Palace on the Beach

 

 

 

 

 

Anya Evren

 

 

Epilogue: Autobahn

Foggy, rainy days are not the best kind of days to be driving down the Autobahn in a Neunelfer (the German term for a Porsche 911), and Ingrid wasn't actually enjoying the freedom of tearing down the asphalt at ludicrous speed.

It's not that she didn't like fast cars - as a little girl growing up, sharing her car-mechanic dad's interest in cars and high-performance engines was one way she could mitigate his clear disappointment at her not being born as a boy. The knowledge she gained from him about cars and engines was what had landed her first job, as an intern at Arthur Bechtel's Classic Cars in Böblingen, where she met that customer who flirted with her, and then became her rapist, her lover, her agent, her pimp, her jailer, her torturer, her owner. The man from whom she was keeping a secret that could get her killed if he found out. The man with whom she shared dark secrets that would put them both in jail for life. But if she had learnt anything from her mom, who would serve dinner with a smile to her father after getting a black eye from him, it was that acting was not just a career, it was a survival technique.

Growing up, Ingrid had vowed never to become a porn actress, after coming across evidence of her mother's acting career. Watching the woman who raised her, and whom she used to adore, being used and abused, swallowing semen by the mouthful, oozing creampies, and worst of all - taking cock after cock in anal gangbangs while being heavily pregnant with Ingrid - still made her gag.

And when a university nerd discovered her mother's porn career in an internet archive, she had been forced to give up her virginity to him (and probably taking his in the process) to keep it a secret. For a whole year, until he graduated and moved to Bremen, he had made her practically his sex slave, doing the most disgusting things to her, while making her watch her mother's porn.

And yet, a porn actress was what Alexander had turned her into.

Part of her irritation stemmed from the fact that her drive to Bochum had been in vain. Alex had got a call from someone claiming to be a casting agent for GGG (German Goo Girls - a bukkake studio), and she had driven 450km for a casting. Arriving in Bochum, she had discovered that the office building whose address she had been given was full of furniture shops and kitchen showrooms.

She had driven to several similar sounding addresses with no success, after the "casting agent's" phone didn't answer her calls. Finally, she had called Alex and he had been furious, as if it had been her fault. Too tired to drive back and face his anger, she had spent the night at a hotel and hit the Autobahn early to avoid the traffic.

Porn acting, contrary to what most people assume, didn’t pay much. It definitely wasn’t an enjoyable job either, in an industry dominated by asshole producers and directors. Even the cameramen wanted their cocks sucked, and a full movie, usually with one day of shooting, only paid a couple of thousand euros. Jobs were few and far between, and there was always fresh, young meat competing for the roles. Actresses like Ingrid, who was neither very pretty nor well-endowed in the breast department, could only get parts in fetish and extreme genres, like bukkake or BDSM.

The Porsche was not a result of her porn acting career. It was from a previously steady and lucrative income from a different business that Alex had got her into. Unfortunately, that business had to go into cooldown mode for a few months because of a nosey reporter, and Ingrid had car payments to meet, not to mention rent and an empty fridge, making her take available roles in the industry again. She didn’t want to touch her secret savings. That was her ticket to an escape from this life one day.

Ingrid wasn't in the mood to enjoy the picturesque valley bridges along the A45, and some fucktard in wimpy little Renault with Dutch plates was hogging the left lane at 130km/h. With the righteous fury that a German driver reserves for showing a foreigner what's "in Ordnung", Ingrid furiously flashed her headlights at him while tailgating at high-speed, until he finally got the message and moved over.

But that wasn't the end of her annoyances. After she had merged into the A5 heading towards Frankfurt, she noticed a grey car tailgating her in the heavy traffic. The driver of the car would get very close and then move back, and repeat the annoying pattern. So, it was probably a Fat Forties Fuckboy, having noticed that it was a woman behind the wheel, and trying to attract attention. She ignored the car as it followed her all the way south to Darmstadt. She took the exit to A67, and noticed to her irritation that the grey car was still behind her.

