To a restaurant

Brooke is painfully aware that she hasn't touched her food since it was brought out.

She sits there, looking at her chicken alfredo in front of her, but not really registering it; everything feels like a haze has settled over the two of them. Her newfound companion, Rochelle, tried to make small talk before but every attempt she'd tried at trying to get to know her better had died when Brooke didn't bother to respond to any of her queries. No matter what Brooke tries to do, her mind can't help but drift back to the man on the bus earlier today.

It felt like what had happened wasn't real, as if she hadn't been the one who had nearly been pressured into doing something she'd have never forgiven herself for. It was a story that thousands of women experienced every year but it had never really struck her just how helpless they must've felt when the deed (or deeds, she thinks, as a small shudder makes its way down her spine) when it was done. It was every mother's worst nightmare come true and while it could've ended up being much worse for Brooke than it had, it was likely to stick with her for the rest of her life.

"I know it doesn't help much but it wasn't your fault, okay?" Rochelle murmurs, wiping the last vestiges of the marinara from the corners of her mouth with a napkin. In her daze, Brooke had completely missed her finishing off the spaghetti and turkey meatballs she'd ordered from the Italian place she'd said was halfway decent despite its deceptively low prices. It wasn't a cheat anyway, Rochelle had told her, since bodybuilding allowed that sort of meal.

Brooke shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She tries not to pay attention to the way the fabric of her jeans moves against her legs, just like how he had.

"What he did to you... that kind of thing just made me want to rip his fucking-"

The dark-skinned woman reaches over for her glass of water, closing her eyes, and drinking deeply before setting it down again.

"This isn't about me."

"It's fine," Brooke says hoarsely, her voice cracking at its own disuse.

"He a stranger or something? You know him?"

She silently shakes her head.

"Bastard probably wouldn't have told you his name either in case someone else came along. Even if he had, probably would've been a fake."

Rochelle puts a palm against her cheek on the cheap wooden table they're having lunch on, resting her beefy arm against the glass top covering it, face contorted in disgust.

"Just moved out here," Brooke says, locking eyes with Rochelle. "Never lived in a city before, apart from college, so I guess I looked like an easy target."

The black woman grimaces, scrunching her features even further.

"Hey, don't start with shit like that, okay? You've got a hell of a lot of fight if you didn't have to think twice about trusting a total stranger enough to leave with them just to ditch a creeper."

Brooke didn't feel brave. She felt unclean, dirty, and just like Lady MacBeth had said, couldn't imagine a situation where that "damned spot" would ever come out. It must've shown on her face, though, as Rochelle dropped her displeasure at their mutual foe.

"It gets better. Kind of. Sometimes it hits you out of nowhere and you feel like it'll never be over, but you'll find your own way of coping."

Unsure of what to say, Brooke cast her gaze away to the wall behind Rochelle, her gaze taking in the cheap paintings adorning the restaurant.

"Happened when I was about 13. Won't get into the details, for your sake or mine, but it helped make me what I am today," Rochelle says, gesturing down at her impeccable physical form. "Pretty hard for boys to hold you down when you can knock 'em out in a single punch, right? Or worse, matter of fact."

"I'm sorry," Brooke says, drawing back in her chair and suddenly finding the conversation of the couple only a few tables over suddenly much more interesting. Her own suffering shouldn't have to be the cause of someone reliving theirs, of that much Brooke is still certain.

"So am I," Rochelle says with a snort. "Try finding a date at the gym or events where you're putting all the men there to shame."

For a moment, there's a brief parting in the storm clouds that hang around her, and a laugh escapes her lips. Positively beaming, her companion leans forward, giving her a wink.

"See? Told ya you'd start to feel a bit better. Not a stand up, but I'll keep trying if it means I can make you smile."

There's a pause between them and Brooke feels herself flush at the remark. Rochelle's positivity is suddenly drenched in a splash of her own poor word choice and she quickly averts her eyes to the unclean plate in front of her.

"Didn't mean to sound like- you don't need me doing that right n- sorry."

"It's fine," Brooke says, perhaps just a little too quickly. Rochelle certainly seems to agree as her gaze leaves her finished food to her instead, as sincere an unspoken apology as she can muster plastered across her graceful features. "I don't mind." The thought of Rochelle doing it again makes a butterfly begin to flap its wings in her stomach in fact.

Nothing is said between them for several moments as the two of them mull the awkward turn things had taken. After a few more seconds, Rochelle leans backwards in her chair, stretching and pushing her back against it, sliding it away from the table and picking herself up.

"I'm gonna go take a leak since I can't stand holding it in anymore."

With Rochelle's sudden movement, Brooke now finds herself inadvertently looking face to face with the much taller woman's crotch from across the table and her jaw nearly drops open.

"Fuck me, this thong always manages to rub against my dick; can't tell you how many times I've accidentally popped a boner at the gym because of it. Only good thing is you can't see it too good through my shorts and these are my favorites..." Rochelle grunts, letting out a long-suffering sigh.

Not that Brooke notices, of course. She finds herself far too preoccupied with taking in the other woman's junk to notice. Just as there was little to leave imagination to the washboard abs honed over years of physical training, there is no hiding the cock that Rochelle possesses. Whatever Brooke has can't even begin to compare with the golf ball-sized testicles pressed up against her workout shorts, hanging underneath a dick that is neatly outlined along the length of the leg of her shorts, almost like she'd stuffed a potato down her pants. True to her word, the fabric is beginning to be pushed outwards with the urge to relieve herself of her bladder's pressure. If Rochelle notices Brooke ogling her form, though, she's polite enough not to comment on it as she turns away from the table, calling over her shoulder.

"Uh, anyway, if the waiter comes by again tell them to hand me the check, alright? It's on me."

Brooke watches her gloriously toned ass through the equally thin fabric as she retreats and to her great discomfort, she begins to feel herself stiffen, her problem from this morning rudely reminding her of its existence. Up until today, she's never looked at women like she's looking at Rochelle now, though whether because of her new equipment or simply having a more sheltered upbringing, she can't say. Much as she let loose in college, experimenting wasn't something that had crossed her mind then. Perhaps it was the fact that Rochelle's form was doing a lot for her; were everything else the same except being a guy, Brooke wouldn't have thought twice about dragging her back to her apartment and having her way with her.

'God, it's a wonder she can even move around with that thing... glad I woke up with mine. Can't even imagine what it'd be like to have one that big.'

As she finishes the thought, she can feel her erection try its might to break out of the confines of her pants, a small amount of wetness spreading against her underwear.

Were the circumstances more normal - or as normal as they could be given everything today - she might have even gone for the unique twofer things offered her. Yet as she sits there, unsure of how to process her new emotions and thoughts, the specter of earlier this morning returns, creeping its phantom limb up her leg. She immediately wilts, almost thankful that she won't have to face Rochelle once she returns with the knowledge Brooke now possesses.

In all her excitement, though, Brooke fails to notice the tingle that begins to work its way down her spine.