The Mature Driver Who Asked Me to Meet Her on Her Route

It all started the way many stories no one truly plans begin: a long afternoon with friends, enough alcohol to loosen our tongues, and a coincidence that, viewed from a distance, no longer seems quite so accidental to me.

That time, the three of us had arranged to go bar-hopping through the center of a neighboring town. I had gone out without any hurry, wanting to laugh for a while and get home late. I didn't expect to meet a woman who would throw the following months into disarray.

One of my friends left halfway through the afternoon, another suggested we move on to another town where more acquaintances would join us, and we ended up boarding an almost empty bus. That's where I saw her up close for the first time.

The driver was called Clara, though I learned that later. She had reddish hair, a long, firm figure, and the kind of face that doesn't need excessive makeup to attract attention. She wasn't a young girl, nor did she need to be: she was a fully grown, self-assured woman, her uniform neatly in place, with a way of looking that seemed like a calm provocation.

Since we didn't know where to get off, we asked her which stop was the right one. She answered patiently and quickly got caught up in the nonsense we were spouting. The three of us ended up laughing with her for much of the journey, ignoring the “no talking to the driver” sign as if it didn't exist.

She had a deep, very feminine laugh, and when she smiled, a fine wrinkle appeared beside her eyes that made her even more attractive. I couldn't take my eyes off her hands on the steering wheel, the way she changed gears, or the ease with which she handled that enormous vehicle.

“If you keep this up, I'll drop you off two towns farther away,” she said, laughing.

“As long as you're the one taking us, we don't even care,” I blurted out, half joking.

She turned her head just slightly, only enough to look at me for a second longer than necessary.

“You say that because I haven't charged you a surcharge yet.”

We carried on with the afternoon with other friends, more beers, and more noise. Later that night, when it began to rain, my companion and I returned to the stop to go home. The bus opened its doors, and there she was again, wearing the same half-smile, as though the night had brought her back to us on purpose.

She recognized us immediately. The trip home was even more relaxed. When we reached our destination, she told us she had a break before her next route and was going to have a coffee. We went with her to a nearby bar. She ordered coffee; we ordered another round.

Without a steering wheel in front of her, Clara was even more attractive. Tall, long-legged, the uniform shirt fitting over her breasts without exaggerating, but without hiding anything either. She spoke naturally, with that mixture of cheekiness and experience some mature women have when they no longer need to prove anything.

She told us she lived alone, had been separated for years, and that her children were already adults and living their own lives. I pretended to listen calmly, but inside I was putting the details together. I didn't yet know why, though I did know what for: I wanted to see her again.

***

Months passed before I ran into her again. It was at the capital's station, an ordinary afternoon, when I boarded a bus without thinking and, looking up, found her behind the wheel.

“Look who showed up,” she said as soon as she saw me. “Weren't you one of those people who take the bus once a year?”

“That's what I thought,” I replied, “but if you're driving, I might sell my car.”

She laughed heartily, an open laugh that gave me more confidence than I should have had. I let the others board and stayed near the ticket machine, talking to her throughout the trip as if we'd known each other for much longer.

When we reached the end of the line, she told me she was due for a break and owed me a coffee. We went to a small place opposite the station. This time we joked less and talked more seriously. About work, tiredness, and how strange it is to connect with someone when you already have an established life.

When we said goodbye, we kissed each other twice on the cheeks, but neither kiss landed where it should have. Both brushed too close to the mouth. I noticed it, she noticed it, and from the way she lowered her eyes for a moment, I knew it hadn't been accidental.

I went home with the feeling that we'd left a conversation unfinished. Not one made of words, but of bodies.

***

The third time, I was the one who looked for her. I'd happened to see her route a few days earlier and, with a patience I don't usually possess, found out where she made a long stop toward the end of the afternoon. I showed up there on the pretext of having a drink at a bar in the area, though the truth was simpler and more ridiculous: I wanted to see her get off the bus and find out whether that tension was still alive.

I waited, watching the street, until her vehicle appeared through the drizzle. She parked a few yards away, got out with a confident stride, and entered the bar, barely shaking the dampness from her hair. When she saw me, her eyes widened and she smiled like a woman who was surprised, yes, but not too surprised.

“I can't believe it. What are you doing here?”

“An impromptu visit,” I lied. “And since I was here, I thought I'd have a drink.”

“Of course,” she said, with a look that made it clear she wasn't swallowing any of it. “Pure coincidence.”

She sat down with me. She said she was paying this time, and we argued a little out of habit until she won. We talked without rushing, with a new tension, cleaner and more brazen. We were no longer the friendly driver and the annoying passenger. We were a man and a woman testing how far they could take a game.

