The Woman on the Bus Showed Me Her Tits

My first month in the city was a routine of too little sleep, bad coffee, and packed buses. I worked at a consulting firm a few streets from downtown, and every morning I stood at the same stop before eight, my jacket zipped up to my neck and the feeling that we all smelled of hurry and exhaustion. That was where I saw her for the first time.

She was at the back of the shelter, partly protected from a fine drizzle, with very curly black hair falling over her shoulders and cinnamon-colored skin that stood out amid all the gray. She wore a loose sweatshirt, but even that couldn’t hide the volume of her chest. It wasn’t a vague impression; it was immediate, physical, almost violent. I kept looking at her longer than I should have.

When she answered a call, I realized she spoke perfect Spanish. She had a soft accent I couldn’t place, and a deep, calm voice, the kind that makes you pay attention. I moved close enough to smell her perfume when the crowd pushed us all beneath the same plastic roof. She smelled clean, sweet, with something warm that stayed lodged in my head for the rest of the day.

For an entire week we coincided without exchanging a word. She took one line and I took another, though we shared the stop and the schedule. I was already waiting for her. I won’t lie: I started leaving home early just to see her for a few minutes, to figure out where to stand, to watch her without making it too obvious.

As the colder days gave way to milder ones, she traded the sweatshirt for light blouses and more open shirts. The first time I really saw her cleavage, I was left speechless. She wasn’t wearing anything outrageous, just two buttons undone and the edge of a dark bra showing between large, high, round breasts. It was enough to turn me into an idiot.

At night I went to bed thinking about her. About her cleavage. About the curve of her tits beneath the fabric. About how they would move without a bra, what it would be like to bury my face between them, grab them with both hands, suck her nipples until I heard her moan. More than once I masturbated imagining her at that same stop, forcing me to watch as she slowly opened her shirt.

Little by little I began greeting her the way you greet people you see every day.

—Good morning.

—Good morning —she replied, with a brief, amused smile.

I tried to look her in the eyes—I really did—but I always ended up lowering my gaze. At first she would turn slightly, as if protecting herself. Later she stopped doing it. Sometimes she even seemed to stand still on purpose, letting me fixate on that cleavage with all my clumsy eagerness.

One day a coworker mentioned that I could take her line too and walk a few extra minutes. I tried it the next day. When she saw me get on the same bus, she arched an eyebrow and said nothing. I stood beside her as if it had happened by chance.

The bus filled up within three stops. We were shoved from every direction until we were pressed together. She was facing me, holding the overhead bar; every time the bus braked, her body collided with mine. Her tits, squeezed by her shirt, brushed my chest and sometimes my arm. I was hard by halfway through the trip, trying to hide it among the coats and briefcases.

She didn’t seem uncomfortable. Or if she was, she didn’t show it. Once she looked down, noticed perfectly well the erection I was trying to conceal, and looked me in the face again with a serene, almost curious expression. That gesture left me burning all day.

I started getting off at her stop. The first time I followed her from a certain distance, more to see whether the route worked for me than anything else, though the truth was that I wanted to know where she was going. When she realized I was walking in the same direction as her every morning, she stopped pretending not to notice.

One morning she stopped in front of the entrance to an old building, turned around, and confronted me outright.

—Can you tell me what you’re after? —she asked, not angrily, but without smiling.

I felt my face grow hot. I had the perfect opportunity to lie, and I didn’t.

—The truth —I said— is that I can’t stop looking at your tits.

She let out a brief, incredulous laugh.

—What a confession.

—It’s ridiculous, I know. But they’re the most perfect tits I’ve ever seen in my life.

I expected her to be offended, or at least curt. Instead, she looked both ways, nodded for me to follow, and led me into the recess of a doorway. There, shielded from the street by the half-open door, she undid two buttons of her shirt. Only two. Just enough to open the cleavage wider and let me see the black lace bra squeezing that abundant flesh.

—Is that what you wanted? —she murmured.

I could barely nod. My mouth was dry.

She let me look for a minute that felt like nothing and glory to me at the same time. Then she closed her shirt, held my gaze, and left without another word. I stood rigid on the sidewalk, with a painful erection and my pulse racing.

From that day on, everything changed. There was a secret between us. She kept greeting me as usual, but now there was intention in the way she did it. Sometimes she positioned herself right in front of me on the bus. Sometimes she wore thinner blouses. Sometimes, when she got off, she walked more slowly to make sure I caught up with her.

