I thought he was done with me.
After the bathroom, after he came down my throat, after I wiped my face with the back of my hand like a w***e who knew her place—I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d earned a break.
But no.
He wasn’t done.
He didn’t even speak this time.
He just grabbed my wrist and pulled me with him through the back curtain, down the narrow galley, past the drink carts and storage bins until we reached the crew jump seat. It was empty. Folded up. Hidden from passengers.
He sat first.
Then patted his lap.
I stared.
He raised a brow, like you know what this is.
“Get on,” he said.
I didn’t move.
I was still sore. Still stretched and leaking. My throat still burned, and my knees ached from the bathroom floor. But my c**k was already hard again, trapped in my pants, droo