When she looked at her watch, she let out a short sigh.

“I have to get back to the bus.”

I walked her to the door. The street was half empty, and the evening light had already disappeared. We stood very close, not saying goodbye right away, as though we were both waiting for the other to do something that would justify everything that had come before.

“You already owe me too many coffees,” I said.

“I'll have to make it up to you another way.”

“There's no need to wait that long.”

She didn't step back. Not even once. She simply held my gaze.

“You're dangerous.”

“And you don't seem frightened.”

Then I kissed her. Without asking permission in words, but knowing it had been granted before I even moved closer. Her mouth answered immediately, firm and hungry. It wasn't an awkward or startled kiss; it was the kiss of a woman who had been imagining it for some time and, now that she finally had it, decided not to waste a second.

Clara opened the bus door and we climbed aboard. She closed it behind us. The silence inside, with all the dim lights and empty seats, hit me full force. She grabbed me by the nape and kissed me again, this time sliding her tongue into my mouth with a hoarse moan that made me hard instantly.

I slipped a hand around her waist, pulling her against me. I felt her firm body beneath the uniform, the heat that had built up, her quickening breath. I lowered my hand to her ass and squeezed it hard. She bit my lip.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “You've been looking at me for months as if you wanted to rip my clothes off.”

“Because I've wanted to do it for months.”

“Then do it, but quickly. I don't have much time, and I don't want to be left wanting.”

I kissed her again while sliding my hand between her thighs. Through her trousers, I felt the heat of her pussy, and when I pressed my palm against it, she let out a wet, open moan, the kind no one fakes.

“Mmm... keep going.”

I undid the button of her trousers and lowered the zipper. I slipped my hand inside her panties and found her already wet, very wet, her pussy hot and slippery. I stroked her lips slowly at first, savoring the way she trembled, then thrust two fingers inside her all at once.

Clara leaned her back against a side rail and spread her legs as far as her uniform allowed.

“Jesus... like that... yes, like that...”

I moved my fingers inside her, thrusting in and out firmly, while searching for her clitoris with my thumb. Her breathing grew harsher. She sucked on my neck, squeezed my shoulder, then looked at me with a brazen, almost defiant expression.

“Come to the back,” she said. “Don't get me worked up here just to leave me hanging.”

We headed toward the back of the bus, stumbling between kisses. There, in the last row, she pulled down her trousers and panties in one motion, without false modesty, revealing a wet pussy, open for me, with neatly trimmed hair and thighs already glistening with arousal.

I knelt in front of her on pure instinct. I spread her legs farther and ran my tongue from underneath up to her clitoris. Her reaction was immediate: a jerk of her hips and a deep moan that echoed throughout the vehicle.

“Fuck... don't do that unless you want me to come right now.”

I didn't listen. I kept eating her pussy eagerly, licking her for real, opening her with my fingers to push my tongue where she was wettest. The taste was strong and clean, and the more I sucked her, the wetter she became. She held on to the seatback and began fucking my face, thrusting her pelvis against my mouth.

“Yes... yes... like that... suck me... fuck...”

I pushed two fingers inside her again while sucking on her clitoris. Then three, slowly at first, until I felt her pussy opening and swallowing my hand hungrily. Clara moaned without the slightest embarrassment, her head thrown back, the uniform shirt partly unbuttoned over her breasts.

“Don't stop... don't stop... I'm going to come...”

I felt her tense. Her pussy began contracting around my fingers, and she came moaning, her body trembling, her thighs squeezing my head. She collapsed onto the seat, sweating, her mouth hanging open.

“Now you,” she said after recovering a little. “I want to see your cock.”

I lowered my zipper and pulled out my cock, which had been hard for some time. She looked at it hungrily and grabbed it without delicacy, stroking it up and down while biting my neck.

“I imagined it more than once,” she admitted. “Especially when you kept staring at my legs as if you were about to do something crazy.”

“And you gave me reasons.”

She bent down and took it into her mouth in one motion, swallowing half my cock with an ease that only experience brings. My knees nearly buckled. Her mouth was hot, very wet, and she alternated long licks with deep sucking, looking up at me to see how I reacted.

“Fuck, Clara...”

She smiled faintly without letting go completely and kept sucking me with perverse calm, pressing her tongue against the most sensitive part. Then she pulled my cock from her mouth and brushed it against her face for a second before standing up.

“No time to show off,” she said hoarsely. “Fuck me.”

I turned her around and pressed her against the seatback. I pushed her shirt up around her waist, leaving her ass bare. I pulled her panties completely aside and thrust my cock into her in one stroke. It slid in easily because she was still soaked, and even so, we both let out a short, animal sound of pure relief.

