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Summery:
Heather, a seasoned flight director, meets Riley–a bold, young flight attendant who doesn’t follow orders, she gives them. Tension turns to submission at 30,000 feet as Heather’s control is stripped away, body first… then completely.
Turbulence Below Her Skirt
Heather sat alone in the quiet of the crew lounge, one manicured hand wrapped around a steaming paper cup of black coffee. The early morning lights were too bright, the air stale with industrial chill and recirculated ambition. She could hear the distant roll of suitcases and boarding announcements echoing through the terminal. Her reflection in the tall, airport window was softer than she remembered. A woman of presence — poised, put-together — but undeniably fuller around the hips now, her uniform snug where it used to skim.
She was still beautiful. Everyone said so. But at 43, with the weight of two decades at 30,000 feet under her belt, Heather carried a kind of tired elegance that had to be earned. Flight director, yes. Commanding, composed, with that sharp smile that passengers trusted and junior crew admired. But in the last year, the waistband pinched more often than it used to. Her bra left faint red lines under her arms. Her ass, once sharp and high, now swayed with something heavier. She hated how aware she was of it when walking the aisle.
Still, her hair was thick, her cheekbones still kissed with that English rose glow, and her voice — warm and precise — could hush a crying baby or charm an angry businessman back into his seat.
She sighed, sipping her coffee. It was her third leg this week. Bangkok turnaround. Long haul. Tight layover. One more flight before two blessed days off.
Then the door opened.
The tap of high heels.
Heather glanced up — and paused.
She knew, instantly, that this was the new girl.
Young. Maybe 22, if that. Tall for her age, with lean, toned legs under dark hosiery and a navy skirt that seemed to hug rather than cover. Her blouse was crisp, tucked too neatly — like she’d practiced it. Her face was fresh, lipstick sharp. But it was her eyes — alert, confident, amused — that made Heather sit a little straighter.
“Hi,” the girl said, with a smile that was somehow both professional and… appraising. “You must be Heather. I’m Riley. I’m the new FA on 608.”
Heather nodded, masking the flicker of unease behind her eyes. “Yes. Welcome aboard. You’re early.”
“Always.” Riley smirked and dropped into the seat across from her like she belonged there. “I like to get a feel for the crew before takeoff.”
Heather blinked. It was bold, the way she said it. Not flirty — not exactly — but something too warm, too deliberate. There was no tension in her body. She sat like she knew the shape of every man’s stare in the terminal and didn’t give a damn.
“First international posting?” Heather asked, sipping again, carefully.
“Second,” Riley replied. “Did Tokyo last month. LAX base, but they’re trialing me on Europe and Asia routes now.”
Of course they are, Heather thought. Of course they’re fast-tracking her. Legs like that. A waist like that. That confidence.
Riley leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. Her perfume was something citrusy and clean, but it carried heat underneath. Amber, maybe. Sex and soap.
“I’ve heard you run a tight ship,” she said, tone lighter now. “That true?”
Heather gave a tight smile. “I run a professional cabin. I don’t do drama at thirty-thousand feet.”
Riley tilted her head. “Same.”
Their eyes met. Held. Something wordless passed between them. Something that made Heather’s pulse tick in her throat — just for a moment. Riley smiled again, slower this time. And Heather felt, absurdly, as though she’d just lost a small, silent point in a game she hadn’t agreed to play.
She finished her coffee and stood. “Let’s get to briefing.”
Riley followed, rising with the smooth grace of a girl who worked hard to look effortless.
Heather didn’t look back as they walked toward the gate.
But she felt the heat of Riley’s gaze trace the curve of her ass — just for a second — like turbulence on still air.
The aircraft was halfway into its thirteen-hour haul, gliding high above the Indian Ocean. Cabin lights were dimmed to soft amber. Business Class was quiet–passengers lulled by champagne and silence–while Economy thrummed with the quiet rustle of sleep masks and occasional clicks from touchscreens. The hum of the engines was steady, lulling.
Heather stood near the galley bulkhead, clipboard in hand, poised in the familiar stillness of command. She wore the expression she always did mid-flight: serene but sharp. Professional. But behind the smile, her jaw ached. Her shoes pinched. And Riley was… everywhere.
The girl moved through the aisles like the plane was hers. Smiling at the elderly man in 12A, slipping an extra chocolate to the mother in 17D with a toddler on her hip. Her voice was soft. Warm. Like velvet on a steel edge. She was fluid, conversational, and flawless in balıkesir escort the way that turned heads and made passengers feel adored.
