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Emerald saw her before she even boarded. Blonde, obviously. That sharp, almost silver shade women pay too much for. Mid-thirties, maybe, with that narrow kind of body that doesn’t so much enter a room as cut through it. She was standing at the corner of 12th and Market, waiting as the SEPTA bus hissed to a stop, thumb scrolling absently through her phone like the world wasn’t right there trying to look at her.
Then she stepped up–smooth, slow, sure of herself in a way Emerald could never be. Not big, not flashy. Flat-chested under a pale green blouse that looked soft as breath. Tucked in. Two buttons undone. No bra.
No bra.
Emerald’s seat was near the middle, one of the sideways ones, so when Blondie pivoted to face front, arm raised to hold the rail–just for balance, just to exist–Emerald had a clear, unearned view straight down the slope of her shirt.
She didn’t look at first. Not really. Just glanced. Noticed. Filed away the shape of a clavicle, the slope of sternum, the way the fabric pulled slightly between buttons as she adjusted her weight.
Then the bus lurched over the pothole at Broad.
The gap gaped.
Just for a second. A sliver of a second. The blouse shifted open, and there it was–a flash of areola, the ghost of a nipple. Pale, flat, barely there. The kind of accidental exposure no one else would have noticed. But Emerald?
Emerald stopped breathing.
The heat in her face came on like shame. She swallowed so hard it hurt. Her fingers dug into the seams of her jeans, pressing, grounding. Pretending she wasn’t staring. Pretending she wasn’t already praying for the next bump in the road.
She tried to look away. Tried to focus on the window, the old man muttering to himself in the corner, the blur of rain-soaked sidewalk. But her eyes kept slipping back. Drawn like a tide to the slope of breastbone, the hollow beneath her neck, the dark edge where fabric met skin.
And now her brain was chewing on it. Building. Projecting.
What would that blouse feel like under her hand? What would Blondie say if Emerald just reached forward–hypothetically, of course–and slipped a single finger into that gap?
Nothing. She’d smile. She’d say yes. She’d press forward and let it fall open, like a flower too tired to stay closed.
Emerald blinked hard. Stared at the floor. Counted the cracks in the tile. Tried to be anywhere but where her body was. Her pulse drummed in her ears, frantic, traitorous.
Blondie shifted again.
The fabric whispered. The gap widened.
Emerald almost whimpered.
She hated herself a little for it. Or wanted to. But not enough to stop.
Not enough to look away.
The bus rocked again, smoother now. Blondie was still standing, still scrolling, still entirely unaware of the storm she’d just stirred.
Emerald stared at her cuticles, torn and bitten down. She was trying to stop. Again. She was always trying to stop something.
But her eyes kept darting back–up, up–and her mind wasn’t asking permission anymore.
She imagined the kiss first. That’s how it always started. In the mind, it was easy. Clean. A shared glance, then Blondie sat beside her instead of standing. One hip against Emerald’s, their knees brushing. Then lips. Then breath. Then heat, mouths open and slow and curious.
In the fantasy, Emerald’s hands were braver. Small, light brown, and hungry. She imagined them cupping Blondie’s face, her jaw, sliding down the silk line of her blouse, thumb grazing the skin that had flashed just minutes before. She imagined Blondie gasping, pressing in, eyes fluttering shut as if of course this was happening, of course this strange girl on the bus had always been the answer.
The blouse came undone, easy. Her skin was cool to the touch. Smooth. Pale like sun-drenched paper. Emerald’s fingers spread wide over her chest, finally full, finally touching. Flat didn’t matter. She liked flat. She liked soft. She liked owning the space where her hand lay, just for a second. Not rough. Not forceful. Just… there.
Emerald’s breath caught.
Then the fantasy curled tighter, darker. Blondie in her lap, straddling. Emerald’s mouth at her collarbone. One hand under her skirt now–wait, no skirt, pants, no pants now, off, they were off, it didn’t matter–Blondie grinding down on her thigh, head thrown back, whispering–
“Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
Emerald flinched so hard she almost dropped her bag.
Reality snapped back like a slap.
The bus was still moving. Blondie was still scrolling. Nobody was kissing anybody. And Emerald was gripping her seat like it was going to throw her off.
She pressed her thighs together. Hard. Her skin burned. Her face felt like it was made of fire.
What the fuck was wrong with her?
She wasn’t like that. She didn’t do this. She wasn’t some creeper lezzing out over strangers in public. She wasn’t disgusting. She didn’t imagine things like–
Like moaning in someone’s lap on a bus at 8:43 in the morning.
