The Bus Ride

The scorching summer heat clung to my skin as I boarded a rundown intercity bus. This was the first stop, so despite the overflowing crowd, I managed to claim an empty seat. I reached up to place my bag in the overhead compartment -- it was slightly too high, forcing me to stretch. My t-shirt rode up with the motion, flashing a sliver of bare skin.

I knew what that meant.

Most passengers were from the villages and rural outskirts. I could feel their stares crawl across my exposed stomach -- not unusual, but still uncomfortable. I quickly shoved my bag in and lowered my arms, trying to disappear into my seat.

The bus jolted, and as I adjusted, my eyes caught his.

At first glance, he looked like a boy. But no -- this was a man, maybe in his early twenties. His gaze was what I expected: perverted. But it had something else, too -- a certain calm arrogance, as if he were royalty watching his favorite performer dance just for him, silently willing her to hurry up the show so he could have her backstage.

I looked away. Ignored him.

For the next two hours, I didn't glance in his direction -- not even once.

Eventually, the crowd thinned. The person next to me got off, leaving the other half of the seat empty. A few minutes later, someone slid into it. I turned and, of course, it was him.

Now up close, his face was impossibly sharp. A groomed beard framed lips that looked carved by some wicked angel. I avoided staring, but my cap shielded enough of my face that I could close my eyes and pretend to nap.

But rest wasn't what I found.

He shifted in his seat -- once, then again. Slowly, his thighs spread wider, claiming more space. My arms were crossed over my chest, and I had to press myself inward slightly to avoid his elbow brushing my boobs. I thought he'd take the hint.

He didn't.

Instead, I felt his elbow nudge the soft part of my stomach -- just a few centimeters below my right boob. Maybe it was accidental. Maybe not. I adjusted, giving him space. He paused, didn't move.

Ten minutes later, under the mask of a yawn, he adjusted again -- elbow pressing the exact same spot.

That's when I knew.

He wasn't just some guy. He was a smart, bold, perverted man -- inching forward in the shadows, daring the universe to call him out.

But here's my truth: I'm a perverted woman in her early twenties. I enjoy exhibitionism, teasing, the danger of being caught, the thrill of almost. Once I realized what game he was playing, I slipped into my role.

I let him think I was asleep.

My hands remained folded over my boobs, acting like an innocent shield. Every few minutes, he'd shift subtly, drawing closer. It was all very slow, very calculated. And so delicious.

Thirty minutes in, he was as close as he could get without touching. The only thing separating his forearm from my boob was my own arm.

It was my turn.

I opened my eyes just slightly, as if disturbed by a bump in the road, turned toward him sleepily, then shut them again. A quiet reassurance: I was "still asleep."

A few minutes later, I sighed and moved my arms, pretending to adjust my bra.

I slid my hand under the fabric and traced the underwire, slowly, lazily. Ten seconds -- just enough for him to notice. My thick plunge bra pressed against my thin cotton shirt, its shape clearly visible. I knew he could see how much it held.

I finished adjusting, let my fingers graze my nipple, and let out the faintest moan -- barely audible, but enough for someone who was listening closely.

I felt him lean in. Not touching. Not quite. Just breathing my air.

The bus was packed again, but everyone was in their own little world. No one was watching. Which made this all the more intoxicating.

I whispered, almost to myself, "Why does it ache this much today..." and unhooked my bra beneath my shirt. The relief was real. My boobs shifted slightly, unrestrained now under the cotton. I gave a sleepy smile, as if everything was unintentional, and let my hand fall -- brushing his wrist gently.

My chest was now free. My bra inside my shirt had ridden up just a little. My nipples were hard -- I could feel them, and I knew they were showing through the shirt.

The bait was cast. And I waited.

Still pretending to be asleep, I waited for his next move. Would he press closer? Would he dare? Or would he pull away -- stop before he risked exposure?

He didn't stop.

He came close -- just close enough. Arms folded across his chest, his finger snuck out and grazed the fabric over my boob. Testing. Waiting. When I didn't stir, he tried again -- slower this time -- brushing right over my nipple.

The pressure was light. Barely there. But maddening.

His fingers began to move -- not quite a rub, not quite a pinch. Just enough to tease, to awaken every nerve ending in my body. And still, I didn't move. I stayed limp, breathing slow, letting the sensations build.

I wanted more. So much more.

I imagined him pinching my nipples, sucking them through my shirt. I imagined grinding against him, feeling his erection under me. My panties were soaked now. My leggings had a dark spot where my arousal was seeping through.

One touch over my pussy and he'd know just how wet I was. I wanted him to know.

I needed him to know.

But I couldn't move first. Not yet.

So I turned slightly toward him, letting my hand fall on his chest. Then, slowly, it slipped lower -- stopping just beside his erection. Gravity, I told myself. Let him read it however he wanted.

He did.

I opened my eyes, just barely, and met his. His smirk said it all: he knew.

I parted my legs slightly. Just a bit. My hand slid over his erection -- slowly, teasingly -- not to grip, just to say I see you. And you're invited.

But we were still exposed. Too risky.

That's when inspiration struck.

I cleared my throat and said loud enough for nearby ears to hear, "Sir, can you help me with the bag in the overhead compartment?"

Perfect cover.

The bag would sit over my lap -- a shield for our private little show. And it would force him to reach up with a full erection. I was daring him.

He grinned. Challenge accepted.

He rose, carefully, using only his legs and butt to lift himself just enough. His t-shirt strained slightly against the shape beneath. He retrieved the bag and placed it over my lap -- letting his fingers brush dangerously close to my crotch.

Then he paused. Looked at me. Asking.

I gave him a subtle nod -- and more: I cupped my boob through my shirt, letting my fingers stroke across my nipple while keeping my eyes locked with his.

That was his green light.

He slipped his hand under the bag and found my pussy. One slow stroke through my soaked panties. I inhaled sharply.

He started moving -- slow, steady. Controlled. Torturous.

"Faster," I whispered.

His lips curled. "When I want."

God. The dominance in that sentence was its own kind of foreplay.

So I waited. I moaned softly when he pressed harder, when he traced circles around my clit. I squirmed, ever so slightly, my thighs quivering. I needed him. I needed to cum.

I slid my hand over his erection again -- firmer this time -- signaling how close I was. Begging in silence.

That's when it happened.

"California!!!" the conductor shouted.

His stop.

He stood up, his hand glistening with my wetness, his erection straining beneath his clothes. Before leaving, he looked at me -- not rushed, not flustered.

He raised his fingers to his mouth, tasted them slowly, like he was sampling the finest dessert.

Then, with a final smirk, he adjusted his shirt, masking the evidence, and stepped off the bus.

He left me there. On the edge. Breathless. Still throbbing.

I turned to the window. He was watching me, eyes steady, unblinking. We didn't wave. Didn't smile.

But we both knew the truth.

Tonight, we'd be masturbating, thinking of each other.

As the bus rumbled on, I pulled out my phone and searched for a vibrating dildo -- one his size.