It wasn’t her charm that irritated Heather.
It was her confidence.
She didn’t ask permission. She took initiative. She’d taken over rest breaks without running the schedule by Heather, and the others–the girls from Manila, the Dutch senior purser, even Martin, the straight-arrow guy from Cape Town–didn’t question it.
They were laughing with her now in the galley.
Heather stood just outside the curtain, listening. She heard her name. Laughter. A beat of silence when she pushed through.
All eyes shifted. And Heather saw it clearly–Riley, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed, one heel propped against the wall. She looked like she owned the crew, the mood, the room.
“Break rotation was changed?” Heather asked lightly, clipboard raised like a shield.
Riley looked up, smiled. “Yes. Sarah was fading fast, and Martin wanted an earlier slot. I swapped them. Hope that’s alright.”
Heather’s voice stayed even. “I would’ve appreciated a heads-up. We run this as a team.”
“Of course,” Riley replied. Her tone wasn’t sarcastic. But it had… layers. “Didn’t want to interrupt your meal service briefing.”
Heather’s smile froze. The comment was light–but it drew a quiet breath of amusement from Sarah.
Riley turned back to the group. “Also, we’re low on sparkling water. But I’ve already flagged it with catering for the return leg.”
Heather’s stomach twisted.
She hadn’t noticed.
Riley had.
And now they all knew it.
There was a subtle shift in posture from the rest of the crew. Not disrespect–but a redirection of gravity. A tilt.
They were looking at Riley now.
Listening to her.
Heather straightened. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”
She turned toward the Economy galley, blood hot beneath her collar.
But Riley followed.
Not immediately.
A few minutes later, she appeared at Heather’s shoulder near the crew jumpseat. She stood closer than was necessary, her voice low, intimate–like a shared secret, not a challenge.
“You’re good at this,” she said. “I’ve flown with directors who micromanage and snap. But you let the crew breathe. That’s rare.”
Heather didn’t turn. “Breathe doesn’t mean bypass.”
There was a pause. Then Riley’s voice–closer now. Silk on the edge of a blade.
“No. But sometimes… the air gets thinner when someone holds it too tightly.”
Heather turned slowly.
Riley was inches away.
Their bodies didn’t touch–but Heather could feel the warmth radiating from her. The scent of her skin–spiced and clean. The soft gleam of gloss on her mouth. And those eyes–so maddeningly calm. So young and fearless.
“I know your type,” Heather said, quieter now. “You rise fast. Charm everyone. But you’re not flying solo, Riley.”
Riley’s lip curled at the corner–almost a smirk.
“Who says I’m not?”
Heather’s pulse fluttered. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
“I already am,” Riley replied, gaze slipping down–deliberately–to the waistband of Heather’s pencil skirt, just for a second. “The crew trusts me. You’re sharp, Heather. Beautiful. But you’re watching me. Not the passengers.”
Heather’s breath caught.
That stung. Because it was true.
She opened her mouth–nothing came.
And Riley leaned in–close enough that Heather could feel the words against her skin.
“You can’t lead a crew you don’t see,” she whispered. “And right now? They see me.”
Then, with infuriating grace, she stepped back.
Smiled.
And disappeared behind the curtain.
Heather stood there.
Heart pounding.
Shoulders taut.
Her chest rose and fell with shallow, controlled breaths. Her panties were damp. Not from arousal–yet–but from tension. Heat. Something unspoken.
She adjusted her collar, forced a smile, and walked back down the aisle.
But she knew–already–she was no longer steering the current.
Riley had shifted it.
With a look. A sentence. A glance at her waist that made Heather want to pull her skirt tighter, stand taller, turn around and…
No.
Not yet.
But the burn was there now.
Between her legs. Between her pride and her need.
And it wasn’t going away.
Elevator Descent
The crew hotel was one of those glass-and-gold towers near the city’s waterfront — sterile, stylish, and smelling faintly of orchids and industrial-grade carpet cleaner. The flight was over. Briefing done. Crew dismissed. And Heather’s feet ached in that deep, unspoken way they always did after thirteen hours of pretending to be flawless.
She moved through the lobby with grace, still in full uniform — navy pencil skirt snug over her hips, blouse buttoned high, neck scarf knotted with quiet precision. Her heels tapped crisply on the marble. There was still poise in her posture, but beneath it — tension. Her shoulders bartın escort were too tight. Her mouth a line.
