The Flight Attendant and Family
Copyright© 2025 by LezDom
Chapter 2
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2 - A flight attendant has a business class flight with two black sisters, who happen to be lesbians who love seducing white women and girls.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Coercion Drunk/Drugged Reluctant Lesbian Cheating Mother Sister Interracial Black Female White Female Anal Sex Analingus Double Penetration AI Generated
Phantom vibrations haunted Jennifer’s skin long after the plane taxied to silence. London teacups clattered against saucers, Megyn’s violin scales drifted from the upstairs study, John’s familiar arms wrapped her waist each evening—yet beneath the rhythm of routine, the sisters’ touch echoed like thunder in her marrow. Two months slid by, thick as honey. She’d burn the card, she swore it daily—tucked deep in her uniform pocket, an illicit weight against her ribs. But night after night, John’s earnest hands, his tender kisses, felt like a language she’d somehow forgotten. Pleasure remained polite, predictable. A sigh escaped her lips, not a scream. The ache between her legs wasn’t for him; it was a hollowed-out cavern yearning for Tabitha’s ruthless tongue, Sable’s claiming thrusts, the impossible fullness that had shattered her into galaxies.
Alone in the master bath, steam curling around her bare limbs, Jennifer leaned against the cool marble counter. John slept soundly down the hall. Her reflection blurred in the fogged mirror—eyes fever-bright, cheeks flushed not from heat but memory. Beneath the towel’s rough terry cloth, her fingers drifted downwards. Not tentatively, not gently. She dug her fingertips hard into her inner thigh, a sharp bite mimicking Tabitha’s clinical pressure. A gasp tore from her lips. Eyes squeezed shut, she conjured Sble’s face—the fierce intelligence, the vermillion scarf like spilled wine against pale skin—and then Tabitha’s cool command. Her touch slid higher, rougher than John ever dared. She imagined Tabitha kneeling before her now, that focused intensity trained solely on her slick core. Her fingers circled her clit not with coaxing strokes, but with Tabitha’s relentless, pulsing precision. Forget gentle ripples—Jennifer chased the detonation. Her hips bucked against her own hand, seeking friction, seeking Sable’s vibrator’s brutal thrum deep inside her ass. She bit her lip bloody to stifle the cry clawing its way up her throat.
Saturday sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, thick and golden, catching dust motes dancing above the abandoned cereal bowls. Megyn’s violin case leaned against the garage door, Kelly’s soccer cleats lay discarded near the mat. John’s clubs rattled in the trunk as he pulled out of the driveway, his cheerful wave swallowed by the suburban quiet. Silence descended, heavy and expectant.
Jennifer stood frozen near the landline phone, the ivory card clenched in her damp palm. *Markson & Williams Consulting*. The engraved silver script seemed to pulse against her skin. She’d pulled it from her uniform pocket every morning for weeks, tracing the sharp corners, the cool surface burning her fingertips. Resources. The word vibrated with the phantom thrum of the obsidian vibrator deep inside her. She saw Tabitha’s assessing gaze, felt Sable’s breath against her ear: “Don’t fear the fire.” Her knuckles whitened around the card’s edge. The bathroom mirror’s desperate friction, John’s bewildered tenderness—it all condensed into this suffocating stillness.
The dial tone buzzed hollowly in her ear, a stark counterpoint to the suburban quiet. Five rings stretched into eternity. Jennifer leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, the cool laminate a stark contrast to the heat flooding her cheeks. Each pulse echoed the cabin’s vibrations, the relentless thrumming deep within her pelvis. She should hang up. John. Megyn. Kelly. The names were a fraying lifeline. Her thumb hovered over the disconnect button, slick with sweat.
Then, a click. Not Sable’s honeyed tones, nor Tabitha’s cool silk. A clipped, professional voice sliced through the silence: “Markson & Williams. State your business.” Jennifer’s throat seized. The practiced greeting stripped away the haze of fantasy, replacing it with jarring reality. This wasn’t a whispered promise; it was an office.
“I...” Jennifer choked out, her knuckles white against the receiver. The suburban kitchen pressed in—sun-drenched, smelling faintly of toast crumbs and lemon cleaner. Utterly ordinary. Yet beneath her blouse, sweat beaded along her spine. “Jennifer Crandall,” she managed, the name tasting foreign. “Flight VA317 ... London-Dulles.” Silence stretched, thick and heavy. She imagined the woman on the other end flipping through files, impassive. Hang up. Now. But her mouth moved before her mind could stop it. “I was given ... a card.”
