She finds a single aisle-facing seat on the crowded bus for her son, wedging him snuggly and securely between two middle-aged matron types who are more than happy for the opportunity to sit next to a small child, then stands over him, both of her hands clasping the bar over her head, her wrists touching, her shirt riding up just a little over her small tan lean frame.
For a minute, maybe three, she sways contemplatively as the bus makes its slow halting way through rush hour traffic on small congested streets.
Suddenly she drops one hand, as though burned by the bar, or more exactly by the memory of another bar, her husband's chin-up bar in the bedroom door, last Friday night, her hands in the same position, her wrists bound with leather straps, naked but for the little harem outfit her husband had laid out for her, the vest, unbuttoned, hanging over her small perky breasts, rubbing her excited nipples as her husband stood naked behind her, his erection wildly at attention, stroking her tight round lttle ass through the thin loose ballooning pants with a leather riding crop.
The memory of the moment is too exciting, the memory of the mental anguish that followed is too painful, the emotions are too obvious on her face for this very public transportation, for her young son seated in front of her, for the matrons on his left and right.
The damn bar over her head has brought it all back, exposed her, revealed her true self and her inner demons: the incredible intense pleasure of her first bondage experience, followed the next morning by her doubts, by her fears that she had enjoyed it too much, would want it all the time, was losing control, that if she told her husband how much she had enjoyed it he might think less of her, might view her differently, might want it too much himself, and what would that say about her, and what would that say about him?
Yet again she has not talked. They have not talked. They have merely been. They have fallen into a behavior and then drifted out of it again, sharing the moment in their own individual private silence, never getting to know each other, to understand each other, to have a real relationship beyond the simple domestic pleasures of home and family that she values so much, that are all she lives for, that she would not risk for anything.
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