A Touch in the Crowd
Lately something had quietly cracked in Natalie’s soul. The mad marathon of noisy country cottages, saunas, and penthouses, where her body passed from hand to hand under her husband’s greedy watch, suddenly felt tiring and hollow. She longed — to the point of an ache, to the point of weak knees — for something long forgotten: trembling, tenderness, sincere shyness, and that very magic when a touch makes the heart stop instead of simply pounding.
In the evening she was riding the subway home. The car was moderately full, and the rail joints hummed a lulling rhythm. Natalie stood by the doors, swaying slightly with the train’s motion. Suddenly, through the dense fabric of her light summer dress, she felt a very careful, almost weightless touch on her behind. It was not a rude shove or an unceremonious grab of the kind she had grown used to. Someone touched her as tremulously as one touches fragile porcelain.
Natalie turned around slowly. Behind her stood a very young man, about nineteen, good-looking, with tousled hair and expressive, slightly frightened eyes. Caught in the act, he instantly blushed to his ears and tried to pull his hand away, bracing for anger or a scene. But Natalie only gave him a soft, barely noticeable smile with the corners of her lips and turned back to the doors, leaning back just a little.
The young man understood everything. His palm returned — bolder now, but just as gentle. He began slowly stroking her round hips through the dress. That shy, boyish caress sent a sweet pull through Natalie’s lower belly. She adored this pure, unspoiled uncertainty.
Footsteps Behind Her
The train braked with a hiss. The announcer called her station. Natalie threw the young man a quick, flirtatious glance and stepped out of the car. Heels clicking on the granite floor of the station, she rode the escalator up and walked out into the cool evening street. She didn’t look back, but by the soft footsteps behind her she knew with certainty: he was following. His timid pursuit intoxicated her more than any expensive whiskey in a restaurant.
She reached her building and stopped at the metal door of the entrance. Only there did Natalie turn, unhurried, to face her pursuer. The young man stopped a couple of meters away, hands stuffed awkwardly into the pockets of his jeans.
“Want to come up?” Natalie asked quietly, with a soft half-smile.
The young man swallowed; his gaze dropped for a second to her lush lips, and then lower. Natalie lowered her eyes too and noticed the thing that finally decided the outcome of the evening — under the dense fabric of his jeans stood out an impressive, firm bulge that didn’t match his boyish confusion at all. That contrast between a timid gaze and hot male potential turned her on instantly.
The young man exhaled loudly, as if daring the most important step of his life, and answered barely audibly: “Yes… very much.”
Familiar Walls and a New Guest
They rode the elevator up in silence and entered the apartment. The entryway smelled of familiar domestic comfort. Natalie locked the door carefully, slipped off her shoes, and gestured for the young man to come in.
From the depths of the apartment came the rhythmic sounds of gunfire and headset chatter. Natalie glanced into the living room — I was sitting in my favorite gaming chair in front of the monitor, absorbed in a virtual battle. I didn’t even turn my head at the sound of the door, long used to my wife coming home late.
Natalie turned to the young man, who had grown nervous again at the sounds of the game, and put a finger to her lips: “Shhh… Quiet.”
She took his hand — his palm was hot and slightly damp with nerves — and slowly led him toward the bedroom, feeling an entirely new, pure, trembling anticipation of the coming night being born inside her.