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adorning them. It crossed his mind that this must be what one woman sees of another in neighboring bathroom stalls—shoes and panties. Almost involuntarily, he visualized the long row of stalls in an airport women’s room, then visualized the row of soft, bare asses inside those stalls, each neatly seated for that satisfying postflight pee. His cock ached, and he gave it a sustaining squeeze.
    At last, the pilot switched off Zirbin’s trademark FASTEN SEATBELTS sign—a cartoon crocodile in sunglasses, whose 1970s-style belt and buckle appeared to be part of his body. Even as Jared registered this, he heard a deep, sensual sigh from next door, and he could only assume that his invisible companion’s fingers had made welcome contact with her intimate zone.
    He extricated his cock from his briefs, letting out a silent sigh of his own as his fist finally met his flesh. At least he thought it had been silent, but a peculiar discontinuity in the breathing from beyond the curtain made him feel that his partner had heard him, and had tracked his progress. It excited him to speculate that she was that aware of him, as she gently nurtured her hungry pussy lips.
    He squirmed in his seat, and he accidentally brushed the curtain. For an instant, he felt the solidity of the body on the other side.
    â€œSorry.” He whispered it.
    â€œOkay,” returned a breathy voice, raw with intensity.
    The voice, that aroused “Okay,” echoed in his head as he
stroked himself. Its imagined repetition became a masturbation mantra, blending with the real sound of the jet—and the real sounds coming from lap and mouth level one seat over. Her wetness was now audible, and Jared could visualize the slippery activity of delicate fingers across and between pouting lips, as vividly as if it were being displayed for him on Zirbin’s egg-shaped video screens. As her breathing dipped, plodded, and crested to a complex and ever-changing rhythm, he thought he could actually follow her trail along her folds, in and out of her cunt, and back and forth to her clit. His own rhythm, simple but powerful, rocked him in harmony with her.
    He reached for one of the generous, Zirbin-monogrammed handkerchiefs, which were provided within a candy-striped Personal Intimacy Kit that also included plastic bags, disinfecting gel, and—just in case people wanted to join forces—a box of condoms. With a grape-colored handkerchief wrapped around him, he gave out a prehistoric grunt.
    â€œHey,” the breathy voice suddenly said, in a labored whisper rich with erotic texture.
    â€œYeah?” Jared was tingling right on the edge.
    â€œMaybe we could pull the curtain up.”
    It was technically a “maybe” statement rather than an invitation, but Jared knew what it meant. Clutching his swaddled cock in his left hand, he used his right, with passionate dexterity, to release the catch that had kept the curtain anchored. With a shoooop of relief, it disappeared into a slit in the ceiling—leaving only a plastic nipple visible, by means of which future passengers would, at some far-off time, pull it back down.
    The face that greeted him was a tableau of melting, sensuous beauty. The woman’s blonde hair was in disarray, her eyes were glazed in preorgasmic semifocus, and her mouth twitched in a way that made her lip gloss repeatedly catch, and transform,
the sterile cabin light. Her white blouse was unbuttoned enough to show two cheerful breasts, each half-out of its bra cup, with nipples erect and moistened.
    She was so far gone down the road to ecstasy that Jared couldn’t tell what she might look like in repose, what expression her face would hold under normal circumstances. But here, now, she was stunning—possessed of that quintessential grace that comes to a woman on the verge of orgasm.
    She smiled at him, then closed her eyes.
    He realized that a moment of eye contact with him—enabling her to