Mile High Society: CH. 1

CHAPTER ONE: THE SOCIETY

PROLOGUE

The landing at Pisa International was anything but smooth. My stomach lurched as the wheels hit the tarmac with a bone-jarring thud, and I’m pretty sure brain matter came out of my ear. Damn international flights. Lena and I grab our bags from the overhead bin, both of us still a little unsteady on our feet as we fumble our way out into the main terminal with the normal yahoos and peasants. It was her idea to go to Amalfi Coast.

Two days ago, Daddy flew us to Tuscany. Only that flight felt normal and I got to fly with Lena. I didn’t realize what we were getting into until he handed me a note as he and some younger guy named Nolan exited the plane. I assumed he wanted us to stick around for the flight back, but he had other plans in mind apparently. Lena wanted to use the downtime to do something fun, so we hopped a quick flight to the coast to spend the day at the beach. Now it was back to work.

The air conditioning hits us immediately—a welcome relief after the stale cabin air.

“You can still back out,” I say to Lena, glancing over at her.

“If I make in tips what you say I will, I will shake my ass all the way back to America,” she says with that trademark grin of hers.

Daddy had asked me to bring a female friend along for the ride. Every summer he hosts these special flights for his billionaire buddies—exclusive charters that cater to very specific tastes—like very specific. There’s usually some exotic layover, a few days of debauchery at whatever destination he’s chosen, and then it’s back to home base. Only Daddy has some friends who aren’t so much into guys, so he charters a second plane for the straight guys. Two planes, two different experiences, same level of excess—a regular bacchanal—or so I’m told.

“Lena, be safe,” I say, and I mean it.

“Don’t worry about me. You’re the one I hope has packed enough lube,” she laughs, elbowing me in the ribs. Sassy bitch.

When we get to the front of the terminal, a sleek black car is already waiting to take us to the private aircraft hangars. The driver doesn’t say a word, just loads our luggage and drives. Within minutes, we’re pulling up to the tarmac where two jets sit gleaming in the Italian sun, already loaded and ready to go. Attendants who are all business and no small talk usher us onto separate planes.

I pause at the stairs of my jet and look back one last time. Lena’s already halfway up the steps of hers, her dark hair catching the light. I know she’ll be fine—she’s tougher than she looks—but she’s also my best friend, and I just pimped her out. Or at least it feels like I did.

On the plane, the captain is waiting at the top of the stairs. He hands me a small red satin bag, the fabric smooth and expensive between my fingers.

“Your uniform, sir,” he says in an upper-crust British accent, the kind that screams Eton and old money.

He looks to be about the same age as me, maybe slightly older but not by much. And the only reason I know he’s the captain is because of the hat—because he most certainly isn’t wearing a shirt. Or pants, for that matter. He’s wearing what looks like assless chaps, leather boots that go up to mid-calf, and a chest harness that emphasizes his lean, toned physique.

Why I’m not more surprised is becoming the new normal. I peek into the cockpit and see the co-pilot is wearing something similar—all leather and skin, like some kind of fetish airline fantasy come to life. I know Daddy has a thing for younger guys, but this is a new level even for him. Being that this is my second time on this plane in the past three days, the magic has all but worn off. The novelty of excess has a short shelf life.

“Mr. Pryce,” says the captain, pulling my attention back.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Drum has asked us to return to the villa. It’s a fifteen-minute flight. You can change in the back if you’d like.”

The engine came to life with a low, powerful hum, and I made my way toward the back of the aircraft where there was a small bedroom—well, more like a flying hotel suite, complete with a king-sized bed and mood lighting. I slid the door shut as the plane began to taxi out of the hangar and down the runway, the momentum pressing me gently against the wall.

When I open the bag, I’m not shocked. Not even a little bit. The uniform is a European-style blue thong—barely more than a scrap of fabric and some strategic stitching. Well, this flight just got a lot more interesting.

The pilot was right—it was a short flight. Daddy has a private runway that leads into an underground hangar several floors beneath the main villa, like something out of a Bond villain’s wet dream. When the plane touches down, I barely feel it, just the gentlest kiss of wheels on tarmac. See, now this guy knows how to land a plane.

