Sharaf Abdulla adjusted the screen of his phone, propping it against the pillow so the camera faced the ceiling. His wife’s face flickered on the screen, her voice a distant drone in the background as she chattered about some work event she was attending tonight. He barely listened, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the bedsheet. The private cabin of the airplane hummed softly around him, the other four—Maaya Naseer, Mariyam Azza, Aishath Rishmy, and Hamdhaan Saleem—settled into their own seats in first class, unaware of the scene unfolding in this secluded room.
The door to the cabin slid open without a knock.
Maaya Naseer stood there, completely nude, her skin flushed from the excitement of what was about to happen. She had been waiting for this moment for weeks—ever since they boarded the flight, ever since they shared this room under the guise of "resting together." But rest was the last thing on either of their minds.
Sharaf’s breath hitched as she sauntered in, her hips swaying like she owned the damn plane. He barely had time to react before she straddled his lap, her thighs pressing against his hips, her wet pussy already glistening as she ground against the thick bulge straining against his pants.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands flying to her waist to steady her.
Maaya didn’t waste a second. She reached down, unzipping his pants and freeing his throbbing cock. She didn’t tease him—she didn’t have to. She was already soaking wet, her arousal dripping down her thighs as she guided him inside her with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips.
Sharaf’s cock sank into her in one deep thrust, filling her completely. Maaya gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as she began to ride him, her movements slow and deliberate at first, then growing faster, more urgent. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the small cabin, their breaths mingling in sharp, ragged gasps.
Sharaf’s hands clamped down on her hips, helping her bounce on his dick. “That’s it, baby,” he growled, his voice rough with need. “Take it all.”
Maaya’s head fell back as she rode him harder, her tits bouncing with every movement. “Fuck, Sharaf, you feel so good inside me,” she moaned, her voice dripping with lust. “I’ve been thinking about this all damn flight.”
Sharaf’s cock twitched inside her, his balls tightening as pleasure coiled tight in his gut. He flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him as he thrust upward, burying himself to the hilt. Maaya cried out, her legs wrapping around his waist as she met every deep, punishing stroke.
The phone on the bed, forgotten in their frenzy, still displayed his wife’s face, her voice a distant murmur asking what he was doing, who was in the room with him.
Then she said her name.
“Maaya?”
Sharaf didn’t even hesitate. He reached over and flipped the phone onto its face, cutting off the call before his wife could say another word. But it was too late. The damage was done.
His wife’s frantic voice echoed from the phone’s speaker as she tried to reconnect the call, her panic growing. Before Sharaf could even process what was happening, his phone buzzed again—his parents’ number flashing on the screen.
Sharaf groaned in frustration, pulling out of Maaya with a wet *pop*. She whimpered at the loss, her pussy clenching around nothing as she watched him grab the phone.
“Yeah?” he answered, his voice strained.
His mother’s voice came through, sharp and accusing. “Sharaf Abdulla, what is going on? Your wife just told us you’re in a room with Maaya Naseer! What kind of game are you playing?”
Sharaf’s jaw tightened. He glanced down at Maaya, who was biting her lip, her fingers already sliding between her legs to ease the ache he’d left behind.
“It’s not a game, Mother,” he said, his voice low and rough. “It’s been nine years.”
Maaya’s eyes locked onto his, a smirk playing on her lips as she spread her legs wider, silently inviting him back inside.
Sharaf’s cock throbbed at the sight.
He was done pretending.