Turbulence Below Her Skirt Ch. 02

It's a strange, delicious thrill--coming back to a story you once wrote in a different life. This chapter marks a new beginning, but it carries the scent and memory of something older. The first part of this tale was written long ago, in another voice, another season--and revisiting it now has been unexpectedly intoxicating.

What you're about to read is the continuation of a journey that once lit a fire in me. It felt right to slip back into these characters, to explore their hunger again, only deeper this time--richer, more exposed. Thank you for walking back into this heat with me.

And a special thanks to aldente491 for planting the seed of this chapter in a comment on the first chapter. Your idea lingered--and this is what it grew into.

Now, let's begin again.

The Story.

The office in the London hub was too clean. Glass-topped desk. One delicate orchid in a white ceramic pot. Heather sat stiff-backed in the pale-blue ergonomic chair, blouse tucked, heels together, hands folded with the kind of precision that made her feel, for just a moment, like she still owned her reflection.

Marianne looked up from her screen. Perfect posture. The kind of older woman who never seemed to wilt -- just sharpen. Her suit was bone-white, her perfume a faint suggestion of cedar and something cold.

"Heather," she said, tone clipped but not unkind. "We've spoken about this already, haven't we?"

Heather tried to keep her voice steady. "Yes. We have."

Marianne tilted her head slightly. "Then perhaps you can clarify what's changed."

Heather licked her lips. She could feel the tension already rising -- not in the air, but in her own skin. Like shame remembered by the body before the mind catches up.

"I thought I could let it go," she admitted, voice low. "Ignore it. Be the adult. But it's gotten worse."

Marianne's eyes didn't waver. "Worse how?"

Heather hesitated. She could see her own reflection in the chrome base of the lamp -- hair neat, cheeks powdered, but her collar sat too tight around her throat. She felt it now, as if Riley's fingers were still there, smoothing the fabric down, brushing the slope of her chest.

"She's physical," Heather said. "Touching me. Inappropriately. In front of the crew."

Marianne's lips twitched faintly -- not a smile. Not quite. "We went over this. You said she hadn't made any explicit sexual remarks."

"No," Heather admitted. "She hasn't."

"Or threatened you?"

Heather shook her head. "No."

"Then you'll understand," Marianne said gently, "that from a policy perspective, I'm limited."

Heather inhaled slowly. "She cupped my stomach."

That made Marianne pause.

"She cupped it," Heather repeated, voice tightening. "Like I was a soft thing. And said it looked better tucked in."

Marianne's brow lifted just slightly -- no expression of shock, just a filing-away. She leaned back in her chair, arms resting lightly on the armrests, the pose of someone used to mediating between messy, emotional women.

"And you think that was sexual?"

Heather blinked. "I think it was power."

That, at least, made Marianne smile -- thin, intellectual, almost fond. "You've always had a strong instinct for that."

Heather didn't reply.

"But you know, Heather," she continued, tone careful, "Riley's reviewed as confident. Assured. The captains consistently praise her demeanor. Efficient. Engaging. She may simply be--"

"Twenty-three," Heather said flatly. "And used to getting what she wants."

Marianne's smile didn't waver. "And you're forty-three. You've had decades to learn how to say no. Or manage situations like this with a firmer hand."

Heather's jaw clenched. "So now it's my fault?"

"No," Marianne said softly. "But it may be your discomfort. And discomfort isn't misconduct."

Heather stood suddenly. Her thighs brushed the chair as she rose -- not elegantly. Her skirt had bunched slightly from where she'd sat, clinging to the softness at her hips. She didn't adjust it.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was neutral. Her mouth a fine line.

Marianne looked up at her with the same composure she'd worn all meeting. "Do you want me to log a formal mediation? Or can you manage her?"

Heather hesitated.

She saw it clearly now -- how clean Marianne's world was. How policy only counted if it was written in ink and not in sweat.

"No," she said after a beat. "I'll manage."

Marianne nodded once, satisfied. "Very good. And Heather?"

She turned at the door.

"Do tuck your shirt in before the next layover brief. It's riding a little high."

Heather froze.

Her hand didn't move to fix it. She simply nodded.

And left.

The hallway outside was quieter than it should have been. Her heels clicked sharp against the tile. Her belly felt like lead beneath the cotton of her blouse -- thick, visible, touched. Marianne hadn't needed to say it the way Riley did. The sting was the same.

She reached the end of the corridor. Leaned against the wall.

And exhaled.

The feeling wasn't victory.

It was exposure.

And somewhere, low in her gut -- just beneath the shame -- the heat still throbbed.

She had tried.

And Riley was still winning.

Heather pressed her back against the galley wall and let the cool of the cabin wrap around her. It was a short-haul return leg, but the tension had stretched the day thin and sticky. Her blouse clung to her skin beneath the arms. The nylon of her tights crept where it shouldn't. Even her heels, once broken in, felt unfamiliar. She felt like she'd been poured into her uniform too roughly -- the seams too tight, the buttons too high. The skin underneath no longer quiet.

She tried to concentrate on the checklist.

"Jump seats. Doors armed. Trash compacted."

But her mind kept slipping back -- to the way Riley had grazed her again while helping with the trolley. Just a brush. Not even a word this time. Just presence. Heat. Contact that didn't apologize.

Heather's jaw clenched as she adjusted her tie. She felt ridiculous for the breath that caught in her throat. For the way her stomach had fluttered, then clenched, like it remembered her -- that little smirk. That slow gaze.

Enough.

She waited until landing. Until the crew dispersed. Until the passengers had melted out into the grey hush of arrivals and she was back in the quiet corridor between the staff elevator and the crew lounge. She stood under a flickering downlight, the sweat on her lower back cooling into a shiver beneath her uniform blouse.

Then she made the call.

Marianne answered on the second ring. "Yes?"

"It's Heather," she said. Her voice sounded clearer than she felt. "I want to file a formal complaint. Against Riley."

A pause.

Marianne's voice returned cooler now, taut. "You've changed your mind again."

Heather swallowed. "No. I've made it."