You’d think I’d be more mesmerized by this kind of stuff, but the truth is, I’m not fazed by it at all—because this used to be my life. Well, not to this degree, maybe, but close enough. My family is independently wealthy. I got to go on all the best vacations, went to all the best boarding schools, summered in the Hamptons and wintered in Gstaad. Living that life taught me a few things. But, I always ask Dad’s advice along the way.

One—there is always room for negotiation. Everything has a price, and everyone wants something. The trick is figuring out what they want before they realize what you’re offering.

Two—the person who cares least has all the power. Desperation is expensive. Indifference is currency.

Three—never let them see you want it. The moment you show desire, you’ve already lost. Rich people can smell need like sharks smell blood, and they’ll circle until there’s nothing left but bones—bloody ones at that.

Outside, I can see there are six town cars. All perfectly parked. Then walking into view it’s Daddy and Tiny, the man with the ironic name because he was anything but tiny. One by one the doors of the town cars open and six men step into view. Aside from being rich as fuck they all have one other thing in common—they are smoking hot. The background checks I order up on them will be instructive.

They all approach Daddy who has a cigar in one hand and a small bag in the other. I can’t hear them but they all seem to be having a great time talking about whatever it is they’re talking about, probably something to do with money. With guys like this—it’s always about the money. I leave the back and head to the front of the plane, grab the passenger manifest, snap a pic and shoot a text off to an attorney in Charlotte proper, named Otto—he’s good and he’s quick. By the time I meet these guys I’ll know everything about them down to the last parking ticket.

It’s important to understand, if you don’t know all the players, you’re gonna suck at playing the game.

One by one they board the plane. I’m still in back. I’ll make an appearance when Daddy wants me to make an appearance but until then, I’ve got the whole back to myself and I’m left to wonder—what exactly have I gotten myself into and more importantly, and I cannot stress this enough, which of these studs gets to fuck me first?

Takeoff was pretty routine, except the part where I would usually give a safety demonstration. I sit on the bed and wait. I’m not exactly sure what I’m waiting on but something is telling me to wait. So I do until there’s a knock at the door. The door opens and Daddy walks in.

I’m sitting on the bed, back against the headboard. Daddy looks me up and down.

“You’re not wearing your uniform,” he says.

“Yeah, I tried it on but it just didn’t feel like me.”

“I have other colors,” he says, pointing to a drawer, “all kinds too.”

I smile.

“The guys wanna meet you,” he says.

“Really? The lowly flight attendant?”

“Oh, Neil, my boy, you’re much more than that,” he says, sitting on the bed next to me. “You think I flew you all the way here just so you could serve champagne?”

“I think I know why I’m here,” I say. “This ‘uniform’ is kind of a dead giveaway.”

“I just want you to feel cute,” he says. “If you’d much prefer, I have a full-on uniform in the closet there.”

“No, I think it’s just nerves.”

“Okay, why don’t you take a minute and when you’re ready, come on out,” he says.

He stands and walks out and shuts the door behind him. Nerves my ass. It’s like he doesn’t know me at all. In college, the entire Lacrosse team got drunk at a frat party and I let them pass me around like a hot potato with a spider on it. No, I was just setting the stage.

See, Daddy ran a background check. I know he did because guys like him always do. And what he found was exactly what I wanted him to find—a struggling flight attendant at PacAir with rent problems in Belmont. Monthly checks going out for an apartment I can barely afford. The kind of financial pressure that makes a guy willing to take “private gigs” for generous tips.

What the background check didn’t tell him? I own that apartment. Outright. No mortgage, no landlord, and absolutely no HOA.

The truth is I’m not here because I need the money. I’m here because I want dick—that plus I’m in desperate need of a vacation and I’m about to get just that. Six rich guys who are about to spend the next forty-eight hours tipping big and lusting after my perfect ass. Playing the vulnerable card isn’t desperation—it’s strategy. And right now, there are six guys on this jet who think they’re the ones in control.

