Touched on the Bus

I was the middle child in a family of three girls. My father was a very religious man and my mother went along with it although she came from a non-religious family.

My entire childhood was based around the church. To say that the church was all-consuming is an understatement. We not only spent all day Sundays at church but I was enrolled in activities throughout the week. The list was endless, Sunday School, choir practice, piano lessons, bible studies, young achievers, summer camp, the list goes on and on.

And if that wasn't enough I was forced to babysit for church people all the time. When we were not at church all we talked about was the upcoming church events and their members.

With my parent's encouragement, all my friends belonged to the church and were being raised the same way. Friends outside of the church were not encouraged nor did I have time for them. Looking back it was almost like a commune-type cult. I was being brainwashed.

Obviously, when you are young and this is how you are raised you just accept it. I never really questioned it until I was older. I thought this was pretty much normal for everyone...and it was in my world.

Although I stopped attending church when I was about 15 it wasn't until I began dating my husband that I really began to question my religious experience. When I told him how all-consuming it was he likened it to a cult. They had all kinds of rules and were very strict about many things. Yes, I could see how some people would think it was cult-like.

In any case, I was totally sheltered as a child and well into my teen years. I was also very slow to mature and I was playing with dolls even at fourteen or fifteen. Yeah, I don't think that's normal anymore.

As a teen, I was slow to develop. When I was fourteen, all the cool girls at school had fully developed and began dating. I weighed eighty pounds and was flat-chested. I looked more like ten than fourteen. I even had a bedroom full of dolls and stuffed animals.

On the home front, my parents were complete opposites. My father was raised in the church and was extremely religious. He was overweight and well nerdy-looking. My mother on the other hand was the belle of the ball. She was a fiery redhead. Her side of the family wasn't religious at all and on the wild side. They disliked my father with a passion. Looking back, I'm sure they probably thought that he had dragged my mother into this cult-like religion and marriage. And they were probably correct.

My father sheltered and distanced us from my mother's side of the family. They were the evil nonreligious ones and we were to stay away from them. They drank alcohol, smoked, swore, and even danced. I realize much later in life it was the complete opposite. They were the fun-loving normal ones and we were the weird ones.

My mother was a beautiful woman. If I heard it once, I heard it a million times how beautiful she was and how she looked like Ann Margret or Susan Sarandon. She was always the center of attention and a big hit with all the men at church. Even as a child I could sense that mom and dad were a strange match. As I got older I learned so much more about my mother and believe me I have some unbelievable stories to write about her.

My older sister was attractive looking and in high school was popular with all the boys. She had a wild streak that horrified my strict father. At home, she was just plain evil. She would constantly tell me how ugly I was and how she was embarrassed that I was her sister. She mentally abused me until she finally ran away from home at sixteen and never returned. I certainly didn't miss her.

My father's strict religious upbringing had a lot to do with her running away. She would not conform to all his strict rules so he basically forced her to leave home. The story I heard was she became a groupie with a rock band and traveled with them. She was the wild one. Seeing my older sister getting kicked out of the house pretty much kept me in line for the next few years. I was terrified if I misbehaved I would be shown the door also.

My mother on the other hand constantly told me I had a big nose and dark circles under my eyes as a child. At 12 she wanted me to use make-up because "I needed all the help I could get."

I had been constantly put down my entire childhood. I had no self-esteem at all. I believed I WAS the ugliest girl in the world. This was the house I grew up in.

My youngest sister was born six years after me so she didn't factor into the picture until much later. Believe me, there are stories to be told about her.

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My world changed when I was seventeen. I rapidly began to develop into a young lady. My breasts finally started growing and I started to develop curves. I grew a few more inches and I put on some much-needed weight although I was still under 100 pounds.

By the time I turned eighteen my boobs had blossomed and I was so proud of them. I was worried I was going to be flat-chested like my older sister, but instead, I inherited my mother's genes and I was thrilled.

I was very naive and desperately needed guidance. My mother was never the nurturing type so I received no guidance from her. She was so wrapped up in her own life I don't even think she noticed.

I had always worn hand-me-down clothes from my older sister but she ran away from home at sixteen so I had nothing more to wear. My mother never took me shopping for a bra or for better-fitting clothes. I didn't buy my first bra until I was about nineteen and that was with the help of one of my friends.

I was sent out into the world to fend for myself. Up until this point, I was invisible to boys. I had no interactions with boys as they wanted nothing to do with me.

But all of a sudden boys began to notice me. Was it me or my perky breasts they noticed? I was wearing the same flimsy t-shirts I had been wearing for the last couple of years except now the shirts were tight as I had grown. I suppose my breasts and nipples were well defined through my now tight-fitting t-shirts.

Although I was developing physically, mentally I was still childish. I knew very little about sex...there was no internet, no sex education back then, my mother never gave me 'the talk'. I had heard school girls talk about sex but I had my doubts. I was raised in the church and was very much sheltered.

