Try to endure silently

You crouch down in the foliage while your own hand has its way with you. The crunching of twigs beneath you and the movement of your arm against the fabric of your pants seems a thousand times louder when people walk by just a few yards away.

You look down at it and wonder how to persuade your arm to stop molesting you, but even if it weren't for the pain of touching it, it being your strongest arm, it overpowers any attempt you make to tug at it.

The finger rubbing against you seems aware that your body isn't responding to the unsolicited rubbing. It slows to a tactful pace, rubbing you through your panties in just the right way to gently tease your body into action and unlock any latent sexual tension it can find.

You've never touched yourself before, and your body isn't sure what to make of it. You feel your body teetering on the edge of a cliff: your body is telling you that you can either stay grounded and afraid in the moment and feel the mechanical rubbing for what it is; or you can indulge for a fraction of a second and let yourself fall into a spiral of pleasure.

After decades of careful discipline, you can hear your body beg you to let this continue. You think for a second about it, but in imagining doing so, you release the spark your body needed. You feel your insides twitch, and feel the heat you've suppressed for years begin to build. Your own finger feels the tension in you and almost seems to manipulate it, stirring it and playing with it.

You are **** to admit to yourself that it feels good: better than you had imagined. Some amount of it was due to your finger's expert movements, of course.

You feel your hips start to play along with the finger, and despite the numbness, you can feel a wetness on your fingertip.

Your throat tightens slightly, turning your helpless breathing into the slightest hint of an involuntary moan. You drop to a kneel in the bush and do your best to keep relaxed and quiet so as to draw minimal attention to yourself.

With your eyes closed, you feel your mind searching for something other than being teased in a bush to fantasise about, but you find that the simple notion of an invisible lover teasing you, even here, in a park, is enough to satisfy its needs. You imagine him behind you with his hand snaking, around your hip, into your pants, playing with you like a toy that they treasure.

Your finger changes movement, this time sliding into you for the first time, eliciting a shocked gasp. You put your other hand over your mouth to quieten yourself. This is now way beyond your boundary, but your willpower has been eroded enough that it's overcome by the sensations. The change, if anything, slows your approach to a climax, implying that its only purpose is to remind you of your ongoing violation.

You surprise yourself by squeezing your own breast with the hand not busy beneath you. You realise that your other hand is your own: it's just you now. But you don't stop. You hand over your body to its autopilot and marvel as it knows what to do. Your hips dance in time with the movements of your fingers as the pace accelerates. You feel muscles inside yourself tense and contract in ways they never have before.

Your imaginary lover feels you approaching your first orgasm. He reciprocates by slowly accelerating his finger at your entrance. You fight your quivering muscles to let you keep your hips moving in time.

"Jaz?"

Your eyes open wide in panic. The voice is closer, but they haven't found you. Your body continues its dance but your adrenaline-fuelled fleeting lucidity poses a question to yourself before you sink back into your fantasy:

Do you continue? Do you panic and stop? Or ... do you really have a choice?