This is mostly true to the extent that memory is fallible and, although several years ago, the experience stuck with me. It lies between an ambiguous implied consent and sleep fetish and I’ve tried to capture the wordless seduction that was based on body language alone; the subtlety, nuance and, in a phrase, fleeting ambiguity.
A while back I had to travel between two distant cities and I figured that getting an overnight bus; I would arrive in the morning and wouldn’t have to get a room for the night. Departure was around 21:30, a little before sunset, and by the time I arrive at the station the stippled clouds were turning a vibrant red and purple against the backdrop of an orange sky. I'm one of the first to board the coach so take a seat fairly close to the back while others from the queue filter on after me. It's not too busy, probably a little over half full, and most of those that are alone have managed to snag a double seat to themselves, including me. Once everyone is on the doors close and the engine shudders to life, it revs up and we roll out of the bus station. A warm glow floods through the windows when we escape the city as the sun hits the horizon.
Not long into the journey we make a stop at another town. Some passengers get off here but many more get on. Among the newcomers is a family of 4 and by this time the bus is already quite full with all the double seats already taken. The kids, a young brother and sister, are forced to sit on their own next to strangers. I notice this and offer my seat so that they can sit together – I thought, I'm on my own anyway so it makes no difference if I’m sat with someone I don’t know. They seem very pleased by my offer and I stand up to give them my seat. Other than a small murmur, the bus is mostly quiet during this exchange so everyone close by is able to hear what’s going on and it's clearly caught a few people's attention. As I leave the seat I catch the eye of a cute girl across the aisle a couple of seats behind, on the second to last row from the back. She smiles at me and motions to sit next to her. It's quite sweet. I thank her and settle down in the aisle seat with her to my right, shoving my bag in the small footwell between my legs.
We start to chat and she tells me that she's just finished living with a family as an au pair for a couple months and she's doing a little traveling before she returns home to Germany. The way she tells me about working as an au pair, looking after kids, it strikes me that this is probably what caught her attention about my gesture for the kids and why she indicated for me to sit next to her. Although she doesn't explicitly say this, it comes across clear nonetheless.
The bus waits at this stop for about 10 mins in total while they load everyone and their luggage on, then the big diesel engine revives filling the cab with that pleasant resonance and we push back into the countryside. It’s another 10 minutes or so before the chat between me and this girl naturally flutters out and we both turn to books and music. With my earphones playing I open the book on my lap. My eyes scroll down the page but my attention starts to drift from the dry text I’m reading and I find myself staring at the page, instead reflecting on my experience right now.
My bag, which is not particularly small, is wedged between my knees. She also has a bag which is larger than mine at her feet. This arrangement defines a limited boundary that each of our legs can occupy and for both of us that space overlaps slightly. Occasionally our legs momentarily make contact before separating like nothing happened. The coach is gently swaying as we meander down roads and this inertia encourages an almost rhythmic movement in our bodies. My awareness is pulled to the slight tensing in my legs every time I rock back and forth; I had been unconsciously resistant to encroaching on her space. It seems that both of us have been slightly holding our legs closed against our bags but intermittently the momentum of the vehicle forces us together. Neither of us is at fault; it’s just an artefact of the coach’s motion causing these innocent brushes. I catch myself enjoying it.
Twilight transitions to dusk and the driver switches the cabin lights off. Some of the personal lamps activate from their previous settings in odd rows, ours is plunged into darkness. I’m relieved to see her turn her light on and continue to read. I do the same but without even trying to read now I’m just turning pages periodically. My perception wanders again towards her. My legs are tensing softly to counter the movement towards her but I can’t do that all night, nor do I want to. But neither do I want to make it obvious that I have deliberately allowed my legs to touch her. I gradually lighten my resistance, relaxing into a wider stance.
Our connections are becoming more frequent. Our separation shortens just a little each time. It seems that she’s also relaxing into it, though there’s always a degree of uncertainty. I can see delicate movements through her black tights and I’m convinced she’s spending less and less time engaging her muscles. Though again there’s vapours of doubt. Tickles turn to strokes and I feel the warmth and shape of her muscle against my calf. I will for the rocking of the bus to provide an opportunity for my movements and it is does.