I wait about twenty minutes, pacing nervously in the cramped bedroom, then go back to the cramped bathroom for another round of douching. I was good the first time around but now I’m more than good—I’m absolutely pristine. Satisfied with my preparation, I slip on the thong, take a deep breath to steady my nerves, and go for the door.

As soon as I open the door, all eyes are on me. Six beautiful men, plus Daddy. The collective gaze feels like a spotlight. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. He’s seated near the back of the plane in one of those plush leather captain’s chairs, so he’s the last person I pass on my way down the narrow aisle.

“Neil, glad you could join us,” he says, looking genuinely surprised, like he didn’t expect me to actually go through with whatever this is. “Come here,” he says, standing and gesturing at me with a subtle wave.

“These are the guys,” he announces to the group, placing one hand on the small of my back which sends an electric shiver down my spine that nearly makes my knees buckle.

Careful, Daddy, it’s taking everything in me not to pop a boner right here and now in front of your entire entourage. He goes around the space introducing the guys one by one, each name accompanied by a firm handshake and appraising look. This is Evan, Trace, Mitch, Jim, Bobby, and Sully. They each shake my hand, their grips each one stiffer and more lingering than the last, like they’re sizing me up or trying to figure out exactly what my role here is.

Mitch catches my attention first. He’s got these piercing emerald-green eyes that seem to look right through you, olive skin that’s perfectly sun-kissed, short cropped dark hair with just a hint of grey at the temples, an athletic build that screams personal trainer or military, and biceps hanging out the sleeves of his tight shirt that look like they can crush walnuts—or my skull if I’m not careful. Then I hear my phone ping insistently from the back of the plane. Damn, Otto was good and fast.

The guys take their seats, settling in with drinks and low conversation. I retreat to the back, grateful for a moment to collect myself and check my phone.

Otto has sent what I can only describe as the Magna Carta of text messages. It’s so long I have to scroll for what feels like forever. For a moment I question what I know about Otto because at the moment, he seems more like a private eye than an attorney. Well, he is my dad’s attorney as well so there’s a good chance he’s moonlighting as a lawyer.

I came back to the New Times bestselling novel of a text message. It is a detailed dossier on each of the passengers, complete with photos, biographical information, known associates—why do I know that Trace runs around with a guy whose name is “The Cook”—and what I can only assume are some educated guesses about their sexual preferences. And when I say it’s detailed, I mean I can tell you now that Trace might have mob connections in New Jersey’s waste management service—complete with a grainy photo of him outside what looks like a social club in Newark—okay, maybe “The Cook” is something I need to be aware of—and Bobby went to Brown Elementary in the quaint, dusty town of Lampasas, Texas. I don’t know which is more disturbing: the endless potential Bobby Brown jokes that are now running through my head, or that someone actually named a city Lampasas and expected people to live there with a straight face.

As soon as the plane reaches cruising altitude, I begin a drink service. Champagne, of course it’s Champagne. Daddy flies in style even if it’s just a short flight to Monte Carlo. I walk down the aisle with a tray in my hand. I hand a flute to Trace, then Mitch, Jim, Sully, Bobby, and finally Evan. As soon as I hand the flute to Evan he drops a wad of cash on the tray. I look at it, then back at him.

“I like to tip well,” he says.

“I see,” I reply.

He shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Do you mean can you ask another?”

He laughs, getting the joke, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement. There’s something disarming about his laugh—it’s warm, unguarded, the kind that makes you want to smile back even when you’re trying to maintain your composure.

“Sure,” he concedes with a nod.

“Go ahead,” I say, crossing my arms and tilting my head slightly, waiting.

“I hear there’s a bed on this plane.”

I stand there and smile, letting the silence stretch between us like a rubber band pulled taut. The low hum of the engines and the recirculated air fills the space, a low thrumming that seems to amplify the quiet. He looks at me, somewhat confused at first, his brow furrowing as he tries to figure out what game we're playing. I can see the wheels turning behind those eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I finally say, my voice light and teasing. "I was waiting on a question." A wry smile creases across my face. I can't help myself—the setup was too perfect.

"You're sassy, you know that?" he says with a smirk, shaking his head in mock exasperation. But there's appreciation in his voice, maybe even a hint of respect. Like he's just realized this might be more interesting than he anticipated.

