Chapter 22: At 30,000 feet, Amy pins Cynthia against the vibrating fuselage wall while Maya films, the tattooed bartender's tongue carving a wet trail down Cynthia's spine before spearing her with two thick fingers as the 'fasten seatbelt' sign blinks mockingly above them.
The money changed everything. It was a fluid, electric current that rewired their reality. One week they were in the Motel 6 off I-15, the next they were being driven in a silent black SUV to a private hangar at McCarran, the desert wind hot and gritty outside the tinted windows. The raw feed had done it. Fifty dollars for two unedited hours of them using every toy, breaking every quiet moment with sharp cries and filthy talk. It had sold thousands of accesses in the first forty-eight hours. The metrics looked like a heart attack on a screen.
The jet was a revelation. A sleek Bombardier, its cabin lined with butter-soft cream leather and polished burl wood. The hum of the engines was a deep, constant purr felt in the bones, not the ears. Cynthia stood just inside the doorway, a simple black duffel in her hand, her heels sinking into the thick pearl-gray carpet. It smelled of lemongrass and new money.
Maya was already pouring champagne into three flutes, her movements proprietary. “Told you,” she said, not looking up. “Told you they’d pay for the real thing.”
“They’re not paying for the real thing,” Cynthia corrected, her voice quiet. She set her bag down. “They’re paying for their version of it. The version we sell.” She ran a hand over the cool leather of a chair. It was colder than the obsidian had been.
The jet’s attendant, a polished young man with a neutral smile, finished his safety briefing and disappeared behind a door to the galley, leaving them in the pressurized, opulent silence. They were ascending through a bruised purple sunset, Las Vegas shrinking into a spill of glittering bacteria on the desert floor.
Cynthia took a flute. The bubbles were tiny, precise explosions on her tongue. She looked at Maya, who was staring out the window, her reflection ghosted over the deepening night. There was a new tension in her, a wire stretched too tight. The power shift in the motel room had been seismic, and the aftershocks were still rolling.
“So what’s in Austin?” Cynthia asked.
“A bartender,” Maya said, turning from the window. A smirk, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “At that punk place I told you about. She’s… visual. Sleeve tattoos. A mouth on her. I reached out. She’s interested.”
“In the money.”
“In the adventure,” Maya countered, too quickly. “She’s seen the clips. She thinks you’re a goddamn revelation.”
Cynthia sipped her champagne. She felt no excitement, only a cool assessment. Another element. Another variable. “And what does she do?”
“Whatever we want,” Maya said, her gaze locking with Cynthia’s. The challenge was back. “She’s fresh meat. A new toy. The audience is hungry for new meat.”
An hour into the flight, the pilot announced mild turbulence ahead. The seatbelt sign pinged on. The attendant checked on them once, then retreated. The jet began a subtle, rhythmic shudder, a long, slow vibration through the frame.
Maya unfastened her seatbelt. So did Cynthia.
They met in the aisle, the champagne doing nothing to soften the hard light in their eyes. Maya kissed her, and it was all teeth and possession, a reclaiming of territory. Cynthia allowed it for a moment, then pushed back, gripping Maya’s jaw. “You don’t own this,” Cynthia murmured against her lips. “You just found it.”
She shoved Maya backwards onto the wide, cream leather seat. The turbulence gave a sudden, sharp jolt, making Cynthia stagger, her knee landing between Maya’s legs. The physical discord mirrored the emotional one perfectly. Cynthia yanked at Maya’s jeans, pulling them down her hips with a rough jerk. Maya didn’t help, just watched, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Cynthia didn’t bother with foreplay. She was still sore from the Eclipse, a constant, low ache that was becoming her baseline. She spat into her own hand, rubbed the wetness between Maya’s legs, finding her already slick, hot, and tense. She pushed two fingers inside, a brutal, curling thrust.
Maya gasped, her head hitting the leather. “Fuck you.”
“That’s the idea,” Cynthia said, working her fingers in a harsh, punctual rhythm. The jet shuddered again, and Cynthia used the motion, driving her fingers deeper on the lurch. She leaned down, her mouth close to Maya’s ear. “You miss being the one in charge? The one holding the camera? The one giving the orders?”
“I’m still here,” Maya gritted out, her hips lifting to meet the thrusts.
“You’re along for the ride,” Cynthia corrected. She added a third finger, the stretch making Maya’s breath catch. “My ride.” She fucked her like that, a ruthless, mechanical pounding, her knuckles pounding against Maya’s clit with each inward drive. It was punishment. It was confirmation. Maya came quickly, a tight, violent clenching around Cynthia’s fingers, her cry swallowed by the engine’s roar.
Cynthia withdrew her wet hand, wiping it on Maya’s bare stomach. She stood, her own need a sharp, pulsing throb between her legs. The seatbelt sign was still on. The plane bucked in a pocket of rough air.
The cabin door at the front of the plane hissed open.
A woman stood there, frozen for a second in the doorway. She had long, straight black hair that fell like oil over her shoulders, and intricate sleeve tattoos of birds and thorns covering both arms. She wore tight black jeans and a faded band t-shirt. Amy. Her eyes, a startling light brown, took in the scene: Maya half-naked and panting on the seat, Cynthia standing over her, hand glistening.
