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He knew I was masturbating.
I was caught!
And before I could even turn away, he was out of his seat and slid into the one next to me. I actually yelped with surprise, not knowing what he was going to do. I made all the blatantly prejudiced evaluations one makes about s
trangers in times of crisis. I came up with the fact that he was a clean cut guy who read philosophy books, so I didn't think he would attack me. Instead of screaming, I just froze in shock and embarrassment.
"Don't stop." His voice was rich and urgent in my ear even as the waft of warm breath from his whisper caressed my neck. He smelled of some sort of clean cologne and his manly cheek pressed against mine.
My heart was in my throat, and I was so embarrassed I thought I could just shrink up and die in that seat. A lump rose in my throat. The pain of embarrassment was palpable, and I felt tears well up to sting my eyes. "Leave me alone!" The vehemence in my whisper should have driven him away. And for a moment—just for a moment—he looked like he might apologize for scaring me and return to his seat.
But then something seemed to snap in him. He grabbed my left hand, the one that wasn't inside my panties hidden beneath my coat, and gripped it so tightly that I yelped with pain.
Then he silenced my yelp by putting a finger over my lips.
Now I was more than embarrassed; I was afraid. Desperately afraid. I was terrified. I violently tried to yank my hand back from his, but impossibly—he kissed it. "Don't fight me."