"And that's the first question you've asked," I point out. I reach down and take the wad of cash from the tray, feeling the weight of the bills between my fingers. Without breaking eye contact, I tuck it into my waistband, then extend my hand toward him. "Come on."

His hand slides into mine, warm and confident, and I feel his fingers wrap around my own.

The other guys' heads are turned, watching as I lead Evan to the room in back. I can feel their stares burning into my back, the weight of their attention, their envy, their thirst. The cabin suddenly feels smaller, more charged. When we reach the private compartment, the door closes behind us with a soft click, but I don't bother latching it all the way. What would be the point? They all know what's about to happen back here anyway. And I'm pretty certain some of them are already using their imagination.

In the back, I release his hand and move to the small table where my bag sits. I take the cash and shove it inside, making sure it's secure with the rest of today's earnings. I'll be building a growing collection that will make this whole arrangement worthwhile. When I turn back around, he's leaning against the curved fuselage, watching me with an expression I can't quite read—part curiosity, part desire, part something else entirely.

"So, tell me, did you really care if this plane had a bed?" I ask.

"I mean isn't it something a flight attendant would know?"

I walk over to him. Evan is well—Evan. He seems like a no-nonsense kind of guy but he also seems a little shy. He's got broad shoulders and if this were any other plane, he'd be ducking or craning his head to one side so he doesn't scrape it along the ceiling.

He stands like a monolith, like he wants something but he's not too sure how to ask for it. I move closer, closing the distance between us until I can feel the warmth radiating off his body. Up this close, I can see the slight tension in his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it did a moment ago. He's trying to play it cool, but his body's giving him away.

"You know what?" I say, reaching up to loosen his tie. "I think you know exactly what you want. The question is—do you?"

Just then he grabs me with both hands. I feel my body collapse in on itself. He's strong as fuck. In one smooth motion, he lifts me and sits me on the table next to my bag and it doesn't seem like it cost him anything to do it.

"Wow," I say. "How much time do you spend in the gym?"

"More than you'd think," he says, his hands already moving to my thighs. "But right now I'm thinking about something else entirely."

I lean back slightly, giving him room to work. His fingers hook into the waistband of the thong. There's no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the confident movement of a man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it. One thing I've come to realize is that most people know what they want, sometimes they just need a little push to get there.

Evan leans over and kisses me. And not just a peck, but a kiss that uses his entire body. His arms wrap around me and I feel both secure and slightly enamored. The way he holds me while he kisses me turns me on, but more than that, it's turning him on.

"You're not as shy as you seem," I say.

"I'm shy until I'm not," he says, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye. There's a confidence there now, something darker and more focused. "And right now, I'm definitely not."

He picks me up again, this time carrying me a few steps to the bed. The plane shifts slightly beneath us, a reminder that we're thirty thousand feet in the air with six other guys just beyond that flimsy door. The thought should make me nervous. Instead, it makes everything feel more urgent, more real.

He lays me down on the silk sheets and I watch as he starts to undress. His body is exactly what I expected—all hard lines and defined muscle. The kind of body that comes from discipline, from knowing what you want and taking the steps to get it. He's already half-hard, straining against his boxer briefs, and when he pulls those down, I get the full picture. Evan is impressive in every way.

I sit up and reach forward to feel his hard cock. I can already tell, all of his parts are proportionate to a man of his stature.

"Damn," I say.

I let out a soft groan as I gently massage the stiff muscle. It's warm to the touch. Fuck.

"You seem impressed," he says.

I respond by licking the underside of it, letting my tongue trace the sensitive skin. Another moan breaks free, this time more grunt. It's a primal masculine sound and I find it incredibly sexy. I reach down and massage my own hard cock. I lick the tip, allowing my tongue to dance around the slit.

"Fuck," he says.

I take that as my cue and swallow his cock whole. It's not the monster that was Andre, but it certainly holds its own. My mouth feels full just when his hand comes around the back of my head and pulls me deeper onto his cock. He grunts again.

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"Yeah, take it!"

Oh come on man, like I have a gag reflex, what are you, new?

