What Happened on the Bus That Morning

My name is Daniela, and I’m nineteen years old. I’m one of those girls who go unnoticed in the supermarket line, but who make heads turn if they wear the wrong clothes. Or the right ones, depending on how you look at it. I’m not tall — I come up to most guys’ shoulders — but I’ve got curves where they matter: big tits that make me embarrassed in some contexts and are useful as a shield in others, a defined waist, hips that move on their own when I walk fast, and a firm ass that my skirt never quite manages to hide.

This story happened last year, when I was still in my first year of college. I’m telling it because it’s completely real and because I still think about it more often than I should. Especially when I touch myself at night.

***

It was Tuesday and I had an important presentation. The main Literature professor had warned us that he himself would assess each presentation, which meant half the class would have to be there half an hour earlier than usual. I arrived even earlier than that, and not exactly because of the presentation.

The professor was named Rodrigo and he was about thirty-five. He was one of those men you somehow know, without ever having thought about it, would be a good lover: unhurried, attentive, with hands like someone who has read a lot and practiced even more. We had never spoken outside the classroom. We had never needed to. It was enough for him to look at me when I raised my hand to answer, and my cunt was already wet under the desk.

So that morning I got up at 5:15 with a single idea: to look presentable in a way that couldn’t exactly be called “dressed up.”

I showered with time to spare, carefully shaved my cunt, leaving just a thin strip on top, slid soapy fingers between my lips more than once and had to bite my lip not to come right there under the stream. I put on the perfume I saved for special occasions. Then I stood in front of the mirror deciding what to wear. I chose the plaid skirt that hit mid-thigh, knee-high socks, and a white blouse with no bra because it was cold and nipples show on their own, and there’s no need to force that sort of detail. I put a thin sweatshirt over it, just enough so I wouldn’t look like I was fishing for attention. Underneath, white cotton panties, thin, almost transparent when wet.

Because I wasn’t fishing for attention.

Or I was. But only from one person.

***

The bus stop was a twelve-minute walk away. It was still dawn, that dark gray before sunrise that makes things seem lonelier than they are. There were three men at the stop when I arrived. All three looked. I looked straight ahead, feeling the skirt stick to my ass in the breeze and my nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of the blouse.

The bus arrived already full. Rush hour for people coming off night shifts and people starting morning shifts. I got on through the back door and squeezed in among bodies. There was no room to move, barely room to breathe. The metal bar was too high for me to hold comfortably, and the smell of coffee and deodorant from everyone around me filled the air as if it were solid.

I stood facing forward, feet apart to keep my balance. When the bus pulled away, the motion forced me to adjust my posture and lean back a little.

And then I noticed someone behind me.

I hadn’t seen him get on. I only became aware of his presence when the bus took a turn and his body pressed against mine for a second: broad chest, firm stomach, at least a head taller than me. And something else, something hard and thick that pressed for an instant against the small of my back, right above my ass, before the bus straightened out again. It wasn’t an accident. When the bus steadied, he moved back only as much as the crowd demanded. No more. I already knew what I had behind me.

***

The first time his hand brushed my thigh, I thought it was the movement of the vehicle. An accident. One of those involuntary contacts that happen when there are too many people in too little space and the brakes are sudden.

But the hand didn’t withdraw.

It stayed resting on the side of my right thigh, with such a light pressure that I could have pretended not to notice. I could have moved a couple of centimeters to the left and the contact would have broken on its own, without a scene, without needing an explanation.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t want to move.

The bus braked at the next stop and more people got on. The crowd pressed in. He pressed against me. And then there was no doubt: his cock, hard as a rock, was jammed right into the crease of my ass through my skirt. Thick. Long. I felt it pulse against my flesh once, twice, as if it had a heartbeat of its own. His hand, which had only barely been brushing me before, was now firm against my leg.

And it started to move.

Slowly. With a calm that made my hair stand on end. It wasn’t the urgency of someone seizing the moment and fearing it might be taken away from him: it was the certainty of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. His fingers began to climb the outside of my thigh, over the skirt at first, then searching for the hem, sliding under the fabric with a patience that was incredibly hard to hide. With every centimeter he gained, his cock against my ass pushed a little harder, marking the groove between my cheeks, as if reminding me who was in charge there.

I kept my eyes fixed on a point at the nape of the woman standing in front of me. I bit my lip until it hurt.

The hand reached the back of my thigh, right where the leg begins to become something else. It paused there for a moment, as if asking.

I didn’t answer with words. I adjusted my stance so my hip turned slightly back, pushing my ass against his bulge. It was the smallest response I could give and also the clearest. He answered by rubbing himself against me slowly, up and down, between my cheeks over the fabric. One long movement. Enough to make it clear what he would fuck me with if the bus were empty.

***

His fingers reached my ass cheeks and squeezed them slowly, exploring, memorizing. He kneaded one, then the other, sinking his fingers in until it hurt and then easing off, with a possessiveness that made my knees shake. I could feel the heat of his palm through the thin cotton of my panties, and I could feel how the cotton, soaked through, clung to the lips of my cunt like a second skin. I kept my breathing under control, even though my heart was beating so hard I was afraid people around me could hear it.

Every time the bus swayed, he used the movement to adjust the position of his hand, to advance a little more. He was so methodical he almost seemed polite. As if he had decided he wasn’t going to rush, that he would do this properly or not at all. His other hand, the one still free, had also moved down, and with the back of it he was stroking the back of my other thigh. He was marking out the territory. All my ass, all of it, was his under that skirt.

Three stops later, his hand slid to the front.

