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Climbing her Boeing 737 through four-hundred feet in blue skies, Tamsin saw white flashes cross her windscreen. Her stomach registered the sudden loss of thrust. Fear flooded her brain.

"Bird strike. We've lost both engines," her first officer shouted, his tone critical. "Mayday, mayday, mayday. Diamond Cross Air 388. Four hundred feet. Runway heading. We've lost both engines. Returning."

She registered his broadcast. Banking her jet, she paralleled the runway she'd left. Reading her unchosen rate of descent, she noted the ocean on her right. She needed multiple track miles to position her aircraft for landing. Miles she didn't have. Houses lay below her. Sweat pooling in her bra, she turned right. "Ditching," she called.

Her first officer responded. Grabbing his checklist, he pulled the landing gear's aural warning. They knew their wheels were up. They'd remain so. He inhibited the Ground Proximity Warning System to avoid its distracting alarm. He switched their transponder to 7700.

She ordered their cabin crew to prepare for ditching.

He completed checklists, rising to secure their flight deck door open. In water, it could prevent escape.

She aviated. She navigated.

He communicated. "Diamond Cross Air 388. We're going into the ocean. One mile off Mead beach."

She ignored the response. It didn't matter. Nothing could help them now. Except calm skill, experience, and guts born of native fear. Her flaps at forty, she glided, the ocean consuming her windscreen. Holding her nerve, she eased her plane towards its landing. Hitting her comms switch, she said, "Brace for impact." Her voice remained calm and controlled, her absolute intention to land. At twenty feet, she flared her aircraft, praying she'd stay airborne long enough to bleed their speed. Forward motion collapsed as their tail touched, dragging them to the water surface. Her giant jet slammed into the sea, skimming forward to a sudden halt, its nose still high. Flung forward in her harness, silence descended.

Her first officer cutoff the engine start levers, guaranteeing engine shutdown, pulling the fire handles to prevent fuel leaking.

She checked her angle in the water. Low tail. Raised nose. Climbing from her seat, she glanced through the cabin door, checking their position in the water. Returning to her seat, she hit her comms switch. "Cabin crew, forward doors only. Easy Victor. Easy Victor." Having ordered evacuation with her unusual message designed to bypass passenger panic, she stood, preparing to join the evacuation.

"Nice work, Tamsin," her first officer said.

With decades of experience, his praise meant everything. "Thank you," she smiled.

She exited the Boeing 737 flight simulator. White metal steps led into a vast noisy room housing twenty simulator pods, hissing upon their pistons. She checked her watch. It was 2pm. Inside one of those pods was Diane, also in palpable danger. Her friend's last simulator flight session would have begun minutes ago.

They'd spent six weeks at the Diamond Cross Air Jet Academy. Tomorrow night, they should have their type-ratings, legal proof they could fly a Boeing 737. They'd prepared for the grueling ground school, driving memory items into their minds, learning to troubleshoot every aircraft system. Starting in their hangar in Limit Creek, they'd toiled in Australian Outback heat, continuing with Boeing 737 manuals strewn across her city hotel suite. She'd lived there for five weeks. Most days, Diane had joined her, escaping her tiny suburban apartment, joining her boyfriend Neil's morning commute. He ran technology for Hair Air, his friend Ben's radical hair product company.

At jet school, they'd conquered the complex flight management computer and aced their theory lessons. Still, their first simulator flights had flummoxed them. Everything happened so fast.

Scanning their instruments in their mock-up training cockpit, they'd imagined events unfolding at their usual pace. In the flight simulator, they'd reacted behind their plane, playing constant catch up. Dismissing their training captain's confidence in their eventual skill, they'd recreated a mock-up paper cockpit in Diane's hotel suite, driving themselves against a stopwatch until their mental reactions reached jet speed.

Arid afternoon sun reflected from the road surface as she drove her rental saloon to their chain hotel. It wasn't the Belmont Palace Hotel. Two thousand miles west of Jake, she couldn't miss him. She lacked mental space. In the Belmont Palace Hotel presidential suite, they'd celebrated their delicious reunion with the hotel's extensive room-service menu, discussing their city-based future together.

