My Best Friend’s Girlfriend Looked for Me at Dawn

It’s five thirty-five in the morning and, as every day, I brake the car in front of her building. The neighborhood streetlights are still on and the street smells of that dry cold that only exists at that hour. I cut the engine, leave the heater on medium, and look up toward her second-floor window. Blinds down. Again.

I pick up my phone and send her a short message: “Wake up, sleepyhead, we’re going to be late again.” I take two seconds to regret the affectionate tone, but it’s already sent. I’ve been doing this for so many months now that one more doesn’t matter.

Three minutes later I see her come running down. Hair half tied back, face still soft with sleep, eyes heavy. She’s wearing black leggings that mark every curve of her hips and an oversized sweatshirt hanging to mid-thigh. She’s just gotten up, no makeup, and even so I can’t focus on anything other than that silhouette walking toward me, that round ass squeezed inside the elastane.

—Nico, forgive me, I swear I fell asleep again —she says, opening the passenger door.

—Like every morning, Lara. One of these days I’m going to leave you stranded.

—Liar. —She smiles and gives me two quick kisses, one on each cheek—. You won’t leave me stranded because you love me.

If you only knew how much I love you, princess.

I start the car without answering and head down the empty avenue toward the depot. She settles into the seat, takes off her sneakers, and puts her feet up on the dashboard like she always does. The yellow light from the streetlamps slides across her face in intervals, and every time I glance at her out of the corner of my eye it gets harder to keep my eyes on the road.

I’ve known her for almost two years. Mario brought her to a dinner at my apartment one Saturday, they had just started dating, she laughed at everything he said and I thought she was a nice girl, nothing more. Then she started working at the company, they assigned her to my route as a school transport assistant and, since then, every day starts the same: me parking in front of her building at five twenty, her coming down late, the two of us crossing half the city in a comfortable silence that gets a little less innocent every week.

—Did I bring you coffee? —I ask without looking at her.

—Seriously? God, I love you.

—Blue cup, downstairs, no sugar like you like it.

She takes it with both hands and takes a long sip. Closes her eyes. Sighs. And that sigh, so small, so stupid, makes me grip the wheel harder than I should and gets my cock hard against the seam of my jeans.

We get to the depot at quarter to six. I get out to do the bus check; she stays in the car finishing the coffee. When I come back she’s already climbed into her usual seat, the last one on the left side, where she lies down during the empty stretch to the first stop. This week, I don’t know why, she’s taken to lying all the way down, with her sweatshirt rolled under her head, her knees bent and her eyes closed. I start the diesel engine, the doors close with their usual beep, and we head out onto the national road.

The first stop is thirty-five minutes away, out in the middle of nowhere, where the secondary road opens onto a vacant lot with a faded blue sign. We always get there twenty minutes early, so I stop the bus on the shoulder, turn off the main lights and leave only the parking lights on. It’s routine. Twenty minutes of absolute silence, the two of us alone in the middle of nowhere, before the real day begins.

***

Today, however, silence isn’t silence.

I’ve been sitting with the engine off for two minutes when I hear it. Breathing. Faster than normal. Ragged. It’s coming from the back seats. At first I think she’s fallen asleep and is dreaming something bad, but then I hear a different sound, like a stifled sigh, and all the air in the bus sticks to my chest.

I get up from the driver’s seat. The parking lights tint the aisle a very faint orange. I walk slowly, quietly, holding onto the seat backs. As I move forward, the sound becomes clearer. It’s her. And she is not dreaming.

—Lara? —I ask softly when I reach her height—. Are you okay?

She doesn’t answer right away. She’s lying on her side, facing the window, with the sweatshirt still under her head. Her right hand has disappeared inside her leggings. I can see the slow movement under the fabric, two fingers circling over her pussy, pressing and releasing. I see her other hand gripping the back of the seat in front of her, knuckles white. And I see, above all, how she very slowly turns her head until her gaze meets mine.

—Nico —she whispers, without stopping.

