Minjung filmed through the gap between seats.
Her phone had shifted to portrait mode without her noticing. She corrected it.
Priya got the floor.
Specifically — his hands on her shoulders pressing her down, the thin carpet of the jet cabin under her knees, her hands still tied behind her back, the angle of his cock from above as he grabbed her jaw, tilted her head.
"'Open.'"
She did.
The sounds from the floor weren't the sounds from the bed. Contained differently, the acoustics of a narrow space. Her throat working around the depth of him, the tears running from the corners of her eyes, her hands flexing behind her back.
Minjung came closer. Camera angled down.
Priya looked up past the cock in her throat and found the camera lens.
Her face — red, wet, drool on her chin, eyes streaming — arranged itself somehow into a look that said 'this is my choice, I'm here, I decided this.' The dignity of it surviving the logistics of the situation.
Minjung held the shot.
PAAH.
