The last bus of the night smelled like old sweat, diesel and broken dreams.
Route 47 had already dropped the office crowd; now it was just stragglers, drunks, and her.
She climbed on at the deserted stop near the old textile mill, short black skirt already riding up her thighs, cheap white top so thin he could see the dark areolas underneath when the streetlights hit her right. No bra. Nipples hard from the night air. She didn’t even pretend to look for change—just slapped a crumpled note on the tray and stared straight at him.
“Back seat,” she said. Not a question.
He didn’t answer. Just flicked the door shut, killed the interior lights except the dim red one above the driver’s seat, and pulled away from the curb harder than necessary. The bus lurched; her tits bounced under the shirt. She smirked like she knew exactly what that did to him.
Ten minutes later they were on the empty stretch past the scrapyard. No cameras. No other vehicles. Just black road and the low growl of the engine.
She walked up the aisle slow, hips swinging, then stopped right beside his seat.
“You gonna keep pretending you’re not hard, uncle?” Her voice was pure gutter Bengali mixed with too much porn. “I can see your cock trying to rip through those shitty pants.”
He didn’t even turn his head. Just reached over, grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her face down to his level.
“Shut your fucking mouth and get on your knees if you want dick tonight.”
She laughed—low, dirty—then dropped between the pedals like it was her natural habitat. Her hands were already tearing at his zipper. No finesse. Just hunger.
The cock that sprang out was thick, uncircumcised, already leaking. She didn’t hesitate—wrapped her lips around the head and sucked hard enough to make his hips jerk.
“Fucking whore,” he growled, shoving deeper till she gagged. “That’s it—choke on it like the street slut you are.”
Tears ran down her cheeks but she didn’t pull back. Kept bobbing, sloppy, loud, spit dripping onto his balls. One hand squeezed his sack while the other rubbed her own cunt through soaked panties.
He pulled her off by the hair, strings of spit connecting her lips to his cockhead.
“Turn around. Ass up. Skirt over your waist. Now.”
She scrambled onto the narrow step beside the driver’s seat, knees on the dirty floor, hands braced on the dashboard. Skirt flipped up. Black thong yanked to the side. Her cunt was shaved, swollen, glistening. A little silver ring through her clit hood caught the red light.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered, then spat directly onto her asshole for good measure.
No warning. He lined up and slammed in—balls deep in one brutal thrust.
She screamed, half pain half pleasure, then started begging in broken gasps.
“Harder—fuck—tear my cunt—please—”
He gave it to her. No mercy. The whole bus rocked with each thrust. Her tits slapped against the dashboard. Handprints smeared the windshield. He reached around, pinched her clit ring and twisted.
“You like getting railed like a cheap roadside bitch?”
“Yes—fuck—yes—I’m your dirty little bus whore—”
He yanked her head back by the hair again.
“Say it louder. Say you’re my cum-dump tonight.”
“I’m your cum-dump—please—fill me—breed my dirty pussy—”
That did it.
He buried himself to the hilt and unloaded—thick ropes pumping deep while she shook and came around him, cunt spasming, thighs trembling. A wet squirt hit the floor mat. Neither of them cared.
When he finally pulled out, a fat glob of cum immediately leaked out of her and dripped down her leg. She stayed there panting, ass still in the air, skirt bunched around her waist like a belt.
He zipped up, wiped his dick on her thigh, then slapped her ass hard enough to leave a handprint.
“Next stop’s yours, slut. Unless you wanna ride the whole night shift.”
She looked back over her shoulder, mascara ruined, lips swollen, grinning like the devil.
“Drive, uncle. I’m not done milking you yet.”
He laughed once—short, rough—then hit the gas.
The bus rolled on into the dark.
End.
Comments
Post a Comment