The boardroom of Astrea Aviónica never truly sleeps. Forty-third floor, Barcelona’s shoreline glittering below, the room is a long glass prism cantilevered over night air. One wall is nothing but city-scape and Mediterranean moon-ripple; the opposite is a museum of scale models—supersonic prototypes, black-carbon wings, hypersonic nosecones arrayed like lethal petals.
Spotlights hidden in the ceiling strobe in slow pulses, simulating runway obstruction lights. Between those pulses the room seems suspended in space, an orbital module holding its breath.
At the far end: an obsidian conference table long enough to seat a dozen investors. Tonight it seats only two wineglasses, a decanter of Garnacha so dark it swallows the light, and Lucia—late, deliberately, leaning against the sill as though she owns the view. Her dress is charcoal jersey, demure above the knee, but beneath it she’s all soft angles and coiled challenge. No stockings; heels silver as spent shell casings. Her hair—castaña with caramel threads—falls over one shoulder, partly masking a half-smirk she doesn’t try to hide.
She watches reflections instead of runway models, arms folded. The belly of a cargo plane glints across the bay, strobes ticking like a distant metronome. Lucia counts them, letting the seconds stretch, enjoying the flutter of nerves that accompany willful tardiness.
A door sighs open. The air changes temperature.
Lucrezia Ferrer walks in as if she designed the floor’s load-bearing equations—which, in fact, she did. Black tuxedo waistcoat, white silk shirt open at the clavicle, sleeves rolled to reveal the compass-rose tattoo and freshly oiled watch strap. No jacket; she carries authority like a strapped-on jetpack. A single strip of crimson silk peeks from a waistcoat pocket—the only softness permitted.
Their eyes meet across the table’s obsidian sheen. Lucia lifts the wineglass in silent toast; drags a finger around the rim so it hums faint. “Thought engineers ran on punctuality.”
Lu doesn’t smile. She sets a leather folio beside the other glass, pours Garnacha for herself. “Punctuality matters when launch windows close. Tonight’s window is… flexible.” She seats herself without haste, legs crossing under the table, but her gaze never leaves the brat by the window.
Lucia flicks hair back, pats dress smooth, stays leaning against glass. Moonlight polishes her calves, leaves a silver ring just below the hem. “Window to what, exactly?” Her tone holds flirt and dare in equal measure.
Lu tilts her glass; wine rivals the night sea. “Curiosity review. I want to know how a reader of my classified fantasies…”
“Your Lush pages aren’t that classified.” Lucia’s laugh is low, sweet as Catalan liqueur. She pushes off the window and strolls along the model display, fingertips grazing a carbon-composite wing like a lazy tigress stroking cage bars.
Lu’s nostrils flare at that casual trespass. “—knows the room where those fantasies were drafted,” she finishes, voice level.
Lucia twirls. “Easy. I asked. Your intern adores spoiler culture.” She steps to the table’s opposite end, wrists braced on its edge. “Said you write in glass and engine noise. I had to see.”
The ambient light dims one degree—automated night cycle. Outside, an Airbus on approach drags a string of lights across the dark water. Silence inside grows thick.
Lucia circles the table, heels clicking Morse code. She stops at Lu’s chair-back, leans over, catches perfume notes: cedar, jet fuel, the faintest trace of lemongrass oil. Her lips hover near Lu’s ear. “Your stories make nice bed-companions,” she purrs. “But I wonder if you draft fiction or autobiography.”
Lu turns only her eyes. “I write trajectories. Fiction is where planets have two moons.” A beat. “Tonight’s sky shows only one.”
Lucia’s grin widens; she slips into the seat two chairs away, leaving one chair between as if it might spark arcs of current. She crosses legs deliberately, the jersey hem sliding. Lu notes the flash of thigh, the absence of underwear seam under soft fabric—detail logged like tailwind speed.
Lucia sips wine, tongue tracing lip. “So Captain—what trajectory tonight? Will you pitch, yaw, or roll me?”
