Visiting the park

You wake and check yourself and the room carefully, making sure nothing is disturbed and breathe a sigh of relief. The room and your body are as you left them, and to the best of your knowledge, nothing is trying to assert itself upon you.

You dress in a white t-shirt tucked into your light blue jeans, careful to disguise the gold chain inside your bra. You add some light jewellery and white sneakers and head to the hotel reception to wait for your friends.

By the time they joined you, late of course, they say nothing of the night before. Nor do you.

The day is beautiful. The late-Summer sun beamed down on the park, casting spots of warm on the path around you and your friends as you explore the iconic park in the center of the city.

It almost seemed that nothing could ruin the picturesque day until you start to notice the arm holding your bag strap aching slightly, almost numb. You ignore it and continue walking, talking and taking pictures with your friends, but every few minutes the ache called for your attention.

As the group continue along the gravel path, distracted by the scenery, you fall behind and switch your bag to the other side to alleviate your problem. When you do, you realise that your arm is more numb than you first thought.

You try to rub it in an effort to return circulation, but your touch is returned by searing pins and needles. You feel a cramp form in your arm, pulling your wrist up toward your neck. You clutch your elbow for support and to reduce the strain on your cramped muscle. Your tightened forearm tucks out of sight below your chin.

Before you can open your mouth to call for your friends to stop and allow you to take care of your discomfort, you jump as a hand -- your own hand -- clamps around your neck tightly. You freeze in fear for a few terrifying seconds before the hand releases. You wonder briefly if that was a spasm, but unfortunately your hand drags down your chest, lightly scratching lines with your fingertips. It moves between your breasts and downwards along your stomach.

You pray that your friends don't turn around as you you wriggle and twist to stop it but it keeps moving calmly downwards. Each time you touch your arm in effort to stop it, the pins and needles are blindingly painful. With no muscle control, you increase the magnitude of your twists and convulsions and will your arm to stop, hoping to tug it away from its destination, but your hand continues and worms behind the waist of your pants effortlessly.

Once again you hold your breath involuntarily, this time as you feel your own numb fingers exploring your underwear as if they were somebody else's; something that had never been done to you before, even by yourself.

You want to squirm and pull your arm free, but you know all that's doing is calling attention to yourself. You look around for somewhere to hide and pick some of the denser foliage to rush towards. You duck inside and relax a little bit, even with the fingers exploring in your pants.

You instinctively arch your back slightly as the finger finds your shy slit and pauses over it. You look around to make sure that there's no angle from which a passer by can bear witness to you involuntarily defiling yourself, but lose focus when the finger starts teasing it slowly.

"Fuck," You breathe reluctantly admire the finger's handiwork as it finds buttons you'd gone to great length to not push over the years. One eye closes slightly from the new sensations, even as the overwhelming feeling is anxiety, not arousal.

"Wait," you hear one of your friends in the distance, "Where's Jaz?"

Awareness of where you are rushes back, along with an aching fear of being caught with your hand in your Levi's and no explanation.