eyes rimmed in perfect liner, laughed. "She's so cute when she looks like she's about to run."

Heather's stomach dropped.

"I--I didn't realize--"

She turned to leave, panic flooding her--

But Riley's hand caught her wrist.

"Uh-uh," she said softly. "You knock, you enter. You don't walk away."

Heather turned back slowly, heart hammering.

Riley pulled her gently into the room and shut the door behind her with a soft click.

Now she was inside.

All five girls were watching her.

Lounging across the bed and chairs--bare legs crossed, wine glasses in hand, silk and lace everywhere, cleavage, skin, perfume thick in the air. It smelled like heat and expensive sex.

Heather's breath trembled.

She stood awkwardly near the door, still in her blouse and skirt, sweating. She felt like a deer caught in the center of a bonfire. The plug inside her pulsed with her heartbeat.

One of the girls leaned forward, smiling with teeth.

"So this is the boss bitch Riley was talking about?"

Another one giggled. "She's so soft."

"Turn around," one of them said, almost lazily. "Let's see that famous plug walk."

Heather gasped.

"No--I didn't--I can't--"

But Riley's voice cut through the room.

"You can, and you will."

She stepped behind Heather, gripped her shoulders, and slowly turned her around to face the door, her back to the room.

Heather's face burned.

She felt Riley's fingers slip under the hem of her skirt. Felt them tug the fabric up, slowly, deliberately--inch by inch, exposing the backs of her thighs, her flushed, dimpled ass, and finally--

The plug.

Shiny. Obscene. Perfectly centered between her cheeks.

The thong had vanished. The string was soaked, disappearing into her ass crack, the plug's flared base pressing against it, glistening beneath the hotel lights.

There was silence.

Then--

A soft, collective inhale.

A low laugh.

"Oh my god," the blonde said. "That is the filthiest thing I've ever seen."

"She wore that all day?" another whispered.

Riley pressed closer to Heather's ear.

"She served drinks like this," she purred. "Smiling. Plugged. Wet. And begging for more."

Heather was shaking now. Tears pricked her eyes.

But her nipples were stiff under her blouse.

And her pussy?

Soaking.

One of the girls walked over, slowly, circling Heather like a predator. She reached out and let a manicured nail trail down Heather's thigh, then tapped the plug lightly.

Heather moaned.

Riley grinned.

"Ladies," she said, voice bright now, cruel, glorious, "our guest of honor has arrived. And she's going to put on a show."

The other women leaned forward.

Riley's hand slipped around Heather's waist.

"Take. Off. Your. Clothes."

The lights dimmed.

The tension thickened.

And Heather?

She began to undress.

Heather stood frozen near the hotel room door--sweating, shaking, skin tingling with dread and heat. Her breath caught in her throat, heart pounding in her chest like she'd stepped into a dream that tilted into a nightmare.

Across from her, five younger flight attendants lounged like cats in a sunbeam, every inch of them composed, poised, and cruelly perfect. They didn't speak yet--just watched. Their eyes gleamed with amusement, hunger, and that bright curiosity of women who knew they were desired... and loved the smell of weakness.

They were dressed to kill.

The blonde--tall, Amazonian, smirking--wore a midnight-blue pencil skirt that hugged her ass like a secret, the glossy line of black nylon flashing where her thighs crossed. Her stockings shimmered in the lamp light, thighs firm, knees perfect. A low-cut blouse threatened to let her breasts tumble free, and she wore lipstick the color of bruises.

Beside her, the raven-haired one sipped wine, her glossy black bob perfectly sharp, long fingers adorned with silver rings. Her legs were crossed high, one foot dangling in a thin black heel. Her stockings had seams--straight, vintage, cruel--and they led the eye directly to where her thighs met and disappeared beneath the short hem of her tight uniform skirt.

The others were just as lethal:

--One with red curls, her blouse unbuttoned low enough to show lace and nipple, her garters peeking out as she leaned back on the bed.

