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Diane slid her twenty-three-year-old jeans-clad bottom into the vacant right seat of the Boeing 737 cockpit, her coltish legs avoiding the control yoke. The faint whistle afflicting passengers since departure sounded louder in the cockpit.

Her fierce need to act kept a tidal wave of extreme panic at bay. Snatching the headset beside her, she put it on. Sweeping her brunette hair from her face, she studied the center console, ignoring distant voices in her ears. Two lessons remained from the long forgotten video she'd seen on YouTube. The radio. Avoid panic.

In her coach class seat since departure, she'd spent the ninety-minute flight home from advanced barista training building her courage for a difficult discussion with her boyfriend, Neil. She'd caused another vicious argument two nights ago. Rehearsing her line to revolutionize their relationship, she'd watched a handsome pilot exit the cockpit towards the restroom. His movements uncertain, he'd face-planted on the floor. The plane had plunged into a violent dive and a blonde flight attendant had crashed across him.

She'd snapped on the oxygen mask in front of her. Gripping her armrests, slammed into her seat by frightening G-force, three panic plunging minutes had elapsed on her bracelet watch. As the plane leveled, she'd expected the captain to speak, but frightening silence had ensued. Her oxygen depleted, she'd raised her mask, discovering a fresh breath.

She'd got up in shock. Many oxygen masks had remained dangling, their owners too slow. Among the masked passengers, few had been conscious yet. She'd watched a flight attendant on the galley floor fixate on a silver coffeepot. Able to swim underwater on a single breath, she understood oxygen deprivation.

Peering into the cockpit, the door wedged on the prostate pilot's leg, she'd discovered their mask-less captain slumped in his seat. Shoving aside the pilot's leg, she'd entered. Conscious of her coffee-obsessed flight attendant, she'd secured the cockpit door. Observing the eerie calm, she'd imagined the autopilot must have control, its last instruction, their life-saving dive. Blocking out sheer terror, she'd assumed the missing pilot's seat.

Her panic squashed under a concrete ton of concentration, she scrutinized the center console for a radio panel. She discovered a candidate beside her knee. Two orange windows with frequency numbers. Below it, a similar panel engraved with NAV suggested she'd already found her radio. She twisted the white knob on the radio panel counter-clockwise. The orange digits changed. Her mind keeping tiny distant details, she lowered her frequency to 121.5, the emergency frequency. The word standby printed in white above her new frequency sent her finger onto the arrow button. Her 121.5 bounced into the window marked active. Silence greeted her ears, the distant voices gone. Alone, panic soared. She rammed it down. She hadn't reached the limit of her meagre memory yet.

Her video pilot's grave warning returned to mind - Don't touch your control yoke. It disengages the autopilot, a fatal mistake. The radio transmit switch on her yoke forbidden; she scanned her center console for a modest silver switch. In the video, it had seemed feeble for its vital task. Pushing it towards r/t, she held it and began her radio transmission.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday. My name is Diane. I'm a passenger on Diamond Cross Air flight 421. Both pilots are unconscious. I need help." Releasing her precious switch, she listened.

Terror-filled silence occupied her ears. She'd played her only card. Maybe she'd recalled the frequency wrong. Maybe the silver switch wasn't the radio.

A crystal clear female voice answered, "Diane, this is Air Traffic Control. I'm finding an experienced pilot to guide you. You're doing well. Do you have flight experience?"

Transmitting again, Diane said, "Nothing real. A YouTube video I don't remember."

The calm girl responded, unfazed, "Okay, Diane. Study your center console, locate a screen with four numbers and ATC above it."

Unaware of the chaos she'd wreaked on the busiest air traffic control zone in the world, she hunted around her center console. Far from her radio, she discovered her four numbers. "I've found it," she yelled, neglecting to hold her transmit switch. She repeated her message in a steady voice. Following instructions, she selected seven seven zero zero.

"I have you on my radar screen, Diane," the girl said. "Touch nothing. We'll call you back."

Diane studied every display the Boeing 737 cockpit offered. Drawn by the central screen, she read four tonnes of fuel.

"Hi, Diane. I'm John. I'm going to give you advice. Are you okay?"

Pushing up her precious switch, she said, "I'm fine, John. I think there are four tonnes of fuel."

"Great work, Diane. You've answered my next question. Along the dash, below the windows, is your autopilot. Touch nothing, just read me your altitude."

"Ten thousand, and Heading ninety five," she responded. Reading her two numbers gave her ridiculous confidence.

"Excellent, Diane. Twist your knob under altitude counter-clockwise until the display reads three thousand."

"Done."

"Below, identify a button called LVL CHG."

Hunting for it, she focused on her instruction. "Should I press it?"

"Read back what the button says."

She read the button name to him, appreciating his precision.

"This is your level change button. You'll descend to three thousand. Alarms may sound and screens flash. Ignore them. The aircraft isn't expecting your instruction. Press it, Diane."

She pressed LVL CHG. Twin white levers in the center console swept backwards as the plane reduced speed. Pressing her switch, she said, "It's slowing down."

