Unseen by anyone but Cleo, Helen opened the conference room's door.

Everything in order, and, of course, nobody there. Bed still up in the wall. Huge comfortable lounging armchair faced to the window where clouds slipped by. Couch. Bar. Great.

Cleo slipped in close behind her. Helen murmured that the conference rooms were shielded against electronic bugging. She turned and carefully locked the door.

"Isn't this clever?" she asked, and showed Cleo how at a touch of a button the double bed came down. "We're very proud of our conference rooms. Seems that some people like to confer in bed, heh-heh."

She hardly could manage the leery little laugh, she had gone so tight in the throat with the onset of hot longing. And so wet in the crotch, where the heat concentrated right on the clitoris, that funny little button they call the man in the boat. He was paddling his boat in a boiling sea. Her cunt lips were positively drooling.

Cleo looked at her and Cleo knew.

Cleo only gave her that secret little smile.

Cleo shrugged off the jacket of her unbecoming tailleur.

Helen, viewing the other woman in a lovely low-cut blouse of clinging silk, gasped and without thinking because her wet twat had her so befuddled – said, "Oh, you're not wearing a bra!"

Cleo smiled her secret smile, glanced down at the tight little nips that showed so clearly, glanced up at Helen, winked, and patted the place on the couch beside her.

"I'm glad we're alone together," she murmured. "I've noticed how Wanderlust hostesses parade their breasts, and I really think it has something to do with the airline's success. But I've wondered if I have enough up-front for the lob."