The Trap
I think it’s because they think I can’t see them that they do it. There’s no point in doing something you know is bad if you know you’re going to get caught. Or it could simply be because they are men that they assume their actions will go unpunished. They think we’ll just sit back and take it, enjoy it even, thank them when they are finished.
It’s become a common occurrence, almost an expectation every time I walk out the door. I don’t know when it will happen. Sometimes I’m prepared for it, other times I’m not. But I stand my ground nonetheless. You have to let the bastards know you won’t go down without a fight. You have to teach them a lesson. In most cases, they learn the hard way.
...
I feel his knee against mine, a gentle brush of his pant leg against my bare skin. He then rests his hand against his knee, drumming his fingers in fake contemplation. I say fake because I know there is no real thought behind what he's going to do at all. Pure instinct, pure adrenaline, primal to the core. He starts off with his pinky, testing the waters, lightly stabbing me with his jagged nail. When I don’t immediately flinch, he takes it as an invitation to continue onward. The rest of his fingers follow after, his hand resting on my knee before slowly making the journey upward, lifting my skirt as he slithers his way underneath, pausing mid-thigh. I hear a sharp intake of breath, the excitement, the anticipation kickstarting his heart.
It’s best to make them feel like they’re in control. That’s what I’ve learned over the centuries. Make them feel like they have all the power. You have to draw them in, lure them in like flies with something sweet, something tempting, something irresistible. Just when they reach that tipping point, just before they plunge themselves fully, before they surrender to their desires, when they’ve abandoned themselves to the moment, that’s when you go in for the kill.
Poor Icarus... how did the sun’s rays feel on your lips? Did they burn?
“I suggest....” I hiss, “... if you want to keep your hand, that you remove it from my thigh.”
“Oh shit...” the fool mutters, “Sorry... heh... guess it must have wandered away from me.”
“I’m sure it did.” I huff, shifting my gaze toward him.
I tilt my head, peering over my glasses to take a closer look at the specimen. Scrawny thing, a backwards baseball cap sits slightly askew on his head, peach fuzz dangling from his crooked jaw. Traveling downward, I take in the sight of a stained wife-beater, jarring red boxers, and heavily distressed jeans struggling to desperately cling to the fraying belt haphazardly tied around his thighs.
Tragic how the state of men has fallen. Not that there was much substance to work with from the start.
I toy with the idea of turning him but my stop is fast approaching and such a sight would be hard to explain, especially at this hour. Instead I flick my wrist, my cane assembling itself in mid-air as I stand up, balancing myself as the train settles into the station. Seizing hold of the railing, I thrust my cane downward, making contact with the fool’s foot, striking dead center.
A howl of pain erupts from him, a delightful sound. I can’t help but smile.
“Bitch!” he cries, a whimper escaping his trembling lips.
Oh darling, you have no idea.
