Helen Troy was never sure whether she would prefer to be married to a man or to a woman. Sometimes this sex-centered doubt as though she were sitting on her cunt on a fence, ready to fall either way worried her.

Sometimes it seemed like a lot of fun.

Like now.

Helen, about to go off duty for a couple of hours, had been parading up and down one of the plane's aisles, following her breasts. This was part of the Wanderlust hostess training. A girl was rated by the way she walked her breasts down an aisle. The second most important thing was the sway and swing of the hips. Equally important was the hostess's perfume. It was made to a secret formula, and contained rose petals, a sperm oil base, tincture of opium and the faintest trace of a famous laboratory's concentrated essence of cunt.

On this particular hip-swinging parade down the aisle, Helen Troy had become aware of a woman of about her own age – twenty-four – who wore a severe tailleur that, to a woman's eye, hinted of opulent curves beneath.

This woman, who smiled at her and ran admiring eyes over the uniform tailored by Mainbocher, didn't have the kind of figure that lends itself to a tailleur.

She should have been traveling in a bikini. Which set off a bell in Helen's mind. Awornan who hides her womanliness? Oh-ho. Could be a dyke. No. Too delicately built. Too carefully made up and coiffed. Try again. A woman who hides but coyly displays her femininity so that another woman might see it but men might not?

Hmmmm, thought Helen, getting a tingle in the nipples.

She paused at the woman's seat. "Anything I can get for you?"

"Oh, not really, thank you." A soft, sexy voice with a kind of insinuation in it. "Except that, well, look, I want to find out something about Wanderlust Airlines' policy regarding hostesses. Perhaps you…?" And oh, such a secret smile!