Lu rotates her glass one quarter turn, reflective black table doubling the motion. “I will observe your pre-flight systems. See if you combust on the pad.”
Lucia laughs, tips the remainder of wine down her throat, throat working. She sets empty glass down harder than needed; the ring of crystal carries challenge. “I burn at my own ignition, Captain.”
She stands again, tugging the hem just an inch, walks back to the glass wall. The Mediterranean now is star-punctured black satin. She sets palms against the cool pane, arches one heel so calf tightens—a posture half casual, half invitation to approach. But she doesn’t look back. She waits.
Lu rises. Chair legs whisper sin across polished floor. She lifts the crimson silk from waistcoat; it uncoils like a tongue of flame. Steps deliberate, echo measured, she moves to stand two meters behind Lucia—close enough to feel heat between bodies, far enough to keep the brat guessing.
“Hands behind you,” Lu says, soft but command precisely weighted. Not louder than the distant engine whine scaling the glass; not softer than the hum of climate ducts overhead.
Lucia’s shoulders roll. She turns her head just enough for profile reflection: pout, raised brow. “Why?” The single word laced with mischief.
“So I can take what your stories offered.” Lu’s answer unfurls slow; a promise, not a request.
Lucia lets five seconds accrue, counting them by pulse ticks in her wrists. Then she threads her fingers at the base of her spine, pushing chest forward against glass. The cool pane kisses nipples through thin jersey; she swallows a startled gasp. The room lights dim another degree—sensors fooled by stillness or complicit in mood.
Lu steps closer. She drapes silk across Lucia’s joined wrists, shows her the softness before tightening. “Colour system,” she murmurs. “Green is go, yellow slow, red stop. Speak any and I untie instantly.”
Lucia’s breath fogs glass. “Green,” she answers, voice nearly sincere.
Lu knots silk—no tension yet, just a decorative coil. Her fingertips brush Lucia’s inner forearms, raising goosebumps. She leans forward until lips hover near Lucia’s ear. “Brat,” she whispers in Catalan, “show me undercarriage.”
She lifts the back of Lucia’s dress with two fingers—slow. Bare skin glows moon-silver; the curve of buttock bare, cheeks dusted by chill. Lu strokes thumb along hip; Lucia shudders, knees micro-bend. The glass trembling under her palms might be city wind—or arousal migration.
Lu steps back, leaving cloth lifted. “Stay.”
Lucia fights the urge to rub thighs. The first carve of submission slices through brat facade, leaving exposed nerve—fear and heat braided. She glances at reflection: her own eyes wide, hair wild, wrists tied with a ribbon that could be undone in a tug but feels iron-sure.
Lucia’s breath ghosts the pane; vapor blooms, fades, blooms again. Below, Barcelona’s grid flickers—taxis threading Las Ramblas, harbor cranes blinking like slow Morse. Her wrists feel the silk’s permission: she could slither out with a shrug, but Lu’s voice earlier—stay—weights the coil heavier than chain.
A fingernail, blunt but certain, traces the back of her thigh, climbs. Static jolts. Lu’s hand cups one bare cheek, squeezes experimentally, as if testing fuselage rivets. “Minimal resistance,” she notes aloud, engineer-deadpan.
Lucia’s retort rides a shaky laugh. “Flawless aerodynamics.” She tilts hips just enough to mock-twerk against the hand—brat signal rocket-flared.
Lu lets the contact vanish. Silence yawns; city wind moans. Seconds stretch long enough that doubt begins nibbling at Lucia’s injected courage.
Then fabric rustles; Lu draws a folded chamois cleaning cloth from waistcoat—soft, suede, aircraft-grade. She polishes a circle of glass at Lucia’s eye-level until pane gleams. “You will watch every diagnostic,” she says. “Hands stay bound.”
Lucia eyes her reflection inside that cleaned halo—cheeks flushed rose-gold, pupils swallowing hazel. Her heart knocks ribs.
