Chapter 27: Mile High Initiation
Iris boarded the Boeing 777 at JFK with the first wave of passengers. The jet bridge smelled faintly of coffee and cold metal, and when she stepped through the aircraft door the cabin opened around her in a hush of soft lighting and champagne-coloured upholstery. First Class felt like a different altitude entirely - quiet, self-contained, almost unreal.
A male flight attendant greeted Iris by name and gestured for her to follow him down the softly lit aisle. The front cabin felt calm in a way the rest of the aircraft never did - muted colours, low lighting, the quiet rustle of passengers settling in.
“This way, Miss. Moreau. You’re in 1A today.”
They walked past a row of tall, curved partitions, each one shaped like a halfopen shell. Iris felt a flicker of uncertainty. They looked private, almost too private, like something she might accidentally disappear into.
He noticed her hesitation and smiled. “They can look a bit mysterious at first. They’re not as closed-in as they seem.”
He stopped beside her suite and let her step in ahead of him. The space opened around her more than she expected — a wide leather seat facing forward, a long ottoman stretching toward the wall, and enough room to stand without feeling boxed in. The seat was set a couple of feet in from the sliding door, leaving a small entryway.
“You’ll be sitting here for take-off,” he said, tapping the armrest where the seatbelt lay neatly coiled. “It’s a proper certified seat — shoulder room, legroom, everything. We’ll come by to check your belt before we depart, just like in any cabin.”
She ran her hand along the curved wall. “It’s not… too enclosed?”
“Not at all,” he said. “The walls are high enough to give you privacy, but the top is open, so you won’t feel shut in. And once we’re in the air and the seatbelt sign is off, you can recline fully. The seat becomes a bed — we’ll make it up for you later with a mattress pad and duvet.”
She glanced toward the aisle. “And if someone’s travelling with you?”
“Most couples choose the centre pair,” he said, nodding toward the middle suites. “You can talk easily with the doors open. And you’re welcome to visit each other’s suites once we’re cruising. People do it all the time — parents checking on children, partners sharing a meal. It’s flexible.”
He stepped back, giving her space. “You’ll find it more comfortable than a regular row, I promise. Think of it as your own little room for the flight — just without a ceiling.”
Iris sat down in her seal and exhaled, the tension easing from her shoulders. The suite no longer felt like a capsule but a small, elegant alcove — private enough to feel hers, open enough to breathe.
“Miss Moreau,' said the attendant, squatting beside her so he could use a low tone. “We have a mutual friend...”
Iris stared into his eyes. He wasn't about to mention who it was. He wasn't at all excited about the coincidence. He was cool, calm, collected and businesslike. He glanced over his shoulder to check that they had total privacy.
“Marcus,” he said. “Your mentor, shall we say...”
Iris nodded.
“You look beautiful,” he then whispered, not so much a compliment as an assurance that all she had to do was let him take care of everything. “You look much more than beautiful... Perfect... So follow my lead? Later... When we're in the air...”
She nodded and he then glanced down at her dress, short and charcoal grey, its material so fine that every shift in position, as she sat in her seat, made the metal of the barbells, through her nipples, brush against the fabric, a tiny, persistent spark. He nodded approvingly and then lowered his eyes to her legs. A thimble-size silver bell was just visible below the hem of her dress, on a fine silver chain - that was attached to her clitoris.
“Do you think I should remove it?” asked Iris, seeing an opportunity to break the ice with the man.
“I think it might be better,' he said.
“Would you do it?” she asked. “With my nails... It's difficult...”
She drew his attention to her nails by dragging one hand up the bare skin of her thigh, to the hem, and then up further, dragging it higher, and slowly higher. He stood and she thought she'd offended him – but he was sliding the door shut. She lifted her bottom and drew the dress our from under it. She leant forward and swept it off over her head. She then lay back, her hands at her side, totally naked apart from her stilettos. When he crouched beside her again she spread her legs wider so he could see that she was ready for sex, could see the small rings through her inner labia, four each side.
