The Lady At The Bus Stop

The Lady at the Bus Stop

This story is about a young man who meets an older lady in the rather prosaic setting of a bus shelter. The story does contain anal sex, so if this isn't your thing then please pass on by.

Comments welcome, as always.

Sylviafan

Meeting Carol was a really low probability event, even though we lived in the same village. I mean I never take the bus; why would I? I have a perfectly reliable car and if that breaks down there's always taxis and hire cars or a lift from a friend or neighbour.

Except this one time. My car was in for a service and the garage had found a few expensive extra things they said needed doing and for which the parts wouldn't be available until the next day. The garage I use is a big BMW dealership near where my office is. And yes, I know the big franchises are stupid expensive but the convenience of dropping my car off in the morning and walking to the office and collecting it again in the evening just outweighs the financial penalty. For me, anyway.

They called mid-afternoon to give me the news so I booked a taxi home, which is in a village about seven or eight miles from the city centre, where I work. I should, of course, have booked a taxi for the following morning but I didn't, otherwise this story would never have happened.

At eight-thirty the next morning I found that all the local taxis, and there weren't many of them, were on school runs or taking pensioners to the hospital or day-care home. Eleven o'clock maybe, was the best I could get out of them which was a bugger because I had a client meeting starting at ten.

I walked out onto the drive and looked around at the little estate of desirable detached residences that sits at the attractive end of the village. No other cars in the drive, which meant that everybody had left for work or shopping or something; nobody put their cars in the garage. Shit!

I went back in and Googled the local bus services and found that a bus was going through the village headed for the city centre in about twenty minutes. I hadn't been on a bus since I was at school but needs must. I even knew where the bus stop was because I drove past it every day and occasionally thanked my lucky stars that I was cocooned in a luxury saloon instead of standing waiting in the cold and the wet.

The bus stop was at the other end of the village, about a ten-minute walk away and it was a pleasant spring morning as I set out with my briefcase in hand. I got there in plenty of time and discovered that there was already someone waiting in the Plexiglass shelter. A woman in fact.

She had her back to me as I walked into the shelter but I said: 'Good morning,' and she turned and smiled at me and said, 'Good morning,' back and that was the first time I set eyes upon Carol Mason. But that first impression is indelibly fixed in my mind.

In the few seconds before she turned away, I registered two distinct impressions: firstly, she was middle-aged, which nominally put her outside my interest zone, and secondly she was not very attractive. She had big, full lips and a hooked nose and dark eyes with heavy lids. But in those crucial few seconds I realised that she was sexy. To me, anyway.

I know that you can have conventionally attractive, even stunning, ladies who do nothing to tweak one's libido. Equally, I believe in the concept of ugly-sexy. Some barely definable quality that says, 'She's not much of a looker but I bet she's red-hot in the sack. I'm sure it's a very personal, very individual thing. Someone else, seeing the same lady, may just think: 'No thanks.'

Anyway, here I was, standing in the bus shelter, looking at the back of this ugly-sexy lady and feeling my stomach churn. A surprisingly strong reaction from such a short exposure.

From the back she was unremarkable: Tallish, about five feet six or seven with long, wavy, dark-brown hair just starting to show a few strands of grey. She was wearing a belted fawn raincoat so it was difficult to tell what her figure was like, but her legs, or at least what I could see of them, were nice with slim ankles and nicely shaped calves. Black pantyhose and low-heeled, sensible shoes completed the ensemble.

I stood quietly looking at her for a few moments. There was no one else about apart from the odd car that drove past, reminding me that I was on foot. I wanted her to turn around again so that I could examine her in more detail and I cast around for some conversational gambit. Eventually I looked at my watch and saw that the bus was due in three minutes.

'Is it usually on time?' I asked.

'I'm sorry?' she said, half turning.

'The bus. Is it normally on time?'

She appeared to consider this question carefully.

'No,' she said at last. 'It's normally five or ten minutes late. Sometimes it doesn't come at all and you have to wait for the next one.' Her accent had a local burr to it, although her diction was clear and precise.

'When's that?'

'Nine-thirty.'

'Nine-thirty! What time does that one get into the city centre?'

'About ten past ten. Depends on the traffic.'