Another pause. A colder breath.

"This isn't handled lightly, Heather," Marianne said, her tone clipped and harder than earlier. "Formal complaints require reconciliation opportunities. Face to face."

Heather felt something coil in her chest. "Meaning?"

"You'll attend a meeting. Tonight. 18:00."

Heather hesitated. "Where?"

"My hotel. Second floor meeting room. Number three."

The line went quiet for a moment, then Marianne added with acid softness, "You are still staying in the crew block, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Then there's no excuse."

Heather blinked. Her hand felt sweaty on the phone. "Am I required--?"

"You're expected," Marianne said sharply. "This isn't optional. If you're opening a file, you need to be willing to sit in the same room and look her in the eye."

There was something in that sentence -- in the way she said look her in the eye -- that made Heather's stomach tighten again. Not fear, exactly. Not anticipation. Something between.

Marianne continued: "You'll be professional. Neat. Punctual."

The line clicked dead.

Heather stood frozen in the hallway, the low hum of fluorescent lights above her, the faint echo of wheels and muted conversation from the lobby around the corner.

Professional. Neat. Punctual.

It sounded like a reprimand. It felt like an order.

She made her way to the elevators slowly, as if each step demanded thought. Her thighs ached. The back of her knee itched where her tights had rolled slightly.

She entered her room, set her ID lanyard down with too much care, and moved toward the wardrobe.

Changed out of the uniform. Into something that felt... less visible. A dark navy blouse that fastened at the wrist. Trousers. Low heels. She dabbed at her underarms with a washcloth, reapplied deodorant, fixed her lips. Then wiped them off again.

By 17:40 she was ready.

By 17:55 she was already outside the door of Meeting Room 3.

She waited. Alone. Staring at the frosted glass. Her reflection was vague, fogged by the blur. Her outline looked smaller. Her shoulders sharper. Her breasts sat too high in her bra, or maybe not high enough.

She adjusted her blouse. Touched her necklace.

And waited to be let in.

Heather stepped inside.

The air in the hotel meeting room was cooled too sharply, recycled and dry, tinged faintly with something artificial -- citrus maybe, or fabric softener. The blinds were drawn, casting long shadows over the conference table. A carafe of water sat untouched at the far end, two empty glasses beside it.

And Marianne.

Alone.

She stood near the window, one hand resting lightly against her hip, her silhouette framed in the soft glow of the shaded floor lamp. She had changed since earlier -- no longer in the tailored ivory blazer from the office, but something darker. More intimate. Charcoal slacks. A dove-grey blouse, silk or something like it, with a fluid sheen that caught the light and clung with lazy grace to the soft slope of her chest. The top two buttons were undone. Just enough.

Heather's eyes dropped -- not intentionally. Just instinct. The hint of collarbone. A triangle of pale skin where her blouse parted. Subtle. But not accidental.

"You're early," Marianne said without turning. Her voice was quiet but not soft. It slid through the room like something practiced.

"I wasn't sure how formal this--"

"You look fine," Marianne said. "You always do."

Heather blinked.

Marianne turned finally. Her eyes were sharper than before. Cooler. Measured.

"She'll be here shortly," she said, moving to the table, her heels soft against the hotel carpet. "Riley."

Heather's stomach tightened.

Marianne poured a glass of water, but didn't offer it. She sipped, then set it down.

"She's special, you know."

Heather stayed standing. Unsure whether to speak, to sit, to leave.

Marianne didn't seem to notice. Or care.

"She's the kind of crew member we fight to keep," she continued, fingers trailing the rim of the glass. "Sharp. Adaptable. Quick. Every captain requests her twice."

She looked up, meeting Heather's eyes directly.

"That's not common."

Heather nodded slowly. "She's confident."

Marianne's mouth curved slightly. "Is that what you're calling it?"

Heather flushed. She hated how visible it felt -- that rush of heat beneath her blouse, creeping up her neck.

Marianne stepped closer, no hurry in her movement. "You weren't always so uncertain, Heather. You used to command attention without having to ask for it."

"I'm not asking for attention," she said quietly. "I'm asking for space."

Marianne's gaze lingered on her for a beat too long. Then she turned and paced slowly along the edge of the table, trailing her fingertips across the lacquered wood.

"She's young. She's beautiful. And yes -- she knows it. But she's also careful. Strategic. Everything she does is measured."

She paused at the far end of the table. Her hands rested on the edge, her posture elegant and unmoved.

"She gets away with things because she's earned trust. Not just mine."

Heather's voice was tight. "So that makes it acceptable?"

Marianne cocked her head. "No. It makes it complicated."

The room was silent for a moment, save the low hum of the air vent overhead. Heather could hear her own breath, shallow and uneven.

Marianne straightened slowly.

"She speaks well of you, by the way."

Heather looked up.

"Says you're poised. Dignified. But too... guarded. She doesn't think you like her."

Heather blinked. "I don't."

"That's a problem," Marianne said simply. "Because she likes you."

Something cold and electric bloomed in Heather's chest.

Marianne walked closer. Her heels barely made a sound now, but Heather could feel each step. Her presence filled the space like perfume -- not floral, but dry and expensive, like cedar and skin.

"She likes to get under skin," Marianne said. Her voice dipped just slightly. "To see what women like you will do when they finally start slipping."

Heather's breath caught.

Marianne stood close now. Not touching. But her eyes studied her -- not unkindly. Just... knowingly.

"Sit," she said, voice low. "She'll be here soon."

Heather obeyed.

Her thighs brushed the vinyl as she lowered into the chair. Her trousers pulled just slightly across the front. She smoothed them quickly, suddenly aware of the texture of her own blouse against her chest. Her nipples had hardened at some point. From the chill. From something else.

Marianne took her seat across from her -- slowly, deliberately. Legs crossed. Back straight.

"She respects strength," she said after a moment.

Her eyes didn't leave Heather's face.

"I hope you're ready to show her some."

The door opened with a soft click.