--Another in a skintight cream dress, no bra, nipples showing through the fabric, her thighs parted just enough to see the shadow of black lace.

--The last was petite, deceptively soft-looking, but her eyes gleamed wickedly. She had one leg up on the bed, her stockings rolled mid-thigh, skirt pulled high, fingers idly stroking her own garter strap.

They were gorgeous.

Predatory.

Watching her.

Fully dressed.

And hungry.

Heather--red-faced, trembling, out of breath--stood in her too-tight uniform, sweat running down her back, plug still buried in her ass, her blouse stretched taut across her heavy tits, her skirt clinging to every curve of her soft, aging body.

"I--I'm not doing this," she stammered, voice cracking. "This is too much--Riley, please, I can't--"

Riley stepped in front of her.

Face sharp.

Voice like a slap.

"Shut the fuck up, Heather."

Heather gasped.

"You've been begging for this since the second I met you," Riley said, loud enough for all the girls to hear. "The way you stare at younger bodies. The way you blush when someone touches your elbow. You want to be seen. You want to be humiliated. And you're about to give these girls the best fucking show of their lives."

Heather shook her head, but Riley grabbed her chin and made her look--look at their faces.

Smiling.

Waiting.

Ready to devour her.

"She's shy now," the raven-haired girl purred. "But her nipples are poking through that blouse."

"She's soaked under that skirt," said the redhead, swirling her wine.

"She's gotten... softer," the blonde added with a grin. "Bet that ass jiggles like bread dough."

Heather whimpered.

Riley stepped back, arms folded.

"Strip. Slowly. Piece by piece. You don't hide anything. They want to see how an old, chubby whore peels herself like shame."

**

Heather reached for her buttons.

Her fingers fumbled.

She started with the top one, then the second--the fabric parting with each trembling breath, revealing more of her flesh-pink bra, too small, lace digging into soft flesh. Her cleavage was wide and low, veiny and real, the weight of her breasts too heavy to be held.

She reached the last button.

Slid the blouse from her shoulders.

It fell behind her in silence.

Gasps and laughter rippled across the room.

"Those tits are huge," someone murmured.

"Look at them sag," another said. "They slap against her ribs when she moves."

Heather flushed deeper. Her eyes glassed.

But she reached for the zipper of her skirt.

**

She turned slowly, unzipping with both hands, and the skirt loosened, then dropped.

And what it revealed was everything:

A woman in a thong that disappeared between wide, red-streaked cheeks, her thighs fleshy, dimpled, trembling. Her hips were soft and wide, her belly full and folded, the edges of her panties biting into her skin. You could see the plug's flared base clearly outlined, bulging against the stretched thong, framed by the rawness of her cheeks.

"Fuck," someone whispered. "That plug's still inside her."

"She wore that through security?"

"She served coffee like that?"

"She's wetter than we are and we haven't even touched her."

Heather turned back around.

Eyes lowered.

Hands shaking, she reached behind and unclipped her bra.

Her breasts fell heavy and natural, wide areolas flushed and puckered, nipples fat and visibly aroused. The weight of them pulled her chest down. Her body was real, mother-soft, marked and aged and beautiful in its destruction.

She stood in only the thong now.

Fat. Soft. Plugged. Watched.

One of the girls bit her lip.

"She's actually getting turned on," she whispered.

Heather whimpered.

Riley smiled.

"Now," she said, stepping behind her, sliding her fingers up Heather's sides, over her belly, under the swell of her tits. "Take the thong off."

Heather hesitated.

Then slowly--trembling, tears on her cheeks--she reached down and peeled the thong over her hips.

Her pussy was soaked.

Her thighs were glossy.

The plug shimmered between her cheeks like jewelry.

And the room?

Silent. Electric. Wet.

"You're ours now," Riley said.

"On your knees, fat bitch," another girl whispered.

"Let's see what that tongue can do."

And Heather?

She knelt.

Tears in her eyes.

And arousal dripping down her thighs.

