Chapter 20
Laura
The ride to SFO felt surreal, like something out of a movie.
Mike drove like a man who had spent his life getting what he wanted.
The Porsche was whisper-quiet and almost predatory, slipping through city streets and then onto the freeway with a forceful acceleration that pressed me back against the leather.
I couldn’t stop glancing at Mike, trying to read his mood.
Sometimes his profile was all business—jaw set, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, mouth a straight line.
Then he’d reach over and put his hand on my thigh, fingers drumming lightly, and the pressure of his touch would make my heart stutter.
I kept picturing the humiliating contents of my suitcase. I kept feeling the medium plug, heavy and obscene under my sundress, a mortifying promise of more degradation to come.
With the windows up, I could smell Mike—something expensive and faintly metallic, his own musk mingled with his cologne into the masculine scent I remembered all too well from the night he’d fucked my face.
I shifted in my seat, feeling the plug press against my inner muscles, a constant reminder of what I was: not a girlfriend, but a possession…
a project. An investment. A discipline case.
Soon, I added mentally, with a hot blush, a fuck toy.
We pulled off the freeway before the main SFO exit, gliding into a glass-walled building labeled ‘Signature Flight Support.’ Mike’s ID was waved through by a uniformed attendant.
The car was whisked away by a valet the moment we’d emerged from it, with another attendant taking charge of our luggage.
This had nothing in common with the family vacations I remembered, piling out of the minivan to wait in line at United check-in.
There was a private lobby, white leather couches, and a wall of silent TVs, a full espresso bar attended by a woman in a navy sheath dress.
Mike had made a call on the way, so within three minutes a young man in a blazer and tie came to collect our bags (“Mr. Gallagher, this way, please.”), and a golf cart zipped us across the tarmac, past rows of jets gleaming in the morning sun.
“That’s us,” Mike said, pointing at a long, sleek plane with a swoosh of silver on the tail. The kind of jet I’d only ever seen in TikToks about billionaires, or in movies where people did cocaine off glass tables. The name ‘Gallagher Partners’ was stenciled in a minimalist font near the door.
I wasn’t prepared for the inside. I expected leather seats, but not the hush of deep carpet or the way the air felt different—cooler, perfumed, with a perfection that made me think of the inside of a jewelry box.
There was a living room, an actual living room, with couches and a long table set for two.
A woman in a pencil skirt and white blouse stood waiting, smiling in a way that made me feel instantly transparent.
“Welcome, Mr. Gallagher. Miss Martindale,” she said. “May I offer you a beverage?”
Mike looked at me, as if waiting to see whether I would order. I felt my face go hot.
“Um… water?” I managed.
He smiled, almost indulgent. “Champagne for both of us,” he told the attendant, then to me: “You should celebrate your first private flight.”
The attendant reappeared almost instantly with an actual silver tray and two flutes of champagne. There was a tiny strawberry in each glass. I took mine with a hand so shaky the glass clinked against my teeth.
Mike waited until the attendant withdrew to the front of the cabin, then raised his glass. “To new beginnings,” he said, watching me over the rim.
I tried to echo, but my voice didn’t work—I just nodded, and took a sip. The champagne was icy and sweet, bubbles rushing up my nose, making me cough. Mike laughed and reached over to squeeze my hand.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, happiness so evident in his eyes that my heart skipped a beat.
The engines started with a rumble that vibrated through the soles of my feet, and I felt the weird, lightheaded thrill of the jet taxiing straight from the little waiting area onto the runway.
No lines, no boarding groups, just a seamless flow from the car to the sky.
The attendant came back, checked that we were buckled in, and then the plane started to move—not the slow, lumbering crawl of commercial flights, but a lurching, greedy surge.
I found myself gripping the armrest and Mike’s hand at the same time.
“Scared?” he asked, voice low.
“Excited,” I admitted, and was surprised to find it was mostly true. The whole thing felt impossible, like a dream where you could fly.
“We’ll be over the Pacific in a few minutes,” Mike said, and his hand slid from mine to rest on my knee.