One Thursday she appeared without a bra. I knew it the moment I saw her turn the corner. The fabric of her shirt moved differently, and the free sway of her tits hit me like a slap. Her nipples made two dark points beneath the pale fabric. I stood motionless, watching her approach.

She came to stand beside me and said, very calmly:

—I have a present for you when we get off today.

Those words stayed with me for the entire ride. I imagined her opening her shirt, letting me touch her, putting a tit in my mouth somewhere dark. Every time the bus braked and her shoulder brushed mine, my cock throbbed inside my pants. I could barely breathe normally.

When we arrived, she repeated the doorway ritual. This time there was no preamble. She opened her shirt with both hands and showed me her naked tits.

They were even better than I had imagined. Large, firm, heavy without sagging, with smooth skin and broad, dark nipples, somewhat stiff from the cool morning air or from arousal. They weren’t “pretty” in a delicate way; they were obscene in the best sense. They were the kind of tits that fill your head and empty your will.

I took a step forward like an animal approaching food, but she raised one finger.

—Just look.

I obeyed. She kept me that way for several seconds, devouring her with my eyes, while she breathed more deeply and openly watched the bulge in my pants. Then she covered herself again and left me there once more, trembling.

That game went on for days. Sometimes she opened her shirt a little. Sometimes she showed me one tit and then the other, as if she enjoyed watching me suffer. Sometimes she pinched a nipple in front of me just to provoke a hungry grimace. I lived for those mornings like an addict.

I wanted to ask for more. To touch her. To suck her. To kneel in the doorway and come all over her stockings. But I didn’t dare. She was calling the shots, and I was little more than an obedient man with a cock always on the verge of bursting out of my pants.

Until one morning it rained hard, and when we got off the bus, we ran to the same doorway as always. The door was open. She went in first and motioned for me to follow. We slipped beneath the stairs, where it smelled of damp, old concrete, and wet clothes.

We stood very close, listening to the rain pounding outside.

—Today you’re going to touch me —she said.

A full-body shiver ran through me.

—Unbutton my shirt.

I obeyed with clumsy hands. I went button by button until I had it open almost to her waist. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her tits sagged slightly forward, heavy and alive, and I had to clench my jaw to keep from moaning like an idiot.

—Put your hands on them.

I placed them on her with reverent care, which brought a smile to her face.

—Don’t be shy. Squeeze.

I squeezed. The flesh gave beneath my palms, warm, dense, elastic. I cupped each tit in one hand and felt its full weight, the fullness I had imagined so many nights. She closed her eyes for a second and exhaled through her nose.

—That’s it. Now press them together.

I did, lifting them slightly and bringing them together. Her nipples grew even harder. She placed her hands over mine and guided me, moving them up and down, squeezing harder.

—Pinch me.

I took one nipple between my fingers and pulled gently.

—Harder.

I did it harder. She opened her mouth and let out a short, hoarse moan.

—That’s it. Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass.

She was clearly aroused. Her cheeks had flushed, and she was breathing through her mouth. I kept kneading her tits, alternating pressure and pinches, running my thumb over the dark areola, feeling her body tense every time I found exactly the right intensity. She was genuinely enjoying it; she wasn’t doing me a favor. She was using me for what she wanted. And that turned me on even more.

I leaned in without thinking and brushed a nipple with my lips.

—Suck —she ordered.

I took it into my mouth and began sucking. She tasted clean, warm, human. I wrapped one arm around her waist while my other hand kept squeezing her other tit. She buried her fingers in my hair and held me there, setting the pace, letting me lick the hard tip, barely bite it, and tug it between my teeth.

—Fuck... yes... like that...

Hearing her say that clouded my mind. I switched sides, kissed her other tit, licked it in circles, and sucked eagerly. She arched against the wall and spread her legs inside her pants, rubbing one thigh against mine. When I looked up, I saw pure hunger on her face.

Then she grabbed my wrist, lowered it to her belly, and kept guiding me between her legs over her pants.

—Touch me there.

I pressed the bulge of her cunt through the fabric. She was hot. She was wetting it. I moved my hand, and she let her head fall back.

—Harder.

I obeyed, massaging her from outside, rubbing her clit through the seam. Meanwhile, she put my fingers back on her nipples, as if she wanted both things at once: a hand between her legs and a little pain in her chest. I was so hard I could barely think.

She noticed. She looked down at the front of my pants, smiled, and undid the button.

—Let’s see that.

