Chapter 3: Mile-High Ownership
The clothes felt like a second skin, cool silk against her oversensitized flesh. Niamh watched from the window seat as the city’s grid of lights fell away, swallowed by the vast, impersonal dark. Klaus’s jet was a capsule of contained power, all sleek lines and deep leather. He sprawled in a wide chair opposite her, swirling bourbon in a heavy crystal glass. Stefan stood at the small bar, his back to them, pouring a drink he probably didn’t want.
“Comfortable?” Klaus asked, his voice a low purr that vibrated in the cabin’s hum.
“Deliciously sore,” Niamh replied, stretching her legs. She felt replenished, thrumming with the energy she’d drawn from their climaxes. It was a dark, sweet vintage.
Stefan turned, his glass clenched in his hand. “Where are we going?”
“Patience, Stefan,” Klaus sighed. “All in good time. First, we test our new asset.” His blue eyes slid to Niamh, assessing. “A succubus feeds on the act. But what of the… atmosphere? The tension?”
He set his glass down with a precise click and stood. He walked to a panel, opened it, and withdrew two sets of thick, silver-plated manacles connected by short chains to sturdy rings bolted into the jet’s fuselage. They were clearly not standard issue.
Niamh felt a thrill, not of fear, but of anticipation. This was a new game.
“Lie down,” Klaus said, pointing to the long, wide leather couch.
She obeyed, settling onto the cool, supple leather. He knelt beside her, his movements efficient. He fastened one manacle around her left wrist, pulling her arm up and over her head until the chain snapped taut, locking it to the ring above. He did the same with her right, spreading her wide. Then he moved to her ankles, securing them to rings at the base of the couch. She was displayed, open, utterly vulnerable.
Stedal watched, his knuckles white on his glass. “Klaus…”
“Quiet,” Klaus said, not looking at him. He ran a finger along the inside of Niamh’s thigh, from knee to the apex of her legs. “She’s not complaining.”
She wasn’t. The restraint was an aphrodisiac. Her breathing hitched.
Klaus undid the button of his trousers, freed his cock, already thick and hardening. He didn’t enter her. Instead, he leaned over her, one knee on the couch near her hip, his body caging hers. He lowered his mouth to her breast, his tongue circling her nipple through the thin silk of her top before he took the fabric in his teeth and ripped it, baring her.
The jet hit a patch of turbulence, a sudden, violent drop that made the crystal glasses tremble. Klaus didn’t flinch. His mouth closed over her nipple, sucking hard, then his teeth grazed the tender flesh—a promise. Then he bit down.
It wasn’t the gentle piercing of a feeding vampire. It was a predatory, claiming bite. The pain was sharp, bright, searing directly into her pleasure centers. She cried out, arching against the restraints, and the sound was pure, undiluted ecstasy.
“Taste her, Stefan,” Klaus growled, his mouth still latched to her breast, a dark bloom of blood staining his lips. “She’s waiting.”
Stefan was across the cabin in a blur of motion. He looked down at her, at her mouth, parted and panting. The conflict in his eyes was a war she could taste—loyalty to a brother, to a human girl, battling against a century of suppressed hunger and the raw, addictive power of what they had done in the shower. The latter won.
He unbuckled his pants, freeing his erection. He placed a hand beside her head, the other guiding himself to her lips. “Open,” he said, his voice ragged.
She did. He pushed in, not with Klaus’s controlled aggression, but with a desperate, grateful surge. He filled her mouth, his cock hitting the back of her throat. She relaxed, taking him all, her tongue working along his length.
Klaus released her breast with a wet sound, lapping at the blood. He watched Stefan fuck her face, his own hand working his cock slowly. “Look at her. Tied up, taking it. She’s perfect.”
The jet shuddered again, a deeper, more persistent turbulence. Stefan’s thrusts became jarred, uneven, forcing him deeper and then pulling him back. Niamh gagged, tears springing to her eyes, her moans vibrating around him. The chaos of the flight mirrored the chaos they were creating in her.
Klaus moved lower, his hands hooking under her knees, pushing her legs wider despite the shackles. He spat onto his fingers, then rubbed the wetness over her cunt, already slick and swollen. He didn’t enter her. He looked at Stefan.
“You want this, brother?” Klaus asked, his tone casual, as if offering a cigarette.
Stefan, lost in the rhythm of her mouth, could only nod, a strangled sound escaping him.
“Then take it.”
Klaus positioned himself at her entrance. With one powerful, brutal thrust, he sheathed himself inside her. The stretch was immense, shocking after the careful preparation in the shower. She screamed around Stefan’s cock, the sound muffled by his flesh.
Klaus set a punishing pace, each drive of his hips slamming the couch into the bolted floor. The chains rattled. He was a force of nature, unrestrained, his fingers digging bruises into her thighs. The hybrid strength was terrifying, exhilarating. She was a toy in a hurricane.
Stefan, fueled by the sight, by the raw sounds, by his own collapsing resolve, fucked her mouth harder. He was grunting now, short, animalistic sounds. “God, yes,” he choked out.
The plane dropped violently. Klaus didn’t miss a stroke. Stefan’s thrusts became frantic, uncoordinated. The world was noise and motion and filling—her mouth, her cunt, every sense overwhelmed.
“You’re our personal fucktoy now,” Klaus growled, his voice guttural, his hips a relentless piston. His fangs were fully extended. “Say it.”
She couldn’t speak. She could only moan, her body convulsing around him as a climax tore through her, triggered by the overwhelming violation, the perfect lack of control.
That sent Stefan over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he came hard down her throat, his body trembling. She swallowed compulsively, the salty taste mixing with the copper of her own blood from Klaus’s bite.
Klaus watched Stefan’s release, a dark smile on his face. Then his own rhythm fractured. He drove into her one last, devastating time, burying himself to the hilt as he roared his release, his body shuddering with the force of it.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the jet’s engines and their ragged breathing. The turbulence had smoothed into a gentle sway.
Klaus pulled out slowly. He unfastened the manacles with clinical detachment, first her ankles, then her wrists. He pulled her upright. She was boneless, trembling, radiant with stolen energy.
Stefan had staggered back, tucking himself away, his face a mask of shock and satiated shame. He couldn’t look at her.
Klaus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, catching a last smear of her blood. He picked up his bourbon, drained it, and poured another. He handed it to Niamh.
“You performed adequately,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “The flight’s about to get bumpy again. Different kind of storm.”
Niamh took the glass, her hand steady. She drank, the liquor burning a clean path through the layered tastes in her mouth. She looked from Klaus’s satisfied smirk to Stefan’s averted eyes.
“Where are we going?” she asked, echoing Stefan’s earlier question.
Klaus smiled, a flash of genuine, predatory excitement. “Home, darling. To where the real fun begins. We’re going hunting.”