Lola Takes Flight

"whatever IDGAF"

And then, the third and final message, which I had sent him at 2:56AM.

This one was another selfie. But this time, I was wearing the white terry-cloth bathrobe I'd woken up in, untied and hanging open so that you could see I was naked underneath. I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, one hand holding my hair up in a messy bun to keep it from falling in front of my face.

In the photo, I was biting my lip with my eyes were closed, looking almost proud of myself. And there, sprayed across my pretty face, were several thick, white gobs of fresh, sticky cum. Below, just visible inside the frame, were my conqueror's initials emblazoned above my right breast: HLR.

The caption had no words, just a single emoji: a black-haired Asian woman, shrugging her shoulders.

I closed the app instantly, trying to banish the image, as tears began to well up in my eyes. I felt like I was going to hyperventilate, or throw-up, or both.

I opened the chat with Chase, wanting to type something, but having no idea what I could possibly say.

"Chase," I wrote, as if his name alone could communicate everything that I was feeling. As if his name could explain why I'd let my best friend's 50-year-old dad use me as his personal cumdump.

"You're a fucking slut," he wrote back instantly.

I started to type, but I saw the three dots appear again, so I stopped, waiting to see what else he would say. Then, another message appeared.

"Just like her"

And suddenly, an image appeared in the chat window.

It was a photo of a very pretty Asian woman, probably in her mid-20s. She was topless, lying on her back in bed, her long, glossy hair fanned out around her head against the pillow. Her breasts were small but perky with cute, pink nipples. She was looking up at the camera, surely aware of the photo being taken, a coy, doe-eyed expression on her face.

A man's forearm was reaching into the frame, his fingers wrapped around her neck, not quite choking her but pinning her helplessly to the bed.

Chase's forearm. Chase's fingers.

As quickly as they had formed, the tears vanished from my eyes, replaced in an instant by a much more complicated cocktail of emotions. Relief and disappointment, anger and resignation, arousal and humiliation.

"We need to talk," I wrote again.

"I get back to LA tomorrow," he wrote. "I'll text you"

"Okay," I wrote back.

Then, for some reason I added: "Enjoy your flight"

Slowly, I closed my phone, slipping it back into my bag. My mind was racing, moving way faster than I could process.

When had Chase taken that photo? Had he been fucking other girls the whole time he was in Asia? Or had he taken it in the last few hours, as a way to get back at me for what I'd done?

Had Marcy's dad been right about Chase? If so, did that mean that the story of the Asian flight attendant was really true? Did that mean that he was right about me, too?

What about the photo I'd sent to Chase? Did Marcy's dad know that I'd taken it? Had he seen it? What if there were other photos? What other details had I blacked out? What else had I let him do?

What if Marcy found out? What if Tim did? What about the next time I saw Mr. Richards? What if he wanted more?

What was I doing with Chase? What was he doing with me?

I felt dizzy, nauseous from so many questions that I couldn't seem to answer.

Just then, a group of young Asian women walked past my gate. They were each wearing the same outfit: a spotless, cream-colored jacket with a matching knee-length skirt. Beneath the fitted jackets, they each wore a tight, white blouse, topped with a turquoise neckerchief. Many of them wore matching turquoise ribbons in their silky black hair. Most wore red lipstick, the better to accentuate their fair skin and bright, white smiles. All were wearing heels, which clicked as they moved in unison through the terminal.

The logos on their jackets gave them away, but I already knew who they were: a flight crew for Korean Airlines, ready to board a nonstop flight to Incheon Airport outside of Seoul.

These girls were all around my age, or maybe a few years older. They were all slim and pretty, with clear skin, dark eyes, and warm, welcoming smiles. They must all speak English, I thought. They must all enjoy traveling, drawn to the skies by their sense of adventure and a desire to see the world. They probably look forward to meeting new people in new places. Maybe they enjoy meeting new men from other countries.

I had no doubt that these men would enjoy meeting them. And why shouldn't they? These girls weren't responsible for building the plane or flying it. Their whole job was to take care of the passengers. Their entire purpose was to ensure that these passengers enjoyed themselves in the air. These girls were in the service industry, just like the girls I worked with at the nightclub. Whether they realized it or not, these girls were hired guns, just like me.

I wondered how far these girls would go to please their passengers. I wondered whether special rules applied to passengers in first or business class, the high rollers of the sky. I wondered what might happen in the VIP section of the plane, behind that little curtain, when the sky outside grew dark and the cabin lights dimmed.

I wondered if these girls had ever had a passenger like Chase. Or one like Marcy's dad. Or perhaps one like the tall, handsome Black guy who had manhandled me at the club.

I wondered what these girls would do if a man like that boarded their flight from SFO to Incheon. That's a 13-hour overnight flight. A long time for anyone, but practically an eternity if you're a young, pretty Asian girl trying to resist the advances of a rich, older alpha male.

Like a fool, I'd told Chase to "enjoy your flight," as if he needed encouragement. Just looking at these girls in their prim little uniforms, it wasn't hard to imagine how easily they could be despoiled.

A knee-length skirt, hiked up and bunched lewdly around a pair of young, creamy thighs.

A tight, white blouse, unbuttoned to reveal a white lace bra and a pair of pink, pointy nipples.

A turquoise neckerchief, gripped from behind and used as a choke-collar. A beautiful Asian girl, trained to behave like a bitch in heat.

As I watched the flight crew recede into the terminal, two emotions emerged from the jumbled torrent inside me.

On the one hand, I felt a sense of kinship with these girls, an affirmation that I was not alone. They were a reminder that there were other girls out there, each subject to the same unflinching male gaze, submitting their bodies to the same dominant, demanding men. If this were true, then it was a comfort, because it meant that I was not uniquely broken in my relationships with men. Perhaps this was simply the way that certain men and certain women were destined to be towards one another.

But on the other hand, I felt a pang of loss, because these men had told me that I was special. They'd said that I had a world class body, that I was a natural born porn star, that I was the hottest piece of ass they'd ever seen. I'd be lying if I said that these comments, degrading as they were, didn't also make me feel good. And these men, they hadn't just said these things: they'd pursued me with such dogged persistence, such naked aggression that it all seemed true. They'd made me believe that I was more than just a slut--I was the perfect slut, the slut from their wildest dreams, the ones they never believed could come true.

What if I wasn't special after all? Everything I'd done for these men, all the humiliation and degradation... it only made sense if I was one-of-a-kind, just like they'd said. I could live with it so long as it was my special cross to bear, the price I had to pay for the incredible abundance of physical gifts that life had bestowed upon me. I could make peace with what I'd done for these men if I was their ultimate fantasy girl, the one they'd remember forever.

But if I was just a commodity... just another tight body... another warm mouth... another wet pussy... another submissive Asian girl...

No, I thought, shaking my head, trying to clear such dark thoughts from my mind. You can't think like that. It's not true.

Even if Chase fucked another girl, that doesn't mean anything. Even if some slutty Asian stewardess sucks his dick on the flight back to LA, that doesn't matter. When he gets home, you'll show him what he's been missing. You'll remind him just how special you are.

Anybody can buy a ticket on Singapore Airlines or Korean Air. Nothing special about that.

But only the most dominant, aggressive, big dick alpha males earn an all-night, red eye flight on Lola Airways.

And I give them the ride of their life.