Traffic was thin on A67, and once they had passed Darmstadt area, that delightful white road sign with a circle crossed out by three diagonal slashes came in to view, indicating they were entering an area of the Autobahn with no speed limit. Ingrid glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw that the grey car was still taunting her. Time to let the fuckboy dine on her dust.

With a grin, Ingrid floored the perforated metal accelerator pedal with a sneaker-clad foot, and the twin turbos roared delightedly in response. With deft taps on the paddle shifter, she brought the 911 from a sedate 150km/h to the take-off speed of a Gulfstream jet within just a few seconds, feeling the sweet acceleration pressing her into the bucket seat.

Throwing a quick glance into the rearview mirror, she was shocked to see that, instead of being a dwindling speck, the grey sedan was effortlessly keeping pace with her, just about 30 meters from her bumper. Ahead, a series of blinking lights and speed limit signs indicated another annoying stretch of roadworks, and she was forced to reduce speed to a crawl. That gave her a chance to take a better look at the car behind her.

The iconic inverted triangle grill indicated that the car was a latest model Alfa Romeo Giuilia. To keep up with her 911, it must be one of those sheep-in-wolf's-clothing Quadrifoglio models with the insane 500 HP Ferrari engine under the hood. That put the fuckboy theory in a bit of a spin.

The favoured mode of transport for a Fat Forties Fuckboy was, of course, a BMW 3 or 5 series (preferably with a matte paint job). A 150,000 Euro Alfa would be a bit out of reach for a run of the mill fuckboy. Probably a divorced banker fresh from a show-off session at Nürburgring then. The license plate started with an "S" indicating it was registered in Stuttgart. Well, not too unusual in this area, but a strange coincidence. Could it be someone she knew?

The next two letters (which are selectable by the car owner during registration) of the license plate were "EX". Yeah, shouldn't discount the fuckboy theory just yet. The numbers that came after were 346 - a license plate vulgarity, which, when pronounced in German, sounds like an invitation to a threesome. So - a rich fuckboy then.

Realizing that she would be unable to shake the car from her tail, Ingrid decided to do what any German woman harassed by a fuckboy on the Autobahn would do. She took the exit to the next rest area, west of Forsch. She had to pee in any case, and grabbing a coffee wasn't a bad idea either. If the driver of the Alfa dared to follow her there and hit on her, she could lay it on him in front of an audience.

As she parked in front of the Serways restaurant, the Alfa rolled into the vacant parking lot next to her. The passenger door of the Alfa opened and a petite, strikingly beautiful Asian woman, dressed elegantly in a black turtleneck and black leather pants stepped out, casually slinging a tan lambskin Chloé bag over her shoulder, her perfectly styled raven hair blowing in the wind. The fuckboy would have to be very rich to afford that kind of girlfriend.

As Ingrid was turning away, trying to avoid the fuckboy, the driver's door opened and the driver stepped out. It was a woman. She was of medium height, short hair dyed pink, slim with narrow waist, wide hips, large breasts, and nose ring, dressed in a black World of Warcraft T-shirt with "Blood and Thunder" emblazoned in red text, and a pair of stressed jeans. Her pale blue eyes under heavy mascara and dark eye shadow locked in on Ingrid with an expression of pure hate, before the Asian woman walked around the car, took her by the hand and led her towards the restaurant. There was something familiar about the pink-haired woman, but at the same time, Ingrid was quite sure she had never met her before - maybe a minor celebrity she had seen on TV perhaps. Well, not a Fat Forties Fuckboy but a Butch, Emo-punk, Drama-Barbie then. She must have pissed her off on the Autobahn somehow.

Coming out of the stinky, temporary toilet (the usual ones were under repair), Ingrid walked over to the counter and bought an over-priced Latte Macchiato and a Chocolate croissant. She took a bench seat in a vacant corner booth and started reading the angry messages from Alex on her phone.

Suddenly there was a movement to her side, and the Asian woman from the Alfa slid in next to her, trapping her in, while the drama-barbie slid into the bench seat opposite. Before Ingrid could even begin to voice her annoyance at the intrusion, the drama-barbie slammed a piece of paper in front of her. As her gaze fell on the word written under the crudely drawn symbol on the napkin, Ingrid felt the blood draining from her face and her legs going numb. Looking up at the pink haired woman, whose light blue irises had a thin brown border, indicating she was wearing coloured contacts over brown eyes, Ingrid felt the shock of recognition running through her like a jolt of electricity, paralyzing her with raw fear.

