Chapter 28: Madrid Arrives
The snore was a rasping, wet thing, tearing through the muffled quiet of the pod. Iris opened her eyes to yet another body, beside her, a heavy, heat-radiating weight. The banker. His mouth hung open, his breath sour with metabolized expensive scotch. Disentangling her leg from his, she slid out from under the arm he’d thrown across her chest. The cool air of the cabin kissed her skin, raising goosebumps.
The gnawing ache between her legs hadn’t subsided. It pulsed, a low-grade fever. Naked, she cracked the pod door. The cabin was dim, bathed in the eerie blue of night-lights. She was about to slip out when movement caught her eye.
A man, three pods down, was watching her. He hadn’t been sleeping. He was just sitting, a blanket over his lap, his face half in shadow. His gaze travelled the length of her naked body, pausing at her breasts, her hips, the glint of silver between her legs. He didn’t smile. He simply lifted a hand and curled a finger, a slow, deliberate beckoning.
Iris felt a jolt, electric and cold. This was the transaction laid bare. She slid out, not caring who saw the pale flash of her skin in the gloom, and padded silently to his pod. The carpet was plush under her bare feet.
He slid aside to make space. He was older, with a severe, lined face. He didn’t speak. His hands were on her before the door was fully shut, pulling her down onto him. He was already hard, his cock springing free from his open trousers. He hadn’t undressed.
“Turn over,” he grunted, his voice gravelly with sleep or desire.
She obeyed, presenting herself on her hands and knees on the narrow bed. He positioned himself behind her, one hand gripping her hip bone, the other guiding himself into her. He pushed in with a single, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She gasped, her arms buckling, her forehead pressing against the cool leather of the now-prone seat-back.
He fucked her with a slow, deep, methodical rhythm. There was no passion in it, only a cold, clinical purpose. Each thrust was measured, perfectly angled, designed for his own pleasure. His breathing remained steady, controlled. He used her body like a tool, his fingers digging into her flesh, his pace never varying. The only sounds were the wet slap of skin, her suppressed whimpers, and the constant, droning hum of the jet. He came silently, a sharp intake of breath, a final, deep plunge, and then he was withdrawing. He patted her flank, a dismissive gesture, and rearranged his clothes.
“You can go,” he said, as if dismissing a room service attendant.
She crawled off the bed, her limbs shaky, and slipped back into the cool darkness of the cabin. She didn’t return to her own pod. Instead she made her way down the aisle to the bar area and gingerly looked to see who might be sitting there. There was only Jason and the barman so she relaxed and slowly walked up to them.
They were sitting on stools and when they saw her they stood. When she reached them they helped her up onto a high stool and stood either side of her.
“This is Ricardo,” said Jason and Iris turned to him and offered him her lips – not for a polite introductory kiss – but one that would lead to full sex. He didn't disappoint her and within thirty seconds was picking her up in his arms and carrying her to her pod.
Jason stood in the doorway watching as she surrendered herself to Ricardo, lying on her back, with her knees spread wide and her arms out to welcome him into them, into her body, and into her world for the duration of their union.
When it was over and Ricardo was gone, Jason took her duvet.
“It's warm,” he said. “You don't need it, do you...”
She shook her head, lying there naked on the bed, and clearly needing to sleep.
“I'm going to leave the door open in case anyone wants you again,' he said hesitantly.
She smiled gratefully at him, but then closed her eyes, and drifted off into sleep.
*
A hand on her shoulder, gentle but firm, woke her. “Ms. Moreau... Iris...”
She swam up from a black, dreamless depth. The flight attendant, Jason, was there, her dress and heels in his hands. His professional mask was back, flawless. “We’re beginning our descent. You need to be in your seat.”
“Does the pilot want me?” she asked, her voice hoarse. The question was absurd, automatic.
A flicker in his eyes, quickly suppressed. “He can’t. We’re on final approach.”
She looked past him, into the cabin. Passengers were stirring, seats being returned to upright positions. Another man, younger, with close-cropped hair and the build of an athlete, was standing there. His expression was one of raw, uncomplicated hunger.
“Him,” Iris said, nodding slightly. “You again. Anyone.”
“He's a friend of mine,” said Jason.
His jaw tightened slightly, a minor crack in his composure. He leaned closer, his voice a low whisper. “You have five minutes. I’ll stall the cabin check.”
He stepped out, pulling the door almost shut, a silent sentinel.
The young man was already moving. He slid into the pod, his movements fluid and confident. He didn’t speak. He cupped her face and kissed her, hard, his tongue pushing into her mouth. His hands pushed the sheets away, his thumbs circling her pierced nipples, pinching them just shy of pain. He was already unzipped, his cock hot and stiff in his hand.
“How do you want it?” he breathed, his words hot against her ear.
“Just fuck me,” she said. “Hard.”
He needed no further invitation. He pushed her onto her back, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and drove into her. He was bigger than the others, stretching her, a sharp, burning fullness that made her cry out. He set a punishing pace, each thrust a jolt that shook the pod on its hinges. He swore filthily into her neck, a stream of “fuck” and “tight little cunt” and “take it.” He bit her collarbone, sucked a bruise into her breast. The pleasure was a jagged, violent thing, cresting into a painful, overwhelming climax that ripped through her as he pounded into her, his own release following with a guttural roar he muffled against her shoulder.
He pulled out, staggering back, his chest heaving. He zipped himself up, ran a hand through his hair, and was gone without a word.
The flight attendant reappeared instantly. His expression was unreadable as he helped her into her dress, his hands brisk and impersonal. He knelt to put her heels on her feet, his head bowed. When he stood, he took her handbag from a cubby and placed it in her hands. He did what was required to turn the bed back into a seat and her helped her into it, and fastened her seatbelt, and she slid back into sleep while the plane landed, while it taxied to the terminal building, and she only woke when it came to a complete stop.
A deep, throbbing soreness radiated from her core through her entire body. Her legs felt boneless, uncoordinated. She wobbled, grabbing the edge of the pod door for support. She took another step, her gait clumsy and stumbling. She could feel the sticky, cooling evidence of the last man trickling down her inner thigh.
The walk to passport control and customs felt endless. Eyes followed her—curious, disdainful, hungry. She collapsed into a plush leather seat waiting to be called by a chauffeur for her limousine ride to her hotel. Once in it she fastened her seatbelt over a breast and her lower abdomen, both were tender. Out the window, the grey dawn was breaking over Madrid. What would it have to offer her besides Goya and El Greco?