Chapter 7: Fantasies at 40,000 Feet
He obliged, the crystal singing a faint, high note. The ritual grounded him.
“Now I want to share my fantasy, my desire with you…” Her playful tone softened, edged with a vulnerability he’d never heard before. She looked down at her hands, then out at the implacable night. “The one I was always ashamed even to talk about. Never even tried.”
She took a deep, steadying breath. “It’s not just us. Not just a room.” Her voice dropped, confidential. “It’s a place like… like a private club. But not seedy. All clean lines and dark wood. A lounge. There’s a main room, with sofas. People are there. They’re dressed well, talking, drinking. Laughing.”
She paused, her eyes distant, seeing another world entirely. “You’re there. You take my hand in the middle of all that chatter, the ice clinking in glasses. Your grip is firm.” She looked at her own hand, laying it palm-up on the table between them. “You lead me to the center of the room, right on the Persian rug. It’s silent, suddenly. Everyone is watching.”
“You don’t say anything at first,” she continued, her voice quiet. “You just stand beside me, your hand on the small of my back. It feels possessive. Then you speak to the room, your voice clear and calm, like you’re presenting a breakthrough paper.” A faint, ironic smile touched her lips. “You list my achievements. My thesis on quantum tunneling efficiencies. My co-authorship on the photonic lattice paper. My top-tier department awards.”
She swallowed, the fantasy becoming more solid with each word. “You’re so proud. I’m glowing from it. Then you pause. You look at me, then back at them.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, mimicking his. “You say, ‘But none of that matters tonight. Tonight, she is only a vessel for our satisfaction.’”
The air in the suite felt thin, charged. Jack hadn’t moved.
“You turn me to face you,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the edge of her champagne flute. “Your hands are on the hem of my dress, that tiny disco outfit. You lift it slowly, so slowly, over my head.” She closed her eyes, narrating. “The applause starts. Some clapping. A whistle from the back. Someone says, ‘Christ, look at that waist.’ Another voice, older, gruff, says, ‘Tits are perfect. Like ripe fruit.’”
She opened her eyes, her gaze locked on his. “You unclasp my bra. It falls away. More applause. Someone mutters, ‘Bet she’s never done a day of real work with those.’ It’s nasty. It makes my skin hot. You kneel. You hook your thumbs in the sides of my thong and peel it down my legs. I step out of it. I’m naked. The whistles get louder.”
A shallow breath escaped her. “Then you point to my shoes. The high heels. You say, ‘Take them off.’ I do. Suddenly, I’m so much smaller. I feel the rug under my bare feet, rough. I feel exposed. I see their eyes drop, seeing the difference. They like that. I can feel it.”
“You tell me to serve drinks. There’s a tray. Heavy crystal decanters. I carry it, naked, through them.” Her voice took on a rhythmic, recounting quality. “A hand, rough and large, comes from my left and claps my ass, hard. A sting blooms. I keep walking. Another man, his fingers reeking of cigar, grabs my breast, squeezes the nipple. He doesn’t let go as I pour his Scotch.”
She was trembling slightly now, her cheeks flushed. “A younger guy pulls me onto his lap. His hands are everywhere at once, digging into my thighs, palming my ass, squeezing my tits. He’s breathing hard in my ear. Another just reaches out as I pass and grips my hip, his thumb pressing into my pubic bone. Most of them just grab my butt, a casual, claiming slap or squeeze with every pour. I am just… a thing carrying a tray. A living, breathing ashtray they can touch.”
The glass in her hand was forgotten, a prop. “And when the tray is empty, when I feel hollowed out, reduced to just that servitude, you call my name. Just ‘Jennifer.’ I come to you. You guide me down to my hands and knees on that rug. You position yourself behind me. I feel the head of your cock press against me, wet from me. You push in. Gently. So slowly it’s an agony.”
Her breath hitched, her knuckles white. “You fill me, inch by inch, until you’re fully sheathed. Then you just stay there, buried deep. You don’t move. Men come around to my front. You order me to serve them. The first one just shoves his cock into my mouth. No warning. He fucks my face, hard and fast, grabbing my hair. I can’t breathe. I gag. You, behind me, begin to move. A slow, deep, dragging thrust.”
Tears, unbidden, glistened in her eyes, but her voice was steady, obsessed with the detail. “I’m being used at both ends. The man in my mouth comes suddenly, his cum shooting down my throat. I swallow, but another is already there, shoving his half-hard cock past my lips. He’s thicker. I’m choking. You keep fucking me slowly from behind, a deep, inexorable rhythm. The second man comes. Then a third. My mouth is full. It overflows, spilling down my chin, onto my breasts. It’s on the rug. They keep coming.”