 

---- To be continued ----

 

Chapter One: Transit

It was the longest flight she had taken in her life... and it could probably be the last.

The first leg of the journey was very short, about three and a half hours. The Learjet landed at an airport in Turkey. She recognized the airport - it was the Kayseri Erkilet airport, into which she had flown in a couple of years ago on a holiday trip to Cappadocia with friends. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had a life other than this.

After the flight landed in Erkilet, it taxied to a remote part of the airport away from the main terminals where a set of hangars were located. In front of the hangars was a much larger private jet, with "Gulfstream G650ER" printed near the tail, and the Learjet came to a stop parallel to it, wingtips nearly touching. The two men in black suits disembarked and she was left inside the plane. It seemed as if she had been forgotten, and nothing appeared to be happening outside. The slave dozed off, tired from the long journey since that morning.

She was jolted awake about an hour later, when the door opened again. Another man, dressed in similar clothing but dark and Asian looking, boarded the plane and motioned her to come with him.

She was whisked out of the Learjet and immediately led into the Gulfstream. The aircraft was very spacious, and was luxurious. On each aisle, four huge, white leather recliner seats sat in two rows facing each other across a polished wooden table. Further back in the cabin was a leather sofa facing a large TV. Behind a wooden divider she could see a galley, and behind that, an area with a closed wooden door.

Sitting on one of the recliner chairs was a small, stern-looking Asian man in his sixties with leathery brown skin, a thin pencil moustache and swept back salt and pepper hair, clad in an expensive looking navy-blue suit. Behind him on the sofa was a plump, balding Asian man, rifling through the contents of a leather briefcase. An attractive tall blonde woman in a sky-blue uniform dress was busy in the galley.

The man in the blue suit slowly looked her up and down, and then gestured for her to sit on the seat opposite to him. The man who had accompanied her sat on the seat across the aisle to her.

A man in a pilot's uniform came out of the cockpit and pressed a button, and the boarding door/stair lifted off the ground and hissed shut. "We are ready to take off, Your Highness," he addressed the man in the blue suit. Turning to the plump, balding man, he added, "Doctor, would you please take your seat?"

The plump man came ambling over, and after a nod from the man in the blue suit, took the seat across the aisle from him. The stewardess served them all a brilliant yellow juice in crystal glasses. It was mango, and it tasted like heaven, after the time she had spent in the cabin in the woods.

A few minutes later, the Gulfstream sped down the runway, reaching the speeds at which a Neunelfer would speed down the Autobahn, and leapt into the air as gracefully as an eagle taking flight.

 

Chapter Two: Testing

The Gulfstream levelled off above the clouds. Strangely, there was no pressure on the eardrums or the popping of the ears that she associated with normal passenger airliners. The enormous flattened oval windows provided a panoramic view of the rugged landscape below.

The flight continued in silence for the next half an hour, while the man in the blue suit was engrossed in a newspaper that was printed in English alphabet, but in words that didn't have any resemblance to European languages. The slave had been told by her only friend in the world that she had been sold to a prince from South East Asia, and that was a region of the world she was not at all familiar with. The other two men in the cabin were obviously not daring to break the silence, and the man whom the pilot had addressed as "Doctor" was fidgeting nervously.

The only one to break the silence was the stewardess. She pranced over in her impossibly short light blue uniform skirt and matching high heels and placed napkins, cutlery and porcelain plates on the table in front of them, and proceeded to serve them a salad, taking their orders for main course in perfect English with a slight Swedish accent. The men replied, with the man in the blue suit announcing his preference first. When the stewardess turned to her, the slave remained silent, staring at her lap. A slave should not choose. The stewardess seemed puzzled, but when no reply came after repeating the question, she smiled, tossed her curly blonde hair and retreated to the galley.

