Scene 1: Arrival – Geeta's Return, Divya's Collapse
Time: 6:27 a.m. | Location: Mumbai International Airport – Crew Lounge
The crew lounge smelled like instant coffee, dry paper towels, and old perfume. The kind of space that looked clean on paper but carried the fatigue of every red-eye, every long-haul, every crewmember who had ever cried into a locker.
Divya stirred her tea slowly. The sugar never dissolved completely in these metal thermoses—they just pretended to be sweet until you reached the bitter sludge at the bottom. She didn't taste it. Her mouth was dry.
All around her, quiet tension thrummed.
Flight rosters buzzed on tablets. Someone fumbled with a hairnet. Over by the lockers, a junior hostess muttered to another, eyes darting left and right.
"She's still not back, is she?"
"Geeta ma'am? No. A full week. No contact."
"Think she had a breakdown?"
"I heard divorce. Something big. Like she… snapped."
Divya didn't look up, but her grip on the thermos tightened.
Geeta. Gone for a week. No explanations. Not even a reply to texts.
No one spoke it aloud, but they all felt it: something had changed.
And then, like a movie cue, the air shifted.
It wasn't the room that changed—it was the silence between words, the collective inhalation of gossip-laden lungs.
The door to the staff wing hissed open.
Two women stepped in.
And the lounge stopped breathing.
Jasmine entered first.
Click-click. Her heels struck polished tile like a runway metronome.
Her uniform—still regulation red—clung indecently. Skirt hem pulled higher than standard. Her blouse, tight enough to threaten a button's life expectancy, gaped slightly at the chest, just enough to tease lace. Her lipstick was a deep plum, glossy, sinful. Her thigh split as she walked, flashing a curved shadow beneath—the black lines of a tattoo, rising from forbidden places.
The entire room stared.
And behind her…
Geeta.
Divya forgot to swallow.
Geeta walked with purpose. Slow. Centered. Composed like a queen—no, a convert. A worshipper who had been made holy through submission.
Her blouse was buttoned—but only halfway. The V of her neckline displayed skin she never used to show. A silver chain rested above her cleavage, and just above it, on her left collarbone—
Ink.
A barcode. A number beneath it. The number wasn't random. Divya didn't know what it meant yet. But it made her thighs clench involuntarily.
The rest of Geeta's look was equally transformed.
Her skirt was tighter than any she had worn before—snug against her hips, hugging the new confidence in her walk.
Her makeup? Darker. Eyes smoked with deliberate seduction. Lips tinted like pomegranate syrup.
And her hair, always braided or clipped, now flowed in soft waves—wild, untamed.
Someone dropped their stylus.
No one spoke.
A stewardess at the tablet check-in desk blinked twice and almost missed a scan.
Divya's heart thudded.
What the fuck happened to her?
Geeta and Jasmine didn't speak to anyone. They didn't need to.
They walked together—two halves of the same decadent secret. Past lockers. Past stares. Past shame.
Jasmine offered a wink to a young male crew member who nearly stumbled backward into the water dispenser.
Geeta's eyes stayed forward. Calm. Deadly.
Like she knew what everyone was thinking.
And didn't care.
Divya's hands trembled as she tried to zip her overnight bag. Her fingers slipped on the tab.
She wasn't the only one feeling it. She could hear the muttering restart, frantic and low.
"Did you see that?"
"Is that a tattoo on her neck?"
"Who are they trying to impress?"
"Did she get… branded?"
Divya stood up too fast. Her head swam. She caught herself on the edge of the bench, heart hammering. Shame curdled in her chest—but it wasn't shame at them.
It was envy.
Hot. Raw. Wet.
She wanted to feel what they felt.
Jasmine turned toward the coffee station, brushing past Divya like a breeze of perfume and sin. Her lips parted in a casual smile.
She said nothing.
But her eyes flicked down to Divya's trembling fingers—and her lips twitched in recognition.
She knew.
Of course, she knew.
And then Geeta passed.
She didn't even look directly at Divya, but her scent lingered, musky and feminine and faintly floral. Divya caught a glimpse of the barcoded tattoo again and nearly gasped aloud.
The woman who once barked commands in the training hall now moved like she'd been tamed by touch alone.
Divya sat back down.
Hard.
Her thighs pressed together automatically.
She could already feel her panties dampening.
This was no accident.
They wanted to be seen.
