Bus job

We were on the bus, sitting at the back. It was late, no one was there, save for an old man near the front, holding a carrier bag on his knee.

But he and I had lost all sense of the outside world, the drink warming and melting our insides, warming and melting most of our inhibitions. We had chatted all evening about our hopes, dreams, places we wanted to see (missing out the places on our bodies). We had laughed, brushed hands, reaching for our glasses, exchanged that special secret, knowing, burning smile and the unspoken, but shared thought.

And now we were on the 30 minute journey home. He knew I would get off first, he knew we only had a few precious moments together. And he knew I had my mum babysitting at home and children asleep upstairs. So, he knew there was no way he could come home with me.

The bus engine hummed and growled its base tone. It was dark outside, so we could only see smeary hand prints on the glass and a reflection of the bus interior and our faces.

He reached out to stroke my cheek, run his fingers through my hair, all the time, his face moving closer to mine. I leaned towards him, making the journey to my lips a little shorter. His perfect soft mouth at first lightly caressed mine, then became more urgent, more aggressive; his tongue finding its way in and my tongue reaching for his.

As our kiss became more intense, our bodies pressed together, his arms at first holding me close were now pressing me to his torso. Without any thought, I turned to straddle his lap – all this twisting sideways was starting to feel an awkward kissing angle. And I wanted him against me, to feel whether he was aroused, crotch to crotch.

He breathed heavily, sighing into my mouth, as his hands slowly trailed down my back, curving out around the shape of my hips, eventually resting his fingers under my denim encased buttocks.  As we got lost in our kiss, our groins unconsciously thrust together and our breathing became heavy.

He released one of his hands to stroke and explore what he could of my breasts through my clothes, checking their shape, their firmness. His hand descended to my crotch, fingers curving under me, leaving me tingly, light-headed, even though he was outside my clothes.

I mirrored this on him, feeling a solid, substantial erection and he sighed heavily, moving to guide my hand to his zip and fly.

“We can, if we’re quiet – go on,” he whispered. So, I deftly unzipped and reached for the firm and ready penis within. First slowly, my hand moved back and forth, exploring every inch and ridge, then faster, as he moaned quietly under his breath. Then, looking over my shoulder to check there was still just the old man at the front of the bus, I slid off his lap and knelt on the floor, bending over my willing prey.

I ran my tongue from base to tip, then from tip to base, carefully licked the head then lowered my mouth on to it, gently sucking, moving up and down and occasionally letting the very edge of my teeth touch it. He gripped the sides of the seat and struggled to keep his moans to a low volume. He writhed and stroked my head, as I set to work whipping him into a ship on high waves.

But I kept on with my mission, up and down, licking around the end and stroking it with my fingers. Then he spasmed, exhaled a “yes” and burst with his climax, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me up into a sated kiss.
Then, we swiftly returned to our senses. I peered through the window, trying to get my bearings. The road looked familiar and I could just about make out the pub near my house.

“Must get off, don’t want to miss my stop,” I called as I leapt up and teetered town the moving bus.
He looked shell-shocked and disorientated, just about spluttering an “ok, bye, then.”

As I prepared to jump off the bus, the driver smirked and said: “You do know we have CCTV on this bus, don’t you?”