Private Service at 30,000 Feet - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading Private Service at 30,000 Feet, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of Private Service at 30,000 Feet.
I'm Annie Langley, your friendly neighborhood flight attendant—with a specialty in catering to First Class whims.
"Premium Service? This is what you call premium?" The businessman's fingers crept under my collar before I could blink.
I flashed him my practiced pout while reaching for my phone. "Sir, the $10,000 upgrade unlocks real privileges—" His slap sent my phone clattering across the galley floor.
Then his hands were on my thighs, his breath hot in my ear. "Impress me, and I'll wire fifty grand before we land."
Fresh out of training, I'd hit the jackpot with this gig—curves and fair skin meant First Class assignments, where "special requests" came with unspoken tips. Turbulence rocked the cabin, and my tray slipped, drenching a passenger's slacks in orange juice.
"My deepest apologies, sir." I dropped to my knees, skirt hiking up just enough to reveal the lace tops of my stockings. As I dabbed his trousers, my cleavage brushed his knee—whoops.
His grip closed around my wrist.
I guided his hand higher with a coy smile. "Let me make it right. I'll upgrade your service package... on my dime."
The lounge door barely shut before he ripped my blouse open. Buttons pinged off the walls as his calloused palms claimed my breasts.
"This the upgrade?" he rasped.
I arched into his touch, fabric straining. "Mhmm." A strategic whimper when he pinched too hard. "Tissue, sir?"
Instead, he sucked juice from his fingers, eyes locked on my mouth.
"I'll fetch fresh pants—"
His belt snaked around my wrists. Cotton briefs muffled my gasp as he shoved them past my lips. "Pants are overrated."
When he pushed me onto the couch, my thong snapped under one tug.
I blocked him with his own phone. "$10,000 Premium Service unlock, Mr. Roscente?"
Vincent's scowl could've frozen the Atlantic—but his payment notification dinged three seconds later. Cha-ching.
Kneeling frog-style on the bench, I nosed along his inner thigh until—
BANG. The plane lurched. Oxygen masks dropped like party streamers.
"Annie! Crew stations now!"
I cursed through fabric. Worst. Timing. Ever.
One apologetic peck on Vincent's scowling mouth. "Safety first, sugar. Ring for me later."
His grip on my arm said otherwise, but I twisted free—duty called, even if my commission just got delayed gratification.
"Premium Service? This is what you call premium?" The businessman's fingers crept under my collar before I could blink.
I flashed him my practiced pout while reaching for my phone. "Sir, the $10,000 upgrade unlocks real privileges—" His slap sent my phone clattering across the galley floor.
Then his hands were on my thighs, his breath hot in my ear. "Impress me, and I'll wire fifty grand before we land."
Fresh out of training, I'd hit the jackpot with this gig—curves and fair skin meant First Class assignments, where "special requests" came with unspoken tips. Turbulence rocked the cabin, and my tray slipped, drenching a passenger's slacks in orange juice.
"My deepest apologies, sir." I dropped to my knees, skirt hiking up just enough to reveal the lace tops of my stockings. As I dabbed his trousers, my cleavage brushed his knee—whoops.
His grip closed around my wrist.
I guided his hand higher with a coy smile. "Let me make it right. I'll upgrade your service package... on my dime."
The lounge door barely shut before he ripped my blouse open. Buttons pinged off the walls as his calloused palms claimed my breasts.
"This the upgrade?" he rasped.
I arched into his touch, fabric straining. "Mhmm." A strategic whimper when he pinched too hard. "Tissue, sir?"
Instead, he sucked juice from his fingers, eyes locked on my mouth.
"I'll fetch fresh pants—"
His belt snaked around my wrists. Cotton briefs muffled my gasp as he shoved them past my lips. "Pants are overrated."
When he pushed me onto the couch, my thong snapped under one tug.
I blocked him with his own phone. "$10,000 Premium Service unlock, Mr. Roscente?"
Vincent's scowl could've frozen the Atlantic—but his payment notification dinged three seconds later. Cha-ching.
Kneeling frog-style on the bench, I nosed along his inner thigh until—
BANG. The plane lurched. Oxygen masks dropped like party streamers.
"Annie! Crew stations now!"
I cursed through fabric. Worst. Timing. Ever.
One apologetic peck on Vincent's scowling mouth. "Safety first, sugar. Ring for me later."
His grip on my arm said otherwise, but I twisted free—duty called, even if my commission just got delayed gratification.
End of Private Service at 30,000 Feet Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to Private Service at 30,000 Feet book page.