Jon was not an overly impressive man. In his early thirties, he was athletic in a wiry, uncoordinated sort of way, with a long frame that lent itself more to the bike or the track than to the weight room. Unruly brown locks, the hairline already beginning its inexorable death march, topped a narrow face that matched the rest of his angular body.
Jon had always survived on his quick wit and wry sense of humor, graduating at the top of his physical therapy class and quickly finding a job at his local hospital, where he helped patients rehabilitate after complicated orthopedic surgeries. He had married his college sweetheart, a physical therapy classmate who appreciated his intelligence and humor. They were still very much in love, albeit the sort that comes after several years of marriage: snuggling by the fire and good dinners led more often to sleep than they did to romance. Still, they were happy, and Jon considered himself a lucky man.
His work life was similarly fulfilling. He had made a great number of friends since starting at the hospital several years earlier, and his job afforded him the opportunity to work closely with patients, physicians, nurses, and other support staff on a daily basis. He was universally well-liked and well-respected, but, despite the fact that he worked with a primarily female workforce, he was rarely the recipient of the soft touches and casual lean-ins that he often saw among his coworkers. Maybe it was the ring on his finger; maybe, he thought, it was his nice guy attitude, but his relationships remained the way upper management wanted them: cordial, but professional.
His closest friend on the floor was a fellow department member, a speech therapist who had worked with him for over a year. Three years his junior, Anna had taken the job right out of school, and they quickly bonded over stories of nightmare patients and the hassles of working in the medical field on a daily basis. Like him, Anna had married her college boyfriend, and lived a content, if sometimes rocky, life. Her husband was a good guy, a friend in his own right, but what he possessed in charisma, he lacked in motivation. The two couples would often go out for drinks on the weekend, and after a few, Anna and her husband would start with the snide comments, the "maybe if you had a job"s, and the "maybe if you would lay off"s. No matter how awkward it got, though, when Monday came, she always seemed as in love with him as ever.
It was one of those very same Mondays that found Jon and Anna sitting together on the orthopedic floor, finishing up some last minute documentation after seeing their final patients of the day. As Anna typed away, Jon glanced over at her; she was a pretty girl, he thought to himself. She chewed nervously on a strand of her shoulder-length curly hair with that same mouth that was quick to chuckle at his jokes, with a wide smile that would spread across her face, and blue eyes that would tear up as she laughed. A conservative gray sweater shaped itself to her torso, clinging to those large breasts that she was so quick to make a joke of; "You try carrying these things around for a while!" she liked to say when someone would comment on them. Black slacks hid shapely legs and a nice butt; she was certainly not a large girl, but she was no twig, either. As his eyes travelled back up to her face, she glanced at him and flashed him a quick smile, a smile meant for a friend. Jon knew that she wasn't interested in any more than that; innocent flirting had gone unreciprocated, and he had been content with their relationship. Their spouses were friends, and he knew in his mind that there was no reason to ruin that dynamic. "Just friends", he thought to himself with a smile. "Just friends, but this week, things might change."
*****
Since high school, Jon had noticed that things around him sometimes seemed a little unusual. Like any guy, he was prone to fantasize about girls, but he'd noticed women seemed almost to react to his thoughts: a shift in the chair, a glance around the room, someone quickly excusing themselves from the table. Subconsciously, he'd stopped thinking that way about women when they were present. He didn't like the feeling, the idea that people might know that he was thinking about cupping a girl's breast, of running his hand up her thigh, of feeling her squirm under the pressure of his hand. He thought about it when he was alone, naturally, but in public, his thoughts were controlled.
But earlier the previous week, he'd let his guard down. While on the bus on his way to work, a young girl, in her early twenties at the oldest, had climbed on at the stop after his. Sitting across from him, he couldn't help but notice her bright red pigtails, her fishnet stockings, her short skirt, her pink top pulled tight over small, perky breasts. As she bent over to set down her bag, his mind started to wander, thinking about pulling up that skirt, rubbing his hand up her thighs, feeling her wetness as he pulled her back to grind up against his crotch. As he thought about slowly pulling down her stockings, he noticed the girl squirm in her seat, then reach into her bag to pull out a jacket. As she glanced at him, he quickly looked towards the bus driver; there were only four people riding, and the other two were seated towards the front.