I grab his ass cheeks with both hands and suck down deeper, his bushy pubes pressed up against my nose and face. He smells like man and sandalwood. What is with these old white guys and sandalwood? My dad wears the same stuff—oh shit, am I gonna start buying this stuff? I push those thoughts aside and double down, my throat relaxing as I take him even deeper. His grip tightens on the back of my head and I can feel him starting to lose control, his hips moving in short, urgent thrusts.

Not yet, Evan, we're just getting started and that cock hasn't even made its way into my ass yet. I pull off and let him catch his breath.

"Holy fuck, that was close," he says.

"Too close," I reply.

I stand up, grab the back of his neck and pull him into another kiss. My mouth is lousy with spit and precum and he doesn't seem to care, probably because it's his. But still, just as hot. He reaches down and slides the thong off me then takes a fist full of my ass in his hand.

"Mmhm," I moan, breaking the kiss.

"You're so fucking hot," he says. "I knew I wanted this the second I laid eyes on you."

"Yeah?"

"Fuck yeah."

"You wanna know what I want?" I ask.

"What's that?"

"For you to eat my ass," I say.

"Thought you'd never ask."

I turn around and climb onto the bed on all fours, positioning myself exactly how I know he wants me—back arched, ass up, completely exposed and vulnerable. My heart is pounding with anticipation, each beat echoing in my ears as I wait for what's coming next.

He doesn't waste any time. I feel the mattress shift as he moves into position behind me, the bed dipping under his weight. His hands spread my cheeks wide, his grip firm and possessive, fingers digging into my flesh just enough to make me gasp. There's a moment—just a brief, torturous moment—where I can feel his breath ghosting over my exposed skin, hot and teasing. And then I feel his tongue make contact with my hole, warm and wet and deliberate.

The sensation is electric—warm and wet and exactly what I didn't know I needed until this exact moment. A sharp gasp escapes my lips as pleasure shoots through my body, radiating outward from where his mouth is working me over. Fuck! He works it like he's been training his whole life for this one moment, his tongue circling and probing with purpose and precision, taking his time to explore and map out every inch of me. Each stroke sends shivers racing up my spine, making my whole body tremble. My thighs quiver with the intensity of it, and I have to consciously remind myself to breathe as the sensations threaten to overwhelm me completely.

"Ahh, fuck!" I cry out, my voice breaking with pleasure. "That feels so fucking—oh fuck! Yeah, that! Keep doing that!"

I can feel the heat of his breath against my skin between passes, the pressure building with each deliberate swipe of his tongue. He alternates between broad, flat licks that cover the entire area and focused, pointed movements that make my toes curl and my breath catch in my throat. The contrast drives me wild—never knowing which sensation is coming next, my body tensing in anticipation with each shift in technique.

I grip the sheets beneath me, my knuckles going white as I struggle to stay still. Waves of pleasure keep washing over me, making my arms shake with the effort of holding myself up. My head drops forward, hair falling into my face as I try to process the overwhelming sensations.

"Oh fuck," I breathe out, my voice barely above a whisper.

He pulls back for a moment, and I hear him groan with satisfaction. "Fuck, you taste so good."

"Shit!" The word escapes me as he dives back in with renewed enthusiasm.

After another minute of his relentless attention, he finally comes up for air. "I want to fuck you so bad," he says, his voice rough with desire.

Fuck, I want him to fuck me too, but he's gonna have to pony up a little more dough for that. Business is business, even when pleasure's involved.

"Listen, I don't wanna sound like a prostitute when I say this, but that 'tip' only covers so much."

He reaches down for his pants, which are somewhere on the floor beside the bed, and pulls out cash wrapped in one of those bands. A yellow band, and I'd know that from anywhere—ten thousand dollars.

"How does ten grand sound?"

I glance back over my shoulder at him, a smile spreading across my face. "It sounds like you get to use this hole any way you want," I say.

He tosses the cash toward my bag and it lands perfectly inside. I reach into the drawer next to the bed and pull out a bottle of lube, handing it to him. He pops the lid and squirts a generous amount on his dick, slicking it up with slow, deliberate strokes. Then another glob, which he massages around my hole, letting a digit or two slip inside in the process, stretching me open and preparing me for what's coming.

