Chapter 142: Chapter 142- A Flight of Heaven

This one was — more aircraft than the concept had prepared her for.

The fuselage was long. The stairs were wide. The interior light coming through the oval windows was warm and deliberate.

“You have a jet,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I can’t — I’ve never — my entire salary for a year couldn’t—”

“Come.”

She walked up the stairs behind him, her hand on the rail, telling herself she was not going to gape when she got to the top.

She gaped.

The forward cabin was — tailored. The kind of space that had been designed for specific humans rather than general passengers. Wide seats in white leather. A surface that might have been a table or a bar or both. Lighting that adjusted to the mood it thought you should be having.

Raven sat in one of the forward seats and pulled her.

She landed sideways on his lap with considerably less grace than the maneuver deserved, catching herself on his shoulder.

“Raven—”

“The tablet,” he said, and his phone was already in his hand but he was looking at her hair, pushing a strand of it back from her face with two fingers. The gesture was incidental. It made her pulse do the thing she’d been trying to train it not to do.

The jet door sealed.

Minjung was aware of pressure — the subtle shift of pressurization, the first movements of the aircraft beginning its taxi. She looked out the window.

Then he said: “There are some women in the back I want you to see.”

She turned her head.

“What?”

“Go look.” He gestured toward the rear curtain — a heavy panel of dark fabric that separated the forward cabin from whatever existed behind it. “Go on.”

She looked at the curtain.

Looked at him.

“Why.”

“Because you’re curious,” he said simply.

She was.

She slid off his lap, stood, straightened her jacket. Moved toward the rear curtain. Her fingers found the edge of it.

She pulled it back.

The rear cabin of the jet was — she processed it in sections because the full picture was too much to receive at once.

First: a bed.

King-sized, taking up most of the space, built into the aircraft’s architecture like it had always been there and the aviation had been built around it.

Second: the women.

Eight of them.

Arranged on the bed in a row, face-down, asses raised. Each one in a different posture but the arrangement was clearly deliberate — they’d been placed, positioned, organized. Wrists behind their backs, bound with what looked like silk cords. Ankles tied to the bed frame with the same material. They wore nothing except their underwear, or partial underwear — some had their panties still on, pulled taut against the shape of their pussies. Some had been stripped to nothing below.

The shapes of them. Eight different bodies, eight different architectures of hip and ass and thigh, all of it displayed with an arrangement that left nothing to the imagination and was clearly designed not to.

Minjung stood in the curtain opening with her hand still holding the fabric.

Her mouth was open.

She recognized — no one. Or almost no one. The far left, she thought — something familiar about the dark red hair, the specific architecture of those hips, but she couldn’t place it. The context was too far outside any context she’d filed anyone in.

The aircraft reached cruising altitude.

Cameras. She noticed them now — small, high-quality units mounted at angles along the ceiling of the rear cabin. Red dots. Recording.

“What is this.”

Her voice came out smaller than she intended.

Raven was behind her.

She hadn’t heard him move but he was there, standing at her shoulder, looking at the same display she was looking at.

“Never seen a harem,” he said, his voice conversational, “presented properly.”

“A — a HAREM—”

“I’ve already set up the cameras,” he continued, “if you want reference material.”

“Reference material for—”

She stopped talking because he was moving. Moving past her, into the rear cabin, and his shirt came off as he walked, the motion easy, the fabric clearing his head and landing somewhere behind him. And she looked at his back.

The muscles of it. The specific landscape of his shoulders. The way his spine moved under skin when he rolled his neck once, loosening it.

Her thighs pressed together.

He turned.

Facing the row of eight women. Eight asses presented. Eight bodies waiting.

He looked over them with the unhurried attention of a man reviewing something he owns and is deciding how to use it.

His hands went to his belt.

Minjung watched from the curtain.

She told herself she was going to leave. Walk back to the forward cabin. Ask the flight attendant — was there a flight attendant? — for a glass of water and spend the rest of this flight staring out the window.

She didn’t move.

His pants came down. His underwear followed. And she looked at his cock and her brain produced a single thought, which was:

That’s bigger than I remember.

She remembered it. Intimately, involuntarily, with the specific accuracy of a body that had organized significant new memory around a physical event. She remembered exactly what it felt like to take it. Remembered the precise sensation of her own walls being introduced to something they hadn’t been built with the dimensions for.

What she was looking at was longer.

Thicker.

The same cock and not the same cock. Fuller. The shaft hanging heavy against his thigh, already half-hard from proximity, from eight pairs of tethered hips in his eyeline, from whatever biological process she was beginning to understand was not normal human biology.

“How,” she said, without meaning to.

He looked back at her over his shoulder.

“How is it—” She gestured. “That’s bigger than — when you — in the mall, that was—”

“It grows,” he said simply.

“It GROWS—”

“To what’s needed.” His hand moved, casual and deliberate, holding it against his thigh for a moment before releasing. Still growing. The length of it, the thickness, the way the head darkened as blood filled it. “Women have limits. I tend to approach them.”

Her legs were doing the pressing-together thing again without authorization.

Nine inches. At least. Maybe approaching ten. The shape of it like something she’d been introduced to once and hadn’t filed correctly because there was no correct file for it.

She thought about her womb.

Her hands pressed to her stomach involuntarily.

He had turned fully to face the row of eight women.

His hand landed on the nearest ass — a generous, pale-skinned one — with a flat slap that made the flesh bounce and ripple and the owner gasp into the bedding.

“Minjung,” he said.

She stepped fully into the rear cabin.

He reached back and produced — from somewhere, she didn’t see where — a short riding crop. Tapped it once against his palm. Then looked at her with those eyes, purple and absolutely calm.

“Choose,” he said. “Who do I fuck first.”

Eight asses.

Eight pairs of thighs. Eight different outlines of pussies through the fabric and not-fabric. Her eyes moved down the row involuntarily — the architecture of each different, the thick one, the lean one, the one with hips that seemed almost absurdly wide, the red-haired one she almost recognized—

“You—”

Her voice came out with real conviction.

“You are a perverted bastard.”

He smiled.

Not the slight curve she’d seen before. This was wider. The smile of someone receiving exactly the reaction they’d been looking forward to.

“Yes,” he agreed.

The riding crop tapped her thigh once — barely, just the ghost of contact, the flat leather end resting against her jeans for the half-second it took him to say:

“Now choose.”

The jet moved through the dark above the country.

Eight women breathed on the bed in front of her.

His cock hung in the air between them, heavy and certain, the way everything about him was heavy and certain, the way gravity was heavy and certain, the way things you couldn’t argue with simply existed and waited.

Minjung looked down the row.

Her hand, moving with the specific autonomy she’d stopped fighting two days ago in a mall fitting room, found the waistband of her jeans.

She pointed.

Second from the left. The one with the dark hair and the rope tied so tightly around her wrists it left the marks she’d deal with later.

“Her,” Minjung said.

Raven looked at her choice.

Looked back at Minjung.

“Good girl,” he said.

The jet moved on toward Las Vegas.

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