Free Audience Appreciation by Laurel Adams Page A

old man from the back, and the cries of a baby from somewhere toward the front of the bus while we traveled. 
    Finally, he looked away.
    We were on the highway now, and the streetlights flashed by at regular intervals. I still wanted desperately to come, and that was evidenced by the fact that my slickness, combined with my boyfriend's semen, had now soaked through my jeans, leaving a wet spot between my legs. It made me desperate. 
    Maybe it was this desperation that clouded my already shaky judgment.
    I started rubbing faster, harder, needing more intense contact. I could hear my heartbeat racing, but I was purposefully keeping my breathing steady, or trying to. The bus was now abnormally quiet, and though a light mist of perspiration dotted the back of my neck under the strain of trying to come so perfectly still and quiet. I was close, oh, so close again. 
    But so was the stranger. I don't know what made me open my eyes. But when I did, the stranger was staring right at me through the semi-darkness. I froze. I casually closed my eyes again for a moment or two, and then opened them just in case it had been a mistake. 
    It wasn't. 
    He had the most intense stare I'd ever seen. Not vacant. No, it spoke volumes. 
    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 strangers 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."
    That's what psychos and creepers always said. But then he put my fingers on his throat. I felt under my fingertips that his pulse was racing. I didn't expect that, and the moment was so surreal that I let my hand relax with surprise. 
    "Can you feel what you're doing to me?" he whispered. "You're a gorgeous girl and watching you is making me crazy. Crazy enough that I had to get a closer look. So don't stop."
    My fingers on his pulse point combined with the kiss he'd given my hand confused my thoughts. I was also mortified. All I could whisper back was, "I'm sorry! Please leave me alone."
    He shook his head. "Don't be sorry and don't stop." This time, it came out like a command, and he still had my hand tight in his grasp. "You don't want to stop," he added, as if I weren't humiliated enough.
    Like a trapped animal with nowhere to run, I pressed my hot cheek against the glass of the window. The cool of the glass was a welcome relief to the heat of my face. It was as if I was burning up with fever. I squeezed my eyes shut as if that could make all of this go away. 
    "Leave me alone," I murmured again. 
    That's when he threw my coat off me and grabbed for my other hand—the one trapped in my panties. Without the cover of