The girl placed the jacket across her lap, then shifted herself away from him to face the window. His mind travelled back to her body, to pulling off her shirt, to laying her on her back on the floor with her legs spread wide, to slowly licking her wet, young pussy. In his mind, he flicked his tongue lightly, reaching up to tweak her nipples, feeling himself getting harder. Suddenly, he heard a whimper that snapped him from his daydream. He saw the girl's arm disappear under the jacket, her eyes closed, her hand moving where he knew the hem of her skirt would be. He thought of eating her pussy, juices flowing into his mouth, her hand tugging at his hair. He imagined her grinding her pelvis into his face, his tongue darting in and out of her, over her clit, lightly, then harder. He could feel her body tense up, her back arch, then feel her release, her body convulsing, her wetness flowing over his face. Simultaneously he heard a soft moan, and, astonished, looked over at the girl where she sat up against the window. Her hand moved quickly beneath the jacket, and he could see her body tensing and releasing, her other hand gripping her right breast hard through her shirt. After several seconds, her moans stopped and the rhythmic moving of her body slowed. She looked around the bus anxiously, nervously, but no one, including Jon, seemed to be paying any attention, although it required a fair amount of effort on his part. At the next stop, she hurriedly packed her things and darted off the bus, leaving Jon to think to himself, dumbfounded - "Did I just do that?"
*****
Now, seated next to Anna in the nurse's station, Jon could feel anxiousness building. Since that day on the bus, he'd had the opportunity to hone his new-found craft on several women, at the supermarket, at the gym, even on his wife at home. He had discovered that he didn't even need to think specifically about sex; it was a difficult thing to explain, but he found he could send out tendrils with his mind, specific thoughts of pleasure that transferred directly into a woman's body. He could change the intensity with a thought, cause a warm sensuality or a throbbing orgasm just by altering his intention. He had teased his wife while she cooked dinner the previous evening, and they had made love later that night with a passion he didn't know still existed between them. Today, he had finally decided, he would turn his sights on a more elusive target.
As Anna looked up from the screen where she had been documenting a long note on a particularly sick patient, Jon pictured a flame in his mind and directed the thought at her. A slow, mild, heat sparked up in Anna's belly as she looked at him; as she glanced back down, he took it away just as quickly. She typed a few more lines, and slowly hazarded another glance towards Jon; again, the warmth spread through her belly, reaching down, and Jon smiled to himself as she shifted in her chair, leaning back slightly. Her breasts pushed forward through her sweater, and he gave her a little more; sighing, she leaned away from him, shook her head slightly, and began to ask a question of a nurse seated opposite him. Immediately, Jon stopped what he was doing and went back to charting on his patient.
In fits and starts, Jon slowly, subconsciously, trained Anna to look his way more often, to lean in, to scoot her chair his way. By the time he was ready to finish up for the day, she was sitting a foot away from him, making idle chit-chat, obviously distracted by the fire that was slowly caressing her inner thighs, making the muscles in her abdomen quiver slightly, steadily. Although he'd been intending to take it slowly, prolonging the buildup, Jon decided, on the spur of the moment, to give her one last bit of reinforcement for the day. Pointing at the computer, highlighting one particularly atrocious typo that had been made in an electronic chart, he asked Anna to take a look. As she leaned across him, her breasts pressed into his arm, and he released the pleasure in waves, spreading it throughout her body, focusing it in her groin, the muscles of her vagina clenching and unclenching in a steady, rolling rhythm. He could feel her fighting the urge to convulse against his body, and knew that she hadn't heard a word he'd said. Shutting his laptop, he stood up, and with a quick smile and a "see you tomorrow!", headed for the elevators. Five minutes later, a shaky Anna followed suit.
