Sometimes I take things to cray level!
I was a partner at the number one corporate law firm in the city, making bank, and living large. That all changed after I got drunk and banged my paralegal on my desk in the middle of the afternoon. The senior partners found out, then my husband, and the next thing I know, the Ferrari is gone, the job is gone, and my marriage is over.
And now I’m on a city bus at 2:00 a.m. heading back to my shitty motel room after a night of drinking cheap beer alone at a dive bar across town where I knew I wouldn’t run into any of my former colleagues. When you fall, you fall hard.
It feels like I’m in a mobile zoo.
I look around at the bus people in their various retail uniforms. As basic as most of them are, I’m honestly a little hurt that nobody is hitting on me. I’m in a short, pink skirt, a tight, cleavage-flaunting cropped tank top, and I’m wearing all the makeup. I’ve even smiled at some of the hunkier blue-collar guys and they all turned away from me.
Either they find me intimidating, or they think I’m a prostitute. Or maybe they think I’m an undercover cop pretending to be a prostitute. Yeah, it’s probably that last one.
Or maybe they’re just tired and they want to get home to their wives.
I’m tired, too. My eyes keep closing, and every time I wake up, there are fewer and few people on the bus. Eventually, I even start sleeping through that gassy screech when the bus stops and the doors open.
“Last stop, lady,” a voice calls from the driver’s seat.
I snap to attention. At this point, it’s just me and the driver. “Shit, where are we?”
“Hamilton Heights.”
I glance at the bus map. I was supposed to get off at Royal St. — eight stops ago. “Shit! Are there any buses going in the other direction?”
“Sorry. Service is shutting down for the night and there are no more inbound buses.”
“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?”
“I guess you’ll have to take a cab. But you do have to get out here because I have to return this bus to the garage.”
“But I don’t have enough money for cab fare!”
I hear people without Ferraris use this app called “Uber” to get around. Even if I knew how to do that, I wouldn’t be able to because my phone is dead.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what to tell you.”
I’m usually pretty good at remaining calm. My job required me to be cool under pressure, to be in control of my emotions at all times. But I’m not a lawyer anymore. Staring out the grimy window into the unknown blackness, I snap.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” And then come the waterworks. As I douse my designer purse with mascara-laden tears, I feel the bus driver’s chilly, yet patient eyes watching from the mirror.
“Is there anyone you can call?” he asks.
There isn’t, of course. During this downward spiral of mine, I’ve pushed away everyone who has ever tolerated or pretended to like me. To most of them, my best attribute was the Ferrari.
“No. So, I guess I’ll be walking. How long do you think it’ll take me to get to the Fast Friends Motel on foot?”
“The one on Royal? Shit, at least an hour. Actually, with those heels, probably longer.”
“Well, I guess I better get going then.” As I stand, I bump my head on the handhold, and my purse slips from my hand, spilling its contents when it hits the sticky, disgusting floor. “Fuck!”
I drop to my knees and scramble to grab everything before things disappear under the seats. The driver rushes over to help.
When I was boarding earlier, I didn’t really get a good look at him. Seeing him now takes my breath away. Maybe it’s the icy blue eyes. Maybe it’s the broad shoulders and narrow waist. Maybe it’s just that nobody has been this nice to me in a long time.
True, all he’s doing is helping me pick up lipstick, but the kindness bar is really low right now.
“I can give you cab fare,” he says.
“No, I couldn’t possibly take any of your hard-earned bus driver money. I’ll figure something out.”
I don’t know why I took such a condescending tone. Maybe it’s because I’m ashamed of how attracted to him I am. I haven’t gotten any dick since the affair that ruined my life, and I’m aching for some affection. In any case, he seems unfazed by my comment.
“Well, I don’t feel right just throwing you out on the street,” he says. “Not in this neighborhood.”
Then, I get an idea. “What time does tomorrow’s bus service start?”
“The first bus on this route leaves the garage at 5:15 a.m. and gets to the first pick-up stop by 5:25.”