Lu steps in close again, this time kneeling. Cool fingertips part Lucia’s cheeks, exposing slick center to the chilled air. Lucia sucks in a hiss, forehead tipping glass.
“Already wet,” Lu murmurs, breath fanning heated skin. She licks two fingers, then slides them—slow—along slit, gathering evidence. The glide is obscene in its quietness. Lucia’s knees hitch; silk bites wrists.
Lu withdraws, stands, holds slick fingers to light. Viscosity threads between digits. She meets Lucia’s gaze in the glass halo. “Combustion threshold confirmed.” She brings fingers to Lucia’s mouth over shoulder; Lucia cranes, tongue flicking, tasting her own arousal and faint resin from cockpit wipes. The hum she makes vibrates against Lu’s knuckles.
“Say danke,” Lu orders.
“Danke,” Lucia obeys—voice husked—then bites tip of Lu’s finger as tease. Teeth graze, not pierce.
Lu smiles—not kind. She extracts hand, sucks same finger, savoring echo flavor. “Brat index rising.”
Swiftly Lu grabs Lucia’s silk-wrapped wrists, raising them two inches. With other hand she lifts the hem fully, tucks fabric into neckline—dress now a ruched band, baring butt and lower back to room’s whispering AC.
Lucia’s reflection: half-naked, hair turning feral, chest heaving. The power lash of exposure whips heat through womb.
Lu unbuttons her own cuffs, rolls sleeves to elbow, exposing forearm sinew and compass tattoo—north arrow aiming at Lucia’s nape. “Spread.” One word, sub-bass timbre.
Lucia drags feet wider. Cool glass flattens nipples; they stiffen, printing twin marks on flawless pane.
Lu’s fingers return—one inside, then two, twisting, hooking. Her thumb plies clit with pilot’s precision—press-circle-release rhythm matching distant aircraft strobe. Lucia’s lips part; fog breath paints bloom over halo.
A moan tries to escape; she clamps teeth, unwilling to give sound yet. Brat to the bone.
Lu senses restraint, speeds strokes, knuckles slapping slick. “Say it,” she orders. Lucia swallows, jaw tight. Instead she rotates hips, grinding for friction but refusing voice.
Lu withdraws completely. Sticky absence sears.
Lucia opens mouth to protest; Lu claps one palm over dressed cheek (not face) and squeezes—hard incentive. “Voice print required,” she says. “System will not arm without authorization.”
Lucia’s laugh cracks; desire floods with adrenaline. “Authorization code?” she taunts, words fogging glass.
Lu leans in, lips at ear. “Say: ‘Don’t leave.’”
Memory of her own story line detonates inside Lucia—Jaz’s dominance fused with Lu’s. Pride wrestles craving. She remains silent.
Lu’s free hand trails up spine, settles at nape, pinching nerve cluster where tension wires converge. The pinch sends bolt to pelvis. Lucia whimpers—the smallest sound yet, betraying.
Lu releases cheek, pinches silk cord. “Last call.” Fingers slide again—not entering, just skimming outer slick, the ghost of bliss withheld.
Lucia’s forehead thuds glass softly. She watches her pupils quiver and, breathless, whispers: “Don’t leave.”
Permission unlocked. Lu’s hand thrusts back—two fingers deep, curling, tempo fierce. Thumb rolls clit, index knuckle pressing internal spot. Wet sounds join city murmur. Lucia’s moan escapes, full-throated this time, echoing off glass and model wings.
Lu’s other hand grips hair, forcing head to keep eyes on reflection. “Louder.”
Lucia obeys; the moan climbs, richer, cracks once. Lights in office tower across harbour could witness; the thought spins heat to white.
Knees shake; orgasm surges, but Lu slows—edge denial again—until Lucia sobs wordless plea. Lu resumes, faster, punishing; silk at wrists creaks. Release detonation: Lucia freezes, then convulses, a wet impact against palm and glass. Her cry is music over turbine baseline.
