Ladyboy Airways Ch. 03

Ladyboy Airways -- Chapter 3

The Contract

Seven offerings.

One glass.

He drank -- slowly, reverently -- from her lipstick mark.

by Miles Vane

All characters are 18 years of age or older.

***

The Contract

It was early evening. Bangkok was turning gold outside my window -- smog and sunlight combining into something almost beautiful. I'd tidied the place and laid out the glasses just in case. I was wearing the watch. The gift.

The knock came soft. Two taps.

I opened the door and there she was -- framed by hallway light, hair loose tonight, not the sleek pulled-back look from the other night. She wore a cream blouse tucked into high-waisted navy trousers, soft silk that clung in places and floated in others. The top buttons were undone. Her black bra just visible through the fabric, like a whisper she didn't mind being overheard.

Her heels were thin, dark, elegant -- at least four inches. Maybe more. With them on, she was my height, maybe taller. She smiled, and it hit differently tonight -- less command, more warmth. Still intentional. But softer.

"Evening, Khun Miles," she said. A formal Thai greeting -- like Mr. or Mrs., but used with the first name. Her voice had that soft Thai lilt again. Not for effect. Just natural. Like a melody buried under silk. "Come in, Khun Sirinya" I said.

She stepped inside without hesitation, heels clicking against the tile. She moved with that same confident sway -- long legs, hips relaxed, tits shifting subtly with each step beneath the silk. Her breasts were full, high, unapologetically sculpted. Real or not didn't matter. They suited her. Balanced her. And her trousers were tailored just enough to hint at the cock underneath -- not obscene, just truth.

Scanning the space. Then she bent, graceful as ever, and slipped off her heels one by one, Thai custom and that casual intimacy of someone unafraid to reveal themselves, even in small ways.

The effect was instant. She dropped from just over six feet to slightly under my eye level. Still elegant, still composed -- but subtly more... approachable. It changed something. Not power -- just balance.

"Better," she said, flexing her toes against the cool floor. Her bare feet were immaculate. Pale, soft. Toes painted the same lavender as her fingernails. I saw the marks the heels left in her skin. "I've been on my feet all day."

She padded across the room and perched on the edge of the sofa, not waiting to be offered. Her bag came with her -- structured, slim, navy leather with gold hardware. No logos. Just presence.

She unzipped it slowly, fingers practiced, and withdrew a single folder -- deep brown, soft-edged, tied with a black ribbon. She placed it by her side without ceremony.

My contract to sign. The reason she was here.

Her legs crossed, arms resting along the back of the sofa like she'd claimed the space with her scent alone.

"I wasn't sure what to wear," she said, teasing. "You always seem to enjoy looking at my legs."

"You wear anything well," I said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Even nothing?"

"Especially that."

She laughed -- short, light, real.

She glanced at the glasses I'd laid out, then let her eyes drift toward the counter. "No whisky tonight?"

I poured the whisky. Lagavulin again. Seemed fitting. Just days ago, she'd let a slow ribbon of spit fall into my whisky -- unhurried, deliberate. I could still see it. Still taste the moment.

I handed her a glass, then took mine, and instead of sitting beside her, I lowered myself onto the ottoman -- the footrest in front of the sofa. It wasn't a submissive gesture, not exactly. I just wanted to be close. To touch.

Her feet were bare, now one crossed over the other. Still carrying the faint shape of her heels -- the curve of the arch marked, the ball slightly reddened, a crease at the back of her ankle where the strap had held her all day.

I reached for her left foot and lifted it gently into my lap. She didn't flinch -- just watched me, glass in hand, eyes soft.

"Been on them all day," she said, quietly and almost apologetic.

"They're perfect," I said, too casually to be flirtation. Just fact.

They were warm. Still faintly damp with the kind of heat skin holds after a long day in good shoes. Not dirty. Not perfumed. Just hers. Honest and human.

I started with the ball of her foot, pressing slow circles with my thumb. She exhaled -- not a moan, just a breath. Something easing out of her.

"God, that's good," she murmured.

I didn't answer. Just kept working. Her toes flexed. Her ankle relaxed. I moved to the arch, then the heel. I'd done this before -- not with her, not in this world -- but I'd always loved feet. Not as a kink, not entirely. Just... the intimacy of them. The way they revealed everything. Tension. Habit. Trust.