Heather knelt trembling in the center of the room, naked now--plugged, flushed, soaked, her body a trembling mess of sweat and submission. Her tits hung low and full, nipples still stiff from exposure, and her belly quivered with every shallow breath. The carpet scratched at her knees. Her hair clung to her damp face. Her eyes, glassy and dazed, moved nervously between the five women still lounging in their silk and stockings like queens awaiting entertainment.

And then Riley spoke--cool, clear, commanding.

"Lexi," she said, turning toward the tall blonde seated by the window, "you said you wanted a turn."

The tall girl--Lexi--uncrossed her long legs slowly, deliberately. Her black stilettos tapped softly against the carpet. Her skirt was painted on, glossy navy fabric hugging the firm swell of her hips, the hint of a garter strap just visible beneath the hem. Her blouse was open at the top, exposing the gentle curve of a tan, perky breast, the lace of her bra stretching over a nipple that pressed out like it knew it was about to be worshipped.

She stood.

And towered.

Lexi was at least six feet tall, model-thin but strong, with thighs like blades wrapped in silk. Her lipstick was dark red, precise, merciless. She stepped toward Heather with a lazy, predatory smirk.

"This the bitch you were bragging about?" she said, looking down at Riley, then back to Heather. "God. She's even uglier up close."

Heather winced. Her eyes dropped.

"Look at you," Lexi sneered. "Fat. Sagging. Wet like a mutt in heat. How the fuck are you this pathetic and this aroused?"

Heather's lip trembled.

"She's been plugged all day," Riley offered with a smirk. "You should've seen her at TSA. Practically drooling."

Lexi laughed darkly. "Filthy old pig."

She stepped closer--heels circling Heather, towering over her, one hand slipping casually behind her own back to unzip her skirt.

"You're going to clean me," she said simply. "Start with my ass. I flew five hours in these stockings. If your tongue's good enough for Riley's cunt, it's good enough for my filth."

Heather moaned under her breath.

But she didn't move.

Lexi stepped forward and grabbed her by the hair--a tight, humiliating grip, tilting her head back until she was forced to look up at the younger woman's perfect face.

"I said lick."

Then--Lexi peeled off her skirt, letting it fall in a whisper to the carpet.

She wasn't wearing panties.

Just stockings clipped to garters, the taut bands of elastic framing her long, toned thighs and the bare swell of her ass. Her skin was dewy, tight, flawless. Her cheeks flexed as she turned, stepped backward--

And lowered.

Her ass filled Heather's vision.

Firm. Smooth. Warm. Slightly damp with sweat.

The scent was intimate, musky, the heat of a long day of work and power and confidence. Her thighs closed around Heather's face as she pressed down slowly--not all the way, just enough to trap her. The cleft of her ass hovered right above Heather's lips, the tight pink center glistening faintly with the moisture of heat.

"Stick out your tongue," Lexi growled. "And don't you dare stop until I'm clean."

Heather obeyed.

Her tongue touched the crease of Lexi's ass--wet, slow, deep. She moaned softly as her lips parted and she began to lick between those perfect cheeks, her tongue dragging upward, then downward, then again--long, slow, reverent swipes, collecting sweat, tasting skin.

Lexi sighed, rolling her hips.

"Not bad," she said, grinding down a little harder. "Maybe fat bitches really are good for something."

She rocked her hips, letting her crack smear across Heather's lips, her puckered hole pressed to Heather's tongue now. Heather whimpered, her hands gripping Lexi's firm thighs, her face buried in younger, cleaner, firmer flesh.

And then--

Smack.

Lexi's hand cracked across Heather's belly, right above the navel.

Heather moaned into her ass.

"Look at all this soft," Lexi laughed, slapping again--flesh jiggling, her belly wobbling, shame burning into arousal. "You're like a fuckin' memory foam pillow. I bet your husband doesn't even look at you anymore."

Another slap--this time across one heavy tit, making it bounce against Heather's chest.