I nodded, but couldn’t look at him. The view was a strip of runway flashing past, then a quick, stomach-dropping tilt as we left the earth behind. The city shrank so fast it was like time-lapse. The bay was a piece of wrinkled blue fabric, the bridges like matchsticks.
I sipped my champagne, letting the bubbles numb the inside of my mouth. I was aware of Mike’s hand, inching up my thigh, fingers kneading gently. The plug in my bottom seemed to throb in time with the engines of the plane.
The attendant came back with a tray of food. Sliced fruit, little crackers, a dome of cheese.
“Thanks, Elena,” Mike told her, “but we’ll have that a little later.”
Elena glided away with a smile so perfectly neutral I wondered if she’d been bred in a vat for the express purpose of working on billionaires’ jets. She gave Mike a quick nod, and vanished behind the galley door.
Mike waited just long enough for the faint click of the latch before turning to me. “Come here,” he said, voice pitched low.
I blinked at him. “What?”
He patted the space next to him on the couch. “You heard me.”
Part of me hoped he was joking, but the look in his eyes told me he absolutely was not.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid across the couch toward him.
The closer I got, the more I could feel the tension radiating off him—some kind of tightly leashed energy.
I perched on the edge of the seat, my hands folded primly in my lap.
Mike took my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up to his. “You’re going to kneel down and worship my cock now,” he said, as if he were informing me of the weather. “Go ahead.”
My face went instantly, mortifyingly hot. “But… what about Elena?”
He shrugged, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She knows what kind of man I am. She knows what kind of girl you are.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but his hand was already guiding me down, a gentle but unyielding pressure. The carpet was thick and soft under my knees, but not enough to make me forget where I was or what I was about to do.
“Mike,” I whispered, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I can’t. She’ll see.”
“Sir,” he corrected, his voice taking on a dangerous quality.
I swallowed hard. “Sir,” I said, “please? Um… when we get to… wherever we’re going? I want to… you know, be a good girl, but… Not here?”
He leaned forward, his lips brushing my ear. “That’s the point, Laura. You belong to me. If I want you to suck my cock at forty thousand feet, you will. If I want Elena to see that I own a little slut with a sealed pussy and a plugged asshole, she will. Do you understand?”
My heart hammered so hard I thought it would break my ribs. I wanted to say no. I wanted to say, Absolutely not, I am not giving a blowjob on an airplane with the flight attendant right there. But all that came out was a pathetic little whimper.
He sat back, hands on his thighs, and waited.
I sat there frozen, every part of my body locked up with mortification.
My hands twisted around each other, my knees pressed together as if I could hold myself in place by sheer force of will.
The plug in my bottom felt like a declaration of servitude.
Mike just watched, his gaze steady and expectant, the kind of stare that made it clear I had only two options: obey, or face the consequences.
I couldn’t tell how long I sat there, staring at the embroidery on the armrest and willing myself to move.
My knees were welded together and my hands were locked in a death grip, knuckles white.
Mike didn’t repeat the command. He just waited, letting the silence stretch, until I could hear the thump of my own pulse in my ears.
I wanted to do it. Or—I didn’t want to, but I needed it. Needed to be made to, so I could blame him instead of myself. I needed him to make me, to force me past the line so I wouldn’t have to cross it on my own.
So I didn’t move.
Mike let it go for at least another thirty seconds, which felt like a year.
Then, without a word, he reached over, grabbed my wrist, and hauled me bodily across his lap.
I yelped, legs kicking reflexively, my face pressed against the expensive leather of the couch.
He held me there, one arm pinning my waist, the other sliding up my skirt with businesslike efficiency.
The cool air hit my thighs, and then my whole ass was bared—the skirt shoved up to my ribs, leaving my bottom completely exposed except for the base of the plug, marking me as a naughty girl in training to serve a man in the most shameful possible way.
I heard myself whimper. The position was familiar now, but the context—the airplane, the knowledge that Elena was somewhere in the front of the cabin, the possibility she could walk in at any second—made it a thousand times worse.
