2.
The Maybach glided onto the tarmac at Van Nuys Airport, slipping past the chain-link fences and security checkpoints with the silent ease of extreme wealth.
I sat in the back seat, my fingers nervously twisting the soft cashmere of my sweater.
My nerves were buzzing with leftover graduation stress and a dread of whatever was coming next.
An island. The word kept echoing in my head.
We were going to a private island. I was safe.
I was loved, in Richard’s own twisted, controlling way.
But I knew he would have surprises waiting for me. He would not be Richard, otherwise.
"Let's go," Richard said, already opening his door.
I grabbed my small black duffel—the one containing only three bikinis, as ordered—and followed him. The hot valley wind whipped my hair around my face as we climbed the aluminum stairs into the cabin.
I stepped through the door, a smile already forming on my lips, ready to sink into one of those absurdly plush leather seats and pour a glass of champagne.
The smile died instantly.
The cabin wasn't empty.
Sitting in one of the oversized captain's chairs, reading a physical copy of the Financial Times, was a man. He lowered the paper as we entered.
He was in his late sixties, with thick, perfectly styled silver hair and a face lined with the kind of wrinkles that only come from decades of giving orders.
He wore a bespoke navy blazer over a crisp, open-collared shirt.
He exuded an aura of quiet, absolute authority that made Richard’s aggressive dominance look almost boyish by comparison.
He didn't look surprised to see me. He looked at me the way a man looks at a painting he’s considering bidding on—polite, appreciative, but entirely clinical.
I froze in the aisle, my fingers gripping the strap of my duffel bag so hard my knuckles turned white. Why was he here? Was this a business trip? Had I packed three bikinis for a corporate retreat?
"Sloane," Richard said, stepping up behind me, placing a warm, heavy hand on the small of my back. "This is Arthur."
"Hello, Sloane," Arthur said. His voice was smooth, cultured, and resonant. He didn't stand up, but he inclined his head slightly. "Congratulations on your graduation. Richard tells me you performed exceptionally well."
"Thank you," I stammered, my voice sounding thin and reedy over the hum of the jet's auxiliary power unit.
I looked at Richard, a silent, panicked question in my eyes.
Richard caught the look and offered a small, calm smile. "Take a seat, darling, and be nice to Arthur. Thank him for the ride. This is his plane, after all."
The plane seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
His plane.
I numbly took the seat across the aisle from Arthur.
Richard sat next to me. A flight attendant—a stunningly beautiful woman in her late twenties, wearing a very tight pencil skirt—appeared silently from the galley.
She poured Arthur a scotch, handed Richard one, and offered me a glass of sparkling water without asking what I wanted.
"We're cleared for takeoff, Mr. Sterling," she murmured to Arthur, leaning over just enough to offer him a view down her blouse.
Arthur didn't even glance at her cleavage. "Thank you, Madeline."
The cabin doors closed with a heavy, sealing thud. The massive engines spooled up, a deep, vibrating roar that rattled in my chest. We taxied to the runway and launched into the sky, the G-force pressing me back into the buttery leather seat.
I sat rigidly, staring out the window at the sprawling, smoggy grid of Los Angeles shrinking below us. I was trapped in a luxury tube rocketing toward the stratosphere, completely in the dark about my own fate.
Once we reached cruising altitude, the seatbelt sign chimed off.
Richard unbuckled his belt, took a slow sip of his scotch, and turned to face me. He didn't look at Arthur. He kept his eyes locked on mine.
"I imagine you're a little confused," Richard said.
"A little."
"Arthur is more than a friend," Richard explained, gesturing vaguely toward the older man with his glass. "He is my mentor. He taught me everything I know about identifying undervalued assets and maximizing their potential."
Arthur chuckled softly, turning a page of his newspaper. "You give me too much credit, Richard. You always had the instinct. I just showed you where to look."
"You showed me how to structure a deal so you never lose," Richard corrected, his eyes still fixed on me. "And Arthur and I share ... similar tastes. Not just in business. In lifestyle."
My stomach lurched. The air in the cabin suddenly felt incredibly thin.
"Arthur has been very interested in our arrangement, Sloane," Richard continued, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register.
