Desperate Ch. 04

That was it. I leaned closer to him, and tried to sound calm and a little mean. "My boyfriend is meeting me off the bus. If you don't take your hand away, I'm afraid I'm just gonna have to tell him to beat the shit outta you. He'd like that. He works for a debt collector. He's very strong and has some really interesting tools in the trunk of his car."

The sleazy guy went white and his hand snapped away from my butt like he'd been stung by a scorpion. I smiled, but inside I was trembling. My stop was next, so I pushed through to the exit. Fortunately, the guy didn't follow me, as there was no-one around who I could pretend was my bruiser boyfriend. I stood at the stop until the bus moved out of sight; until I'd stopped shaking and could breathe properly again. Then I threw my head back and laughed. Me, mousey little Vicky, had been groped by a pervert on a bus. That was the sort of thing that happened to pretty schoolgirls, not middle-aged frumps. But perhaps I wasn't so frumpy after all.

When I got in to my apartment, I looked at myself in the hall mirror. Next to me by the phone there was a photo of me with my Mom and Dad, taken around ten years earlier, just before my Dad's cancer was diagnosed. I looked from the picture of a younger me to the new me in the mirror. In the photo I had straggly, mousey hair, bushy eyebrows and was wearing a baggy sweater and big, ugly glasses. In the mirror, my hair was smartly bobbed and a pretty color, the red tones giving a real touch of interest. The glamour makeup that Ashlyn had applied, together with the figure-hugging dress, the heels and black stockings, showed a different woman entirely. My cheeks were a little flushed from my scary experience, and the makeup accentuated my eyes, making me look - well, alluring, a little mysterious. I turned back and forth, looking at myself from different angles.

Then, at last, I slowly hitched up my skirt, and almost gasped at how my pussy looked, framed by the skirt and the stocking tops. It was so blatantly, deliciously sexual. The lips were no longer covered in a tangle of dark hair - not even the sparse little bush that Mr. Rogers had got me to trim. They were plump, rather pink, and moist. There was a wet, pink line that seemed to point a path down my belly and between my legs - a path which invited a lover to follow it.

Five minutes later, I was sitting on my bed, my legs open in front of my bedroom mirror. Mr. Zucchini Senior was embedded in my cunt, and my nice vibrator was on my clit. And I was coming, noisily and with total abandon. I'd learned to be sexy, and it was time to celebrate.