2. High-Flying Desires #2
The doors slid open. Sandra met us at the helipad’s edge and pulled me into a hug, her perfume like citrus and sex and secrets.
“Darling, you made it,” she purred, kissing me on both cheeks, then letting her hand drift down my arm and squeeze my wrist. “And you look edible.”
I blushed, but let her lead me toward the elevator, where Cyril shook Tom’s hand with a grip that lingered just a second past polite.
“Welcome,” Cyril said, his gaze traveling from Tom to me and back. “Let’s get out of the wind, shall we?”
The elevator was glass, the whole city a glittering updraft around us.
Cyril pressed a code, and the cab whooshed straight to the penthouse.
Tom, ever the stoic, stood behind me and rested his hand on my hip, fingers splayed over the mesh beneath my dress.
Every muscle in my body was aware of that touch.
We exited into a palace in the clouds: marble floors, wall-to-wall windows, a living room the size of our first apartment, and more champagne, this time waiting on a mirrored tray.
Sandra led me to a banquette by the window and poured for everyone, her movements so smooth it was almost choreographed. Tom and Cyril gravitated to the terrace, city lights painting their silhouettes in electric gold.
Sandra leaned in close, lips almost at my ear. “You nervous?” she whispered.
I met her gaze and shook my head. “Excited.”
“Good.” Her eyes sparkled. “I want tonight to be perfect.”
For the next half hour, we sipped and talked and laughed, the tension as thick as the carpet under our heels.
Tom told a story about our honeymoon that had me in stitches; Cyril countered with a tale about Sandra’s days as a professional dancer in Vegas.
The city below pulsed with energy, but inside, the four of us floated in a bubble of anticipation.
At some point, Sandra let her hand rest on my knee, tracing lazy circles with her thumb. Tom watched, silent and thrilled.
When the dinner bell chimed from the far end of the suite, Cyril stood and offered his hand to Sandra, then to me. “Shall we?”
We moved as a unit, a team of four, toward whatever came next. My nerves had vanished, replaced with a low, insistent throb. I glanced at Tom, and he mouthed, “You got this.”
And suddenly, I did.
The penthouse dining room was a fantasy of mirrored surfaces, candles flickering in hurricane glasses, and four courses laid out by a staff that vanished the instant the wine was poured.
It felt like a honeymoon suite for a Roman emperor: velvet everywhere, gold flatware, a caviar service on ice.
For a moment, I wondered if we were expected to fuck on the table before dessert.
Sandra and Cyril sat at opposite ends, regal as any king and queen, but it was Sandra who set the tone. She poured for Tom first, then filled my glass, her eyes locked on mine as she tilted the bottle.
“To new friends,” she said.
Tom raised his glass. “And to new experiences.”
Cyril’s toast was more subtle: a nod, a half-smile, but his gaze lingered on Sandra for a fraction of a second, as if confirming a silent command.
The meal itself was a blur: lobster and artichoke, lamb chops, a salad so delicate it felt sacrilegious to chew, but I barely tasted any of it.
Sandra drew us in with stories from her Vegas days, tales of backstage drama and “accidentally” topless performances.
She was a practiced storyteller, weaving in just enough innuendo to make my face flush without ever tipping into vulgarity.
Tom surprised me by playing along, telling stories from his wrestling scholarship days, the pranks, the late-night dares.
At first I thought he was showing off, but the more he spoke, the more I realized: he was performing for me.
Every story ended with a look in my direction, his eyes daring me to match him.
I did. I told the story of my last gymnastics meet, the ribbon snap, how I finished the routine anyway, legs burning, and stuck the landing. Sandra reached across and squeezed my hand.
“Discipline is so sexy,” she purred, stroking the inside of my wrist.
Cyril, who’d been mostly silent, suddenly leaned forward. “If you could relive one night of your life, what would it be?” His voice was smooth, deliberate.
Sandra answered instantly. “The night we met. In costume. He was a ‘high-roller,’ I was the ‘naughty dealer.’ There may have been a champagne bucket and a public bar top involved.”
She shot Cyril a look that said, “Your turn.”
He considered, then: “I like tonight better.”
Sandra laughed, low and throaty. “He’s a romantic.”
It was Tom who broke the momentum. “I’d pick our wedding night. There’s something about stripping a woman out of a $2000 dress with your teeth.”