This wasn't exactly encouraging news. My ten o'clock meeting was important, the first with a new client, and to be late would be a disaster. In my anxiety I forgot to look at my fellow passenger's face and she turned away again to look down the road for the bus.

And bless it! There it was. Lumbering up the road, pulling into the layby, only two or three other passengers on board. The doors hissed open and she got on and handed the driver a bank note. The change machine coughed and she took the coins and started walking to the back of the bus.

I got out my bank card.

'Sorry,' said the driver, a hugely fat, lugubrious looking man. 'Cash only. The card reader's not working.'

'But I haven't got any cash,' I protested. I mean who carries cash nowadays? People who travel on buses I suppose. I started to say that if the card reader wasn't working then I should be allowed to travel anyway as it wasn't my fault. The driver just shook his head, jowls wobbling.

'Here,' said a voice at my elbow and I turned to see the lady from the bus shelter offering the driver a couple of coins. I should have protested again but I was just so damned grateful.

'Thank you,' I said, taking my ticket and including the driver.

I followed the lady half-way up the bus where she sat down in an aisle seat and put her handbag on the empty window seat. I took the seat across the aisle.

'Thanks,' I said again. 'That was really kind of you.'

'You're welcome,' she smiled at me showing white, but slightly crooked teeth. For some reason this seemed to enhance her sexiness rather than militate against it.

'You've really saved my bacon,' I went on, studying her face as I spoke. 'I've got a meeting at ten which I'd have missed if it hadn't been for you. You must let me pay you back.'

'Don't worry about it, really. It was only one pound fifty.'

'Well, thank you again.' We lapsed into silence and I pretended to look around the bus while stealing surreptitious glances at my fellow passenger.

She sat quietly, very upright. Not reading or fiddling with her phone but just looking straight ahead, her face relaxed, her hands clasped in her lap. Her whole countenance had a sort of lived-in look: I noted the small mole on her upper lip and the fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. I noticed the chipped red varnish on her fingernails and the absence of a wedding ring, or in fact of any jewellery at all. I thought her eye makeup was a little heavy and her lipstick a little too bright red for the fullness of her lips.

Somehow, the overdone makeup and the chipped nail polish gave her a vaguely wanton air. A tiny bit sluttish perhaps? No, that wasn't the right word. It came back to the ugly-sexy thing. Whatever it was hidden deep in my sexual psyche that responded to such looks, this lady had got it in spades. If only she'd been in her twenties or thirties, or even forties...

I turned and looked out of the window, forcing myself to think about the forthcoming meeting. I took my phone out of my coat pocket and re-read some preparatory notes I'd made.

In this manner the time passed until we pulled into the bus station in the city centre, about ten minutes from my office. The passengers all stood as the bus came to a halt and I motioned to my benefactor to step into the aisle ahead of me. She smiled and I followed her off the bus and across the terminal forecourt and into a subway.

I drew alongside her and she glanced over at me, looking faintly surprised.

'Don't worry,' I reassured her. 'I'm not stalking you. I work in Richmond House, it's down this way.'

'Oh, I know it, I'm next to you, in Midland House.

'What happened this morning?' she asked me after a pause. I got the feeling you don't use the bus much.'

I explained about my car.

'Do you come in every day on the bus?' I asked.

'Five days a week,' she replied with a sigh. 'Rain or shine.'

I said goodbye to her outside Midland House, a ten-storey office block across the road from Richmond House and watched her walk through the turnstile into the foyer and head for the bank of lifts. I felt a twinge of sadness that I would probably never see her again. She had seemed like a nice person. I'd liked her. Or maybe it was just sexual attraction. I didn't even know her name.

That changed early the following week.

It was Tuesday morning and spring sunshine had given way to leaden skies and torrential rain. My windscreen wipers were going full speed as I drove out of the village past the bus stop. And there she was! A solitary occupant again, dressed in the fawn raincoat. Huddled in the shelter as the rain lashed down and rivers ran down the gutters.

Acting on impulse I pulled into the bus stop layby, drew to a stop by the shelter and powered down the passenger side window.

'Can I give you a lift,' I shouted over the drumming of the rain.

The lady leaned down to see who was in the driving seat then, after a brief hesitation, she came out of the shelter and got into my car. I rolled the window up, engaged drive and accelerated up the road in the direction of the city as she fastened her seatbelt.