She opened my fly and slipped her hand inside my boxers. When she pulled out my cock, it was already completely hard, glistening at the tip. She held it for a second, assessing its effect on me, and began jerking me slowly.

My knees buckled. While I kneaded her tits and rubbed her cunt through her pants, she jerked me off with cruel calm, sliding her fist down to the base and back up, spreading the fluid from the tip with her thumb. The contrast between her firm hand on my cock and her heavy breasts in my palms was too much.

—Look at me —she said.

I did. She was masturbating me without taking her eyes off mine, her shirt open and her tits bare in a doorway at eight in the morning. It was so direct, so shameless, that it shook me from the inside.

—How many times have you jerked off thinking about my tits?

I swallowed.

—A lot.

—How many?

—I don’t know... a ton.

She increased her speed with a crooked smile.

—Then today you’re going to come while looking at them up close.

She pushed me a little farther back to give me a better view. She opened her shirt even wider and gathered both tits in her hands, lifting them, squeezing them, offering them to me while she kept jerking me off. I moaned without shame. She ran her tongue over her lower lip.

—Come on. I want to see you come.

I couldn’t hold out much longer. My breathing turned into a filthy, ragged pant. I squeezed one tit with both hands, lowered my head to suck one of her nipples one more time, and felt the orgasm rise from my balls like a blow.

—I’m coming —I warned her uselessly.

—Yes. Come.

Her hand sped up and I exploded. My cum shot out in thick, violent spurts, splattering her pants and the lower part of her open shirt. She didn’t pull her hand away until she had wrung out the last spasm. I was left trembling, my forehead resting on her shoulder, dead with pleasure and embarrassment at the same time.

—Sorry —I mumbled, an idiot, barely able to speak.

She laughed under her breath.

—Don’t be silly.

She held my chin so I would look at her. She didn’t seem annoyed. She seemed satisfied. Even still aroused. She glanced down at the stain on her clothes, then back into my eyes and gave me a short, wet, unexpected kiss. Her tongue barely brushed mine for a second, just long enough to drive me crazy again.

—You earned it —she whispered.

She tucked my cock back into my boxers with disarming naturalness and began buttoning her shirt. I was still dazed, watching the visions that had fed me for so many nights disappear one by one.

—Tomorrow? —I asked, still breathing badly.

Her expression changed. She didn’t become sad, but she did grow serious.

—I won’t be here tomorrow.

I felt a hollow space open in my stomach.

—What?

—My job ends today. I’m leaving the city. —She shrugged—. I didn’t want to leave without giving you this. You’ve been eating my tits with your eyes for weeks, and honestly, you entertained me more than you should have.

I didn’t know what to say. Outside, the rain was still falling. Inside that doorway I had the taste of her skin in my mouth, her scent on my hands, and my cum drying on her pants. And yet, all at once, everything sounded like an ending.

She caressed my cheek with a tenderness I hadn’t expected after something so raw.

—Keep the memory.

She turned and walked toward the exit. Before opening the doorway’s door, she looked back over her shoulder, touched one of her shirt buttons deliberately, and gave me one last smile.

—And tonight, when you jerk off again, think carefully about my nipples.

Then she left.

I got to work late, of course. I locked myself in the bathroom as soon as I could, washed my hands twice, and they still smelled like her. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the face of a man whose fantasy had been fulfilled and ripped away in the same gesture.

For weeks I kept going to the same stop at the same time, even though there was no longer any point. She never came back. Sometimes, in the crowd, I thought I saw similar hair or a similar shirt, and my body reacted before reason could catch up. But it wasn’t her.

What did return was the habit of masturbating while remembering her. Not once or twice. Many times. Too many. Remembering the exact weight of her tits in my hands, the texture of her nipples, the way she said suck, the obscene calm with which she pulled out my cock in an ordinary doorway and made me come as if she had been planning it from the first day.

I’ve been with other women since. I’ve seen beautiful breasts, large ones, small ones, augmented ones, natural ones. I’ve had a lot of fun; I won’t pretend otherwise. But those tits remain, for me, the tits of fantasy. Not because they were catalog-perfect, but because they were tied to the exact moment when a stranger decided to turn my obsession into a filthy, brief, and utterly unforgettable gift.

And if I’m telling it this way today, without disguising anything, it’s because I can still close my eyes and see her in that dark doorway, shirt open, tits bare, that deep voice telling me to come while looking at them. Some things can’t be forgotten. That morning I learned that sometimes a ridiculous confession can end with one of the best jerk-offs of your life.