3.
The stateroom was a sanctuary of obscene luxury.
A queen-sized bed dominated the space, covered in crisp white linens and heavy silk throws.
The walls were paneled in dark wood, and a large flat-screen TV was mounted opposite the bed.
The hum of the jet engines was muffled here, creating a strange, isolated cocoon at forty thousand feet.
Arthur stepped into the room behind me and clicked the door shut, sliding the lock into place.
We were alone.
He walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, leaning his back against the padded headboard. He looked exhausted, the lines on his face deeper than they had been twenty minutes ago. The effort of his climax had drained him.
He looked at me, standing awkwardly in the center of the room, shivering slightly.
"I need some time to recover, Sloane," Arthur said, his voice quiet but carrying the same undeniable authority. "But I don't want to be bored while I wait."
He patted his thighs, clad in his expensive, tailored trousers.
"Dance for me," he commanded.
I froze. "Dance?"
"A lap dance," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly at my confusion. "I want to see how well you move when you aren't on your knees."
There was no music. There was no club lighting. There was just the steady drone of the jet and the cold, expectant stare of a billionaire.
I took a shaky breath, forcing my frozen limbs to move. I stepped between his spread legs, stepping into the V of his thighs.
I had never given a lap dance in my life. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I felt ridiculous, incredibly awkward, and surprisingly vulnerable.
I placed my hands on his shoulders, the fabric of his blazer rough against my palms. I started to sway my hips, trying to find a rhythm in the silence. I rolled my stomach, dropping it low, letting my bare, heavy breasts sway in front of his face.
He didn't touch me at first. He just watched, his face impassive.
I tried harder. I turned around, presenting my back to him, and pushed my ass back against his groin. I ground my hips against him, trying to coax some kind of response from the soft flesh hidden within his trousers.
The muscles in my thighs burned as I squatted and rolled, my bare skin sticking to the fabric of his pants. I threw my head back, running my hands down my own body, trying to look sensual, trying to look like the high-priced whore he expected me to be.
But I could feel it. He was completely soft. My dancing, my nakedness, was doing nothing at all.
I felt like a defective toy.
"Turn around," Arthur said, his voice flat.
I spun back around, my chest heaving, sweat starting to bead on my forehead.
"Straddle my leg," he said.
I lifted my right leg and hooked it over his thigh, pulling myself flush against him.
"Now grind for me," he said.
I started to move my hips, pressing my swollen, aching pussy hard against the rough wool of his trousers. The friction was intense, a sharp, burning sensation against my oversensitive clit.
Arthur finally raised his hands. He reached for my breasts.
His grip was incredibly rough. He kneaded the flesh like dough. He squeezed my tits so hard it bordered on painful, his thumbs finding my hardened nipples and pinching them sharply.
I gasped, the pain sending jolts of something straight down to my cunt.
"You like that, don't you?" Arthur said. "I knew the moment I saw that you were a dirty little thing. I bet you love being treated like a piece of meat."
"Yes," I whimpered, grinding harder against his leg, as his hands punished my breasts.
"You're nothing but a high-priced whore," he sneered, pinching my nipples hard enough to make my eyes water. "A little college slut who sold her soul. You think you're special, but you're just a hole men like me and Richard pass around when we get bored."
Hearing a man of his age, his stature, his wealth, reduce me to a set of holes purpose built for the pleasure of men just like him broke my mind completely.
That shame and the raw humiliation of dry-humping his trousers while he bruised my tits completely shattered my restraint and pushed me over the edge.
"Oh god!" I sobbed, my hips bucking wildly against him.
My thighs clamped down on his, my wet hole spasming over and over again, leaking all over his expensive trousers. I collapsed against his chest, crying openly, my body trembling with the aftershocks.
I lay there for a moment, waiting for him to push me off, waiting for him to be hard.
I felt his groin against my thigh.
Arthur was still soft.
He let out a frustrated sigh, pushing my exhausted, trembling body off his leg. He looked down at the wet stain on his trousers with a look of mild annoyance.
"You are a good girl, Sloane," he said. "Obedient and enthusiastic. But I'm afraid I need something more to get my blood moving."
He reached over to the bedside table and pressed a small, silver call button.