God.
She wanted to crawl inside karaman escort her own skin and vanish.
And yet–yet–her mouth was still parted. Her lips still tingled. And her hands were still small, still brown, still aching to reach.
She stared at the floor and did not look up again.
Not even when Blondie got off at 15th and Walnut and left behind the faintest ghost of citrus shampoo in the air.
Not even then.
The redhead got on near Broad and Snyder, earbuds in, shoulders bouncing to a rhythm no one else could hear. Sam Cooke, if Emerald had to guess–there was a certain sway to her, like her hips remembered Motown even if her mouth didn’t. She was tiny. Bird-boned. Pale like moonlight with freckles scattered across her chest like a constellation someone gave up mapping.
Emerald knew her type.
The jeans were black, shredded, indecent. Holes big enough to see the curve of her thigh when she sat. And she did–across from Emerald, one leg slung over the other, foot twitching to the beat, oblivious to the fact that her posture was opening her wide.
Emerald stared too long.
Then stared harder.
There was a moment–just a flicker–when Squirrel leaned back to tug her hoodie over her head, and the hem of her tank top lifted just enough to show skin. Not belly. Lower. A hint of waistband. A glimpse of white elastic where hip met pelvis.
Emerald felt her tongue click dry against the roof of her mouth.
She wondered–unbidden, unstoppable–what it looked like under there. Whether that narrow V between her thighs was soft and shaved, or wild and overgrown. Maybe she was waxed. Maybe she had one of those cute little tufts, the kind that peek out when you pull her panties down slow, when she lifts her hips for you without thinking.
Her fingers twitched.
Emerald sat absolutely still.
She imagined the fabric of those jeans, low and tight, peeled down inch by inch. Not in public, of course. Not here. But after. In a back room. Against a wall. With Squirrel’s leg hooked around her waist and her hands full of hair and heat and need.
She imagined herself on her knees.
That small white triangle of cotton, wet through. The scent. The taste. The redhead pulling at her braids, grinding forward, saying–
“Use your mouth. Fuck, Emerald, don’t stop.”
Emerald bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper.
She wasn’t moving. Not an inch. But her breath was shallow and her pulse had gone thunderous.
Squirrel giggled at something in her phone and bopped her head to the music, completely unaware.
Emerald looked down at her own lap. Her legs were clenched. Her hands folded too tight. Her thighs ached and her panties were ruined and she hadn’t even touched herself.
She hated this. And wanted it to never end.
She glanced back up. Just once more. Just one more stolen second.
Squirrel caught her eye.
Not long. Just enough.
And smiled.
It was small. Lazy. Unbothered.
Emerald forgot how to breathe.
Then the redhead went right back to her phone, mouthing some lyric Emerald didn’t know, and the moment was over.
Emerald stared out the window the rest of the ride. Every reflection showed her own face and none of it helped.
A bit later…
She didn’t mean to follow her.
It just happened.
The woman had that walk–that walk–like the street owed her money and she was about to collect. Tight jeans, platform sandals, hair pulled up in a loose bun that bounced like a challenge with every step. And the body? Jesus. Thick. Breasts like they were trying to claw free from the tank top. Ass like gravity was personal. Italian, probably. South Philly Italian, by the sound of her voice when she barked into her phone near the corner of 4th and South.
“No, ma, I ain’t walkin’ past her house. I said I wouldn’t.”
Emerald hadn’t even been listening to the street noise until that voice hit her. Loud. Hot. Unbothered. There was authority in it, like she could talk you off a ledge and then bend you over the fire escape just to shut you up.
“Me and Addie… that was a long time ago.” The woman said, “It’s over.”
Carrie, she thought. That was her name. She didn’t know it, but she knew it. Carrie with the tits that deserved their own zodiac sign. Carrie with the ass that deserved worship, reverence, a full confession after just thinking about it.
Emerald was four paces behind. Not close-close. Not enough to be creepy. (It was creepy.) Not enough to be noticed. (She hoped.)
She couldn’t stop.
The sway of those hips was hypnotic. The jeans were painted on, pockets stretched wide and deep. Emerald imagined gripping them. Yanking them down. Spreading that ass and–
God.
Her thighs were shaking.
Carrie stopped to light a cigarette. Bent slightly to shield the flame. The tank top sagged forward. Cleavage like a religious experience. Sweat beaded between those heavy tits like holy water.
Emerald’s mouth actually opened. kars escort Open. Like she was catching flies. Or catching breath she didn’t have.
