The Bus Ride

Rain! Why here? Why now? Why, when I was wearing silk? The blouse, accompanied by a flared, knee-length skirt that had been swirling around my thighs as I walked, was now saturated, clinging to every curve I owned, and there were a lot of them. Ten minutes earlier, the heavens opened and a deluge fell on my head in an instant. Seriously, what had the forecast said? Sunny spells with a light breeze and a moderate pollen count. Not a single mention of a drop of rain much less the torrential downpour that drenched me to my skin; light precipitation this was not.

A bus, that's what I needed, a shelter too and as I dodged past puddles the size of Lake Erie, I spotted what looked to be a bus stop. The City had been renovating them recently; this one had yet to be tended to. The glass or rather perspex backing was cracked, dirty, and graffiti-adorned nearly every inch of its surface. The old timetable had to be several years out of date and the roof was near non-existent. I picked a spot that seemed to afford me a little shelter and waited.

After what felt like hours, but was likely only a few minutes a bus approached and drove right past me, packed to the brim with people. Steamed windows didn't give me much of a view, but the shadowed silhouettes could just be made out in the dimly lit lower deck. Clearly, the rains had prompted everyone in the city by travelling by public transport. I checked the time; another bus approached; this one nowhere near as full but not due to stop where I stood so that too sailed on past me. The rains grew heavier, a persistent wind whipped through and around the measly shelter making it feel much colder than it was.

"Shit." the profanity was past my lips before I could stop it. A single droplet hung from my nose, hair clung to my face like a jet black satin sheet, and I knew without needing a mirror that any makeup I'd so carefully applied that morning was smeared down my face. Another bus approached, this one seemed just as full as the first but thankfully it stopped. As I moved out from under the shelter and took the first step up onto the vehicle, I sighed, this was not going to work. People were crammed thickly onto the bottom deck and I knew from having looked up while outside the upper level was equally as crowded.

"Room for one more?" I wriggled in between the two people closest to the driver, and he nodded. I was certain that it couldn't be legal but I shrugged it off. I wanted home and this was likely the last bus for a little while; frankly, I was not enjoying the idea of ending up with pneumonia. I paid, grabbed my ticket and squeezed past and through the next couple of people before I realised that there was no way I could make it further, at least for the time being. One hand lifted, reaching up for the overhead bar, the other settled on the back of one of the bench seats. As the bus moved off, we all lurched simultaneously but once on its way, the tightly packed group likely kept each other upright.

Time passed, a few people departed, more got on, and I came to the conclusion that getting a seat was unlikely. I found this annoying given the journey was ordinarily around thirty minutes long, but at this rate with a pause for every stop, bickering and moaning passengers about the lateness, the weather and the prices of fares I feared the journey was going to last much longer. I had ended up nearer to the back, after some shuffling, my view of the outside obstructed in front and back of me but to either side, I could just make out through steamed and smeared panes to confirm I wasn't even a quarter the way home yet. Someone had thoughtfully cracked open one of the long thin lever windows, but even with that the atmosphere was stuffy, claustrophobic and all kinds of smells assaulted me, mostly damp but at some point, coffee had been spilt leaving the floor tacky, that and someone was in dire need of a shower. I lowered my head trying to get my nose as close to my own body as possible and inhaled; the light perfume I usually wore hadn't been washed away, on the contrary, with my body heat and damp clothing it actually smelled stronger, even better.

That was when I felt the hand. Not my hand, someone else's palm had planted itself neatly across the rise of my right buttock. I turned my head one way then the other trying to work out which arm the hand might be attached to, but being pinned in by people and their various bags, one of which kept dancing in front of my nose, it was impossible to determine. After delivering a light pat, it moved away, and I attempted to see faces of those sat on the bench seats either side of me, their faces in profile but without telltale expressions of mischief. Perhaps it had been my imagination? It wasn't there any more and as the next minutes passed I shrugged it off as being a mistake, likely an amorous lover seeking to grope their partner and finding my generous bottom in the way.