A sharp intake of breath pierced the static. Then, smooth as poured cream: “One moment, Ms. Crandall.” Not dismissive. Assessing. The line clicked softly, transitioning into a low, resonant hold tone—a single sustained cello note vibrating through the receiver. Jennifer pressed it harder against her ear. Colleen. The name surfaced unbidden, though she’d never heard it spoken. The receptionist hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t asked questions. Understood. Jennifer pictured her at an imposing desk—perhaps beneath harsh office lights—her posture perfect, her expression unreadable, yet intimately comprehending the ragged hunger in Jennifer’s voice. Sex slave. The phrase hung jagged in Jennifer’s mind, impossible to reconcile with the professional greeting. How deep did their world run?
The hold tone vanished. Silence, absolute. Then, a voice unlike Sable’s controlled honey or Tabitha’s cool silk. This voice was smoke and crushed velvet—a slow, warm ripple that seemed to caress Jennifer’s ear canal directly. “Jennifer.” No question. Utterly certain. “Serena Williams.” The name held a playful lilt. “So terribly glad you called.” Jennifer leaned back against the counter, her legs trembling. This voice bypassed thought, igniting nerve endings. It promised laughter tangled with sweat, secrets whispered in the dark. Jennifer pictured her instantly: younger than the others, draped in soft, worn denim hugging lean hips, perhaps leaning back in a leather chair somewhere shadowed, a faded band tee stretching across small, firm breasts. Casualness weaponized. The contrast was electric—Sable’s tailored precision, Tabitha’s icy elegance, and now ... this effortless, earthy magnetism. “Tabitha mentioned you possessed an exquisite ... capacity,” Serena murmured, the word exquisite drawn out luxuriously. “Sable praised your stamina. Rather impressive, surviving both their attentions.” A soft chuckle vibrated down the line, intimate as fingertips tracing Jennifer’s collarbone. “Tell me, darling ... what does your fire crave today? Resources? Instruction? Or...” A pause thick with implication. “ ... simply the chance to burn brighter?”
Jennifer was lost. Words dissolved on her tongue. How could she articulate the phantom vibrations in her bones? The shameful yearning for obliteration? The hollow ache polite pleasure left behind? Serena seemed to sense the chaos, the paralysis. “Ah,” she breathed, a sound like understanding settling deep. “Words feel clumsy, don’t they? Like trying to describe the ocean’s roar with a whisper.” Before Jennifer could stammer agreement, Serena’s tone shifted—effortlessly commanding, yet wrapped in soft reassurance. “Listen carefully, lovely. It’s perfectly simple. Right now, you’re going to take a deep, slow breath. Fill your lungs ... hold it ... now release.” Jennifer obeyed, the air shuddering out of her. The suburban kitchen felt unreal. “Good girl,” Serena purred. The praise sank into Jennifer’s skin, warm and anchoring. “Now, I have a place for you. Somewhere quiet. Private. Where words aren’t needed. Where you can simply... feel. Come to 1627 Belmont Street NW. Georgetown. The wrought-iron gate beside the ivy-covered brick wall. Be there by two o’clock.” She paused, letting the address settle. “Can you do that for me, Jennifer? Just step through the gate?”
A tremor ran through Jennifer. “Y-yes.” The word felt ripped from her throat.
Jennifer chose a simple cotton sundress—pale yellow, innocent as daisies. She pulled it over skin still humming with phantom touches, a stark contrast to the turmoil beneath. The drive to Georgetown became a blur; traffic signals flickered past unnoticed, her knuckles pale on the steering wheel. She parked beneath a canopy of ancient oaks at 1:55 pm, engine off. Silence pressed in. For five agonizing minutes, she stared at the ivy-smothered brick facade of 1627 Belmont, its wrought-iron gate beckoning like a gaping mouth. Turn back. John’s face flashed before her—kind, trusting. But another face surfaced: Serena’s imagined smile, lazy and knowing. Jennifer shoved the car door open.
The gate groaned softly as she pushed through. Inside, cool shadows swallowed the summer heat. A cobblestone path led to heavy oak doors. Jennifer hesitated, the dress suddenly too thin, too revealing. Then she stepped forward.
The reception area felt more like an elegant library—dark wood, hushed silence, the scent of old leather and bergamot. Behind a polished mahogany desk sat a woman with sharp cheekbones and coiled black hair pulled tight. Her posture screamed military precision. Jennifer knew her instantly—the clipped voice from the phone. Colleen. Recognition flashed in the woman’s eyes, but her expression remained utterly neutral. “Ms. Crandall,” she stated, not a question. She gestured to a plush velvet chair. “Serena will receive you presently.”
Jennifer perched on the edge of the velvet, her yellow sundress feeling absurdly childish. The air hummed with anticipation. Footsteps echoed down a hallway—not crisp like Sable’s or silent like Tabitha’s, but a confident, rhythmic tread accompanied by the faintest jingle-jangle. Jennifer looked up just as Serena Williams turned the corner, and the breath caught in Jennifer’s throat.
