Stanleys Dream Travels

It was a beautiful day in late spring. The sun was warm, the breeze cool and the air clear. Stanley walked away from his bus toward a small beach-side cafe a hundred yards east of where he'd parked up; a nice cup of tea his reward for a service well done. He'd take his time, give it a half hour - no, forty five minutes - to be on the safe side. He knew his passenger was being well cared for. He needn't worry about that.

He smiled to himself as he sipped the sweet milky tea, feeling good about how it had all gone so well; the first day of his retirement venture: Stanley's Dream Travels.

The Daimler 5 cylinder CVG had been waxed and polished and looked like it had just rolled off the production line. A fantastic bus, an original 1946 model, completely re-upholstered since being saved from the scrapheap just a few years ago. Now it was Stanley's pride and joy, his raison d'etre in his old age.

From where he was sitting he had a good view of it, the complimentary red and cream paintwork gleaming in the sun as if new. He smiled to himself again. It wasn't only the bus that he had to be proud of. For Stanley knew that inside the bus at that very moment, for his lucky passenger, a dream was indeed coming true, and it was coming true because of him.

What made this knowledge extra pleasing was the fact that it nearly hadn't happened at all.

Only a couple of hours earlier Stanley had been standing, feeling slightly disappointed, beside the bus's back-end at the embarkation point, looking relaxed in his driver's garb of unofficial blue denim, his full white hair neatly combed, bakersfield moustache a color to match. He was ready for the off. But no-one was around. Nobody waited to climb aboard, no-one it seemed wanted a ride.

The bus' Victory Gardner engine ticked over, purring like an old lady cat.

Stanley hobbled over toward the driver's door to the driver's cabin. His right knee was troubling him and age was catching up on him. But he accepted the wear and tear of an active life. In fact he was proud of his advancing years.

He glanced at his watch. Time to go.

Still nobody appeared.

'Oh well' he said 'If not this time, then maybe the next'. He opened the door and was about to climb into the driver's cab when he heard the quiet of a female voice.

'Where does this lovely old bus go to?' it said.

Stanley turned and saw a pretty-though-plain woman, face bereft of make-up, hair tied back with a black hairband, dressed in a dour shapeless knee-length skirt and a plain loose-fitting grey t-shirt. Her age could've been anybody's guess, from somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. It wouldn't be unfair to believe either. Perhaps early forties, thought Stanley.

'Where does this bus go to?' he re-iterated. It was a good question, one that made him pause for thought.

'Well, that depends on where you want to go' said Stanley after a moment, quite truthfully.

He looked at her while she contemplated his answer.

She certainly isn't beautiful he thought as he clocked her pale skin, although, he mused, she might've been once-upon-a-time.

'Erm ... well ... I ...' said the woman, a little flustered, unsure of where she really did want to go.

Aha! A little flustered. Stanley smiled. He knew just the place to take her.

'Well my dear, hop aboard Stanley's Dream Travels and let's see where we end up, eh? And after that I'll make sure to bring you right back to where we started, Ok?'

She smiled. Stanley was a charming old man and the old bus looked charming too; charming, comforting and safe. Stanley's suggestion 'Let's see where we end up, eh?' echoed through her mind.

'Yes. Yes, ok ...' She said, making up her mind, and hurried around to hop on board. For the first time in a long time Sally Jones was feeling a sense of adventure.

***

Sally settled onto a seat a third of the way from the front. At first she barely noticed the world outside as Stanley drove through the non-descript streets of town. Being pre-occupied with the marvelous interior of the old Daimler her imagination had let loose on an age before her time. Her mother and father must've ridden on busses like this, she mused, imagining the bus full of people back in the day dressed in 1940's and 50's attire. She could almost hear their chatter, almost smell their Woodbines and John Player cigarettes.

Eventually though the outside world did catch her eye as town gave way to countryside; farms, fields and rolling hills, and trees in fresh leaf anticipating the joy of full summer about to flower in a matter of a few short weeks.

Sally felt good, better than she had in ages with brief thoughts of her own happy life of halcyon golden summers flickering over the fulfillment she no longer felt. But she didn't want to acknowledge that part of her - the down side - not now she was enjoying herself.

