The bus bumped on.The bus bumped on. For perhaps five minutes nothing happened. It was clammy, and I was glad that I had dressed so lightly. It was going to be searing later in the day. As we went round a street corner I felt a light hand on my arse. I spun my head round, but all the men were talking, and seemed oblivious to my presence. I was too reserved to single one out, and felt uncomfortable not knowing the language. I tried to glare, but couldn't see any mileage in it and turned away again. So this was Italy. As I turned back, the hand was back...It gently stroked one buttock. Again I spun my head round, and again could see nothing to help me see who this was. I half turned in the crush of people, and took a more solid stance in the corridor. With my feet firmly planted against the side to side sway of the bus, I hoped I wouldn't get pushed again into the feeler. Not so. After a lull of just a few moments, the hand was back behind my knee, stroking then feathering against me. Despite my uneasiness at this, there was a slight tingle in my leg, and my knee just broke a fraction. I tensed up again, and the hand moved slowly up to my inner middle thigh. This was too much, and I tried to spin around again, but was wedged tightly, and could barely breath. The bus topped to let some more people on, and the hand flicked back and away. I tried to pull my legs together, but felt dangerously unstable, even at rest. The bus pulled away, even more packed than before. Immediately the hand was back, gently stroking my inner thighs. I was outraged, but strangely hot, as my eyes fixed onto the back of Tom's shirt. I wanted to call to him, but was too embarrassed, or hot. |