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furtively. This was so exciting.

    “Okay,” I half whispered. “But when I tell you to stop, you have to do it.”

    “I promise,” he said.

    With that, he took his right hand and slipped it under the coat while tugging part of the coat onto his lap as well.

    Just pretend you know me,’ he whispered. “If you want, put your head on my shoulder and close your eyes. Everybody will think we are together.”

    I did as he suggested. His hand was on top of my thin rayon dress, slowly and gingerly slipping it up, teasing me with the sensation. My breathing heightened.

    “Try to relax,” he said. “Open your legs a little.”

    I listened, opening them just slightly. His hand brushed the inside of my thigh. I gasped.

    “Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

    I shook my head. He started kneading my inner thighs slowly and sensuously. My breath came in ragged gasps. I was immensely turned on by what he was doing, and also by the fact that there were people all around me.

    The light touching and kneading continued. I looked out the window and saw that I had missed my stop. It was getting dark and the sky was a murderous twilit blue as only it can get in Vancouver. I regretted the tights I was wearing. How was he going to get to where I needed him to get? I was so excited that I had to hold my breath in order not to gasp out loud, but every few seconds I found myself making a soft mewing sound, barely audible.

    “Listen, Angela,” he whispered, “I want you to become very, very quiet. If you do, I will continue. If you don’t, I shall have to stop.”

    He thrilled me. I sucked in my breath and tensed my body.

    Every part of me wanted him. I wanted his hands and his mouth all over me. He continued working the hem of my dress and slowly up my legs. And then it was at my waist.

    Before I had a chance to be embarrassed by his hands tugging my tights and feeling the soft flesh underneath, he murmured, “Angela, you are so sensual. I wish I could see you right now, not just touch you. I am so turned on by you.”

    Suddenly his hand was reaching down into my warmth and wetness, on my vulva, circling it gently, his middle finger just barely entering my lush opening. I was enraptured. He continued ever-so-lightly touching me. Then he found my clitoris and began gently stimulating it, plucking it with his thumb. He was breathing heavily and I could tell he too was massively turned on. I was beyond turned on. I felt as though I would orgasm any second.

    “Angela, no coming on the bus,” he chided as my entire body tensed up, ready to give in to this ecstasy. “We’re in a public place, you know.”

    With that he removed his hand. I gasped in combined relief and disappointment. He pulled down my dress, patted me on the leg, and removed the coat from our bodies.

    “Besides,” he said. “We’ve got to save something for later. The next stop is mine. Meet me tonight at the lounge in The Hotel Vancouver. I’ll be there at nine.”

    And he was gone. Just like that. Had it even happened? I gathered myself, got off the bus at the next stop, and crossed the street. I waited another ten minutes in the pouring rain for a bus to take me back to my missed stop. Needless to say, it had been worth it.

    Of course, I had every intention of meeting Michael. I didn’t know anything about him, even where he came from. My instincts told me I was safe with him, but I was glad we were meeting in a public place and that he had no idea where I lived. I sensed he wanted it that way, too.

    Meantime, I was having an identity crisis. All I could think was, “How can a man like that be possibly turned on by someone like me?” All the information I had been peddled in my twenty-odd years was that men did not like abundant women such as myself. Yet he seemed so sincere. He had wanted to touch me. He had touched me.

    After a deliciously hot and soapy shower, with much deliberation I chose my white blouse with a plunging neckline to