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…