I glanced up. She was watching me. One brow lifted slightly.

I worked slow circles into her arch while she sipped. Her other foot nudged my thigh -- not demanding, just teasing.

After a while, I nodded toward the folder. "So why do I only get one twenty?"

Her eyebrow twitched. "Jealous already?"

"Curious."

She swirled her glass. "The girls make two because they're qualified. Trained. Languages. Wine. Service. Some of them have diplomas in hospitality, you know. They're proper. Could walk into any private agency in the world and get snapped up. You are getting the same one hundred and twenty thousand USD that the girls get for discretion."

I nodded. I knew that already, but it stung less hearing it from her like that. Matter-of-fact. No insult.

"You think it's unfair?" she asked, cocking her head.

"No," I said, still rubbing. "I think it makes sense."

She grinned. "Good boy."

I let the silence breathe for a moment, then said, "So what am I? Just a rent boy?"

She burst out laughing -- full, delighted.

"Noooo," she said, dragging it out as if it was the funniest thing I'd ever said. "Don't be dramatic. You're not a rent boy."

"Feels like it," I said.

She leaned forward slightly, foot still in my lap. "You're there to help guests relax. You have... presence. You didn't freeze. You didn't ask permission. You led."

I looked up at her.

"Most men on the flights? Stage fright. Can't get hard, can't look anyone in the eye. You? You bottomed and topped, made Nam moan like a whore."

I blinked. She grinned wider.

"And your ass," she added, drawing out the word in that Americanised Thai way -- ass, not arse -- "felt sooooo good on his cock the other night." She mimed a blowjob with one hand and puffed her cheek out with her tongue, cheeky and bratty like a dom little sister.

I couldn't help laughing. "Jesus."

"What?" she said, laughing too. "You did! It was romantic. Like... Shakespeare but slutty."

I wiped a hand across my face. "Christ."

She set her glass down and leaned forward -- all warmth now.

"James doesn't just want someone to fuck," she said. "He's seen that. Had that. You're more watchable than you think. It's the contrast. The girls are beautiful, yes -- soft, curved, feminine. You're..." Her eyes trailed down my body.

"... a man," she finished. "But not afraid."

I stayed quiet, her foot still warm in my hands.

"It's rare," she said softly. "And rare things get contracts."

I swirled my glass, the scent of peat curling in the air. Took a sip. Looked at her over the rim.

"Alright then," I said. "Sell it to me."

She raised an eyebrow, amused. "You want the perks?"

"Yeah," I said, smiling now. "Convince me. I'm still on the fence."

She laughed softly -- the kind that says oh, you poor, sweet thing.

"Well," she said, shifting position so her face was near mine, breath on my face. "First -- the girls."

I nodded.

"They're not like women," she went on. "I mean, some of them are softer, sweeter, more femme than anyone you've ever met. But they still think like men. They get horny like men. Kinky. Open-minded. Freer."

She took a slow sip of her whisky, then looked at me.

"You fuck them, they'll melt for you. Let you lead. Worship you. And if you want to be kept in line... well, their cocks will do that just fine too."

I raised an eyebrow. She just grinned wider.

"They're nice girls," she said. "But they don't have the same hang-ups. No script. Just instinct."

I paused. Let it settle.

"And you?" I asked.

She smirked. "I'm not a perk, Miles. I'm payroll."

That made me laugh. But her eyes stayed steady. Not unkind -- just quietly reminding me.

"Ladyboy Airways is mine," she said, light but firm. "My standards. My selection. James funds it, sure. But I run it. And I pay your salary."

There was no edge in her voice -- just truth, wrapped in silk.

"Just so we're clear," she added, finishing her drink. "You're not joining some wild sex cult. You're being employed. Trained. Watched."

A pause.

"And if you fuck it up," she said with a wink, "I'll have your Patek back by breakfast."

Sirinya untied the ribbon without looking at me. The sound of thick paper sliding free made something tighten behind my ribs.

She laid it open on the ottoman between us.

I didn't move.

She didn't explain the clauses. She didn't need to. I'd already read the draft. Twice.

