by Brian Crawford
(04/13/05)

It was the heat, she told herself later.

She'd been riding home on the bus, one of those sweltering days that New York gets all through August. Everyone else hated it. But she loved it -- she always felt sexy on a really hot day. It made her so much more aware of her body. She and the world were both steamy and humid and sensual.

The bus was crowded, as usual. She hadn't gotten a seat, but today she didn't mind. The plastic seats just stuck to you anyway. She liked the air on her body.

She wrapped her hand in the overhead strap and let her body sway with the bus. People crowded close, but no one actually touched her -- no matter how crowded, New Yorkers' personal space was carefully maintained.

She liked riding like this. The windows were wide open and the hot breeze flowed around her, fluttering her thin cotton dress pleasantly against her thighs. She felt a drop of sweat run between her breasts, tickling.

Looking down, she could see all the way down her dress. She wore no underwear, and the shining globes of her breasts swayed beneath the thin material of the dress; the light through the bright tropical print cast moving pastel patterns on her moist skin. She stood, swaying languorously, and imagined herself naked on a jungle path. She felt like a tigress in heat, prowling her jungle, searching for a mate. She wondered what tiger lovemaking would be like. Lots of hissing and growling...and some dangerously sharp biting, she imagined. She imagined huge paws, magnificent in their power, reaching around from behind to crush her humid breasts. The claws would be retracted, their needle tips just visible, resting lightly on her skin to remind her of their power and danger.

God, thinking like that made her hotter than ever! She felt her nipples rise up hard, as they always did when she was very excited. Her dress was pulled tight across her breasts by her raised arm, accentuating her bralessness; her hard nipples stood out like gum drops. Jesus, is this what men feel like when they get an erection in public?

She looked around to see if anyone else noticed -- and looked straight into the eyes of the gorgeous hunk sitting in front of her. He had obviously been watching her, and she had no doubt that he had observed her condition. She blushed and looked quickly away, but her nipples just got harder. A warm glow from the tips of her breasts flowed down her belly and between her legs, contributing to the already-moist condition there.

She built up the nerve to meet his eyes again. He was still watching.

He was a few years older than she was, lean and fit. He looked perfectly comfortable in the heat. His longish black hair was slicked severely back from his olive face. She had the eerie sensation that he could see her every thought. She stood lost in his black unreadable eyes.

Then they left hers to travel slowly and unashamedly down her body. They moved from one breast to the other, then slid down to her hips, the curve of her thighs, her bare legs, her feet; and then slowly all the way back up to her face, missing nothing.

She gave a sudden shiver that he couldn't miss. She had never been looked at quite that way before. It was not ogling, but a thorough, appreciative appraisal. His face was nearly expressionless...but did she see a barely discernible curl at the corner of his mouth? Was he smiling? To himself or to her? In amusement or desire? Whatever it meant, it lit her fire. The tiger's paws became hands with long slim fingers that cupped and lifted her breasts. His fingers.

The bus jerked to a stop and several people squeezed past her and got off. The crowd eased slightly, but she stayed where she was, transfixed. She stood a foot from his knees, her back to the rear door of the bus.

The bus started off with another jerk. She braced her legs wide apart for balance. With that same maddening self-assurance, his eyes roamed freely down her body again and locked directly on her crotch.

Freed from his hypnotic gaze, she glanced to her reflection in the window, and gasped. She realized now what he was looking at. She was naked!

The afternoon sun glinted blindingly from the windshield of each car they passed, shooting a brilliant glare through the bus. Each flash turned her little summer dress transparent, silhouetting her naked body in exquisite detail. Her left breast, caught in profile, swayed heavily below her upraised arm. Even the erect nipple couldn't be missed, holding out a little tent of gossamer shadow from the curve of her breast. Her narrow waist, the swell of her hips, the smooth taper of her thighs, all drew the eye downward and inward: to the glowing chalice of light between her thighs.

With her legs braced wide, it was easy to see the crease between them, even the hint of lips. She realized that he could even see her hair, matted with moisture, where it hung in a little point between her legs.

They both studied the reflected apparition for several long moments while she tried to think what she should do. She resisted the impulse to hide herself -- a step or two to either side would have been sufficient -- because she found it tremendously exciting to stand in a crowded bus on Fifth Avenue, toe-to-toe with this attractive stranger, knowing that he saw her as naked as if she had just shrugged out of her dress and let it fall to the floor.

She looked down again and found him watching her face. If he had grinned or looked away she would have withdrawn immediately. If he had been furtive or sly, if there had been a hint of leering, she would have been affronted. But he met her gaze evenly.

He had been watching her face when she caught her reflection; he had seen her stiffen with alarm. He knew she knew, and she knew he knew why she didn't move away. They had made a tacit agreement, each taking, and giving, pleasure. Though they had neither touched nor spoken, it was as if they were making love. Every inch of her skin tingled as his eyes roamed over her body.

"'Scuse me, lady," said a loud Brooklyn voice, startling her from reverie. She blinked at the man next to her in confusion. "This is my stop, lady. Please."

She stepped aside, bumping awkwardly against the pole next to her. The man squeezed past and clambered off the bus. The bus started off again with a lurch.

The sexual tension was broken.

Stop by stop, the bus was emptying. Only two or three people were still standing. She couldn't see the handsome man's face now, for she had turned her back when she swung aside to let the other passenger off. She stood, leaning against the pole at the end of his seat. His head must be only inches from her hip.

She became aware of his hand on the pole beside her thigh, could see fine hairs glinting on the back of his hand. The sight of his tawny skin no more than an inch from her leg jolted her temperature upward again. Impulsively, she leaned against the pole, pressing against his hand. He made no effort to move.

