Bella hates the bus for its lack of space, dirty seats, and crazy passengers. She plays the Stranger Game to pass the time—a game of invented names and stories for the people she encounters. When Mr. Widebottom pushes Ms. Greencoat’s body and hand into her lap, Bella finds that for the first time, she’s become part of the game. Every bump in the road is another push in the right spot, every abrupt stop of the breaks and sudden slip of a digit a seemingly deliberate caress. With her destination several minutes down the road, Bella must decide whether to play the game or not, and if winning is worth prize and judgment of the other passengers.
Ms. Greencoat is moving.
Her legs, which had shuffled a bit back toward the middle of her seat, are now pressed together, her knees angled toward me like an arrow. Her fingers flex under the corner of her bag in my lap, and the back of her hand presses down into me with deliberate force. Each bump in the heavily used city street seems to allow her hand to twist, slightly turn, or roll, until her hand is palm down, leaving it to rest like it’s natural to grasp a high inner thigh.
But it’s not natural.
Each small motion of her rotation makes my body grow more still, and shivers run down my neck and spine. My breath is loud as I inhale through my nose, and each wave of air burns inside my chest. My stomach drops a little too—a motion my jaw mimics for a moment, but as Ms. Stinkeye catches my face, I close my mouth and swallow hard thinking: pray for me Sister; wickedness knows no boundaries.
But is it the wickedness of Ms. Greencoat, or my mistake in thinking her intentions wicked?
Apparently, I’m just as wicked.
A cold sweat begins to coat my back, but it’s not enough to battle the heat that continues to grow inside my gut and fill every vein from my naval downward. It’s not enough to keep my clit from screaming a little lower, a little deeper, a little harder.
And it happens.
Is this happening?