The same words stared back at me in quiet legal font:

• Must remain physically clean - no tattoos, no injections

• Condom use mandatory outside the Circle

• Available within 72 hours for flights or private gatherings

• Must be willing to perform sexually - as top or bottom - under direction

• May be used for guest comfort, training, or ritual service

• Subject to observation. Silence expected. Grooming standards apply

It wasn't phrased like porn. It read like a boarding school agreement. Cold, structured, tidy. But every word pulsed.

My name was already printed at the bottom -- like they knew I'd sign.

She didn't push. Just set the pen beside the page and looked at me with that maddening calm. A trace of a smile. Now one leg tucked under the other.

I picked up the pen.

Signed.

Sirinya closed the folder with a quiet, careful motion -- not ceremonial, not smug. Just final. She tied the ribbon again, slow and neat. Then set it aside.

She stood in front of me.

"Now," she said, brushing her blouse back from her waist, "let's celebrate."

She unbuttoned her trousers -- one, two -- then pulled the zip down with that same patient rhythm. The fabric peeled open around her hips, soft and deliberate.

She wore tight black underwear. That too, she rolled down -- slow, precise. Then just skin. Heat. Her cock, already thickening.

"We shower," she said -- the way Thais often do before, and after, sex.

"Wait," I said.

I wanted to taste her essence. She understood.

She sat down again, legs open, her cock settling heavy against one thigh. Then she looked at me.

"On your knees, Khun Miles," she said, her voice low, playful.

"It suits you."

I did as I was told.

She'd said she wasn't a perk.

This sort of felt like one.

***

The Fixed Base Operator - Don Mueang

The FBO VIP lounge at Don Mueang was silent and airless -- more like a billionaire's dentist office than an airport. Pale stone, high ceilings, and no clocks. Even the champagne made no sound when it was poured.

Sirinya had arrived moments earlier, clipboard in hand, heels low, lips painted in that same soft lavender as her nails. She hadn't dressed to seduce today. She dressed to manage.

The four stewardesses stood in a loose cluster near the wall. I recognised Nam. Matching navy trousers. Sleeveless blouses, high at the neck, perfectly pressed. Their hair was neat, make-up understated. Too professional. Too correct.

I'd hoped for skirts.

Sirinya caught my glance, of course.

"They'll change just before takeoff," she said without looking at me. "Short ones. Don't pout."

She tapped on her tablet and passed a sleek black passport to the man at the private immigration counter. A soft nod. A polite smile. No questions.

Passports are stamped here, she'd told me earlier. No queue. No strip-search. Just discretion.

Champagne was offered -- chilled, dry. I accepted. The others didn't.

I leaned back and watched.

One of the stewardesses -- tall, with a sharper jawline and stronger glutes than most -- caught me looking. She didn't smile. Just tilted her head. A challenge or a promise. Maybe both.

Then James arrived.

Pale shirt open at the collar. Quiet watch. He walked like someone who didn't wait for doors to be opened -- they just opened. Sirinya stood as he entered, but didn't bow. He greeted her with a single nod, then turned to me.

"Miles," he said, voice smooth as ever. "You came dressed."

I smiled. "For now."

"And this," James said, turning slightly, "is Monsieur Delacourt. Philippe."

"Phil," he offered with a smile. His accent was French but mild, travelled. "Please."

We shook hands. His grip was warm, dry, strong. Eyes pale grey. No wedding ring.

"I've heard good things," he said politely.

"I haven't," I replied, and he smiled again -- wider this time.

"Then we'll find out together."

I nodded.

Sirinya returned, sat beside me with a little rustle of silk, and slid a leather case onto her lap. Inside: contracts, manifests, clearance cards. She didn't open it. Just rested her hand on top, like she was guarding something sacred.

Oliver entered last -- clean-cut, no tie, eyes steady. I'd seen him on the first flight, thought he was another guest. I saw him participate. I saw what his mouth could do.

Turns out he wasn't a guest at all. He was James' security.

He'd visited my apartment a few days ago for a quiet security briefing -- not long, not dramatic. A few dos and don'ts for Dubai, Monaco, anywhere else James might take me. Discretion, safety, customs etiquette, things not to say. Practical stuff. Boring until it wasn't.

We'd found common ground. He joined the Army in '99. Airborne, then special forces. I joined in '97 and spent six years mostly trying not to get posted anywhere cold, drinking beer in Germany, and dodging actual work.