Smack.

"God, your tits are everywhere," Lexi groaned. "They've got fucking gravity to them."

Heather's tongue never stopped.

She licked deeper, harder, tracing around Lexi's tight little star, sucking lightly, letting her tongue push inside. The taste was salt and skin and power. Her pussy was soaked. Her plug throbbed. Her breath came in wet, desperate huffs.

And Lexi?

She rocked her hips harder now.

"Fuck, she's really licking my ass," she said to the others. "This bitch is actually trying to suck my hole like it's a fucking peach pit."

Riley was grinning. The others watched with wine in hand, a few with hands already drifting under skirts.

"She's addicted," Riley said. "It's all she's good for now."

Lexi ground her ass down, smearing herself all over Heather's mouth.

"You're gonna cum like this, aren't you?" she hissed. "With your tongue shoved up my ass, plug in your hole, tits swinging like a fucking cow in heat."

Heather moaned into her--shaking, dripping, ruined.

And she didn't stop licking.

Not even when Lexi came.

Lexi hadn't even caught her breath before another voice cut the air.

"My turn."

It was Sienna -- the raven-haired one, legs like crossed blades, lipstick like sin. She stood now, her wine glass forgotten, her gaze locked onto Heather like prey still twitching.

"I want her pussy," she said. "I want to taste what shame does to an older cunt."

Lexi slid off Heather's face with a sultry grin, her thighs glistening with the sheen of worship, her hole twitching from the orgasm Heather had just tongued out of her.

Sienna stalked forward -- bare feet silent on the carpet, eyes dark with hunger. She crouched between Heather's legs, pushed them wide -- roughly, hungrily. Heather gasped as her thighs were forced open, the cool air kissing her dripping, blushed folds.

Sienna didn't tease.

She buried her face in.

Tongue first -- deep and unrelenting. She licked with no reverence, no slow burn -- just raw, open-mouthed hunger, like she needed the taste of humiliation more than breath itself. Her lips sealed over Heather's soaked slit and she moaned, guttural and needy, like Heather's pussy was her drug.

Heather cried out -- not delicately. Her body arched, trembling under the onslaught.

Sienna slapped her inner thigh. Hard.

"Stay open," she growled. "Let me in."

Another slap -- right across her cunt.

Heather screamed. Her whole body seized. Her tits jiggled violently with the jolt of pain-pleasure.

"Oh my god--"

"Shut the fuck up and come," Sienna snarled, licking again -- long and violent, her mouth now soaked, spit and pussy juice mingling into a slick mess on her chin. She sucked on Heather's clit, then slapped it with two fingers, again and again.

Smack. Smack.

Heather's thighs kicked.

Sienna grabbed her hips, held her down, bit her inner thigh.

Heather sobbed -- shaking, moaning, ruined.

And then she came.

Loud.

Brutal.

Like something cracked inside her and spilled all at once.

Sienna didn't stop.

She rode that orgasm -- licked it as it spilled, drank it like punishment. Her fingers curled inside, two, then three, pressing deep into Heather's trembling cunt while her mouth sealed over the pulsing clit again and again.

"She's gonna pass out," someone whispered.

"She's a fuckin' fountain," another said. "Look at the floor."

Heather was sobbing now -- open-mouthed, broken moans, arms limp, her thighs twitching with aftershocks.

Sienna pulled back slowly, licking her lips, glistening.

"She tastes like surrender."

She stood, wiped her chin with the back of her hand -- then bent and slapped Heather's cunt one last time.

A wet, obscene crack.

Heather screamed.

And the room? Silent.

Except for the sound of one more girl slowly unzipping her dress behind her.

Heather lay there -- broken open, legs still splayed wide, cunt flushed red and soaked, twitching in the aftermath of Sienna's savage tongue and cruel fingers. Her inner thighs glistened with spit, cum, and shame, the carpet beneath her sticky with it. Her mascara had run. Her mouth hung open. Her chest heaved, tits rising and falling with each gasping breath.

