4.
The Gulfstream began its long, gradual descent toward Fiji. My ears popped, pulling me out of the exhausted, floating daze I had slipped into after Arthur finally pulled his soft cock out of me.
I was lying on the stateroom bed alone, wrapped in a plush blanket, my pussy still aching and slowly leaking Arthur’s sluggish cum onto a towel I had tucked between my legs. The door clicked open.
Richard walked in. He looked energized, his eyes sharp and calculating. He carried a black paper shopping bag with no logo.
"We’ll be landing soon," Richard said, setting the bag on the edge of the mattress. "Arthur’s taking the jet on to Tokyo. We're taking a seaplane to the island."
"Okay," I murmured, sitting up, letting the blanket fall away from my bruised breasts. I looked at the bag. "Do you want me to put the white dress back on?"
"No," Richard said. "The dress was for the ceremony. You've graduated now. Put this on."
He turned and walked back out to the main cabin.
I slid to the edge of the bed, my legs trembling slightly. My ass cheeks burned from Arthur's heavy slaps, a dull, lingering fire that made sitting uncomfortable. I reached into the black bag, expecting a bikini or a sheer beach cover-up.
My fingers brushed against stiff, heavy polyester.
I pulled the fabric out of the bag and froze.
It was red and white. A pleated skirt with a thick elastic waistband. A tight, sleeveless shell top with the heavy embroidered logo of my university across the chest. A pair of pristine white ankle socks.
It was my old cheerleading uniform. More or less.
A custom-tailored replica of the one I’d worn two years ago.
The one I’d worn to serve bourbon to Richard’s friends.
The one Tyler had made me wear when I sucked his cock.
Except this version was even more revealing. The skirt little more than a belt.
I stared at it, my heart doing a slow, heavy thump against my ribs.
Why? I had spent the last two years dressing like an untouchable, old-money heiress. I had just walked across a stage and gotten my degree. Why was he putting me back in cheap, scratchy polyester?
A weird mix of confusion and nostalgia twisted in my gut.
I dropped the towel from between my legs.
I didn't bother wiping away the last drying streaks of Arthur's semen.
I pulled the stiff shell top over my head.
It fit like a glove, pushing my heavy breasts up and together, the stiff fabric chafing my already sensitized nipples.
I stepped into the pleated skirt, pulling it up over my hips.
It barely covered my ass, the pleats fanning out over the red handprints Arthur had left behind.
Richard hadn’t given me panties. This girl can take a hint. The skirt was so short that the cool, air-conditioned air of the cabin drafted right up against my bare, wet cunt.
I pulled on the white socks, slipped my feet into the pair of pristine white sneakers at the bottom of the bag, and walked out of the stateroom.
Arthur was waiting by the main cabin door, his briefcase in hand. He looked at me in the uniform. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lined face.
"A fitting outfit," he said, adjusting his blazer. He looked at Richard. "Enjoy the island, Richard. She's spectacular."
"Safe travels, Arthur," Richard replied, shaking the older man's hand.
The jet doors opened, letting in a blast of humid, tropical heat that instantly plastered my hair to my neck. Richard grabbed my hand, leading me out onto the tarmac toward a waiting twin-engine seaplane bobbing on the turquoise water nearby.
The flight to the private island took forty minutes.
I sat in the cramped leather seat next to Richard, the roar of the propellers deafening.
I felt ridiculous. I felt like a ghost stepping out of my own past. I kept shifting in my seat, the scratchy pleats of the skirt riding up, exposing my bare, wet pussy to the cold leather.
Richard didn't explain the outfit. He never explained.
He just stared out the window at the endless blue ocean, a dark, expectant smile playing on his lips.
The seaplane touched down smoothly, taxiing toward a long wooden dock extending from an island covered in lush, dense jungle and blinding white sand.
There was a massive, sprawling luxury villa built right onto the beach, all dark wood and open-air glass walls.
"We're here," Richard said.
We climbed out of the plane and walked down the dock. The heat was oppressive. Sweat started to bead between my breasts, trapped by the tight polyester top. I walked a step behind Richard, my sneakers squeaking faintly against the wood.
As we approached the massive teak deck surrounding the villa's infinity pool, I heard music. Heavy, bass-thumping rap echoing from waterproof speakers. I heard the clink of beer bottles. Loud, aggressive laughter.
Men.
I stopped at the edge of the stairs. Richard kept walking, stepping up onto the deck.
