Buses & Bad Erotica

Planes are sexy. Trains are really sexy. Buses? Buses are not sexy. Buses are warm, sweaty and cramped, or they’re cold and draughty, with virtually no scope for anything in-between. Most of them seem to be driven by angry, angry men, whose misanthropy and general hostility seem to spread through the fetid, vomit-stained upholstery and up into the previously placid passengers.

Buses are not sexy. But they are hot. If trains are a long, slow seduction in the buffet car, buses are a quick, drunken hand job on the back seat. Maybe it’s the staccato rhythm; the traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, and roundabouts, as it takes off from one stop and helter-skelters its way to the next. It lends itself to dirty sex, in a way that planes and trains instinctively don’t. Doing it on a bus means a rough, stripped-back fuck – and all the fumbling, groping, and fingering that leads up to it.

For all that, there is a halfway house between buses and more comfortable modes of transport. I enjoyed one of those earlier this week, when I took the Oxford Tube back to London, after a couple of days with my parents. Inter-city coaches marry just enough of the creature comforts of train travel (proper seats, reading lights, power sockets…), with the noisy, seedy, slightly chaotic experience of riding the bus. Like planes, they’re perfect for anything up to about three hours, beyond which you become increasingly aware that you’re trapped in a giant, unstable tin can, with a bunch of strangers and inadequate ventilation.

My journey on the Oxford Tube made me think back to a story I wrote in 2005, for someone I was dating at the time. It had already been on my mind, actually, when reading through (and thoroughly enjoying) some of the ‘EuphOff’ pieces last week. Not because I think it’s quite so spectacularly bad; more that in querying my own reluctance to write a story in response to Jane’s challenge, I’d concluded that I’m probably still sufficiently neurotic about my own writing that the idea of sending up the genre more broadly makes me just a little nervous.

It’s sort of the same feeling I get when trying to take ‘funny’ Sinful Sunday photos – the part of me that used to worry about people laughing at my body for less kind reasons kicks in, and I hang back, scared of making myself look ridiculous. For that reason, I hugely admire the people who are happy to invite that sort of response, and to be so open and generous in how they allow others to look at them, or to read their work.

Anyway, I dug out that 2005 story last night, and read all three parts. I didn’t cringe as much as I’d thought I might, but it still left me itching to do a full rewrite on the whole thing. Instead, as my own sort-of contribution to the bad erotica meme, I present it here in its full glory, 2,400 words of ‘chalky, gargantuan rises’ and ‘long, hot stream[s] of liquid soul’. And no, I won’t be doing an audio version of this one.

Journey

The bus stop offers shelter from the worst of the wind and the rain, but it is cold here nevertheless. We wait, our bodies pressed close together as you sit on my lap, your perfume cloaking us, a strong, rich, evening scent that makes me want to taste your skin. We’re holding hands, and when I untangle my fingers and raise them to my nose, I can smell you on me, warm and intense; I feel my body respond, and I shift on the cold plastic bench, moving your arse till it covers my stiffening cock.

The cheap clock on the side of the bus stop tells us that it’s late, but London is still wide awake, the streets filling with people as we prepare to make our way back to Oxford. The journey is a short one, but when you turn and kiss me, your fingers grazing along the side of my face then running through my hair, I know that it will not be short enough; I’ve wanted you all evening, and I can’t wait any longer. I need you now.

You stand between my legs and let me find your bottom lip with my teeth. I shiver, from the cold December wind that penetrates the plastic booth, and the hot, urgent desire that your body sends surging through me. You let your hands fall to your sides, then move one between us, till it rests over the front of my jeans. I pull you closer, the backs of your legs cold under your skirt when my hand finds them. When you press down on my cock, my nails dig into you; we shouldn’t do this, not here, but I’m so hard, I can’t help it. You curl your fingers around the outline of my shaft and squeeze it, your lips dancing over my face, covering it with tiny kisses. My hand is still poised, trembling, and your skin is heating up under my touch; you nod your head and look at me, your eyes luminous and clear in the shadows that fall around us. Slowly, I start to slide my fingers higher, and now there’s not just heat but wetness too, between your thighs. You squeeze me harder, and the head of my cock pushes up above the waistband of my jeans. I stop; I want to go on, to fuck you with my fingers right here, but I wait, and feel you drip onto them, the muscles in your legs tensing with pleasure.

