For most of her adult life, Marissa had meticulously avoided bus rides. She always had excuses ready, talk of bizarre encounters, the sticky seats, the unreliable schedules, but none of those were the truth. The real reason lurked deeper, a secret tightening her thighs together at the mere thought: the impossibility of keeping her panties hidden.
Those low, unforgiving seats. The way sunlight spilled between her legs when she sat. The way every pothole sent her skirt flirting with disaster. She adored her miniskirts, her barely-there tube tops, though not for the reason people assumed. Summer heat left no room for modesty, even if it meant risking wandering eyes beneath the hem of her denim skirt. A few close calls and lingering stares had been enough to cement her fear. Public transit wasn't just inconvenient. It was a giant trap, every ride an unwinnable battle against fabric, gravity and hungry glances.
And yet, here she was today, riding the bus.
Her Jeep's engine sputtered once, then died with a groan, stranding her at her own apartment. Now buses were her only option, unless she felt like throwing away half her week's Starbucks budget on a cab. And skipping class? Unthinkable. Not today. Not when he'd be waiting with that smug look, the one that always flickered down to her hemline the second she walked in.
Teeth clenched, fingers fumbling with the coins in her purse, she forced herself toward the bus stop. Each step made her skirt swish against her thighs, a constant reminder of just how exposed she was about to be.
The overcast sky today offered one mercy, no sun to turn her skirt into a backlit spotlight. Small victories, she thought, until she remembered her choice of underwear. Lace. White. Practically glowing if even a sliver of light hit it.
She bit down on her lip, twisting the strap of her backpack until her knuckles ached. With every lingering male gaze, she adjusted her bag pack lower behind her. It didn't stop the wolf-whistle that sliced through the air as she reached the bus stop. Her spine stiffened. She didn't turn, but her eyes darted like a cornered prey.
Two older men queued up in behind her, their presence a thick wave of cologne and body heat. Too close. Close enough to count the threads in her skirt's hem if they leaned an inch nearer. She lowered her backpack down again.
Five excruciating minutes late, the bus jerked to a stop beside her. The doors hissed open, exhaling a wave of stale air that curled around her naked thighs.
Marissa's grip tightened on the back of her denim skirt as she approached the bus steps. The first step was always the worst... The step up into the bus forced her thighs wide apart, just for a second, but enough for a frigid draft to slither underneath her skirt. She felt it instantly. The way the denim crept higher, the whisper of lace against air that shouldn't touch it. Her other free hand flew down to clamp the rear hem against the back of her legs, saving herself by millimeters.
She stole a glance over her shoulder. No obvious stares, but that meant nothing, she knew perverts were always patient. Swallowing, she paid the fare, then scanned the rows. Only the worst option remained: a center bench with a direct line of vision for every bored commuter across the aisle.
Marissa gripped the middle of her skirt, forcing her denim skirt between her thighs as she lowered herself onto the seat. The fabric clung stubbornly, creeping upward with every subtle shift, exposing another inch of bare thigh. Across the aisle, male passengers tracked the movement. Subtle shifts in posture, fingers pausing on phones, their gazes lingering where her skirt no longer did. She flattened her palm over the front hem, sealing close the gap in her lap.
A flicker of movement made her glance up. Heat flooded her cheeks. Nearly every passenger had locked onto her hand, watching, waiting for the inevitable slip. Their focus wasn't on her face, wasn't on the flush staining her neck. It was on the desperate press of her fingers, the only thing keeping her lace panties from view.
In one frantic motion, she crossed her legs tightly, turning them to the side with a frantic flick. Only then, with her legs turned aside and thighs locked crossed did she dare lift her hand from her lap, exposing nothing but the tremor in her fingers.
Despite this vise-like grip of her crossed legs, the hungry glances persisted, searching for an opening. Marissa resorted to peering out the window, pretending to focus on the blur of traffic outside, but it was no use. The weight of their attention pressed against her skin like fingertips. She felt them, intrusive and inescapable. They weren't just looking. They were hunting.
Men glanced up from newspapers, others abandoned their phones. Some leaned just slightly, tilting for the crease beneath her crossed thighs. Others feigned disinterest while their gaze burned into the dark gap in her lap where her thighs met, waiting, hoping for a glimpse, a slip, anything.
Marissa's fingers dug into the center of her skirt, yanking on her denim skirt as she crossed her thighs tighter together, so tight the muscles trembled. A few men across the aisle snapped their glances away just as she moved, thumbs scrolling aimlessly on their phones, newspapers lifted just a hair too high. Her glare sliced through them before she deliberately angled her legs more to the side, shifting her unwanted exposure toward an entirely new audience...