She finally looked away, out at the night. “When my mouth has served them all, you lift me. You place me on my back on the heavy oak table. It’s cold on my skin. You stand beside it. You enter me again, but now you’re relentless. Pounding into me. The table shakes with every thrust. The men, spent, come over. They smear their soft, wet cocks over my face, my tits, my belly, my neck. Marking me. I feel valued. Needed. Wanted.”
A tear traced a path through the fine hair at her temple. “And I come. The first one is a shockwave. The second, a rolling crest. The third, I’m screaming. The fourth, I’m sobbing. But you don’t stop. You fuck me through them, past them. You fuck me until the room grays at the edges, until my vision tunnels, until everything goes black.”
She went silent for a long moment, the hum of the jet the only sound. “I wake up on the floor, on a pile of coats maybe. You’re kneeling next to me. You’re still hard. You tap my cheek with your cock. You say, ‘Finish your work.’ And I do. I take you in my mouth, slow, my jaw aching, my throat raw. The men are still there, talking, laughing. One says, ‘She’s a quick learner, this one.’ Another says, ‘A proper little cunt, knows her place.’ Someone else, his voice kindly, almost paternal, says.
"The ones who are hard again step up," she said, her pupils wide and dark. "They grab my breasts, their thumbs rolling my nipples until I gasp. Fingers slide into me from behind, one, two, three, testing my wetness, spreading it. They tell each other how fuckable I am. How good my tits are, heavy in their palms. How they like this tiny scientist, the one with the award-winning thesis, serving their gathered need, warm and pliant on a dirty floor."
"Some praise you. Nice fucking work, Rein. Trained her yourself, did you?" She mimicked their smug tones. "'A brilliant polymath engineering flesh,' one says to polite laughter. I don't exist as a person anymore. Not to them. Not even in my own head."
"But I don't care," she said, the defiance flickering like a struck match. "I genuinely do not care, because my only compass point is you. I am there for one other thing: you instructed me."
"You're in a club chair, watching everything. I crawl to you. I position myself between your knees, rutting into the rug like a horny bitch."
She leaned forward, mimicking the frantic energy, the mounting finale.
"I suck you clean. I taste the other men on her lips. You grab my hair, yank my head back, and then you come home, Jack. Not her. Him." She pointed at his and stained trousers. "Your cock. Right across my face."
’Maybe her science is in her throat.’ They all laugh. But I don’t hear insults. I hear approval. A warm, thick approval that settles in my bones.”
She took a slow breath, her eyes refocusing on Jack’s face, seeing the stunned intensity there. “So I keep going. I take you deeper, using my hands, my mouth, everything I have. And then you put your hand on my head. Your fingers tighten in my hair. Your hips jerk forward. You hold me there, at the root, and you come.”
Her voice became a whisper, hushed and intimate in the humming suite. “It’s not a trickle. It’s a flood. A hot, sudden pulse that fills my mouth and instantly overflows. I try to swallow, but there’s too much, too fast. It spills out, coating my lips, my chin. You pull back just a little, and the next burst hits my cheek, warm and slick. Another arcs across the bridge of my nose. Another dots my eyelashes, making me blink. You paint my face with it, stripe by stripe, until my skin is gleaming and sticky with you.”
A tremor ran through her. “I open my eyes. My vision is blurred, the world seen through a film of your come. I can taste it—salty, bitter, purely you—on my lips and tongue. I feel it cooling on my skin, a second mask. The men are quiet. Then one murmurs, ‘Perfect.’ Another says, ‘A true votive.’ You look down at me, your cock still in your hand, dripping the last drops onto my forehead. You smile. Not a cruel smile. A satisfied one. A proud one. Like I’ve just solved an impossible equation.”
She fell silent. The fantasy was spent, its final image hanging in the air between them. Her chest rose and fell softly. A single tear had escaped during the telling, tracing a clean path through the imaginary semen on her cheek. She wiped it away with a quick, embarrassed swipe of her finger.
“That’s the fantasy,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. She looked at Jack, her expression utterly open, stripped bare. “I told you. I wanted you to know.”
Jack couldn’t help but notice that she was feeling happy and a warm smile covered her face as she was talking about it. It wasn’t a smile of triumph or seduction. It was softer, relieved, like she’d finally put down a heavy and shameful weight she’d carried for years. The dimples in her cheeks were deep, genuine.
He said nothing for a long time. The aircraft hummed. Somewhere in the main cabin, a baby cried briefly. He picked up his champagne flute, found it empty, and set it back down with a soft click. His hands, usually so steady, trembled.
