If you like my art, sketches, stories, transformations you can find more like this on my Patreon page or in DeviatArt Premium Early Access folder for subscribers here. Every bit of support is truly appreciated, but just having you here means the most to me - without you, none of this would have been possible. Thank you very much!
Check also my shop at DeviantArt for other works
Damn, this seat is uncomfortable as hell—especially when you’re six-foot-three. I’m Jason Miller, top manager at an international company, a guy whose office is bigger than this whole flying tin can. And yet here I am—on a New York to Paris flight, stuck in goddamn economy class. Because my dumbass assistant didn’t book me a business seat in time. Well, that’s fine—he can go look for a job somewhere else now, because I don’t tolerate incompetence. Especially when it ends with me crammed into this sardine can.
— Chicken or fish? — the redhead asked gently, looking at me like I was some homeless guy they were feeding out of pity.
— Chicken. — I muttered, then added, glancing up from under my brow. — What are they serving in business?
My gaze instantly locked on her chest, which... wasn’t anything special. Just a regular pair of breasts under the tight uniform—barely a curve, not even a hint of cleavage. But I stared anyway, eyes catching on her name tag: “Camille Marchand,” with a smaller, italic inscription underneath: “Senior Flight Attendant - Air France.”
She seemed slightly flustered, looked away, and replied:
— In business—filet mignon and tiger prawns with mango sauce... — She said it in an even tone, but I could hear that little note of smug satisfaction in her voice. A tiny victory over the arrogant prick in economy.
— At least cute girls bring the food — I added with a smirk. — Otherwise, I’d be losing my mind in this flying hearse.
She didn’t respond. Just handed me the tray calmly, like she hadn’t heard a thing I said. Oh, we’ll see who gets ignored here. I pretended to focus on the food, but my eyes kept drifting back to the redhead—how smoothly she leaned over other passengers, how her skirt lifted just a bit, showing off slender calves in sheer black tights... She knew how to play indifferent, but her whole body screamed: I know you’re looking.
Alright then. Let’s test that.
I stood up, pretending to reach for something in the overhead bin. Truth was, I just wanted to be near her—she was bent over the aisle, handing a tray to another passenger. My hand “accidentally” slid down and stopped on her thigh, just below that rounded line where the skirt met the sheer tights. A little finger movement—and I could feel that firm, warm flesh yield under the thin fabric. I froze for a split second, savoring the moment like a gourmet thief stealing an extra bite of dessert.
In an instant, I felt her tense up. She straightened, turning her face to me with icy calm, and I could sense the contempt pulsing behind it.
— Please don’t do that again, sir, — she said quietly but clearly, her eyes suddenly far from innocent. No, that was the look of a woman who’d learned to take a hit and never sink into cheap drama.
I gave her a crooked grin, pretending not to understand.
— Sorry, accident, — I said with fake elegance, and without waiting for a reply, returned to my seat.