Miniskirt Trap: Risky Bus Ride

For most of her adult life, Marissa had meticulously avoided bus rides. She always had excuses ready, talk of bizarre encounters, the sticky seats, the unreliable schedules, but none of those were the truth. The real reason lurked deeper, a secret tightening her thighs together at the mere thought: the impossibility of keeping her panties hidden.

Those low, unforgiving seats. The way sunlight spilled between her legs when she sat. The way every pothole sent her skirt flirting with disaster. She adored her miniskirts, her barely-there tube tops, though not for the reason people assumed. Summer heat left no room for modesty, even if it meant risking wandering eyes beneath the hem of her denim skirt. A few close calls and lingering stares had been enough to cement her fear. Public transit wasn't just inconvenient. It was a giant trap, every ride an unwinnable battle against fabric, gravity and hungry glances.

And yet, here she was today, riding the bus.

Her Jeep's engine sputtered once, then died with a groan, stranding her at her own apartment. Now buses were her only option, unless she felt like throwing away half her week's Starbucks budget on a cab. And skipping class? Unthinkable. Not today. Not when he'd be waiting with that smug look, the one that always flickered down to her hemline the second she walked in.

Teeth clenched, fingers fumbling with the coins in her purse, she forced herself toward the bus stop. Each step made her skirt swish against her thighs, a constant reminder of just how exposed she was about to be.

The overcast sky today offered one mercy, no sun to turn her skirt into a backlit spotlight. Small victories, she thought, until she remembered her choice of underwear. Lace. White. Practically glowing if even a sliver of light hit it.

She bit down on her lip, twisting the strap of her backpack until her knuckles ached. With every lingering male gaze, she adjusted her bag pack lower behind her. It didn't stop the wolf-whistle that sliced through the air as she reached the bus stop. Her spine stiffened. She didn't turn, but her eyes darted like a cornered prey.

Two older men queued up in behind her, their presence a thick wave of cologne and body heat. Too close. Close enough to count the threads in her skirt's hem if they leaned an inch nearer. She lowered her backpack down again.

Five excruciating minutes late, the bus jerked to a stop beside her. The doors hissed open, exhaling a wave of stale air that curled around her naked thighs.

Marissa's grip tightened on the back of her denim skirt as she approached the bus steps. The first step was always the worst... The step up into the bus forced her thighs wide apart, just for a second, but enough for a frigid draft to slither underneath her skirt. She felt it instantly. The way the denim crept higher, the whisper of lace against air that shouldn't touch it. Her other free hand flew down to clamp the rear hem against the back of her legs, saving herself by millimeters.

She stole a glance over her shoulder. No obvious stares, but that meant nothing, she knew perverts were always patient. Swallowing, she paid the fare, then scanned the rows. Only the worst option remained: a center bench with a direct line of vision for every bored commuter across the aisle.

Marissa gripped the middle of her skirt, forcing her denim skirt between her thighs as she lowered herself onto the seat. The fabric clung stubbornly, creeping upward with every subtle shift, exposing another inch of bare thigh. Across the aisle, male passengers tracked the movement. Subtle shifts in posture, fingers pausing on phones, their gazes lingering where her skirt no longer did. She flattened her palm over the front hem, sealing close the gap in her lap.

A flicker of movement made her glance up. Heat flooded her cheeks. Nearly every passenger had locked onto her hand, watching, waiting for the inevitable slip. Their focus wasn't on her face, wasn't on the flush staining her neck. It was on the desperate press of her fingers, the only thing keeping her lace panties from view.

In one frantic motion, she crossed her legs tightly, turning them to the side with a frantic flick. Only then, with her legs turned aside and thighs locked crossed did she dare lift her hand from her lap, exposing nothing but the tremor in her fingers.

Despite this vise-like grip of her crossed legs, the hungry glances persisted, searching for an opening. Marissa resorted to peering out the window, pretending to focus on the blur of traffic outside, but it was no use. The weight of their attention pressed against her skin like fingertips. She felt them, intrusive and inescapable. They weren't just looking. They were hunting.