“Later?” he asked and she nodded, knowing he didn't have time to fuck her just then.
He leant over her pelvic area, put his hands to her, and carefully released the chain from the small ring through her clitoral hood.
“Just like a St Christopher pendant,” he said
And then he had a thought.
“Maybe I could get you one... Engraved with the flight number...” he said. “And the number of your conquests...”
“Am I going to have a busy night?' asked Iris.
The man nodded solemnly, then smiled, then stood, turned, slid the door open, checked the coast was clear, as she was naked, stepped into the aisle, slid the door closed again, and left her. She lay there and only slipped back into her dress when the plane started taxiing to the runway. When it was in the air, and the seatbelt sight went off, she roused herself and wandered to the bar, getting herself mentally into work mode.
The jet’s engines constant drone was a hypnotic bass note beneath the chatter and clink of ice in the glasses at the bar. Iris sipped champagne, the cool liquid doing nothing to quench the warmer, deeper thirst that had taken root the moment the cabin doors sealed.
First Class was a different world, a gilded cage of subdued lighting and expansive leather. The men here were mostly older, polished, their eyes holding a calculation she recognized instantly. It wasn’t about her, not really. It was about possession, about the transaction.
She'd perched herself on a barstool. She'd crossed her legs. The stiletto heel dangled, a pendulum. She laughed at a banker’s joke about market volatility, her green eyes locking onto his as if he’d just revealed the secrets of the universe. She touched the sleeve of a tech magnate, listening to his monologue about AI with a tilted head, her thumb subtly stroking the expensive wool. She was a mirror, reflecting whatever desire they projected, stoking it with a smile, a glance, a shift of her thighs.
Just when she was starting to get bored her flight attendant, his uniform crisper than the others, approached. “Ms. Moreau? Your sleeping pod is prepared whenever you’re ready.”
Iris glanced around the cabin. Several pairs of eyes followed the exchange. She finished her champagne, a slow, deliberate act. “Now is perfect,” she said, her voice carrying just enough.
He led her to the front of the cabin. The pod was a private capsule, a bed shrouded in grey linen and soft light. One of the men from the bar, the one with the silver hair and watch that cost more than a car, hadn’t finished his drink, was tagging along. He stood, holding his crystal tumbler of amber liquid.
“Don’t let it go to waste,” Iris said, pausing at the pod’s entrance. Her smile was an open invitation. “Join me for a nightcap.”
He didn’t hesitate.
The door whispered shut, sealing them in a sound-muffled cocoon. The world outside blurred into insignificance. He set his drink in a holder, his eyes roaming over her in the intimate space. “I saw you at the bar,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
“I know,” she said, simply. She reached for his hand, placed it on her thigh, his fingers warm on her skin. “I wanted you to look.”
That was all the permission he needed. His kiss was practised, demanding, tasting of whiskey and entitlement. His hands pushed the dress up her hips, revealing her silver jewellery. He grunted, a sound of pure greed, his fingers tracing the curve of the metal before dipping between the two lines and into her. She was already very wet, her body operating on a schedule of its own, divorced from her mind.
“Fucking hell,” he breathed against her neck. He fumbled with his belt, his trousers falling open. He was thick, already fully hard. He pushed her back onto the bed, the linen cool against her skin. He didn’t bother removing her dress, just shoved the hem up around her waist. He entered her in one rough, unceremonious thrust. Marcus had told her it would be lucrative...
Iris wrapped her legs around his hips, her heels digging into his ass. She met his rhythm, hard and fast, the pod creaking faintly with their movement. It was impersonal, efficient. She moaned, arched her back, let the sounds spill from her lips—the performance was part of the act. He fucked her with the focused intensity of a man taking what he’d paid for, his hands gripping her breasts, his thumb flicking the barbell. The pleasure was a sharp, localized spike, a biological response. When he came, his body rigid and shuddering, she clenched around him, forcing a choked gasp from his throat.