I don’t know what to say. I’ve spent two years imagining this moment in a thousand different ways, and in none of my fantasies was I speechless in the aisle of my own bus.

—Sorry —I say, and it’s the stupidest thing I could have said.

—Don’t go.

That pins me to the floor. I grab the back of the opposite seat and look at her. She doesn’t look away from my eyes. Her hand stays where it is, moving more slowly now, almost calmly, as if having a witness makes it easier instead of harder.

—Lara, what are you doing?

—I’m touching my pussy thinking about you, Nico. What I’ve wanted to do for months in front of you. —Her voice sounds rough, different from her morning voice—. I woke up soaking wet. Again.

—You’re Mario’s girlfriend.

—I’m a horny woman trapped on a bus with the only man I’d want to fuck. —She pauses, swallows, goes on—. Last night Mario stuck his cock in me for five minutes, came inside me and fell asleep before I could ask for anything. Five minutes, Nico. No eating my tits, no going down on my pussy, nothing. I’ve been like this for a year.

I shouldn’t be hearing this. I shouldn’t be watching the bulge of her fingers under the leggings, the fabric darkening with moisture at the exact spot where she’s sliding them in. I shouldn’t feel all the blood draining at once down to my cock. But I am. And I look at her. And I keep looking.

—I need a man, Nico —she says, and she sits up a little until she’s half upright—. Not a boy who comes in three thrusts and falls asleep. I look at you every morning and wonder how you’d feel. How you’d fuck me. How you’d grab my hair while I suck your cock.

—Lara, this…

—Come here.

She doesn’t say it like an order. She says it like a plea. And that’s worse, because orders can be disobeyed and pleas can’t.

I take a step. Then another. I sit on the edge of the seat in front of her, with my knees almost touching hers. She sits all the way up, pulls the sweatshirt over her head with a clean movement, and is left in a white camisole with thin straps. She’s not wearing a bra underneath. Her tits press fully against the cotton, nipples hard, brown and large, pulling the fabric forward. I see it immediately. She sees it with me seeing it. And she doesn’t cover herself. On the contrary: she arches her back a little so I can see them better.

—Touch me —she says.

—We shouldn’t.

—I know. Touch me anyway.

I put my hand on her thigh, over the fabric. It feels hot, much hotter than the rest of the bus. I slide up slowly, millimeter by millimeter, watching her mouth part, watching her breath catch in her throat. When I reach the waistband of the leggings I stop. I look at her. I give her one last chance to back out.

She grabs my wrist and slips it inside.

***

She’s soaked. Not soaked like in cheap stories, but really soaked, dripping, with the short pubic hair stuck to her skin and the lips of her pussy swollen and slippery beneath my fingers. When I run my thumb over her clit, her whole body gives a tiny jerk backward and then relaxes, and then she starts moving against my hand on her own, rubbing herself, searching for me.

—Put them in —she begs—. Two. Please.

I shove my index and middle finger all the way in at once and she bites her lip to keep from screaming. Her pussy clenches instantly, hot and slick, and when I start pulling them out and pushing them back in I can feel how she opens around them with every stroke. I stroke her the way I’ve wanted to stroke her for two years. I curl my fingers upward, looking for that rough spot I know every woman has inside, and when I find it she jerks and digs her nails into my forearm.

—There, there, don’t stop —she pants—. Fuck, Nico, like that.

I yank her leggings down to her knees. She’s not wearing panties. She got into the car barefoot, without underwear, with her pussy already soaked from her bed. I see it all for the first time: pink, shiny, open, with my fingers going in and out and a thread of wetness running down the inside of her thigh. My vision blurs for a second.

—Kiss me —she whispers.

I lean over her and kiss her. It’s not a timid kiss. It’s a kiss that’s been building up for too long, with teeth and haste and tongue, a kiss that tastes of coffee and sleep and guilt, and something else I’d rather not name. She grabs the back of my neck with her free hand and presses me against her mouth as if afraid I’ll change my mind. With the other hand she reaches for my cock over my pants, grasps it through the fabric and squeezes.

