If you asked her the first time a man had touched her on the bus, riding around the city, she wouldn’t have been able to tell you. The first touches had been so long ago, perhaps on a city bus, perhaps on one painted yellow. She wasn’t sure. She just knew it was a constant. She always pretended to hate it and perhaps even did in the beginning. Strange peers and men, all taking without asking, touching without permission. She wasn’t even that pretty, not really. Not ugly by any means, not a butter-face as some might say. Just plain, unassuming, wearing little if any makeup and no clothing begging for attention to be drawn to her.

She didn’t even really date or go out. She kept to herself and as she moved into her small apartment, the only other thing in her life was her cat to keep her company as she watched TV or slept. Other than that, the only other constant in her life was her work. A boring job at a boring department store that took a boring 45-minute bus ride to arrive and often closer to an hour to get back from. She was gray personified in a world of color, a shadow, just background noise that no one noticed or cared about.

Except, that is, for the occasional man on the bus. Despite her claims of hating it, of the unwanted attention, her legs would part as a man saw the empty space beside her, just a bit. If he could have smelled her in the dirty bus, he would have detected that tell-tell scent of wetness. But her eyes, meek and downcast, were what drew most of them in. They knew her type, the quiet ones who don’t talk, the ones that are either freaks or let you do freaky things to them, never objecting. Not enough to matter anyway. Their “no’s” were always more a suggestion than an order, easily discarded and ignored. And thus, some would sit beside her.

Almost none of them talked to her, not really. A few barked orders quietly, and a few just grabbed. They saw the parted legs and their rough fingers would explore, smiling at the soft whimpers and slick hole. Biting her lip as they thrust their fingers into her, often hurting her. Dirty hands, too long of fingernails, too rough, it didn’t matter. She never said no, though occasionally a tear or two would slide down her face, often right before she would shudder, shaking. Some would taste her on their fingers, some would make her taste herself, or smear her juices on her face or clothes. All the while, smiling.

A smaller amount, on quiet days usually in the mornings, would try other things. Pinching her breasts, fondling her, all for their enjoyment. Many of the strangers would unzip themselves, pulling out their cocks, so hot in her hand as they wrapped her fingers around their members. Usually, she’d make them pump her hand up and down though sometimes she did it herself. Slow, fast, alternating, always rewarded with a sticky ball of heat in the palm of her hand. A present to be licked off as they got off at the next exit, not even thanking her. Those were the best days.