I wasn’t wearing full tights, only knee-high socks, so between the hem of my skirt and the waistband of my panties there were only a few centimeters of skin. His fingers found them without effort, traced that edge, and pushed the fabric down until the cotton was bunched at mid-hip, trapped there, and my bare cunt was pressed against the sweatshirt of some random stranger.

I was soaked. Completely. His fingers slipped on the first touch, as if I’d been rubbed with oil. Before that, I think, before he even touched me. From the moment I felt his presence behind me, his warm body, his calm that was not the calm of someone indifferent but of someone who has decided to take his time. Since the tip of his cock had first pulsed against my back.

He started rubbing me up and down with his fingers, not penetrating, just tracing. First on the outside, all along my slit, dragging the wetness from the entrance to my clit. Then he opened my lips with two fingers, in a V, and with the pad of the other hand he began drawing circles over my swollen clit. Slow. Very slow. Precise. He knew exactly where it was, he didn’t search for it, he went straight there. I clenched my ass against his bulge and found it even harder, almost vibrating.

I could have come right there.

I closed my eyes for three seconds, then opened them again. The woman in front was still looking at her phone. The driver was announcing the next stop in that same monotonous voice. An old man to my left was reading a newspaper folded in half. No one was looking our way.

No one had any idea that thirty centimeters from their faces a stranger was opening my cunt with his fingers.

***

At the next stop more people got on and the pressure increased. He readjusted and his other hand appeared at my right side, found the opening in my sweatshirt, and slipped underneath to my blouse. With no bra, there was no obstacle. He took one tit in his whole palm and squeezed it with a firmness that tore a sound out of me, which I turned into a cough before it could escape. He weighed one, then the other, as if calibrating them, as if he had every right in the world to evaluate them.

His two hands worked independently: one buried between my legs, the other squeezing up top, with a rhythm that didn’t feel improvised but studied. The fingers of his left hand tugged gently at my nipple, then harder, twisting it until a low gasp slipped out of me, and I had to grip the metal bar with all my strength not to lose my balance. With the other hand, down below, he started hammering my clit with two fingers, fast, short, insistent, and I felt my legs opening on their own, my skirt riding up another centimeter, the whole world shrinking down to those two points on my body.

When he pushed his fingers inside — two, I think, though at that point I couldn’t count anything — I tipped my head down and bit the sleeve of my sweatshirt. He drove them in to the knuckles in one thrust, and my cunt accepted them with a wet sound that seemed deafening to me and that no one else heard. He started pumping them in and out with the same slow rhythm, curving the tip upward on every entry, looking for that spot that makes your knees shake, and finding it. The bus rocked. The people around me looked ahead, looked out the window, lived their own Tuesday mornings.

I felt his cock, harder if that was even possible, pushing between my ass cheeks in the same rhythm as his fingers entered me. As if he were fucking me in parallel, with both things, synchronized. His mouth lowered to the hollow of my neck, without quite touching me, just hot breath on my skin, and he whispered the only word he said the whole ride, so low I almost imagined it:

—Come.

I came. Standing there, holding onto the bar, with two fingers of a stranger inside me and his cock jammed against my ass, I came silently, clenching my thighs to trap his fingers inside, feeling the contraction rise from my cunt to my chest, my throat closing so I wouldn’t scream. A long, long shudder that lasted three or four bus stops. He felt every bit of it. He didn’t pull his fingers out until the last wave had gone through me. And when he finally did, he brought them up to my mouth. He pressed them against my lips without insisting, and I accepted them. I sucked them as if they were his — as if they were him — cleaning them between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, my eyes closed.

They tasted like me. Salty, thick, the whole load of a stranger I didn’t even dare to turn toward.

***

The next stop was mine.

The bus slowed down. He withdrew both hands in one clean motion, as if putting them back where they belonged. Before stepping away completely, he pressed his cock against my ass one last time, slowly, almost tenderly, like a signature. I straightened my clothes without looking back, pulled up my soaked panties that clung to my swollen cunt, grabbed my backpack, and moved toward the door with my legs a little shaky and the stranger’s cum that wasn’t there — only my own, running down the inside of my thigh — sliding slowly to my sock. I stepped onto the sidewalk with the cold morning air hitting my face.

I didn’t see him get off. I didn’t look.

I walked to the faculty building with a blank mind, or rather with a mind full of one single thing I still wasn’t able to analyze. I found the first-floor bathrooms empty at that hour. I went into a stall, locked the door, pulled my panties down to my ankles, leaned my back against the cold wall, and shoved three fingers deep inside while my thumb mashed my clit. I finished what he had started in less than two minutes, biting my other hand so I wouldn’t scream the name I didn’t even know. I came twice in a row. The second time with my clean fingers under my nose, trying to remember their smell.

***

The presentation went well. Rodrigo looked at me in that special way of his when I finished speaking, and he clapped twice more than he did for the others. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe not. My cunt was still throbbing under my skirt and my wet panties were rubbing me raw every time I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. Rodrigo, with all his elegance, suddenly seemed bland beside the faceless man on the bus.

I took the same bus line again for weeks, at the same hour, wearing the same clothes, with the same thin panties and no bra. I never ran into him again. I don’t know if he took that bus every day or if it was only that once. I don’t know his name, I don’t know his face clearly — I only saw him from the corner of my eye when he got on and didn’t pay attention — I don’t know anything about him beyond how he touched me, how his hard cock felt against my ass, how his fingers knew exactly where to go without asking.

But I think about that morning every time I get on a crowded bus. I find myself looking for that warmth behind me, that cock pulsing against my back, that hand that knows exactly what it’s doing.

And I still hope, a little, that it happens again.