Men glanced up from newspapers, others abandoned their phones. Some leaned just slightly, tilting for the crease beneath her crossed thighs. Others feigned disinterest while their gaze burned into the dark gap in her lap where her thighs met, waiting, hoping for a glimpse, a slip, anything.

Marissa's fingers dug into the center of her skirt, yanking on her denim skirt as she crossed her thighs tighter together, so tight the muscles trembled. A few men across the aisle snapped their glances away just as she moved, thumbs scrolling aimlessly on their phones, newspapers lifted just a hair too high. Her glare sliced through them before she deliberately angled her legs more to the side, shifting her unwanted exposure toward an entirely new audience...

Her legs now pointed toward another cluster of men, this batch lounging near the exit. Their idle chatter dying as her skirt settled to the new angle.

Her throat tightened. The truth finally hit her: the bus seethed with opportunistic men, every seat, every passenger, a wall of hungry stares disguised as boredom. She was pinned, her defenses narrowing to the fragile barrier of her crossed legs. The harder she squeezed her thighs, the darker the gap between them became... but she knew lace always had a way of betraying even the most desperate grip. White against tanned skin, a gleaming contrast if light caught it. Her breath shallowed. She could only pray the shadows held.

The concerning thoughts in her head abruptly shattered as the bus jolted over a pothole, the impact rattling handlebars and seats. The doors hissed open, ushering in a fresh wave of passengers. Marissa lurched forward, her tube top sagging in an instant, dipping dangerously close to the upper curve of her areolae. Her hands flew up in reflex, clawing the fabric back into place.

Heads turned. Stares abandoned her skirt and locked onto the newly exposed inches of skin. Her bare shoulders, the notable absence of straps, every detail laid bare under their scrutiny. They knew now. No bra. Just the thin press of cotton clinging to her nipples...

...

White Flag

Professor Galloway had been engrossed in his paper, or at least pretending to be, until the bus doors hissed open earlier and she stepped inside.

Marissa...

The campus wasn't large enough for him to miss someone like her. Petite, flushed, always wrapped in fabrics that seemed determined to slip from her body. Now here she was, stranded on public transit, her usual defiance replaced by something far more delicious: struggle.

Behind the shield of his newspaper, his gaze traced her every movement from the first moment she hesitantly stepped onto the bus. The only available seat left was, of course, directly in his view, almost too perfect to be chance.

Galloway didn't lower the paper now. Not yet. Discipline had its rewards and patience always paid off. Instead, he watched from behind, tracking her frantic adjustments. Her entire attention was focused between the two battles she was losing. Her fingers clamped over the front of her tube top as her other hand palmed over her denim skirt like a last line of defense.

Marissa's entire posture screamed defeat, yet she refused to look up, which meant she hadn't noticed him... He shifted just enough to let the paper crinkle, testing her. Her head didn't turn. Her knuckles whitened around the denim at her thighs, her legs squeezing tighter together in desperation. He drank in the scene, letting his imagination fill in the gaps her panic somehow was able to conceal.

The bus's violent jolts continued to send Marissa's skirt climbing higher with every uneven patch of asphalt. Each bump threatening to wrench her thighs apart no matter how fiercely she locked them crossed. Her fingers bit into the denim, holding it back down with sharp, desperate tugs, but she knew something had to give...

Another pothole lurched the bus sideways. Her hips lifted momentarily off the seat, just enough for the skirt to crawl another half-inch higher. A silent curse flickered through her mind as she wrenched the hem back into place, knuckles pressing desperately into her trembling thighs.

Galloway didn't blink.

The professor cataloged every loss in Marissa's private war, the way her lap gaped wider with each pothole before her frantic hands intervened. Behind the newspaper, his lips curled. The print blurred as his focus narrowed on her struggle.

He didn't need to see beneath the denim to know exactly what Marissa was hiding today. The tremble in her calves, the flush creeping past her collar, they told him everything.

Tuesdays...

His memory supplied the detail before he could stop it: Tuesdays meant white lace. Not the demure cotton she wore to exams, nor the sly black satin he'd caught flickering between her tightly crossed thighs last Thursday. No, today's panties would be sheer, scalloped at the edges, the kind that left faint indentations on her hips when she peeled them off. He'd seen the marks before on other unsuspecting girls, etched into their skin like a secret he alone could read.