Serena stood framed in the doorway, radiating an energy that crackled like desert lightning. No tailored suits or icy elegance here. Frayed denim cutoffs showcased long, sun-kissed legs disappearing into worn leather cowboy boots. A washed-out blue chambray shirt hung loosely over a snug black tank top, the top buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of smooth collarbone and a silver turquoise pendant resting against warm skin. Wild, honey-streaked hair escaped a loose braid, framing eyes the color of storm clouds—sharp, amused, and utterly without pretense. One thumb hooked casually in a belt loop; the other held a sweating bottle of craft IPA. Jennifer stared, mesmerized by the dissonance. This wasn’t refinement; this was vibrant, untamed earth. Serena grinned, slow and wolfish, taking a deliberate swig from the bottle. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she drawled, her smoky voice laced with genuine warmth and a hint of mischief. “Hope you weren’t expectin’ marble columns and silent judgment, darlin’. We leave that stiff shit to my sisters.” She gestured lazily towards the hall behind her with the beer bottle. “C’mon. Let’s ditch the fancy lobby.”
Jennifer followed, her sandals whispering against polished hardwood floors, trailing Serena past unexpected sights: a vintage motorcycle leaned against one wall, shelves overflowing with books on quantum physics and vinyl records, a Persian rug worn thin beneath a massive oak desk scattered with schematics. The office was large, sun-drenched through tall windows overlooking a hidden courtyard garden. It smelled faintly of engine oil, old paper, and Serena’s own scent—sun-bleached cotton and something wild, like sagebrush after rain. Serena plopped into a deep leather armchair behind the desk, kicking her boots up onto a crate labeled ‘Spare Parts’. She gestured with her beer towards a mismatched chair facing her. “Sit,” she commanded, effortlessly authoritative despite the casual posture. Her storm-grey eyes pinned Jennifer, stripping away the yellow sundress and the trembling propriety beneath. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. The turquoise pendant swung gently. The playful warmth was still there, but beneath it surged an unnerving, direct current. “So,” Serena breathed, locking onto Jennifer’s wide eyes. “Question of the hour, gorgeous. Simple. Direct.” A slow, deliberate sip of beer. She set the bottle down with a soft thunk. Silence stretched, thick with the scent of hops and anticipation. “Have you come to surrender?”
Jennifer froze. The word echoed—surrender. It wasn’t just about physical submission; it felt like a key scraping in a rusted lock deep inside her chest. It spoke of yielding control, relinquishing the exhausting battle against the wildfire the sisters had ignited. Her gaze flickered from Serena’s intense stare to the chaotic desk, the earthy leather boots, the fading jasmine tattoo curling from Serena’s wrist beneath her rolled sleeve. She saw Sable’s calculated precision, Tabitha’s detached command, and now Serena’s raw, inviting incandescence. It wasn’t a choice between them; it was a choice to stop choosing against herself. A tremor started deep in her belly, vibrating upwards. John. Megyn. Kelly. The names were anchors dragging on the seabed. But the fire ... the fire roared louder. She tasted salt on her lips – sweat or tears? She didn’t know. Her voice, when it finally came, was a ghost of sound, barely audible above the pounding of her own heart: “Yes.”
Serena didn’t react with triumph or surprise. Her storm-grey eyes softened infinitesimally, holding Jennifer’s gaze with unwavering understanding. “Knew it,” she murmured, her smoky voice thick with satisfaction. Not mockery. Recognition. In one fluid motion, Serena pushed her beer aside, rose from the armchair, and crossed the short distance. Instead of looming, she sank onto the deep, worn sofa beside Jennifer. The cushions dipped under her weight, pulling Jennifer slightly closer. Serena’s scent enveloped her – sun-warmed cotton, engine grease, and that wild, dry herb tang. Her denim-clad thigh brushed Jennifer’s bare leg beneath the yellow sundress. The contact wasn’t accidental; it was grounding, a deliberate tether. Serena leaned in close, her braid brushing Jennifer’s shoulder. Her breath stirred the fine hairs at Jennifer’s temple. The command wasn’t barked; it was delivered low, intimate, inevitable: “Strip.”
Jennifer’s hands trembled violently as they moved to the simple buttons of her dress. Each undone clasp felt like shedding a layer of her old skin, exposing the raw nerve endings beneath. The yellow cotton pooled at her feet, leaving her standing in nothing but thin white panties and the echo of Serena’s presence. Across from her, Serena was already rising. With startling speed, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her frayed denim cutoffs and slid them down over lean hips, kicking them aside along with simple black cotton panties. She didn’t pose, didn’t flaunt. She simply stood revealed – sun-kissed skin over taut muscle, small breasts tipped with dusky nipples, the faded jasmine tattoo curling like a secret promise on her inner forearm. Serena perched back on the sofa’s edge, her gaze never leaving Jennifer, radiating calm assurance. “All of it,” she prompted softly, watching as Jennifer hesitated over the last scrap of fabric. “Everything.”