Heather didn't turn right away -- but she felt her. That weightless ripple in the air, like the first gust before a storm. And then she heard her. The deliberate staccato of heels on hotel carpet. Too slow for nervousness. Too casual for innocence.

Riley stepped into the room with a grin on her lips and something glinting in her eyes -- not quite amusement. Not quite scorn. A kind of slow, feline pleasure.

She looked flawless.

Her hair was swept up but loose at the nape, a few strands teasing down across her cheek like they'd slipped on purpose. She wore black slacks, cut high at the waist, tight over the curve of her hips, hugging her thighs like a second skin. Her blouse was silk. Ivory, sleeveless, with a V that dipped just low enough to frame the delicate rise of her cleavage -- smooth and soft and completely unbothered.

But it was the way she walked.

Long, lithe legs -- her stride unapologetically slow. The sway of her hips subtle, controlled, like every inch of her movement was a message. Her heels were higher than regulation -- maybe four inches -- patent leather, with a red sole that flashed as she crossed the room. They made her ass rise with every step, that sculpted, high, impossibly perfect ass shifting in rhythmic tension beneath the fabric of her trousers. Toned, narrow-waisted, legs that didn't end. She moved like she was used to being watched. No -- meant to be watched.

And she didn't look at Heather.

Not once.

Not until she was beside Marianne.

She sat -- not like someone invited, but like someone claimed. Close enough that her thigh brushed Marianne's. She crossed her legs slowly, her trousers tightening again across the curve of her ass and upper thigh. The grin hadn't left her mouth.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, her voice casual, sugarcoated with something more dangerous underneath. "Room service disaster."

Marianne didn't blink.

She turned toward Riley, face composed, eyes precise.

"Heather has filed a formal complaint," she said evenly. "Against you."

Silence.

Riley blinked -- once -- and then smiled wider.

She turned her head slowly toward Heather for the first time, her expression unreadable, her eyes shining with something that was not surprise.

Just interest.

She didn't speak.

She just looked.

And Heather -- suddenly -- couldn't feel her own legs.

Riley didn't blink.

She shifted slightly in her chair, long leg uncrossing and recrossing with that same feline ease -- the movement pulling her trousers tight again across her thighs, the fabric groaning softly over the swell of her ass. Her nails tapped once on the lacquered table. Then she leaned back. Relaxed. Entirely in control.

She looked at Heather now. Directly. Calm. Cold.

"That's funny," she said, voice smooth as smoke. "Because I was just telling Marianne earlier... I don't even remember asking you to lick my cunt."

The word hung in the air -- slow, vulgar, undeniable.

Riley didn't pause.

"You begged like an old slut."

The silence that followed cracked across Heather's chest like ice.

Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came. Her breath caught -- high and tight in her throat. She couldn't move. Her hands were folded too tightly in her lap, nails biting into skin. Her thighs trembled under the table, just enough for her to feel the seam of her trousers press into the heat that had bloomed -- sharp, low, mortifying.

She looked at Marianne.

Surely--?

But Marianne was still.

Stone-still.

Her arms rested lightly on the arms of the chair. Her expression was unreadable. Not shocked. Not confused. Her gaze sat heavy on Heather's face like a mirror that offered no escape.

Heather's cheeks burned. Her skin pulsed with it -- a deep, full-body flush that started at her chest and crawled up her neck, into her scalp, behind her ears. She couldn't even blink. Riley's words echoed inside her like a pulse: old slut. begged.

She tried to swallow. Her throat was dry. Her legs were wet.

She hated how her body betrayed her -- how her nipples had stiffened again beneath her blouse, how her breath kept catching low in her belly, how her thighs pressed together now not in defense, but reflex.

Riley watched her.

Not smiling now. Just... observing.

Like a woman reading the effects of her own gravity.

Heather looked down at the table. Her own reflection shimmered faintly in the polished surface. She looked like someone else. Or maybe just someone more exposed than she'd ever allowed herself to be.

And still -- Marianne said nothing.

Riley shifted again in her seat, her long legs uncurling with lazy precision. The hem of her trousers pulled slightly above her ankle, revealing the delicate strap of her heel wrapped like ribbon around her tendon. She reached forward -- slow, unhurried -- and let her fingertips rest on Marianne's thigh.

Just above the knee.

Not playful.

Possessive.

Marianne didn't flinch.

Her eyes remained on Heather -- calm, unreadable -- even as Riley's hand moved, slowly stroking upward through the soft line of her tailored slacks. Fingertips tracing invisible circles. A thumb pressing, once, just below the crease where thigh met hip.

Then Riley spoke.

"How did you think I got this position, Heather?"

Her voice was still low, conversational -- but it coiled with something darker now. Not just provocation. Ownership.

Heather blinked.

"I-- I don't know," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. And she didn't. Or maybe she didn't want to.

Riley smiled. Not wide. Just a flicker of amusement at the corners of her mouth -- the kind of smile you gave a woman who still didn't know she was already on her knees.

"Mmm," Riley hummed, as if to herself. "Of course you don't."

Then -- with a movement so fluid it barely registered as bold -- Riley lifted her hand from Marianne's thigh, curled her fingers into that perfect, silver-streaked chignon of hair, and gently tugged.

Just enough to tilt Marianne's head.

Then she leaned in and kissed her.

Not on the mouth. But just beside it.

The edge of her cheekbone. The place where blush would sit.

A kiss without apology. Lingering. Slow.

Marianne didn't react.

Didn't pull away.

Her jaw remained soft, her posture composed, her eyes flicking briefly toward Riley's, then back to Heather.

Heather couldn't breathe.

Her fingers curled against her own knee beneath the table. She felt too large in her body, too hot in her clothes. The air had thickened. She tasted metal in her mouth, like blood or desire -- she couldn't tell which.

Riley leaned back, her hand still resting lightly behind Marianne's neck, thumb now brushing the nape with lazy affection.

"Funny how you still think everything is about performance," she murmured, almost lazily. "When half this job is knowing who to kneel for."

Heather stared.

And realized, with a slow, sinking pulse between her legs, that she was already halfway there.

Riley stood.