But then the sky outside darkened. The landscape changed and her emotions changed with it. She looked out the left side window. A dark brooding ocean formed in her vision through the thinning trees and began to swell menacingly close to the shore-line road they were travelling on. She felt confused and lost. Where was Stanley taking her?

The brooding ocean was as dark a sea as she'd ever seen. She didn't like it. It was angry and intimidating. The more she looked the more it rose and roared. It reached out like a giant hand that scared her to the bone. Then, just as it looked like it would engulf the whole bus - and her - suddenly receded with an evil hissing sloosh. If she were honest (and without a reason not to be) being the only passenger on board, with no-one there to help allay her fears, she felt frightened.

Frightened, vulnerable and alone.

She was alone.

She turned her head, stoically facing front again, trying not to look at the sea, fighting off her fear, trying not to think all the thoughts that were crowding her mind, thoughts that tumbled and fell like a glass flute slipping from her hand as storm clouds formed over crumbling cliffs further ahead in the distance; thoughts of why her life had turned sour; her broken marriage, subsequent divorce, loneliness. Yes, she admitted, a frightening loneliness. She saw herself all too clearly; dour, middle aged and unwanted. The future - her future - looked nothing but forlorn and grim.

She cried.

For a few brief seconds she allowed the tears to fall then told herself to pull herself together. Silly girl. We're perfectly safe. Look, the storm's behind us now. And it was.

She fumbled in her bag for a tissue just as the bus came to a slow halt.

She dabbed her eyes, feeling rather than seeing Stanley clamber down from the cab - but looked out after him anyway.

'Just got to stretch my legs for a minute ... won't be long' Stanley called out cheerily, just enough so that Sally felt comforted. 'We're almost there' he added almost as an afterthought.

Sally wondered what exactly was going on. And where exactly was 'there' going to be? She looked about and didn't recognize anywhere. And the ocean stumped her. The menace outside had dissipated. But surely, she thought, we didn't live this close to the coast?

But at least the sea outside was a calmer sea than before.

In fact, the more she looked the more it became a lovely shade of turquoise, smooth as glass under a warm blue sky. She scanned around for the storm clouds she'd seen ahead but there were none. Not a single cloud. Not anywhere.

Suddenly Sally felt more composed and actually, yes, quite happy again. But not only that, the lovely view instilled a curious inquisitiveness in her, a long-abandoned dormant feeling that felt ... exciting!

She scrambled like a teenager over to the left side window, scanning from right to left and back again with unforeseen sunshine in her soul, watching the ocean lazily lapping at the sandy shore nearby, seeing a rabbit run across the road and disappearing through a hedge, spying a house across the street that lay nestled in a small copse of Ash trees. Everything enthused her.

Ash trees, she thought.

Ash; the tree of life. Ygdrasil the Norse people called it. The tree of procreation.

How do I know that, she wondered. She couldn't remember ever having known that.

For some reason the house held her eye more than the trees. And she knew why; subliminally, immediately, consciously. It was the scaffolding, the scaffolding that clutched and scaled the side of the building like a baby being held by its mother.

Scaffolding!

Something so basic, so elemental, so strong. And so hard.

A feeling.

A movement held her gaze. A subliminal thought flashed through her mind. There on the scaffolding was a young builder looking seriously handsome. Sally stared in awe, gazing at his firm body working in the heat of the day. The subliminal thought gatecrashed her psyche; a repeated one, a guilty one - of her neighbour Mrs. McGill's son, now a strapping twenty year old, himself an apprentice builder and not too unlike the man she was staring at now.

The guilty feeling aroused in her a sensual longing she didn't want to admit to. And the results were the same as when she'd looked at the neighbour's boy when he'd been doing some neighbourly repair work on her house last week; she touched herself.

Stealing glances from a safe distance, private and unobserved, she'd rubbed herself through the fabric of her dress, gazing at the now fully grown man she'd known since he was a boy, gazing at his chiselled torso, his manly pecs, at his abdominals straining with his exertions, at his well developed biceps, his triceps, at his strong muscular thighs, at perfectly firm buttocks enclosed in dirty khaki shorts.

Her breaths had come in short gasps. Her touch instinctive and barely conscious at all. Still, she had slowly become aware of it and knew she should stop. And here she was doing the same thing now.