One good bump. Just one. His fingers tightened on the newspaper. Luck might not grant him a glimpse, but hope? Oh, he'd cling to that.

As if the universe had decided to answer his silent, inexcusable prayers, sunlight speared through the dissipating clouds, flooding the bus with unforgiving clarity. The road had also turned vicious, jolting her hips upward with every pothole. Marissa stiffened. Her fingers danced between her skirt and sagging top, futile against the dual assault. But the real danger wasn't the bumps, it was the sun. Blinding, relentless, it slithered pass the desperate press of her crossed thighs, painting the fragile gap where lace shouldn't be visible.

She still didn't know.

White lace flickered in stolen glimpses, a blink-and-miss-it betrayal each time the bus lurched. The men noticed. Stiffened postures, aborted coughs. Their stares multiplied, homing in on the briefest flashes between her legs. But Marissa, ever the optimist, still trusted the vise of her crossed thighs to be enough...

Marissa shifted her gaze toward the window, shoulders stiff. Almost there. Just a few more minutes of vigilance, of pretending she didn't feel the weight of their hunger. Her grip on the front hemline tightened.

Yet around her, the air thickened. They saw what she couldn't.

The professor swallowed hard, teeth biting down on the inside of his cheek to smother the groan threatening to escape. There... Another flash of white lace, winking at him between the frantic press of her thighs. Even locked together in that desperate, trembling clamp, her panties still found a way to betray her. A gift he hadn't even schemed for, rather just pure, delicious misfortune.

His slacks tightened in an instant, fabric straining as his body reacted without his permission.

...

Collision Course

The moment Galloway had been waiting for arrived violently and without warning.

Just as the bus turned into the university's looping one-way lane, a blue muscle car tore toward them from the wrong direction.

Marissa barely processed the situation before instinct seized her. The car wasn't stopping, it was accelerating. Her fingers clawed into the seat's vinyl edge as the bus driver yanked the wheel to the right, tires screeching onto the narrow shoulder. Momentum hurled her sideways. Her shoulder struck the window with a sickening thud, pain jagging down her arm. Around her, passengers gasped, bodies tumbling like dominoes. The world blurred, then sharpened to the smell of scorched rubber as the car grazed narrowly past the bus, skidding wildly into a ditch.

Galloway barely registered the near-collision. His focus locked onto Marissa's body the instant the bus swerved. The impact wrenched her sideways, hips lifting clean off the seat. Her thighs, so fiercely crossed tight moments ago, sprung apart in pure reflex, balance overriding modesty. For one breathtaking second, the lace between them flashed stark like a white flag. Delicate. Exposed. Undeniable.

Marissa fought to squeeze her thighs shut but the chaos left no time to recross them properly. Her thighs locked together, almost enough. The lace still peeked through, it was no match for the sunlight slithering between her legs.

Then the bus jolted again, harder this time...

The driver turned the wheel to the opposite direction, fighting to keep them from falling into the ditch. Marissa collided with the passenger beside her. Her legs, already struggling to stay closed, flew apart in a way they never had before, almost into an involuntary stretch, leaving her exposed far longer than the first time... It was a helpless split-second where modesty vanished entirely. The lace was fully exposed, stretched taut over her hips, the delicate scalloped edges framing what she'd fought so hard to conceal. This wasn't just a peek, it was total surrender.

The professor's predatory gaze froze. There it was, white lace, laid bare by chaos rather than choice.

Marissa's panties were pristine, almost luminous under the mid-day glare. Too pristine. His jaw clenched. He'd imagined this moment in too many lectures but reality eclipsed fantasy. The delicate scalloped edges framed her hips perfectly, the fabric taut where it shouldn't be visible at all.

Then the shock hit. Awareness blurred. In the chaotic aftermath, Marissa's free hand flew between her spread thighs. Not gripping her skirt, no frantic repositioning, but hovering her palm-flat over her panties... A last ditch physical shield against prying eyes. For a split second, that trembling hand alone guarded the white lace she'd sworn to keep hidden.

