What Happened Inside the Bus That Afternoon

That Friday, when I left the faculty, I took my usual route to the bus stop. My backpack was heavy, I had my headphones on, and I was thinking about the economics exam I had the following week. I wasn’t thinking about anything else.

The stop was crowded with parked buses, drivers sitting on the steps or leaning out the windows, with music blasting and beers in hand. It was that time when shifts ended and impromptu celebrations began. I had crossed paths with those gatherings dozens of times without anyone ever saying anything to me.

That afternoon was different.

“Laura, is that you?” I heard a deep voice behind me.

I turned around. It was Don Ernesto, the driver of line 14, that burly man with a gray mustache and small eyes who always greeted me when I got on his bus. I had known him by sight for years, and I had seen him again a few months earlier when he found out I was Daniela’s cousin. Since then, he always looked at me differently, with that mix of recognition and something else I preferred not to name.

“Don Ernesto,” I greeted him, stopping. “How are you?”

“Very well, very well.” He nodded toward the parked bus in the back, where laughter and cumbia could be heard. “We’re celebrating Don Héctor’s birthday. Why don’t you join us for a beer?”

I hesitated. It was almost six in the evening and I had homework waiting. I also had that instinct you develop over time, the one that tells you when an invitation is just an invitation and when it’s something more.

“I don’t know, Don Ernesto, I have to get home...”

“Just for a little while, girl. Come on, Don Héctor gets happy when there are new faces at the party.”

Something in the way he said it made me smile. Don Ernesto was one of those men who know exactly what to say so you agree without feeling pressured. He gently took me by the elbow and started walking toward the bus before I had finished deciding. I followed him. Not because I had no choice, but because I wanted to see where he was taking me.

***

The men inside were between fifty and their sixties. Don Ernesto was the oldest of them all, nearly seventy and well into it, but none of them looked tired or old at that moment: they were drinking, laughing, singing off-key to the radio at a volume that made the windows vibrate. When I got on, they all turned their heads at the same time.

“Guys, let me introduce Laura,” Don Ernesto said with a satisfaction he didn’t bother to hide. “Daniela’s cousin.”

Several of them nodded with a smile. Someone handed me a beer before I could say anything. I took it.

“Welcome to Don Héctor’s birthday,” said a short man with gray hair and bright eyes, who turned out to be the guest of honor. He held out his hand and shook mine warmly between both of his, looking at me as if he had known me for years.

We toasted. I took a long drink from my beer, more than I had meant to. I was thirsty, or that’s what I told myself.

The cumbia gave way to reggaeton, and without anyone organizing it, we started dancing inside the bus. The space was tight, so bodies stayed close, brushing against each other with every movement. At first I moved slowly, with that caution you have when you know everyone is watching you. But the music was good, the beer did its job, and after a while I forgot there were ten men watching every sway of my hips.

Or I pretended to forget. Which is not the same thing.

I moved my hips more freely. I turned my back to Don Héctor when he asked me to dance with him, and I felt his hands on my waist, clumsy but warm, following the rhythm as best they could. The others cheered, clapped, made comments that the music half-covered. I felt the birthday boy’s hard bulge pressing against my ass through my skirt, pushing with every beat of the reggaeton, and instead of moving away, I pushed my hip back and let him know I had noticed. Don Héctor growled something in my ear that I didn’t understand, and his hands slid a little lower, until they rested just below my navel, his fingers spread as if measuring the width of my belly.

“What a way to dance, girl,” one of them said in my ear. I could feel him pressed against my back, his hot breath on my neck.

I didn’t answer. I just smiled, and when Don Héctor’s hand rose without permission to brush a breast over my blouse, squeezing me for a second before moving down again, I didn’t stop him either.

***

Two hours passed. Night had fallen without me noticing, and the atmosphere inside the bus was completely different: darker, denser, charged with something that wasn’t just cigarette smoke. Empty beer bottles piled up on the floor and someone had pulled out a bottle of aguardiente that was being passed from hand to hand.

My legs felt a little heavy and my head had that warm buzzing that comes before dizziness. I recognized the sign.

“I think I’m going,” I announced, looking for my backpack between the seats.

“But this is just getting started,” protested one of the men, not moving from his spot.

I got up anyway. I went down the bus stairs more carefully than usual, holding on to the handrail, and when I reached the sidewalk I felt the cool night air on my face. I closed my eyes for a moment and breathed deeply.

Don Ernesto came down after me.

He caught up to me in just a few steps and wrapped one arm around my shoulders, gently pulling me toward him. I felt him against my hip. I recognized it without hesitation: the old man’s hard cock, swollen against my thigh through the fabric of his pants, thick and hot. He made the slightest effort to hide it.

“Why so fast, Laura?” His voice was low, almost a murmur. “You and I haven’t danced yet.”

“You didn’t dance all night,” I said, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.

“I was busy watching you.”