The bus stopped, people departed and got on again, I essentially hadn't moved more than a few inches forward and back, having dodged the bag in front of me at least twice I then settled to endure the next leg of the journey. The hand returned, this time lower, it slipped over my plump, rounded ass cheek then between my thighs. My eyes bugged, breath catching in my throat as I gasped aloud; should I say something? Who should I say it to? What would I say? Surely the person doing this would deny it; I couldn't tell if the hand belonged to a man or woman, there was no way of knowing so I couldn't identify my molester, not even if my life had depended on it. I squeezed my thighs together tightly, inadvertently trapping the roaming digits. I was determined at least not to make this easy and felt sure that sooner rather than later the bus would stop and I'd be able to move, or they'd give in and withdraw.

Minutes ticked by, the hand moved, higher, wedged between my legs, the fingers wiggled and persisted until he, or she, was likely now able to tell what fabric my panties were made of. Inwardly I cringed, the dilemma here was that if I made a fuss, they would get away with a quick fondle, but a small part of me wanted to know just how far this could be taken. Here and now I had anonymity, I recognised nobody on the bus, I could not even identify who, even as I pondered these things, was teasing the tip of one finger to hook into the fabric of my knickers and tugging downward. If I allowed this, gave silent consent then what could happen? My mind wandered further still, what if the owner of that hand was old? What if they were too young? All types of physical appearances flashed through my mind as options but what it all boiled down to was this, whoever owned the hand that was deftly tugging at my knickers until the sides were slipping past my hips, knew what they wanted, what they were doing and how to take advantage of the situation.

I relaxed my legs; the strain had made them tremble having kept the muscles tautened for so long; both knees wobbled and I tightened the grip around the overhead bar and the bench seat to my side. The hand or rather it's owner, must have understood this as acquiescence because their movements became quicker, tearing at the panties until they hung about my knees, a quick wriggle and they dropped to the floor, then without a second thought, I kicked them aside, no doubt for one of the bus cleaners to discover later. The hand was gone, maybe that was their goal all along, to divest me of my underwear and leave me knickerless on a bus packed full of people? Perhaps he or she would pick up said garment at the end of their journey and save it as a trophy? I didn't know and was surprised to find I was a little disappointed at this anti-climax.

I need not have worried, only a minute or so later the hand returned, sliding confidently upwards between my slightly parted thighs and moving straight for its goal. I found myself holding my breath, both eyes half-closed, heart rate pounding so loudly. I felt sure that the man or woman behind me could hear it. Fingers that seemed skilled and assured to me, teased along my nether lips tugged at the shortly trimmed pubic hair, stroked up and down following the cleft even as far as between my buttocks and forward again. I couldn't help it really; my hips had begun to follow the motions but in counterpoint. The digits slid backwards, my pelvis tilted forward, with an almost imperceptible rocking that felt to me obvious and noticeable but in reality, was likely too subtle for any but the hand to appreciate.

Man or woman, I had no way of knowing, that part of me which wondered about the owner of the hand's gender was pushed aside, it didn't matter, I'd committed to this, and it felt too good to want to stop it now. The tip of one digit had found my clitoris, that tight bundle of nerves that others in the past had found difficulty in locating was now engorged, pumped full of blood and throbbing with a pulse of its own. Whoever this was clearly had experience and I bit back a moan of pleasure, certain that though my movements may go unnoticed, the sounds I might make would certainly be heard. Trusting the hold, I maintained on the overhead bar and the seat back, I closed both eyes and sought that place inside my head just for a few moments, long enough to creep closer to my personal goal. Yes, I'd decided, not only was I allowing this delicious molestation but I was going to damn well get an orgasm out of it too.

A familiar ache had begun to build, internal muscles clenched and squeezed emptily and as though, somehow, the owner of that hand understood my needs, my frustrations, they ceased to stroke and rub my now quivering clit and slipped back, up, and inside. God! One, no, two fingers pushed in and out, in and out, a firm thrusting motion that, had the bus been empty or silent, would have produced that slick wet sound most probably recognised. I moaned, breathing heavily, I couldn't help it, so to disguise the raw, throaty noises, I coughed. Someone, a passenger near but closer to the rear of the bus, called out "Bless you." I attempted a reply of thanks but at that moment in time lacked the mental capacity to remember my name much less social etiquette. The hand was unrelenting, two fingers that were saturated in my cream alternated between fucking me and rubbing across my throbbing clitoris; they ensured rhythm was maintained, the tempo increased, knowing, no doubt, that my climax was imminent.