Our faces are touching, cheek-to-cheek, and you curl your arms around my neck. Your breath is hot on my ear, and there’s a catch in it when my finger finds your clit. I draw the tip along your wet cunt, till I’m slick with you, and it feels like you’re melting on my skin. Your teeth find my earlobe and bite down gently. Every time you reach up to stroke my hair, I can feel it deep inside me, the erotic tenderness making my balls swell and tighten.

We don’t hear the bus arrive, but all of a sudden it’s purring quietly in front of us, the bright white letters spelling out ‘Oxford Tube’. You lead me up the steps, gripping my hot, buttery fingers in yours and stroking my palm with your thumb. You look over your shoulder, and I know, I know, that this is how you want to be stroking my cock, the pad of your thumb teasing over the slit. The bus is dark inside, and warm, but it’s your heat that I want; I want to pour oil on the fire in your cunt with my cock, till it consumes us both.

There are few passengers at this hour, and we make our way towards the back of the bus. It starts to move under us and you reach out a hand to steady yourself. I catch it; I catch you; I can hear your heart beating, and as we flit in and out of the glare of the streetlights, I lean forward and kiss you hard. We almost fall into our seat and you straddle me, pulling at the buttons on my shirt and pressing your lips to my chest. They’re hot, and when you kiss me, wetly, hungrily, biting at my nipples, I need to be inside you, I need to fuck you. I turn you on my lap till your legs are braced against the seat in front of us and I can reach down, under your skirt, finding your wetness again. Your cunt sucks my fingers in, two of them, and you’re so wet that when I pull them out and press them against your lips, they’re smothered in your juices. You lean back and rest your head in the curve of my collarbone, spreading your legs until you’re open to my touch. The bus gathers speed and our journey begins…

~ Part 2 ~

London is a city of shadows, cast by unearthly orange lights, but we have found our own dark cocoon at the back of the bus, beneath the noise of the engine and the restless shifting of sleepy passengers. The only sound I can hear is your breathing, louder than you intend it to be, but audible to me alone. We are awake here, together, our bodies and minds responding to each other, answering our need.

My fingers are wet with you, and we look down to see them glistening in the glare of the streetlights. You take my hand and guide it back under your skirt, back to the heat of your cunt; just to touch it makes me shiver and flush, and you know it. I can tell by the way you sigh and purr, with a smile that I can’t see but know is there; it is matched, completed, by the sudden redness that spreads over my cheeks and down my neck. I want you.

My middle finger is shaking when it presses against your clit, firmly but tenderly. You’re too wet for me to keep it there for long, and I can feel it sliding over you, its course dictated by your arousal, until I’m inside you again. You take my other hand and lick the palm, your nose rubbing up and down my middle finger as its partner pushes deeper inside you. You sink your teeth into the soft, lined flesh, biting down as my back stiffens and I have to fight the urge to take you. Your hips are moving with my finger, rolling over my hand and forcing me further inside you. I love how wet you are, how when I pull my hand away, and hear you moan in frustration, I can feel your juices in my cupped palm, and on the seat beneath us.

You half-turn on my lap, so I can kiss you and when our lips meet I don’t want this to stop, this moment of otherworldly pleasure. I want the bus to keep bumping gently along the empty roads forever, while we explore each other on this cramped, uncomfortable seat with its faded upholstery. You press your hand to my cheek and run it through my hair, but I know that what you want is lower down, trapped by your arse and my jeans.

There is room for you on the floor, but barely, and I see you wince as you kneel, your hands planted firmly on my thighs. I’m so turned on that I unbutton myself for you, your eyes fixed on the stretched denim. When my cock springs free, you lean forward, till your lips are pressed against the shaft, along the veins your tongue knows so well. I clutch at the armrest and shut my eyes, waiting for you to move, to take me in your mouth and leave me helpless in front of you. But this time you inch lower, with slow, lingering kisses until I can feel your breath on my balls, as they swell and tighten. I don’t know whether I can take this, it’s too much, and I have to pull you away, back into my lap, but you press your hands down and lock my thighs in place. I have to bite hard on my bottom lip to stop myself begging; I want to plead with you to take me now and let me feel you around me, but I stifle the words and look at you, your teeth gleaming in a smile of wicked intent.