I turned toward him. His eyes were fixed on mine, and on his face there was a calm certainty that unsettled me more than any insistence would have. He wasn’t a man who begged. He was one who waited, with the patience of someone who knows time works in his favor.

“Don Ernesto...”

“Ernesto, plain and simple,” he cut in. “We’re old acquaintances now.”

He took a step toward me. I didn’t back away.

What happened next was slow, deliberate. It wasn’t the kind of thing that happens all at once. It was a gradual approach, almost ceremonial: his hand on my waist, his face lowering toward mine, the warmth of his breath mixing with mine, and then his lips, settling over mine with a certainty that completely disarmed me.

I kissed him back. I didn’t think about it. I just opened my mouth and let him in, and his tongue moved slowly, unhurried, exploring mine, sucking it lightly, biting my lower lip with his old teeth. He smelled of beer and work and something else that was hard to name, and that smell turned me on more than I wanted to admit. I felt my pussy suddenly get wet, the moisture soaking through my panties, and I pressed my thighs together as if that would hide it.

His hands roamed over my back, slid down to my hips, pulled me against him. My fingers were tangled in his shirt. I felt his body against mine, solid and warm, and I also felt that swollen cock pressing against my belly, insistent, throbbing through the clothes. He took one of my breasts in his hand and groped it over my blouse, squeezing it fully in his palm, searching for my nipple with his thumb until he found it hard and pinched it slowly, drawing a gasp from me that went straight into his mouth.

I pulled back just enough to breathe.

“They’re watching us,” I whispered.

“Let them watch,” he said, not changing his tone.

He was right. When I looked up, there were faces peering out the bus windows. No one spoke. They only watched, with that tense stillness of people who don’t want to make any move that might ruin what they’re seeing.

I should leave. I should grab my backpack and walk home and forget this afternoon.

I stayed where I was.

Don Ernesto kissed me again. This time deeper, with more intent. His hands found the hem of my skirt and slowly lifted it, centimeter by centimeter, without roughness. I didn’t stop him. When his fingers got where they were going, first over my panties, pressing the soaked fabric against the lips of my cunt, and then moving it aside with two thick fingers that slid straight between the folds, I held back a sound I didn’t want to make in the middle of the street, and failed halfway. The two fingers sank fully into me, to the knuckles, and he held me like that, impaled on his hand, while he whispered in my ear.

“You’re soaking, girl. Waiting for me all night, huh?” He moved his fingers inside with a slowness that made my knees tremble. “Come on, come inside.”

“Inside,” he said, pulling his fingers out and taking them to his mouth without taking his eyes off me, sucking my wetness from his fingertips as if it were honey.

***

The inside of the bus smelled of music and sweat and that specific tension desire has when it’s been building for hours in a closed space. The men had settled into the seats, silent for the first time all night, watching. Some had already unzipped their pants and were stroking their cocks over their briefs, unhurried, waiting for the turn they knew would come. Don Ernesto guided me to the back, where there was more space between the seats.

I knelt down without anyone asking me to. It was what I wanted to do, and at that moment I didn’t care to deny it. I unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down to his knees, and when I took his cock out of his briefs, a sound of surprise escaped me: it was thick, dark, veins raised all along the shaft, with a big shiny head already beaded with a clear drop. I took it in my hand and was surprised by its weight, the hardness of an old man of seventy still getting his cock up like a mast.

I licked it first from bottom to top, with my tongue flat, following the thickest vein from his balls to the glans. I ran my tongue over the frenulum, circled the head all the way around, and when I heard him let out a rough groan from deep in his chest, I took it all the way into my mouth. I swallowed it slowly, feeling him rest a hand on my head without pressing, letting me set the pace, while I kept taking him in until the tip hit the back of my throat and I had to pull back coughing. I went down again. And again. I heard the sound of his breathing change, growing more labored, and the wet noise of my mouth sucking his cock filled the back of the bus.

“That’s it, that’s it, girl,” he panted. “Suck it like you owe it to me.”

I also heard someone moving behind me. I felt new hands on my hips, different ones, rougher, lifting my skirt up to my waist and yanking my panties down to my knees. I froze for just a second, assessing the situation, with Ernesto’s cock still in my mouth. Then I decided to let myself go and arched my back, offering my ass to whoever was behind me.

I felt a finger enter first, probing my cunt, checking how wet I was. Then the thick head of another cock pressed against my entrance, pushing slowly, opening me by force but without haste. It filled me with one thrust that knocked all the air out of my body and made me let go of Ernesto’s cock for a second, mouth open and saliva hanging from my chin.

“Swallow it, don’t let it go,” Ernesto ordered, grabbing my hair and shoving his cock back into the back of my throat.

The man behind me started fucking me with a heavy rhythm, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in to the hilt, while he held my hips with both hands and yanked me toward him with every thrust. I was on my knees, with a mouthful in front and my cunt filling up from behind, and there wasn’t a single thought in my head that wasn’t about keeping pace with the two cocks at the same time.

