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  • The Flight Attendant: Becoming Chloe at 30,000 FT

    Chapter by azn8573 · 26 Dec 2025
  • Our protagonist is on an overnight trip to Chicago and ends up falling asleep and inhabiting the body of Chloe, a flight attendant with some secrets of her own.
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  • The transition was so seamless I almost missed it. One moment, I was wedged in 37B, a cramped economy seat on a red-eye to Chicago, lulled to a half-sleep by the drone of the engines and the dim cabin lights. The next, I was standing upright, a subtle sway in my hips compensating for the plane’s gentle turbulence.

    The smells were different: recycled plane air, yes, but underscored with notes of coffee, peppermint, and a clean, ozonic perfume. My vision focused on a tiny galley, all polished metal and neat stacks of plastic-wrapped blankets. My hands—smaller, softer, with neatly filed nails painted a shell pink—were methodically arranging miniature bottles of gin on a cart.

    A voice, bright and chirpy, came from my left. “You okay, Chloe? You zoned out for a second there.”

    I turned. Another flight attendant, an older woman with a kind, weary smile, was watching me. Chloe. The name tag pinned to my chest confirmed it. My chest. Which was… prominent, pressed against the crisp, blue fabric of the airline uniform blouse. A navy scarf was knotted with practiced precision at my neck.

    “Just… tired,” I heard myself say, the voice a pleasant, melodic alto that was utterly foreign. “Too much coffee, not enough sleep.”

    “Tell me about it,” she chuckled, turning back to her own cart. “Jump-seat nap as soon as we hit cruising. Promise.”

    I was in it. Again. That bizarre, electrifying dislocation. The uniform skirt was snug around my hips, the nylons whispering with every micro-movement. And as I shifted, reaching for a stack of napkins, I felt it: a distinct, secret friction beneath the professional exterior. Not just the expected undergarments, but something… less practical. Lace. A silky, minimal barrier between the uniform and my skin.

    A hot, secret thrill shot through me. Under this pristine, customer-service armor, Chloe was wearing something decidedly not for the passengers.

    The senior attendant—Janine, her tag read—nudged me. “Showtime, sweetie. First class, then work our way back.”

    For the next hour, I was a puppet. Chloe’s muscle memory guided me through the rituals: the practiced smile, the “would you like a beverage?”, the delicate placement of a warm towel. I moved with an efficiency that wasn’t my own, my mind a frantic observer inside this beautiful, borrowed machine. I felt the subtle pinch of the heels, the way …
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