She used to be just a passenger once. Not like this. With her wrists tied up to the railings, upside down like an inverted pear. Her cunt is nearly at eye length of the average passenger, her thighs just spreading wide enough for someone to dig in their nails before tasting her. She is wearing nothing except for a maroon thong. A maroon thong, which is mostly translucent except for a small triangle shaped opaqueness at her pussy. It's not hiding anything though. Especially not how much she enjoys being hoisted like this. The thong has been already pulled aside as if it's just for decoration. Someone has scribbled in smooth calligraphic on her stomach, Transit Whore. The city has mandated tickets are not required anymore to board the bus. Just probe her with your tongue when you enter. Traffic sign style stick figure cartoons are displayed on the walls of the bus to demonstrate how. This has dramatically reduced the amount of car transit in the city. The freeways have never been more free. The only emissions people talk about are the ones in her holes. A noble green target.
When tickets and tap cards were a thing she used to be a regular. Just another passenger. She would wait at the bus stop at Nussbaum avenue by the poster of "The Kinky Slinky - The musical", swiping through pictures of hard cocks, angling herself just right so the pedestrians walking past behind her wouldn't see. But they all saw. And knew. She would hop on exactly at 8am, and then ten stops later she would hop off at Delario Street. Her right foot always landed first causing a little splash at the same little puddle that reflected back her amused expression, causing her beady anklet to get wet in the process. Her skirt lofted up, exposing a good portion above her knees for anyone passing by.
She could never get herself to sit on the seats, as comfortable as they were. Even when the bus was nearly empty during vacation season. This way, she hoped the men boarding the bus would graze her as she wished. As they wished. Grazing probably understates it. She wanted the men to walk by, their muscular chests intentionally pressing against her breasts. She wanted the men reaching for the upper railing, use their other hand to probe her skirt discreetly as if it was their wallet. Their own to freely pull out her yelps from, as she leaned her head backward trying to hide her urge for them to exercise their misstep. Every misstep was priceless but earned the right amount of coy glancing. Many times even that wasn't necessary.
But not every other passenger was as enterprising. The man with glasses and satchel, with books of architecture poking out, for example. It started with him sitting two seats away pretending to be distracted by the trees in the rich neighborhoods, wondering which era the houses were from. He would pretend to grimace when he came across the cookie cutter houses. But she could see through the grimace. She could see where his attention really was.
Now and then she would catch a phone flash and click from where he was sitting, like fireflies of arousal. She had over just two days gotten a sense of when the flashes would start. She could see his reflection on the window glass keenly gazing at her. His eyes would start beaming, and he would press his satchel against his pelvis harder, as if trying to rub his cock over his pants, his hips convulsing in agitation. She would even anticipate it and stand in a way so his camera lens would be better aligned, stealing lessons from nights of posting faceless nudes onto her favorite slutty subreddits.
Maybe if she stepped this way, the arch of her dress would hug her ass better. Maybe he could catch her nipples poking through her dress against the light splitting through the upper window. Day by day he would get bolder and slightly more confident. Once she was wearing a silky skirt with a split at her thighs, and she let it open just right so he could set just when the bus exited the dark tunnel near the courthouse. She wasn't wearing any panty.
The next day he was sitting one seat closer her and she took him off guard by walking up close to him, and testing the softness of her lower lip with her teeth, at his hopelessly flushed face. Every time the bus rocked she would feign losing balance and weigh her hips against his cheeks. Sometimes she turned away from him and it was her ass testing his composure. The growing floral whiff from her body followed by the suffocation answered a question for him he had wondered since he was 17. What does heaven feel like through all the senses?