Less than a minute later, the heavy wooden door to the stateroom clicked open and the flight attendant Madeline stepped inside.
She had shed the professional, detached demeanor she wore in the main cabin.
Her eyes were sharp, evaluating the scene instantly—the wet stain on Arthur's trousers, my nakedness, and the billionaire's look of bored frustration.
"Sir?" she asked, her voice calm and even.
"Shut the door, Madeline," Arthur said.
The lock engaged with a heavy thud.
"Take it all off," he said, waving a hand vaguely in her direction. "Let's see how well the two of you can work together."
She didn't hesitate. Didn't even blush. She moved with an efficient, practiced grace, unfastening her crisp white blouse and letting it fall to the floor.
She unzipped her tight pencil skirt and stepped out of it.
I think her lingerie was Agent Provocateur.
Either way, the black silk and lace hugged her curves perfectly, highlighting her flawless olive skin.
"On the bed," Arthur said, pointing to where he wanted us.
We both obeyed. I crawled up onto the crisp white sheets and Madeline climbed up next to me.
Arthur sat back in an armchair in the corner of the room, crossing his legs. He examined us, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked us up and down.
"Kiss her, Madeline," Arthur said. “I want the two of you to give me a show.”
Madeline didn't wait for me to process his command. She shifted her weight, moving over me and pinning me to the mattress with her thighs. She leaned down, her face inches from mine. She smelled like expensive perfume and mint.
She captured my lips in a hard, aggressive kiss.
I hadn’t kissed a woman since that night with Jessica and the quarterback. This wasn’t my thing. But maybe it wasn’t Madeline’s thing either. She was just performing, I realized. And she was good at it.
She forced my mouth open, her tongue sliding past my teeth, maybe tasting the lingering, tang of Arthur's watery cum. I gagged slightly, but she didn't pull back. She deepened the kiss, her hands moving down my body.
And she knew exactly what she was doing. Her hands roamed over my breasts, squeezing them with a firm, practiced grip, her thumbs flicking my hardened nipples in a way that mimicked Arthur's earlier roughness, but with actual skill.
I heard myself moan into her mouth, a pathetic, needy sound. My body, exhausted and overstimulated, was betraying me again.
Madeline broke away, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down my neck and across my collarbone. She looked up at Arthur over my shoulder. "She's very responsive, sir."
"She's a slut," Arthur agreed. “Just like you.” He leaned forward slightly in his chair, and I could see the outline of his crotch shifting. The sight of two women—two sluts—performing for him was finally sparking some kind of reaction.
But he needed more. He needed stakes. "Ten thousand dollars," he said.
Madeline froze, her lips hovering over my breast.
“Ten thousand dollars,” Arthur repeated. “For whoever wins my little contest. Get into a sixty-nine, ladies, please."
I could tell he didn’t mean either of those last two words.
He levered himself out of his armchair and crossed over to the edge of the bed. He unzipped his trousers once again, pulling out his cock. It was semi-erect now, thicker and heavier than it had been in the aisle, but still requiring work.
"Here are the rules," he said, looking down at us with a cold, greedy smile. "The first of you sluts to cum loses the game. The winning slut gets ten grand. Now, come on, get to work."
Madeline moved at speed. She pushed me down onto my back, flipped herself around, and threw a leg over my chest, positioning her crotch directly over my face while burying her own head between my thighs.
Her pussy, still protected by the sheer black lace of her panties, hovered inches from my nose. She smelled distinctly different than me and she wasn’t waiting for me to start.
She plain attacked me.
She went straight for my clit, using her tongue as a precision instrument, a rapid, flicking weapon that sent a thrill straight up my spine.
I gasped, my hips bucking upward off the mattress and then I scrambled to defend myself, to fight back.
I pushed the black lace aside and pressed my mouth against her slick, shaved mound.
I tried to focus, to use my tongue with the same aggressive intent she was using on me, but my brain was scattering.
I was tasting another woman for the first time in my life, smelling her cut, her juices, her fucking arousal, while my own battered pussy was being devoured.
And standing right next to the bed, holding his half-hard cock and watching us fight for his spare change, was a billionaire, Richard’s friend and mentor.