'My turn to thank you,' she grinned. 'It's a horrible morning.'

'One good turn deserves another,' I said. 'I'm Nick by the way.'

'Carol.'

'Pleased to meet you, Carol.' I paused, not wishing to be intrusive but wanting to know more about her. 'What is it you do in Midland House, Carol?'

'I clean,' she said, grimly. 'What do you do in Richmond House?'

'I'm a lawyer,' I said with some embarrassment.

She laughed. 'Then you've probably got someone like me coming in and doing your office.'

'Actually no,' I was a little relived to admit. 'I only started out on my own about six months ago and I'm on a pretty tight budget at the moment. So I do my own cleaning, mostly. I also do my own secretarial stuff too,' I added, which was probably why I'd ended up on a bus last week.

We made small talk as I drove through the early morning traffic into the city centre. She asked me how my meeting had gone the previous day and I was surprised that she had remembered. I kept stealing glances at her when we were stopped at lights or in a queue. I really did find her looks very appealing in that odd, older lady sexy-unattractive way. I wondered what her figure was like, imagining saggy breasts and large, fleshy buttocks.

A horn sounding behind me alerted me to the fact that the lights had gone green and I started forward with a jolt and it was Carol's turn to glance at me.

'Where do you park?' she asked as we approached our destination.

'There's an underground carpark below Richmond House,' I told her. 'There's a space comes with my office. It's very convenient.'

'You may as well drop me there and I'll walk across the road.'

I swung onto the ramp down into the carpark, nosed my car into my allotted space and turned off the ignition.

'Thank you,' said Carol. 'It was very kind and thoughtful of you to stop for me. You've saved me the bus fare and a good soaking!'

'What time do you finish?' I asked, making no effort to get out of the car. 'I mean I could give you a lift home if the timing works.' I imagined that I could stop again one morning when I saw her at the bus stop but somehow I wanted something arranged now. Something to look forward to.

'Well normally I finish at five,' she began, 'but I have to leave at twelve today. The plumber's coming round this afternoon.'

'Oh, nothing serious I hope.'

'The kitchen cold tap's leaking. I found someone in the Yellow Pages that could come round the next day. It's been dripping for ages but now it's a steady stream. The Council said they couldn't sent anyone for two weeks! I'm on a water meter so it'll be costing me a fortune.

'So will a plumber,' I retorted. 'Couldn't you get a neighbour to have a look?'

'Not really,' she said, slightly evasively.

Carpe diem, I thought and took the plunge. 'Look, a plumber will sting you for between fifty and a hundred quid for an emergency callout. I leave work at around five too. I could drop you at your house, go home and change and pick up some tools and I could fix it for free.'

'Oh Nick, I couldn't possibly--'

'Well the offer's there.' I reached into my inside jacket pocket and extracted a business card. 'If you change your mind, call me or text me.'

She took the card and looked at it. 'Thank you. And thanks again for helping me this morning.'

We got out of the car and said our goodbyes and she headed out into the street and I went over to the basement lift. I didn't anticipate hearing from her again; that generation were embarrassed about asking for help. Imposing on people.

I found out later that she'd called the plumber and had been shocked when he said his callout charge was sixty-five pounds plus tax. I got a text message just before ten:

Nick, I will take you up on your kind offer to mend my tap. Shall I see you by your car at five pm? Thanks again! Carol.

It was silly, but I felt a tiny frisson of excitement at seeing a communication from her. And there she was, at five that evening, standing by my car.

'Are you sure you don't mind?' she asked for about the third time as I threaded my way out of the city centre and along the country roads to our village.

'Honestly, it's no trouble. I changed all the radiators in my central heating system last autumn. A leaking tap holds no fears for me,' I smiled.

As we entered the village she gave me directions to her house, which turned out to be a small, terraced property on the big Council estate that dominated the other end of the village to where I lived. The estate had been put up in the seventies and was looking distinctly tired. The Council was supposed to do all the maintenance but the painted woodwork was peeling and there were cracked tiles on the roof. But the tiny front garden was neat and there were flowers in the beds.

'I'll see you in about ten minutes,' I told her as she got out of the car.

