Your name. Every night it carries me to sleep. What is your *name*?
The reasonable choice is Jennifer. Probably Jen to your friends. Around 1980, when I was born and, I suspect, you were too, basically every American girl got the name Jennifer.
Jennifer. Oh, sometimes when I fantasize about our first exchange, you surprise me with a name more exotic like Lisette or Deanna, but it never sticks. The next night you are Jennifer again. You’ll always be Jennifer.
You ride the 19 south to work. You embark at 7 AM at SW Jefferson and Broadway, and step out again at the last stop on Macadam. You keep your head down and earbuds loaded as you float closer to the back row, closing in on the seat I’ve worked to keep open. Knowing my eyes are fixed, begging. Knowing you rule me. I don’t bother trying to hide it anymore. I’m yours.
You sit down indifferently, mercifully to my left. Handbag on your lap. Skirt to the knees. Makeup impervious. Nose in your phone, thumbs dancing. All as usual. I breathe.
Wisps of rain form tiny blobs on the window I pretend to stare through. January days are dark past 8, making sleepwalkers of morning passengers. For 20 minutes we are free.
The signal is my favorite. You know which one. When your thumbs pause and you turn your face toward me ever so slightly. To everyone else it’s imperceptible, but to me it’s crystal clear. It electrifies me.
My hand begins its tortured journey to your wrist. Inch by inch until it grazes the exquisite tiny hairs standing on your arm. I stay there for thirty endless seconds before, finally, daring the lightest of contact. You catch your breath as my heart pounds in my throat. I brush just above your wrist bone, my fingers surfing euphoric the contours of your silken alabaster limb.
My eyes are wild so I close them. I’m more assertive in my touch, pushing my fingers to the underside of your wrist. Your pulse is quick like mine. I feel the push and pull of ligaments rising and falling with every thumb tap on your phone. You shiver. You shift toward me. Beneath the practiced cloak of your handbag, my fingers wander to an exposed streak of skin just above your waistline. Forward and backward, tips and knuckles glide up and down. You cross your left leg over your right – another magnificent signal.
I travel my hand down across your hip, along the side of your ass, past your thigh to land at your knee. We’re half way there now. My fingers, now four, paint up and down from lower hamstring to quad. You loosen your clench as my fingers work closer to the space between your knees, inviting them to turn upwards. Which they do.
With each new millimeter of skin overtaken, I feel your heat rising. I reach the deep interior of your thighs, occasionally glancing your dampened panties. The bus is spinning and nobody knows it. How do they not feel this? And you, how do you hold that expression, that semi-annoyed expression, as I, your humbled but nameless violator, do things that make you feel *so good*?
I pull aside and hold your satin underwear with my index finger, and with my middle I gather wetness from your lips to circle your clit. Around and around and around in rhythm. I feel it stiffen under my fingertip. So with every fourth circle I pass directly over it. You faintly shudder and purse your lips, eyes still fixed on your phone’s screen. Circle, circle, circle, pass, increasing the speed with every set. Circle, circle, circle, pass…circle, circle, circle, pass…circle, circle, circle, pass…circle, circle, circle, pass.
I feel your legs take on a familiar vibration. Circle, circle, pass, pass…circle, circle, pass, pass…circle, pass, pass, pass…
Your thumbs halt suddenly, clutching the phone so hard you nearly break it. You lower your head to hide your eyes as they squeeze shut, your brow forming those splendid creases of tortured ecstasy. Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass… Your pressed lips lose tabs on the slightest whimper and I feel you try to suppress orgasmic shock waves. I plunge my finger into you, you lock my hand in place with your convulsing thighs.
Jennifer. We’ve made it. Again.
Clearing your throat, you reach up past me to ring for your stop. Your right breast pressing up against my arm. The bus eases to a stop, you stand purposefully and walk out. I turn to the window and bring my hand to my face, delighting in your scent as you walk alongside the bus. You glance up at me from the side, your face glowing and lips nearly forming a smile.
They say what I hoped they’d say: “see you this afternoon.”
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/6rp1x9/the_silken_euphoric