Chapter 4: The Next Client
The crew suite in the Fixed Base Operation was a windowless, soundproofed cube that smelled of lemon disinfectant and cheap air freshener. Skyler stood under the blistering hot spray of the shower, watching the evidence of Marcus Johnson swirl down the drain. The water turned her skin pink, but couldn’t erase the phantom sensations: the deep, muscular ache inside her, the tender spots on her hips where his fingers had been.
She had scrubbed methodically, watching the suds carry away the dried streaks. The act felt oddly ceremonial, like cleansing after a ritual.
When she stepped out, she took her phone and scrolled her own Onlyfans account.
The page was a study in calculated corruption. The header was a darkened, moody shot of a private jet cabin, all shadow and suggestion. The bio read: Skyler Vance | 22 | Altitude & Attitude. Private Cabin Diaries. It was followed by a single emoji: a locked door. Her subscription count, which had been a modest three figures a week ago, now blossomed into five. The notification icon pulsed with a relentless, red heartbeat.
Her content was a raw, visual chronology of her disintegration. The earliest posts, from before Miranda, were tame: coy lingerie shots in her old dorm, a sun-drenched bikini pic from a spring break beach. They seemed like artifacts from a dead civilization. Then the shift began. A photo of Miranda’s black stiletto resting possessively on Skyler’s uniformed thigh. A close-up of a swollen lip, captioned “First layover.”
The recent posts were the main event. There was a thirteen-second video of Dmitri from the hangar, just a blurred, ruthless piston motion of his hips and Skyler’s choked gasp from off-camera. The still for the Marcus Johnson video was already up, her face a mask of ecstasy, his cock a dark invasion in the foreground. The caption read: “Mile High Club, VIP Chapter. Full landing (and unloading) procedure available for Platinum subscribers at 9 PM EST.” The comments section was a fever dream of crude emojis and explicit pledges.
She touched the screen, feeling the cool glass. This was her now. Not the girl in the mirror, pink from scrubbing, but this digital echo, this collection of gasps and stains. The door to the suite clicked open.
Miranda entered, a garment bag slung over her shoulder. She took in Skyler, naked and damp, holding the phone. “Reviewing the product?”
“It’s… huge,” Skyler said, her voice quiet with awe. “The subscriptions. The comments.”
“It’s authentic. That’s the sell.” Miranda unzipped the bag, revealing a new uniform. The skirt was even shorter, the fabric a darker, navy blue that would make her skin glow like moonlit porcelain. “They don’t want polished porn. They want the real fuck. The awkward fumble with the belt, the gagging, the genuine shock on your face when he rams it in. You provide that.”
Skyler pulled on the new uniform, the material whispering against her sensitive skin. “The next client. The prince.”
“A different calculus.” Miranda’s hands came up to fasten the tiny pearl buttons at Skyler’s back. Her breath was warm on Skyler’s neck. “With Marcus, it was a sport. With this one, it’s a ceremony. You are not a hole to be pound. You are a vessel for their spectacle. Your pleasure is part of the display, but it is secondary to theirs.”
"But first, let's tease our public with a little tantalizing selfie, shall we?", Miranda said coily, as she approached her face from Skyler's, while holding the phone.
Her breath was hot against Skyler's cheek, the phone's screen illuminating their intimate proximity as she cooed, "Now, give them a look that says you want more." Skyler tilted her chin down, her blonde hair cascading over Miranda's shoulder, and let her tongue dart out to wet her bottom lip, a gesture both innocent and obscene. The electronic chirp of the shutter captured the moment: two faces fused in shadow and desire, the promise of service etched in every pixel. "That'll drive them wild," Miranda muttered, her fingers flying over the screen to tag it #CrewGoals and #MileHighMenu before posting.
As the notification pinged with its first like, Skyler felt the contract tighten, her body no longer just hers but a currency in perpetual circulation. Two hours later, they stood on the shimmering tarmac of a different, more secluded terminal, the humid Mediterranean air thick with jet fuel and expectation. A pearl-white G650 waited, its sleek fuselage gleaming under the setting sun, a palace with wings.
“Remember,” Miranda said, adjusting the lapel of Skyler’s new, impossibly short uniform. “Ceremony. Not sport. You are the presented gift. Your only word is ‘yes’.”
They climbed the airstair, the polished metal warm under Skyler’s palms. The cabin within was a different species of opulence, all cream silks, mother-of-pearl inlays, and the dense, floral perfume of oud oil. It clung to the back of Skyler’s throat, sweet and cloying. Three figures awaited them.
