πΈ Scene 3: The Layover Bar β Seduction in Public
The rooftop bar of the hotel in Abu Dhabi was bathed in golden light.Small, elegant string bulbs draped from polished steel railings, casting soft glows over the white linen lounge chairs and marble bar counters.It was an expensive place β one we were only allowed because the airline had struck some corporate deal.
The desert night air was cool against my skin as I nursed my drink at a side table, trying to focus on the city skyline spread out below.
But I wasn't looking at the skyline.
No one was.
All eyes were on Jasmine.
She arrived late, as if she had planned it, commanding the attention of every man β and not a few women β with effortless grace.
She wore a deep maroon gown, cut dangerously low at the chest, the slit riding almost obscenely high up her thigh.
And from that slit emerged the black floral vines of her Garden of Sin tattoo, curling along the length of her thigh like a seductive, forbidden invitation.
The design wasn't loud or crude.
It was sensual.Natural.Like the flowers had grown out of her flesh, coiling upward toward her hipbone, begging to be traced.
I squeezed the stem of my wine glass harder than necessary, my knuckles white.
Beside me, Nisha whispered something crude about Jasmine's dress under her breath and giggled.
I couldn't respond.My tongue felt like lead.
Because I wasn't laughing.
I was staring.
Drinking her in like a drowning woman gasping for air.
Jasmine's hair was down tonight β cascading in soft, loose waves β exposing the full trail of butterflies fluttering up her neck, the ink seeming almost to shimmer under the fairy lights.
And when she laughed β a throaty, decadent sound β the movement made her peony breast tattoo rise and fall visibly above the low neckline of her dress.
I watched, helpless, as Jasmine made her way toward the crew cluster gathered around a VIP guest β an oil tycoon, wealthy beyond imagination, overweight, wearing a suit that cost more than my annual salary.
He stood when he saw her, an eager smile stretching across his face.
And Jasmine β oh god β Jasmine smiled back with pure wickedness, stepping into the space he made for her.
Their bodies brushed.
His hand β thick, greedy β settled low on her bare back, where the maroon fabric dipped to reveal the top edges of her Temptress Wings tattoo, just barely hidden by the gown.
Instead of stepping away, Jasmine leaned closer, whispering something into his ear.
The man laughed β a rough, throaty sound β and tightened his grip, sliding his palm lower until his fingers brushed the top of her ass, barely covered by the clinging dress.
My stomach twisted painfully.
I should have looked away.
I should have left.
Instead, I stayed.
Frozen.
Watching.
The drinks kept flowing.
Laughter grew louder.Voices more careless.Touches bolder.
At some point, Jasmine ended up perched on the VIP's lap.
Not sitting stiffly, like an awkward guest.
She lounged there.
Reclined.
Owning him.
Owning the entire fucking rooftop.
Her legs crossed, the Garden of Sin tattoo sprawling beautifully across her exposed skin.
The old man's hand slid slowly up her outer thigh, fingers brushing along the inked vines.
She didn't stop him.
In fact, she spread her legs wider, letting the high slit fall open scandalously, offering him more.
From where I sat, I could see his hand creeping higher, sliding under the slit, disappearing beneath the fabric.
And Jasmine...Jasmine arched slightly against him, her eyes fluttering closed for a second.
A soft sigh escaped her lips β almost inaudible under the music.
But I heard it.
I felt it.
Like a punch to the gut.
There, in the middle of a five-star rooftop bar, surrounded by her colleagues, Jasmine was letting herself be touched.
Fondled.
Fingered.
And she wasn't just allowing it.
She was enjoying it.
Welcoming it.
My thighs pressed together instinctively, the wetness between them shameful, undeniable.
I watched her lean down, whispering into the man's ear again, her body pressing into him, the tattoos along her back flexing as she moved.
I could see the tip of the script along her spine β Words of Surrender β peeking above the backless gown.
I wondered if the man was tracing the letters with his fingertips, imagining what she would sound like reading them aloud while heβ
I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
No.
No, this wasn't right.
This wasn't me.
But it was.
Because when Jasmine finally slid off the man's lap, smoothed down her dress with a sultry sway of hips, and headed for the elevators β him trailing behind her like a loyal dog β I couldn't move.
I just sat there.
Burning.
Dripping.
Wanting.
Long after she disappeared from view, I was still staring at the elevator doors.
Still picturing the way she looked β hair messy, tattoos flashing, lips parted in a half-smile of sinful promise.
Still feeling the echo of her moan vibrating inside my own chest.
The city lights blurred into smears of color as tears prickled behind my eyes.
But I wasn't crying out of sadness.
I was crying out of desperation.
Because deep down, a part of me was screaming:
"I want that."
I wanted to be her.
I wanted men to look at me with that kind of hunger.I wanted to be desired so badly that dignity became irrelevant.I wanted to be touched, possessed, claimed without shame.
I wanted to be corrupted.
And I hated myself for it.