The chair creaked softly behind her, but her body moved with that same feline composure -- like gravity bent differently around her. She adjusted her blouse with a subtle tug at the hem, then smoothed the flat line of her trousers over her hips. She didn't need to look at either woman. The room belonged to her now.

Heather's breath caught as she rose.

Tall. Poised. Poised like a weapon. Her trousers clung to her thighs with every shift, the outline of her hips drawn tight under the tailored cut. And beneath the hem of her blouse, where the silk ended and the waistband hugged low, there was just a whisper of skin. A horizontal slice of soft, golden stomach. Smooth. Bare.

Then her voice, low and clear:

"Marianne."

One word.

Not a question.

Marianne looked up. Not startled. Not hesitant. Just... alert. Her face hadn't changed. Still composed. Still elegant. Her cheek still faintly pink where Riley had kissed her, though her mouth had firmed into a finer line.

Riley's gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, down to the floor between them. Then back up.

"On your knees."

Heather didn't understand the sound her throat made -- a kind of involuntary flutter of breath. She felt it more than heard it.

Marianne didn't speak.

She rose with smooth grace, stepped to the side of the chair, and lowered herself. One knee first. Then the other.

Her slacks held perfectly against the curve of her calves, her back straight, her hands resting on her thighs. Her heels lifted slightly behind her. The collar of her blouse fell open more in this posture, offering just a hint of the décolletage beneath -- pale, mature skin, flushed faintly at the chest. Her hair remained immaculate.

Riley looked down at her like a queen checking posture.

Then she smiled.

"Well," she said, voice warm, amused, superior. "That's more like it."

Her fingers moved to the front of her trousers, not with haste, but as if the act was ceremonial -- pulling the button loose, sliding the zipper down with a soft, metallic whisper. The fabric opened like it had done it a hundred times for her.

And Heather -- still seated -- could see the smooth, dark line of her underwear now. Black. High cut. Thin. Damp at the center, where the silk curved tight against her sex.

She didn't take the trousers off. She let them fall to her knees, pooling around her toned thighs, framing that stunning ass like parentheses.

Riley looked down at Marianne.

"You can kiss it now," she said. "Just through the panties. That's enough."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a suggestion. It was protocol.

And Marianne leaned in.

No hesitation. Her hands still resting on her thighs. Her mouth parting as she pressed her lips slowly against the fabric -- right where Riley was wet. Her kiss was reverent. Obedient. One long, slow press.

Heather felt the heat rush to her throat like a fever.

Riley exhaled -- not from need, but from pleasure in control.

"Good girl," she murmured, voice silk. "That's why I listen when you speak. That's why you're in charge."

Heather couldn't look away.

The room tilted -- not physically, but emotionally -- as if the floor had slipped out from under her. Marianne, kneeling. Riley, head tipped slightly, eyes half-lidded, one hip cocked just so. Her hand slid lazily into Marianne's hair and held her there -- not tight. Just present.

"You don't need to understand this yet," Riley said, eyes finally returning to Heather. "You just need to learn your place in it."

Riley's voice was velvet-coated command, low and unflinching.

"Take off your pants."

Marianne didn't flinch. Not even a blink. She moved with that same disarming elegance, rising slightly on her knees to unbutton the clasp at her waist. The zipper opened with a quiet sigh of metal, and her tailored trousers slid down her thighs--slowly, deliberately--revealing sheer black stockings held up by the soft tension of garters.

No panties.

Of course not.

Heather's breath caught in her chest.

The fabric puddled around Marianne's calves, framing her knees like surrender. Her thighs were pale, smooth, toned with the kind of subtle maturity that came not from youth but from discipline. And at the apex, nestled beneath the garter straps and the open air between her parted thighs, was the bare, delicate curve of her pussy--shaved, perfect, flushed.

Heather couldn't look away.

Riley's smile widened, but not kindly. She reached down, fingers brushing a silver strand of Marianne's hair behind her ear. "That's better," she murmured. "Now everyone can see who you really are."

Marianne's face didn't change.

But her breath hitched, just once.

It was enough.

Riley stepped closer, one booted foot between Marianne's knees. She didn't need to touch her to dominate her. The act of standing over her was enough. Her trousers still clung to her thighs, still open. The dark strip of silk between her legs was soaked, the outline of her sex visible through the fabric like a promise unwrapped but not yet tasted.

She reached down, slowly, and curled a finger beneath Marianne's chin, tilting her face up. "You feel bare now, don't you?"

Marianne's voice was steady, but soft. "Yes, ma'am."

"And does that make you ashamed?"

A pause. A single, trembling breath.

"No, ma'am."

Riley's thumb traced her jaw. "Good girl."

Then she turned her head--deliberately, slowly--and looked straight at Heather. Held her there.

"Take a good look," she said, voice like dark honey. "This is what real obedience looks like."

Marianne didn't move. Her bare sex glistened faintly in the low light, thighs parted, blouse still buttoned neatly above the waistline of her stockings. The contrast made Heather dizzy.

Professional above. Pornographic below.

A woman unmade not by force, but by desire.

Riley's voice dropped lower, just for her. "Now kiss me there," she said to Marianne. "On the skin."

Marianne obeyed.

She leaned in again, this time her lips pressing reverently just above the seam of Riley's underwear--where her scent was heaviest, where heat radiated through silk, where power lived. Her kiss lingered. Not hungry. Devotional.

Riley exhaled. A sound of satisfaction. Of possession.

And Heather?

She was soaked.

But she didn't even realize it yet.

Heather's voice cracked the silence, trembling at first, then rising like something slipping its leash.

"This is crazy," she whispered, her hands still clenched at her sides. "This is--this is completely fucked up."

Her words were brittle. Like she was trying to shake herself awake.

But Riley didn't flinch.

She turned her head slowly, lips still glistening from Marianne's kiss, and looked at Heather with a calm that felt colder than anger.

"No."

One step.

Then another.

Riley closed the space between them until Heather was backed up against the edge of the table--no room to move, no room to hide.