They wanted to mark her—without touching her yet.
And it worked.
Divya's breath came in short, shallow gasps as she watched the two corrupted women vanish into the private terminal wing.
Scene 2: Observations on Duty – Jasmine Reigns, Geeta Radiates, Divya Spirals
Time: 6:54 a.m. | Location: Boarding Lounge – Gate 7, VIP Check-in Zone
The boarding gate buzzed with the usual morning frenzy—early passengers pacing in crisp suits, loud children tugging on frazzled mothers, the echo of suitcase wheels over polished tile floors. Announcements echoed overhead, mixing boarding calls with weather reports and the occasional security reminder.
But none of it touched Divya.
She stood behind the counter at the VIP check-in desk, tablet in hand, fingers stiff and mechanical. She had already forgotten the last boarding pass she scanned. Her lips moved on autopilot—"Good morning, sir. Welcome aboard…"—but her mind was nowhere near the lounge.
It was inside the glass doors beyond the gate.
Watching them.
Jasmine stood near the refreshments table like it was her personal stage. Her hips leaned slightly into the counter, spine arched in a way that made her blouse cling to her breasts and part slightly at the neckline, giving teasing glimpses of the swell beneath.
One leg was bent slightly. A subtle tilt of her hips. Her skirt had no right being that tight and still legal.
And then… the tattoos.
When she turned just enough to accept a glass of lemon water from the catering staff, the sunlight through the tinted glass kissed the side of her thigh, revealing black ink curling upward—a thorned vine with tiny roses, spiraling up from the knee toward her hip, disappearing beneath the tight red fabric.
Divya's throat closed.
The same jasmine-scented aura that haunted her dreams now drifted openly through the air.
But Jasmine wasn't the only one stealing attention.
Geeta… was a vision.
Poised. Radiant. Composed like a woman who had tasted the forbidden and decided it belonged to her now.
She stood beside the flight manifest kiosk, head tilted slightly down as she reviewed the seating assignments. Her hair—loose, flowing—fell over one shoulder, highlighting her neck where a second tattoo curled gently toward her ear.
A string of Sanskrit letters.
Not random.
Owned. Branded. Free.
The script was delicate, almost holy, a cruel contradiction to the low whisper of her open blouse and skirt that fit like a silk glove.
A senior flight officer walked past them, eyes lingering for just a moment too long. Jasmine smiled at him without a word.
He blushed.
Geeta didn't look up.
She didn't need to.
The world was looking at her now.
Divya's fingers slipped on the tablet.
She almost dropped it.
Her heart pounded.
She adjusted the collar of her regulation uniform, suddenly suffocating. It felt stiff, prudish, and tight in all the wrong places. Her pantyhose scratched. Her bra pinched.
And her panties were wet again.
Not from exertion.
Not from heat.
But from watching Geeta silently raise one manicured hand to smooth her hair back behind her ear—a motion so mundane, and yet… so erotic when performed by someone who had spent a week being broken into submission and reborn as lust incarnate.
Divya had questions.
Too many.
What happened during that week?
Did she beg?
Did she cry?
Did she scream into a pillow and come harder than she ever had in her life while Jasmine whispered things in her ear?
She blinked, forcing herself to look down at her passenger manifest.
Her reflection stared back from the tablet screen—glossy eyes, lips parted, a blush that wouldn't leave.
Get it together, she whispered to herself.
"Ms. Rana?"
Divya jumped.
A junior stewardess named Akshaya stood beside her, holding out a tray of boarding welcome kits.
"You dropped this earlier."
Divya nodded, took the tray mechanically. "Thanks."
"You okay?" Akshaya tilted her head. "You look a little… flushed."
"I'm fine," Divya snapped too quickly, forcing a smile.
Akshaya didn't press.
But she didn't need to.
The whole crew had seen the shift.
They were watching Jasmine and Geeta too—some with envy, others with judgment, but all with awe.
It wasn't just the makeup, the altered uniforms, or the tattoos.
It was the confidence.
The sensuality radiating off them in waves.
The glow that no spa treatment or designer product could recreate.
It came from something deeper.
Something raw.
Something Divya wanted.
And she hated herself for it.
She hated how her thighs pressed together every time Geeta moved.
She hated how her heart fluttered every time Jasmine caught her staring.
She hated the ache between her legs that hadn't subsided since that morning in the parking lot…
And still, she watched.
