That Mature Man on the Bus Knew Exactly What to Do

That day I had worked as a promotional hostess at a corporate event, one of those conferences where an agency hires you to receive guests, hand out badges, and smile for hours. I was wearing a navy flared skirt, short but elegant, a white sleeveless blouse, and a pair of heels that had been punishing my feet by midafternoon. I had been on my feet for almost three hours and the only thing I wanted was to get home, take off my shoes, and collapse into bed.

By then I was twenty-seven and had already learned a couple of things about myself. The main one: I didn’t need a man to be handsome in order to want him. All I needed was a certain confidence, a certain way of looking, a certain smell. The second: when my pussy got wet, it got wet for real, and there was no way to ignore it until someone fucked me properly. What happened that night had more to do with that than with any plan.

I left the venue a little after eight-thirty and walked to the terminal. The last bus on the route to the port was packed. There wasn’t a single free seat, and to make things worse, I had to ride standing up, holding onto the aisle rail, my bag slung across my body and my feet burning. I figured it would be about forty minutes to my stop, maybe an hour with city-exit traffic.

Once we were on the road, the driver switched off the interior lights and left only the dim blue lamps in the ceiling. The darkness changed the whole mood. People lowered their voices, some closed their eyes, and the engine hummed deep under the floor. That was when I felt someone settle in behind me.

It was a man. From the corner of my eye and from his height I guessed he was in his fifties, rather short, stocky. He wasn’t tall, so he fit right against my back, and with every pothole, every curve, the sway pushed us into each other. At first I thought it was just the randomness of the trip, that awkward intimacy that happens when you’re packed in among strangers.

But it wasn’t random.

I felt, against the small of my back, something starting to harden. It pressed right between my ass cheeks through the fabric of my skirt, a bulge that kept growing and stiffening curve after curve until there was no way to pretend it was anything else. It was a cock. A hard, thick cock, pressed to my ass, outlining itself through my clothes. He didn’t move away; on the contrary, he took advantage of every motion of the bus to rub it a little more, with a minimal sway, almost imperceptible, that only I could feel. I could have stepped away, shot him a warning look, said anything. I didn’t. The road was dark, the air smelled of diesel and cheap perfume, and I, I admit it, decided to stay exactly where I was, with that stranger’s dick wedged between my ass cheeks and my panties already wet.

Anyway, at the next stop he gets off and I never see him again.

Except he didn’t get off at the next stop. Or the one after that.

A couple of seats ahead, a young couple was kissing openly, sheltered by the darkness. I watched the boy slide his hand under her jacket, how she tipped her head back and parted her legs under the blanket they had pulled over themselves. Nobody said anything. On that night bus, everyone pretended to sleep or stared out the window into the black nothing of the fields.

The man behind me got bolder with that same impunity. With his right hand he took me by the hip, slowly, as if testing whether I was going to complain. I didn’t. He blew against the nape of my neck, a warm breath that raised gooseflesh all over my neck and arms, and he pressed his cock against my ass again, this time without even trying to hide it, tracing its full length along the seam of my cheeks. I closed my eyes. My breathing was no longer the breathing of someone tired and coming home from work. I could feel my cunt throbbing, swollen, heating up my thighs.

—Long trip? —he murmured, so low I could barely hear him over the engine.

—All the way to the end —I answered, without turning around.

—Me too.

That one word, spoken against my ear, lit me up. His hand slid from my hip to my thigh and then up under the hem of my skirt, not a few centimeters, as a decent man might have done, but until his fingertips brushed the elastic of my panties. He stayed there, still, waiting. I spread my feet a little wider, as if to keep my balance on the curve, though we both knew it wasn’t for balance. It was to let him go higher. His fingers got the message and slipped under the cotton, and when they found my drenched pussy he gave a low, satisfied groan against my neck.

—You’re soaking wet —he whispered.

—Shut up —I muttered, biting my lip.

He ran one finger between the lips of my pussy, from bottom to top, and left it resting on my clit. He didn’t move it: he just left it there, pressing lightly, while he kept grinding his hard cock against my ass in time with the bus. Every bump was a disguised thrust, every curve a hip roll that made me clench my thighs around his hand. I held out as long as I could without moaning. When he finally started moving his finger, drawing small, precise circles over my clit, I had to clench my jaw to keep from making a sound. I was about to come standing up, on a crowded bus, with a stranger’s hand inside my panties.