"Shut up," Riley said, her voice firm. Low. Sharp as a slap across the mouth.

Heather gasped--reflex--but didn't speak again.

Riley didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

"You don't get to talk like that," she said. "Not anymore."

Her hand came up--not to strike, but to brush a single finger along Heather's collar. The same spot she'd adjusted earlier. The same place Marianne had commented on. A precise pressure, right where her uniform always pulled a little too tight.

"You've forgotten something," Riley murmured. "You think you're still in control. That this is about rules. About policy."

Heather's breath hitched. Her chest rose fast.

Riley leaned in--just enough for her mouth to brush Heather's ear when she spoke next.

"It's about power." Heather's knees almost buckled.

"And if you ever want to fly again," Riley whispered, lips grazing the shell of her ear, "you'll learn your place."

A pause.

Just enough silence to make it sink in.

"Here," Riley said, her hand sliding down the front of Heather's blouse, resting just below her sternum. "On the ground. Looking up."

Heather didn't move.

Couldn't.

Her lips parted. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts.

Her thighs were pressed tight together now--not for modesty. For survival.

And somewhere behind her, Marianne still knelt.

Silent.

Waiting.

Watching.

Riley pulled back half an inch--just enough to look Heather in the eye.

"And you're not there yet."

Riley didn't take her eyes off Heather as she spoke.

"Marianne."

The voice cut through the air like silk over wire.

Behind her, Marianne responded instantly, her tone steady. "Yes?"

"Take everything off."

Silence.

Then the soft shift of fabric. Deliberate. Slow.

Heather could only hear it at first--the rustle of silk sliding over skin, the muted whisper of buttons undone with precision. Marianne stood with the same cool elegance she carried into every room, but now, her hands moved with a different kind of grace. Intentional. Measured. Obedient.

First her blouse--dove-grey silk--slid from her shoulders like a second skin, revealing the curve of her back, the delicate architecture of her shoulder blades. She folded it neatly before setting it aside, every motion economical. Professional.

Her bra was next--black, minimalist, tasteful. Her fingers reached behind her back and unfastened it with practiced ease.

The straps slid down her arms. Her breasts followed--full, soft, with the faintest weight of age, but lifted still with quiet pride. Her nipples were dusky pink, already firm from the cool air. Unashamed. She didn't hide them.

She stepped out of her heels without a sound.

Then her hands moved to her garters--unclipping each strap from her stockings, one by one, the soft snap of tension releasing like punctuation.

Her thighs were long and toned, dusted with faint freckles. Her stomach wasn't flat, but it was proud--soft in the way of a woman who no longer performed hunger for attention. Her hips generous. Her skin pale and smooth, marked only by the lived-in warmth of time.

The garter belt slid down.

Then the stockings--rolled carefully down each leg, exposing calves still firm, knees faintly creased, ankles delicate.

Finally, she bent slightly at the waist, her fingers hooking the band of her panties. Heather saw the arch of her spine, the soft sway of her ass as the black lace slid downward. Her cheeks were round, womanly, with the gentle give of real flesh. Her sex was bare--smooth, flushed, modest lips peeking soft and wet between her thighs.

She stood.

Completely naked.

Still elegant.

Still composed.

But undeniably exposed now. And owned.

Riley turned slightly to glance at her.

Her voice was quiet. Controlled.

"Hands behind your back."

Marianne obeyed instantly, lacing her fingers there, standing still in full display.

The light from the side lamp caught her skin, tracing every curve, every line, every unspoken history carved into her body.

And Riley smiled--slow, approving.

"There you are."

Riley reached for her trousers, calm as ever.

She pulled them up with deliberate care, not rushed, the soft rasp of fabric dragging over her thighs. The zipper hissed closed. She didn't bother with her shirt--left it open, collar loose, skin still gleaming faintly with the sheen of heat and control. Her fingers ran once through her tousled hair.

Then she turned.

And walked toward Heather.

The click of her boots was slow. Intentional. Her eyes locked on Heather's face--not angry, not cruel. Just certain. The air between them thickened with every step, until Heather's breath caught against her own rising chest, her arms stiff at her sides like she didn't trust them to move without trembling.

Riley didn't speak.

She reached out.

And with one firm, practiced grip, she buried her hand in Heather's thick hair--twisting it into her fist, pulling her head back sharply, not painfully, but enough to command her neck, her mouth, her breath.

Heather gasped.

Then the slap.

Sharp. Precise. Just one.

It cracked through the still room like a spark snapping across kindling. Not a brutal hit--but deliberate. Clean. A line drawn across skin.

Heather's head jerked slightly, her lips parting in shock. Her cheek flushed red in an instant, color blooming like shame across porcelain.

She blinked.

Then froze.

Her breath was quick. Shallow. Her chest rose in staccato pulses, the burn of Riley's palm still glowing hot across her skin.

Riley leaned in close. Not to apologize. Not to soothe.

But to speak.

Low. Calm. Unflinching.

"Today," she said, her voice a slow drag of heat against Heather's ear, "you're going to obey."

Heather didn't move.

Didn't answer.

Riley's fingers tightened in her hair, just slightly.

"And you're going to learn your place."

A pause.

Heather's breath trembled.

Then Riley released her.

Her fingers slid free with almost gentle precision.

She stepped back.

And waited.

The room held its breath.

And Heather's world--her rules, her rank, her sky--tilted.

She was still standing.

But barely.

Riley's voice slid through the room like oil on glass.

"Take off your clothes, Heather."

Heather didn't speak.

She just stood--slowly--cheeks still flushed from the slap, knees unsteady from the act she'd just performed. Her hands trembled as they reached for the buttons of her blouse. One by one, she undid them, breath catching on each exposed inch of skin. The fabric fell away, revealing the delicate lines of her collarbones, the soft fullness of her breasts cupped in a dark lace bra.

She unhooked it. Let it drop.

Then the skirt.

She stepped out of it, silently, leaving only the dark tights clinging to her thighs.

Riley watched.