She couldn't believe she was doing this, but she didn't care: she needed to recover their silent, electric communion.

She felt the warmth of his hand against her thigh. She reveled in the touch. She leaned harder against the pole, mashing it into the side of her breast, savoring the impress of cool metal against her softness. Then she felt his hand withdraw.

Again the spell was broken. Had she been wrong all along? Perhaps he had only been staring. Perhaps that subtle touch had not excited him as it had her. Perhaps he hadn't even noticed it.

But then she felt a touch, light as down, on the back of her thigh.

She caught her breath and waited. Nothing else happened for several minutes. Had it been an accident? Perhaps he was only opening his paper, oblivious as she stood trembling before him.

Then his hand slipped between her legs and closed around her bare thigh.

What should she do? Should she pull away, pretending it hadn't happened? Should she slap his face? But she did exactly what she was sure he had known she would. She stood motionless and closed her eyes, concentrating every ounce of her being on his touch.

His hand pressed her thigh, and then began to glide upward. She felt her skirt lifting. She wondered if anyone could see what he was doing.

His hand slid higher, onto the hypersensitive skin on the inside of her thigh. She mashed her breast harder against the pole.

Perhaps he wasn't concealing what he was doing, she thought with a rush of heat. Was he so bold that he might just openly fondle her? What did he care? She was making no effort to move away, was she?

She was too far gone to care. She just didn't want it to stop.

His hand had nearly reached her sex. Surely he knew the wetness spilling down her thighs was more than just sweat. Then his hand brushed her hair and stopped.

She bit her lip and held her breath, waiting, dreading, begging silently for him to continue, but he remained motionless, both of them savoring the anticipation. Finally, when she was sure she could endure no more, he pressed the edge of his hand hard against her, directly against her slit. She shuddered and clutched the pole for balance. Neither of them made a sound.

He flexed his hand, working his forefinger between her lips. Only half aware now of where she was, she shifted her weight and opened her thighs just enough to give him free access. The movement brought her nipple into direct contact with the cold steel of the pole. Every sway of the bus, every tremble in her legs, caused her nipple to flip across the smooth metal.

His hand rocked, sweeping fingertips one by one across her mound, stroking her hair, dipping between her lips. His thumb insinuated itself directly on the puckered ring of her ass. She arched, pressing back against the palm of his hand.

He cupped her pubis and brought the tip of his middle finger down on the head of her clitoris.

The blare of a taxi horn jerked her back to awareness. She opened her eyes and to her horror saw that his knuckles made a neat row of bumps in the front of her dress; they pulsed in an unmistakable rhythm. If anyone looked...

She was gathering her nerve to check the faces around her when she saw the bumps protrude still further, then both saw and felt as his finger disappeared inside her. It slid effortlessly right to the knuckle.

She closed her eyes again.

She thought she would faint. Her knees were near collapse; her throat gulped air. She crushed her breast into the pole and let the pain clear her head.

What the hell was she doing? She was in a bus on Fifth Avenue, in broad daylight, and a complete stranger had his hand inside her. She had to stop it -- but how? He had her, she thought with an explosive giggle, by the short hairs. How could she get disentangled without a scene? Should she say something to him? What? "Excuse me, I know we haven't been introduced, but would you mind taking your finger out of my cunt?"

He began to wriggle his finger inside her. It squirmed in circles, alternating with smooth in-and-out strokes. The tip of his index finger massaged her clitoris.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Every muscle in her body went rigid as she tried to maintain her balance. But try as she might, she couldn't help but rock her hips against his probing hand. His hand tightened, and she felt the tip of his thumb force its way into her anus. Her muscles were too watery to resist, and soon she was doubly impaled.

He squeezed his hand closed, as if trying to bring thumb and finger together inside her. It was as if he held the center of her in his hand, as if she might be able to float up into the air, supported only by the deep grip of his hand.

Biting her lip to keep silent, she abandoned herself to lust. Reading her perfectly, he pumped furiously and she came in one huge rush, clamping her legs together so hard that she feared his hand must have been crushed.

Her orgasm was so total and so sudden that she moaned aloud. Oh, God, now I've done it, she thought. Her eyes snapped open to look straight into the face of a middle-aged woman opposite her. The woman's mouth was open, eyes wide, as she stared straight at the man's hand. There could be no doubt that she had seen everything. A thrill of horror went through her, simultaneous with an aftershock of orgasm. Would the woman shout, denounce her to their fellow commuters? What would she do if that happened; what could she say? Her mind raced, trying to think of something to say to the woman. But then she noticed the peculiar glazed look in the woman's eyes, as if she were focused on something more distant than the man's hand that now stroked and soothed her. For an instant she thought the woman might be blind. Then a slight motion caught her eye.

A large shopping bag lay across the woman's legs, emblazoned with the name of an expensive department store. The woman's hands were tucked out of sight beneath it, but the bag was unobtrusively jigging up and down. Bless her heart, the old girl was frigging herself right along with them. As she watched, the woman shuddered, her eyes closing in release.

After a moment, she looked up and their eyes met. The woman smiled. It was a wonderful smile, impossible to resist returning, a womanly secret passed between them.

She stood grinning, and felt the man's hand release her, slide damply down her thigh, leave her. The spell was broken. She was sated.

The bus was just pulling up at her stop. Without a glance back, she swung down the steps onto the sweltering sidewalk. The bus moved off in a blue cloud of fumes.

She stood looking after it, thinking. Finally she turned toward her building, relaxed and happy, overflowing with summery fellow-feeling for two strangers on a bus.

They understood, all three of them. There was no fault to be found. There was nothing more to do.

The heat.

It was the heat that had done it.

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