“Ok, well that only leaves me with three hours to kill. Could I ride with you back to the station and just hang out outside until service starts back up? I assume there’s a guard posted or someone that would notice if anyone sketchy tried to mess with me.”
He sighs. “I really shouldn’t. It’s a garage, not a station, and passengers aren’t supposed to board there. But… it’s at least in a slightly better part of town, so you should be safe.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Without even thinking about it, I plant a kiss on his cheek. His face flushes.
“Ok, let’s get going,” he says, nervously averting his eyes away from my cleavage.
I take the seat nearest to the entrance so I can be as close to him as possible. He smells surprisingly good compared to the rest of the bus. I assumed all blue-collar workers reek of sweat and beer 24–7, but he radiates the aroma of freshly-cut grass. His powerful forearms ripple as he turns the oversized steering wheel.
“Are you married?” I ask, breaking an awkward silence with an even more awkward question.
“Recently widowed,” he says with a lump in his throat.
“Sorry for your loss. How recently, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Two years.”
Two years would only seem recent to a man who truly loved his wife. For some reason this makes me want to jump his fucking bones. You know, to comfort him and help him move on with his life.
“I’m recently divorced myself,” I say, twirling hair around a finger. “It can get lonely sometimes.”
He looks at me in the mirror but doesn’t say anything. I detect some guilt in his eyes, which I take to mean I’m not the only one having impure thoughts right now.
As we pull into the bus garage parking lot, he turns the lights out on the bus, I’m assuming so that none of the mechanics see me. The romantic glow of a waxing crescent moon beams through the windshield, inspiring me to kiss him before he has a chance to get out of his seat.
This time it’s more than a peck on the cheek. My mouth is open, though I wait for his tongue to initiate — and it does. It’s soft and warm just like his big meaty hands on the small of my back.
I’m on his lap straddling him, running my fingers through his wavy brown hair. He’s holding me tight against his solid pecs, his hands slipping up my cropped shirt, getting ever closer to the clasp of my bra.
We hear voices coming from outside the bus and freeze. I’m too mortified to look, but Bus Driver peers out his window and gives a slight head shake. The approaching mechanics get the message and leave us be.
Once we return to action, he pops open my bra, prompting me to pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor. Conventional public sex wisdom suggests that tops should remain on for efficiency, but I want him to see my tits.
He takes them in both hands, squeezes, then sucks on the nipples. It sends a shiver up my spine and makes my areolae break out in goosebumps. As I grind my pelvis against his, I feel a rumbling in his slacks. His snake is growing.
I drop to my knees so that I’m sitting on the gas pedal and brake. They provide a comfy little perch as I undo his pants. He’s already at half-mast when I take him into my mouth. I love the feeling of an inflating cock as it expands along my tongue towards the back of my throat. It’s the most enjoyable way of discovering a man’s size.
Bus Driver isn’t super long, but he’s thick like a pickle. This works for me because I have a wide mouth and a loose pussy. As I suck his cock, he closes his eyes and caresses my face tenderly. It makes me wonder if he’s imagining his wife.
If so, it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Also, kudos to her for still giving blowjobs after they were married. I know I certainly didn’t. Not to my husband, anyway.
Logistics of fucking on a bus mean no cunnilingus for me because I’m certainly not lying down on that gross floor and he’s too tall to eat me out with me standing or sitting on one of these seats. That means I’ve got to warm myself up.
Switching from blowjob to single-handed handjob, I lick the fingers on my other hand, reach up my skirt, and pull my panties to the side. I’m already moist from the making out and tit play, so it doesn’t take long for my pussy to open up like a blooming flower.
Sure, maybe Bus Driver is good at fingerbanging, but he can’t be better at it than I am. I’ve had more practice. Plus, I like being in charge of stimulating both of us. I sync up the swirling of my fingers in my cunt with the slow, twisting strokes up and down his shaft.
His breathing increases, which tells me it’s time to fuck. Getting up from the floor, I hop back into his lap and slip him inside me. He lets out a pleasureful sigh while maintaining an expression of nervousness, which confirms for me that this is the first time he’s put his cock in someone since his wife died.