"Slowing is correct," John said.

His certainty strengthened her spirit.

"Diane, are you ready for further instructions?"

"Ready," she said.

"That heading you read me said zero nine five. Is that correct?"

"Zero, nine, five," she replied.

"Turn the knob below. Change it to one four zero."

She obeyed. Nothing happened.

"When you're ready, Diane, press the button below your knob marked HDG SEL."

She read back the button and pushed it on his confirmation. "I'm turning," she called.

"Good job, Diane. Adjust your seat. Get comfortable. Ensure you can reach the pedals. Don't touch them. They'll disengage your autopilot. But ensure you can reach them."

She adjusted her seat, just like in her car, and buckled her seat belt. Swimming lengths, her mind would drift, solving her problems. But her brain failed to escape her fears in her surreal position.

On cue, John returned. "Diane, please change your heading to one eight zero."

Turning the heading knob, she acknowledged, "One eight zero, John."

"Beside your heading is your speed marked IAS. Can you read me your speed?"

"Two hundred eighty four."

"Good. Your speed will become important later."

Obeying John's instructions, she setup the radio panel marked NAV to guide her towards the runway. Repeating each instruction, she set frequencies on the panel beside her and its partner. John kept her busy. She dialed the course he dictated into two separate autopilots. Her confidence inspired by his explicit commands, she concentrated on his voice and her cockpit.

"Diane, reduce your airspeed to two hundred."

He'd taught her about her airspeed. Twisting the knob, the twin white levers floated back as she watched her speed decrease. She'd followed her altitude decrease, now she observed her speed reduce on the display in front of her.

On John's command, she shifted her Flap lever to position five. Despite her intense predicament, satisfaction flooded her spine as she obeyed his firm commands.

He slowed her to one hundred and seventy. She selected Auto Brake three, discovering the plane would stop itself after landing. Identifying her speed brake lever after a search, she shifted it.

Altering her heading to one eight four, she pressed the approach button on her autopilot panel. Activating her second autopilot, she avoided touching the one flying.

"Diane, you're doing well. Are both your autopilots lit green?"

"Both green."

"Diane, you're doing fantastic. When the plane lands, keep it straight on the runway."

Her fingers fluttered on her legs, tapping her jeans. Her achievements meant little if she screwed up her unexpected duties.

"How do I keep it straight?" she asked.

John taught her, advising her to squeeze her pedals with minimum pressure to straighten the nose. Unable to practice, she imagined her actions, visualizing the aircraft nose aligning with the runway.

"Relax, Diane, you're doing well."

Her thoughts strayed to Neil. She'd pressured her boyfriend about a job application he already had under control. Their combined incomes frustrated her, delivering predictable arguments. While at company headquarters for advanced barista skills training, she'd made a monumental decision. Her attitude was their problem. Her fresh plan corrected matters between them and would bring harmony.

Surprised by the plane turning, its unexpected maneuver induced panic. "John, it's turning," she cried.

"It's okay, Diane. The localizer signal has reached you. It's guiding you towards the runway."

"It's heading down, too," she transmitted.

"Good. You're doing well. Lower your landing gear."

Under his control, she lowered the landing gear lever as they'd discussed, hearing the familiar rumbling. She confirmed three green lights illuminated above her lever. Moving her flaps lever to fifteen, she lowered her speed to one hundred and fifty, confirming her actions.

After a brief pause, she shifted her flaps to forty, the maximum, slowing her airspeed to one hundred and forty. Feeling her plane respond, a sense of command flooded her.

"John, am I ready?"

"Yes, Diane, you are. You're ten miles away. Imagine your pedals. Don't test them. Picture squeezing the nose towards the center line. Remember, gentle does it."

She pictured it as her plane descended towards the runway.

John said. "Stay calm, Diane. You've got this."

A computerized voice boomed, "One thousand."

Pressing her transmit button, she reported, "One thousand."

"Good," John said. "You're doing great."

Before she was ready, the computerized voice thundered, "Fifty, forty, thirty, twenty, ten."

The nose rose. Her main wheels hit the ground, followed by her nose wheel, revealing the runway ahead. Veering from the center, she squeezed the left pedal, gliding the nose towards the white line as her engines screamed and her plane slowed. Seeing only the white line, her feet glued to her pedals, she never realized they'd stopped.

"Diane, you've done it. Stop the engines."

John's powerful voice guided her. She dropped both fuel cut-off levers. Alarms blared across her cockpit and all the lights went out.

Organized chaos reigned as emergency responders boarded. Passengers who'd put on their masks straight away survived, unaware the captain hadn't landed the plane.

Medics had escorted her to the hospital. Neil, alerted by live news coverage of her flight, had fought bureaucracy to find her. Hours later, unharmed, the hospital released her into his arms.

Driving home, their attempts at conversation had been surreal. She tried to explain her actions, but exhausted, she couldn't cope. Carrying her up to their first-floor condo, he laid her on their couch. Sat on the floor beside her, he fed her sips of coffee. Revived over an hour by his simple medicine, she rose, stepping towards their tiny balcony overlooking the parking lot, which had never looked so beautiful.