Heather peeled them down, inch by inch, the nylon sliding over flushed skin--past her hips, her calves, the soles of her feet. Her panties followed. Damp. She didn't look at anyone as she dropped them.

She was bare now.

Forty-three. Curvy. Exposed.

Her breasts were full and heavy, her stomach soft, her hips wide with the life she'd carried and the years she wore in her gait. Her thighs touched. Her cunt glistened faintly between them--still open from the ache of obedience.

Riley smiled faintly.

"Good," she said, voice low. "Now watch."

She turned to Marianne, who still stood upright, hands behind her back, the portrait of discipline even in her nudity.

"Bend over the table."

Marianne obeyed without question.

She turned, stepped forward, and slowly bent at the waist. Her palms rested flat on the conference table, her bare breasts swaying slightly beneath her, her spine long and elegant. Her ass--round, pale, fleshed with maturity--tilted up into the low lamplight.

Heather stared.

Riley stepped in behind her.

With no warning, she leaned down, spit gathering on her tongue--then falling in a thick strand between Marianne's parted cheeks. The saliva landed wetly on the tight star of her asshole, glistening across the smooth skin.

The sound echoed in the silence. Sticky. Intimate. Indecent.

Heather's eyes widened.

Riley didn't look at her.

She just spoke.

"Lick it."

Heather's breath caught in her throat.

"Riley..."

Riley turned slowly, meeting her eyes with something steel-wrapped in silk.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

Heather swallowed.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up.

She dropped to her knees again--naked now. Her breath trembled as she leaned in, face inches from Marianne's exposed ass. The scent was clean, but human. The heat between her cheeks was unmistakable. The line of Riley's spit glistened across the puckered center.

Heather hesitated.

Then opened her mouth.

Her tongue slid forward--slow, tentative, a long, shuddering stroke from the base of Marianne's cleft up to the spit-slick ring of her anus. She pressed in. Marianne didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just exhaled slowly.

Heather licked again.

Deeper this time.

Her lips parting slightly, her breath fogging the skin, her nose brushing the softness of the older woman's cheek as her tongue circled the tight, wet ring Riley had marked.

Her cheeks burned. Her pussy clenched. Her mouth moved again, now guided not by logic, but submission.

"Good girl," Riley murmured behind her. "Don't stop until I say so."

And Heather--on her knees, naked, mouth buried between the cheeks of a woman who had once sat above her in power--licked.

Slow.

Steady.

Obedient.

Owned.

Heather's tongue moved in slow, obedient circles, tracing the slick heat of Marianne's asshole with trembling precision. Her face was buried between the older woman's parted cheeks, every breath filled with the scent of flesh and salt and Riley's spit. Marianne's moans were quiet but real--low, involuntary pulses of pleasure that vibrated through her spine.

Her body responded.

Hips shifting just slightly.

Breath catching in tiny gasps as Heather's tongue lapped and pressed, licking her deeper, more deliberately now. Heather's hands gripped the backs of Marianne's thighs to keep her balance. She was kneeling--naked, flushed, owned--and Riley stood behind her like gravity.

Watching.

Always watching.

Then: movement.

Riley stepped closer, her boots soft on the carpet, the air shifting with her presence. Heather could feel her before she touched her--like a shadow wrapping around her body.

Then fingers.

Firm. Cold at first. Riley's hand cupped one of Heather's ass cheeks, spreading it slowly open. Her breath hitched, even as she kept licking. Her tongue didn't stop.

"Keep going," Riley said, voice low and viciously calm. "She's not done yet."

Heather obeyed.

Marianne moaned louder, her hips tilting back against Heather's mouth, her hands curling into the edge of the table. She was dripping now--her slick visible along the inner curves of her thighs, shining in the light.

Then Riley's fingers returned--lower this time. Slipping between Heather's cheeks. A single fingertip, slick with her own saliva, circling the tight pucker of Heather's ass.

Heather flinched.

Her moan was muffled against Marianne's skin.

"You feel that?" Riley whispered, leaning in, her breath hot against Heather's neck. "That's mine. All of it."

Heather whimpered. Her knees shifted. Her tongue never left Marianne's hole.

Then Riley pushed in.

Slow.

One finger.

Deliberate.

Heather gasped, her whole body tensing--but not resisting. The intrusion was steady, the pressure unrelenting as Riley's finger breached her slowly, knuckle by knuckle.

"Good girl," Riley breathed, curling just slightly. "That's what obedience feels like."

Heather moaned--deep, guttural, soaked in shame and need.

Marianne whimpered above her, hips trembling.

Heather licked harder now--driven by Riley's hand inside her, the growing stretch, the humiliation of it all.

She was licking an older woman's ass.

And being fingered in her own.

And she couldn't stop.

Didn't want to.

Riley's voice curved like heat around her spine.

"You don't get to come today," she whispered. "Not until you've made her come with your tongue."

Then her finger pushed deeper.

And Heather obeyed.

Face buried.

Ass open.

Falling.

Riley's voice cut the air.

"Turn around, Marianne. I want her to see exactly what she's about to serve."

Marianne straightened with the elegance of a woman who'd spent decades commanding attention, then moved with perfect poise. Her body shifted, her thighs parting as she turned to face Heather. Her breasts swayed softly with the motion, heavy with age and grace, flushed with arousal. Her sex was fully exposed now--neatly bare, soft lips swollen, glistening with wetness. Her scent thickened in the space between them, sweet and unmistakably adult.

Heather knelt before her. Naked. Red-cheeked. Her breath catching in shallow stutters.

Riley stepped behind her, one hand sliding down Heather's spine.

"You're going to lick her cunt," she said, low and viciously calm, "and you're not going to stop until she comes all over your pretty fucking face."

Heather's lips parted. She looked up once--then back down, ashamed, flushed, dripping.

"And don't forget," Riley added, crouching beside her now, fingers brushing the curve of Heather's ass, "that's an older woman's pussy you're about to worship. Not some sweet, tight little thing. This is seasoned. Soft. Deep. Real."

Heather moaned despite herself.

"Open your mouth," Riley whispered.

