Coming On The Bus

February 9, 2019

I hate this weather. Whomever says winter is the best time of year had better shut up in my presence and unfriend me on Facebook. What do you like? - The wind, the rain, the sleet, the snow or just the bone deep cold that feels like someone forgot you in the morgue? I hate not having a car and having to stand in this icy wind as it blasts my face and I feel my skin ache and crack under its unrelenting merciless hiss. This bus shelter should have a better name as there’s no bus and it gives little shelter. Whoever designed this thing has obviously never used one. It’s two glass walls constituting a corner, which doesn’t go all the way to the floor, and a weirdly angled glass roof. That’s it! Completely open to the elements on three sides and the rain and wind flies in under the high weird angle of the roof. Idiots!

 

I’ve been here a mere five minutes and despite my bus not being due for another three I check my watch every thirty seconds like some obsessive compulsive amnesiac. I’m joined by an old woman, must be eighty, with her shopping trolley and bobble hat. She looks like the war was a doddle given how stocky she is, with her thick woollen coat and her boots she’s had re-heeled three times. She smiles a chirpy, gossipy smile I can’t help returning. I just hope she doesn’t speak to me, because if she speaks to me I’ll have to speak back and then it’ll be a conversation and she’ll sit next to me on the bus and I’ll get to hear about her grandson who’s doing well at school, but oh, he’s so wicked, and the price of cheese or something and of course her arthritis and the bus is ten milliseconds late - isn’t it awful? Luckily, Margret, as I’ll call her (she looks Margretish), just looks in her bag for something. No doubt a mint imperial or some such boiled sweet specifically made for old people.

 

Then comes Jim. He’s all Jimish, with his I’ve seen everything and I’ve done everything swagger only forty-something men can muster. His shoes need cleaning. These are my travel companions? Just as I take my eighth look at my watch I see the spectre of an automaton reading her life as she drones her way to an unconscious stop in the shelter. She would be something to wonder at if she ever raised her eyes from her life onscreen. Her straight blonde hair emerges from her woollen hat to her shoulders, keeping her pretty neck warm besides her scarf tied in a knot around that easy skin. Her face, what I can see of it anyway, is young and full of promise. I wonder what gets up to at night. Her teenage body is encased in dour autumn colours of black and tan. Her shoes are trainers, not really practical for the weather. She glances at me and my face twitches to a half smile, and she reacts with an equally non-committal twitch from the corners of her pretty mouth. Her eyes are a greyish blue and I wish I could study them up close. But she drops them to her slavery and reads on what the screen tells her, probably not even aware she’s smiled at me.

 

The bus lurches around the corner like a drunken father at a family bash, with far too much confidence it will miss the parked cars or manage to pull into the culvert designated bus stop. Somehow it does. It creaks to a stop and hisses from its air brakes like some weary traveller. I let everyone get on first. It’s all cards and bus passes, so it’s fast moving to get on. I go to the back of the bus, past Margret, past Jim, and past my little screen-slave. I sit at the back, two seats behind her and I wait for the bus to move.

 

The bus bristles to life again like a workhorse on its last chore of the day. We urge our way back into the road and wait for the lights to change. As I sit I’m aware of the vibrating shudder emanating through my seat right into my bottom and private parts. I wonder if anyone else enjoys the arousing idling of the bus. I wonder if she is enjoying it. I’ve always wondered what other girls like and don’t like. I’ve wondered what it would be like to compare notes, maybe show each other the way we do things. Maybe try them out on each other. Purely for educational purposes, mind you. I’m no lesbian. I can’t help wondering though, if little miss screen-saver is experiencing the same level of excitement I am right now.

 

I can feel that demiurge deep inside; that inkling that Polly wants to play. Home is only ten minutes away, but I’m feeling horny now. Now, Goddamn it! I didn’t exactly dress for this eventuality though, did I? I’m in thick grey woollen tights and a charcoal grey jumper-dress and speckled grey scarf, all covered with my mustard puffa-jacket and tan boots. I’m not winning any fashion awards today, okay?

 

Ten minutes.

 

I can do this.

 

No one’s looking. Why would they? Margret is chatting to Jim and the driver. My little addict is enthralled by the next fix of dopamine she’s injecting through her eyes. Luckily, she doesn’t have the sound turned up but her earphones are tiny-tinning something banal to her hippocampus as we speak. I hope it’s something lascivious. I hope she’s getting as wet as I can feel myself getting. I hope she’s secretly flicking her bean as I looking at her pretty neck. It’s not likely, but I can imagine it.