Mike ran his palm over my bare cheeks, fingers tracing the base of the plug. “You had a choice, Laura,” he said, his voice not angry, but flinty and ultra-dominant. “You chose this.”
Then he spanked me. Hard.
The first blow landed square on the left cheek, a sharp, ringing smack that lit up the nerves all the way to my toes.
He didn’t wait for my reaction before delivering the next, and the next, alternating sides with a rhythm that was almost mechanical.
The plug changed everything—each impact drove it deeper, made the fullness inside me pulse with each slap.
I gasped, tried to twist away, but his arm kept me locked in place.
He didn’t say a word. Just kept spanking me, methodical and implacable, until I was sobbing into the armrest. The pain was sharp, but what made it unbearable was the shame, the certainty that Elena could hear every smack, every helpless little sound I made.
I wondered if she was standing in the galley, listening, or if she would come in to offer more champagne and see my bare, punished ass over my sponsor’s knee.
When I was reduced to hiccupping, the spanking stopped.
Mike let me hang there for a moment, his hand resting on the back of my thigh, then lifted me up and set me on the floor between his knees.
My face was so hot I could have boiled water with it.
I didn’t dare look at him. I just stared at the bulge in his pants, which was even more obvious now.
“Try again,” said Mike, voice low. “You can do it. I believe in you.”
My hands moved on their own, trembling as I reached for his zipper.
I knew the ritual now—how to pull it down, how to draw the fabric aside and reach through to find the slit in the briefs, how to free his cock and hold it steady as I took the flared head between my lips.
I could feel the heat of him even before I touched my tongue to it, the skin tight and smooth, the weight of him immense in my palm.
I pressed my lips to the broad crown, tasting him, then let my tongue swirl over the tip.
The taste was shamefully familiar, the muskiness and the saltiness.
I kissed the head again, then worked my mouth lower, wetting the shaft with my tongue as I stroked him with both hands.
The size of him was still a shock—so much to hold, so much to take in.
Mike spread his knees apart, nudging my shoulders as if to remind me of my place. I obeyed, letting myself sink deeper to the carpet, my skirt still rucked up and my ass still stinging from the spanking. The humiliation of it only made me want to please him more.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his hand finding the back of my head, guiding me without force. “Now use your tongue on my balls.”
My face went hot. I hesitated, but he barely had to nudge before I bent lower and let my tongue flick over the skin of his scrotum.
It was so intimate, so obscene, I almost couldn’t stand it—but he made a sound, a low satisfied grunt, and I felt a surge of pride.
I licked him carefully, then took one of his balls into my mouth, rolling it with my tongue.
The shaft of his cock rested across my cheek, heavy and very hard.
I knew he wanted more. I wanted to give him more, telling myself that if I didn’t he would spank me again.
I wrapped my hands around the base, squeezing gently, and took the head back into my mouth, trying to make it an even plusher place for my sponsor’s cock this time.
I tried to remember what he’d taught me—use your tongue, keep your lips soft, breathe through your nose.
I pushed down a little further, feeling the head hit the back of my throat, and I gagged, tears stinging my eyes.
“That’s it,” Mike said, voice thick now. “Take more cock. You’re my good girl.”
His hand tightened in my hair, but not cruelly.
He let me set the pace, and I started to find a rhythm—bob down, suck, swirl tongue, pull back, then repeat.
I felt absurdly proud every time I managed another half inch, like I was breaking a personal record.
The taste and the scent and the heat of him overwhelmed every other sense.
My whole world narrowed to this: his penis in my mouth, the rush of shame and pride as I serviced him like a dirty girl.
He let me work a while, then said, “Stop.” I froze, mouth still full of him, and looked up.
He met my gaze, then with his free hand reached down and cupped my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone.
“Look at me,” he said, and I did—tears streaming down my face, lips stretched wide, but unable to look away.
“I’m going to come soon. You’re going to put your lips right at the tip of my cock and sip my seed like a milkshake.
Hands behind your back, holding your ass cheeks nice and tight. I’ll give you the treat you earned.”