The Touch
By Jerusha
Published: November 6, 2008
Updated: November 6, 2008

The Touch
By J. Bayer


It was one of those interminable fundraising banquets — cold, stringy roast beef and tasteless vegetables that looked to Christine like fingertips too long in bathwater.

An endless queue of speakers had begun extolling the cause de jour, and Christine was about to sneak out of the banquet hall when she felt his hand brush against her silk-stockinged thigh.

An accident? She couldn’t be sure, but the touch threatened to set her disused sexual response system in motion.

To be certain, she had been acutely aware of his presence long before the touch. “Do you know who he is?” she’d whispered to a friend sitting to her right.

The two women had exchanged quick, inquisitive glances, and a look indicating Christine’s friend knew no more about the handsome stranger than she.

Then came the second touch, this time closer to the top of her stocking, perilously near white, secret flesh that had become goosebumped in sudden anticipation. She dared not look at him, convinced her eyes would betray her craven desire for a third touch.

She sensed his movement, more physical than before, then heard him whisper, “Excuse me.”

Christine chanced a quick glance and found him offering his paper napkin in her direction.

“Never can keep these blasted things on my lap,” he said.

She smiled, held his eyes a moment too long, and tried to hide the profound disappointment that was resonating up from between her legs.

Minutes passed before she felt his hand again – this time above her stocking, playing with her garter strap, his thumb threatening to undo it then and there.

Christine was aware of her rising lightheadedness, aware too of the liquid release that would not abate until her suddenly unfettered appetite could be sated. She glanced sharply in his direction.

His expression was unapologetic.

They locked eyes and she felt his warm, confident fingers marching upward toward an objective she would not deny him.

He started to speak and she knew the question, even before it was asked. Do you want to get a room?

Christine raised her hand to his lips, shook her head slowly, then allowed the waves to wash over her.


End