 

The light turns green and we are off, hauling this lump of vulgar metal and glass down the road in all its cumbersome glory. It’s now or never! But what if someone gets on at a later stop and comes to the back of the bus? Will I be able to cover up in time? Look at this weather - no one else is getting on if they don’t have to. No one but idiots venture out in this. The wind hits the side of the bus and it surges as the driver takes back control.

 

Now or never!

 

I pull up my dress and look to see if anyone has noticed. Of course they haven’t; I have a seat right in front of me. I slink my hand right down my tights and into the tight lace thong I really shouldn’t still be wearing. I bought it when I was several sizes smaller than I am now. But I like how it makes me feel, all tight and nudging gently between my pussy cheeks so it feels like I’m constantly being fingered. I dare you not to find that appealing!

 

Of course, being felt-up by your tight lacy thong while you’re going round the shops is a mixed blessing. You’re always in a state of mild arousal, which increases or decreases with the tightness of your jeans or when you stoop or bend over to see something on a shelf. Of course, if it gets too much I have to stop at a clothes store to try on some clothes and let my pretty petals free. I can try on daring underwear and have a quick session with myself in the dangerous privacy of a changing stall. Seeing myself in a full length mirror furiously polishing the silver as others get dressed and undressed around me is one of the little pleasures in life I highly recommend. Mind you, you have to be able to be quiet. You don’t want funny looks from the sales girls when you come out. But there’s safety in a locked stall. For added danger I seek out the curtained stalls, where there’s nothing but a piece of cloth between me and everyone else. Nothing but cloth to hide your shame. And of course, people are far more likely to try a curtain than a closed door, especially if your feet aren’t touching the floor.

 

Yes, I’m nice and warm down there, wet too. My fingers are cold though as I forgot my leather gloves; gloves that have served me well in all areas previously. As the shock of my cold fingers eases I start to molest myself. I tease around my clit, wanting her to wake up quick as we now only have eight minutes before I have to get off. And I want to get off before I get off. My fingers are warming up nicely as I trace my grove down to the wellspring of my sexuality, dipping inside to check my liquidity. Sure enough, my slick emulsion invites me in.

 

My tights are too tight though. Again, I need a new pair but winter is almost over; what’s the point? I slip my hand surreptitiously out, and despite the bus heating the cold air bites into my glistening fingers. I raise them to my mouth and suck them dry, wiping them quickly on the hip of my tights before my next move.

 

Seven minutes.

 

We pass the first stop, where no one is waiting. With no pickups that means the clock is ticking quicker. I glance around again to make sure. Margret is still gabbing, Jim is still offering his worldly wise and my little screen slave is still being spoon-fed byte-size digital crack. It’s the simplest of things to do, and yet it’s insane as well. I hook my thumbs into my woollen tights waistband and I do a little bunny-hop as I pull them quickly forward off my little butt. I sit still, my tights gathered at my knees. No one notices. No one looks. I look. My pussy is pouring out from around the lacy grey of the front of my thong. The lace itself is starting to darken as it tries to soak up my increasing moistness. I delve into that tight pocket, cupping my clam and wish I could just lay down and go for it. But the thong is too tight and is in danger of garrotting my butt!

 

I bite my lip. I always bite my lip when I’m thinking naughty thoughts. And I go for it! Another little bunny hop and my thong comes free into my lap. I must have hopped a little too high because my little darling glances around at me. We lock eyes and both smile. Please don’t talk to me little screen slave. Not now. Not when I’m half naked and fully turned on. I am all too aware of my nakedness behind the protecting seat, but little miss screen slave has no clue. She awkwardly looks away down the bus, then a single ping from her master and she is instantly rapt in her online inanity.

 

Five minutes.

 

More stops with no one new. Less time to get my act together. Now I don’t know about you, but I find trying to do the do with my legs together is awkward to say the least. So with a swift bend forward I sneak my woollen tights and lacy thong down my silken legs. I say silken because I shaved them only yesterday. Well, I used cream. No shaving cuts for me, boys! As I sit back up I realize the lunacy of what I am doing. I am half-naked on the bus home, about to severely abuse myself!

 

Four Minutes.

