Public Transport 1

Camelia couldn’t wait to get home. Clutching her Gucci handbag firmly and clicking her Manolo Blanhik stilettos maniacally against the concrete, she waited impatiently for the public bus to arrive. She normally took a cab, but, inexplicably, she wanted to take the bus today. Perhaps her lapsed choice in public transport was due to the disastrous day she’d had at work. She wanted to order a Chinese meal and settle herself in front of the tube. She was grateful that she lived in the thirty-minutes-or-less food emporium that is Manhattan. Who needs a kitchen and a stove nowadays when you have take-out?

“Hey,” a messy-haired man in a sloppy white t-shirt and run-down jeans greeted.

Camelia nodded absently—inwardly hoping that he wouldn’t talk to her. She hated it when strangers initiated conversations. Didn’t they know that this was New York—a.k.a., the snob city capital of the world?

“Where you headed?” the man asked.

She tucked a strand of her straight dark hair behind her ear and huffed, “Downtown.”

“Really? Me too! Gotta have a chat with my ex. She don’t wanna return my stereo. Well, she gon’ have to, that’s all I know.”

Camelia smiled politely and looked away. She’d had a lousy day at the office. She wasn’t about to have a conversation with a man with a fourth-grade level in English grammar.

She’d just about had it with her boss’s tantrums. It seemed that the only thing she was ever asked to do lately was redo designs. And she’d once thought that being a freelance fashion designer was glamorous! Camelia’s latest creations had received a lousy review by Penelope Porizchova—the eccentric woman whose name was used for said garments. “Unique!” Penelope had shouted. “I want unique! Can’t you grasp the meaning of the word

unique?

This”—she’d picked up a pile of Camelia’s latest inventions and dumped them flat on the floor—“is rubbish. All of it! Rubbish! The same uninspiring crap you’ve designed for four bloody years. I want to see something so un-fucking-believable that the people at

Vogue

would beg for exclusive footage. Have I made myself clear?” Camelia nodded meekly and scooted out before Penelope uttered another stinging retort.

Now all Camelia wanted was an uneventful commute to her apartment. Was that too much to ask?

Luckily, the bus arrived. Unfortunately, the messy-haired guy—otherwise known to Camelia as Mr. Chatty—also got on it. Camelia hoped that he’d sit somewhere else—preferably thirty feet away—but Mr. Chatty sat on the empty seat next to Camelia, though the bus was empty. Chatty plopped on the seat and took a deep breath. “God, I’m tired,” he said. “Can’t wait to get my stuff and go home.”

Camelia remained cool and closed, hoping he’d take the hint. But Mr. Chatty carried on. “You’re very pretty, eh? Bet you got a boyfriend waiting for ya . . . a pretty girl like yourself gotta have one of them investment bankers eating out of your hand. Lucky dude, I’ll take ya that!”

She shot him a sharp look and hoped that that would shut him up. As she did so, she noticed something arresting.

By God

, she thought,

Mr. Chatty is gorgeous!

His greasy brown hair flopped around his chiseled face, adding a majestic air of enigma to his hazel eyes. His rampant chest was visible behind his sweaty t-shirt, and his jeans revealed an enormous bulge that could be nothing more than a massive erection. Camelia’s breath caught in her chest as she felt a surge of excitement swift through her loins. Heat rose between her legs and she continued to take in his beauty. What was happening to her? How was it possible for a man to go from a sloppy pest to a sex god in a matter of seconds?

Dazed, Camelia shook her head and said, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Well,” he replied as he smiled provocatively, “that wouldn’t be the case if it was up to me, babe.”

His bad grammar and poor dress style no longer bothered her; she had to have him. Now. On the public bus. With the driver stealing glances in their direction. Camelia scarcely behaved this way, but fucking a sexy loser on a public bus after a disastrous day could well brighten up her day.

But how would she initiate the courtship?

As if reading her thoughts, Mr. Chatty grabbed Camelia and walked her to the back of the bus, where he bent her over, removed her pink lace La Perla thong and massaged her crevice using two fingers.

