Reginald counts the metronome of rain against glass, each sweep is a mantra to anchor himself in the rational world. The wiper blades carve momentary windows of clarity that the downpour immediately drowns, just like his thoughts, clear for a few seconds before washing away in the flood. Someone's elbow digs into his ribs from the left, a businessman scrolling through emails. Bodies press from all sides, the humid air is thick with wet wool and coffee breath. His fingers were death-gripping the overhead rail and already painfully cramping. But, letting go felt dangerous, it felt like removing the last safety mechanism before a complete and total system failure.
He'd seen the same pleated skirt, pressed slacks and blazer on literally hundreds of students. But right now, on them, it was a goddamn religious experience. A pornographic miracle wrapped in regulation black. An elderly woman coughs wetly somewhere near him. The bus lurches, sending a wave of movement through the packed bodies like dominoes. His throat went dry while heat crawls up his throat like vomit, burning his cheeks in splotchy crimson shame. His pulse hammers in his temples, in his wrists, and in his cock—especially in his cock.
The meat between his legs swells, gorged with blood stolen from his brain. His intellect, his only defense, even abandons him as six inches of primal urge strains against his underwear. The sensitive crown, still bearing the ghost-memory of circumcision, leaks a confession against the cotton of his briefs. Each throb sends precum seeping into his expensive wool slacks, marking him as what he truly is beneath the Oxford shirt and wire-rimmed glasses: an animal in heat. This was bad. This was so fucking bad. But his cock didn't care about consequences or the Homework Club or his college applications or anything except the warm body inches away.
The light had been red for at least thirty seconds—he'd been counting, because counting was safe—but he heard himself whisper, "The bus is swaying," like saying it out loud would make it true. A passenger with earbuds cranked too loud provides a tinny soundtrack to his descent. The Reginald who'd won the state math championship was checking out, leaving behind something that moved on instinct honed by years of shameful browser history. His briefcase slides lower, shielding his shame from the packed commuters but not from himself. Never from himself. Then - fuck, fuck, FUCK - there was the contact. His cock pressed right against their ass, and even through layers of fabric, the sensation hit him like mainlining electricity. Every tiny shift of the bus ground him against those perfect curves.
"Sorry," he muttered, but his voice was barely audible over the diesel engine's rumble and the rain hammering the roof. He wasn't even sure if the apology was directed outward or inward, toward the part of himself that was watching this happen with growing horror.. "The bus, it's—" His hand descended as if pulled by invisible force, fingertips bypassing the fabric that separated him from something he'd only touched in his dreams. Around them other commuters remained locked in their own worlds, unaware of the eighteen-year-old virgin losing his mind in broad daylight.