I got the sense he already knew that. Probably a lot more.

We didn't talk now. Just nodded.

He sat across from me -- casual, but eyes always moving. He doesn't drink on jobs. Doesn't miss much either. Participating on the flight is allowed -- encouraged, even -- but only after wheels up. And even then, his awareness never drops.

I respected it. Respected him.

We boarded quietly.

A car brought us to the aircraft steps -- no security check, no queue. Just a warm tarmac breeze and the scent of turbine fuel and tangerine lotion.

Inside, the girls had changed.

The trousers were gone. In their place: matching skirts far too short for anything but air-conditioned decadence. Soft navy, slit high, pleated just enough to bounce when they walked. The same blouses, now untucked. One had unbuttoned hers just slightly more.

She greeted us at the door, professional as ever -- but her heels were higher now, and her smile held a secret.

"Welcome aboard."

The cabin was elegant, intimate -- a floating lounge dressed in leather, gold, and silence.

At the front, two forward-facing seats -- one on each side. I was in the port, Oliver beside me on starboard. The isle separating us. In front facing us, two similar expensive seats, for two stewardesses, empty but poised -- for now.

Just behind me, a low, cream divan ran lengthwise along the port side -- a lounging space facing a flush-mounted TV on the starboard bulkhead. It looked innocent. For now.

Aft of the sofa, a glossy table with four chairs took up the space on the port side of the cabin. James sat here again, facing forward. Philippe was adjacent, an isle separating him from James' table, a flute of champagne untouched in his hand. Just behind them, closed off by a sliding door, was a private stateroom -- wide bed, gold accents, silk bedding. Dangerous possibilities.

"Mr. Vane," said a voice.

I turned.

She was young. The youngest of them, maybe 22. Petite, almost delicate. Her features soft, skin flawless, her hair pulled back in a neat tail. She could've passed. Woman. Easy.

"My name is Fon," she said. "I'll be your stewardess until Dubai."

Her accent was lighter than the others'. Her presence almost shy -- but her eyes lingered a half-second longer than modesty would allow.

I smiled. "Lucky me."

Sirinya stepped forward from the galley, situated just forward of mine and Fon's seats Her voice came crisp, clear, and loud enough to carry through the cabin.

"Khun Miles," she called sweetly, like asking a boy to recite something in class, "would you like a glass of piss before your champagne? Nok is dying to go."

The cabin fell still. Everything onboard was consensual. Encouraged, even.

I turned to follow her eyes.

Nok, the one measuring me at the FBO, stepped forward from the far end of the cabin -- not rushed, not hesitant, just present. She was the tallest of the stewardesses, and the strongest by far. Her build was athletic but deliberate -- the kind you only get from years of disciplined training. Her calves were shaped like carved teak, tapering into thick, clean-cut thighs that moved with sculpted control. No softness. No sway. Just slow, symmetrical strength.

Her face was beautiful in an unconventional way -- broad cheekbones, a strong jaw softened by warm eyes and a mouth that rarely smiled but always knew. She had the kind of body that made you forget your type -- all muscle and rhythm and calm defiance.

Her cock was impossible to ignore, even at rest -- the girth clear beneath her uniform skirt, thick and weighty, like it belonged to a different era. Even flaccid, it hung with quiet intent -- like it had nothing to prove, but plenty to give.

She held herself like a woman who'd been watched her whole life -- and decided long ago it didn't matter. Her presence wasn't for approval. It was for effect.

When Sirinya mentioned her name -- softly, but with that telltale glint -- I understood why.

She was attending to James. But she walked forward and faced me. She held a flute in one hand, her hips tilted like it wasn't the first time she'd done this.

She must've been holding it for hours -- for us. You could tell by the pressure in her stance, the slight shift of her weight as the stream began. It poured with intent, like she'd rehearsed it.

The flute filled quickly from her circumcised cock, even flaccid, it spoke of size -- a quiet warning. Sirinya passed her a sleek, oversized decanter -- clear crystal with a wide base and tall, narrow neck. Nok didn't flinch. Just kept going.

By the time she stopped, the decanter held nearly a litre -- barely tinted, still faintly misting the crystal's neck, like the offering of some deeply hydrated goddess.

She handed both vessels to Sirinya with calm poise, hands steady. Then, just before stepping back, she caught my eye -- and winked.