"You're a hero," he said, watching her stunning figure. She was amazing. This evening, the entire world knew.

Dazed by her day, she didn't feel heroic. She remained proud of herself, but thirty-four people had died today. The news reported the ninety who'd survived, headlines screaming 'Barista lands plane'.

She was alive. Alive and sorry. She'd needed to stay alive for her apology to reach Neil. Now, her relationship required a simple course correction. On autopilot, she grasped certainty. She had a plan, and no matter her drama, she had a relationship crisis to correct. They mustn't sweep another argument under the carpet. She'd devised a plan requiring courage. Now it seemed simple.

Staring out their window, she said, "Neil, our argument has upset me for days. I love you. I was wrong. You're helping us improve our lifestyle. I'm pressurizing you instead of supporting you. I'm sorry." Turning to face him, she said, "I need you to punish me for my unacceptable behavior. Please paddle me, and I mean hard. Tomorrow I'll buy a solid wooden paddle. Whack my bottom worse than if I were in college. I need to feel punished before I can forgive myself or deserve your forgiveness."

"You want me to hit you?" he exclaimed.

"I want you to punish me," she corrected him, her voice calm. "Necessary suffering to make me sorry. I respect you. I deserve a sore bottom to teach me not to argue. Having to obey you, hold myself in position and accept the pain you're causing me is a genuine test of my courage. I must accept I deserve it and take my punishment with respect, replacing my truculent attitude with willing obedience. Whenever my attitude displeases you or my behavior is unpleasant, you'll order me to bend over and you'll paddle me, hard. This is a long-term plan."

Stretching his powerful biceps around her shoulders, he enclosed her in his arms. Her verbal submission had hardened his manhood. "Our argument was your fault. Put like you just did, somehow punishment doesn't sound wrong." He'd dismissed their argument along with previous ones. Determined to raise his income, he'd applied for two more jobs while she'd been on her course. "Given what you did today, are you thinking straight?"

"Dead straight," she said. "I was building up courage to tell you this when the plane lost cabin pressure. Now it doesn't seem like such a big deal. I just want you to give me a hard whacking sometimes."

He stroked her back. "Things could become strange between us. What if you disagree when I decide you must obey me?"

"That's my point," she said. "Your decision is final. I'm determined to surrender rather than argue. I cause these arguments, deal with me. Flex your mighty muscles and eradicate my guilt. Don't hold back. This isn't a game. I'll deserve it." She softened into his arms, pressing her body against his. "Obeying my man feels hot," she whispered, running her hands over his butt.

Her admission solidified his hardness. Her deep obedience gave them a positive direction instead of an escalating argument. Arguments had grown common. He wondered if she'd keep her word. Sliding his hand down, he unbuttoned her jeans. Pulling her into him, he pressed her against his hardness. "It'll sting and you'll be sore even at work. Maybe for several days. I'll do it for real."

"Perfect," she said. "It'll teach me a serious lesson. When I've bought a paddle, we'll deal with our recent argument. Don't forgive me until you've paddled me."

Lifting her into his arms, he carried her past their couch, flatscreen, and circular glass dining table, into their bedroom, placing her on their high mattress. She shucked her undone jeans, proud of her slim bare legs and navy string bikini panties.

He ripped his shirt off, dropped his dark slacks, his manhood saluting her as his black boxers disappeared down his muscular legs.

He flung her black tee across the room, releasing her breasts from their matching navy bra. His hard body slid beside her, his firm fingers in her panties. Arching her back, she panted as his perfect control dominated her body.

"This hand bringing you pleasure will punish you soon," he said. "I'll paddle your bare bottom, I think." It was a useful chance to see if she agreed with his view of their future.

"Bare," she panted. "I deserve it. It's shameful to need punishing."

"You earned it. It will burn and ache. I may well enjoy it."

"I love you," she gasped. "Thank you. We both seem to like the idea, but don't go easy on me. I was vicious."

"You were. I'll thrash you. You're not at school. Your punishment should hurt an adult amount."

Her thrilled mind whirled. He'd understood her. Passion rippled through her core, spewing molten pleasure into her passionate sex.

Ripping down her panties, he seized her hips, spun her onto her knees, and entered her from behind. She loved this position. She'd always reveled in his dominance. Now it would iron out their problem forever. His manhood plunged deep inside her, driving glorious tension.

"Don't stop. God, don't stop," she cried.

He exploded deep inside her. Hot lava poured into her sex. Pressure waves exploded into swathes of luscious pleasure.

Flopping onto her pillow, her man landed beside her, a gigantic grin on his face. "That beats arguing. But I haven't forgotten I must paddle you. No doubts?"

"None." She appreciated the chance to backtrack, but had no intention of failing herself. "I'll yell or cry, but don't go easy on me. I'm a tough girl."

Rolling against her, his eyes locked on hers. "Nobody would argue with that."