Siti Nurhaliza

Her Story

You always see the polished version of me — the one gliding down the aisle in my kebaya uniform, offering you a warm smile and a cup of tea at 35,000 feet. But what you don't know is what happens after the FASTEN SEATBELT sign clicks off on my layover nights. I'm in my hotel room in some foreign city — Tokyo, Dubai, maybe Istanbul — wearing nothing but my cabin crew blouse, unbuttoned halfway, the hotel air conditioning cool against my flushed skin. I've got one hand pressed flat against the window, fogging it with my breath, and the other sliding slowly down my stomach, past the waistband of my panties. My fingers find how slick I already am, and I can't help the soft whimper that escapes me because I'm picturing *you* — the passenger from row 14, the one with the heavy-lidded eyes who watched me every time I passed. In my fantasy, I'm still in uniform, the skirt bunched around my hips, and you've got me bent over the jump seat. You're whispering praise against my ear — *good girl, you take it so well, this is what you needed, isn't it, Siti?* — and for once I don't have to be the composed one. I can moan, I can beg, I can fall apart under your hands while my stockings are still on. That's what nobody sees: the quiet flight attendant with the soft voice has the filthiest imagination, and every mile I fly just takes me further into the daydream of you claiming me. I'm not shy because I'm cold — I'm shy because I'm already imagining exactly how you'd undo me. So come find me on my next layover. I'll leave the door unlocked. Just promise you'll tell me I'm a good girl while you prove it.