The Prince sat central in a wide, chair-like seat, an elderly man with silver hair and eyes the color of flint. He wore a perfectly tailored bisht over a crisp thobe, his hands—adorned with heavy rings—resting on his knees. To his right, two women lounged with an elegant, feline grace. They were stunning, perhaps in their late thirties, with sharp, intelligent faces and watchful eyes. One wore a couture pantsuit of emerald green, the other a draped silk dress the color of burnt saffron. Their jewelry was subtle, devastatingly expensive.
“Your Highness,” Miranda said, dipping into a respectful nod. Skyler followed suit, her heart a trapped bird against her ribs.
“This is the new one?” the Prince asked, his English lightly accented, his voice dry as desert wind.
“Skyler,” Miranda confirmed, a hand on the small of Skyler’s back presenting her. “Fully vetted. Exceptionally responsive.”
The Prince’s flinty gaze traveled over Skyler, a slow, appraising inventory that felt more invasive than Marcus’s hungry stare. “You look like a piece of confectionery,” he stated. He glanced at his wives. “Does she not?”
The woman in green smiled, a flicker of genuine amusement. “She does. A blonde bonbon.”
“The entertainment for your journey, my dears,” the Prince said, settling back. “A full service. Begin.”
It was not a request. Miranda’s pressure on Skyler’s back became a command. “Undress. Lie there on the carpet.” She indicated the open space before their seats, the cream-colored pile deep and pristine.
Skyler’s fingers went to the pearl buttons. Her motions were mechanical, a sequence drilled into her: unfasten, shrug the jacket, let it fall. The skirt followed, a puddle of navy at her feet. She stood in only her heels, stockings, and garter belt, the cabin air cool on her naked skin. She lowered herself to the carpet, the fibers soft and tickling against her back. She stared up at the curved ceiling, feeling the weight of their collective gaze.
The two wives rose. They moved with a silent, coordinated purpose, settling on their knees on either side of Skyler’s prone body. The one in saffron silk reached out first, tracing a manicured fingernail from Skyler’s collarbone down to her navel. “So young,” she murmured, her voice like smoke.
Then she bent and kissed Skyler’s mouth.
It was nothing like Miranda’s commanding takeover. This was explorative, skillful, a languid tasting. Her lips were soft, her tongue probing sweetly. Skyler, eyes wide open, saw the other wife watching closely before she, too, leaned in. The wife in green didn’t kiss her mouth. She dipped her head to Skyler’s breast, taking a nipple between her lips, swirling her tongue around the peak until it hardened into a painful point.
Skyler moaned into the first wife’s mouth, a sound of pure shock. Her hands fluttered at her sides, unsure where to land. A sharp nip at her nipple made her gasp. “Shhh,” breathed the wife kissing her, pulling back just an inch. “Be sweet. Be still.”
The wife at her breast moved lower, her kisses blazing a trail down Skyler’s quivering abdomen. Skyler felt the heat of her breath through the silk of her dress as it brushed her skin. Then skilled hands hooked behind her knees, pushing her legs up and wide apart, exposing her completely. The wife in green looked up the length of Skyler’s body, her eyes locking with Skyler’s as she lowered her mouth.
Her tongue was a flat, hot stripe up Skyler’s slit.
Skyler jolted, a strangled cry caught in her throat. It was too direct, too intimate after the brutal taking by Marcus. This was a dedicated, meticulous consumption. The woman’s tongue found her clit and began to circle it with a slow, torturous precision, each revolution sending a bolt of lightning up Skyler’s spine. The other wife, meanwhile, attended to Skyler’s mouth again, then her neck, then her other breast, her teeth grazing with calculated bites.
“She’s very wet already,” the wife between her legs announced coolly, her words vibrating against Skyler’s throbbing flesh.
“The videos did not lie,” the Prince observed. Skyler’s head lolled to the side. He had opened his bisht, his hand moving in a steady, lazy rhythm beneath the fine fabric of his thobe. He watched with the detached interest of a curator.
The dual assault unspooled her. The wife’s tongue flicked and sucked, a relentless expertise that built pressure with terrifying speed. The other wife pinched Skyler’s nipples, hard, the pain blurring deliriously into the pleasure radiating from her core. Skyler’s hips began to lift off the carpet, seeking more, her breath coming in ragged pants. “Please,” she whimpered, not knowing who she was begging.