Still, she imagined.
Still, she craved.
Scene 3: Private Confrontation – The Silent Confession
Time: 7:28 a.m. | Location: Aircraft Cabin – VIP Business Class Section, Preboarding Phase
The cabin was quiet.
Not peaceful—quiet. Like a confession chamber just before sin was spoken.
Outside the plane, the low hum of luggage belts and fueling equipment murmured through the metal hull. The last of the cabin checks were nearly complete. Jasmine moved from panel to panel with relaxed grace, ticking through final checklist items. Her heels clicked softly against the aisle floor, echoing in the stillness like a metronome made of seduction.
Geeta stood near the beverage station, organizing the premium selection for the VIP passengers—hands calm, face serene. But every flick of her wrist, every tuck of a napkin, every motion of her fingers had a rhythm to it now. Smooth. Sensual. Confident.
She was back in uniform—but not really. This was a new uniform.
One she wore like a badge of surrender.
Her blouse clung to her chest in the wrong way. The kind of wrong that men would kill to see more of. Three buttons left undone. A black lace bra is visible if you catch her at the right angle of light. Her skirt looked painted on, highlighting every curve, every line of muscle she'd once restrained under layers of discipline.
And the tattoos…
Peeking from the edge of her blouse, curling down the back of her neck, sneaking out from her wrist cuff—Geeta's ink wasn't subtle anymore.
She'd been marked.
And she was proud of it.
Divya stood at the edge of the business class divider, half-hidden behind a curtain. Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow bursts.
Her hands trembled on the service tablet.
But she didn't notice.
She only saw them.
Her teammates.
Her idols.
Now her obsession.
A week ago, she'd been the youngest among them—but still the most "put together." The ambitious one. The "good girl."
Now?
Now she was the outsider.
The untouched one.
The one with dry thighs and no tattoos and a heart breaking from its own heat.
She stepped forward.
Not loudly.
Not timidly.
But like someone who couldn't hold it in anymore.
Geeta turned first.
Then Jasmine, from the coffee panel.
Their eyes met hers.
No judgment.
Only… recognition.
Like they'd been waiting for her to reach this moment.
Divya's voice cracked on the first word.
"I—"
She stopped. Swallowed.
Then tried again.
"I want to know."
Jasmine arched an eyebrow, smirking softly. "Know what, sweetheart?"
Divya stepped closer.
Close enough that she didn't need to raise her voice.
"I want to be like you."
Silence.
The kind that ripples.
"I want the… freedom. The glow. The… whatever it is that's made you smile like that all morning."
Her eyes flicked to Geeta.
"And you. You're different. I see it. You're not pretending anymore."
Geeta didn't speak.
But her eyes warmed.
Divya's breath quickened. Her face flushed.
She stepped between them, barely breathing now.
"I want the same contract. Whatever it is that you have with him… I want it too."
There.
It was out.
She expected laughter.
Or mockery.
Or at least surprise.
Instead, Jasmine smiled.
Not wide.
Not cruel.
But gently. Like a sister watching another take her first step off the edge.
"You're sure?" Jasmine asked, voice velvet-wrapped.
Divya nodded. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
Geeta finally spoke.
Low.
Calm.
"Then it's already begun."
Jasmine stepped closer, brushing Divya's cheek with her fingertips. Her touch was featherlight. Intimate.
Divya froze.
Jasmine leaned in—her lips brushing the shell of Divya's ear.
"Then ask him yourself," she whispered, the scent of jasmine oil and sex thick on her breath.
"…after takeoff."
Then she kissed her cheek.
Not a friendly kiss.
Not a flirt.
Something else.
A mark.
A blessing.
An invitation into darkness.
Divya's skin burned where the lips had touched.
She stood there, rooted, as Jasmine turned away without another word—coolly resuming her checks, as though nothing had happened.
Geeta didn't follow right away.
She lingered.
Their eyes met again.
And in that silent moment, Divya knew:
Geeta had broken.
Had bled.
Had surrendered.
And had loved it.
Geeta tilted her head slightly, then whispered:
"We'll be waiting."
Then she turned and walked away.
Divya stood alone in the aisle.
Trembling.
Breathing hard.
Her panties were soaked again.
Her nipples ached behind the stiff, flight-approved blouse.
She clutched the service tablet against her chest and whispered to herself:
"…I'm ready."