He pulled out, tucked himself away, adjusted his watch. “Spectacular,” he said, breathing heavily. He finished his drink in one gulp, gave her a curt, satisfied nod, and slid the door open. The cabin light was a brief intrusion before it whispered shut again.
She didn’t move. She lay there, thighs damp, dress in danger of being ruined, staring at the concave ceiling. The emotional warmth of it, wider than the Atlantic beneath them, started suffusing her whole body.
A soft knock. The door slid open. It was the flight attendant. His professional smile was still in place, but his eyes were dark, lingering on the exposed skin of her thighs.
“Everything satisfactory, Ms. Moreau?” he asked, his voice slightly husky.
“Call me Iris,” she said.
“Jason,” he responded with.
He stepped inside, the door closing. “I was wondering if I should take your dress,” he offered, “So it doesn't get stained.”
“Yes,” Iris said. “Please.”
“And your heels?” he asked. She nodded.
He was younger, his hands smoother. His uniform was a fetish in itself. He undressed her slowly, folding the dress with absurd care, placing her heels neatly aside, leaving her wondering why – because Marcus had told him that she wanted to feel totally sexualised?
“I'm going to take them, and keep them safe,” he whispered.”And your handbag too?”
She nodded and handed it to him, excited by the thought of being totally naked at thirty-five thousand feet in the air over the Atlantic Ocean.
“There's only me and the barman, from the crew,” he said. “And he's in on it...”
Iris nodded, knowing what he meant – that the barman too would be having sex with her.
“The other seven, in the other suites like this one of yours,” he said slowly. “They're all your clients...”
She nodded her understanding.
“You've dealt with 2A,” he told her.
“So I should just flit from one to another?” she asked.
“You don't have to flit, surreptitiously,” he told her. “You could even take a break and sit at the bar...”
“Naked like this?” she asked.
He nodded, liking the thought of it as much as she did. And then he was kissing her, and lying her back down on her bed. His mouth on her skin was less rushed, more exploratory. He found the ring through her clitoral hood, kissed it, traced all around it with his tongue, then sank his mouth down fully on her clitoris itself. When he entered her, it was with a slow, deep push that made her breath catch. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, as if savouring the feel.
“You’re so amazing,” he murmured, beginning to move.
He watched her face, adjusted his angle, sought a reaction. He kissed her when he felt her muscles start to flutter, swallowing her cry as she came, her back bowing off the bed. His own climax followed, a series of deep, shuddering pulses that he punctuated with a quiet, triumphant groan against her throat.
He left as discreetly as he’d arrived, taking her clothes with him. When all was quiet she slipped out of her pod into the aisle, along it a little way, and into the next one.
It was the tech magnate. He was clumsy, his hands grabbing, his thrusts off-rhythm. He bit her shoulder, too hard. Iris detached, floating somewhere above the pod, watching this stranger grunt and sweat over her body. He came quickly, messily, and passed out almost immediately, snoring beside her.
She extracted herself from under his heavy arm. She should have felt used, hollowed out, a vessel filled three times over. But she didn't. The hunger was not sated. It throbbed, a dull, persistent ache. She stood, naked, and peered through the slight gap in the door into the cabin.
A fourth man was watching. Waiting. Their eyes met. He stood, adjusted his cuffs, and walked towards her. She let him peer past her at the drunk, gave her a perplexed look, and then led her away, a hand under her elbow, to his own pod. She wondered if anyone could see her. She hoped they could. All thought as to whether they had liaised with Marcus left her. She didn't care whether they'd paid or not, now...
Her mind drifted over the cold, dark ocean below. Goya’s Black Paintings awaited her in Madrid. She wondered if the ghosts in those paintings felt this same, endless, devouring silence. The man’s fingers dug into her hips, his pace frantic, desperate. She closed her eyes and saw only the void, hurtling towards a dawn that promised nothing but another gallery of staring, monstrous eyes.