Uncle on the bus

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My first unexpected experience happened when I was in junior high school, at the age of thirteen. I was on a bus.

The bus was nearly empty, and I was sitting in the last row. At one stop, a man around forty years old got on and sat next to me. Suddenly, he put his hand on my leg.

It was summer, and I was wearing a white dress. Even through the cotton fabric, I felt uncomfortable, but I didn't dare move his hand.

Ironically, my thinking was that if I moved his hand, it would touch his skin, and at least there would be fabric between us.

But after a while, the man put his hand inside my shirt. I was young then and didn't like bras; my breasts were just developing, small but firm and shapely for a young girl. So I was only wearing a sports bra underneath. The man's hand didn't immediately go to my breasts; it only rested on my stomach. I tensed up completely, but I was too young then to resist adults, so I just froze. I tried to move the man's hand through my clothes, but he wouldn't budge. I tried a couple of times and realized I couldn't move it, so I didn't know what to do.

When he realized my efforts were futile, he slid his hand up and easily slipped it under my tank top, grasping my soft breast.

I was young then, and my skin was delicate and smooth, so it must have felt wonderful. He fondled it, one hand around my waist, the other skillfully manipulating my breast. I say skillfully because I didn't know before that breast manipulation could produce uncontrollable moans.

I let out a muffled groan, immediately startling myself. Even though no one was sitting in the three rows in front of us, I blushed and used all my strength to suppress the sound. The man chuckled softly and then began to knead my breast vigorously. If the beginning was teasing and skillful, this was now ravaging, as if he wouldn't stop until I cried out.

I felt pain and a bit of numbness, but I dared not make a sound. Fortunately, we arrived at our stop.

I immediately stood up and tried to leave. But the man pulled me onto his lap and made me sit down. He held me tightly with one arm. Then his other hand began to explore my genitals. Before that, no one had ever touched my genitals. The man only moved his fingers lightly a couple of times, and my body went limp and weak, collapsing into his arms. I struggled and whispered, "No..." The man seemed very satisfied with my reaction, but he didn't stop. So, for the first time, I produced vaginal fluid. After the man noticed this, he dipped his finger in it, then put it in his mouth and tasted it, saying in my ear, "It's delicious." His breath was blowing in my ear, and my body was so weak that I had no strength at all, like a pool of water, without even the strength to move my fingers. The middle-aged man wrapped one arm around my waist and then reached up to knead my breasts, while his other hand probed my genitals. I knew something dangerous was about to happen, so I started to cry.

The man, probably not expecting me to cry, paused, then didn't move. For some reason, a thought struck me, and my crying grew louder. The man immediately released me, and I stood up, grabbed my bag, and rushed to the driver, trembling and afraid to look back. As soon as the bus arrived at the stop, I jumped off. Thankfully, the man didn't follow. That day, when I got home and looked at my wet underwear, I still didn't quite understand what had happened. Or rather, I didn't know what would happen next. But because I had suddenly had a flash of inspiration that saved me, I felt a sense of relief. However, the feeling of being caressed and played with by those rough, large hands was somewhat wonderful, and when I tried to touch my breasts and genitals like the man, I didn't feel the same way, leaving me with a sense of loss.

Later, after experiencing so many men, I had to admit that the man who sexually harassed me on the bus had the most skillful technique.

After that incident, I consciously started looking for less crowded buses and sitting in the last row. I was harassed twice, and my feelings were conflicted—fear mixed with a bit of anticipation. But neither time did it have the wonderful feeling the older man had. As my studies became heavier, I gradually forgot about it.

[The End]

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Uncle on the bus

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