Heather obeyed.

She leaned in--lips trembling--and pressed her mouth to Marianne's soaked folds.

The taste hit her instantly: warm, musky, tangy with arousal. Her tongue pushed between the lips, dragging slowly from base to clit, then back again. Her hands curled around Marianne's thighs to steady herself, her mouth moving with increasing pressure--sucking, licking, gasping for breath as Marianne's scent coated her.

It was sloppy from the start.

Heather's chin was slick in seconds, her nose pressed tight against Marianne's mound as she licked deeper, tongue curling, pushing, flicking. Her breath came hard through her nose, her jaw aching already--but she didn't stop.

Marianne groaned.

Loud. Raw.

Her hands reached for the edge of the table again, fingers tightening as her hips rocked forward.

Heather's face was soaked. Her mouth locked on Marianne's clit now, flicking with urgency, then wrapping her lips around it--sucking hard, then soft, then hard again, letting instinct take over.

Riley stood back, arms folded.

"That's it," she murmured. "Lap it up, Heather. Get in there. I want you to remember what a real woman tastes like."

Heather whimpered, tongue flattening now, dragging wet and wide from hole to hood, her face a mess of spit and pussy-slick, her cheeks flushed, hair sticking to her neck.

Marianne gasped--then groaned again, louder.

Riley stepped in close, watching her hips tremble.

"She's close," she said. "Don't you fucking stop."

Heather didn't.

She buried her tongue deeper, lips sliding over every inch, her face glistening now with Marianne's slick, her tongue now moving fast, messy, wild, desperate.

And then Marianne cried out.

Her back arched.

Her hands slammed to the table.

And her pussy erupted--gushing in pulsing waves, a hot, wet release that splashed across Heather's mouth, her chin, her cheeks, soaking her completely.

Heather didn't move.

She licked.

And swallowed.

Face drenched.

Eyes wide.

Knees trembling.

And Riley? She smiled.

Riley exhaled slowly, satisfaction coiling in her chest as she looked down at Heather--her mouth soaked, cheeks glistening, hair clinging to her flushed skin--and Marianne, still trembling, thighs slick with aftershock.

She smiled.

Dark. Slow. Entirely in control.

"Well," she said, voice syrup-thick with amusement, "that was fucking beautiful."

Heather's chest heaved. She didn't move from her knees. Marianne, too, stood quiet, skin flushed from orgasm, eyes downcast in reverence.

"Both of you," Riley said, stepping back a pace, her shirt still open, trousers low on her hips. "On your knees. Come here."

They obeyed.

Heather crawled forward, naked, messy, her thighs slick and shining, her breasts swaying slightly with each movement. She stopped in front of Riley, settling back on her heels, eyes wide, lips parted, the taste of another woman still on her tongue.

Marianne moved behind--more composed, but still raw. She knelt with practiced grace, the line of her back elegant, her breasts heavy and soft, her cunt glistening faintly between parted thighs. Her hands rested on her thighs, posture perfect, eyes lowered.

Riley unbuttoned the last clasp of her trousers.

Then let them fall.

No panties.

Her sex was bare--shaved smooth, lips full, darkened with heat. Wet now, faintly glistening from the slick mess of watching them both crawl and serve. The scent of her filled the air between them--musk and arousal and control.

She looked down at Heather.

"You're going to lick my pussy," she said, voice firm. "And you're going to thank me for the privilege."

Heather's breath trembled. "Yes... yes, ma'am."

Then Riley looked over her shoulder.

"And Marianne? That pretty mouth of yours isn't going to waste. You're going to spread my ass and lick me like it's your fucking job."

Marianne's voice was calm. "Understood."

Riley stepped forward, planting her boots wide, thighs parted, cunt open and dripping.

They moved in at once.

Heather leaned in first--her mouth instantly pressed to Riley's slit, her tongue sliding up through the wet heat, slow and reverent, then firmer, needier. She moaned softly as the taste hit her--raw, dominant, slick with authority. Her lips wrapped around Riley's clit, tongue circling, flicking, pressing in deep.

Behind her, Marianne's hands spread Riley's cheeks gently--then her mouth was there, tongue soft and deliberate as it traced the tight star of her asshole. She kissed first, then licked, slow circles that grew wider, wetter, more eager.

Riley gasped.

Her head tipped back slightly, her hands in their hair--one hand tangled in Heather's dark waves, the other gripping Marianne's silver-streaked bun.

"Fuck, yes," she hissed. "Just like that. Messy. Worship me."

Heather moaned into her cunt, tongue thrusting, lapping, mouth slick with spit and arousal. Her nose pressed against Riley's skin, breath hot, jaw aching--but she didn't stop.

Behind, Marianne licked deeper now--long, wet strokes over Riley's rim, each one ending with a soft suck that made Riley's thighs twitch. Her tongue flattened, then pointed, circling the tightness, never stopping.

"You feel that?" Riley growled. "One of you in my pussy, the other on my ass. Just how it should be."

Heather's tongue moved faster.

Marianne moaned softly as she licked, nose buried deep, lips wet with slick and spit.

It was obscene.

Filthy.

Beautiful.

Riley rocked her hips once--then again--riding both mouths at once, her cunt soaked, her ass glistening.

"You're both going to make me come," she whispered. "On your faces. Into your mouths. You want that?"

Heather moaned.

"Yes. Please..."

Marianne's breath was deeper, her tongue firmer.

But Riley didn't finish yet.

She just smiled--sharp, flushed, hungry.

And let them keep licking.

Riley's breath began to stutter.

Her thighs trembled, slick with sweat, the curve of her hips glistening under the soft light. Heather's mouth was relentless now--lips sealed to her cunt, tongue working in frantic, soaking strokes, lapping up every drop of her arousal. Her nose was buried, her cheeks slick, breath ragged through her nose as she devoured her.

Behind her, Marianne's tongue never stopped--long, reverent licks over Riley's ass, her cheeks spread wide in the older woman's hands, every stroke firmer, wetter, filthier. The tension was unbearable.

And Riley was shaking.

