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?”

Lust in an elevator

It was my last and only chance to make it happen, the ideal time to do what I wanted, without worrying about what anyone thought, the ultimate ‘goodbye and sod you all moment’ – my last ever day in a job I never wanted, nor needed to leave on good terms.

I had taken a mundane filing/general gopher job after hitting the post-uni world with a bump in the mid-1990s, when getting a job was only marginally less difficult than it is now. My idealism about being snapped up by a media or advertising company, or landing a role writing a film script, was snuffed out within weeks of living back with my folks and having to sign on at the job centre.

So, I ended up with this job of filing, and running around for people in a public sector/civil service department, purely because the job centre made me take it on. It was supposed to be a five-week stint, but I ended up there for three years, my brain turning to porridge and any ambitions rapidly fading away. But it had been a crash course in office politics, cynicism and the revelation that people in mundane government jobs were all at it like rabbits, whenever they got the chance, regardless of whether or not they were married.

During that time I had been ogled by middle-aged men, learnt how to pretend to work, heard numerous stories of this man and that woman shagging in the empty office upstairs and had a bit of a fling with the quiet but cute guy in the office down the corridor. But I had always carried a torch for the tall, blonde mail delivery boy – let’s call him ‘E’. He had been out of reach, flirting and joking with the older women in the office. I was only a couple of years younger than him, but his quick and witty banter meant he could hold his own with senior officers, even though he was qualified to do little more than push a trolley round the building.

I was also aware that he fancied another girl in our team, so there was no hope. But in my three years of mundanity, people came and went, including this girl, who eventually left to do a nursing course.

My escape finally came when I realised I should apply for a vocational course to shake off the label of useless graduate with an ‘arty-farty’ degree. And as is traditional in most workplaces, I was coerced into the usual ‘leaving do’.

For this particular workforce, that meant starting on drinks around midday and not returning to the office until mid-afternoon, if at all; no one seemed to care. This was the good old days of not having to log your every move, and productivity targets being set very low.

So, we marched down to the nearest pub – me and what seemed to be an army of male colleagues. The two most attractive were E and ‘Lechy Les’ – he had winked at me and sweet-talked me since day one and now, knowing this may be the last time he ever saw me, he was trying extra hard. He was in his late 40s, drove a vintage convertible sports car and clearly saw himself as one for the ladies. It was evident that he had been a very good-looking guy in his prime (yes, nowadays I may have thought differently about a man this age), say 20 years ago. But now, he was clearly aware he was fading a little, so was putting in 100 per cent effort when up against E.

E was also being more focused on me than ever, seeing as nurse girl had now left and he was single. There was a lot more smiling and eye contact than usual when he would normally be entertaining a captive audience with his silly voices and jokes. Our hands brushed when we both reached for our glasses at the same time and we exchanged little smirks. But in the blue corner, Lechy Les, sitting on the other side of me kept putting his arm around me and I was not exactly pushing him away. It crossed my mind that he could probably teach me a thing or two in the bedroom. But no, the attraction to E was, by now, too intense.

After what seemed like half a day, we all staggered back to the building. As some of our group started to go in, E and I hung back. E said: “Lechy Les was really up for it back there – he was all over you.”

“But I would much rather have you than him,” I slurred, slightly startling myself at my sudden boldness.

E’s eyes widened for a second, not believing what he had just heard, and then the cogs in his mind must have started turning very quickly. He grabbed my hand and quickly led me inside. By now no one was around, as they had all sensibly returned to their desks, probably pretending to work.

E, still holding my hand pressed the button for the lift. As soon as the doors opened he gently, but purposefully pressed me against the wall and kissed me, his lips soft, but sensual, the tip of his tongue entering my mouth. He tasted of cold beer and excitement. I kissed him back with gusto, feeling his firm torso through his blue cotton shirt.

The lift landed on the next floor. He reached out to press the button for the doors to quickly close without moving his lips away from mine. All these years of going from floor to floor with the mail trolley were clearly not wasted – they had reached fruition in a moment like this.

By now we were kissing full-on passionately, our bodies pressed together, our heartbeats thumping in unison. I could by now feel the solid bulge in his trousers against my crotch, as my hands glided down his back and rested on his pert buttocks.
We had not come up for air, so I was starting to feel light-headed and nuzzled his neck, gently kissing his shoulder.

The lift stopped on the next floor so again, he blindly pressed the next button, which took us up to the second floor, then the third. No one worked on this floor, so it was a safer location. And by now, we had to make a choice – passionate kiss, then back to our desks, or dare to bare.

He paused and looked in my eyes for a moment. “Yes?” he asked without needing to elaborate on the question. “Yes,” I gasped, again starting to kiss him. It was a hot June day and being in a small, confined space was beginning to feel a little sticky. It also meant my only obstacle was a pair of knickers under my short cotton dress.

He pushed me against the steel wall, and his hand slowly moved under my dress, his fingers finding their way inside my pants, inside me and … “Oh!” I sighed. I was aroused and wet within seconds and my hips were thrusting themselves forward beyond my control, yearning for him to be inside me.

I walked my fingers to his crotch, picking at his zip and fly. I grabbed his firm, sizeable cock, running my fingers up and down it, enjoying its pink, shiny beauty. I wanted this thing inside me.

There was no going back now, and at that moment I didn’t even care if someone caught us. The lift had not moved or been ‘called’ from this floor, so I slipped a foot out of one side of my pants.

He lowered himself so his cock was under me, then slowly pushed against me, entering my wet, blissful vagina. I grabbed the bar behind me to steady myself as he thrust. We both sighed, partly from the heat and partly at the relieving of our urges.

