I Couldn't Hold Back on the Night Bus

That weekend I’d traveled to another province to visit a couple of friends I hadn’t seen in months. It had been three days of talking until dawn, cheap wine, and laughter, and when Sunday night came I took the bus home with my body heavy and my eyes half-closed.

I settled by the window, put on my headphones with a mellow playlist, and let the hum of the engine lull me to sleep. The seat next to me was empty, so I got comfortable on my side, rested my temple against the cold glass, and fell asleep almost at once.

I don’t know whether I dreamed something or whether it was the steady rattle of the ride, but when I woke up half an hour later, the first thing I noticed was an urgency I hadn’t been expecting. There was a strong tingling between my legs, a warm, persistent pressure beating in time with my pulse. I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore it.

I tried to reconstruct the dream, to catch a stray image before it vanished completely. There was almost nothing left: a feeling of hands on my skin, a mouth near my neck, that kind of heat you feel when someone truly wants you. What little I remembered was enough to keep the fire going.

I closed my eyes again, thinking I’d fall back asleep, but it only got worse. In the darkness behind my eyelids everything became sharper, more physical. I pressed my thighs together without realizing it and a shiver ran up my back.

I took out my phone and started scrolling through photos on social media without really looking at them. I switched the playlist for a livelier one, as if that could distract me. It was useless. That feeling was still there, stubborn, growing every time I crossed my legs.

I tried everything. I pressed my forehead to the window and counted streetlights on the other side of the highway. I breathed in deeply and slowly, the way you do when you’re trying to fall asleep. I even opened a pending conversation to reply to a message I’d left unanswered, but halfway through a word I froze with my fingers still on the screen, unable to focus on anything except the throbbing between my thighs.

I can’t believe I’m this turned on on a fucking bus.

I couldn’t help it and started imagining how I was going to touch myself once I got home. I could flop down on the sofa the moment I walked through the door, without even taking off my shoes, and sink my hand right there. Or go straight to bed and grind against the pillow for a good while before looking for something to fuck myself with.

It also crossed my mind to take a long shower: lather myself up all over, slowly run over every inch of slippery skin, and then spread my legs in front of the stream of warm water until I couldn’t take it anymore.

As those images paraded through my head, the tingling turned into a dull heat and I noticed the fabric of my thong beginning to dampen. I looked at my phone clock. There was still more than an hour to go. Every minute stretched out like torture.

I thought about watching some porn. I knew it would probably turn me on even more, but I told myself that maybe, after watching another woman come, my body would be satisfied and calm down a little. It was a stupid excuse and I knew it, but the need was winning.

I turned discreetly to have a look around. The seat behind me was empty. No one was sitting next to me. Across the aisle, a couple was traveling a few rows ahead, and a little farther back a man with his mouth open was sleeping. If I watched the video with my headphones on and the screen brightness low, nobody had any reason to notice.

I went to my usual site, found something short, and hit play. I enjoyed every second like hardly ever before. My clit was contracting on its own, without even being touched, and my thong was no longer merely damp: it was completely soaked.

The girl in the video finished with a long moan and I was more aroused than when I started. It definitely hadn’t gone the way I’d thought. I put the phone away, took a deep breath, and tried once more to think about anything other than sticking my hand down my pants.

I couldn’t.

I checked the time again. About forty-five minutes left. The couple across the aisle were asleep in each other’s arms. The man behind me was snoring softly. The rest of the passengers were still shadows in the bluish dimness of the bus.

I didn’t think twice. I unbuttoned my pants, lowered the zipper just enough, and slipped my hand under my underwear. My fingers slid between my lips without any effort at all; everything was hot and wet.

I pressed my thumb against my clit and slid two fingers inside. The moment I felt them enter, a sigh of relief escaped me, held back in my throat. At last I was giving my body what it had been screaming for for an hour.

I stayed still for a few seconds, frightened by my own boldness, waiting for someone to turn on a light or turn their head. Nothing. The bus kept moving through the night, indifferent, and that calm gave me the courage I needed.

I started a slow back-and-forth, going in and out, while biting the inside of my cheek to smother any sound. I didn’t want to wake the couple or have anyone turn toward the window seat. The music kept playing in my ears, but I could barely hear it over the pounding.

I was so wet my fingers moved on their own. And though it felt good, the excitement I was feeling was so huge it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted to feel something everywhere at once.

That’s when I realized my ass was craving attention too. But sitting as I was, with my pants half lowered and my back against the seat, there was no way to reach it with a finger.

I pulled my hand out and sat there for a moment wondering what to do, my heart banging against my ribs. I opened the bag on my lap and rummaged inside, looking for an idea. And I found one.

A pen, one of those smooth, rounded ones. I grabbed it between two fingers like it was treasure. I slid toward the edge of the seat and, making sure no one was looking, slipped my other hand in through the back of my pants. I spread my ass cheeks a little and left the pen wedged between them, pressed tight by the fabric when I settled back into place.

It wasn’t much, of course. But feeling something cold and hard pressing right there, trapped against my skin, was more stimulating than I expected. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t smile like an idiot.

I sat better, turned partly toward the window again, and picked up where I’d left off. This time I devoted a long while to my clit, drawing slow circles, and then went back to the in-and-out motion of my fingers inside me.

At first I kept lifting my eyes every few seconds to make sure no one was watching me. But little by little I surrendered so completely to the pleasure that I forgot entirely where I was. The aisle, the passengers, the driver up front—all of it stopped existing. It was just the pounding between my legs and me.

At one point I settled almost on my side, facing the glass, with my knees pressed tight together. God, this feels so good like this. In that position everything became tighter, and every movement of my fingers felt twice as intense.

The pen shifted a little with each sway of the bus, reminding me every second of what I was doing in the middle of so many sleeping people. That idea, the risk, the thrill that anyone could wake up and see me, pushed me closer to the edge.

For a moment I imagined the man behind me opening his eyes right then. Discovering me with my hand stuffed down my pants and my face twisted with pleasure. Instead of embarrassing me, the thought made me even hotter, and I sped up without being able to stop myself.

My breathing turned short, broken. I could feel sweat at the nape of my neck and the seat fabric stuck to my cheek. Every time my fingers went all the way in, a current shot from my belly to my knees and I had to clench my teeth not to make a sound.

I had to bite my forearm to swallow my moans. The slight pain of the bite, the urge to moan out loud, the sheer pleasure of my fingers, and the awareness that I was masturbating on a bus full of strangers all blended into one single release.

And I exploded.

The orgasm ran through me all at once, electric, surging from my belly to the nape of my neck. I squeezed my legs together with all my strength and kept my hand still, pressing, while I felt everything contract in waves that seemed never-ending. I buried my face against the seatback so no one would see my expression.

When the last tremor faded, I stayed motionless, breathing slowly, my forehead beaded with sweat and a smile I couldn’t wipe away. After a while I carefully pulled my hand out, pulled up the zipper, and buttoned my pants. I sat normally, as if nothing had happened.

I decided to leave the pen where it was. It felt far too good there, wedged in place, and honestly there was no need to take it out yet.

I looked out the window. The scattered lights had turned into lit avenues and familiar signs. We were already entering my city, and I was coming home much more relaxed than I ever would have imagined when I got on that bus.