POV: Divya Rana Time: 11:10 a.m. Location: Airline HQ Staff Lounge, Abu Dhabi | Scene 4: Crew Lounge Shock
The staff lounge buzzed with low conversation and clinking cups.
Crew members trickled in for the pre-flight briefing: buttoned-up uniforms, tired expressions, small talk about layovers, checklists, and coffee that tasted like cardboard.
Divya sat in the corner—still, silent, wrapped in her regulation jacket. Hair tied. Eyes darting to the door every few seconds.
She was waiting.
Not for briefing.
For her.
And then Jasmine entered.
The energy in the room shifted instantly.
Even before she was fully in view, a few heads turned. The low murmurs dulled to a hush.
Then came the heels.
Click. Click. Click.
Jasmine strode in, slow and deliberate, her figure wrapped in a perfectly tailored crew uniform—but with minor, deliberate violations:
Her skirt was shorter than regulation.
The top unzipped down to a dangerous line just above her cleavage.
And as she walked, her right thigh slit open just enough to flash black ink that slithered upward from under her stocking line.
A single butterfly.
Just a wingtip.
But it was enough.
Divya forgot to breathe.
Her thighs clenched.
The exact spot where that tattoo began… she knew it. She'd imagined licking it. Tracing it with her tongue. Inhaling Jasmine's skin as she moaned against a mirror.
Her chest tightened with longing and shame.
Jasmine made her way to the counter like a queen on a casual stroll. She poured herself coffee, added two sugars, and leaned against the wall—hips tilted slightly, the line of her inner thigh strategically visible between folds of her skirt.
Two male pilots walked in behind her.
One whistled low under his breath.
The other laughed and said something about "turbulence ahead."
Jasmine didn't scold them.
She turned her head, smiled lazily, and asked:
"Do you boys fly better with a little distraction?"
The taller one laughed, but his eyes dropped to her legs.
Divya watched it all unfold from her corner chair, heart pounding.
She's doing this on purpose.
She wants to be looked at.
She wants to be touched.
She wants to tease and own the room.
Jasmine pushed off the wall and approached the pilots, her coffee in hand.
Divya's eyes followed every step.
As Jasmine passed by, she lifted her skirt just a centimeter higher—just enough for the butterfly to fully appear on her thigh.
Then she turned, leaned closer to the shorter pilot, and whispered something.
He laughed, coughed, turned beet red.
Jasmine just smiled and walked off.
Divya sat frozen, wetness spreading beneath her like betrayal.
She couldn't stay here.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't survive watching this goddess in action without shattering again.
She rose abruptly and walked straight to the restroom.
The door clicked shut.
She locked the stall.
Dropped her bag.
Leaned back against the cold wall, face flushed.
Her breath came in ragged bursts.
Her thighs rubbed together beneath her skirt—desperate, trembling.
She wasn't even touching herself.
Not yet.
And still—
Her body knew.
Her pussy throbbed, begging, aching.
She closed her eyes and saw Jasmine's smirk.
The tattoo.
The words.
The confidence.
And—
She came.
Without touching.
Without speaking.
Her whole body shook.
She whimpered, legs shaking, biting her lip to stay silent as pleasure flooded her in a silent scream.
When it was over, she collapsed against the wall, still breathing heavily, her panties soaked, her heart broken.
"What is happening to me…"
"Why can't I stop?"
She knew the answer.
But she wasn't ready to say it.
Not yet.
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POV: Divya Rana Time: 9:33 p.m. Location: Hotel Room Scene 5: Divya's Emotional Collapse
The room was silent again.
Too silent.
Divya sat cross-legged on the floor by the foot of the bed, a blank page staring up at her from the notebook in her lap.
She held the pen like it might burn her fingers.
There was no TV on. No music. No buzz of traffic outside.
Just her.
And the sound of her heart pounding between her ears.
She had tried to write it down.
Tried to put words to what she was feeling.
But each sentence failed.
Each thought unraveled the moment ink touched paper.
The first line had started with:
"I'm confused."
She crossed it out.
Too soft.
Then:
"I'm aroused by Jasmine."
Crossed that out too.
Too honest.
Finally she had tried:
"I want to be like her."
And then…
"No—I want to be her."
That stayed on the page.
The words sat there—bold, trembling, permanent.
She stared at them for a long time.
Her hand moved slowly.
She added:
"I want to be touched like her."
"I want to be watched like her."
"I want to be used."
Her breath hitched.
The pen dropped from her fingers and rolled across the floor.
She buried her face in her hands.
The tears came before she could stop them.
Hot. Shameful. Sudden.
She cried—not out of guilt, but because she had no one to tell. No one who would understand how one woman's voice, one woman's confidence, one pair of wet thighs, and a butterfly tattoo had destroyed her.
She was a liar.
A failure.
A disappointment.
And now…
Now she was filthy.
She crawled back into bed.
She didn't change.
Didn't wipe her face.
She grabbed the pillow Jasmine had slept on the last time they shared a room.
Held it tight to her chest.
Breathed her in.
And whispered:
"Please… break me like her."
That night, Divya didn't sleep.
She lay awake, fingers hovering over her soaked panties, whispering Jasmine's name between her teeth… but never daring to touch herself again.