Gradually the length of our contact increases from mere moments to brief encounters, extending each repetition. I anticipate every cycle, which builds in tension as I wish for a push from the bus, until the release of each sway translating into a touch between our legs. The patter of this dance persists like waves, each growing the intensity of the last. Excitement is washing through me by the time I realise the touches last longer than not and it’s very soon after that we’re in constant contact.
I have become hyperaware of her and am tuned into an exceptional degree of sensitivity. I think I feel tiny flutters in her muscle, almost imperceptible. I’m determined to remove doubt. Using the dips and bumps of the road, I carefully shift the ball of my foot and heel incrementally closer. Millimetre by millimetre our press increases until I stop before it becomes conspicuous. I wait.
Most of the other reading lights have been turned off now except for a few closer to the front. I sneak a peak and people around us have fallen asleep. Glimpsing my watch, it’s half midnight. I close my book, turn off my light and get my phone out. My lap is still illuminated slightly by her light but it’s much darker now. She’s still reading. I feign reading something on my phone, tension rising as I wish for another signal to twitch from her leg. I’m sure I register a few false positives – too slight to be sure, snippets of relief that get drowned in doubt.
The lull of the vehicle smudges any note with noise. Anticipation surges through me like an expectant cat. Tension yearns for touch and I’m forced into an involuntary movement: I tense slowly and softly against her, to release the build-up. A few seconds later I feel a quiet answer. It bathes me with a micro-euphoria giving me goose bumps. It takes a significant effort to recover and I compose myself internally before releasing a small muscle spasm. Another delay followed by the whisper of a response. It’s not quite fact but a convincing level of certainty.
My attention is pulled towards my shorts as they become tighter due to the bulge swelling under them. My eyes trace down and I see no movement yet but I can feel growth, a gradual thickening. Leaning back, I relax, the crotch of my shorts squeezing against me as I sink into my seat. The fabric of my shorts begins to rise from my thigh, protruding as an indistinct shape. A change in the pressure between our muscles causes a fresh wash of excitement to flurry through me, gathering as a pulse in my shaft. The outline of my bulge lengthens against the tight fabric. It’s slow, as to cause no obvious movement. It continues to grow steadily more rigid, one pulse at a time. The shape widens, becoming clearer as it casts a shadow from her directional reading light. The friction of the material tugs at my foreskin and as I grow into the taut space I become unsheathed. I feel a slight rush as I see the defined outline of my shaft extend into a head. My engorged form is pressed in a heavy line down the inside of my leg.
She makes a marginal adjustment to her position. Has she seen me? I couldn’t be sure. Several more successions of our whispered body language pass. Each pause building tension, followed by each twitch or press spreading thrill through me. I swell, so hard that I can see the heartbeat in my shorts.
By this point I’ve put my phone away and have a relaxed stance, hands palm down on my sides. My Bluetooth earphones have maintained the connection to my music but it’s quiet. I could look as if I’m snoozing, eyes half closed. She stirs and places the book in her bag, then switches the lamp. Except for a rhythmic glow through the window, as we pass streetlights on the road, we are immersed in darkness. It takes my vision a while to adjust and I can only feel when she settles back down next to me.
My sense of touch is heightened even more without light. Our calves are pressed together firmly but it’s comfortable. Our thighs are close but separated with a gap that’s enforced by the small dip in our seats. I want to touch more of her but there’s a marginal uncertainty so I proceed carefully. Even with its unsureness, the silent conversation between our muscles continues in a communication that verges on imperceptible. I set out to develop this. Slowly I allow the bobbing of the road to start sliding my hand off the side of my lap, towards the space between us. The peaks and troughs of the cadence inching me towards that goal. The process is agonisingly incremental but I commit to this “accident”.
Seductively I am coaxed closer and closer until my hand finally falls off my lap entirely in my feigned slumber. I groan internally when I realise the gap is bigger than I anticipated. Proceeding with this extended journey, I repeat the method played out by the rhythms of the road. I’m sure she must be asleep by now, it’s definitely late, but I’m driven by a beastly desire now and don’t care. I feel the hairs on my wrist fold having closed the gap to almost nothing.