A wicked smile broke across Amy’s face. “Well,” she said, her voice a low, smoky thing. “The in-flight entertainment’s better than I was led to believe.”
She didn’t wait for an invitation. She dropped a small backpack and kicked off her boots. The plane gave another jolt, and she rode the motion, stumbling gracefully into the cabin, falling against Cynthia. Her hands came up to steady herself, landing on Cynthia’s hips. She smelled of cigarette smoke and vanilla.
“You’re Cynthia,” Amy stated, her eyes roaming Cynthia’s face, her hair, her mouth. “Your videos made me miss two shifts. My boss is pissed.” Her hands didn’t move.
“Then you should be pissed at me,” Cynthia said, her voice steadier than she felt.
“I’m not,” Amy whispered. She leaned in and kissed her.
It was different from Maya’s kiss. Softer, more curious, but with a latent hunger underneath. Cynthia felt the lick of Amy’s tongue, the press of her ring-clad fingers into her skin. Maya watched from the seat, silently, her eyes dark pools.
The turbulence intensified. The plane pitched, and they all swayed. Amy broke the kiss, laughing, a genuine, unfiltered sound. “Christ, we’re gonna die doing this.”
“Better than dying bored,” Maya said, finally speaking. She had pulled her jeans up but not fastened them. She reached for the champagne bottle, took a long swig from the neck.
Amy turned her attention to Maya, appraising her. “You’re the director.”
“I was,” Maya said.
Amy seemed to understand something in that. She looked back at Cynthia. “So who’s directing now?”
Cynthia answered by reaching for the hem of Amy’s shirt, pulling it over her head. The tattoos continued over her shoulders, across her collarbones. Her breasts were small, high, with pierced nipples. Cynthia thumbed one of the steel bars, and Amy’s breath hitched.
“On your knees,” Cynthia said.
Amy obeyed, lowering herself to the carpet in the aisle. The plane swayed, and she braced her hands on Cynthia’s thighs. Cynthia looked down at the top of her head, the jet-black hair, then over at Maya. “Camera.”
Maya hesitated for only a second. Then she moved, all business, retrieving the professional camera from its case. The red light glowed to life, painting the cabin in a faint, hellish wash. The sound of its focus whirring was swallowed by the atmospheric groan of the jet.
Cynthia unbuttoned her own jeans, pushed them and her underwear down her hips. The air was cool. She was wet, the ache from earlier transforming into a heavy, urgent throb. “Show me what you couldn’t stop watching,” she said to Amy.
Amy didn’t need instruction. She leaned forward, her tongue finding Cynthia’s clit in one smooth, confident stroke. It was expert, immediate pressure, circling and flicking with a precision that made Cynthia’s knees buckle. She grabbed the back of a seat to steady herself.
“Fuck,” Cynthia gasped.
Amy hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight into Cynthia’s core. She used her hands, one spreading Cynthia open wider, the other sliding two fingers inside her with no hesitation. They were slimmer than Cynthia’s, than the toys, but they curled just right, pressing against a spot that made Cynthia see bursts of light. Amy fucked her with her fingers while her mouth worked relentlessly, sucking and licking, her nose buried in ginger hair.
Maya circled them, capturing every angle: the strain in Cynthia’s thighs, the obscene, wet shine of Amy’s mouth, the tattoos moving over the flexing muscles of her arms. The plane’s juddering added a chaotic, surreal rhythm. Cynthia’s hips began to jerk, meeting Amy’s thrusts. The pleasure was a hot coil, winding tighter and tighter, fed by the sheer audacity of it—thirty-thousand feet in the air, a stranger’s tongue inside her, a camera capturing her unraveling.
“You gonna come for her?” Maya’s voice came from behind the lens, flat, goading. “You gonna come on this bartender’s face in a fucking private jet?”
Cynthia didn’t answer. Her orgasm ripped through her, a raw, vocal crescendo torn from her throat. Her body clenched around Amy’s fingers, pulses of intense pleasure washing through her in waves that synced with the plane’s vibrations. Amy rode it out, gentling her tongue but not stopping, until Cynthia pushed her head away, oversensitive and trembling.
Amy sat back on her heels, her chin slick, her light brown eyes gleaming with triumph. She licked her lips slowly, deliberately, for the camera.
Maya lowered the camera. The silence, apart from the engines, was immense.
Cynthia pulled her clothes up, her legs unsteady. She looked at Amy, then at Maya. The dynamic had crystallized, hard and clear. She was the center. The source. They were satellites, drawn to her gravity, each for their own reasons.
“We land in an hour,” Cynthia said, her voice rough but commanding. “Maya, book the penthouse suite. Not two bedrooms. One. With a view.” She turned to Amy. “You have any limits?”
Amy stood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I didn’t fly here to have limits.”
Cynthia nodded. She picked up her champagne flute from where it had rolled, unspilled, in a cupholder. She took a sip. The bubbles were still popping, frantic and alive.
The jet sailed on through the black, a shell of luxury containing their raw, beating heart of darkness. Below, the world was unaware. Ahead, Austin waited, just another city to consume. Cynthia looked out at the endless night, at the cold, distant stars, and felt nothing at all but the profound, echoing power of the void she had chosen to fill.