Lu keeps fingers inside until tremors ebb, then withdraws, slick coating knuckles. She releases hair, untucks dress hem, letting fabric fall over flushed skin. Lucia sags forward to glass, cheek pressed to cool surface, chest heaving.
Silk unwraps wrists; circulation prickles. Arms float down, heavy. Lucia turns, back to pane. Lu stands close, lifting stained fingers to her own lips, sucking slowly. Lucia watches, wide-eyed awe painted over brat remnants.
“Report,” Lu says, voice low. Lucia swallows, cheeks flaming. “Systems… nominal.” A grin bleeds. “Ready for secondary burn.”
Lu’s answering smirk slices soft. “Secondary burn involves seatbelt harness and louder decibels. But hourly factory crew arrive at zero hundred.”
Lucia bites lip. “Then I’ll stow away in your cockpit, Captain.”
Lu slips the crimson silk into Lucia’s pocket, a promise-tongue. “You’ll stow in my apartment. Two blocks west, 0100 hours. Bring no panties this time.”
Lucia salutes—mock sharp. “Aye, Captain.”
Outside, the city horizon shows first pewter hint of dawn. Inside the boardroom, model wings cast raptor shadows while Lucia gathers pulse and damp thighs. The glass retains her fogged imprint, a testimony above the shimmering sea.
The private lift opens into Lu’s duplex penthouse like an airlock breaching pressurization. Floor-to-ceiling panes reveal Barcelona’s rooftops swimming in sodium haze; a single LED strip runs the length of polished cement, cool as a runway centerline. Along one wall: a brushed-steel workbench scattered with carbon-fiber scraps and micro-torque wrenches. Opposite: a mirror wall, flawless, eight metres wide.
Lucia steps out, pulse hammering hi-hat tempo. No panties as ordered; her charcoal dress clings damply between thighs from the taxi ride’s anticipation. She carries nothing but a phone and a coil of the crimson silk knotted round her wrist like contraband.
Lu emerges from the shadow of a spiral staircase—sleeveless black utility jumpsuit, half-unzipped to sternum, exposing taut lines of clavicle and that north-point tattoo. She holds a rolled aircraft-grade seatbelt harness—black webbing, chrome cam-buckles glinting. Moonlight slices across her cheekbone, turning profile into a raptor silhouette.
“Close the lift, Lucia.”
Button pressed, doors seal. City noise evaporates; the only sound is turbine whisper from hidden air vents.
Lu circles, eyes raking from Lucia’s wind-tousled hair to bare calves. She cups Lucia’s chin, thumb tracing lower lip. No kiss—just measure.
“Colour?”
Voice husky: “Green, Captain.”
Lu spins her gently toward the mirror wall. “Dress off.”
Lucia’s fingers tremble as she gathers hem over hips, lifts jersey up, exposing flushed breasts, sweat-dewed abdomen, bare folds already slick. The dress drops to the concrete with a hush. Her nipples harden in cool air; reflection shows pale anticipation.
Lu lowers a hand, sliding two fingers through Lucia’s heat. She lifts the slick to Lucia’s lips. “Taste what the ride here did.” Lucia sucks digits, moaning softly.
Lu nods approval. “Harness.”
The seatbelt harness wraps like an X-wing: one strap over each shoulder, crossing between breasts, down the sides, clipping to a pelvic belt with a central D-ring over mons. Cam-buckles ratchet with metallic clicks. Webbing edges bite deliciously into soft skin. Lucia’s breathing accelerates as straps pull her posture upright—flight-ready.
Lu tests tension at shoulder straps, tugging until Lucia’s breasts lift, nipples grazing air. She threads the crimson silk through pelvic D-ring, ties a bow that dangles like a landing ribbon.
Mirror shows: Lucia bound, slick thighs parted, eyes glossed. “Perfect aerodynamic profile,” Lu murmurs.
Lu kneels behind, palms sliding along hamstrings to spread legs wider. She licks one long stripe from knee crease to tailbone; Lucia’s gasp ricochets off glass. Lu’s tongue circles bud, then dips—one sharp plunge that steels Lucia’s knees. Hands clutch harness straps for balance.