Downgrading to a regular hotel suite, they'd continued their conversation. Their ideas had drifted from hard-to-buy hotel residences, through overpriced rental properties, to seeking a home. Jake wanted space. She wanted city-life. Viewing houses online had brought them into swift agreement. With seven hundred million in his bank, he still resented homes priced for their city park view. She agreed. A bird's-eye view came free with her job. She'd soon begin flying passengers alongside a line-training captain and safety pilot. She didn't need a park view.

Four blocks from the park, prices fell from thirty million to ten. Number 251 had kept their attention, photos revealing a unique modern townhouse with premiere finishes, stylish furniture included, for fourteen million. She loved Jake's decisive nature. He'd called the realtor, persuading the distressed developer to accept ten million.

After five weeks of hotel living, they'd slipped into their treasured space four nights before jet school started. Modernized, the nineteen-hundreds building had become an advanced smart home, customizable to their comfort. Touch screens altered temperature, music and lighting.

Their first morning at home, Jake had joined Neil at Hair Air, their office ten minutes' walk. Having saved the fast-growing cosmetics giant from an early hack attack, Diane's boyfriend Neil had enlisted his dark security skills to train their expanding tech security team.

Abandoning learning, she and Diane had explored her four-bedroom main house. Her nimble elevator had granted access to her small roof terrace, the close city skyline a stark contrast to their expansive Australian Outback vistas. Descending to her modern cellar, a secret underground passage, lined by a one-hundred-fifty-bottle wine vault, led them beneath the enclosed courtyard, smart hardwood stairs welcoming them into the attached carriage house.

Central stairs separated a dining space with contemporary Italian kitchen from a luxurious living area, sunlight streaming through its sloping skylight roof. Upstairs, a lavish master bedroom led to a glass-styled designer ensuite overlooking the courtyard.

Admiring the carriage house ensuite, inspiration had struck her. Overcome, she'd leaned against the floor-to-ceiling glass. Diane and Neil were hunting for a city apartment. She'd urged her friend to sell her suburban apartment, cut costs, and move into the carriage house. In flight school, Diane had provided them with a car. Her friend had swept her into their incredible Outback adventure, gifting her fifteen hundred valuable flying hours in her logbook. She'd met Jake, thanks to Diane. Trembling, she'd made her unconditional offer, urging her friend to agree. In the beautiful bathroom, Diane had hugged her. Two weeks ago, Neil had sold their suburban condo. After tomorrow, they'd fly home together.

In her functional hotel suite, she stripped to her black bikini panties, her thoughts gliding to her glorious reunion with Jake, snuggled in the Belmont Palace Hotel presidential suite, beginning their new life together. Carried in his arms, he'd placed her on the opulent bed, his kisses supplanting her need to breathe. He'd stripped off her red dress, leaving her in white lace tanga panties with rock hard nipples.

On her basic hotel bed, her fingers slid into her soft black panties, nestling under their lace trim, consumed by her memory. He'd kept her honest. Standing over the palatial bed, he'd ordered her up, bent her over and belted her because it was Tuesday. Four firm strokes of his black leather had lashed her soft cheeks, reinstating her regular Tuesday belt spankings. After belting her, he'd slid beneath her bent body, pulling her into his arms, thrusting his hardness deep, restoring his absolute command of her.

His dramatic arrival into her evening with Diane's friends had transcended her failed phone call to Limit Creek, seeking closure. He'd come for her, flying thirty hours to claim her. In his loving arms, tenderness had filled their entire night. His toughness had returned during their first lazy day. He'd looked up from his glossy magazine, scrutinizing her thick white hotel robe. Under his firm gaze, she'd smiled.

He'd said, 'You refused to hear my explanation in Limit Creek. Our relationship deserved a decent discussion. Tamsin, you need strapping.'

His sternness had moistened her panties. She rubbed her clit hard, her current hotel room a far cry from her luxurious memory. Four months hadn't dimmed his potent words. His simple declaration had obligated her heart, throbbing her obedient sex. She'd deserved strict condemnation from her man. 'Sorry,' she'd said, her necessary words powerless to prevent her punishment.

His tone hard, he'd commanded, 'Strip to your panties.'

