Getting jostled and rubbed against in a densely packed subway car during the morning commute was normal, even expected. And, no doubt, somewhere in that throng of humanity was the occasional pervert getting a low-level thrill from a quick touch of flesh.
But this inadvertent contact was different. Different enough to make Charu Sharma look up from her Anne Rice novel and search the car for a face to put with the hand that had just copped a feel of her thigh.
No. That's not right. The hand didn't cop a feel. That hand lingered, caressed her in an almost loving way. Her eyes moved from one person to the next, women all.
Please, thought Charu. A woman wouldn't be so gauche.
A strange thought settled into her mind but she quickly filed it away, deeply away, and went back to her novel.
Walking up the stairs at Park St. Station, Charu felt the hand on her again. The touch was firmer this time, resting heavily on her ample backside, pressing the nylon of her pantyhose against her cotton skirt. In the onrush of people moving up the stairs, Charu could not stop to see who was taking liberty with her body. She quickened her pace; the hand remained. Just before she reached the first landing, the hand lifted and her skirt swung free. She stepped onto the landing and looked around. Men and women moved rapidly past, all in business attire, all toward some unknown destination.
Whoever it was with a case of the touchy-feelies was gone.
Or was he? Less than twenty minutes later, as Charu stood in line at the coffee shop in the lobby of her office building, she was pinched. He got a two-inch portion of her fleshy rump between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed. Charu stifled a cry and lurched into the man standing in front of her. In the few seconds it took to apologize to the gentleman, Charu's molester had disappeared into the crowd.
She was on her guard now. The elevator up to the twenty-third floor was crammed full of business suits. Charu squeezed tightly among them. Everyone touched everyone else but all eyes watched the numbers light up over the door. Charu rubbed arms with the gentleman next to her, her silk against his tweed. She smelled his cologne. Expensive. Was he leaning into her? She couldn't be sure.
But she was sure of one thing: she leaned into him.
Once in her office, Charu absently tapped her Mont Blanc against her wedding band and replayed the peculiar events of this morning's commute. A new sensation awoke in her, opening from a hidden place above her navel and spilling its delicious warmth up to her neck and then down her arms. She could never speak this desire aloud; never let any of her friends know that she enjoyed being fondled by mysterious hands.
Not fifteen minutes later, she told her administrative assistant that she had an appointment across town and left the building.
This is insane, she thought as she moved through the crowds in the shopping district. I'm only asking for trouble. And now that she thought about it, that cream-coloured skirt she wore did fit a little too tight over her broad backside -- a clear enticement to anyone with roaming hands. Likewise, her fuchsia silk blouse, although not exactly form fitting, did little to conceal her voluptuous breasts. And her dirty blonde hair was cut just below her shoulder blades, a length, so her husband said, that most men found desirable. The sedentary lifestyle of the corporate executive had amplified her sumptuous curves with a supple cushion of luxurious fat. "A handful," her husband Brijesh would purr as he nibbled her neck and stroked the slight roll of her belly.
Such talk usually embarrassed Charu. But today she understood a new quality of desire. In the Men's department of the Basement Store, she casually perused the vast array of dress shirts. It did not take long: the sturdy caress of her bottom as she leaned forward to check the price of a Pierre Cardin. This time she spied the culprit -- a tall, dark-haired man in a grey business suit. He did not look back, although Charu watched him make his way out of the department.
In that absent moment she strayed into the centre of the aisle where another man, not looking where he was going, bumped into her. Charu jolted forward and would have kept going all the way to the carpeted floor had not two strong hands grabbed her by the waist and held firmly until she could regain her balance. The man apologized profusely, took full responsibility for the accident and kept one hand on her lower back as he asked if she was all right.
Acting upon a newly minted instinct, Charu smiled, rested her hand on his broad shoulder, thanked him for being so kind and leaned in to plant a soft kiss on his cheek, taking care to press her lush bosom against his chest. The man blushed but did manage to give her behind a comforting pat as he departed.
What was happening to her? A clean, upright product of twelve years of Catholic school did not indulge in such illicit behaviour. Then again, so much of that education devoted itself to the mysteries of the body. How many snide remarks had Sister Hope made to Charu, accusing her of being a hussy because her body got a jump-start on the bodies of the other girls in eighth grade? How obsessed were those priests and lay teachers that she not risk temptation in the backseat with some boy after a high school dance? Even those trips up the stairwell informed her about the boys' fascination with the female body and the unfortunate shortcomings of above-the-knee plaid skirts. Yes, sin rested with the body; now her body was restless for a little sin.
Charu made her way out of the store and onto the street, strolling over to the Public Garden, at once deliberately and accidentally bumping into and rubbing against several pedestrians. A few took advantage of her offering; gently letting their hands glide over her thigh, her bottom, and, in one daring case, her belly.
By the time she reached the Gardens, Charu was heady with sensual delight. There was a bench that she liked, just off of the main path; a secluded spot framed by two weeping willows and a horseshoe-shaped hedgerow. She took a seat and tried to calm her breathing. It was as if there was a secret world, spread out before her, that only few could see. I've been blind, Charu thought. I've shut my eyes to this whole part of me. Her friends always told her she needed to be more receptive toward new physical experiences. Guilt pierced her heart as she folded her arms. Her routine sex life had become as exciting as the weekly trip to the supermarket. But it was true. Brijesh was steadfast, loyal, even kind to a fault, but his interest in sex extended little beyond his physical satisfaction. That, coupled with his considerable weight gain, had made the act of love nearly impossible. Charu had difficulty straddling his girth, and the only position that was comfortable was when he took her from behind, a style she always found alienating.
In the past few hours, Charu had been reminded of her sexuality, that she, in fact, was desirable. In some odd way, those mysterious hands told her this was true. It was a new world. How much of it would she explore?
A light touch of fingers on her shoulders caused Charu to cry out. But she silenced herself when she heard a soothing voice say, "Don't shout, I won't hurt you." The voice was slightly husky and the fingertips danced up and down her arms as the person spoke. "I'm so sorry, but you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and, well, I couldn't help myself."
Against all instincts, Charu relaxed. She settled back into the park bench, closed her eyes and let the stranger's stroke electrify her flesh. The hands caressed her from the wrists to the tips of her shoulders, stopping occasionally to give the soft flesh of Charu's upper arms a snug squeeze. The fingers felt thin but strong, confident in their touch. Half of Charu wanted to open her eyes, turn around and have done with this game. But her other half wanted to keep her eyes closed in hopes that this massage would continue indefinitely.
And when the stranger removed his hands to her hair, softly lifting handfuls and letting them fall against her back, Charu dropped her chin to her chest and decided this was the greatest dream she had ever known.
"I saw you in the Basement Store and followed you over here to the Gardens," the stranger said with a voice that wasn't natural, a voice lower than it wanted to be.
"You touched me in the store didn't you?" Charu asked, her voice tinted with accusation.
The hands paused. "Did you like it?"
"Oh, yes," Charu murmured.
She inhaled quick as she felt a hand cup her breast. The stranger touched bra and breast gently, as if more interested with the play of silk on lace. "Such a well endowed lady," said the stranger. "The fabric of your bra is pulled so tight over your bosom."
"I've always been ashamed of their size," Charu confessed. Why had she said that? It didn't matter; she would tell him anything if he asked her.
"Don't be ashamed." The stranger's voice dropped lower; the quiver of excitement almost palpable. "Never be ashamed. There are men who are so cruel. They tease and taunt a woman until she thinks everything about her is a defect."