In her head, the alley just behind Lorenzo’s Pizza was suddenly dark and dripping. She was pressed against the bricks. Carrie in her lap, straddling her, tit in one hand, the other lost between thick thighs. Carrie grinding. Carrie biting her lip. Carrie saying shit like–
“You wanna taste me, baby girl? Then open that fuckin’ mouth.”
Emerald almost whimpered.
Her panties were a fucking disaster. She hadn’t touched herself in days–was trying not to–but her clit was pulsing like a strobe light.
She needed to stop. Right fucking now.
Carrie hadn’t noticed her. Didn’t look back. Didn’t slow. Just strutted forward with the kind of confidence Emerald couldn’t even fake.
At 6th Street, Carrie veered right, tossing the cigarette behind her in a glittering arc. The flame sparked out before it hit the sidewalk.
Emerald stood there. Still. Breathing like she’d run a marathon in heels.
She leaned against a newspaper box and closed her eyes. Tried to will her body into silence.
She hated this part. The shaking. The guilt. The sour taste of knowing it’s all in her head–always in her head. Always alone.
She never touched anyone. Never even spoke. But her imagination was a crime scene.
And right now, she wanted to be handcuffed.
Bad.
It was a hot Thursday, city-slicked and pulsing with too much noise. Emerald had gone out for coffee she didn’t need, just to get out of her own head. South Street again. Always South Street. Familiar and strange, like a neighborhood that had stopped pretending it was ever for her.
She spotted her at the corner near the tattoo shop. Bare-shouldered, long-legged, glowing like something the sun chose to shine on. Must’ve been eighteen, maybe nineteen. Young, but not soft. Regal. Taut. Her tank top was the color of ripe peaches and barely clung to her–thin straps, no bra. Skin like carved mahogany, slick with heat, dotted with sweat like jewels on her collarbone. Her hair was natural and high, crown-like. Her lips were glossed.
She was… perfect.
And Emerald couldn’t not look.
It started with a glance, then stretched out, too long, too greedy. Her eyes wandered–over the girl’s chest, the curve of her waist, the rise of her hip, the gap in her shorts that showed the meat of her thigh.
Imagine those legs around your head.
Imagine the way she’d grind.
Imagine her panting, her fingers in your hair, saying–
“You want it so bad? Then earn it.”
Emerald exhaled. Too heavy. Too loud.
That’s when the girl turned.
Dead on.
Caught her in the act.
Her brows drew together, lips parting in slow disbelief, like really, bitch?
Emerald froze.
Their eyes locked.
Emerald tried to soften her face, tried to look neutral, tried to un-horny her entire existence in a split second, but it was too late. The girl knew. She knew.
“Can I help you?” the girl asked, voice sharp as a fresh edge. Her body turned toward Emerald now, squared, offended.
Emerald’s mouth worked open. “No–God, no, I wasn’t–“
“You was.” Calm. Flat. Fucking devastating.
“I just– I liked your shirt. It’s a really nice–color, I mean.”
That look she gave. Not angry. Worse. Disappointed. Like Emerald was the slow kid in class who should’ve known better by now.
The girl scoffed and shook her head, turning away, muttering something Emerald couldn’t quite catch–but it sounded like, “Fuckin’ creep,” and that felt about right.
Emerald stood there, burning from scalp to ankles. She wanted to explain, to explain, like maybe there were words that could make it okay.
She hadn’t meant it like that. Not really. Not to harm. It was just… her brain. Her loneliness. Her wiring.
But the girl was already gone, slipping into the crowd, hips swaying like a verdict. And Emerald?
Emerald sank down onto the nearest bench and covered her face with her hands.
What the fuck was she turning into?
She couldn’t even look at women anymore without it getting filthy inside her head. Like every beautiful thing got dragged through a fantasy until it wasn’t even human anymore–just parts. Just friction. Just noise.
She used to be better than this. Didn’t she?
Or maybe she was always like this, and just getting closer to the rot now.
It was dusk. The light had gone soft and golden, slanting long across the sidewalk like it was trying to be gentle with the city for once. Emerald sat on the same crooked bench near 9th and Christian, half-watching the sky bleed itself dry.
And that’s when she saw them.
Two women at the bus stop across the street. One tall and stocky in a painter’s jacket, one short and curvy in a lavender dress. They stood close–close in that way that wasn’t afraid. Familiar. Intimate. The tall one was saying something, laughing low. The short one tucked her fingers kıbrıs escort into the other’s collar like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there.
Then the kiss.