Like it was a secret. Like this flight had only just begun.

Sirinya swirled the flute gently, like tasting a vintage.

Then she sipped.

Just a small mouthful. She made a thoughtful face. "It needs a little something," she said, and before I could guess what, she pursed her lips and let a thick, audible string of spit fall into the glass.

She handed it to me, lipstick now smeared across the rim.

I took it. I saw Fon watching from her seat. Her cheeks were flushed. Eyes wide.

I brought the glass to my lips -- aligning them with Sirinya's mark -- and drank.

It was warm. Salty. Faintly sweet, faintly sour. Human. Real.

I lowered the glass, said nothing.

Across the aisle, Oliver leaned in, voice calm as ever.

"I'll have one too."

Philippe, from behind, "If it's house style, I must."

James, still buckled, nodded. "Me too."

I held my glass up in salute to Oliver -- the irony not lost on him either. He'd probably drank piss as a young squaddie, I certainly did, for a laugh or some half-forgotten initiation. Now we were doing it with billionaires, on a private jet, surrounded by beautiful ladyboys.

Sirinya turned back to the galley, her hips swinging like she'd just served the best fucking aperitif in the sky.

***

Skyward

The Gulfstream was quiet in flight -- just the gentle hush of pressurised air and the low hum of altitude. We were heading west, arcing toward Dubai for a fuel stop and a three-day reset. New pilots would take over in Dubai, and the girls would get a break -- three days of rest, recovery, and a little time away from the soft radiation of fifty-one thousand feet. I sipped actual champagne this time. Cold, dry, dull.

Fon sat across from me, buckled in, legs crossed at the knee. She was flawless -- almost suspiciously so. Small nose, perfect brows, lips like they'd been painted in watercolour. No Adam's apple, no shadow at the jaw, nothing hard or unfinished. Her blouse clung to a chest that didn't need padding, and her waist was so tight it made me think of corsets and ribbons and impossible proportions.

I frowned.

Had they given me a real woman?

She caught me looking. Tilted her head, lips curling just slightly. Like she knew what I was thinking.

Shit. If she was real, I'd need a word with Sirinya. This was Ladyboy Airways, after all -- not Qatar.

Still, she was stunning. Either way, I was intrigued. I wanted to peel the truth out of her, slowly. Maybe with my teeth.

She glanced at me once, then again.

I held the look.

Just a few seconds too long for politeness. Not long enough for permission. The hum of the engines deepened as we began our climb.

We were locked in now.

***

The seatbelt sign was still on.

It was ignored.

There was motion in my peripheral -- Oliver's stewardess was already straddling him, laughing quietly, her skirt bunched around her hips. Behind us, muffled sounds: breathy gasps, the rustle of clothing.

And then Fon stood.

She didn't say anything.

Didn't ask.

Just reached under her skirt, hooked her thumbs, and began sliding her panties down -- slow, deliberate.

They were pink. Nylon. A soft contrast to her navy uniform -- a feminine flex. The band caught briefly at her upper thighs before dropping past her knees, her legs tightening ever so slightly to keep them from falling further.

She stepped forward and leaned in, the movement smooth and composed now -- different from the shy girl earlier. She brought the panties to my face.

First, the gusset. Then the part that had touched her arse. She held it there. Close.

I inhaled.

Not strong -- just a clean, intimate scent. Human. Warm.

Still no hint of her gender.

Only her eyes. And the quiet confidence behind them.

I reached out -- one hand -- and touched the inside of her thigh. Her skin was soft, smooth. I traced upward, slowly, with the palm of my hand.

Then I felt it. Gently brushing the back of my hand, then more pressure.

Cock. Balls. Heavy. Semi-hard. My own cock stirred in answer.

Curiosity satisfied, I kept going -- but not to her cock. Not this time.

I slid my hand further, palm up, fingers curving with reverence.

All the way under her skirt.

Over her hip, around her right glute.

I cupped the base -- the fullest part of her arse. Giving. Soft. Softer than I expected. I moved into the warm crease. Let my thumb graze her rim.

She didn't flinch.

Just looked at me.

A flicker of something passed behind her eyes -- a subtle shift.

Like I'd touched more than skin.

She leaned closer, still holding eye contact, and whispered,

"Can we play... over there?"

