The time at work couldn't pass fast enough, and as she half walked, half ran to meet her bus, she nervously considered taking a different route, to avoid any possibility of bumping into the stranger. It was a strange feeling - wanting to confront him and wanting to avoid him at the same time.
When the bus rolled to a stop, the doors opened and passengers poured onto the sidewalk around her. She waited until the entrance was clear and then ascended the three stairs, glancing skittishly to the back of the bus. Her stomach tightened and released, expanding with a small pang of disappointment. With the apprehension gone, she made her way more slowly than usual to the back of the bus, dropping into her seat to resume her novel, exactly where she left off. She leaned to the side, reached into her bag, pulled out her book, opened it, and buried her nose in the pages. But her focus was lacking. It had been all day. She leaned to the side, dropped her book into her bag, and leaned her head back against her seat, eyes closed, and sighed. When she opened her eyes, still directed upward, she saw a black and white photograph taped to the ceiling of the bus, directly above her seat. Her breath caught abruptly, and she nearly pulled a muscle as she whipped her head forward. Looking around, eyes wide, like a cornered cat, she bit upper lip and nearly stopped breathing altogether.
What the fuck? She thought.
Since she arrived at work early, she left early, which meant her ride home was much like her ride there - quiet and generally lacking in human presence. This afternoon was no exception. Grateful for the absence of an audience, she stood up, put one foot on the seat of the chair, steadying herself by grabbing onto the stanchion next to her seat. She snatched the photo from the ceiling and dropped hurriedly back to a seated position, pulling her book back out in order to camouflage the photo within it. Similar to the previous photo, it was of a naked man. This time, full-light, face-showing, blatant and unabashed. Somehow, the man in the photo was both vulnerable and confident, lips parted as if he were about to speak. His eyes exuded heat and nearly burned a hole right through the paper and into Tanya's flesh. She felt the blush rising from her chest, up her neck, exploding into full bloom on her cheeks.
Good fucking Christ!
She glanced up, like a scared rabbit or a deer in headlights - some sort of easy but quick prey. Her eyes darted forward and side-to-side, making sure no one was watching.
It was, indeed, the man from this morning, as she had suspected. But what on earth was he doing? What kind of game was he playing?
She turned the photo over, an empty hope that the answer to her question would be emblazoned on the back. But, nothing was there. Just a blank and open space, sort of like her face at that instant.
When she made it home, she pulled out both photos and placed them next to each other on her kitchen counter. She poured herself a glass of wine, a deep, dark, hot red she'd saved for years, hoping for just the right occasion. This seemed like the moment...mired in utter confusion and uncontainable curiosity. She felt just a little violated, but not enough to make her afraid. Just enough to taunt a nervous hum under her skin, a vibrant energy, a growing hint of....
Dare I admit it?...desire.
Elbows resting on the counter, she leaned forward, one hand around the stem of her glass. She bent her thumb nail between her teeth and continued to gaze at the two photos. They stirred something inside of her. More than anything, it was the mystery that grabbed her. Always a lover of the unknown, her incessant need to "find out" to "solve" made her a slave to the pictures in front of her. They pulled her in, guiding her thoughts and her emotions, and eventually...her hand. She let go of her glass, placed her palm on the edge of the counter as support, and with the other hand, lifted her skirt above her bare thigh. She hated nylons, never wore them, and was thankful now for the easy access to her own flesh that their absence allowed. Her eyes intently glued to the eyes of the man in the newest photo, she slipped her hand inside the crotch of her panties. She was wet, and she wasted no time fooling around. Never one for foreplay, she inserted one finger into her cunt. Then two. Working her fingers inside, the heel of her palm pressed hard against her clit, she tightened every muscle, from her ass to her toes, and came quickly.
It had been a long time since she'd pleased herself. She'd forgotten how good it felt.
To be continued...
In my search for photographs for this post, I not only found amazing fodder for another post on "how to stop masturbating" (really...I'm not kidding...people think we should really be doing this!), but I totally turned myself on perusing photos of women masturbating. Good god women are sexy. And with their faces contorted in ecstasy and their fingers buried deep between their legs -- need I say more? It is now time for me to take care of my own needs. I think I'll do it exactly the same way as Tanya (we'll call it "research").
(Some beautiful - copyrighted - photography of nude men...just as a bonus:
click here!)