“Yes,” I whispered, “yes.”  I was pinned against the cold metal wall and we were banging and clanking. The little metal box we were in must have been juddering on its cables. But I was in no hurry for this to stop. There were many better, more comfortable places to do this, but this was the moment, the here and now, the only time we would do this. We both knew it and were happy to bruise ourselves – him his knees, me, my back and bum as we threw ourselves against the walls. His cock fitted well and I pressed his rear to keep him going, faster, faster, intensifying the banging against the wall.

“Aah,” he exclaimed, as his thrusting switched to the familiar spasm of a man about to ejaculate. He pulled out and came all over the lift floor. We quickly reassembled and adjusted ourselves, enjoyed a long and lingering final kiss, smeared the liquid into the floor with our feet – what else could we do – then pressed the button down to the first floor.

I walked out of the lift calmly returning to my desk and pretending to tap a keyboard. He sauntered out a few seconds later, retrieving the mail trolley, pushing it down the corridor for his afternoon collection. Then at 5pm, I was straight out of there, on to a new start, a new life.

As I set off for the train station, a car beeped after me. A voice hollered: “Hey, can I give you a lift home?”  Lechy Les was behind the wheel.


Hip hip hooray!

This week Drunken Slut Mum is having a double celebration, so please help yourself to a glass of bubbly and some nibbles. You can also throw your coats on the bed, but the only person I want to see under them is The Man, waiting patiently for me to dive on top of him at the end of the night!

So, why the popping corks? Firstly, this blog you see before you is a year old (it was actually 30 August 2012, but what’s a few days between friends?). If you have been reading this since then, you deserve a medal for sticking with it and I thank you for your support.

If you are a DSM virgin, it’s never too late and you can wade through anything from a poem about vibrators to top tips on how to be a DSM, erotic shorts with ‘The Man’ in a range of positions and locations (such as this), debates on sex education, tales of my sexual adventures and meet ‘Barry’ and ‘Sandra’. There’s much, much more than can be listed here. So maybe, readers, you can suggest your own favourite bits, or even your worst bits.

And to prove this isn’t one of those episodes of ‘Friends’ or ‘The Simpsons’ where clips from old episodes are spliced together when characters remember old times (and the writers can’t be bothered that week), my second celebration follows up last week’s lament about the times my body lets me down.

Ladies, we may knock things over, break wind, cough, sneeze or have a wobbly belly, but we all have a bad habit of focusing on the bad. Celebrate your good bits – here are mine:

Lots of squashy bits: Let’s face it – you are not going to get a really good cuddle from a supermodel. I imagine snuggling up to Kate Moss or Lily Cole would be like putting your arms around a coat stand. On the other hand I can provide a range of locations which will double up as warm pillows.

A talented tongue: My tongue is the most athletic part of my body. I can flick it, touch the end of my nose with the tip, make it into a spoon shape and use it to such precision that I can push ice cream right down to the bottom of the cone. I don’t need to suggest other ways it can be employed…

Boobies: I like this childlike word for them, as does my toddler son. Mine are not perfect, but they are neither too big nor too small and still have some bounce left. I enjoy grabbing them and pushing them up and down in the same way as men in drag do when they have a fake pair. This may sound strange, but I still regard them as a bit of a novelty, even though I have had them over 20 years.

Legs: I don’t have the best legs in town but they have run a few miles, carried me up and down lots of hills and pedalled my bike. Oh, and they will spread quite far apart and wrap around bodies quite effectively too. So despite the knobbly knees they will do for me.

Hands: My hands are no better than anyone else’s – as we all sit there tapping at keyboards, phones and touch screens. In fact they would not win a beauty contest with my unmanicured nails and dry skin, but they can do some amazing stuff – ranging from sewing and kneading dough to plaiting hair and drawing pictures. I am also a pretty good tickler and amateur masseur, when required.

So, dear readers, raise a glass with me to DSM’s first birthday, the useful bits of our bodies and hope that I still know what to write about for another 12 months…

And I can’t sign off without saying a big thank you to my technical support/design team of one who made this possible in the first place. You know who you are.

Touch me there

So, I have covered the penis and the nipple. Any idea where I’m going today? It’s probably on the tip of your tongue – you can’t quite put your finger on it…

To mark today being the last day of International Clitoris Awareness Week I thought I would take a journey ‘down under’.  The word ‘clitoris’ is apparently also Greek for key and is seen as the key to female sexuality, no doubt unlocking the door to our pink caverns.

For someone who has been around the block at least twice, it may surprise you to learn that it has only been in the last four or five years that I have really enjoyed having a ‘bean’.

Before then, some attempts had been made to give it a good time, but few even bordered on a mild tingle, never mind a full-blown pulsating orgasm. At the beginning of my sexual adventures, I had an irrational fear of losing control – put it down to fear of the unknown or self-consciousness over how I might have looked if I let go. So I never allowed myself to come, pushing my lovers’ hands away when I felt my body start to spasm or pulling them up on top of me and forcing them inside if they had been munching the ‘furry burger’. I would usually lie and say I had climaxed and allow them to continue pumping until they exploded, assuming this was what everyone else did.

Funny how age and experience change things – and having sex with someone who is determined to share the bliss. I drifted through my married life in the same way I had previously – as soon as I reached a tingle, I would force him to get on with the rest of it, get it over and done with.

But (as you have already guessed) The Man changed this. He was determined to take me to the other side and persisted in pleasuring me until I reached the dizzy heights of climax, all 8,000 nerve endings included. My clit must have wondered what hit her. She had finger stimulation, a never-tiring mouth and tongue and sometimes a vibrator. The Man would also continue to work his busy fingers while he was inside me, feeling my vaginal walls squeezing him and my body juddering in spin cycle underneath him.

He also bought me my first vibrator so I could enjoy all this when I was alone. So my ‘bald man in a boat’ now leads a very active life, taking regular trips upstream and not complaining about getting his feet wet from time to time.