What followed was a succession of sensations I wouldn’t be able to arrange chronologically even if I wanted to. Bodies, hands, mouths, heat, weight. The men took turns with a patience I hadn’t expected from any of them, without rushing or clumsiness, with a cadence that had something almost ritualistic about it. I went from one to another without anyone forcing me into anything I didn’t want, and in every position I found something different.

One laid me on my back on the long seat in the back, spread my legs, and buried his face between my thighs, licking my pussy with his rough mustache scraping my lips, his tongue working my clit with the precision of a man who had spent forty years learning how to eat pussy. He made me come in his mouth without asking, and when he lifted his face his chin was all shiny and he wore a satisfied smile before climbing on top of me and fucking me to the hilt while I was still trembling from the first orgasm.

Another put me on all fours over one of the seats, knew exactly how to hold me by the waist so the angle would be right, and drove his cock into me with short, deep thrusts that made my forehead hit the window. I felt his balls slapping my clit with every thrust, and I came screaming something that wasn’t a word.

Another sat me astride him, guided my hips with his hands, and made me ride him slowly, while he spoke in my ear with a rough, low voice that made my skin break out in goosebumps, telling me things none of them would say to me in daylight. “You fuck so good, girl.” “Look how you’re taking it all.” “Move, move, like that, so I can cover you with my balls.” He pinched my nipples with his thick fingers while I rose and fell on him, soaking him with what another man had left inside me.

Don Héctor waited his turn like the birthday boy he was, and when it came he asked me to suck him first, sitting in a seat with his legs apart and his hands behind his head. His cock was smaller than Ernesto’s but curved, and I put everything into my tongue, sucking his balls, taking him to the back of my throat, looking him in the eyes while I pulled him out with strings of saliva hanging from him. Then he sat me on top of him facing him and slid into me slowly, wrapping me in his arms, and like that, pressed against his chest, with his gray beard scraping my neck, I came again, trembling in his arms as if I were having a fit.

I got close to the edge several times before I fell. When I came hard the first time, it was with Don Héctor’s mouth on my neck and another man’s hands losing themselves between my legs and a third cock forcing its way into my mouth, and the sound I made was anything but discreet. It filled the bus and echoed off the windows.

No one laughed. They stayed still for a moment, watching me tremble, and then they went on as if nothing had interrupted the rhythm of the night.

I lost count of the orgasms at some point. I lost count of time too. One man came inside me with a short roar, squeezing my hips until he left marks. Another pulled out his cock at the very last second and emptied his hot cum over my tits, running down to my navel. A third asked me to open my mouth and finished inside it, ordering me to swallow everything, and I did, looking at him, with thick semen sliding from the corner of my mouth.

Ernesto saved himself for last. When the others had already settled into their seats, panting, their cocks hanging out of their pants, he came over and put me on all fours on the back seat again. He mounted me slowly, sinking all the way in at once, and started fucking me with the methodical slowness of an old man who knows how to ration his strength. He talked to me in my ear the whole time, calling me a whore, calling me beautiful, telling me he had wanted to try me for years, since the first time he saw me get on his bus. When he came, he did it with a long groan, filling me with repeated deeper thrusts until he stayed pressed against me, trembling, his forehead resting between my shoulder blades.

I felt the hot cum leaking out of my cunt, running down my thighs, mixing with all the others already inside me.

***

I stayed lying on the back seat, eyes closed and breathing slowly, listening as the normal sounds gradually returned: low voices, the creak of the seats, the sound of a beer being opened. Someone covered me with a jacket I didn’t recognize. It smelled of tobacco and cheap cologne.

Don Ernesto sat beside me a moment later.

“Are you okay?” he asked. It was the first time I had heard anything like doubt in his voice.

“Yes,” I said, without opening my eyes.

“Are you sure?”

I opened my eyes then and looked at him. He had the same face as always, the same gray mustache, the same small eyes behind the wrinkles. But there was something in his expression that hadn’t been there all night. Something that looked like concern, or maybe respect.

“I’m fine, Ernesto,” I said. Without the “Don.”

He smiled. He got up without saying anything else and went to rejoin the others.

I stayed still for a few more minutes, listening to the murmur of those men’s voices who had gone from strangers on a bus to something with no clear name in any language. Then I slowly sat up, adjusted my clothes, feeling how their cum was still trickling between my legs, soaking my panties that I pulled up without cleaning myself, and picked up my backpack from the floor.

When I got off the bus, the street was almost empty and the night air was cool and clean. I walked home without hurrying, with my legs still a little unsteady, with that pleasant heaviness the body leaves you with when it has been used the right way.

I thought about Daniela as I walked. I wondered whether she had felt the same that afternoon on Ernesto’s bus, whether she had also gotten off into the street with her head full of things she didn’t know how to sort out, with her cunt full of ten old men’s semen. I decided I would ask her someday.

Or maybe not. Some things are better kept to yourself, without words to make them smaller.