“Why?” The word was ground out, rough.
“Because it’s the truth,” she said simply. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Not of what will happen. But of what I… want to want. The feeling. To be used, completely. To have my value be only in my utility. For you. In front of them. To have all my degrees and my papers and my fucking intelligence mean nothing next to my ability to take a cock and swallow come. It… simplifies me. To just be a body that pleases.”
“That’s not simplification,” he said, his voice dark. “That’s annihilation.”
“Is it?” She tilted her head, considering him. “Or is it a different kind of focus? A different kind of proof? You’ve seen my work. You know what my mind can do. This… this is what my body can do. This is what I can give. To you. For you.”
He stood up suddenly, his tall frame unfolding from the leather chair. He paced the narrow confines of the suite, two steps forward, two steps back. He ran a hand through his hair. “Jenny. For Christ’s sake. This party… it’s not a fantasy. It’s real. Those men… they won’t be characters in your head. They’ll be real, with real hands, real cocks, real agendas. They won’t stop when you cry. They won’t care if you come. They’ll take, and take, and you think you want that until you’re on your knees and it’s happening.”
He stopped in front of her, his shadow falling over her. “You’re talking about being gang-raped for points in a competition.”
“I’m talking about winning,” she shot back, her eyes flashing. “About proving I’m not just the girl who brings you coffee and formats your footnotes. About proving I have the courage you lack. You want the funding, the prestige, the breakthrough? But you’re too fucking proper to get your hands dirty. Well, I’m not.”
She stood up, meeting his gaze squarely. The top of her head came only to his chin. “My body is a tool. My mind is a tool. You taught me that. Reduce every problem to its component parts. Apply force strategically. This is a component. This is a strategic application.”
“This is madness.”
“This is ambition,” she hissed. “Unfiltered. And you’re attracted to it. I saw it in your eyes when I was on my knees ten minutes ago. You want the version of me from that story. You’re just too scared to admit it.”
He grabbed her shoulders, his grip firm but not painful. His face was inches from hers. The clean, masculine scent of him mixed with the faint, lingering bitterness she could still taste. “What if I can’t watch?” he breathed, his voice fractured. “What if I see another man’s hands on you and I lose my mind? What if I stop it? We’d be disqualified. Ruined.”
A slow, devastating smile spread across her face. She placed her hands over his where they gripped her shoulders. “Then don’t watch. Participate. Be the one who leads me to the center of the room. Be the one who gives the order. Be the one who comes on my face at the end. Claim the points. Win the game.”
He stared at her, his breath coming in short, sharp pulls. The conflict in him was a physical thing, a torsion she could feel in the tension of his muscles.
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
He searched her eyes for any hint of fear, of performative kink, of childish fantasy. He saw only fierce, unwavering certainty. And beneath that, a desperate, profound need for his approval.
He released her shoulders as if burned. He turned away, staring out at the infinite black. His reflection in the window was pale, haunted. When he spoke, his voice was flat, defeated. “They’ll want a demonstration. Before the main event. To verify your… compliance. Your enthusiasm. It’s part of the scoring.”
“When?” Her voice was calm, ready.
“On the island. After we land. At the villa where we’re staying before the ferry to the island.” He turned back to face her. His eyes were bleak. “It won’t be me. It will be one of the adjudicators. A stranger. To ensure there’s no… special affection. No coercion.”
She absorbed this. The fantasy in her mind shifted, reshaped itself around this"She belongs on her knees with my cock down her throat. That's where a smart cunt is most useful."
The raw, degrading word hung in the recycled air between them, its brutality a stark counterpoint to the suite’s luxury. Jennifer didn’t flinch. She absorbed the ugliness of the sentence, the clinical finality of it, and let it settle. A strange calm descended over her features, smoothing the intensity from moments before.
“Well, if they want their test—they’ll get their test,” she said, her voice devoid of its earlier theatrical whisper. It was matter-of-fact, a scientist stating a hypothesis. “It doesn’t matter.” She waved a hand, discarding the emotional weight as a mere logistical nuance. “Let’s get some sleep. It’s a long flight.”
She turned and settled back into her chair, retrieving a soft cashmere blanket from a compartment. She tucked it around herself, curled towards the window, and closed her eyes. Just like that. The conversation was over. The fantasy, the fear, the warning—all filed away. Jack stood for a moment longer, his mind reeling at the switch she had flipped. Then, exhaustion crashed over him. He sank into his own seat, the leather groaning, and darkness took them both.
