That Mature Man on the Bus Made Me Lose Myself Under the Blanket
I had spent years reading erotic stories online before I got up the nerve to write my own. So you can get an idea of who is telling you this: I’m short, I’m five-foot-two, dark-haired, with curves more generous than my mother would like. Big tits, wide hips, a perky ass, the kind of body men of a certain age look at a second longer than necessary when I walk past them in the supermarket.
I was twenty-two when this happened. And even today, when I get on a bus, the first thing I do is look at who’s going to sit next to me.
***
That Friday in March I had to travel to the capital for a bank errand. I left at six in the morning and the idea was to come back the same day, without staying overnight. The trip there was boring. The return trip wasn’t.
I got on the bus at seven-thirty in the evening. The air conditioning was too strong for an interprovincial bus, and that even though I was traveling pretty light: a white top that clung to me more than it should, without a bra, an open denim jacket, and short shorts that showed off my cunt when I sat down. In my backpack I had a pair of sneakers and almost nothing else.
I sat by the window and put on my headphones. I was tired, but I wasn’t sleepy. The aisle seat was still empty and, while I watched people board, I crossed my fingers that I’d get an old lady or a girl my age.
It didn’t happen.
A man got on who was around forty-seven, I guessed. He wore dark trousers, a light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a brown belt that looked worn but good quality. His hair was gray at the temples and in his beard. He wasn’t magazine handsome, but he had the look of a man who’d been through a lot and had learned how to sit straight. Good hands too. That was the first thing I looked at. Big hands, thick fingers, short nails. Hands that know how to grip.
“Excuse me,” he said, settling in beside me. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Not at all,” I answered without taking out my earbud.
But I took it out.
***
The bus pulled out once it was already dark. We had just left the terminal and the driver turned off the main lights; only the dim strip along the aisle stayed on. I rested my head against the window and looked outside, but out of the corner of my eye I could tell he hadn’t opened the book he had on his lap.
He was looking at me.
Not in a gross way. In that way men look, and when you turn around they act like they were looking at something else, but the two of you know it. His knee, though, was pressed against mine without even pretending not to be. And it didn’t move.
“Are you going all the way to the end of the route?” he asked after a while.
“To the last stop.”
“I get off two stops before,” he said, smiling with only half his mouth. “What a shame.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or blush. I laughed. And, without thinking too much about it, I tugged my top downward with a movement meant to look accidental. My tits settled on their own, almost spilling out the top completely. He dropped his gaze and lifted it again as if by chance. I caught the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing when he swallowed.
Something shifted in my belly. I don’t know if it was the filthy thrill, or boredom, or the desire to feel wanted by someone who wasn’t my roommate’s boyfriend. But I felt my cunt getting wet on its own, that little whore’s itch that grows in a woman when she knows a man is undressing her with his eyes. I decided I was going to play a little. Just a little. To feel grown.
***
When the bus hit the highway and started moving, I took advantage of every bump to adjust my top. I’d pull it up with two fingers, then lower it with the other hand, and in between let my tits bounce to the rhythm of the road. My nipples had gone hard from the cold and the arousal, and they showed through the white fabric like two buttons. He didn’t say anything. He did press the book a little tighter against his leg, though. And every so often he moistened his lip. I glanced at his lap out of the corner of my eye and could already see the bulge beginning to show against the seam of his pants.
Forty minutes later, the driver made the usual stop at a gas station. Most of the passengers got off to stretch their legs or grab something to eat. I stayed put because I was lazy. He stood up and asked if I wanted anything.
“Whatever you choose,” I said.
He came back with a chocolate alfajor, a coffee in a cardboard cup, and a smile that had nothing gentlemanly left in it. He handed me the coffee.
“So you won’t fall asleep,” he said.
“And why don’t you want me to fall asleep?”
He chuckled softly.
“Because that would be a shame.”
I thanked him with that look I get when I want a man to think what he shouldn’t be thinking. He understood. He sat down again, this time closer, and didn’t give me back a single inch of knee room. His whole thigh stayed pressed against mine. His heat came through the fabric.
***
When the bus set off again, the driver turned off even the aisle lights. We were left in total darkness, except for the little screens some passengers had turned on. Most of them were asleep.
“How old are you?” he asked softly, almost in my ear.
“Twenty-two.”
“You’re just a girl.”
“Not that much of a girl.”
“And what is a girl like you doing dressed like that, traveling alone?”
“Dressing however I want.”
He laughed. This time it was a vibration I felt against my neck, because he was already too close. His hand, which up to then had been resting on his own thigh, moved and squeezed my knee.
I didn’t pull it away.
***
The bus lurched violently to avoid something on the road. I let myself fall against him and, in the same motion, yanked my top with so little delicacy that one tit slipped completely out over the fabric. The dark nipple was fully visible, swollen and hard. I left it like that for half a second longer than necessary. Long enough for him to see it all, for it to burn into his brain. Then I settled myself back down, slowly, looking at him.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
“Please,” he answered, his voice a little rough. “Never apologize for that.”