“Aaah... you son of a bitch...” she moaned. “More.”

I began fucking her hard, gripping her hips. The bus creaked with every thrust, and the sound of my balls slapping against her filled the silence. Her pussy squeezed me deliciously, hot, swallowing and releasing me with every thrust.

“This is how I wanted you,” I told her in her ear. “Impaled on your own bus.”

“Then fuck me as if I were yours.”

I tugged lightly on her hair and sped up. Clara spread her legs wider, seeking a better angle, and began pushing her ass back to take me deeper. Every time I went all the way in, she let out a louder, less controlled moan.

“Fuck... yes... there... right there... don't slow down...”

I reached around her with one hand and grabbed a breast through her shirt, squeezing it without care. With the other, I kept the rhythm on her hips. I was really fucking her, without romance or pauses, and she answered just as crudely.

“Tell me how badly you wanted it,” I whispered.

“So badly... fuck... so badly...”

I pulled out and made her turn around. She sat on the back seat with her legs spread. I moved closer, and she guided my cock with her hand, rubbing the tip over her pussy before sliding it back inside her.

She lifted her legs onto my shoulders, holding on to the side rail. I penetrated her even deeper that way. Her expression changed completely; she stopped playing and surrendered to pleasure with brutal honesty.

“Aaah... no... I won't be able to take this...”

“Don't take it.”

I fucked her at that hard, steady pace, watching her breasts move beneath the open shirt, watching her pussy glisten every time I pulled out and thrust back in. She begged for more with filthy words and clipped orders, as if driving a bus full of people had been nothing compared with the pleasure of letting herself be wrecked back there.

“Harder. Fuck, harder.”

I gripped her knees and drove into her again and again until she was panting for air. Her pussy began squeezing me once more, a sign that another orgasm was coming. I lowered one hand and rubbed her clitoris in fast circles while continuing to penetrate her.

“Yes... yes... don't stop... don't stop...”

She came with a long spasm, squeezing me so tightly she nearly made me come too. She writhed on the seat, moaning with her mouth open, and coated the base of my cock with more wetness.

“Look at me,” I said, holding back.

She opened her eyes. She was flushed, disheveled, beautiful.

“I want to come inside you.”

“Do it. Come inside me. Fill me.”

Those words finished me. I thrust a few more times, each one more disordered than the last, until the orgasm rose from my belly and I emptied myself inside her with a growl. I felt my cum spill out in pulses while her pussy still milked me, and she answered with a trembling, satisfied moan, as if she enjoyed feeling it too.

I stayed bent over her body for a few seconds, breathing hard. The seat, her skin, and my crotch were soaked with sweat and sex. She stroked the back of my neck and then let out an exhausted laugh.

“Look at us,” she said. “I should be running a route, and you should probably be somewhere else entirely.”

“And yet this seems considerably better.”

I slowly pulled out of her pussy. Some of my cum slid between her thighs. Clara looked down and smiled brazenly, without the slightest shame. She calmly adjusted her clothes, like a woman who had no need to pretend modesty after enjoying herself like that.

I zipped myself up while she straightened her uniform. We kissed again, more slowly this time, savoring the tremor that remained in our bodies.

“That makes up for several coffees,” I murmured.

“Not even close,” she replied. “You still owe me quite a few more.”

***

It didn't remain an isolated act of madness. After that afternoon came more encounters: breaks at the end of the line, quick dinners that ended in discreet hotels, mornings when I invented errands so I could cross paths with her route. We no longer needed to hide so much. The excuse could be a coffee, but what we were looking for was perfectly clear.

Clara was even better when we weren't in a hurry. Sometimes she liked to take charge, make me sit down, and open her shirt in front of me so I could suck her breasts before going down to my cock. Other times she preferred me to corner her against the bathroom wall of a bar and fuck her quickly, with just enough fear that someone might knock on the door.

I learned every one of her gestures: how she pursed her lips when she wanted me to put in another finger, how she dug her nails into my back when she was about to come, how much dirtier she became in bed the more she enjoyed herself. She liked speaking plainly. No beating around the bush.

“I want your mouth here.”

“Put it all the way in.”

“Don't stop now, you bastard.”

She was a mature woman, yes, but above all she was a woman free of nonsense, shame, and theatrics. She knew what she wanted and had the courage to ask for it. Maybe that's why I became so hooked on her.

The first time was on an empty bus at the end of a route. The times after that had nothing accidental about them. And, if I'm honest, every time I see a female driver behind the wheel, I still look twice, in case that dangerous red smile opens the door for me again.