He looks pretty young. Maybe she was his first. Maybe I’m the only other person he’s ever fucked. I like that idea. Even if it’s not true, I’m going to pretend that it is because it makes my pussy so wet as I bounce up and down on his dick.
“Fuck me, Bus Driver!” I’m not usually vocal, but I get caught up in the moment.
He has a tight grip on my ass and his other hand on the back of my neck, so he can pull my face in for long, wet kisses.
The last time I was kissed this passionately was on my wedding night. And I don’t know if I’ve ever been fucked this good. He knows exactly how to angle his hips to hit my G-spot, and it’s making my insides melt.
“That’s it; just like that,” I whisper.
I’ve had bigger dicks inside me, but his is the best. Maybe it’s the elegant curve. Maybe it’s the pronounced ridge on his glans that looks like a firefighter’s hat. Maybe he’s just more attentive to my needs than other lovers.
Whatever it is, it’s enough to get me off.
“I’m cumming, Bus Driver! I’m cumming!”
My whole body pulses as pussy juice spills out onto his throbbing cock, soaking into his khakis. He grabs both of my tits and squeezes with an iron grip, if for no other reason than to keep them from smacking him in the chin.
His cock gets harder inside me and I can tell by his slack jaw and the drool dribbling out of his mouth that he’s going to nut soon. But as much as I would enjoy a sweet cream pie, I don’t want him cumming inside me. It’s too intimate. I don’t deserve it, and I don’t want to give him the wrong idea about what’s happening here.
What I do want to give him is something his wife almost certainly never did. Even if her breasts were as large as mine, tittyfucks don’t often happen in real life. I’ve never given one myself, but I saw a really hot one on Pornhub the other day, and it made me want to try it.
Me and Bus Driver will lose our tittyfuck virginities together. What could be more romantic?
I kiss him one more time before easing myself off of his cock. He looks at me with confusion — frustration almost — until I crawl between his legs and wrap my soft tits around his meat.
For a moment, I just hold them there, watching him adjust to the sensation. Then slowly I begin rubbing him up and down. In the clips I saw, sometimes the women went hard and fast, but for me, the hottest titjobs were the slow, rhythmic and steady ones.
In lieu of oil, I spit into my cleavage. Once wet, I can slide up and down on him with grace. Sometimes I mix it up by kneading my tits in opposite directions. It makes me feel like a juggler.
He was already close when I started, but this is more than he can handle. He grips the seat and looks up towards the ceiling. His balls tighten as his cock explodes, covering my tits, chin, and face in warm, salty cream.
He looks like he’s being executed in an electric chair.
Once his balls are empty, he slumps back into his seat and that furrow of guilt returns to his brow.
I caress his cheek as he did to me earlier. “You don’t have to feel bad. I realize I don’t know you or your wife, but I promise she wouldn’t want you to stay miserable forever.”
He sighs. “I understand that, but this was… this was — ”
“A mistake? It’s understandable if you feel that way, though I’ll feel bad if I got you to do something you didn’t want to do.”
“I was going to say ‘risky.’ I’m a city employee. I’m not supposed to be fucking strange passengers on the bus.”
“I’m not that strange once you get to know me. Look, the bus was off, and so were the cameras. And if your buddies rat you out, you can just deny it. I don’t think you have to worry about getting caught.”
He shakes his head. “This was completely unprofessional.”
I take his hand. “Well, maybe it’ll give you some consolation to know that you made a stranger feel happier than she’s been in a really long time. And you probably saved my life.”
“That actually does help a little.”
“Good. My name’s Amanda, by the way. And I’d love to be able to call you something other than ‘Bus Driver.’”
He cracks a smile. “I’m Pete.”
“OK, Pete, now that we’re no longer strangers, what do you say we grab an early breakfast, and then you can take me home.”
“Sure, why the hell not?”
Maybe riding the bus isn’t so bad after all.
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Sometimes I take things to cray level!