—Fuck, how big you are —she murmurs against my mouth—. Take it out. Take it out now.

Her left hand goes down my chest, over my stomach, reaches the belt buckle. I hear her unfasten it. I hear the whisper of the zipper. And suddenly her hand is inside my boxer briefs, pulling my cock out into the bus’s cold air, gripping me by the base with her warm fingers, and I’m the one left breathless.

—Fuck, Lara.

—Shut up and let me see it.

She lowers her gaze. She stares at it for a long second, biting her lip, then spits into her palm and starts jerking me slowly, sliding up and down, squeezing under the head every time she reaches the top. It’s the most obscene and beautiful sight I’ve ever seen: her lying on the back seat of my bus, hair a mess, camisole pulled up to her armpits, tits bare rising and falling with her breathing, nipples hard as stones, leggings bunched around her ankles, one hand on my cock and mine inside her pussy, all of it under the orange glow of the parking lights and the silence of a field still asleep.

—I want to suck it —she says suddenly, sitting up—. I’ve spent a year thinking about having it in my mouth.

She slides from the seat to the aisle floor, gets down on her knees between my legs, and pushes me back against the seat. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t warn me. She bends down and takes me into her mouth to the back of her throat, until I feel the head hit her palate and then her throat, and there she stays for a second before slowly pulling back, swallowing, looking up at me with wet eyes.

—Holy shit —I manage to say.

She smiles with my cock resting on her cheek and takes me in again. Now she sucks me all the way, in rhythm, gripping me by the base and using her tongue on the frenulum every time she comes up. She pulls me out of her mouth with a wet pop, spits on it, grabs me again and starts jerking me with a hand full of saliva while she sucks my balls. She takes them into her mouth one by one, tugging them gently downward, and I have to grip the back of the seat beside me with both hands so I don’t come at once.

—Mario’s never sucked you like this, has he? —I ask her, voice broken.

—Mario won’t let me suck him. He says it’s disgusting. —She takes me all the way back in, holds me there choking for a second, pulls away with strings of spit hanging between her tongue and my head—. I want you to treat me like a slut, Nico. Please.

I grab her hair, wrap it around my fist and push her head down over my cock. She moans with her mouth full and lets me do it. I fuck her mouth slowly at first, then faster, feeling how her throat opens and closes around the head, how saliva runs down her chin to her bare tits. Every time she comes up for air her eyes are redder and her mouth is more open, and she looks at me as if I’m giving her exactly what she’s needed for months.

—Stand up —I tell her—. Get on top.

She climbs onto the seat. She finishes pulling the leggings off one leg, straddles me, takes my cock in her hand and places it at the entrance of her pussy. Nothing else is needed. She drops down in one go, all the way, and both of us moan at once when she feels me fully inside. She’s so wet that she took me without resistance, and she’s so tight that I feel her squeezing me every inch of the way.

—God, you’ve got me so full —she pants against my neck—. You get to a place no one’s ever reached me.

She starts moving on top. Up and down slowly at first, hands on my shoulders, her tits bouncing in front of my face. I grab one and take her nipple into my mouth, suck it, bite it gently, and she lets out a higher moan and speeds up. Now she’s really fucking my cock, riding me, dropping down with all her weight, and every thrust makes a wet sound that echoes through the empty bus.

—Harder —I ask, gripping her hips—. Fuck me harder, goddammit.

I dig my fingers into her ass and help her go up and down. She throws her head back, grabs her breasts with her hands, twists her own nipples while she rides me. When she opens her eyes and looks at me, they’re glassy, unfocused, her mouth open, warm air spilling over my face.

—Put me on all fours —she says suddenly—. I want you to fuck me from behind. I want to see you fucking me in the reflection of the window.

I lift her up, turn her, and support her with her hands against the back of the seat in front. I part her legs with a soft kick, grab her hips and shove myself inside her to the hilt. She screams this time, unable to control herself, and the cry bounces off the bus windows.