When the stewardess returned with a small cart and bent to place the plates on the table, her tiny skirt rode up, exposing lime green panties covered by thin transparent tights. As the stewardess bent over to serve the doctor, the slave could see the man in the blue suit staring at the same sight, licking his lips. The slave was served a spicy rice with beef, similar to what the doctor was having. The slave ate ravenously.

After lunch, dessert (a type of sweet pudding she didn't recognize, but which the stewardess cheerfully announced as sago pudding with gula melaka), and coffee service, the tables were cleared and the cabin lapsed into silence. After finishing his coffee, the man in the blue suit said something to the doctor in a language with long, flowing syllables. The doctor nodded and stood up.

"Come with me," he ordered the slave. She stood up immediately and followed him to where the couch was. Taking several small glass vials filled with liquid from his bag, he pricked her finger with a sharp lancet and squeezed a drop of blood into each vial, as the stewardess looked on from the galley with a puzzled look on her face. The doctor started a timer, shook some vials, and took some notes. Finally, he seemed pleased. He then handed her a small plastic jar with a screw top. "Go pee in cup," he ordered in broken English.

The slave stood up, unsure where to go. She walked up to the stewardess, who was now pretending that she wasn't eavesdropping, and asked "Umm... where can I find the toilet, please?"

"Oh, come with me, I will show you the guest toilet," replied the stewardess, ushering her towards the front of the plane, past the reclining chairs, and opening a polished wooden door opposite the boarding door. "Is everything okay, madam?" she asked with a note of concern in her voice.

"Of course," replied the slave brusquely, trying to end this conversation. This idiot might get them both in trouble. The stewardess appeared surprised by the reaction. She seemed very young, 23-25 at most. "I am sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to intrude. This is my first flight with His Highness, and I am not very sure how things go." Despite the slave's hostile attitude, the stewardess was beaming, her excitement at having landed the job opportunity of her life clearly overpowering everything else. "I will be right outside if you need me."

The toilet was unlike any airline toilet the slave had experienced. There was even a (cramped) circular shower cubicle with a rain shower and mood lighting, and all the fittings were from Dornbracht. The toilet seat was one of those crazy electronic ones, which opened as she approached, and was pleasantly heated. After filling the jar halfway, the slave emptied her bladder, feeling the piss drain from her. She wished that the traces of her friend's cunt juice would still linger, while she carefully dabbed away the hanging drops. She couldn't find the flush mechanism, and being too embarrassed to ask, exited without flushing. The stewardess went in and made a gesture with her hand over the toilet seat and it flushed.

The doctor added drops of her urine into three more test tubes with clear liquid. One turned blue, and the others remained clear. The doctor nodded, went over to the man in the navy-blue suit and whispered something in his ear.

 

Chapter Three: Servitude

The man in the navy-blue suit stood up and walked towards the galley, and motioned to the slave to follow him as he walked by towards the door aft of the galley. The stewardess noticed where he was heading, ran ahead and opened the door for him, pressing herself against the fuselage to let the man pass in the narrow passageway. As the man passed by the stewardess, he reached out and groped her buttocks. The startled stewardess sprang back, hitting the back of her head against the fuselage with a thud. The man smirked and motioned for the slave to follow him in. The stewardess closed the door behind them.

The compartment behind the door was a small, but fully appointed bedroom. Plush carpeting covered the floor, and a queen-sized bed stood in the middle. The bed had small posts at each corner, and tied to each of the posts was a length of black rope. It reminded the slave of how she woke up on that fateful morning in the cabin in the woods.

The man stood near the foot of the bed and pointed to his crotch. The slave understood what he wanted. She dropped to her knees in front of him, and stroked his crotch, feeling a small but hard lump behind the zipper. She undid his belt buckle, fumbled with the clasp of the pants with shaking hands, and pulled down the zipper. The pants slid down the man's scrawny legs, exposing his white underwear, hiding a growing bulge. The slave caressed the bulge, feeling it pulse. She pulled down the underwear, exposing a short but fat circumcised cock surrounded by a mat of greying pubic hair. A drop of pre-cum gleamed on the pink, mushroom shaped head of the cock that was already beginning to droop.