And Riley?
Riley was already waiting at the elevator, jacket casually slung over one arm, tie loose, hair undone just enough to look effortless. Her uniform clung like it had been tailored to her bones — flatter stomach, longer legs, that easy glow that came from youth and vanity mixed with just enough calculation to be dangerous.
The doors opened.
They stepped in.
Alone.
The mirrored walls of the elevator reflected them both. Heather stood tall, posture stiff, eyes fixed forward. Riley leaned against the rail, one leg slightly bent, her thigh brushing the hem of Heather’s skirt as the doors closed.
The silence was heavy.
The floor display ticked down: 23. 22. 21.
Then:
“You looked flustered today,” Riley murmured.
Heather didn’t answer.
“I mean,” Riley continued, voice low and deliberately slow, “you hid it well. But I noticed. Especially when you tried to correct me in front of the crew.”
Heather’s jaw clenched. “You ignored the chain of command.”
“No,” Riley said softly, “I just made things… smoother. More efficient. You’re good, Heather. But you’re not fast. Not anymore.”
Heather turned her head, eyes flashing. “Watch yourself.”
Riley smirked.
And then — she moved.
A breath of motion. A shift of weight. Her hand slid behind Heather, casual as a whisper — and landed on the swell of her ass. Not a brush. A palm. A hold.
Firm. Confident. Intentional.
Heather gasped — full, audible — and spun to face her, cheeks flushing crimson.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t you ever fucking touch me like that again.”
But Riley didn’t pull back.
She let her hand stay there — warm and bold through the fabric of Heather’s skirt. Her fingers flexed just slightly, squeezing.
“Why?” she murmured. “Afraid someone might see that this isn’t yours anymore?”
Heather slapped her hand away — a sharp smack of palm on skin.
But Riley didn’t flinch.
She smiled.
“You’ve got a nice ass, Heather. Full. Soft. Like something that used to be tighter.”
Heather’s breath hitched — part fury, part something darker.
Riley straightened now, stepping forward. The elevator was too small. There was no room to retreat.
“You were probably a knockout in your thirties,” she said, voice silk-wrapped acid. “I bet the captains used to trip over themselves for you. But now?” She looked her up and down, slow. “Now you just wear it differently. Less tight. More… stretched.”
Heather was shaking. But it wasn’t fear.
It was fury.
Or arousal.
Or both.
“Get away from me,” she snapped.
But Riley only moved closer — toe to toe now. Her voice dipped to a whisper, brushing Heather’s ear.
“You hate that you still want to be looked at. That when I walk down the aisle, every eye follows me. You hate that it’s not you anymore. That your tits need better bras now. That your thighs brush when you walk.”
Heather turned her face — but Riley was already there, breath hot against her neck.
“I can see it, Heather. The way you tighten your jaw when I take over. The way you fix your scarf three times before entering the cabin. The way you look at my body like it’s a fucking mirror you want to smash.”
Heather’s fists clenched. Her heart thundered.
“I said stop.”
But her voice lacked edge now.
It trembled — and Riley heard it.
“You don’t want me to stop,” she said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. “You want someone to remind you what it felt like to be the one with gravity.”
The elevator chimed.
Floor 12.
Heather moved to step out.
Riley caught her wrist — not hard. Just a finger hooked around her pulse.
“I’m not done with you,” she whispered.
Heather yanked free and walked out, not looking back.
But her thighs were wet beneath the hem of her skirt.
And her cunt pulsed with something furious, and filthy, and inevitable.
Heather slammed the door to her hotel room and locked it behind her, chest heaving. She was shaking.
Her heels clicked across the hardwood floor. She dropped her flight bag onto the bed, her jacket next. Her blouse felt too tight, her scarf strangling. She tore it off, fingers fumbling at the top button, breathing hard as if the fabric itself was suffocating her.
The echo of Riley’s voice lingered in her skull like a fever:
“You don’t want me to stop.”
Her ass still felt that hand — ghost pressure, palm-shaped and lingering, like the heat of a brand. She should’ve reported her. Filed something. At the very least told her to fuck off in front of the others.
But she hadn’t.
Because her body had betrayed her.
And now — now the arousal was unbearable.
Why am I like this? Why is she in my head? Why does it feel like she took something from me and left me wanting more?
Heather moved to the batman escort bathroom like she was drunk. Possessed. She shut the door, locked it, stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide. Her hair was mussed from where Riley’s breath had brushed against her jaw. She looked like someone who’d just been touched. Taken.