My heart pounds furiously in my chest and I feel my cock flex involuntarily through the tension. I look down and flex purposefully this time. I can see the silhouette strain under its canvas, demanding attention. I refuse it for now, clenching my jaw from intense desire. I twitch my finger drowsily against her tights and feel a slowly increasing pressure against it. She must be leaning in to me! Though all the swaying means there’s a lot of noise shrouding this conversation and its fraught with error margins: There’s never quite certainty, only replication is on my side. I continue closer until the whole back of my hand is against her: it’s at the point of transition from her thigh to her bum. The comfortable lulling of the bus moves our bodies and I feel myself gently rubbing against the nylon clasping her legs.
It’s been at least a quarter hour since she turned off the light now, possibly more. Using only my left hand and concealed by the dark, I discreetly remove my earphones. I am sprinkled in a low general hum generated by sounds of the road and the engine intertwined. Over this I can still make out the presence of others. Hearing her breath sleepily next to me I become aware of the rise and fall of her chest in my periphery and I can feel it resonate throughout her body. I read the spotted potential of messages from her body through our maintained connection for a while. My flexes and gentle pressures at our points of contact increase on a gradient, becoming self-indulgent.
Suddenly I am surprised by her movement. I recoil swiftly but minutely, afraid to be ‘caught’ touching her with my hand. The contact between our legs has ceased. She shifts in her chair for a moment and then sinks, settling back down. I work to steady my breathing from the surprise and assess the new situation. It was a convincing spatter of drowsy adjustment... or maybe she’s only just now become aware of the game I’ve been playing and doesn’t like it! I consider this a moment: It is possible but I find it hard to believe considering the development.
I try to focus. I can just about discern her profile, lit by a steady glow of moonlight now that our journey has escaped streetlights. A pillow is scrunched up against the window. A single ear pokes sweetly from her hair, facing away from me as if it is coy. The other is pressed firmly into the soft mass of her pillow and she is turned toward the night. Her big bag in the footwell has been squashed slightly at the top because it now supports her feet and she is resting her knees on the seat in a loose foetal position.
Craving an ever-deeper intimacy I don’t want to stop. I’m questioning myself, doubting whether to continue. It doesn’t seem appropriate. A moral battle is brewing as I slowly become aware of a warmth mounting on my hand. I’m mildly startled when I feel her heat through tights. She has slowly advanced towards me until I can feel the back of her thigh! Having been turned against me this must be her right leg, not far below her butt. I’m not sure if she can feel me through the nylon yet and I slide my hand away, matching the progress of her advance as she continues approaching towards me. I’m trying to keep the pressure light and hoping it stays private to me. Her sustained push convinces me that such a “slip” is deliberate and I stop my motion allowing the press of her muscle to build against me. It stops abruptly when it becomes firm enough for her to notice through the thin yarn.
Arousal courses through me with an energy surprisingly close to anger. It’s like an aggression urging me to react: reach out, grasp, take. Confident with our existing path I subdue the invasive force, savouring the tease. Using the slightest of touches I start to raise my fingers up her leg one by one barely tickling the fabric. I cushion the weight of my hand as it leaves the seat and I try to maintain a lightness. By the time the last digit, my thumb, follows the crowd; my little-finger and ring-finger have extended into the space between her legs, about midway between the back of her knees and her crotch. I keep my palm elevated, dancing my fingertips up her leg.
More conspicuous motions start to manifest due to my arm and wrist reaching fatigue from the extended effort of countering their weight. I am forced to allow a heavier touch, to rest the mass of my whole hand on her now but I make no sudden movements in an attempt to evade her perception with sheer gentle patience. I persist, shifting ever further up her leg. It takes a remarkable effort to resist clutching hard, the abruptness would rouse her. She’s likely faking sleep but I don’t want her to cease this. Nevertheless, I indulge myself with a squeeze. It builds delicately, stopping short of hard. I can sense the destination; the closer I get the warmer she feels.
The temperature in my hand climbs impossibly high. I keep thinking “this must be it” but it keeps escalating. And then I feel it; the puddle secreted in her panties. Absorbed across her labia the fabrics have become saturated to the point where my fingertips are submerged in dewy drops, simultaneously defining her shape with clarity but also lubricating all movements across her. I tease at her slit but these lips are shy to part, forbidden by the strict material of her underwear. I can almost feel her quiver.