Her voice was soft, almost shy -- like asking for a bedtime story. But her eyes flicked toward the cream leather divan along the port side.

I glanced back.

It was wide enough to lie down, shallow enough to be seen clearly from the dining table. Philippe and James would have a perfect view.

I nodded.

Fon took my hand -- not with urgency, but with slow invitation -- and led me back. Her heels were silent against the plush carpet, each step controlled, deliberate. She knew this would make me feel watched. She knew I liked it.

But we weren't the first.

Nam was already there, kneeling between Philippe's legs. His trousers were gone, shirt unbuttoned, a faint sheen at his collarbone. Her head moved slowly, rhythmically -- a live demonstration of skill. Her hair was tied back. Intentional.

Nok sat beside them, skirt rucked high, strong legs splayed in perfect posture -- one thigh touching Philippe's. James was on his knees between them, fully naked, his mouth working over her big cock with reverence. His hands rested on her thighs. Steady. Not casual. Sacred.

No one spoke.

Just the hush of breath. The hum of the cabin. The soft rhythm of skin.

Fon turned to me, mischief softening her shy-girl smile.

"Here okay?" she asked, like she was suggesting a place for tea.

I nodded again.

She climbed up first, knees apart, skirt and heels still on, making things feel dirtier. Then glanced back over her shoulder -- and smiled. The show had already begun.

I stripped quietly and knelt behind her. Lifted her little navy skirt, folding it gently over her hips.

Then leaned in.

The scent met me first -- warm, faintly sweet, with that unmistakable human salt. A trace of perfume from earlier. Underneath: skin, silk, something delicate and real.

I pressed my nose into the crease of her arse, inhaled deeply. She was soft there. Smooth. Yielding. Her cheeks parted slightly with each breath I took.

I let my tongue follow.

Broad strokes at first, slow and reverent, dragging the flat of it over her folds, then into the shadowed heat between. Her hole was tiny, tight, tasting faintly of clean sweat and something more -- something only hers.

I licked like I meant it. Let my tongue flex upward, the underside catching her as I traced her again. A low sound escaped her throat.

Then a hand settled gently on my shoulder.

Sirinya.

"Is Fon taking good care of you, Miles?" she asked, her voice satin-smooth.

I thought about it, taking care of me? Technically, Fon had only greeted me, held her panties to my face, and offered me her arse. But it was already better service than I'd received on any other airline in my life.

I turned my head slightly. "She's amazing."

Sirinya smiled. Patted my head.

"Good."

Then slapped my right buttock -- firm, sharp, perfectly placed.

I arched, a reflex. Exposed. Wanting more.

Fon's thighs tensed under me. She was bracing herself, trying to stay composed. But her hips moved, just slightly, in time with my tongue.

I felt Sirinya's fingers trace my spine -- light at first, then firmer, ending in a squeeze of my arse that made me moan into Fon.

"I think he likes you," she said with a smirk I could hear.

Fon looked back at her, then down at me. "He's very good Ma'am... na ka."

Sirinya nodded like it was a professional observation. "He is. And he learns fast."

Another slap -- this one louder, firmer. The sound cracked across the cabin like a punctuation mark. My back arched again, my tongue still deep in Fon, and I felt something in her relax. She was letting go.

Beside me, I could hear soft gasps and the wet rhythm of Nam's mouth on Philippe. James murmured something I couldn't make out -- low, warm, approving.

Fon shifted her knees wider and pressed back onto my face. Not forcefully. Not rough. Just enough to tell me she wanted more.

And I gave it.

Sirinya gave my arse one last squeeze -- then drifted away, her heels muted on the carpet, stepping over James. I didn't lift my head. Just listened.

At the far end of the divan, Philippe gasped -- high, involuntary -- as Nam's mouth worked his cock with slow, syrupy precision. His hands were in her hair now, knuckles white. He was close.

Sirinya knelt beside him, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Almost affectionate. Almost clinical.

"Are you going to eat cum today, Philippe?" she asked -- soft, but with that clear note of expectation that only she could thread through silk.

He looked down at her, dazed.

"You always tick it on the inflight menu," she continued, a single brow raised, "but you never do."

Philippe tried to speak. Failed. Nam sucked harder. His jaw clenched.