Dropping her robe, she'd stood in only her panties, an obedient girl. He'd positioned soft pillows in the middle of their vast hotel bed. Pulling them nearer to him, he'd pointed at the pillows, taking their leather strap from his backpack. He'd come for her, bringing all their punishment implements. He'd slapped the oxblood-red strap against his palm, ordering her to bend over. Compelled over the pillows, her hips raised, she'd presented her bright panty-clad bottom for punishment.

Waking in her white lace tanga panties, her red dress gracing the plush carpet, she'd called the concierge desk, asking for a woman. Explaining her female predicament, she'd requested cute underwear, jeans, tops, and flat shoes. Perfect skinny jeans, white blouses, and black flats had appeared two hours later. In the gorgeous bathroom, she'd tried on several pairs of super-soft panties from Stripe & Stare. The female concierge had provided pure white and many cute colors. Bent over her pillows, she'd presented Pink Gingham Rose Garden panties, their skimpy cut meeting the strap's cruel sting.

She'd embraced her new panty strategy, visiting the upmarket department store for soft bras. In her black cotton panties, her finger pressed against her hard clit, stretching the comfortable cotton, returning her thoughts to her compliant position, bent before her man, presented over their presidential pillows for sound punishment.

He'd scolded her, delivering a fair, justified critique of her behavior during her last two weeks in Limit Creek. Dutiful to Diane, she couldn't have handled him, but it didn't excuse her blatant disrespect. His stern tone had whipped her guilt-wracked mind. Their heavy oxblood-red leather strap had scorched her skin, forcing her capitulation. Cracks had reverberated around their presidential bedroom. Lashing her bottom in fiery pain, he'd leathered her backside, admonishing her behavior, expecting her respect. Under his ruthless lashes, she'd given him her utter surrender.

Her memory felt the heat. Clutching their luxury quilt, she'd endured his severe strokes. His words had melted into her memory. 'You owed me a chance', 'Our relationship deserved better'. Each utterance followed a fierce leather lash across her deserving cheeks. Fiery heat had erupted into unceasing agony. She'd taken his criticism, fire licking her tender girl flesh. Hurt beyond compare by his hidden past, she'd refused to talk to him for fourteen days, leaving Limit Creek without breaking her silence. Despite her obligation to Diane, she should have given him a hearing. Remorse layered upon guilt as she remembered walking from their hangar crew room whenever he'd tried to speak. He'd told her off for her disgraceful disrespect, building a special burn in a single disapproving stripe, low on her sensitive spanked bottom.

Skimming her nipples at jet speed, she honored his dominance. He hadn't let her off. He'd thrashed her bare thighs. Crying under his lashes, fire stealing through her strapped legs, impassioned words had streamed from her heart.

Rolling on her plain bed, in her black panties, she pretended her thighs were receiving their just desserts, riding her clit, legs spread, her finger crammed under her. Picturing herself standing before him, punished in her pink gingham panties imprinted with roses, she thanked him again for disciplining her.

In their lavish bathroom mirror, delicate lace panty trim had merged into fire red, her cheeks beaten by their savage strap. She'd strutted the presidential suite in her beautiful panties, proud of her prominent punishment. Marked by his strap, she'd taken him to meet her parents. Sore upon her parent's couch, his secret toughness had added delicious discomfort.

Dropping her chest, the rough bed linen scraped her nipples. She thrust herself onto her busy finger. Rising to climax, she held herself on the brink, worshiping his strict command of her. Held on her finger, desperate for his toughness, she exploded rosy orgasms into her black panties, bursting pleasure waves into her passionate sex, intense joy pulsing through her slender bare legs.

She would present her notebook full of her training mistakes - an idea from Diane - to Jake unless he punished her straight away. Six weeks without discipline demanded a firm accounting, her list of shortcomings a useful aid.

Relaxing on her chain hotel bed, her thoughts turned current. Her last hurdle remained - Base Training. Tomorrow, she must land a Boeing 737, apply maximum power, take off, circuit the airfield, repeating the exercise six times. Called 'Touch and Go', she'd practiced the fast-paced maneuver during her simulator sessions. Tomorrow wasn't practice. Her legal type-rating depended on her performance. It also wasn't a simulator. Tomorrow, she'd fly her first ever, real, bona fide jet.