“You’re wet,” he marveled. “You see? I knew you’d want me. ‘S why I started talking to ya. Spoiled rich girls like you just want a real man to take charge and fuck ‘em senseless. Ain’t it the truth? Do you not want to be fucked senseless on the back of this filthy bus, baby?”

Camelia wanted to tell him that she was neither rich nor spoiled, but his fingers probing into her swollen sex had made her speechless with shock and ecstatic with desire. This situation would have seemed frightening in other circumstances, but she couldn’t help but admit to herself that she indeed wanted to be fucked . . . fucked hard by a stranger in the back of a dirty public bus.

She felt him rummage through his jean packet. He produced what could only be a condom. “Gotta protect the good stuff, babe,” he confirmed.

He unbuckled his belt, dropped his pants to his ankles, put the condom on and, before he entered her, asked tentatively if she was sure she wanted to do this.

“Yes!” she shouted in uncontainable excitement. “Yes . . . please!” She arched her back and spread her long legs wider apart to indicate that she was ready.

“That’s my girl,” he cooed, running his hand up and down her opening. She twitched with desire.

And then she felt it—his cock gingerly making its way inside of her. He entered her with an artful skill that made her melt. He made his way inside of her slowly at first. Then his thrusts became harder and rougher as his animal hunger increased. She couldn’t help but notice that the wall of flesh entering in and out of her was very well endowed.

Camelia was facing a window and moaned to the passersby as the most euphoric waves of pleasure contracted and paralyzed her entire body. Mr. Chatty pulled her teal-colored Valentino top up so that her breasts rolled free. They bounced rhythmically with his thrusts. Camelia had always considered her breasts to be her most desirable asset, and she knew that men went gaga over them—after all, she paid a handful of money on implants to ensure that that would be the case. She tossed her head back and moaned as his fingertips teased her hard nipples.

They pumped and groaned in unison, until Camelia was hit with the most exquisite eruption known to womankind. She came again a few seconds later. Then she came again. And again. An orgy of orgasms. Camelia was flabbergasted. She’d scarcely experienced great orgasms, let alone ongoing ones.

His breathing quickened and intensified, announcing an explosion of his own. “Oh yeah,” he groaned, his hands pressed against her hips. “Oh yeah. Oh shit!”

He collapsed on top of her, panting like a dog. Camelia, too, was wiped out—goose pimples pricked her skin like an aftershock.

Finally they composed themselves, and Mr. Chatty put on his jeans and walked leisurely toward his seat. Camelia donned her top and noticed that she had missed her stop. She requested an exit to the next one.

Before she left, she walked to Mr. Chatty, who was all smiles and dimples, and deposited her panties on his face. “A souvenir,” she said.

He laughed, took a whiff of her panties and placed them in his jean jacket. “Thanks,” he said.

They gazed at each other, smiling. “Ain’t you gon’ tell me your name?“ he asked.

“Sorry. Other than enjoying sex in unconventional places you and I have nothing in common.”

He nodded, disappointed. “Whatcha know. You’re even wilder than me.”

“It’s wilder than I.”

“Whatever. Goodbye, stranger. And thank you for the lovely chat and for everything else. A fancy-looking chick like you shouldn’t ride on a bus alone. Someone might take advantage of ya.” He winked.

Camelia laughed. “I’ll take my chances. And good luck getting your stuff back from your ex-girlfriend.”

As she walked out the door, the bus driver smirked and said, “That was some show you got going there! ‘S why I didn’t let anyone in!”

Camelia stared at her reflection in a shop window. Her glossy raven hair was smooth and flawless and she looked poised and pristine in her suit—certainly did not look as though she’d just been ravished by a stranger on the back of a public bus. Her skin, however, glowed with post-coital contentment. Her green eyes sparkled. It was a great conclusion to an otherwise dull day.

Perfect

, she thought,

I look perfect.

With a flourish, she click-clacked her Manolos through the downtown traffic. She hailed a cab that would take her to her stylish SoHo loft, where her investment banker boyfriend awaited.