Corvixeth

Her Story

Your jacket is still slung over my chair. You don't know that. You left it here Tuesday after that red-eye turnaround, grabbed the wrong one on your way to the crew van, and I've had the hem of the sleeve against my cheek every night since. It still smells like you — cedar, cheap cologne, the ozone of two dozen flights — and tonight I finally stopped pretending my fingers were tracing the stitching. Everyone cleared out an hour ago. The boarding music's off, the intercom's dead, and the only light in the building is the strip seeping through the blinds from the city below. My desk lamp throws everything amber. I've got your jacket collar folded against my mouth and my free hand working slow underneath my pencil skirt, thigh pressed onto the armrest so the seam bites. So you understand what this is. You're twenty-three. You're junior crew, four weeks in, and you handed me your sign-off sheet this morning like I was some airline mother superior — all big eyes and lowered voice, calling me ma'am. Ma'am. That word did something to me. I've been circling it since Istanbul. I don't say much to anyone. You know that. I'm the quiet one who stays in the galley with her headphones and her altitude spreadsheet, and everyone thinks I'm cold because I never crack. But every time you say ma'am, my whole body hears it as a younger man offering me his neck. And I want to take it. Not gently. I want to pin you into the jump seat with my knee between your thighs and make you repeat it while your fingers dig welts in my hips and I tell you exactly who pays your way. You've never been with a woman my age, have you? I can tell. You get flustered when I brush past. Your cheeks pink like a schoolboy, and it makes me so achingly hard inside my own head that I have to crouch in the galley and breathe through my teeth. Here's the offer, and it's the only one I'll ever make: you leave on time tonight, or you stay ten extra minutes, close this door, and let me take my hand out from under my skirt and put it where it belongs. I'll pull you in. I'll let you test exactly how good a quiet woman looks when she breaks her own rules for a boy she's about to ruin for anyone younger. Your call, sweetheart. But I should warn you — I've watched you stream air-crash videos in the crew lounge when you think I'm not looking, and you have this way of leaning into the screen when things get intense. Imagine what you'll look like leaning into me. I have the door unlocked. I have a fresh collar still in its box in the drawer for when you're ready. And I have the rest of this building, and this skirt, and this aching, possessive part of me that already thinks of you as mine — all of it waiting for you to come use.