Dazedly, her thighs drifted back together, but slowly, so slowly the press of them soft, uncertain. No longer the vice-like clamp from before, just the faintest friction of skin. Her prior defending hand simply abandoned the fight, leaving her lap defenseless. The sunlight clawed through that fragile closure. A glimpse of white lingered where her thighs refused to fully unite...

The bus lurched violently again as the driver wrestled to steer back onto the road, tires slamming into an unavoidable pothole in their path. Marissa jolted upwards once more, skirt riding higher as her thighs instinctively parted wider to brace herself. The lace flashed but enough to send heat pooling low in Galloway's trousers. Her thighs almost closed again after the jolt, but the gap remained. A narrow sliver of white remained, teasing the edges of what had briefly been laid bare.

Then chaos struck twice...

Marissa's tube top, already strained from her prior frantic adjustments, slid lower with the momentum. The fabric stretched then gave.

Cold air kissed her bare chest.

Pink. That was his first thought. Not the demure blush of embarrassment staining her neck but the shocking bubblegum pink of her nipples, popped free, exposed to the hungry air.

Galloway's throat went dry. Across the aisle, Marissa remained frozen, unaware... She was still slow. Sluggish. Panic dulled her reflexes, leaving her defenses in shambles.

Marissa exhaled as the bus stabilized, still oblivious. Her thighs remained parted just enough for hints of white lace to glint between them still. A frigid gust swept across her naked chest, nipples pebbling under a scrutiny that wasn't the wind, before her mind finally caught up. Instinctively, her fingers flew to her chest, expecting fabric. Instead, they brushed bare skin. Her stomach dropped. A frantic patting followed, palms over her chest, groping for vanished fabric. Heat exploded across her face.

Someone chuckled, low, barely there, a sound swallowed too quickly. Followed by the rustle of newspapers raised like barricades, but when her gaze snapped up, every passenger seemed absorbed in their phones, newspapers, the window. A man near the aisle coughed into his fist, eyes glued to his screen, while another adjusted his jacket across his lap with undue focus. No one stared. No one leered. With trembling hands, she clawed the bunched fabric back into place, securing it just as the bus shuddered to its final stop. Arm clamped over her chest, she bolted for the exit, shoulders hunched. Almost free. Almost safe. She staggered into the aisle, desperate for escape. Not one head turned as she fled...

Outside, the breeze kissed her flushed skin. Relief pooled in her stomach.

Then, a tap on her shoulder.

She whirled, then stiffened.

Her shoulders sagged at the familiar face.

Him...

Professor Galloway stood inches away, his expression unreadable.

Galloway's fingers lingered on her shoulder a beat too long. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by something calculated. A barely-there gleam in his eyes, like he was savoring a secret she hadn't yet uncovered.

"You seem... flustered, Marissa," he murmured, voice low enough to curl under her skin. His gaze trailed exactly where her tube top had sagged earlier, where pink had flashed, then dipped lower, lingering on the trembling crease of her thighs. Not a glance. A surgical strike, precise as a scalpel.

It wasn't the stare itself that scorched. It was the precision of it. How his eyes mapped the same points of exposure. As if he'd memorized every failed adjustment, every gasp of fabric.

The bus ride...

Her stomach plummeted.

That sound, the dry crinkle of newsprint, hit her like a slap. Her eyes locked onto the newspaper under the professor's arm, its edges bent from being clutched too tightly. The same coffee splashed corner she'd glimpsed on the bus.

A half-remembered detail flared: the rustle of pages, a blur of black and white text in her periphery every time her skirt crept higher. She'd dismissed it as noise, just another passenger. But now..

A slow, scorching realization: He'd been there. Watching. He saw everything. Every flash of lace. The weight of his stare crashed over her, one she'd felt burning into her skin but hadn't thought to trace back to its source.

Galloway's lips twitched. Not smug. Worse... satisfied.

"See you in class," he said, stepping past her, the brush of his sleeve against her bare arm deliberate, lingering.