Three PM

When I woke, sunlight was slicing through the curtains. Three PM. A hollow, gnawing hunger echoed in my stomach, but it was secondary to another, more insistent emptiness. Seventeen hours since I’d eaten. Weeks since I’d been touched.

The decision, wavering all afternoon, finally hardened as I stood naked before my suitcase. This is the last night. The thought was a clear, cold command. I pushed aside practical clothes and pulled out the outfit I’d bought for this moment, and this moment alone.

The black top was sheer deception—a wisp of fabric with a plunge so deep the V ended just above my navel. I shivered as the cool air hit my bare breasts, my nipples tightening instantly. The skirt was a mere band of leather, so short the hem brushed the very lowest curve of my buttocks. I spun once before the mirror. The skirt flared, offering a blatant, fleeting view of the bare skin beneath. No going back.

My heart was a frantic bird against my ribs as I left the apartment, the click of my boot heels on the stairs sounding like a countdown. The subway station was a cavern of noise and compressed humanity. It was the last train, and the crowd had a desperate, weary density. A jingle echoed, a warning. Then, a wave of bodies surged, carrying me forward like driftwood into the final car.

The doors hissed shut, sealing me in a hot, breathing capsule of flesh. I was crushed into a corner, my back to the door, pressed on all sides. The air was thick with the smell of salaryman cologne, stale beer, and perfume. The train lurched forward, and we all swayed as one organism. A man in a rumpled suit had his back to my front, his shoulder blades digging into my chest. With every jolt and curve, my bare breasts flattened against the wool of his jacket. A sharp, shocking thrill shot through me. My hands were trapped at my sides. I was utterly, helplessly available.

Then I felt him.