"Gentlemen," Richard called out over the music.
The laughter stopped. Three massive figures stood up from the lounge chairs.
They were black, huge, and built like brick shithouses. They were in their early twenties, wearing nothing but low-slung board shorts, their bodies slick with sweat and sunscreen, muscles corded and shifting under dark skin.
I knew them.
My breath caught in my throat. I recognized the tattoos on the tallest one's chest. I recognized the face of the one holding the Corona.
It was DeMarcus, the starting running back. Tyrell, the middle linebacker who hit like a freight train. And Jackson, the star wide receiver. They had just won the conference championship two months ago. They had all just declared for the NFL draft.
They looked at Richard with a mix of respect and confusion. They were college kids on a billionaire's island, clearly unsure of the rules.
"Mr. Davies," DeMarcus said, setting his beer down. "Man, this place is insane. Thanks for flying us out. Best graduation gift ever."
"You boys earned it," Richard said, walking over to the outdoor bar and pouring himself a water. "You brought the university a championship. I always reward top performers."
Richard turned around. He looked past them, right at me standing at the bottom of the stairs, half-hidden by a palm frond.
"Come up here, Sloane," Richard commanded.
I stepped up the wooden stairs and walked onto the pool deck.
The three athletes froze. Their eyes locked onto me. They took in the orange and blue colors. The logo across my chest. The short pleated skirt.
"No fucking way," Jackson breathed, stepping closer, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Daniels?" Tyrell muttered, his deep voice sounding stunned. "Sloane Daniels? The cheer leader?"
The truth finally clicked. It cracked through my confusion and landed in my pussy with a filthy throb.
The fucking uniform.
It all made sense now. Sick, devastating, brilliant, degrading sense.
This still wasn’t my romantic vacation. These boys were the heroes of the campus, used to getting whatever they wanted, used to treating girls like me as perks of their status.
But Richard was more than them. He had helped pay for the stadium. He owned the team.
And right now, he was handing me over to them like a party favor.
"You boys remember Sloane," he said casually, taking a sip of his water. He leaned back against the bar. "She just graduated today, too. And since you boys performed so well on the field this year ... I decided to give you a toy for the weekend."
DeMarcus looked at Richard, then looked at me, a slow grin spreading across his handsome face. He looked down at my skirt, realizing exactly what I was wearing, and exactly what it meant.
My pussy flooded.
I was the booster's gift to a winning team.
Richard set his water glass down on the bar.
"I have some calls to make to Tokyo," he said, as if he were leaving a dog with a pet sitter. "The villa is fully stocked. The island is yours for the next forty-eight hours.” He grinned. “And yes, so is Sloane.” Enjoy the gift, gentlemen."
He didn't look back at me. He turned and walked through the sliding glass doors into the cool, dark interior of the villa, leaving me standing alone on the sun-drenched deck with three massive men who were staring at me like I was a steak.
The sliding door clicked shut.
The click seemed to break a spell.
DeMarcus set his beer down with a sharp clack on a glass table. He was leaner than Tyrell, built for explosive speed, his dark skin gleaming with sweat in the humid air.
"Well, damn," he said, a slow, arrogant smile spreading across his face. He walked slowly around me, inspecting me from every angle. "Sloane Daniels, right? Used to see you shaking those pom-poms on the sidelines. Tyler's girl, right? The safety who couldn't tackle a blocking sled?"
The mention of Tyler sent a shock of old anger through me, but it was instantly swallowed by what was happening here.
"I'm not his girl anymore," I managed to say.
"Nah, you ain't," Jackson laughed. He was the tallest, with long, lean limbs and a cocky swagger. He stepped right up in front of me, so close I could smell the coconut sunscreen and the raw musk of his sweat. "You're our girl now."
He reached out and flicked the stiff fabric of my pleated skirt.
"Uniform's a nice touch," he sneered. "But it's too fucking hot out here for all this polyester."
He didn't ask permission. He grabbed the hem of the stiff shell top, right over the university logo, and yanked it upward.
I raised my arms instinctively, letting him pull the tight fabric over my head. My hair tumbled down in a messy, blonde tangle. The hot tropical sun hit my bare breasts.
Tyrell let out a low whistle. "No bra, D."
"I see that," DeMarcus said, coming around to stand next to Jackson. He looked down at my heavy, pale breasts, the nipples already dark and hard.