 

The cold bites into my naked skin as I opened my thighs, keeping my ankles tights-tied together like shackles. No time to linger, I go right for the jackpot, splaying my thighs so wide that if anyone looks back I’m in danger of them spotting a turned out knee. But I need this now with an unreasoning impulsive and tunnel-visioned certainty. I start strumming my angry little bean. She stands up, proud of her little red riding hood and lets me beat her about the head. Oh, she loves that!

 

As the bus lurches around the familiar bends and up the laboured hill I feel like a land-lover on prow of a ship in a storm as the wind-driven rain hits the bus side-on and it fights with the current as it turns yet another corner, proud into the street. God help any oncoming traffic!

 

Three Minutes!

 

I inch my butt to the seat edge so I spread wider yet. I can’t lean back like I want to though, because then - in my mind, at least - it will be obvious what I’m doing. So perched on the seat edge with legs like butterfly wings I’m playing with myself. I circle Polly; I love big flat palmed finger circles exciting my pussy cheeks and my inner lips when I press a bit firmer.

 

No one is looking, but I look around to each one to make sure. None down the bus, and the pretty girl with the phone addiction is on her seventh line this minute. I look down. The sight of me exposed in public, masturbating in public, is a further turn on I really need.

 

TWO Minutes!

 

I’m strumming my clit like a blue grass banjo! She’s seething, pleading, screaming excitement! It’s almost painful. The feelings of ecstasy so intense for a moment I lose my breath. I look up, but no one knows.

 

The bus surges forward through the blustery day. And I feel my excitement ooze out of my vaginal lips and touch it to be sure. It’s just what I need to lubricate my quickly drying bean. I don’t want to get sore down there, but hell, it’s worth it. I scoop up my pussy juice and go straight to my bean.

 

ONE MINUTE!

 

Home straight! I’m thrapping like crazy, trying to make my hand movement the only thing on my body moving. My breath is shallow, but I have to measure it like overcoming a panic attack. The feeling inside is ridiculous! My pleasure is now a burning liquid coursing down through my clit, over my fiery pussy and up inside my deepest cunt to a throbbing inside my hot wet core. My butthole tingles and it too is throbbing inside, deep inside; my G-spot alight from both sides. My breathing is stealing from my lungs. My breasts are heavy, my nipples tingling, even my spine is tingling like crazy.

 

The bus turns the final corner and it’s just two hundred and fifty yards to my stop, and another twenty to my apartment block. I go into hyper-speed, strumming like a demented woman. I feel it coming. It’s coming. That fire down below is throbbing to meltdown pitch. My legs start shaking, making my breath even more ragged.

 

Only one hundred yards!

 

I can’t give up now! My fingers are a blur at my crotch as the inner scream begs to be unleashed! I feel it climbing as the parked cars seem to fly by, even though the bus is chugging uphill. And then it happens! The ecstasy peeks with excruciating height and suddenly I’m coming! I’m coming! I’m coming! I stifle my ecstatic whine and silently breathe out ragged orgasmic breath.

 

And I’m still.

 

Fifty yards and I’m still feeling that tingle all over my body. The afterglow of ecstasy is washing through my blood like heroin in my veins! I breathe. The cold air hits my lungs and suddenly I realize my legs are cold.

 

Twenty five yards. I close my legs and yank up my thong and woolly tights as one and bunny-hop my butt into them, pulling down my jumper-dress. It’s not the most dignified movement this girl has ever done, but it means I’m respectable enough to actually stand up from behind my protective seat and press the Stop button on the rail. It pings and instantly the bus slows. But it overshoots the bus stop and grinds to a halt just yards from my apartment block as I navigate my way down the jolting bus from rail to rail as it slows to a stop.

 

“Thank you” I say to the driver. He says something I miss but I step off, still in that light feeling of elation as the bus moves off. I feel like I’ve showered in bliss.

 

The wind hits my face and welcomes me back to reality. I walk the few yards to my block and inside. I open my door and get inside, hearing it slam satisfyingly behind me. I stand there as the warmth of my apartment burns my ears and I have to take my coat off. I lean against the wall with my hands as though I’m about to get frisked by the cops, looking at myself in the hallway mirror. You really did that.

 

My legs are freezing. Then I realize the feeling of wetness at my crotch is far more than I thought. I pull up my jumper-dress to see a dark wet patch growing steadily at my crotch. I enjoy the feeling as I relax my pussy muscles still further and all my pussy juice is drawn by gravity to my still throbbing crotch.

 

I chuckle to myself as I think of the madness I just did. There’s a naughty girl in that mirror. What will she do next?

 

Time for a hot shower, I think.

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