I claim two seats by the window at Gate C19 and pull my hood up like a halo. You sit close enough to smell my perfume and far enough to pretend this is normal. The PA chime pops and I smile without looking at you. Delayed flight phone sex? Perfect. We have time to play. Rule one. Earbuds in. One for you, one for me. I talk low and smile at my reflection in the glass. You touch only when I tell you. If a boarding call happens, hands off. If I say good boy, you get five slow strokes. Easy.

I cross my legs and drag the zipper on my hoodie down one inch. The tiny sound makes your jaw tighten. I see the way you look at me. I let the fabric part another inch and the air between us heats up. Match me. I tug the zipper. You glide for three. I stop. You stop. I lick my lip on purpose and watch your eyes flick down like you cannot help it. They call a city that is not ours. I lean in like I am about to share a secret. Coffee order quiz. Get it right and I pull the zipper two inches. Get it wrong and I button the top snap. You get it right. Good boy. I reward you. The teeth slide down. You breathe out too hard and I giggle into your earbud like I am kissing you through the wire.

I guide your hand to your thigh beneath the jacket. Palms flat. Warm. I tell you where to put your fingers so it looks innocent from every angle. You can rub when I fix my hair. You can circle when I adjust my bra strap. You can stroke only when my voice dips. If anyone walks past, you freeze like a statue and nod at the departures board.

Another delay. I swing my foot and let my skirt ride up just enough to show soft thigh. I tilt my head and say count for me. Five. Four. Three. I breathe and you match. I stop at two and make you swallow your noise. Be good. Earn the finish. Final round. I stand to stretch and you have to keep your eyes on mine while I peel my hoodie off my shoulders in slow motion. I tell you how I would straddle you in seat 18A. I tell you how I would grind just enough to make your head hit the headrest. I tell you when to hold and when to go. They announce preboarding and I murmur not yet. One more minute. One more.

When our group is finally called, I slide the zipper up and your hand away. I kiss the mic with a tiny pop and whisper meet me at cruising altitude. If you keep pace all the way to the clouds, I will give you my aisle-seat finish.