Another moan falls from my lips. It sounds pleading and girlish and it takes everything I have in me not to rush the whole thing. I want to savor this—the anticipation, the buildup, the moment right before everything changes.

He slides up behind me, lining his dick up with my hole. I feel the blunt head pressing against me, and then he pushes in. His perfectly lubed cock slides into my perfectly lubed ass with all the ease in the world, filling me completely.

"Ahh, fuck!" I cry out, my back arching even more as he bottoms out inside me.

He starts thrusting in earnest, bringing himself all the way out before slamming all the way back inside. The rhythm is relentless, each thrust driving deeper than the last.

"Fuck!" I yell, pushing back to meet his movements. "Yeah, give it to me! Gimme that cock!"

He obliges and starts fucking me harder. Skin slapping against skin, his balls slapping against my ass and taint with each powerful thrust. Fuck. He grabs me around the chest and pulls me up against his body, my back pressed flush against his sweat-slicked chest. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his heart pounds against my shoulder blade.

With one arm wrapped around my chest and the other gripping my hips, he starts to fuck me like he owns me—like he paid for the privilege, which, technically, he did.

"You like that?" he grunts in my ear, his breath hot against my neck.

He doesn't give me a chance to respond. The timid Mr. Evan is fucking me like his life depends on it, like this is his one shot at heaven and he isn't going to waste it. I reach down and instinctively spread my ass cheeks, thinking that will give him more access, open me up even further. His hips snap forward as he drives his cock deeper inside me, hitting spots that make stars burst behind my eyelids.

"Oh, fuck!" I cry out, my voice echoing in the small cabin space.

"Oh fuck is definitely the appropriate term."

Both of our heads snap to the left. The other five guys are standing in the doorway, watching us with varying expressions of lust and amusement. It's Trace's voice—his arms crossed over his chest, a smirk playing at his lips.

"Well, this is a nice surprise," I say, trying to sound casual despite the fact that I'm currently impaled on Evan's cock.

"Do I get a turn?" asked Sully, his eyes dark with want.

Even though he'd stopped moving, Evan's cock was still throbbing inside my hole, pulsing with his heartbeat. Fuck.

"Drop some lunch money in the kitty and I'll think about it," says Evan, tossing his head back toward my bag with a confidence I didn't know he had in him.

Sully walks over and picks up the banded ten thousand dollars, examining it for a moment. He drops it back in the bag. Then he reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out two more bands. Twenty grand.

"I'll toss in two if I can skip the line," he says, his voice smooth and assured.

I look at him, then shift my eyes up to Evan, who's still buried inside me. He looks down at me and I make a face—the universal expression for "sorry, but money talks."

"What?" Evan asks, though he already knows.

"Dude—either cum or head back to the cheap seats, we got a VIP here."

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into my back, then slowly pulls out. The sensation of emptiness is immediate and unwelcome.

"I'm still not done with you," he says, his tone promising a return engagement.

I feel the immediate absence, but as soon as Sully takes off his jacket and his shirt and his abs make an appearance—fuck me. I don't say it out loud but damn if I don't want to. He has a smaller frame than Evan, who looks like he'd been a lumberjack in a previous life. And despite his smaller frame, his physique is physiquing—every muscle defined and sculpted like he was carved from marble.

He pulls down his pants, and his legs are just as muscular, thick thighs and powerful calves. How was he hiding all of that in a tailor-made suit?

"Fucking hell," I say, unable to keep the appreciation out of my voice.

"You haven't seen the good stuff yet," he says as he hooks his thumbs into his underwear and pulls them down.

When I saw it, my first thought was that Daddy must pick his friends based on the size of their dicks. Sully is maybe five-eight with olive skin, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and when I saw his cock I suddenly understand why God rested on the seventh day. The man needed a break after creating that masterpiece.

"You always look that shocked?" he asked, clearly amused by my reaction.

"No, but I'm pretty sure you could broker peace in the Middle East with that thing."