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The rooftop bar glowed under fairy lights, the golden threads weaving through the balustrades casting a dreamlike haze over the scene.
But for me, there was no dream.
There was only Jasmine.
And the slow, devastating destruction she was wreaking β not on the men around her, but on me.
I sat alone at the edge of the gathering, my untouched drink sweating in my trembling hand, and watched her work her poison.
Jasmine stood now by the VIP guest β the corpulent oil magnate in a glistening suit β laughing lightly at something he murmured into her ear.
Her body language was shameless.
Teasing.Flirtatious.Completely without fear.
She leaned in close, one hand brushing his chest casually, the deep maroon slit of her gown falling open as she shifted her weight.
The dark ink of her Garden of Sin tattoo β twisting vines and blooming black roses β lay fully exposed along her outer thigh.
It was a siren's call, and the man answered without hesitation.
His pudgy hand, adorned with fat gold rings, slid up her exposed thigh boldly, openly, his fingers stroking the curves of her tattooed skin.
Jasmine laughed again β low, throaty β and shifted closer, practically draping herself over his lap.
I saw it.
I saw the moment her legs spread just a little wider.
Saw the gleam of moisture beginning to darken the edge of her inner thigh where the slit gaped indecently.
The man's hand disappeared further under the fabric.
And Jasmine...
Jasmine moaned.
It wasn't loud β a soft, breathy sound β but I heard it.
I felt it.
She squirmed slightly, biting her lower lip, hips rocking subtly against his hidden hand.
My own thighs clenched so hard my calves cramped.
I couldn't move.
Couldn't blink.
Couldn't breathe.
The man's fingers were moving.
I could see it.
His shoulder rocked faintly, his body hunched forward toward her, his breath coming in short, greedy pants.
And Jasmine... Jasmine fucking welcomed it.
Her body arched slightly β a slow, graceful curve of her back that made her Temptress Wings tattoo stretch beautifully above her hips.
The butterflies along her neck flexed as she tilted her head back, eyes fluttering closed.
She was moaning into his ear now, soft, wet, broken little sounds that made my skin crawl and burn at the same time.
"Mmm... yes... just like that...""Touch me more... don't stop..."
The wet sounds were faint, but unmistakable.
The subtle squelch of fingers stroking slick, soaked folds under the thin dress.
The creak of the leather chair under her shifting weight.
The tiny slap of skin as she rocked subtly into his palm.
I sat there, frozen, heartbeat thundering painfully in my ears.
I felt the wetness between my own thighs growing, soaking through the thin barrier of my panties.
God.
God, this wasn't happening.
This couldn't be happening.
Not here.
Not like this.
Not to Jasmine.
Not to me.
Another gasp from her β louder this time, a sharp "ahh!" that she tried, and failed, to stifle.
A few nearby tables turned their heads.
The stewardesses giggled drunkenly behind their hands, pretending not to stare.
The pilots smirked, nudging each other.
The VIP only grinned wider, his fingers working faster under her dress, his mouth now pressed against her neck, sucking lightly along the trail of butterflies inked into her flesh.
Jasmine moaned again, a longer, drawn-out "Ohhh... yesss...", her body trembling visibly.
And she didn't pull away.
She didn't stop.
She surrendered.
Completely.
Right there, in public, in front of all of us.
I pressed my glass so tightly my fingers ached.
Every breath was a struggle, my chest tight, my clit throbbing painfully inside my soaked panties.
I wanted to look away.
I couldn't.
I watched β helpless, drowning β as Jasmine's hand slid up, gripping the man's shoulder for balance, her hips rolling gently into the strokes of his hidden fingers.
The maroon gown shifted higher with each grind, revealing more of her Garden of Sin, the vines seeming almost to move with her body's desperate rhythm.
I imagined it.
I saw it in my mind:
His thick fingers sliding into her.Stretching her.Fucking her slowly under the table while she smiled and laughed and gasped against his neck.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to fall at her feet and beg her to teach me how to be so shameless, so free, so fucking beautiful.
The man shifted, whispering into her ear.
Jasmine nodded, biting her lip, a wicked gleam in her eye.
Then β as if sensing the tension thickening the air around her β she rose from his lap slowly, pulling her dress back into place.
The man followed immediately, adjusting his jacket, flushed and eager.
Jasmine smoothed her hair β but didn't bother fixing the obvious wet patch that had darkened her dress where he had fingered her to the edge of orgasm.
She wanted us to see.
Wanted me to see.
The mark of her pleasure.
The badge of her corruption.
They moved toward the elevators β Jasmine swaying her hips, the slit of her dress dancing wider with each step, the black roses on her thigh calling to me like forbidden fruit.
I watched them go, my body shaking, heart hammering.
My mouth was dry.
My panties were soaked.
My fingers itched to slide between my thighs and finish the shameful job right there at the table.
But I didn't move.
I just sat there.
Burning.
Yearning.
Falling.