She looked wrecked.

And she was.

That's when Riley moved.

Slow. Deliberate.

The room parted for her like a queen entering court. Every eye shifted, attention refocused. The sharp clack of her heels over the hardwood was the only sound as she stepped right over Heather's body -- one long leg at a time -- until she stood directly above her, arms crossed, looking down like she was assessing a mess someone had left out too long.

"Look at you," Riley murmured, voice soft and vicious. "Slut on the floor. Dripping. Sobbing. Cunt open for anyone with a tongue or a need."

Heather whimpered.

Riley smirked. "Good."

She spread her legs.

Lifted the hem of her black minidress.

And squatted.

The room went still -- charged with disbelief, perversion, lust.

Heather blinked up at her just as the first hot stream hit her belly -- sharp, wet, immediate.

She gasped -- but didn't move.

Riley's piss hit her in bursts -- over her stomach, across her tits, then lower. She angled herself deliberately, a cruel grin curling her lips as the stream moved downward -- across Heather's soft, soaked bush, pooling against the slick lips of her ruined cunt. It steamed against her flushed skin, ran in rivulets between her thighs, pooling beneath her like proof of ownership.

"She belongs here," Riley said, her voice low but clear enough for everyone to hear. "On the floor. Pissed on. Fucked raw. Humiliated."

Heather made a broken sound -- not quite protest, not quite pleasure.

Riley reached down with one hand, caught Heather's chin, lifted her face so everyone could see her.

"Eyes open, slut," she said. "They're watching. That's the point."

The stream slowed, then stopped -- Riley rising to full height again with regal ease, no shame, no rush. She stood above Heather like an artist admiring her finished work: a middle-aged flight attendant sprawled out in a puddle of piss and pussy juice, her cunt still twitching, her makeup ruined, her eyes wild with confused, helpless arousal.

Then Riley turned, calmly, and looked at the rest of the girls.

"She's ready," she said. "Now it's time we use her."

Riley didn't wait.

The moment she stepped away from the mess of her own piss, she reached into the side drawer of the low cabinet by the bed -- the one they all knew held the toys meant for real degradation. She pulled out the handcuffs with a sharp metallic clink, their cold gleam catching the light.

Heather was still gasping, half in shock, half in raw overstimulation. Her thighs were soaked. Her pussy a glistening ruin. Her skin shone with humiliation and heat.

Riley crouched beside her, grabbed her wrists, and with swift, ruthless ease, snapped the cuffs around them -- yanking both arms behind Heather's back in one brutal motion that made her grunt in pain.

Click. Click.

"You're done pretending this isn't who you are," Riley hissed in her ear, pressing her down so her face was mashed against the piss-wet carpet, ass in the air, legs spread wide. "You're not a woman anymore. You're a hole."

Heather whimpered -- a frantic, breathless sound muffled by the floor. "Please... no, Riley--"

But Riley just laughed darkly.

"Someone get the black one," she said over her shoulder. "The thick one."

There was a rustle.

Then the unmistakable sound of a box being opened. A pause.

And then footsteps -- deliberate, heavy.

It was Lani, the quiet one. Hawaiian, tatted, with arms like a swimmer and a mouth like sin. She stood over them now holding a monster: a thick, shiny, jet-black dildo -- nearly twelve inches, wide and ridged like a beast. It gleamed with lube she'd already smeared along its surface, thick and glistening, still cold from the drawer.

Heather twisted. "No--no, please, not there, I don't--"

"Shhhh," Lani crooned, stepping behind her. "You'll stretch."

She got on her knees and spread Heather's ass wide with both hands, revealing the tight, quivering little pucker nestled between her cheeks -- pink, clenched, untouched.

It fluttered.

Terrified.

And wet.

Heather's legs kicked weakly as she felt the cold head press against her back entrance.

"No--Riley! Please! I've never--!"