The air between us thickened. Sandra’s hand, still on mine, drifted up my arm. I shivered.
“So, Missy,” she said, her tone light but her eyes serious. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done?”
I nearly choked on my Champagne. Tom started to answer, then caught himself and smiled, inviting me to take the lead.
I licked my lips. “It’s hard to choose. But last week, I let a stranger go down on me in a dressing room. With my friends watching.”
Sandra’s grip tightened. “Did you come?”
“Twice.”
She leaned in, lips parted, hunger so raw I could taste it from across the table.
Cyril smiled, but the approval in his eyes was obvious. “Have you ever performed, Missy? On stage?”
I shook my head. “Unless you count recitals. Why?”
“Because you have the presence for it. The discipline. Sandra, show her what I mean.”
Sandra stood, her dress falling into place like water. She picked up her glass, downed it in one, and gestured for us to follow.
“Let me show you my favorite trick,” she said, leading us to the living room, where a velvet chaise sat before the wall of glass. The lights of the city shimmered below.
“Wait here,” she said, and disappeared down the hall.
Tom and Cyril stood at the window, talking in low voices. I wandered to the chaise and ran my hand over the fabric, savoring the way it caught the light. My heart was in my throat.
Sandra reappeared, transformed. She wore black stilettos that made her calves flex with each step, a micro-miniskirt that barely covered the curve where thigh met ass, and a crisp white blouse buttoned to her throat, the fabric straining slightly across her breasts.
A crimson tie hung between them like an invitation, and horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, magnifying eyes that promised sin.
A yardstick completed the look, gripped in manicured fingers.
She strode to the center of the room, each step deliberate, hips swaying just enough to make my mouth go dry. The yardstick cracked against the floor, the sound shooting straight between my legs. She turned to face us, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip.
"Class is in session," she announced, her voice husky velvet that raised goosebumps along my arms.
The music began, a slow, throbbing beat that seemed to pulse inside my veins.
Sandra's body responded like it was created for this moment—slow swivels of her hips that made the miniskirt ride up, revealing glimpses of lace beneath.
Her fingers worked each button of her blouse with teasing patience, the gradual parting of white fabric revealing first a hint of cleavage, then the black lace of her bra, the cups cut low enough that I could see the swell of flesh threatening to spill over.
She caught the yardstick between her breasts, dragging it down her torso before bringing it to her mouth.
Her tongue circled the tip, lips closing around it in a way that made Tom shift beside me, his breathing shallow.
She pulled it away with a wet pop, then smacked it against her inner thigh, the sharp crack making me flinch and squeeze my legs together.
When she reached for her glasses, she paused, staring directly at me.
Our eyes locked as she slid them down the bridge of her nose with one finger, her pupils dilated with arousal.
She winked, a promise of what was to come, then flung them to the chaise.
They landed next to my hand, which trembled not from nervousness now but from the effort of restraining myself.
Her skirt came off next, thumbs hooking into the waistband and dragging it down with agonizing slowness.
She stepped out of it, twirled it once, then let it dangle from the tip of her shoe.
With a flick of her ankle, it sailed into Tom's lap.
He caught it, his fingers digging into the fabric as if it were her flesh, and held it up as if weighing its worth, bringing it briefly to his face to inhale her scent.
The tie came last, undone with a single yank that made her breasts bounce.
She looped it around her own throat, pulling it taut enough that her head tilted back, exposing the vulnerable line of her neck.
She mimed a choke, her free hand sliding down between her legs, and stuck out her tongue in a pantomime of ecstasy before letting the tie fall away.
Her blouse gaped open now, exposing breasts that were full and heavy, the nipples visibly hard through the delicate lace of her bra, begging to be touched, tasted.
She finished the song in just the bra, thong, and heels, straddling the back of a dining chair.
Her thighs gripped the wood as she ground against it, the muscles in her legs flexing with each movement.
She ran the yardstick between her thighs, pressing it against herself through the thin fabric of her thong, which was visibly damp now.
Every movement was measured, practiced, but her eyes never left mine, dark with invitation and hunger that mirrored the ache building between my own legs.
When the music faded, Sandra stood, chest heaving, and beckoned me with a single finger.
“Your turn,” she said.
I glanced at Tom. His mouth was open, eyes hooded. My body responded before my mind could protest.