"He's watched the progression over the last two years. He appreciates the discipline. He's been considering acquiring something similar for himself. So I’ve been scouting for him, and I think I’ve found him a cheerleader of his own. Somebody hungry. Someone he can mold."
The pieces began to click together in my brain. The freshman cheerleader. The blonde bouncing on the turf. Richard was never looking to replace me. He’d been recruiting for Arthur. I wasn't being replaced. The panic that had been suffocating me for three weeks evaporated instantly.
And then, I realized. There was something else happening here.
Richard turned to look at Arthur. Arthur had lowered the newspaper. He was watching me.
"I told you, Sloane, the day you moved in. I told you that occasionally, you would be shared with some of my friends. But I always intended for Arthur to be your first."
He squeezed my thigh, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh.
“And now it’s time.” Richard smiled. “Time for you to graduate for a second time. Go to Arthur, Sloane. He needs to understand how it feels with a girl like you, a perfectly trained slut.”
I looked at Arthur. He sat in his plush leather chair, a man who commanded boardrooms and managed billions, looking at me with the polite, expectant patience of a diner waiting for the first course to arrive.
I looked at Richard. His eyes were burning with a dark, vicarious thrill.
He wasn't just offering me to his mentor; he was offering a piece of his own ego.
If I failed, if I balked, if I was anything less than perfect, it wouldn't just reflect poorly on me.
It would embarrass him in front of perhaps the only man he respected.
I had spent two years learning to be whatever Richard needed. I stood up from my seat. My legs were shaking slightly, but I locked my knees, forcing myself to stand tall. I didn't look at the flight attendant, who was studiously ignoring us from the galley.
I reached for the hem of my thin cashmere sweater.
I pulled it over my head, ruining my perfect blowout, and dropped it onto the empty seat beside Richard.
I wasn't wearing a bra. My breasts, full and heavy, were exposed to the cool cabin air.
My nipples hardened instantly into tight, aching peaks under Arthur's calm, assessing gaze.
I unfastened the drawstring of my designer sweatpants and shimmied them down my legs, stepping out of them. I was wearing only a pair of seamless nude panties. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid them down, kicking them aside.
I stood completely naked in the aisle of the G650, forty thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean.
Arthur slowly folded his newspaper and set it on the small table next to him.
"She’s magnificent, Richard," Arthur said. "You weren't exaggerating, not at all."
“There are literally thousands of women in LA with bodies like this,” Richard replied, leaning back in his seat, swirling the ice in his scotch. "It's training them that takes time. Show him, Sloane."
I took two steps forward and sank to my knees on the thick, sound-dampening carpet between Arthur's spread legs.
I looked up at him. He didn't unbutton his blazer or loosen his tie. He simply reached down and unzipped his bespoke trousers, pushing the fabric aside.
He didn't wear underwear.
I reached out with trembling hands. He was soft, resting heavily against his thigh. The skin was different than Richard's—softer, looser, reflecting his age. But there was an undeniable weight to him.
I leaned forward. I didn't take him into my mouth right away. I started with my tongue, trailing it slowly up the underside of his soft shaft, tasting the faint salt of his skin. I swirled my tongue around the loose skin at the base, my breath hot against him.
Arthur let out a soft, approving exhale, his hand coming to rest lightly on the top of my head. It wasn't the possessive, controlling grip Richard used. It was a gentle, almost grandfatherly touch.
I worked slowly, swirling my tongue in lazy, deliberate circles up and down his cock.
I licked the head and I used my hands, massaging his heavy balls with a feather-light touch.
He was incredibly soft. The skin was crepey and loose, requiring a delicate, almost clinical precision.
I couldn't expect friction to do all the work.
I had to coax the blood flow, to wake up tissue that was reluctant to respond.
I leaned closer, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint, medicinal smell of his skin.
I opened my mouth and let my lips rest gently over the broad, soft head, using the heat of my breath and the wetness of my tongue to create a warm, slick environment for him.
I ran my tongue lazily around the ridge, tracing the loose folds of skin, my hands keeping a steady, rhythmic pressure on his balls.
Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Fifteen. The hum of the jet engines was a constant, droning backdrop.