First Class Lounge

Everything that could go wrong did.

Flight delayed six hours due to "mechanical issues." Luggage sent to the wrong continent. Connecting flight left without me. Customer service shrugged like I'd personally insulted them.

I was screaming at a gate agent when she appeared.

"Mr. Harrison?" A woman in a perfectly tailored suit. "I'm Victoria Chen, Vice President of Customer Experience. May I speak with you privately?"

Victoria Chen was not what I expected.

Fifty-one years old. Three hundred pounds carried like a weapon. The kind of woman who made corporate hierarchy feel like natural law.

"Your experience today has been unacceptable," she said, leading me away from the gate. "I'd like to make it right."

"How? My meeting is tomorrow morning. I can't get there."

"I know." She stopped at an unmarked door. "Which is why I'm offering our premium accommodation while we arrange alternatives."

"Premium accommodation?"

She opened the door.

It wasn't a lounge.

It was a suite. Private bedroom, marble bathroom, full kitchen. A space that shouldn't exist inside an airport.

"We maintain several of these," Victoria explained. "For situations that require... personal attention."

"This is for delayed passengers?"

"This is for passengers I personally wish to apologize to." She closed the door. Locked it. "You've been traveling for eighteen hours. You're stressed, exhausted, and rightfully angry."

"Yes."

"I'd like to help you relax." She began unbuttoning her jacket. "If you're interested."

"This isn't standard customer service."

"No." Her jacket fell. Silk blouse underneath, straining. "This is executive intervention."

"You do this often?"

"When I find passengers who interest me." She stepped closer. "You've been calm despite chaos. Polite despite provocation. Attractive despite exhaustion." Her hand found my tie. "I reward those qualities."

"And if I'm not interested?"

"Then I book you a hotel and we never speak of this." She met my eyes. "But you're interested. I can tell."

She was right.

She undressed with executive efficiency.

Blouse, skirt, undergarments—folded neatly on a chair. Her body was corporate power made flesh: massive breasts, rounded belly, thighs that could negotiate any deal.

"Your turn," she commanded.

I stripped. Eighteen hours of travel falling away with my clothes.

"Good." She pulled me toward the bed—king-sized, silk sheets, more comfortable than my apartment. "Now. Let me apologize properly."

She apologized with her mouth.

Down my chest, my stomach, lower. Taking me deep, working me with lips and tongue and throat until I forgot delayed flights and lost luggage and everything except her.

"Fuck—" I gripped the sheets.

"Not yet." She released me. Climbed up. Straddled my face. "First, you apologize to me."

"For what?"

"For making me come down from my office." She lowered herself. "Now make it worth my time."

I ate her until she screamed.

There was something about knowing it was wrong—an airport, a stranger, a corporate executive using me for stress relief—that made it better. Hotter. More urgent.

"Yes—God—there—"

She came on my tongue, grinding against my face, three hundred pounds of authority releasing control.

"Acceptable," she gasped. "Now. The main course."

She rode me like she was closing a merger.

Hard, determined, focused on results. Her massive body rose and fell while I gripped her hips, her breasts, whatever I could reach.

"Tell me what you need," she demanded.

"I need to come—"

"Not yet." She squeezed. Stopped moving. "What else?"

"I need—" I didn't know what I needed. "I need this to not end."

"It doesn't have to." She started moving again. "This suite is yours for twelve hours. So am I."

We went for six.

Every position. Every surface. The bed, the shower, the kitchen counter. She came eight times. I came four. By the end, we were tangled on the floor, sweaty and satisfied and barely conscious.

"Your flight," she finally said, "leaves in three hours."

"I forgot about the flight."

"Most passengers do." She kissed me. "I've upgraded you to first class. Champagne service. Private cabin."

"That's not necessary—"

"It's standard." She smiled. "For passengers who provide exceptional... feedback."

Epilogue: Six months later

I fly her airline exclusively now.

Sometimes the flights are delayed. Sometimes the luggage goes missing. Sometimes the connections don't connect.

Victoria always calls personally.

"I'm so sorry for the inconvenience," she says, professional as ever. "May I offer you accommodation?"

"Always."

The suite is waiting. So is she.

Some customer service can't be measured in surveys.

Some compensation can't be printed on vouchers.

And some delays are worth every minute.