The heavy silence of the cabin was broken only by the sharp, metallic click of Marcus’s belt as he adjusted his trousers, his breathing still ragged but his eyes already regained their cold, sapphire-like clarity. He looked down at Simon, who remained draped over the maple table, his muscular back rising and falling in desperate heaves, his thick thighs still trembling from the aftershocks of the double climax that had left him well and truly spent. With a slow, deliberate movement, Marcus reached for the intercom and pressed the button, his voice a low, commanding rasp that echoed into the galley.
"Elias. Come to the main cabin. We’re finished with the first course."
A moment later, the forward door slid open with a soft hiss, and Elias stepped through, his dark skin glistening under the cabin lights. The sight of him was enough to make Simon’s pulse spike with a fresh, terrified heat; the steward’s navy trousers were now unfastened at the waist, and his own jockstrap—a minimalist black athletic strap—was visibly straining to contain a massive, thick, and impossibly long cock that pulsed with every step he took. The heavy, dark shaft was already weeping at the tip, the sheer girth of it stretching the elastic of his pouch to its absolute limit, threatening to burst free with every predatory stride.
"He’s already lubed up," Marcus murmured, gesturing toward Simon’s exposed, glistening entrance with a flick of his wrist. "He’s all yours, Elias. I want to see if that thick pipe of yours can find any room left inside him. Don't be gentle; he’s a rugby player, he’s built to take a tackle."
Elias didn't say a word. He walked over to the table, his shadow engulfing Simon’s prone form. He reached down with a large, warm hand and gripped Simon’s hair, pulling his head back until their eyes met. Simon gasped, seeing the raw, unbridled lust in the steward’s dark pupils. With his other hand, Elias freed himself from the jockstrap, his massive length snapping upward with a heavy, meaty thud. It was a terrifyingly blunt instrument, dark and veined, pulsing with a life of its own.
"He looks ready to me, Mr. R," Elias rumbled, his voice a deep, vibrating bass that Simon felt in his very marrow.
Elias stepped behind Simon, his massive, dark thighs framing Simon’s pale, muscular buttocks. He didn't bother with a slow entry; he used his hand to guide the broad, blunt head of his cock to the center of Simon’s heat and shoved. The intrusion was shocking—a massive, stretching violence that made Simon’s jaw lock and a muffled scream die in his throat. Elias was wider and longer than Marcus, and as he buried himself to the hilt in one fluid, powerful motion, Simon felt his internal walls screaming in protest, his prostate battered by the sheer weight of the steward’s invasion.
The rhythm Elias established was brutal and uncompromising. He gripped Simon’s waist with fingers that felt like iron bands, his thrusts coming with a rhythmic, bone-deep thud that sent a wet, squelching sound echoing through the cabin. Every time Elias bottomed out, his heavy balls slapped against Simon’s perineum with a stinging, carnal force. Simon’s head thrashed against the table, his fingers digging into the wood as he felt himself being rearranged from the inside out. Marcus stood to the side, his arms folded across his chest, watching with a look of clinical, erotic detachment as his new boy was systematically broken in by the cabin crew.
"Tell him how it feels, Simon," Marcus commanded, his voice a sharp contrast to the wet, slapping sounds of the sex. "Tell Elias what it’s like to have a real man’s cock splitting you open at thirty thousand feet."
"It’s... it’s too much," Simon choked out, his voice a broken, sobbing mess of pleasure and pain. "He’s... he’s so big... fuck... please, Elias... you’re going to break me..."
Elias only growled, his pace quickening as he sensed his own impending explosion. He began to hammer into Simon with a frantic, animalistic energy, his chest hair rasping against Simon’s lower back, his sweat dripping onto the lad’s tanned skin. The friction was searing, the heat between them reaching a fever pitch as Elias reached his limit. With a final, guttural shout of triumph, the steward drove himself deep into Simon’s core, his massive shaft pulsing violently as he emptied a huge, hot load of seed deep into the young jock’s already-saturated internals. Simon’s vision went white, his body sagging as he was filled to the absolute brim, the sheer volume of the combined loads beginning to leak out and pool on the expensive maple table beneath them. They hung there, a tableau of raw, expensive debauchery, as the jet roared onward toward the Italian coast.
Marcus stepped back, adjusting his shirt cuffs with a terrifyingly calm precision that contrasted sharply with the scene of raw debauchery on the table. He looked down at Simon, whose muscular frame was still twitching, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps while the combined, heavy loads of two men began to sluggishly overflow from his ravaged heat, dripping onto the dark grain of the bird’s-eye maple. Elias, the steward, slowly withdrew his massive, glistening length with a wet, heavy suctioning sound, his own chest heaving as he tucked himself back into his straining navy trousers, offering Simon a final, lingering look of predatory satisfaction.
"There’s a shower in the back if you wish to freshen up before we land," Marcus said, his voice regaining its cool, aristocratic lilt, devoid of any immediate post-coital softening. "The en-suite is stocked with Hermès toiletries. I suggest you make use of them; I don't want the Italian customs officials smelling my scent on you the moment we step onto the tarmac."
Simon nodded dizzily, his fingers slipping on the polished wood as he pushed himself upright, his legs feeling like leaden weights. The internal pressure was immense—a heavy, sloshing fullness that made every movement a delicate challenge to his remaining dignity. He stood on trembling quads, his bespoke trousers pooled around his ankles, and began the slow, precarious walk toward the rear of the cabin. Each step caused a fresh, warm trickle of seed to slide down his inner thighs, the viscous fluid matting the fine hair on his legs and staining the white elastic of his discarded jockstrap.
He pushed through the mahogany door into the aircraft’s private bathroom, a masterpiece of gold fixtures and heated marble. The space was tight but opulently appointed, dominated by a glass-fronted shower stall that looked out through a reinforced porthole at the deepening purple of the twilight sky over the Alps. Simon leaned against the cold marble vanity, staring at his reflection in the mirror; his lips were swollen from Marcus’s teeth, his neck was marked with the faint, darkening bruises of Elias’s grip, and his blue eyes were blown wide with a mixture of shock and a new, dark addiction to the power that had just claimed him.
He stripped off the remnants of his shirt and stepped into the stall, turning the brass handles until a torrent of steaming, high-pressure water hammered against his aching shoulders. He groaned, leaning his forehead against the glass as he began the clinical task of cleaning himself. He reached down, his fingers finding the raw, stretched entrance to his core, and worked to coax the heavy, white deposits of both Marcus and Elias out of his body. The water turned milky at his feet as the massive volume of their combined climaxes washed away, swirling down the drain into the belly of the plane.
He lathered himself in the scent of sandalwood and orange, scrubbing the salt and sweat from his skin until he was glowing and pink. As he dried himself with a plush, oversized towel, the reality of the situation settled into his bones—he was fifty-five thousand pounds richer, flying toward a Tuscan villa, and he had just been systematically used by two men at thirty thousand feet. He reached into the cupboard and found a fresh, identical white jockstrap that Marcus’s assistant must have tucked away in the vanity's hidden drawer. Snapping it onto his hips, he felt the familiar, supportive grip of the elastic, a silent vow that he remained ready for whatever Marcus had planned once the wheels touched Italian soil. He dressed quickly in his trousers and a fresh shirt, his body feeling clean but fundamentally changed, and stepped back into the cabin to find Marcus watching the horizon, waiting for his prize to return.