His hand moved from my knee to the middle of my thigh, and from there kept going upward slowly, palm open, squeezing the flesh. A bulge grew under his pants; I could see it without looking. It was thick and long, pressing sideways against the fabric, and just seeing it made my cunt contract. I pretended I needed to look at the scenery and leaned across him toward the aisle, as if to look ahead. My ass brushed his lap all the way through, and I rubbed myself against him without hiding it. I felt the hard cock under his trousers, throbbing against my cheek. My tits were right at his face. He inhaled sharply through his nose, almost a growl, and gripped my waist with both hands to keep me from losing my balance, though we both knew it was just an excuse to hold me.
“Careful, girl,” he said, his voice rasping. “You’re going to fall.”
But I didn’t fall. I slid back slowly to my seat, letting my body touch him everywhere it passed. I brushed one tit across his cheek, as if by accident. I felt his hot breath coming through the fabric. When I sat back down, his hand was already open on my thigh, very high, his thumb brushing the seam of my shorts right where my cunt began, and mine was on his knee, slowly moving up toward his bulge.
***
“I have a blanket,” he murmured. “Do you want it?”
“I’m cold,” I lied.
He took a light gray blanket out of his bag, one of those they give you on long trips. He spread it over both of us. The fabric was just wide enough to cover us to the neck if we tucked in close.
Underneath, everything changed.
His hand slipped into my shorts before I had even finished breathing. His fingers found me between the legs and, when they found the fabric of my panties, squeezed. The panties were so wet they stuck to his fingers the second he touched them. He groaned softly against my neck, as if surprised to discover how far everything had gone in so little time.
“Fuck, girl,” he whispered. “You’re soaking. All wet for me.”
I closed my eyes and pressed my thighs against his hand.
He started stroking me slowly, drawing circles with the tip of his middle finger over the wet fabric, searching for my clit through my panties. Every time he hit the exact spot I bit my tongue.
“Stay still,” he told me in my ear. “I don’t want anyone to notice. You stay nice and quiet while I touch you, understand?”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak. My heart was in my ribs and my mouth so dry I could barely swallow. With my free hand I found the bulge over his pants and squeezed. His cock throbbed against my palm. A breath escaped him between his teeth.
***
He pushed my panties to one side with two fingers. When he touched me directly, with no fabric in between, I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. He ran his fingers along my cunt slit, from bottom to top, soaking the pad of his finger, spreading my wetness over my swollen lips. He opened me with two fingers and with the middle one started making slow circles on my clit, neither too hard nor too soft, that exact pressure only men who took the time to learn know how to do.
I slipped my hand under the blanket too and unzipped his pants. He helped me, loosened his belt a little, lowered his underwear elastic, and put his cock in my hand. It was thick, hot, bigger than I had guessed, with an swollen glans and a drop already leaking that felt sticky against my fingers. I wrapped my five fingers around it and they still didn’t touch. The first squeeze told me this was not going to be a five-minute game.
“Look what you’re doing to me, girl,” he whispered. “Look how hard you got me.”
“You’ve got a nice hard-on,” I said softly, and my own voice surprised me. I didn’t even recognize myself.
We started touching ourselves at the same time. I jerked him off with my left hand, slowly so as not to draw attention, feeling his cock swell more with every stroke. I ran my thumb over the head every now and then to smear his own wetness all over the shaft, and each time I did, he dug his soft nails into my thigh. He slid one finger into my cunt and moved it in a circle, searching for me. Then he added two and curled them upward, pressing a spot that made me open my mouth against my will. Every bump in the road helped him get deeper. Every bump forced me to clench my teeth so I wouldn’t moan.
“You’re a little devil,” he whispered, with his two fingers buried to the hilt. “Who taught you to move like that? Who taught you to squeeze that little pussy like this?”
“Nobody,” I answered, panting softly. “I’m learning now.”
He laughed, and his laugh against my ear made me arch my back against the seat. I took advantage of the movement so my top would slide down again. Both tits spilled out over the top, white against the dimness. He looked under the blanket and, without thinking, lowered his head and took my breast in his mouth. He sucked my nipple all the way in, tongue coiling around it, pulling upward, barely biting me with his lips. One second, two, three. Long enough to leave my nipple swollen and shining. He pulled back before any nearby passenger stirred in their sleep, but he left the wet mark burning under the fabric.
I almost came right there. I squeezed his cock harder and he had to clench his teeth.
***
“Not yet,” he said, reading my face. “Hold on, girl. Behave and hold on.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You’re going to wait until I give you permission.”
He kissed my temple, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth. And he kept moving his fingers, slower now, pulling them almost all the way out before sliding them back in to the knuckles, with his thumb resting on my clit. The palm of his hand slapped softly against my pubis every time he pushed in. The wet noise of my soaked cunt swallowing his fingers reached my ears and I was terrified someone else might hear it too.