"I will," he managed at last. Voice ragged, breath shallow. "I will. I promise."

Sirinya smiled -- not unkind, but not quite forgiving either.

"You'd better," she said, brushing his cheek with two fingers. "It's coming soon."

Then she stood.

Sirinya clapped her hands lightly. "Boys," she said, teasing but firm, "on all fours."

Then, to Philippe with a smirk, "You need to calm down."

There was laughter -- soft, knowing. James was the first to move, standing with quiet elegance before climbing onto the divan and positioning himself on hands and knees, bare and ready. Philippe followed, clumsy with arousal. I hesitated -- then obeyed.

The leather was cool under my palms. I felt Fon behind me, the divan creaking faintly beneath us. I turned to my right.

Oliver was already mounted -- his stewardess was naked now, full-breasted and strong. She spanked him with crisp, confident slaps, her hips rolling into him with rhythmic force. Nam said he liked being spanked. She wasn't wrong.

To my left, I felt James' hand reach across and take mine -- a steady, grounding squeeze -- just as Nok's thick cock thrust into him. I saw it. Watched it. Her strength. The power in her thighs. The way James took it -- not flinching, not resisting, just... receiving. I felt oddly grateful it wasn't me.

To my right, Nam was behind Philippe now, already deep inside him. Her pace was firm, almost clinical, but there was tenderness too. I knew it. I'd felt it before.

Then Fon entered me.

Slowly.

She felt so much bigger than I'd expected -- thicker, fuller, more present.

I gasped, quietly, as her cock pushed deep and settled against my prostate. Not moving. Just resting there.

We breathed together.

Then she began to move.

Measured strokes at first. Letting me adjust. Letting it build.

All around me, the cabin was filled with the soft sounds of flesh, breath, and something quieter -- something emotional.

Not performative. Not for show. Just shared experience.

James squeezed my hand again.

Philippe's fingers brushed mine on the other side.

Then we held hands.

All our thighs touched now -- three men, side by side, fucked in synchrony.

There were no words.

Just quiet moans, restrained. Honest.

Uncharacteristically, I wanted to moan out loud.

It was a challenge to match their quietness -- but I did.

I felt Oliver's presence too -- just beyond my right shoulder, his own rhythm matching ours.

We were all in it.

All connected.

And somehow...

I didn't feel exposed.

I felt held.

***

Sirinya tapped her fingernails on the rim of a crystal glass -- not loud, just enough to pull the room's attention back from the edge.

"Gentlemen," she said softly, "come sit."

She guided us -- me and Philippe -- to the centre of the divan. Close. Our thighs touched. I felt his breath, unsteady. He didn't look at me, not directly, but his hand brushed mine as he adjusted his weight, and he didn't pull away.

"This is for you," Sirinya said to him. Not a question. A gift.

He looked up, face flushed, chest rising too fast for someone trying to appear calm. His eyes flicked from her to the others. The attention. The expectation. Maybe the fear that he'd misread something. Maybe the deeper fear that he hadn't.

Nam stepped forward, slow and graceful -- nothing lewd in her motion. Just presence. Ritual. She met Sirinya's eyes for a moment, then stood in front of us, close enough that I could feel the heat from her cock.

Philippe swallowed. I heard it.

Sirinya placed one hand gently on his shoulder, anchoring him. Her other hand rested on my thigh -- not possessive, but grounding. I was here too. This wasn't just for him.

Nam stepped forward with a calm that felt almost ceremonial. She was barefoot now, her blouse unbuttoned at the top, long hair tied back like she was preparing for something precise. In her hands, the stem of the wine glass looked fragile.

Her cock, long and dusky, fully erect. Alive. Waiting. She gripped herself at the base and exhaled, steady and controlled.

I watched her face.

Her eyes closed briefly, then opened again -- focused now on the glass like it was something sacred. Her hands moved in rhythm. Slow strokes, for pleasure and for release.

Her breathing shifted. Not louder -- just deeper.

When she came, it wasn't a show. Her body shuddered, a single ripple through her frame, and the first thick strand landed cleanly in the bowl of the glass. Another followed. Then more -- not rushed, but generous. Her jaw tightened, lips parted, breath steady through her nose. Her face held something close to peace.

A small splash struck the rim -- delicate. A few droplets scattered, one brushing Philippe's bare arm. He didn't flinch.