She couldn’t stand the feeling any longer.
She turned from the mirror, leaned her back against the cold tile, and hiked up her skirt.
The pantyhose clung to her hips like a second skin — damp now. Too warm. She hooked her fingers under the waistband and slowly peeled them down, inch by inch, revealing thighs soft and glistening, flushed with heat. Her breath hitched as the elastic rolled over her knees.
And beneath?
Her satin thong — navy, matching the uniform — was soaked.
She stared at the dark patch between her legs like it was evidence of something unholy.
With trembling fingers, she slid the fabric down her thighs. It clung to her folds, pulling away wet. A faint strand of slick clung from gusset to inner lip and broke with a soft stretch. Her thighs pressed inward — reflex. Shame.
But her clit pulsed.
She let the thong drop to the floor.
Then — slowly — she slid two fingers along the slick seam between her legs.
She gasped.
God, she was so wet. So hot. Her skin burned. Her pussy throbbed. And all she could think about was Riley’s voice — low, mocking, merciless.
“Your tits need better bras now.”
Her fingers moved faster. Her breath grew shallow.
She pressed her back to the tile, legs wide now, hips rolling instinctively as her palm worked between her thighs. Her middle finger found her clit — hard and slick — and rubbed in soft, urgent circles.
Shame curled behind her ribs.
But she couldn’t stop.
“You used to be the one with gravity.”
She moaned softly, eyes closed, picturing Riley’s mouth. Her smirk. Her heat. The pressure of her hand on her ass. The way she looked at Heather like she was a thing to be tested and broken and enjoyed.
Heather’s legs trembled. Her fingers were a blur now. Her inner thighs slick with arousal.
She came hard — a wet, shaking, furious orgasm that took her knees out from under her. She slid down the tile, body curling forward, her cheek pressed to the cold floor.
And then came the guilt.
It crashed over her like a wave.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Her hand was soaked. Her thighs shone. Her satin thong lay in a crumpled, sticky mess near the sink.
She sat there — legs parted, pantyhose around her ankles, blouse open, chest heaving — and felt the full weight of what she’d just done. What she’d just let Riley do to her. Without even touching her skin.
She wasn’t in control.
Not anymore.
And the worst part?
She didn’t know if she wanted it back.
The Knock
Heather was still on the bathroom floor, breath shaky, fingers sticky with her own slick. Her thighs trembled, still parted, the heat of orgasm pulsing faintly through her lower belly. Her satin thong clung damply to her ankle. She hadn’t even caught her breath when–
Knock knock.
Sharp. Controlled. A measured rhythm against the door.
Her body jolted. Her heart leapt into her throat.
No. No. Not now.
She scrambled up, legs unsteady, tugging her pantyhose up over sticky thighs, cursing under her breath as the elastic fought against the wetness between her legs. Her skirt followed, bunched and wrinkled. Her fingers trembled as she buttoned her blouse crookedly, shoved her feet into her heels, didn’t check the mirror.
Another knock.
Heather opened the door.
And there she was.
Riley.
Still in her uniform, sleeves rolled, collar unfastened just slightly, chest subtly rising with the rhythm of controlled breath. Her cheeks were flushed. Lips slightly parted. Her hair a little messier than it had been before.
They stared at each other for a heartbeat.
And Heather could smell herself. Still thick on her fingers. Still damp on her thighs.
Riley opened her mouth first.
“I–uh…” A pause. “Look. If I crossed a line earlier… the elevator–I was just trying to keep things light. I didn’t mean to…”
Her voice trailed off. There was a hint of something real there. Maybe.
“I just want to make the crew work,” she said finally. “You and me. We’re the face of this flight. And I don’t want tension. I respect your role.”
Heather blinked, arms crossed tightly under her chest.
Her skin still buzzed.
“You respect me?” she asked, voice low. “That why you grabbed my ass?”
Riley didn’t look away.
“I got carried away.”
“You looked turned on,” Heather said flatly. “In the elevator.”
Riley’s eyes flashed–just for a moment.
Heather stepped forward.
“Your pupils were blown. You were breathing through your mouth. You touched me and then stood there like you wanted to unzip me and fuck me against the mirror.”
Riley’s lip curled–half-smirk, half deflection. “You’re imagining things.”
“You’re aroused right now,” Heather said, voice sharper. “I can see it.”
And she could. The light sheen at Riley’s collarbone. The stiffness in her posture. Her hand twitching faintly at her side.