The gentle chime of the cabin system woke them hours later. Pale dawn light sliced through the windows, painting the cloudscape below in striations of rose and gold. They moved in a quiet, mutual truce. A flight attendant brought breakfast: porcelain plates of fluffy eggs, roasted tomatoes, warm pastries, and strong coffee. They ate in near silence, the clink of cutlery loud in the quiet space.
“This tomato is actually good,” Jennifer offered, pushing a piece around her plate.
“They source them from a hydroponic farm in Norway,” Jack replied, his tone returning to its familiar, lecturing cadence. “Zero air miles, technically.”
She smiled at that, a real one. They talked about the farm, then the engineering of the satellite television system, then a obscure French film they’d both seen. They discussed the merits of sourdough versus brioche. They deliberately waded into the shallow, safe waters of unrelated things, building a levee against the rising sea of what was to come. The ease of their intellectual rapport returned, a familiar harbor.
Finally, the plane banked, and the eternal blue of the ocean was replaced by the jagged green and terracotta coastline of Italy. The landing gear groaned, and with a shuddering sigh, they were on the ground in Rome.
The heat hit them first, a thick, olfactory blanket of sun-baked stone, diesel, and espresso as they exited the terminal. Jack hailed a taxi, barking an address in competent Italian. The driver weaved through chaotic traffic with existential disregard, horns blaring, while Jennifer pressed her forehead to the window, drinking in the blur of ancient ruins and bustling modern life. Vespas zipped past like metallic insects.
The apartment was in a centuries-old building near the Campo de’ Fiori, its stone stairs worn smooth in the centers. Jack’s key clicked in a heavy wooden door. Inside was cool, shadowy, with high ceilings and exposed beams. Two bedrooms branched off a central living area with a small, functional kitchenette. The air smelled of lemon polish and dried herbs.
“I’ll take this one,” Jennifer said, dragging her suitcase into the slightly smaller room. The unspoken agreement of separate spaces hung between them, necessary and sad.
They showered separately, the sound of running water a steady backdrop. Jack was first, emerging in clean jeans and a grey t-shirt, his hair damp. He moved to the kitchen, filling the small space with the sounds of clinking dishes and the sizzle of butter in a pan. He scrambled eggs, fried thin slices of pancetta, and sliced a ripe peach he’d bought at the airport.
Jennifer emerged as he was plating. She was wrapped in a standard white bath towel, tucked securely above her breasts. Her damp, dark hair lay in streaks over her bare shoulders, and water droplets glistened in the hollow of her collarbone. The towel reached just to the middle of her thighs, showcasing the long, toned lines of her legs, still flushed pink from the heat of the shower. She padded barefoot across the terracotta tiles.
“Smells amazing,” she said, sliding onto a stool at the small breakfast bar.
He placed a plate in front of her, his fingers brushing against the cool skin of her forearm. She didn’t pull away. They ate their second breakfast in the Roman morning light streaming through the slatted shutters. She kept the towel tightly cinched, her movements careful, yet she seemed utterly at ease sitting there mostly naked, eating scrambled eggs.
“That dome,” she said, pointing with her fork towards a view of rooftops, “the Pantheon, right? We have to go today. The oculus. I need to stand under it.”
“It rains inside,” he said, smiling faintly. “They have drains in the floor.”
“I know. That’s the point. The engineering of it is wild. Pre-Christian, post-Christian, all of it.” Her eyes were alight, the earlier shadows banished by simple geographic displacement. “And the gelato. I want at least two flavors before lunch. And the Trevi Fountain, but early, to avoid the crowds. I need coins.”
She spoke with the fervent, delighted planning of a true tourist, charting a course through history and gelaterias. She clearly enjoyed being here, this sensual, ancient city, and had big, bright plans for Italy. The towel slipped a fraction as she gestured widely describing the Roman aqueducts, revealing a little more of the curve of her breast. She caught it, retucking it without a trace of self-consciousness.
Jack watched her, this brilliant, paradoxical creature. One moment she outlined a vision of brutal, ritualized submission that chilled his blood. The next, she was vibrating with joy over architectural mortar and pistachio ice cream, a towel her only garment, her hair dripping onto the stone floor. The dichotomy was absolute, and it was all her. He felt a surge of something that was equal parts awe and profound, gut-churning fear for what she was willingly walking into, all to prove a point to him, to them, to herself.
She finished her peach, sucking the sweet juice from her thumb. “So?” she asked, her almond eyes finding his. “Pantheon first? My treat. I owe you for the flight.” Her dimpled smile was a challenge and an offering, a demand to live in this sunlit moment, in this city, before the other world swallowed them whole.