James stepped forward without being asked. No theatrics. Just presence.

He stood taller than the others, broader in the shoulders, his frame lean but unmistakably male. No heels, no padding, no polish -- just quiet control. His cock was thick and heavy in his hand, lighter in colour than the others, veined like something carved rather than grown.

He didn't look at the glass. He looked at Philippe, then at me.

He stroked himself slowly. The motion was clean, deliberate. No moaning, no flourish. Just breath, the flex of his forearm, the quiet creak of his wristwatch shifting. His balls hung low and full, drawn tight at the base -- edged, like the rest of us. But his control never slipped.

Then he came.

A low grunt. Not animal. Human. The kind of sound a man makes when he finally allows release. His cum hit the inside of the glass with a soft, thick splash -- warm and deliberate. Some of it clung to the rim. Some of it struck the side and slid slowly down. A single drop caught Sirinya's hand, and she didn't flinch. Just wiped it with her thumb and made sure it went in the glass.

James stepped back without a word. No apology. No pride. Just composure.

It was a contrast, to Nam, to the ladyboys.

The girls were art. James was presence.

And now he'd left a part of it behind.

Nam had drifted closer to Philippe, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, the other smoothing down his chest in slow, grounding strokes. Her presence was quiet but constant -- not arousing now, but anchoring.

Oliver followed, stripped and quiet, his shaft smooth and straight, balls tucked close in readiness. His orgasm came quick but clean -- a flicker of restraint in his jaw, then a silent spasm as his cum joined the others in a pale swirl. His hands didn't tremble. They just gave.

Fon. Her cock was smaller than the others, but her posture was proud. Her breath was soft, feminine, as she stroked herself with one hand and cupped her own balls with the other. Her cum came in a single clear burst -- delicate, sharp, and somehow precise. It landed like a signature.

All the cabin contributed to filling the glass with cum -- everyone except me and Philippe.

Finally Sirinya stepped forward, her presence as poised as ever -- but her eyes glittered with something playful.

Sirinya took the glass in both hands like it was fragile, sacred.

With a small tilt of her hips and a soft sigh, she angled herself just so -- deliberate, elegant.

With a few slow, practiced strokes, her breath caught -- and then she let go.

A short, sharp gasp through her teeth as she came.

The final splash was not loud, but it was heavy -- thick and slow as it met the swirl of what was already there.

Some of it landed where it shouldn't:

A warm fleck on Philippe's thigh.

Another across my ribs.

We both flinched, barely.

Sirinya just grinned.

I felt its heat.

She lifted the glass again and brought it to her lips -- not to drink, but to taste.

Her lipstick left a perfect red crescent on the rim.

She licked slowly, her tongue tracing the curve like she was cleaning the edge of a dessert plate,

Then added a long, silken string of spit to the centre.

It swirled like cream in coffee.

"Now it's ready," she said, eyes dancing.

Then she held the glass steady between us -- and waited.

I took the glass from her, still warm from her hands.

The contents shifted slowly -- thick, golden-white, alive with scent and meaning.

Seven bodies had contributed to this.

Seven pulses.

Seven offerings.

Sirinya didn't say anything at first.

Just watched me with quiet approval.

Then:

"Smell it."

Her voice was soft.

Not a command -- an invitation.

I brought the rim to my nose, aligning with the faint crescent of her lipstick.

The scent hit me like a wave.

Salty.

Sweet.

Musky.

Layered with heat, with breath, with life.

My cock throbbed once. Hard.

My chest rose, like something sacred had entered me.

I took a sip.

It was intense.

Thick across my tongue.

Deeply human.

I swallowed without thinking.

Philippe hadn't moved, but I could feel his eyes on me -- his breath shallow.

He was trembling slightly, his hands in his lap, eyes locked on mine.

I turned, extended the glass.

He took it.

He mirrored me -- sniffed, flinched, then drank.

His lips found Sirinya's mark too.

He swallowed, then another sip.

He closed his eyes.

Something passed between us then -- deeper than kink, older than culture.

A French billionaire and a British loner, sharing the same heat, the same hunger, the same need to surrender and be seen.

We finished the glass together, taking turns.

Sharing.

Two men.

Two erections.

Two quiet, clean initiations.