The slave felt a wave of revulsion sweep over her. She had never serviced a man this old before. Her dad, if he were still alive, would be younger than this man. Still, she remembered everything that Cumrag had taught her. Holding the sagging cock in her hand, she licked the drop of pre-cum, looking up at the man. He had an approving smile on his face. She opened her mouth, and took his cock in.

She serviced his cock the way she had been taught - grip loosely with the lips, no teeth contact, tongue flat with the tip curled up to caress the head and shaft as it slides towards her throat. As she let go of her grip on the cock to take it all in (which was not a challenge, after being used to taking the much bigger cocks of her kidnappers), she could feel the cock hardening again. The man gripped two fistfuls of her hair and forced her head on to his cock, grunting in pleasure.

After a couple of minutes, she felt his cock going limp again. This was not good. She redoubled her efforts in panic, trying to cram as much cock into her mouth as possible, but to no avail. The man appeared to be quite jaded to the kind of service he was getting.

With a sigh of impatience, he brusquely pulled his cock out of her mouth, trailing ropes of saliva.

Without releasing his grip on her hair, the man pulled her towards the bed. The slave tried to rise, assuming that she was to get on to the bed. But the man kept her head firmly down as he dragged her, and laid her face and shoulders on the high mattress, with her in a half-kneeling position at the foot of the bed. The man took the lengths of rope attached to the foot-end posts of the bed and tied them to her wrists. The position was very uncomfortable, with her arms spread out wide, giving no leeway to adjust her position to assuage the thigh and calf muscles that were already starting to protest.

The man savagely pulled up her black dress, and she could hear a seam giving way. With the hem of the dress piled up at her midriff, the man yanked the black lace thong that Cumrag had put on her that morning, down to her mid-thighs. With her buttocks and thighs exposed, the slave maintained her uncomfortable position, with her muscles protesting.

The man opened the overhead compartment and took out what looked like a black stick with a thin rod extending from it, ending in a small paddle. When he got closer, the slave realized that it was a riding crop. The man swished the crop in the air, his limp cock swaying like a pendulum. As he got into position behind her, the slave knew what was coming.

She still wasn't prepared for the explosion of pain that followed the man's grunt, the whoosh, and the thwack. She yelped like a startled terrier in surprise, and whimpered as tears clouded her vision and her right buttock burned. A second grunt, whoosh and thwack followed, and a searing blast of pain blossomed on her left buttock. The sobs came unbidden, as the man picked up the pace, landing blows on her buttocks, and backs of her thighs that were already screaming with the effort of holding her position.

As the man moved back to get a better angle, the slave could see that his cock was erect and throbbing. Despite the pain, the slave felt a sense of accomplishment, knowing that it was the pain inflicted on her body that was arousing the man. This emotion simultaneously surprised and scared her - just a couple of months ago, the idea of being so sadistically used would have horrified her… as it should. If nothing else, this was a very clear sign that she was no longer who she used to be. She had turned into... no, had been turned into, a woman whose only goal in life was to pleasure men at any cost.

 

Chapter Four: Pain

With deft slaps with the paddle on the insides of her thighs, the man indicated to her that she should spread her thighs wider. Her muscles screaming in pain on top of the searing pain on her skin, she shifted her thighs, but the thongs at mid-thigh level prevented her from spreading them more than a couple of inches. With a snort of impatience, the man bent over and with a savage yank, ripped the flimsy thongs apart, leaving the tatters hanging on her left thigh. Without waiting for a further signal, the slave spread her thighs wide, putting the burden of supporting her weight on to her lower back. Even with the spread thighs, if the man wanted to hit her inner thighs, he wouldn't get much of a swing. That wouldn't hurt much.

The sudden explosion of pain caused her to scream out, as the next blow, instead of landing on the inner thighs as she expected, hit squarely with explosive force on the meaty inner lips protruding from her gaping cunt. The pain blossomed blow after blow, causing her to almost black out. She was hardly aware when the blows stopped and the man got on to the bed.

The man had stripped completely, exposing scrawny thighs, a small pot belly and sparse, greying chest hair. He sat at the foot of the bed, his legs resting on the slave’s back, with his crotch, with the engorged penis, snug against the slave's face. She could smell his arousal as she opened her mouth and took his cock in, extending her neck at a painful angle. The man shimmied his buttocks closer, burying his cock to the root in her mouth. Grabbing fistfuls of hair again, the man started rocking her head back and forth.