Quick, but not rushed. Open-mouthed, but not obscene. Real. The kind of kiss that had history in it. A goodbye kiss with five years and four apartments and six arguments stitched into it. A kiss that says I’ll see you later, not I need you now.
Emerald stopped breathing.
She didn’t want to fuck them. Not really. Not in the alley, not on her knees. She didn’t want to tear anything. She didn’t want to ruin it.
She wanted in.
She wanted that kiss. That ease. That unthinking entitlement to affection. That confidence to touch and be touched. To press your lips against someone in public and not flinch. To be known and wanted and not have to imagine it all from scratch like a porn loop.
She felt like a ghost. Like someone watching life through a dirty aquarium wall.
She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to pretend it wasn’t hunger.
Tried to pretend it wasn’t jealousy.
This isn’t who I am, she thought.
But it was.
The women kissed again, softer this time, before the bus pulled up. They didn’t notice her. No one ever did. She was just a shape, a shadow on a bench.
When the bus doors hissed open, the one in the dress stepped back, smiling like the parting didn’t hurt. The other one boarded. The bus pulled away.
And Emerald sat there like someone left behind.
She didn’t even know which one she’d rather be.
But God–she knew she wanted something. Anything. A hand on her back. A kiss to her cheek. A name said out loud with kindness. Something real.
But she stayed sitting.
As always.
She couldn’t.
Not yet.
It was a Tuesday, the kind of overcast day where everything looked like an old photograph. Emerald was at the co-op market on 7th, pretending to shop. Wandering the produce like she knew how to cook something besides regret. She stood too long by the peaches, her fingers grazing the fuzz of one as she watched a woman in bike shorts squat to pick through zucchinis.
The curve of her ass was outrageous. Emerald didn’t even try to stop herself. It was instinct now. Breasts, hips, thighs. A mental schematic drawn in heat. Her eyes mapped the muscles in the woman’s calves like blueprints. Just a flash fantasy: her face between those legs, the tang of sweat, the way she’d moan when–
“You always look at girls like that?” came a voice, just behind her.
Emerald startled. Dropped the peach.
She turned.
She hadn’t noticed the woman. Not this one. Taller than her by a few inches, strong jaw, warm brown skin, hair cropped close and neat. Casual. Confident. A linen shirt half-tucked like she hadn’t tried but somehow nailed it anyway.
“Sorry,” Emerald mumbled. “I wasn’t–“
“You were,” the woman said, smiling. But not unkind. “It’s okay. You’re not the first.”
Emerald’s stomach dropped. A strange tightness bloomed behind her ribs, like panic laced with static.
“You’re cute,” the woman added. “A little intense, maybe, but cute.”
Emerald laughed, but it was the wrong kind of laugh. High and panicked. “I don’t– I’m not–“
The woman took a step closer. Still smiling. Her tone was soft now. No pressure. “Look. I’m not weird about it. I just noticed you noticing her. And then I noticed you.”
Emerald shook her head, fast. “I really wasn’t trying to–“
“Relax.” The woman held up both hands. “How about a coffee? Just coffee. That’s all I’m sayin’. Just… see where it goes.”
Emerald’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
The heat in her face was unbearable. Her body wanted to crawl under the nearest bin of root vegetables and rot.
“No,” she said, too quickly. “I can’t. I’m not– I’m not like that.”
The woman blinked. “Like what?”
Emerald didn’t answer. Just took a step back, nearly tripping over her own tote bag. Her heart was pounding. Her armpits were soaked. She felt like every awful, horny, lurking part of her had just been seen under a floodlight.
“You don’t have to be scared,” the woman said gently. “Seriously. It’s just coffee.”
Emerald shook her head again. “I have to go.”
She turned and walked out, leaving the peach where it lay, her breath tight and her whole body humming with shame.
Outside, the air was damp and cold and she welcomed it. She let it bite her. She needed it to bite her.
Because that had been real. Not a fantasy. Not a flicker behind her eyes. An actual human being had seen her. Offered her something. And she’d run.
Because she didn’t know how to be seen without hiding.
Because she was so used to wanting, she couldn’t imagine being wanted back.
She walked onto the bus like it was a runway and Emerald’s stomach turned before she even knew why.
Tall. Glowing. One of those golden-skinned women who looked airbrushed in daylight, like she had her own lighting team. The kind of beauty that felt intentional, like she knew exactly what effect she had and decided to lean into it. Tight jeans. Flowy white blouse with the sleeves rolled. Bra strap visible–red, of course. Like it was a dare. Long dark hair pulled into a perfect messy knot that looked effortless but probably took three tries.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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