Riley grabbed her hair, yanked her head back so she could look her in the eyes. "You want to be fucked like a used bitch? This is what happens. Holes get filled. Every. Single. One."

Then Lani pushed.

The head of the dildo met resistance -- firm, trembling muscle -- but didn't stop. Heather's scream tore through the room.

It was raw.

Shocked.

Wild.

"No! No it won't--Riley, it hurts!"

Riley held her eyes, breathing slow. "Good."

Lani worked it deeper -- inch by brutal inch, using slow, grinding force. Heather's asshole stretched visibly, the ring of muscle bulging around the obscene width. Her toes curled. Her fingers clawed uselessly behind her back. Her whole body tensed, glutes shaking.

Another shove.

Another scream.

The dildo slid halfway in -- her ass now stretched open, red and twitching, the skin straining around the brutal girth. Heather's thighs quaked.

She was sobbing.

"S-Stop--please, oh my god, it's too big-- it's too--!"

Lani growled. "You're taking it, slut."

And with one vicious thrust, she buried it almost to the hilt.

Heather shrieked.

Her back arched violently.

Her mouth opened but no words came out -- just a high, broken gasp of overwhelmed, obliterated sensation.

Her ass was now stuffed full -- obscenely stretched, cheeks parted wide, the thick dildo lodged deep in her bowels, a fat black shaft disappearing between her trembling cheeks. Spit mixed with drool at her mouth, her eyes wide and dazed.

She was shaking.

Defeated.

Fucked in the one place she never thought she'd be touched.

Riley crouched beside her again, brushing the hair from her face with surprising gentleness -- the mockery in that softness even more cruel.

"You're ours now, Heather," she whispered. "Used. Open. No more limits."

Lani started fucking her with the dildo -- slow at first, then harder. The sound of it was obscene -- wet, sucking pressure as the toy slid in and out of her stretched asshole. Her cheeks clapped against Lani's hips, and her sobs turned into broken moans, confusion and degradation tangled into something almost... needy.

The other girls watched. Silent. Entranced.

And then Lexi, from the corner, softly said:

"God, listen to her. She's starting to like it."

Heather collapsed fully onto her side -- wrists still bound behind her back, legs slick and trembling, her whole body coated in Riley's scent, in her shame. The mirror mocked her with its truth: she didn't look like someone who'd been seduced. She looked like someone broken down.

And then she did it.

She began to crawl.

Awkward. Humiliating. Slow.

Her knees dragged across the carpet -- damp, raw -- her hands useless behind her back. Each movement made her breasts sway beneath her, fat and loose now, her cunt still dripping, her thighs sticky with everything they'd done to her. She left a smear behind her as she moved, a trail of sex and filth across the rug. Her knees buckled, but she kept going.

Toward Riley.

"P-please," she gasped, lifting her head. Her voice cracked. "Please stop this. I'm... I'm married. I have children..."

Riley didn't blink.

She simply tilted her head.

"You think that matters?" Her voice was soft, cold, surgical. "You think the ring on your finger excuses the way your cunt opened for every one of them?"

Heather shook her head frantically. "I didn't... I never... Riley, this isn't me."

Riley stepped forward.

One boot between Heather's knees.

She crouched.

Grabbed Heather's soaked chin in one manicured hand and lifted her face until their eyes locked.

"No," she whispered. "It is you. You've just spent your entire fucking life lying about it."

Heather whimpered, tears streaking fresh down her cheeks. "I have a husband--"

Riley slapped her.

Not hard -- but sharp. Crisp. Just enough to tilt her head, to remind her where she was.

"You had a husband," Riley said. "Until tonight. Until the moment you opened your legs and let them in. You pissed on your vows the moment your thighs spread for a girl you barely knew."

Heather sobbed. "I tried to say no..."

"But your pussy said yes." Riley's voice turned molten, wicked. "It said yes when Lexi sat on your face. It said yes when Sienna slapped your cunt. And it said yes when I pissed on you like the filthy, wet bitch you are."