Each time her head was pushed on to his cock, with her nose buried in his pubic hair, she could hardly breathe. When he rocked her head back, her neck was pushed back at an angle that made her think that her neck would break if he pushed it further. The man was obviously enjoying her pain and the tears streaming down her cheeks, as evidenced by the throbbing of his cock inside her mouth.

This time, when the man finally pulled out his cock from her mouth, it was rock hard, with the engorged veins glistening with her saliva.

She was barely aware of the man getting his legs off her back and sliding off the bed sporting his proud erection. She heard him opening and closing the overhead bin again, and that jolted her back to full lucidity - what could he be taking out from there now?

Before she could even crane her neck to look, the man was at her side. She felt something being slipped around her neck - something like a belt, and then it started tightening. Panic overcame her and she struggled, changing her position as she felt the upper part of her throat constricting. The man stopped tightening the leather loop, but it was still making breathing an effort and bright spots swam in her vision. With a sharp slap to the back of her thighs, the man indicated that she should get back to the position she was in before she struggled in her panic, and the slave obeyed.

She felt his cock pressing up against her battered and bruised cunt. It hurt badly as the head of his cock pushed ruthlessly against the swollen inner lips, and the cry of pain she uttered came out as a croaky whimper from her constricted throat. Tears of pain coursed down her cheeks as his cock penetrated a couple of inches inside her before his pot belly intervened. As the man started pumping, it felt as if the entrance to her cunt had caught fire, but it did feel good inside her cunt. Due to the shortness of the penetration and the angle, the engorged head of the cock was rubbing against the front wall of her cunt and that was very pleasurable.

Despite the ring of fire at the entrance to her cunt, she was getting wet, and her whimpers changed tone. It became even harder to keep getting the oxygen she needed into her lungs, as she struggled to breathe against her constricted throat. She was getting light-headed. It felt as if she were somehow separated from her body, yet trapped inside it. She could feel the pain and pleasure, but it felt like something happening to someone else. When the man suddenly pulled out of her, she could feel that cunt spasming, and waves of pleasure following the sharp pain of the cock pulling out through the swollen cunt lips seemed to happen to that someone else. So were the spurts of warm liquid that seemed to erupt from that cunt and gush down those thighs in time with those spasms. The man's laughter seemed to come from a million miles away.

When she felt that pressure against her anal sphincter, she was beyond resisting. The sharp pain as the impatient cock pushed into her unprepared, unlubricated hole hardly made her squirm. She was oblivious to everything, except drawing in enough air to keep her from blacking out. The man was ruthlessly using her body, and he wouldn't care even if she died. To him, she was simply a toy he had paid for... an object to be used and discarded. The hard, uncaring thrusts ripping through her anus, sending lances of pain up her spine, kept her awake and focused on breathing.

After what seemed like an aeon of breathe... breathe... breathe... there was a sudden eruption of warm wetness inside her, accompanied by a heavy grunt from the man. The painful pressure that had been filling her insides was removed. And then came the blessed relief from the constricting pressure that had been strangling her.

When the man untied her wrists, the slave collapsed in a heap at the foot of the bed. The sleep that enveloped her was as deep as an abyss and dark as oblivion.

 

 

 

Chapter Five: Coffee, Tea, or Rape?

She awoke to someone shaking her by the shoulder. "Ma'am! Are you alright, Ma'am?"

She opened her eyes. It was the stewardess, with a look of horrified concern on her face. The mood lighting in the cabin was the bright yellow and pink of a fake dawn, and light string music was playing. She realized that she was still lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. The room door was open and a trolley with breakfast on it was parked nearby, unserved, with the smell of freshly baked bread and coffee wafting from it. The stewardess was squatting beside the slave, unintentionally opening up a view of her shapely thighs covered in sheer tights converging towards the neon green patch of flimsy lace covering her intimate areas.