I tried sitting sideways. I wanted to mount him, wanted to spread my legs and lower myself onto that cock that kept throbbing in my hand, but there was no way without half the bus turning around. The idea that they might find out made it even worse. I thought of the driver, the couple in the row ahead, the woman two rows back. I thought of my own father, who was the same age as this man. I thought it was wrong. And precisely because it was wrong, I couldn’t stop. My cunt was gushing and soaking his hand all the way to the wrist. I could feel my wetness sliding up his forearm.
“Open your legs wider,” he ordered softly. “Without it showing. That’s it, like that.”
I spread my thighs a little under the blanket and he took the chance to slip in a third finger. The stretch hurt for a second and then it made me moan into myself. His three fingers went in and out of my cunt in a rhythm that adjusted to the bumps, and his thumb kept circling my clit without mercy. I jerked his cock faster and faster, sliding my hand up and down the whole shaft, squeezing the head at the end of each stroke the way I’d been taught men like it.
I came the first time with my head resting on his shoulder and his free hand covering my mouth. A slow, long shudder that left me dead. I felt my cunt clench around his three fingers like a fist, tightening around them, dripping over his palm. A muffled moan slipped out against his hand and he pressed it harder over my mouth.
“That’s it, girl. Come. Come in my hand. Nice and wet.”
He didn’t stop. He kept touching me while I was still trembling, not pulling his fingers out, just moving them a little inside my pulsing cunt.
I came a second time without warning him, biting his neck. I sank my teeth into his skin so I wouldn’t scream and felt his pulse hammer against my lips. He held still, except to stroke my hair with his free hand and whisper things in my ear that I didn’t even understand, words that made me soak the blanket through.
“You’re so delicious. Such a hot little cunt. All mine on this bus. Nobody knows. Nobody knows I’m putting my fingers this deep inside you.”
I gripped his cock harder. I ran my finger through the little thread of fluid leaking from the tip and brought it to my mouth under the blanket. I licked it off. He saw me and his whole body shivered.
“Fuck, girl. You’re going to kill me.”
“You come too,” I whispered. “Come in my hand.”
I came a third time silently, almost without breathing, when he shoved his three fingers all the way in and curled them against that spot that made me lose my mind, while his thumb ground down on my clit. I pumped his cock with my hand to just the right height, squeezing and sliding and squeezing the head again.
I felt his hand clamp down on my hip. Then a restrained jerk, as if his whole body went rigid for an instant. Then a thick heat in my palm, gush after gush of warm semen slipping between my fingers, a lot, more than I would have guessed for a man his age. I kept stroking him slowly to draw out the last drop. Then a sigh against my ear that made my whole nape prickle.
“Oh, girl,” he whispered, trembling. “Girl, girl, girl.”
***
We stayed still for a while. The blanket hid the mess. My hand was full of his cum, sticky and warm. I licked one finger to see what it tasted like — salty, thick, a little bitter — and he looked at me with a face I will never forget: a mix of tenderness, guilt, and hunger that I had never seen in any guy my age. He carefully pulled his fingers out of my cunt, shiny to the knuckles, and brought them to his mouth. He looked me in the eyes as he sucked them one by one.
“Ten minutes to my stop,” he said softly.
“Okay.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
He laughed. This time it was the laugh of a tired, happy man.
He kept stroking me over my shorts until two minutes before getting off. When the bus stopped, he got himself together, wiped his hand discreetly with a handkerchief from his pocket, folded the blanket and put it away. He didn’t look at me when he stood up. He got off the bus without turning back.
I leaned out the window, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I saw him on the other side, on the sidewalk. A woman his age, in a beige jacket and with her purse pressed to her chest, smiled at him and gave him a soft kiss. He hugged her as if he had just come back from an exhausting trip. They took their grown son by the arm and walked away.
***
I had given him my number before he got off, written on the inside of the alfajor wrapper. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know either.
He called me that same night. I didn’t answer. He called the next day. I didn’t answer that either. He called all week, at odd hours, almost always during office hours. I never picked up. Not for lack of desire. Out of fear. Out of common sense. Because of the woman in the beige jacket.
Then he stopped calling.
Today I’m twenty-six, and still, when I get on a bus at night, I look at the man who sits next to me. Some of them look back, and for a second I remember the gray blanket, the bump in the road, the heat of that hand that knew exactly what it was doing, the taste of his cum on my finger.
Sometimes I fantasize that it’s him. That he recognizes me. That this time the bus stops at a motel and not on a sidewalk where another woman is waiting for him. I fantasize about stripping naked for him, about opening my legs on a bed and letting him fuck me however he wants, face down, face up, on my knees, until I’m voiceless.
But the men who sit next to me usually just open a book and say good night.
And I put on my headphones, look out the window, and adjust my top.
Just in case.
There were still three hours to go before we arrived, and the man in the next seat had already pulled a blanket from his bag. He told me he was cold. I wasn’t cold at all.