Her legs now pointed toward another cluster of men, this batch lounging near the exit. Their idle chatter dying as her skirt settled to the new angle.
Her throat tightened. The truth finally hit her: the bus seethed with opportunistic men, every seat, every passenger, a wall of hungry stares disguised as boredom. She was pinned, her defenses narrowing to the fragile barrier of her crossed legs. The harder she squeezed her thighs, the darker the gap between them became...but she knew lace always had a way of betraying even the most desperate grip. White against tanned skin, a gleaming contrast if light caught it. Her breath shallowed. She could only pray the shadows held.
The concerning thoughts in her head abruptly shattered as the bus jolted over a pothole, the impact rattling handlebars and seats. The doors hissed open, ushering in a fresh wave of passengers. Marissa lurched forward, her tube top sagging in an instant, dipping dangerously close to the upper curve of her areolae. Her hands flew up in reflex, clawing the fabric back into place.
Heads turned. Stares abandoned her skirt and locked onto the newly exposed inches of skin. Her bare shoulders, the notable absence of straps, every detail laid bare under their scrutiny. They knew now. No bra. Just the thin press of cotton clinging to her nipples...
...
White Flag
Professor Galloway had been engrossed in his paper, or at least pretending to be, until the bus doors hissed open earlier and she stepped inside.
Marissa...
The campus wasn't large enough for him to miss someone like her. Petite, flushed, always wrapped in fabrics that seemed determined to slip from her body. Now here she was, stranded on public transit, her usual defiance replaced by something far more delicious: struggle.
Behind the shield of his newspaper, his gaze traced her every movement from the first moment she hesitantly stepped onto the bus. The only available seat left was, of course, directly in his view, almost too perfect to be chance.
Galloway didn't lower the paper now. Not yet. Discipline had its rewards and patience always paid off. Instead, he watched from behind, tracking her frantic adjustments. Her entire attention was focused between the two battles she was losing. Her fingers clamped over the front of her tube top as her other hand palmed over her denim skirt like a last line of defense.
Marissa's entire posture screamed defeat, yet she refused to look up, which meant she hadn't noticed him... He shifted just enough to let the paper crinkle, testing her. Her head didn't turn. Her knuckles whitened around the denim at her thighs, her legs squeezing tighter together in desperation. He drank in the scene, letting his imagination fill in the gaps her panic somehow was able to conceal.
The bus's violent jolts continued to send Marissa's skirt climbing higher with every uneven patch of asphalt. Each bump threatening to wrench her thighs apart no matter how fiercely she locked them crossed. Her fingers bit into the denim, holding it back down with sharp, desperate tugs, but she knew something had to give...
Another pothole lurched the bus sideways. Her hips lifted momentarily off the seat, just enough for the skirt to crawl another half-inch higher. A silent curse flickered through her mind as she wrenched the hem back into place, knuckles pressing desperately into her trembling thighs.
Galloway didn't blink.
The professor cataloged every loss in Marissa's private war, the way her lap gaped wider with each pothole before her frantic hands intervened. Behind the newspaper, his lips curled. The print blurred as his focus narrowed on her struggle.
He didn't need to see beneath the denim to know exactly what Marissa was hiding today. The tremble in her calves, the flush creeping past her collar, they told him everything.
Tuesdays...
His memory supplied the detail before he could stop it: Tuesdays meant white lace. Not the demure cotton she wore to exams, nor the sly black satin he'd caught flickering between her tightly crossed thighs last Thursday. No, today's panties would be sheer, scalloped at the edges, the kind that left faint indentations on her hips when she peeled them off. He'd seen the marks before on other unsuspecting girls, etched into their skin like a secret he alone could read.
One good bump. Just one. His fingers tightened on the newspaper. Luck might not grant him a glimpse, but hope? Oh, he'd cling to that.
As if the universe had decided to answer his silent, inexcusable prayers, sunlight speared through the dissipating clouds, flooding the bus with unforgiving clarity. The road had also turned vicious, jolting her hips upward with every pothole. Marissa stiffened. Her fingers danced between her skirt and sagging top, futile against the dual assault. But the real danger wasn't the bumps, it was the sun. Blinding, relentless, it slithered pass the desperate press of her crossed thighs, painting the fragile gap where lace shouldn't be visible.
She still didn't know.
White lace flickered in stolen glimpses, a blink-and-miss-it betrayal each time the bus lurched. The men noticed. Stiffened postures, aborted coughs. Their stares multiplied, homing in on the briefest flashes between her legs. But Marissa, ever the optimist, still trusted the vise of her crossed thighs to be enough...