She admonished herself. She was on a bus for goodness sake. Frustration would only fuel her life's disappointment. She fought a tormented battle with her response, desperate to control the fermenting desire of a sexually frustrated woman that was threatening to run away with her, just as it had done when looking at Mikey from next door.

Yes, she admitted to herself, a sexually frustrated woman. How long had it been? Three years? Four? And more to the point how long had it been since the sex had been good, if it ever had?

Lost in sad contemplation once more, she sat back down and didn't even notice the bus was moving again. It took more than a long minute before she realized it was.

The moment she did notice was the jostle from a large pothole that bumped her back to reality ... and the simultaneous realization that there was another passenger on board.

Another passenger!

She felt a tingle rise up her neck. A slight clearing of the throat told her it was a man. A man! Just thinking the word excited her. She toyed with it in her mind. Man. Said it to herself slowly, stretching out the vowel. Maaan. Why did the thought of it being a man intrigue her so, she asked herself foolishly. Man. She knew the answer. Of course she did. It really wasn't hard to understand.

He was sitting five or six rows back, far enough for her not to feel in an uncomfortable situation but close enough for her to feel ... what? Observed? Yes, she was being observed. She could tell.

He hadn't said a word. But Sally thought she could hear his thoughts just as she thought she could feel his stare fixed on the back of her head.

She was his quarry, his prey.

He wanted to fuck her. She was sure of it. She could sense his primal urge.

To fuck. So primitive, so rudimentary, so unsophisticated.

He wants to fuck me, she thought again. And it was a thought that knotted her up inside.

Because Sally Jones liked it.

God, she liked it.

She liked the thought. She liked the feeling it gave her. It was a silent and brooding one. A complete sexual feeling. More so when the man shifted seats ... brooding and sexual ... not settling until he was now only a couple of rows behind her.

She was his prey.

Brooding and sexual. Very, very sexual.

She felt the bus pick up speed, rattle over more potholes, then turn a bend as it swung round a dramatic cliff road. Far below the sea was stirring again. She could feel it.

He was close enough now that she could smell the aroma of stale sweat and labour radiate off his body. It was a strong odour. But she liked that too. The smell of a man. A working man. The smell of this man.

He was looking at her, undressing her with his eyes.

She just knew it.

She gasped. Still he said nothing. But his hard silence only thrilled her the more. As his eyes bored into her, pheromones flooded her senses and she realized her hand was back between her legs.

Only this time she'd hitched up her skirt.

She inhaled his odour wanting desperately to turn around; to face him, to look him in the eye, to calm the nerves churning inside her ... yet at the same not daring to, in case it spoiled the arousal heating her erogenous zones as every crunch and grind of the Daimler's shifting gears throbbed through her seat. It was becoming a thrilling ride, one that made her gasp out loud.

The Daimler slowed around a protracted s-bend then crunched back up into top gear. The ocean was flooding the shoreline below.

She sensed the man moving again.

Her hair stood on end.

She heard him settle directly behind her, the smell of his pungent scent as arousing as the sound of his deep breaths over the whine of an engine being pushed to the max, the Daimler now set on an exhilarating final straight run.

She heard him shift in his seat. With her whole body tense and upright, her back arched and her breasts jutting forward, she felt hot breath on her neck. A shiver shot through her like a streak of lightning from her nipples to her vaginal walls. Her legs quivered, everything quivered.

He breathed in her ear. She shivered and turned her head slightly to allow him to do it some more. Then his tongue licked her ear.

Her breasts swelled. Her mouth fell open. Full lips sucked on her lobe. Her nipples tightened. Her head fell back, her legs spread to a wide V. Impulsively she touched herself - middle finger sliding over the cleft of her labia. She didn't need to touch herself to know how wet she was. She could tell. She was dripping. Dripping wet. But it felt good anyway.

Wild excitement shone in her eyes as she saw two dirty rough hands reach down over her shoulders and plunge straight under the loose neck of her t-shirt until they grabbed her fleshy breasts. She turned her head a little more - enough to allow the man to kiss her open mouth. He squeezed her tits hard, rolled them around with his big hands while she arched her back a little further. As his tongue snaked into her mouth and attacked her tonsils she reached round behind and under her t-shirt to unclasp her bra.