I never cared that he was a complete stranger, that he smelled like pharmacy cologne, and that he was thirty years older than me. On the contrary. There was something in his measured boldness, in that confidence of a man who no longer has anything to prove to anyone, that was driving me crazy there on my feet, in the middle of nowhere, gripping a cold metal pole while he fingered my pussy and pressed his cock into my ass.

The bus started emptying out as we reached the port area. Ten, twelve people got off over a couple of stops, and suddenly only a handful of passengers remained scattered among the seats. He pulled his hand from my panties just in time, licked his wet finger with complete calm, and I found two empty seats together and finally let myself sink down. He sat beside me without asking permission, as if we’d been making that trip together for years.

Up close he was more appealing than I’d expected. Plump, yes, but neat, in a good-quality shirt and a discreet watch. Nothing about him was vulgar. He had the look of a man who had lived, who had made mistakes and learned from them, and who now knew exactly what he liked.

—Before the last stop there’s a crossing —he said in a low voice, staring ahead—. If you get off there with me, I’ll buy you a drink. Your call.

I thought about it for exactly three seconds.

—I’m getting off.

***

We got off on a poorly lit avenue, with the sea looming dark a few blocks away and the air heavy with humidity. We crossed the street almost without speaking. He walked half a step ahead, without taking my hand, and I liked that distance: there was no fake tenderness, no lies, just two adults who knew what they were there for.

He went into a short-stay motel, one of those places with half-burned-out neon lights and a desk behind glass. He asked for a room and two brandies. He paid. He didn’t ask me anything, we didn’t negotiate anything, we simply went up a narrow staircase that smelled of disinfectant and other people’s nights.

The room was simple: a big bed, a nightstand, a lamp with a warm light that he left on after turning off the main one. It was hot and sticky. Through the window came the distant murmur of a car.

—Take your clothes off —he said, and sat on the edge of the bed to watch me.

It wasn’t a harsh order. It was an invitation shaped like an order, and hearing it turned me on. I slipped off the heels first, with a sigh of relief. Then the blouse, the skirt, the bra and, last, the panties, which I peeled away from my pussy with a shining thread between the fabric and my lips. I showed him. I didn’t hide it. He saw the soaked panties, gave the slightest smile, and ran his tongue over his teeth.

—Throw them over there —he said—. You won’t need them anymore.

I stood naked in front of him, the warm light sliding over my skin. He watched me without hurrying, with a half-smile, his eyes traveling slowly over me as if he wanted to memorize me: my hard-peaked tits, my belly, the dark triangle of my pubic hair, my thighs shining with what had leaked out of me on the bus.

—Come here —he said—. Open your legs there, standing up.

I stepped to the edge of the bed and spread my thighs in front of him. He took me by the hips, buried his face between my legs without further preamble, and ran his tongue all the way from bottom to top, long, flat, hungry. My knees went weak. He did it again, and again, and by the fourth time he was sucking my clit between his lips, drawing it into his mouth while two thick fingers went deep into my pussy. I had to brace both hands on his shoulders to keep from falling. He licked me as if he knew exactly what I liked, alternating the flat, soft tongue with short, firm sucks right where he needed to. I came in his mouth after just a few minutes, a long, filthy orgasm that made my legs shake and forced out a hoarse moan that echoed through the whole room. He kept sucking until I pulled his head away because I couldn’t take any more.

—Now you —I panted, pushing him back.

I found his belt. I pulled down his pants and he finished taking them off himself, along with his shirt, until he was naked on the edge of the bed. He was thick, thicker than long, his cock standing up against his belly, the head swollen and a clear drop beading at the tip. It didn’t intimidate me; it made me hungry.

—Come here —he said, taking my hair gently but firmly.

I knelt between his legs and licked the tip first, gathering up the drop, tasting him. Then I opened my mouth and swallowed him halfway in one go. He sucked in air through his teeth with a long gasp and gripped my hair. I started sucking him slowly, saliva everywhere, soaking his cock and balls, bobbing my head up and down at a rhythm that pulled increasingly rough groans from him. I licked his whole dick from base to tip, sucked his balls one by one, took him back down to the hilt until my eyes filled with water. He guided my head with his hand, setting the pace, taking me to where I could go and a little beyond.