That summer I had just turned eighteen and I got my first summer job in an office with the help of someone from church. I was thrilled. Every day I would take the bus to and from work. The bus was always crowded but I boarded the bus near the start of the route so I always had a seat. I would always sit in a double seat next to the window.

The office dress code was business casual which I didn't really grasp. I would usually wear mini shirts, hot pants, summer dresses, etc. Again I had not started wearing a bra. Looking back I should have dressed more conservatively but I was young and had no guidance. Besides, there was a guy at the office I had a crush on so I would dress for him hoping to get his attention.

One morning as I was sitting on the bus half asleep when an attractive older gentleman in a suit came and sat beside me. I remember he smelled very nice. As he sat down he nodded at me and then opened up his newspaper.

As the bus became crowded (standing room only) I felt the back of his hand touching my bare leg beneath his newspaper. He was holding the newspaper with one hand and his other hand was just resting at his side...but touching my leg. I thought nothing of it. His stop came up first and he left.

The next day the same man sat next to me, again he nodded and pulled out his newspaper. He seemed pleasant enough and well dressed. He reminded me of a younger version of my father. Again as the bus filled up I felt the back of his hand on my leg. This time he was moving it a bit more...still it seemed innocent.

A couple of days later again he sat down, the same routine but this time he 'placed' his hand on my thigh. This was no accident.

His hand was hidden beneath the newspaper. He didn't move it, he just left it there. I wasn't sure what to make of it. I was young and naive...it couldn't have been anything sexual...he was much older and he wore a suit. I just froze. I didn't say anything or do anything. I was raised to respect my elders so I wasn't saying anything. I was also very shy and timid so I would never draw attention to myself. Afterward, I thought about it at work but I had no one to talk to about it so again I just let it go.

The next week he sat next to me again. He nodded hello, the newspaper came out and he immediately and intentionally placed his hand on my bare thigh. He began moving his hand up and down my thigh. This time I had the nerve to push his hand off of my thigh. He placed it right back on my thigh but this time he held my hand. I didn't know what to do--again I froze--he held my hand on my thigh until he left.

The next day again, this time he went straight for my hand; he was holding my hand underneath the newspaper on my bare thigh. For some reason I didn't mind him holding my hand, it didn't seem wrong.

He had big strong hands and they were warm. He held my hand in a tender way. It felt nice to have my hand held. No boy ever held my hand before. We never spoke; it was very strange but I seemed to accept it. It was comforting.

Every day for the next couple of weeks he would usually sit beside me and hold my hand and run his hand up and down my thigh. I actually started saving the seat next to me for him. I knew it was wrong but I wasn't quite sure why it was wrong -- it felt nice. Up until this point in my life, no boys ever showed any interest in me. I had not been kissed or touched...I began looking forward to being with him every morning. He made me feel safe; he was older, well dressed, and smelled good. I also liked the feeling he gave me as he ran his hands up and down my thigh. Maybe it was the risk of someone seeing us on a bus full of people. It made me tingle throughout my body. My senses were focused on his hand and my heart would race with every inch of skin he touched.

One day he was gone; he must have been on vacation because he returned the following week. I couldn't believe it but I missed him. When he returned I made the first move and held his hand so tight as if to say I missed you. That morning he slowly began moving his hand to my inner thighs, then right up to my panties. The first time he touched my panties I quickly squeezed my legs together. He just left his hand there. Eventually, I relaxed and parted my legs ever so slightly. I could feel his fingers touching my panties. I was experiencing all kinds of strange emotions for the first time.

Over the next few days, this continued. I began exposing more of my legs to him. I wore the shortest skirts I had. Whenever my skirt rode up I would not pull it back down. I enjoyed his company; it was calming, erotic, although I didn't know what I was feeling at the time.

He slowly progressed to sliding a finger around my panty and he began to rub and eventually finger me, but with no penetration. I wasn't sure what was happening the first time he did it, but he continued to finger me every day. I was feeling weird emotions. I wasn't sure what was happening but I did enjoy his touch. I had a deep urge to kiss him, but how could I, he was way older, we were on a bus, and we had never even spoken.

He began to discreetly brush his hand over my breasts. Again, I never wore a bra and I suppose my perky nipples were very tempting. A couple of times he worked his hand up under my top to discreetly touch a nipple. All beneath the cover of his newspaper. I let him do as he pleased. I was more concerned about other people on the bus seeing what was happening.

By the end of the summer, I was being touched every morning on my way to work. Somehow this became normal.

During the last week of my summer employment, I built up the courage to slip him my name and phone number on a piece of paper. I'm not sure what I was expecting but I would have met him if he called. That's how naive I was. Fortunately, he never called. Looking back I am sure he was married with a family.

I am sure he played a big part in my appeal for older men down the road.

Read about how I lost my virginity that same summer in another story.