Heather's lip trembled.

"I don't want this."

"Yes you do," Riley said flatly.

"I want to go home--"

"No, you want to be owned."

Heather shook her head.

Riley stood over her, towering, radiating total, untouchable control.

"You want your husband to see the bite marks on your thighs and smell my piss in your hair. You want to crawl into your kitchen in your robe with your panties balled in your purse and pretend everything's fine while his dinner burns. But deep down? You want him to know."

Heather let out a helpless sound -- halfway between denial and arousal.

"You want him to see what you've become," Riley continued. "You want him to ask what happened to your tight little ass, and you'll just lie -- even while you feel it leaking."

Heather groaned. Her thighs twitched. Her cunt fluttered.

"You want to fuck him with this in your memory," Riley hissed, crouching again and spreading Heather's legs wide. "You want his little cock to fuck the hole I wrecked and pretend you're still his wife."

Riley leaned in -- her mouth at Heather's ear, her fingers dragging slowly between her folds.

"You're not a wife anymore. You're not a woman. You're a fuckhole in heels. A dripping, ruined little plaything. Mine."

Heather gasped.

Collapsed.

Still cuffed. Still crawling.

And unable to deny the slick, involuntary orgasm that shuddered through her thighs.

Riley stood again, unhurried, graceful -- every movement sharp with power. She walked a slow circle around Heather's collapsed body, watching the way the older woman trembled on her knees, thighs wet, cunt still spasming with the aftershocks of shame.

Then, Riley spoke.

And her voice was soft.

Too soft.

Like a lover.

Like a handler.

"You know what the best part is, Heather?"

Heather didn't speak.

She was barely holding her head up.

Riley crouched behind her, leaned in until her lips brushed Heather's ear, her voice like honey over knives.

"I'm going to be your superior now."

Heather flinched.

Riley smiled, her hand caressing Heather's sweat-damp hair.

"Every flight," she whispered. "Every crew briefing. Every shift you show up to with that tired smile and your little polished shoes -- you'll be standing at attention like a good girl... under me."

She stood again, walked back in front of Heather, tilting her head to look down.

"And when I call you to the galley, you'll come. Every time. Doesn't matter who's there. Doesn't matter what you're doing. You'll come."

Heather whimpered, mouth trembling. "Why...?"

Riley's eyes narrowed. Her tone dropped.

"Because your mouth now belongs to my pussy."

Heather shook her head faintly, but Riley crouched and slapped her again -- slower this time, more deliberate.

"Because when I use the toilet mid-flight," she said coldly, "and my cunt is sweaty and I need it clean... I'm not going to use tissue. I'm going to press the service call, and you are going to crawl to that locked lavatory like the obedient little fuck-slut you are."

Heather's eyes went wide, breath catching in her throat.

Riley smirked.

"You'll get on your knees," she whispered. "Pull your neat little uniform skirt up. And clean me. Tongue only. No fingers. No hands. Just that well-practiced flight attendant mouth."

Heather sobbed.

And Riley wasn't done.

"If I've had a long night before the flight?" she went on, now stroking Heather's cheek condescendingly, "and some stranger's cum is still dripping out of me? Guess who gets to suck it out."

Heather gasped.

"You."

Another soft slap across her face.

"You're going to live beneath my cunt."

She leaned in again, nose almost touching Heather's.

"And no one will even know. Because you'll keep smiling. You'll call me ma'am. You'll serve drinks while your own panties stick to your cunt from what I left in your throat."

Heather was trembling -- broken, soaked, jaw slack.

"Say it," Riley said calmly.

Heather blinked.

Riley gripped her jaw hard. "Say it."

Heather swallowed.

"I'll... lick you clean on the plane..."

"Where?"

"In... in the lavatory..."

"When?"

"Whenever you call for me..."

"And why?"

Heather closed her eyes.

"... Because I belong to your cunt now."

Riley smiled.

A slow, satisfied, cruel smile.

"Good girl."