42 Days Out of Order

The bus is crowded again, the air heavy and humid. Even though I’m fresh from the gym, just showered, the T-shirt is already sticking to me.

I noticed a man at the gym. Those lips. I think he noticed me, too. He had that intense look. But I didn't dare talk to him. Will he be there again next week?

He’s actually way too old for me. Late twenties, early thirties? He seems like someone who has already found his place in life.

That’s attractive, but it makes him completely unsuitable for me, at barely eighteen, when I have only just tasted freedom at the tip of my tongue.

My back feels pleasantly warm. But this thing about relieving stress through sports only works to a degree. I am still feeling the nagging of my mother in my bones.

I stretch. I am longing for touches, for bare skin. It’s been months since I’ve even kissed someone.

There is no personal space on the bus, at all. I feel breath on my neck. I look back: the man from the gym is standing directly behind me.

The bus jolts and comes to a stop. People are shoving past us. His upper body is brushing my back. More people are getting on, pressing us together. I feel his hairy leg against my leg. I am holding my breath.

I should try to move away, but he feels so good. The bus brakes hard.

My behind is pressed with force against the front of his thin jersey shorts. I can feel the hard contours very clearly through my airy summer skirt.

The bus is rumbling and squeaking. Our eyes meet. He grabs my arm so I don't lose my balance completely. His hand is rough. The bus jolts. He is shifting his weight.

I can feel him on my ass, his breath on my neck. His hand is still on my arm. The next stop.

“Excuse me!”

The woman behind us is in a hurry and shoves him out of the way into me. Pressed together like this, we remain for a moment. He takes his hand off my arm. The bus is rumbling and squeaking.

His hand brushes my nipple. This touch shoots directly towards my crotch.

It’s gotten a bit less crowded. His hand is back. He pushes me gently to the side and stands with his back to the window. Now we are facing each other.

His leg is between my legs. We are staring at each other. His gaze is a mixture of hungry and thoughtful. That grey eyes can hold so much heat.

The bus stops abruptly. His leg is rubbing against mine. It’s getting crowded again.

The mass presses me closer to him. We are staring at each other. Serious. I am pressed even further against him. His bare thigh is a wedge between my legs. The bus jolts.

Does he notice how soaking wet I am?

My head is now pressed under his chin. His Adam's apple bobs. A single drop of water is running down his throat. His shower gel is fresh with a woody note. I am inhaling deeply. His Adam's apple bobs again.

The bus is rumbling over the hilly streets. I feel every bump and every turn between my legs on his leg.

If I stuck my tongue out right now, I could lick the drop of water from his throat. I wonder if it tastes salty?

The hair on his leg is rough on my skin. My nipples are rubbing against his T-shirt. I am gasping for air.

The bus is getting emptier. I could move away now.

“I have to get off at the next stop,” whispers a voice at my ear.

It sounds like sandpaper. I could understand that as a prompt to make room for him.

Then it would be as if nothing had happened. It could have been just been a sequence of coincidences, the proximity.

I don't want that. I could ask him, if he’s back at the gym next week, but that sounds so banal.

I have been riding his leg for several minutes now. We are way past the façade of banal pleasantries, and right now I couldn't care less for his hobbies or his job. I want this to continue. Now.

I lift my head and look at him. He is staring at me, calmly. My hunger wins over my fear of rejection.

“Do you have time now?” I ask him.

It’s more of a croak. I don't do things like this. It is risky. He could be a psychopath, a serial killer.

“Do you want to get off with me?” he suggests.

I nod. The bus stops. I take my sports bag from the floor. We get off.

“Are you coming to my place? I live right across from the stop,” he says.

He is running his fingers through his damp hair, so it stands all wild off his head. He probably doesn't do things like that very often, either.

It is totally crazy what I am doing here, but the cool wind in my crotch confirms to me that the last twenty minutes have really happened. It is extremely rare that I feel such an attraction to anyone.

I look up to him sideways, look into his eyes, then at his lips. Those I want to feel on my skin, between my legs. I brush his arm and nod. We walk across the traffic light and stop shortly after in front of a house entrance.

He takes his backpack off his back and begins to rummage in it, catches the house key and sticks it in the lock. His hands are trembling. The fingers are quite thick.

The front door is open. He holds the door for me and I brush his arm as I pass. He takes my hand.

We walk up a flight of stairs. He unlocks the front door. The door falls shut with a thud.

He turns to me. We stare at each other. His hand goes into his hair.

I look at his lips. Those caught my eye already at the gym. I walk towards him. Then we collide.

His hand is on my back, his leg is between my legs, again.

His lips are pressing softly, yet strongly onto my lips. His tongue is caressing my tongue. I feel every movement of his tongue straight between my legs.

His hand wanders from my back under the elastic of my skirt to my ass. He kneads my buttock. The thong is soaking wet. Every movement is pressing me against his leg. His hand goes under my thong.

“I am taking this wet thing off you now,” he announces and lets the strap between my legs snap back briefly.

It is sizzling inside me. He takes a step back. His hands reaches under my skirt and grabs the thong from both sides, pulling it down my legs until it is lying on my sneakers.

He is kneeling before me now. He is looking at me, while his hands wander back under my skirt.

One hand is caressing my ass. The other hand is wandering upwards and goes between my legs.

“So wet,” he says.

His head is under my skirt. My legs are trembling. I am feeling his breath.

“Do you taste as good as you smell?”

I feel a finger inside me. It smacks. The finger is moving. Then it is gone.

“Tasty.”

I feel his lips on my clitoris. He gives it a kiss, quite tenderly, with tongue, gentle circles.

“I have to sit down,” I gasp.

“Can you hold out for a moment?” asks the voice under my skirt.

Two fingers are pressing into me now. I feel so stuffed. He begins to massage me from within, lightly.

Then he emerges from under my skirt. One hand is still massaging me. With the other hand he pulls down my skirt.

“Sit in the armchair behind you,” he says.

A look over my shoulder shows that three steps behind me is a black leather armchair with a sheepskin.

He looks at me searchingly and touches the hem of my T-shirt. I nod.

The T-shirt flies to the floor. While I'm at it, I throw the bra right after it.

“Go on and sit,” he says, while his hands stroke over my nipples, only a breezy touch.

I press my chest against his hands, but he takes his hands down and turns around.

“I’ll be right back.”

He goes out the door. I take off my sneakers, the socks and my thong, walk on bare feet the three steps backwards over the fluffy rug.

Then I let myself fall into the armchair.

The sheepskin is stroking my ass. It is pleasantly warm on my back.

I look around. I am sitting in a small living room. Ikea has clearly left its mark. It looks so finished, functional. Furniture present, topic checked off.

I hear a door. He is coming back.

In his hand he ist holding a pack of condoms. So that topic is settled.

He throws them next to the armchair on the floor, kneels before the armchair between my legs and reaches under the hollows of my knees. Then he pulls me to the edge of the seat.

I feel his hot breath between my legs, on my bud. He is blowing softly. I push my ass up, stretching myself towards him. More. That grin is absolutely indecent.

“Do you want something?”

“You know exactly what I want,” I gasp.

“I do know,” he admits, while one hand is kneading my moist thigh, and the other hand wanders to my nipple, “But it is nice to hear it, anyway.”

“Your mouth between my legs, now!” I hiss.