Lu’s mouth seals over clit, suction strong; two fingers spear inside without warning. Rhythm aggressive, relentless, each stroke angling up to sweet spot. Lucia’s reflection shows her own mouth slack, breasts jolting with every thrust, knees trembling as webbing holds her upright.
She moans, volume rising; Lu breaks suction only to command: “Louder. Let the city echo.”
Lucia obeys; cry spills, window panes vibrating faintly. Fingers drive faster; orgasm mounts like a skyrocket. Harness creaks.
Just as climax crests, Lu withdraws, stands, wipes saliva-slick chin with thumb, smears it across Lucia’s nipple. Denial slices electric. Lucia lets out a broken whine, hips searching empty air.
Lu grips harness back with one fist, drags Lucia half-step forward. “Look.” In mirror Lucia sees translucent slick running down inner thighs, sheen on swollen folds. Lu crouches, taps it with index. “Dripping. For what?”
Lucia swallows. “For you… Captain.”
“Say: I’m your runway.”
“I’m your runway.” Voice cracks, cheeks flame.
Lu smiles predator-soft. “Good. Next approach.”
She guides Lucia against the mirror—belly to cool glass. Nipples flatten; fog blooms with each breath. Lu’s left hand gathers both wrists overhead, pressing them to glass. Right hand penetrates again, this time three fingers, palm slapping slick folds. Lucia’s moan muffles against reflection.
Lu bends, teeth grazing shoulder. “I’ll land gear only when you beg. Understand?”
Lucia nods frantic. Fingers pound, thumb bruising clit, wet slaps echo.
She lasts maybe thirty seconds before voice fractures: “Please—please land—Captain, I beg!”
Lu maintains thrusts two more beats, then hammers deeper, curling just right. Orgasm ignites—Lucia trembles, scream echoing glass, thighs glossy with release. Lu devours sound, pumping through pulses until contractions fade.
Harness remains tight. Lu unlatches only the pelvic D-ring, letting web straps hang but wrists still pinned. Lucia slumps, breath ragged. Lu licks juice off fingers, then paints leftover slick across Lucia’s lips in mirror, smearing a literal badge of heat.
Colour check. Lucia whispers, “Bright green…”
Lu’s grin vicious. “Refuel, then.” She turns Lucia, eases her to knees on padded mat placed earlier. Webbing glints like bondage armor. Lu unzips jumpsuit further, revealing black lace boyshorts drenched from own arousal. She slides them aside, thighs glistening.
“Show how grateful a runway is.” She tangles fingers in Lucia’s hair, guides mouth forward.
Lucia’s tongue laps, collecting musk; she moans at first taste, heat surging again despite spent nerves. Lu exhales shaky, rocking hips—control yielding momentarily to pleasure.
Mouth suction grows; Lucia’s arms still overhead, vulnerable. Lu’s thighs tremble. She tightens grip, rides mouth until peak crashes—soft growl swallowed by city hush. Release slicks Lucia’s chin, mixing with her own flavor.
Lu steadies, breath stormy, then lifts Lucia by harness straps to stand. “Mirror,” she orders. They face reflection: Lucia’s mouth glossy, cheeks flushed; Lu disheveled, tattoo pulsing with heartbeat.
Lu wipes Lucia’s chin, then kisses her, sharing taste. “You pass inspection,” she murmurs.
Harness buckles pop, freeing arms. Lucia collapses against Lu, wet heat seeping down still-spread thighs—true dripping mess. Lu carries her to a leather bench, cradles head, strokes hair.
“No panties next time either,” Lu whispers.
Lucia laughs, voice hoarse. “I will arrive fueled and runway-slick.”
Outside the horizon blooms pewter, heralding dawn. Inside, two silhouettes rest—sated but hungry for the next module’s darker ascent: the cockpit bench, vibration probes, and rope-compression that makes glass moans seem tame.