The bus stopped, the hand removed itself from between my legs leaving a smear of slickness against my inner thighs. I wanted to scream out 'NO! I'm not finished!' but I brutally bit back any such cry of frustration. Someone got on, the people around me seemed closer than ever, packed so tightly that I could feel the heat permeating through the back of my still damp blouse. I looked up and behind me to see the face of a man, not much older than my thirty years of age. He gave me an apologetic expression, I assumed, from being pressed against me in this way but I saw no other signs that he might be the hand's owner, the conspicuously absent hand. Resigned to spending the rest of my journey knickerless, wet, frustrated, aching with need, I sighed, adjusted my grip and eyed the stitching of the bag, which all this time hovered a mere inch or two away from my face.

Without warning nor teasing. Without gentle approach this time, the hand returned, two fingers thrust hard up into me and I near climaxed from that alone. It was all I could do not to cry out in surprise and pleasure. Conscious of the man pressing up against me from behind, no doubt believing me to be some sort of tease, I attempted to subdue my rocking hips but this was harder to do than I'd have imagined. In, out, in, out, faster, harder, deeper, those fingers angled up and forward rubbing against that spot that most women have difficulty finding. The thumb, at least I assumed so, since I could not see, rubbed against my oiled clit matching the feverish rhythm that I couldn't keep up with. I came hard, the orgasm no surprise and I let loose a throaty cry of release. I was no more capable of silencing that sound than I was of sprouting wings and flying off into the sunset. A visceral, primal reaction invoked by those skilled digits that continued to work, to manipulate even as my internal muscles squeezed involuntarily around them. I might have received many looks from those near me but given the seating arrangements and the tightly packed crowd the only person who showed any sign of having heard me, was the man behind me, I heard him cough and felt him adjust his stance allowing his conspicuous erection to press up against my buttock briefly.

Trying to imagine what I might look like at that moment was not difficult at all; flushed features, mottled flesh, streaked make-up, hair hanging in damp, lank strands around my face and shoulders. Perspiration had erupted across my forehead, rivulets of sweat had left several wet trails down my neck, back and between my breasts dampening the fabric, it came into contact with even further. Breathing erratically, my chest rose and fell as I struggled to compose myself, both nipples ached, jutting forth, tenting the sodden blouse. I could feel, trickling down my inner legs, evidence of my orgasm and as the hand withdrew, it swiped across each thigh, smearing the creamy liquid release leaving me trembling and in slow recovery. It moved around to my buttocks, squeezing them as though in thanks then disappeared entirely.

I had no idea of how long it lasted, but a quick look outside at the still pouring rain and a few blurred landmarks told me I neared home. Reaching for the bell nearest me, I pushed the red button, heard the familiar 'ding' and felt the bus slowing and finally pull into the stop. As I moved forward, squeezing through the tightly packed passengers I looked back over my shoulder in a vain attempt to locate my molester or benefactor; I saw faces, mostly blank in expression either occupied with phones, papers, books or straining to see out of a smeared pane but nothing, not a single clue as to who it might have been. Disappointment first, then relief, what would I have done had I identified them, I didn't know and felt, as I stepped off the bus and out into the downpour that although some might find this disturbing, I was exhilarated, euphoric, and despite the rain, I damn near skipped the rest of the way home.

Later that night after a long hot bath and tucked up in bed, I relived that bus ride, at least twice more. My fingers, in an attempt to mirror the skill of my nameless, faceless, genderless molester, worked feverishly, deliciously, wantonly. I allowed my mind to wander, to elaborate just a little, but the ending remained the same, a blissful climax anonymously gifted.

I did not expect the same thing ever to happen again but as the days and months passed whenever I caught that same bus home I'd often look around, and wonder...