—That’s it, baby, that’s it —he murmured—. You suck cock so well, fuck…

That honest reaction, so unfeigned, got me wet all over again. There was nothing theatrical about him. Every restrained groan was real. I ran my flat tongue from his balls to the tip, made a wet noise with my mouth as I sucked, pulled his cock out and slapped it a couple of times against my tongue before swallowing it again.

—Wait —he gasped after a while, lifting my face with his hand—. Not like that. And I still have to fuck you properly.

He put on a condom with the calm of someone who has done it a thousand times. He laid me back on the bed, spread my legs wide apart and settled himself between them. He placed the tip of his cock at the entrance to my pussy and looked me in the eyes as he pushed in, measuring me, as if he wanted to see how far he could go before truly thrusting. His thickness filled me in a way that made me arch my back and dig my nails into the sheets. I felt every inch go in, widening me, until he hit the back of me.

—There —I panted—, there, don’t pull out.

He started slow, with a deep rocking motion, twisting his hips so the base of his cock brushed my clit on every thrust. He built the pace until everything else disappeared. He fucked me with the seriousness of a man who knows he has an hour and isn’t going to waste it. He grabbed one ankle and put a leg over his shoulder, entering from a different angle, deeper, and I started moaning without restraint.

—Harder —I begged—. Fuck me harder.

He obeyed. He started pounding into me with sharp, hard thrusts, the sound of his hips against my ass filling the room, while he watched my tits bounce with every push. He turned me on my side, lifted one leg and took me from behind again, spooning me, one hand on my breast and the other rubbing my clit. I was wrecked. I was sweating, moaning, saying things I didn’t even understand myself.

When I felt he was getting close too soon, I stopped him with a hand on his chest and pushed him onto his back.

—Now me —I said, and sat on top of him.

From that point on, I was in charge. I drove him in to the hilt in one go, sitting all the way down on him, and stayed still for a moment savoring how full I was. I moved slowly at first, in circles, feeling him come in and out at my whim, clenching his cock with my cunt every time I rose. Then faster, deeper, finding exactly the angle that made sparks flash in my vision. I leaned back, my hands on his thighs, and started bouncing on his dick with all the force of my legs, fucking him myself. He watched me from below with his mouth slightly open, his hands dug into my hips, then my tits, murmuring nonsense, calling me “baby” between gasps as if I really were.

—Come inside —I told him, leaning over him, my tits brushing his mouth—. Even with the condom, come now, give it all to me.

I felt him tense beneath me. He dug his fingers into my ass, drove me all the way down, threw his head back, rolled his eyes and shook with a series of long groans, so intense that for a moment I was afraid something might happen to him. I felt his cock pounding inside me, shot after shot, and that pulse set me off too. I let go a couple of thrusts later, with a tremor running from my center to the tips of my fingers, and collapsed onto his heaving chest, his cock still buried inside me and throbbing.

We stayed like that for a while, catching our breath, his heart beating against my cheek like a drum, his cock slowly softening inside my pussy until it slid out on its own. Then he fell asleep, just like that, defeated. I got up carefully, stepped into the shower, and let the warm water bring me back to the world while I washed between my legs and still felt the echo of being stretched.

***

When I came out, I got dressed in silence so as not to wake him. As I picked up my bag from the chair, I glanced toward the bed and saw that he had left a folded bill on the nightstand. Nobody had asked for it, we hadn’t talked about money at any point.

I took it. Not because I needed it —I didn’t—, but because I understood what it meant. It was the gesture of a man who knew exactly what he had just lived through, who perhaps hadn’t had a night like that in a long time, and who couldn’t find any other way to say thank you. I kept it like a memory, not like a payment.

I went down the narrow staircase, stepped into the humid dawn air, and walked until I found a taxi. I never knew his name. I never saw him again, nor did I ever get on that bus at the same hour with the secret hope of running into him once more.

But sometimes, when I travel at night and the engine hums low and the lights go out, I still feel a heat rising up my back, that mature man’s ghost cock pressing between my ass cheeks, and I remember how, without saying more than a few words, he knew exactly what to do with me.