Her hands gripped tighter into their hair--fistfuls of Heather's dark locks and the silver at Marianne's nape--her thighs closing in around Heather's flushed, glistening face.

"Fuck--yes--don't you stop," Riley growled, her voice breaking, wild now, ragged at the edges. "You're going to make me fucking explode."

Heather moaned into her slit, the sound soaked in spit and lust.

That pushed Riley over.

She came hard.

Screaming.

Her whole body convulsed--hips bucking forward, pussy clenching, flooding Heather's tongue. She cried out like something primal had torn loose, voice breaking through the walls, echoing with filthy joy.

"Fuck! Oh god--eat it, eat it, you filthy little cunt-licking bitch--"

She pulled Heather's hair tighter, slammed her mouth hard into her dripping sex, grinding her hips forward, smearing slick all over her face.

Heather moaned, dizzy, mouth filled with taste, with Riley's release coating her chin, her tongue, her lips.

Riley's thighs shook.

Her legs nearly gave out.

And still she held them both--Heather's mouth locked to her cunt, Marianne's tongue still circling her rim like devotion.

Riley's eyes fluttered closed.

Her moan softened into something guttural, broken.

And she let them hold her there.

One between her legs.

One at her ass.

Her voice now just a hiss of breath through clenched teeth:

"God damn... I own you both."

Riley's breath still came in short, shallow bursts as she stepped back--finally releasing Heather's hair, her thighs damp and trembling, cunt slick and red from orgasm. Her body was flushed, glistening in the soft overhead light. But already, her composure was returning.

She didn't look at Heather.

She simply turned.

Picked up her trousers from the floor and slid them up slowly, bare skin disappearing inch by inch beneath the tailored fabric. Her shirt--still hanging open--was pulled taut over her breasts as she fastened the buttons from the bottom up. Her hair was wild, flushed across her forehead, but she ran her fingers through it once and that was enough.

Back in control.

Silent. Commanding. Untouchable.

Marianne stood behind her, still nude, her body calm, the soft, spent curves of her breasts rising with slow breath. But her eyes weren't soft. They were sharp now--steady on Heather, who was still on her knees. Naked. Wet-faced. Covered in the scent of the women who had used her.

Marianne didn't rush.

She moved with elegance, slipping her stockings up first, then the garter belt, then the thin bra that cupped her breasts but didn't bother to hide their softness. Her blouse draped over her shoulders like a return to rank. She buttoned it halfway, enough to suggest control without apology.

She stepped closer to Heather.

Paused.

Looked down at her--at the flushed, ruined face, the smeared makeup, the trembling thighs still parted indecently. Riley didn't speak. She simply watched, arms folded, her expression unreadable now.

Marianne's voice was the one that broke the silence.

Cool. Professional.

"Get your shit together," she said, not cruel--just clear. "If you want to keep your job."

Heather looked up, lips trembling, chest still heaving. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

Marianne's eyes didn't soften.

"You're not special, Heather," she said, brushing a strand of her silver hair back behind one ear. "You're just lucky."

She stepped back.

Riley turned toward the door.

Neither woman looked at her again.

The soft click of their heels echoed across the room as they walked out, side by side, Riley's shirt still half-open, Marianne's hair slightly mussed--but their posture flawless.

The door clicked shut behind them.

And Heather was left alone.

Naked.

Kneeling.

Dripping.

The air still thick with sex. With sweat. With silence.

Her hands trembled as they slowly curled into the carpet, her knees aching, her cunt pulsing with aftershock. Her lipstick was smeared across her chin. Her breath wouldn't even out.

The conference room smelled like her defeat.

And her arousal.

And neither of them had even bothered to say goodbye.

The door clicked shut.

Heather didn't move.

She stayed on her knees, staring at the floor where Riley had stood. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts--like her body hadn't yet realized it was alone.

Then the silence hit.

Thick. Still. Crushing.

Her hands trembled against the carpet. Her thighs were sticky--slick with Marianne's release, with her own sweat, with the remnants of Riley's orgasm smeared across her cheeks. Her mouth still tasted like pussy. Her jaw ached. Her nipples were tight, cold, tingling from the exposure.

And her cunt pulsed.

Hard.

She should've felt furious. Or humiliated. Or broken.

But what she felt was wet.

Desperately, helplessly wet.

Her hand moved without thought--sliding between her thighs, fingers slipping over the heat, finding the swollen, needy ache of her clit. She gasped, her other hand clamping over her mouth as if to stop the sound.

Her fingers circled.

Fast. Messy.

The touch was rough--she didn't need to be careful. She was already dripping. Already open. Her thighs twitched as the slick sound of her own arousal filled the quiet room.

She closed her eyes.

Saw Riley's face.

Heard her voice again, filthy and calm.

"Eat it, you filthy little cunt-licking bitch."

Heather moaned against her palm, hips bucking, her whole body tightening like a wire about to snap. Her fingers worked faster, pressing, rubbing, stroking her clit with soaked, desperate rhythm.

It took seconds.

The orgasm hit her like a slap.

Hard.

Her back arched, her thighs snapped together, and her cry was strangled behind her palm. Her pussy clenched around nothing, releasing in waves--wet, sharp, shuddering--as slick gushed over her fingers, soaking her palm.

She stayed like that for a moment.

Breathless.

Broken.

Buzzing.

Then she collapsed forward onto her elbows, fingers still inside her, chest heaving, face burning. Her skin smelled like them. Her thighs trembled. Her knees were raw from the carpet.

Eventually, she sat up.

Her hand was slick. Shaking.

She wiped it on the inside of her own thigh, still flushed and trembling, and pushed herself to her feet.

The room was cold now.

Clinical. Like nothing had happened.

She found her panties--wrinkled, stained. Stepped into them slowly. Then her bra. Her blouse was wrinkled. Her skirt had a faint spot near the hem. She didn't fix her makeup.

She didn't dare look in the mirror.

She just gathered what was left of her dignity.

And walked out the door.

Back to her room.

Back to whatever came next.

To be continued...