Then she leaned back into her seat as far as humanly possible.

Her tits fell free, momentarily, but not for long. In one swift action he reached down to the hem of her t-shirt and pulled it up over her head, lifting it inside-out over her upstretched arms. He slung it aside somewhere far behind him. Her bra followed and tumbled to the floor.

She looked at him, a great gasp escaping her lungs. He was naked from his khaki shorts all the way up to his cropped suede-head; a guilty dream, a dirty dream.

She looked at him; he was virile, he was built. He was an adonis.

He was Mikey.

And Mikey bent forward, almost double, over her left shoulder to suck hungrily on her breasts, first one then the other taking them in turns.

Sally Jones had never felt like this before. Forty-two years old, divorced, dour ... and completely turned on.

Now six feet three inches of twenty year old muscle and brawn was feasting on her like only a young man could. And she adored the way he was doing it.

She adored it when he pawed at her with his rough hands, loved it when he sucked a hicky onto her breast around her nipple, mewled when she felt his hand cup her hot wet mound between her exposed legs, gasped like a sulky child when he suddenly broke free of their entanglement only for him to carefully step around the seat to stand in front of her, pulling open his fly, looking down at her without a hint of a smile, letting his baggy shorts fall to his builder-booted ankles.

And she really adored it when just as she was admiring the nerve-tingingly beautiful penis pointing at her face, she realized the bus had stopped and out the corner of her eye spied Stanley hobbling purposefully away and toward what looked like a cafe about a hundred yards away.

'We've arrived' he called out without looking back.

***

Sally Jones couldn't take her eyes off the sculptured perfection in front of her. She savoured the sight of smooth sun-baked taut flesh over rippling muscle like a catholic looking at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. She was intoxicated by the smell of him, the soft golden hairs that covered his legs, his arms, his navel, reaching out to touch him and run her hands over that wonderful body, so firm, so young, so virile.

Mikey's cock gently slapped at her face while her fingers explored the contours of his torso and she happily allowed it to do so, relishing the delicious guilty feeling that accompanied it. Part of her so wanted to taste it, to kiss it but by her own admission was no ... cock-sucker.

Cock-sucker. Even the phrase made her blush. She'd never really tried, not even for her husband, had always been too ... scared ... and distasteful of what she always thought as something only bad girls did.

But now, now as Mikey rolled it across her face, touching every part of her with it; chin, cheeks, forehead, nose, even across her lips, she felt a wild urgent carnal urge surge from deep within, an urge that made her lips quiver, her vagina gush and her nipples swell even more than they already were. It was mouth-watering. Literally. Sally couldn't think of anything else she'd actually ever literally salivated about in her whole life.

'I've always fancied you Sally' said Mikey and she could no longer help herself; planting urgent feverish kisses along the long length of his meaty shaft, for the first time in her life she wanted - no, needed - to have a cock in her mouth, a perfect cock like Mikey's to gorge on, devour and yes, salivate on. She took it right to her throat, her hands roaming swiftly and wildly over any and every part of his body she could reach.

Humming her new found joy onto his cock-head, his rough hands gripped and pulled her hair, hurting her as he ripped her hair loose from the black band that kept it tied back. The slight pain from having her hair pulled only turned her on more. She shook her hair loose and long, and laughed as he thrust his hips backward and forward in a circular motion while she sucked on his cock like her life depended on it. It felt like he was making love to her mouth, making love to her. Oh, how wonderful he was. How wonderful he was making her feel.

And when finally Mikey started to groan and tense, the anticipation of swallowing his ejaculation burst out from inside her in a quivering pantie-soaking hands-free orgasm, her first since ... well, forever.

She felt beautiful.

***

Stanley had long since finished his tea and when it was time made his way slowly back to the lovely Daimler. He hobbled along carefully, hoping to time it just right.

Stealing a glance in the window he saw Sally sleeping, face against the opposite window. She looked lovely, he thought, a glow on her cheeks, a smile on her face and her hair all over the place.

When she woke, she woke fully dressed and invigorated. Then she realized they were moving and then she realized they were slowing to a halt. Then she realized they'd arrived back to where they'd started from. It seemed a long time ago and barely real but the dream she'd had along the way was etched into her mind.