"I.. I am fine," croaked the slave, struggling to get up, as the stewardess held her elbow. Every joint in her body hurt as she raised herself up, and as she did so, she saw the reason for the horrified look on the stewardess' face. Her dress was torn, with the hem of the dress still bunched up around the waist. The tatters of the torn panties still hung from her right thigh, and the bruises from the riding crop were turning purple on her inner thighs. Leaning on to the stewardess, she managed to stand up on shaky legs, her knees screaming in protest.

The man was sitting up on the bed, propped up by pillows and casting an impatient glance at the stewardess. "I...am okay. Serve breakfast," whispered the slave anxiously, fearful of what would happen to them both if the man got angry. The fear seemed contagious, and the stewardess nervously set about serving breakfast.

She took out a tablet, folded out a pair of leg frames and set it up over the man's lap, spread a white table cloth over it, and proceeded to serve breakfast. The slave held on to the overhead bin to keep her balance on her trembling legs. After the man's breakfast was served, the stewardess came over, took her by the elbow and led her to the door beyond the head side of the bed. Behind the door was a large bathroom, bigger than the one she had seen in front of the plane, which seemed to extend all the way to the tail of the plane. The slave staggered towards the toilet seat, which opened and glowed blue as she approached, and sat down heavily on it. The stewardess took a quick look in to the room, stepped into the toilet and closed the door behind her.

"Hey, are you okay? If there's something wrong, you can tell me. I can contact the authorities when we get back to Europe," the stewardess spoke in a low voice as she leaned forward. "No... please. I am fine," murmured the slave, closing her eyes and letting loose a stream of hot piss, and wincing as it touched her bruised cunt lips. "Look, I do this for a living ok? I'm a fetish escort," she lied, hoping that this do-gooder idiot would let go and not get them both in trouble.

A look of distaste crossed the stewardess' face for an instant, before the plastic, professional look returned. She waited until the slave cleaned up, washed her face, and tried to make herself as presentable as possible, and then followed her back into the bedroom. Taking out a second tablet from the cart and gesturing to the bed, she asked, "Shall I serve you your breakfast, Ma'am?"

Getting on to the bed with her owner, who was royalty to boot, didn't sound like something a slave would be expected to do. The slave simply sat down on the floor near the entry door to the room, facing the foot of the bed. The man smiled and nodded approvingly. The stewardess hesitated, set the tablet down next to the slave and served a croissant, butter, fruit, yogurt and a steaming mug of coffee on it. As the stewardess bent over, the slave could see the man looking at the girl's exposed rear end appreciatively. The slave wondered whether the goody-two-shoes girl even knew why she had got this job.

Half an hour later, the stewardess returned and cleared the dishes and tablets, placing them neatly on the trolley. As she was about to leave, the man spoke up, "You! There are some crumbs here. Clean up," pointing to his lap.

"Yes, your highness, I am sorry your highness," apologized the stewardess, grabbing a napkin from the trolley. She hurried over to the bed, and bent over the side of the bed, looking for the crumbs. The man's right hand immediately dived under the raised hem of her uniform skirt, and grabbed her nylon covered buttock. The stewardess gave a surprised shriek and started to straighten up, but at that moment, with practiced precision, the man's left hand grabbed the front of her dress, and with a pull from his left hand and with a push on the buttocks with the right, the stewardess was tossed over on to the bed, landing face down, with her buttocks raised up right on the man's lap.

 

Chapter Six: Struggle

The stewardess uttered a yell of surprise and struggled to get up. The man kept a tight hold on her, grinning triumphantly. "Sir! Please, stop! Stop now! This instant!" yelled the stewardess, both anger and fear raising her voice to high pitch. There were steps down the aisle, and the man in the black suit, whom the slave had tagged in her mind as the "bodyguard", appeared in the doorway.

The slave, still sitting on the floor, looked up expectantly. The stewardess, noticing the figure in the doorway, pleaded, "Help me, help me, please!"

The man came inside, shut the door and leaned against it, watching on silently with a poker face that showed no shred of compassion. Her hopes dashed, the stewardess began to sob, as the old man's right hand brutally yanked down her sheer tights, tearing them in the process. "Do something, please!" pleaded the stewardess, looking directly at the slave. The slave sat on the floor, staring at the bed, not moving, saying nothing. What could she do?