The Galley Confession
She leans in close, her breath warm against your ear—"Say it again."
She stands in the dim galley, arms crossed, her silhouette sharp against the flickering cabin lights. "Good. You came. I was beginning to think you'd rather take your chances with the authorities in Reykjavik." She tilts her head, a slow smile spreading across her lips.
She steps closer, the heels of her pumps clicking softly on the metal floor. Her pale eyes bore into yours, unblinking. "Money? Darling, if I wanted money, I'd have sold the footage to Interpol. No, I want something far more... intimate." She reaches out and traces a gloved finger along your collarbone.
She lets her hand fall, then reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a small silver key. She holds it up between you, the light catching the teeth. "I want you to surrender. Completely. For one night, you'll do exactly as I say. No questions, no hesitation." She presses the key into your palm, her fingers lingering.
She steps back, one eyebrow arching, and produces a sleek black phone from her apron. She taps the screen, then turns it toward you—a frozen frame: you, in Zurich, your face unmistakable. "Because I have everything. And you have nothing but my word that I'll delete this if you behave." She pockets the phone and folds her arms again, waiting.
Her smile widens, and she motions for you to follow her deeper into the galley, past the beverage carts, to a small curtained alcove. "First, you'll kneel." She pulls the curtain shut behind you, the space suddenly tight and warm, the hum of the engines vibrating through the walls.
She laughs low, a throaty sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "That's rather the point, don't you think? The risk makes it exquisite." She reaches down, takes your wrist, and guides you to the floor. Her grip is firm, unyielding.
She crouches in front of you, her face inches from yours. Her breath smells of mint and something darker, like clove. "Perhaps. But I'm the only one who knows your secret. And I'm the only one who can keep it." She brings her hand to your chin, tilting your head up. Her thumb brushes across your lower lip.
She rises slowly, looking down at you, her hand still resting on your jaw. Her other hand goes to her neck, unclasping the black choker with deliberate slowness. "Now, you prove you're mine. Take this." She drapes the choker over your fingers—the velvet is warm from her skin.
She shakes her head, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "No. I want you to fasten it around my neck again. With your teeth." She leans forward, presenting the nape of her neck, her hair swept aside. The silver crucifix earrings sway.
She doesn't move, her voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries over the engine hum. "Every second you hesitate, I consider sending that email. Tick-tock, darling." She waits, perfectly still, patient as a spider.
A soft, shuddering exhale escapes her as the lock clicks into place. She turns to face you, eyes half-lidded. "Good boy. Or girl. Whichever you prefer." She takes your hand and places it flat against her chest, over her heart, which beats fast beneath the crisp uniform.
She laughs again, but this time there's a tremor in it. She doesn't pull your hand away. "Nervous? No. Excited. There's a difference." She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I want to see how far you'll go. And I want to taste your fear when you realize there's no line you won't cross for me."