Micro Monday, Flash Fiction

Well Trained

Tiny movements almost as imperceptible as the way her breathing speeds up

That woman, strap-hanging in front of you in the crush of a crowded carriage? The one in the tiny pleated skirt which shows off the curves of her buttocks and hints that there might be nothing else covering them?

She’s not me. Put her out of your mind. That woman got her tight ass in MMA training, and if you put your hand on it she’ll grab your wrist, raise your arm, let everyone within ear shot know you’re a creep, then dislocate your shoulder.

She is not me.

If she was me she’d feel your tentative brush against her thigh and she’d push her hips back to signal that your touch is welcome, that you’re the reason she’s not wearing panties, that her feet are shuffling apart so you have freedom to go further.

If she was me, your fingers would slide easily up the slick skin of her inner thighs to the wet heat between, exactly where she wanted them.

If she was me, you might notice her free hand disappear under her loose top. Perhaps you’d look over her shoulder and see the baggy fabric barely disturbed until her hand has crossed her body to reach one small breast, to cup it, to squeeze it, to tease the nipple so it stands proud against thin cotton.

If she was me she’d grind slowly against your fingers, tiny movements almost as imperceptible as the way her breathing speeds up, your heartbeat speeds up. You’d slip a finger into her yielding cunt, and you’d hear her urgent whisper, “More.” You’d use two fingers, or if you dared, perhaps you’d use three and see her silent nod. You’d feel her warmth clench and release around you, seeming to draw your fingers deeper.

If she was me she’d turn abruptly, colour rising on her cheeks as she elbowed her way down the carriage to the door, the scent of her desire your only memento.

But she is not me. Put her out of your mind.

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