I start fucking her from behind with all the accumulated hunger of two years. I drive into her hard, slamming into her ass with every stroke, and the sound of our bodies hitting fills the whole bus. She clings to the seat back with both hands, arches her back to offer me more, and every time I thrust into her she lets out a different panting sound.

—Like that, like that, like that, don’t stop —she repeats—. Break me, Nico, break my pussy once and for all.

I smack her ass, not very hard, just to test it. She jerks and clenches her pussy around my cock in response. I hit it again, harder. And again. Her cheek turns red and her pussy tightens with every slap, squeezing me so much I almost come right there.

—I love it —she pants—. I love it when you hit me, fuck.

I lean over her without stopping the thrusts, pull the hair off her neck and bite it. I reach around the front and find her clit with two fingers, rubbing it in circles at the same rhythm I’m fucking her from behind. Her whole body starts trembling. I know her well enough already —I’ve learned it in ten minutes— to know that when she presses her lips together and stops breathing, she’s about to go.

—I’m going to come —she warns me, her voice muffled—. Nico, I’m going to come, don’t stop, please don’t stop.

When it hits, she clenches her pussy around my cock in spasms so strong they almost throw me out. She bites her forearm to keep from screaming and even so the moan comes out of her throat, long, rough, a sound I’d never heard before. I feel every contraction inside her. Each one pushes me a little closer to the edge.

I pull out when I can’t hold on anymore. I turn her, push her against the seat, and she understands on her own: she slides down to the floor again, gets on her knees, opens her mouth, and looks up at me with her tongue out.

—Come on my face —she begs—. All of it. On me. Wherever you want.

I take hold of it and give myself the last few strokes with the hand that still smells like pussy. She has one tit in each hand, squeezing them, offering them to me, her mouth open two fingers away from my head. When I come, it’s long. It’s loud. It’s everything I’ve been holding back for two years. The first spurt lands on her tongue, the second on her lips and chin, the third runs down her neck to her cleavage and ends up between her tits. She doesn’t close her eyes or her mouth. She swallows it all, runs her tongue over her lips, and smiles.

When I’m done I collapse against the back of the seat in front. She stays lying there, eyes closed, a small smile on her mouth and her chest rising and falling very slowly, my semen still running down her skin. Outside it’s still night. Twelve minutes remain until the first stop.

***

—I want more —she says, without opening her eyes—. Not just today.

—Lara…

—Every day. Here. At this hour. Before the route. I want you to fuck me every morning before work, Nico. I want to get to the stops with your cum still inside me.

I take a pack of tissues from the service glove compartment and hand them to her without saying anything. She wipes her stomach, her chest, her chin, collects what has run down into her cleavage with a finger and brings it to her mouth without taking her eyes off me. She pulls up her leggings, pulls down her shirt, gathers her hair again. Her movements are those of someone who has just made a decision and hasn’t asked anyone’s permission.

—I need to talk to you —I say, still breathing hard.

—Not now. Right now you’re tired and you’re going to say stupid things. —She looks at me with a calm that leaves me disarmed—. We’ll talk this afternoon. In the meantime, don’t tell Mario anything.

—I wasn’t going to tell him.

—Good. Neither was I.

I stand up, fasten my belt, and go back to the cab. I switch on the main lights. The diesel engine roars back under our feet. In the interior rearview mirror I see her finish getting dressed, pick up the sweatshirt, and sit in the middle seat like any ordinary assistant about to start her shift. Her chin still shines.

When we get to the first stop and the first three kids climb aboard with their backpacks too big for them, she greets them by name in the same sweet voice as always, checks their seat belts, asks about their homework. I grip the wheel and look straight ahead, toward the road I already know by heart, trying not to think about what I’ve just done to my best friend’s life, about the wet mark I can still feel in my fly, about the woman who just swallowed my semen in the back seat and is now smiling at sleepy children as if nothing happened.

That afternoon, when the day is over and I drop her at her building, I know I’m going to accept whatever she asks for. I’ve known it since the first kiss. I probably knew it before that.

Tomorrow, at five twenty, I’ll park in front of her house again. And she’ll come down late again. And the two of us will know exactly why.