Oh god, I can feel them on my balls now, scraping over them before giving way to your tongue. I let my hand find my cock, and I almost come straightaway; you push my fingers away, lock them in yours, then part your lips with deliberate, agonising slowness and take one of my balls into your mouth. We’re at the outskirts of London now, crawling through the suburbs, past multiplexes wreathed in neon lights and huge industrial parks abandoned for the night, but I see none of it, not this evening. You’re sucking now, your saliva rolling over me as I try to free my hands. The bus stops for the final time before we hit the motorway, and I know that we’re temporarily vulnerable, that we could be seen now by anyone who walks past the window: I don’t care. I just want you so badly that when you wrap your fingers around the base of my cock and squeeze them all the way up to the tip, I feel like I’m going to die of pleasure.

The lights are fading, and the sounds of the city are disappearing with them. Lanes multiply, fields appear beyond the metal crash barriers, and as you bring your tongue up to lick the first drops of pre-cum from the head of my cock, I know that the next stage of our journey is underway.

~ Part 3 ~

The motorway brings with it a steady, constant rhythm, and we move in a bubble of ethereal calm. You’re slow now, greedy for my cock, but agonisingly patient. I’m not used to this, the inquisitive exploration of every nerve ending, as if you’re painting me with your tongue for the first time. The lights dim, until the only illumination comes from the cats’ eyes studded into the road; from your eyes, peeling back my defences and staring straight into my heart.

Your thumbs brush over my balls, and as you raise your head, I see a long string of saliva connecting us still: your mouth, my cock. It’s too soon, I know, and there are too many miles ahead of us, but I need you on me; I need the weight of your thighs on mine, and the urgent, swarming pressure of your kiss. Overwhelming, till I can’t breathe without you. I pull you up hard, roughly. In front of us, a couple are arguing. I can hear their voices get louder, fuelled by alcohol, but a cover for your gasp of pleasure as my hands span your hips and guide your clit onto the tip of my cock.

You can’t feel my skin against you, just the thick film of pre-cum separating your clit from the soft head that you have tormented with your tongue. I don’t know what they think, the faceless inhabitants of the real world that surround us, as you half-stand, half-sit, clutching the seat behind you. I don’t care: I want you. You sashay your skirt playfully, dancing in the moonlight and taking my breath away. We pass between the chalky, gargantuan rises that guard the entrance to Oxfordshire, and I know that we don’t have long, not now. The bus gathers speed; the basin of the valley sweeps us up, but the exhilaration I feel comes from inside you. It comes from your cunt, closer now, and yes, over me, on me. Down, engulfing my cock so completely that I can’t move; you’re pinning me to the seat, your tongue flicking down over my adam’s apple to rest in the hollow of my throat.

There, a shape. Stumbling down the bus, into the bathroom, as you bury your head in my chest, suddenly embarrassed, then wanton once more, when I slide my hands under your buttocks and pull you up far enough that I can fuck you. I want to tease you, to fill you slowly, but I can’t; I’m only human and this teasing is too much. I try to speak, to tell you I’m sorry, but I have to fuck you now, and the throbbing along the length of my cock is matched only by the rush of blood to my head.

We leave the motorway, but the pace is relentless. A solid, muscular hum carries us along the smooth asphalt, but it’s my cock that takes you beyond your limits, and leaves you weak and trembling on my lap. There’s no way we can stop now, as Oxford rushes towards us, a glowing accompaniment to the reverie that we share. Your shirt is torn, I don’t know how, and I take a nipple between my teeth. The driver’s voice barks ‘Thornhill’, but the sudden assault of streetlights isn’t enough to pull us back from the edge. You look at me, and you can see it in my eyes: I’m close. Too close. A squeeze, just one, the involuntary spasm that signals your cunt’s abandonment, and I’m teetering, lost in you. I can’t hold back, not with you assaulting my senses like this, and the city’s approach is but a series of freeze frames: ‘Green Road’, ‘Headington’, ‘Oxford Brookes’, ‘St Clements’.

I come. A long stream of liquid soul, pouring from me to you and demanding a response. We flood each other as the High Street grows around us, but the hard, jerking, violent spasms are impossible to control. You keep riding me, challenging me to thrust up into you, and we’re too loud now. Heads turn, but all you can do is giggle, biting my ear with mock ferocity as you milk the last drops from my cock. We’re here, we’re home, and we’re together: the streets are familiar to both of us, but as we jump giddily down the steps of the bus, my cum starting to trickle down your thighs, I know that, for the first time, we’ll share them with each other.