Scene 4: Boarding, Emotional Cliffhanger – The Wait for the Master
Time: 8:06 a.m. | Location: Business-Class Boarding Entrance, Gate 22
The sun had risen fully now, slanting harshly through the terminal glass, turning the tiles into a checkerboard of blinding reflection and shadow. Heat shimmered outside on the tarmac. Inside, the airport pulsed with mechanical efficiency.
Passengers lined up for boarding—phones in hand, bags clutched to their sides, necks craned forward with impatience.
And Divya… stood perfectly still.
Right at the door.
Right where she was supposed to be.
Her smile was practiced.
Her tone was polite.
Her form is precise.
But none of it was real.
Because her heart wasn't in her chest anymore.
It had been left behind in that brief, whispered moment, after takeoff—Jasmine had said.
The kiss still burned on her cheek.
And the promise it carried?
It was a knife pressed to her soul.
One that cut open everything she had buried for years.
She wasn't thinking about coffee service. Or safety checks. Or the VIP roster she was supposed to memorize.
Her mind was consumed by a single thought.
Him.
Would he come?
Would he board like he always did—casually, without fanfare, with that same impossible presence?
Would he look at her?
Would he see her?
She didn't know.
But her body was preparing.
Even now, standing at the threshold of the aircraft door, smile fixed and posture professional, Divya could feel the slow burn of her body coming alive.
Her panties were already damp again.
Her thighs clenched once every few seconds—small, involuntary pulses of anticipation.
Every time she blinked, she saw the image of Ryan seated in the convertible, head tilted back, moaning while Jasmine rode him.
Every time someone passed by, she thought she saw a glimpse of Geeta's flushed face, mouth full of cock, mascara smudged with surrender.
It wouldn't leave her.
And now—she didn't want it to.
Passengers trickled in.
Most didn't look at her twice.
Some offered stiff nods.
Others smiled absently.
She went through the motions.
Welcoming.
Gesturing.
Directing them to their seats.
But all the while, her eyes kept flicking past them—beyond them.
Searching.
Not for a seat number.
Not for a name tag.
But for him.
Where was he?
The minutes ticked by.
Each one louder than the last.
Jasmine moved past her once, brushing her shoulder casually. Her eyes sparkled.
"Smile wider," she murmured. "He'll be watching."
Divya blushed instantly, teeth pressing into her bottom lip before she forced the polite, empty smile again.
Geeta walked by as well, holding a tray of sealed water bottles, her movement silent and smooth.
She didn't say a word.
She didn't have to.
Her presence spoke volumes.
She was no longer who she had been.
And Divya… was moments away from crossing that same line.
A boarding agent passed the final manifest to the lead steward.
Jasmine glanced at it.
And gave Divya a small, knowing nod.
Then she disappeared behind the curtain—off to the business section.
Was he on it?
Divya's fingers curled against her side.
Her mouth was dry.
The pit in her stomach coiled tighter with every heartbeat.
Then—
She saw him.
It wasn't the suit that caught her eye. Or the sunglasses. Or the perfectly-groomed beard.
It was the energy.
The way the air itself shifted to make room for him.
He walked casually.
Leisurely.
With the confidence of a man who didn't need to prove a single thing to anyone.
Ryan.
Divya's breath caught.
Her throat clenched.
She almost forgot to greet the person in front of him—almost let them walk right past without so much as a nod.
But she recovered.
Barely.
Ryan approached the door.
Their eyes met.
And she forgot what words were.
For the briefest moment, he looked at her like she was a glass of cool water on a summer day.
Then…
He walked past her.
No words.
No nod.
No smile.
Just presence.
And heat.
And silence.
And Divya?
Her knees almost gave out.
Not from insult.
But from need.
Because now she knew.
He had seen her.
Had acknowledged her.
Had claimed her.
Without a word.
Jasmine peeked out from behind the business-class curtain again—just long enough to smirk at Divya.
Then disappeared.
Geeta reemerged briefly to retrieve something.
Her eyes locked on Divya's face.
And she smiled too.
It was done.
No more hesitation.
No more doubt.
Divya turned back toward the door.
More passengers were coming.
She had a job to do.
But all she could feel was the soft wet heat gathering between her thighs, the tight swell of her nipples against her bra, and the echo of one final thought she could no longer silence:
"Where are you… Master?"