There is no doubt now that we have been playing the same game. Her slumber is one of consciousness but she plays the part well. I make a due effort to keep my movements subtle but my sense of secrecy has lessened. I reach up her skirt and tug at the waist of her tights to slide them down revealing her bare cheeks. I can feel her pussy pucker against sodden knickers and I tease the warm silk over her clit. My fingers slide easily over the fabric as I run the length of her slit back and forth while her fingers part easily as if to welcome my touch.
A few moments later I shift the thin lace of her knickers to one side and hold them out of the way with my hand. Her smooth skin is slick with silk and even warmer than before and my fingers rub easily over the soft skin of her labia and clit. I tease her, intentionally pressing too lightly for her complete satisfaction but hard enough to raise her tension. Her back starts to arch slightly attempting to push harder against me but I am careful to allow just enough press to gather a moreish craving before I let my pressure fall away with the movement to continue my tease. When I finally rub harder over her clit she instinctively pushes back against me, her whole body tensing up. I twiddle over her tiny swollen button, my fingers smothered and sloppy. I become aware of the subtle sound from our wet skin sloshing and I become mindful to keep it subtle.
I can feel the tension building in her body but, partly intentionally, partly careful not to rouse anyone around us, I continue with the same pace. Her breath quickens pausing only briefly after each intake. Her leg muscles contract hard and she squeezes her thighs, pushing out even more liquid over my fingers. I sense the energy build in her as she anticipates each wave by holding her breath, every pause lengthening.
Tautness spreads throughout her body as I strum rhymical between pressures, allowing the pleasure to peek briefly before loosening. She must almost relax before I increase the intensity again; tempting her desire to grow. Each time I persuade a little more to bloom and coax her to climb a little closer to the brim. Each time her body takes a little longer to relax when I soften my rub and a little shorter to stiffen; when I squeeze her clit firmly through my fingers again. I’m playing her sensations purposefully, orchestrating the build-ups and directing the releases. Drawing out the waves of pleasure.
The tempo rises steadily with her expanding excitement, my fingers sloshing easily over the length of her glans. With my free hand I tempt three fingers against her opening and feel her flesh quivering desperately. Her breathing has become syncopated, heavy and interrupted. Her body jolts sporadically between breaths. I bear down firmly against her clit but circling slowly. Refusing to quicken my fingers now; my speed is measured to her response and I balance her on the precipice. Then, I plunge my fingers steadily into her inching all three fingers down to one knuckle, stretching her twat. My cadence against her clit quickens as I continue to steadily press, filling her sloppy pussy with my soaking fingers. She gasps frantically as if jumping into an autumn lake. Her hole widening longingly over my fingers down to the second knuckle savouring every added millimetre before, suddenly; she plunges all the way down, instinctively rocking against my fingers. The pleasure overflows causing her thighs to shake for a few moments before her body begins to jerk violently as the waves crash through her. She expels a muffled, quivering moan that erupts charged but slopes off into satisfaction. Her body unbraces, slackening contentedly and she relaxes back into the pillow she’s been clutching while she just pauses for a few seconds, silent. After a moment she slides shakily off of my fingers and regains her composure, adjusting her clothes back into their place. Shifting in the chair she leaves me and curls back up in her seat, ending our tactile conversation, seemingly to drift off to sleep. Again perhaps.
The urgent swelling in my shorts demands attention but I disregard it, withdrawing into my mind to ponder over what just fucking happened. Feelings pull me in different directions: an almost pride at having given her pleasure; concern for having molested her; fear at the thought of forcing myself on her, especially if my fierce erection takes over now; a dark, seedy satisfaction for having done all this with a stranger, in public. The thoughts swirl around my head as I ignore the pestering calls from my throbbing cock. Slowly consciousness slips away from me.
I suddenly become aware of people exiting the bus and I instinctively jump to my feet with a determinacy not to miss my stop. Realisation sinks in that mine is the last stop anyway but by this time she has already squeezed past me anyway and started to walk away with her back to me. I grab my bag quickly and follow her down the aisle. My tender, full balls jiggling as I walk, forcing me to take it steadily. Just before the doors she turns to look at me over her shoulder, flicking her hair with the movement. Her big eyes look up at me and she smiles mischievously before turning back and stepping down off the bus.
Doozy woof HunterReport