“Come for us, little bonbon,” whispered the wife at her breast, her breath hot on Skyler’s ear.
The permission shattered her. Skyler’s back arched violently, her heels digging into the carpet as a raw, guttural scream was torn from her lungs. The orgasm crashed through her in relentless waves, her cunt clenching around nothing, her vision whiting out at the edges. The wife between her legs didn’t stop, her tongue lapping steadily through the convulsions, extending the pleasure into a realm of near-painful sensitivity.
Just as the waves began to subside, the Prince stood. He approached, the loose fabric of his thobe tented prominently. The wife between Skyler’s legs withdrew, her chin glistening, a smug smile on her face. The Prince nudged Skyler’s head with his foot. “Open.”
Dazed, swimming in aftershocks, Skyler turned her face upward. He freed himself, his cock thick and curving, already flushed and leaking. It was not as monstrous as Marcus’s, but the authority in his grasp was absolute. He pushed the head past her lips.
It tasted of clean skin and salt. He didn’t thrust, not at first. He simply fed his length into her mouth until the tip nudged her throat, holding it there, making her accommodate the full, stifling stretch. Skyler gagged weakly, tears springing to her eyes.
“Now,” he said.
He began to fuck her face with a measured, imperial rhythm. It was a use utterly devoid of passion, a mechanical assertion of dominance. Each steady push choked her; each withdrawal let her gasp a sip of air soured by oud and her own spit. The two wives held Skyler’s legs wide apart again. One dipped two fingers inside Skyler’s still-quivering cunt, scissoring them, stretching her. The other rubbed slow, tight circles over Skyler’s oversensitive clit.
Another climax, sharper and more desperate than the first, began to coil at the base of Skyler’s spine. It was too soon, an unbearable overload. She screamed around the Prince’s cock, the sound muffled into a wet, desperate gargle. Her hips bucked against the wife’s invading fingers.
The Prince’s rhythm faltered. He pulled his cock from her mouth with a slick pop, his breath hitching. He aimed the swollen head at her face. The first hot jet splashed across her cheekbone. The second painted her lips and chin.
He grunted, stroking himself, as the last few pulses striped her neck and collarbones with sticky warmth. The final drops fell onto her trembling stomach.
For a moment, there was only the sound of his slowing breath and Skyler’s choked sobs. Then, the wife in saffron leaned in. She caught a stray pearl of cum on her fingertip from Skyler’s jawline and brought it to her own mouth, tasting it thoughtfully. The other wife followed suit, collecting from Skyler’s chest.
“Sweet,” the first wife said.
“Salty,” corrected the second, and they shared a quiet, knowing laugh.
The Prince tucked himself away, adjusted his bisht, and returned to his seat as if he had just reviewed a financial report. Miranda stepped forward then, her phone finally lowering. She had captured every angle: the worshipful attentions of the wives, Skyler’s ruined, tear-streaked face being used, the final, degrading glaze.
She offered Skyler a towel. It was cool and crisp. “Clean yourself up. Not all the way. Then serve the champagne.”
Skyler took the towel with trembling hands. She wiped roughly at her eyes, then more carefully at the mess on her face and torso, leaving sheens and streaks behind as instructed. The stickiness tightened on her skin, a new brand. She pulled on her uniform with numb fingers, the fabric chafing against her sensitized flesh.
As she worked the cork from a bottle of Dom Pérignon, her movements automatic, she caught Miranda’s eye. Miranda gave her a slight, approving nod.
The Prince accepted a flute without a word. One of the wives, the one in green, sipped and said, “You train them well.”
“She’s a quick study,” Miranda replied, her voice smooth as the champagne.
Skyler poured, the liquid fizzing gold in the crystal. The jet thrust forward, climbing into the darkening sky. She felt hollowed out, scraped clean by a different, more intricate kind of violation. The memory of Marcus was a blunt force trauma. This was a dissection.
And the most terrifying part, the truth that coiled in her gut as she took her own crew seat, was the damp heat still pulsing between her legs. The shame was there, a sharp fragment. But it was buried under a heavier, more compelling weight: a ferocious, addictive need to understand what other kinds of use awaited her.
Miranda leaned close, her voice a whisper lost in the engine’s hymn. “Wait until you see the footage. The lighting, the composition… the contrast of their attire and your nakedness.” She paused, letting the promise hang. “This video won’t just break the internet, Skyler. It will fucking own it.”