About ten minutes later I knocked on her door and she let me in and I followed her down the tiny hall and into a small and very nineteen-seventies kitchen. I had changed into jeans and a polo shirt and was carrying a heavy-duty canvas bag of tools. Carol had taken her raincoat off and, for the first time, I was able to see what she looked like underneath. And very nice she looked too, in a plain skirt and a jumper. She wasn't Jessica Rabbit by any means and she wasn't slender and wand-like, she was just a middle-aged lady with a decent figure, slightly thickened by the passage of the years: nice breasts, a trim waist and wide hips. She had, I also noticed, an elegant posture: upright and precise.

I tried not to gawp at her too openly, but I'm a bit of a sucker for a more matronly figure and that, together with her looks, was quite a package for a horny young lawyer who hadn't had a fuck since he split up with Zoe before Christmas. I actually felt my cock start to harden.

'Ok,' I said, trying to think plumbing, 'where's your stopcock?'

Carol looked at me blankly.

'Right, let's look under the kitchen sink, that's where it normally is.'

It was, and ten minutes later I had replaced the disintegrating rubber washer and the job was done.

'My goodness,' said Carol. 'That was quick! And he wanted to charge me nearly eighty quid! I'm sorry, Nick, I'm forgetting my manners. Can I make you a tea or coffee? I'm afraid I don't have anything stronger in the house.'

The coffee was instant and bitter and we sat in her lounge-diner to drink it. The room stretched the whole depth of the house and looked out onto a small but tidy garden at the back. The decoration was a bit tired and the furniture looked as though it was second-hand. The only concession to modernity was a large, flat-screen TV in one corner.

I avoided looking around. In fact I felt a little embarrassed for her obvious poverty. There was an awkward silence as we finished our coffees and stood up.

'Right then,' I said, moving into the hall. 'I'll be off.'

'No,' said Carol, following me into her hallway and rummaging in her handbag. She pulled out a purse. 'You must let me give you something for helping me.' Her voice held a note of anguish.

'Honestly, Carol, the washer cost about fifty pence and it took ten minutes.'

'But...'

I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline and my stomach turned over as an idea flashed into my mind and I acted upon it before I could have second thoughts.

'Ok, I'll take a kiss.'

Carol gave me another blank look. 'A kiss?'

'Yes.' I took a half-pace towards her and put my hands on her shoulders, pulling her gently towards me. She came, passively, her mouth slightly open, her eyes quizzical. I bent my head down very slowly, to give her the chance to withdraw, and touched my lips against hers. They felt dry and warm and soft and I felt the blood rushing in my ears and I pressed my mouth a little harder against hers and I felt her lips move against mine and I opened my lips and slid my tongue between hers and felt her arms come around my waist and grip me lightly. And then I gave myself completely to kissing the middle-aged lady from the bus shelter: I pulled her against me, feeling her breasts against my chest. I mashed my lips against hers and sucked her lower lip into my mouth, lips working against lips, tongue against tongue, tasting her saliva, the scent of coffee on her breath, feeling her teeth, remembering their unevenness.

We kissed for two or three minutes and my cock got ragingly hard and I was afraid Carol would notice so I broke the kiss and we looked at each other, panting slightly, faces flushed, lips tender and tingling.

'My goodness,' she said, 'that was a kiss!'

'Sorry,' I muttered. 'I got a bit carried away.' I picked up my tool bag and opened the door. 'Look, why don't I pick you up from here tomorrow? It'll save you a five-minute walk to the bus stop.'

She appeared to consider the question, looking down at the floor.

'Alright,' she said, softly. 'Thank you.'

I was still hard when I got home so I went up to my bedroom and stripped off and threw myself on the bed and masturbated until I spurted thick gouts of spunk over my stomach and chest. And as I wanked myself I replayed the kiss in my head and I imagined what it would be like to cup Carol's breasts in my hands and to suck her nipples and slide my fingers into her sopping cunt.

At eight-thirty the next morning I pulled up on the road outside Carol's house; there was no drive. As I came to a halt her front door opened and she came out and got in the car and I pulled away.

We chatted as I drove, but there was a tiny tension between us, which hadn't been there before the kiss. At five that evening she was standing by my car again and we drove home, talking about television programmes and current events. The next day was a repeat of this emerging routine. And the day after that.