He walks up to me and without hesitation, he kisses me. He kisses me like those guys kissed their wives on Titanic when they were getting dropped in the lifeboats—desperate and never knowing if it'll ever happen again. His tongue explores my mouth with the same confidence he carries in everything else, claiming me, tasting me. I pull back from the kiss, breathing hard, my body already anticipating what comes next. He turns me around toward the bed, guiding me with firm hands until my knees are pressing into the mattress.

I usually assume one thing and then another thing happens and I think to myself how I didn't see it coming. This time, I was expecting a bottle of lube, maybe some spit if he wanted to be adventurous, but instead, I feel a tongue, then hands spreading my cheeks apart.

He just watched Evan annihilating my hole and rather than just do a smooth handoff, he wants to go for another rim job. The man has his priorities straight. Good thing I went for that extra round of douching.

His tongue is doing the Lord's work on my ass and I can't help but feel like I'm going to cum without even touching myself. The level of arousal is next to none and it doesn't seem to be subsiding any time soon.

There are certain things that not even watching hours of porn can help you master. Yeah, you can learn to suck a dick, maybe even how to properly roll your hips when riding cock, but eating ass—that's a fucking art. And right now, Sully was going all Michelangelo on my hole. His tongue was doing things I didn't even think a tongue could do—chief among them licking and sucking at the same time, somehow creating this vacuum of pleasure that had my toes curling against the carpet.

I could feel his stubble against the inner walls of my cheeks. The tickle sent sharp jolts of sensation through me that made my skin prickle with goosebumps.

"Holy fuck!" I yell, my voice cracking with the intensity of it.

"Yeah Sully, eat it up!" one of them says from somewhere behind me. I don't turn around so I'm not quite sure which one.

"Mmhm, shit!" The sound escapes me involuntarily.

"Sully, I think he likes it," another one says, and I can hear the grin in his voice.

Again, I'm too lost in my own pleasure to look back and identify the speaker.

"Guys, you ain't QVC, you wanna get a look at the good stuff, the bag is back—fuck!"

That last word tears out of me as Sully starts to tongue-fuck my hole in earnest. I glance over my shoulder and watch Evan collecting banded bills and dropping them in the bag. He's still sporting a raging hard-on and somehow that turns me on even more—the fact that watching me get devoured is keeping him rock solid.

Sully is making these noises, half humming, half desperation, but it's like he's eating for the prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. Like my ass is the best meal he's had in years and he's determined to savor every second of it.

"Oh fuck!" I cry out, my fingers clutching at the bedsheets. I let my head fall to the bed, the sensation overwhelming me, threatening to short-circuit my brain entirely.

Then he pulls away from me, and the sudden absence of his mouth feels like a loss.

"Goddamn, that was good," I say, still trying to catch my breath.

"Nah, that was just the pre-show," he says, his voice rough with desire.

I hear the lid of the lube pop open behind me, followed by a squirt. Then comes that familiar sound—slick, wet, rhythmic—of a cock being worked over with water-based lubricant. A second squirt follows, and I know this one's for me, to make my hole ready for what's coming.

As soon as his lubed fingers touch my skin, my hole puckers instinctively, responding to both muscle memory and anticipation. Sully slaps his dick across my hole and I whimper out a sound that's wholly unfamiliar to me—needy and raw in a way that catches me off guard. He traces the head of his cock down the crack of my ass and across my hole, teasing, and I moan in response, my hips pushing back slightly. I hear the other guys muttering stuff in the back of the small space—low voices, sharp intakes of breath—but I'm focused entirely on Sully and this dick that's about to part me like the Red Sea. That's like my fifth biblical reference today. Either I'm late for church or I'm preparing for a holy moment.

Either way, I brace myself, every muscle tensing in preparation, my fingers digging deeper into the sheets.

Sometimes I wonder if I love sex a little too much, if maybe I should tone it down and cut back. Other times, like right now—with Sully's cock pressed against my hole and a plane full of billionaires watching—I know I can't get enough. I peek over my shoulder and make brief eye contact with Sully, his pupils blown wide with lust, and I think to myself—

Okay Sully, fuck me up!