'Buses are such wonderful inventions, ' thought Sidney Q. Wickington as walked from the ticket counter toward the departure area. 'Where else do you get to spend hour upon hour with total strangers, none of whom particularly cares to know you, none of whom will even think about you after they disembark? It's absolutely perfect for me!'
Taking his small carry-on into his left hand, Sidney walked outside the depot, quickly spotting his transport. The silver bus with its blue and white sign stood empty as of yet; the driver stood smoking a cigarette, leaning easily against the side of his vehicle.
"Excuse me, sir, is this the express bus to Dallas?"
The driver flicked his cigarette away and stood up straight. "Yes, it is. Can I help you with something"
"Let me introduce myself. My name is Sidney Wickington, and I'll be riding on your silver chariot today." Sidney offered his hand to the bus driver, who accepted without qualm. "I always like to meet the person who is in charge of the driving before I board, just to make sure that I'm comfortable around them. And I can already tell that you and I are going to get along fine."
For his part, the driver could only nod. After he had accepted Sidney's hand in his own, he had lost the ability to speak, the ability to think... the ability to do anything but listen to Sidney's words and accept them as gospel.
"Now, my good man, I just want to make sure that you understand the way things are going to go. Nothing strange is going to happen on this bus. Right?"
"Nothing strange is going to happen on this bus," the driver parroted.
"Excellent. I do love a quick study. And you are going to keep your mind on your driving and your eyes on the road, and not mind whatever happens behind you."
"Eyes on the road. Nothing happening behind me."
"Superb, superb! You and I are going to get along so splendidly. Last thing," Sidney paused to look at the man's nametag, "Mr. Greene. While you should act normally around the other passengers, once the bus is started, you shouldn't listen to them if they ask you to do something. I am the only person you should listen to and obey immediately. Do you understand?"
"Listen to you. Obey you."
"Very good! Now stand there for a moment, won't you? I'll be right back."
Sidney clambered into the bus, leaving the driver staring off into nothing, his hand still extended. Minutes passed, until Sidney finally reappeared, breathing a bit heavily. He returned to where the bus driver stood, and regripped the extended hand.
"Perfect! Oh, and you shouldn't remember any of this; we were just having a nice, getting acquainted conversation prior to my getting on the bus." Sidney released the bus driver's hand. After standing completely still for a moment, the driver raised his hand to his head... and removed his hat
"Will there be anything else, sir?"
"No, my good man, that will be all for now. I know that I'm in good hands on this trip."
And with his business finished, Sidney turned around and walked back into the terminal, leaving a slightly confused bus driver who felt like he needed either a couple of Tylenol... or a stiff shot of bourbon.
Sidney Wickington never liked to board buses until the last minute. In that way, he was able to position himself among his fellow passengers to utilize his talents to best effect.
In this instance, he was able to sit in his favorite spot, almost exactly dead center of the bus, on the aisle. Even as he reached his chosen seat, the bus lurched into motion, and he let the motion propel him heavily into place.
"Looks like this is my stop," he joked to the young woman in the seat next to him
Her only response was to roll her eyes as she continued to look out the window.
"You know, young people should be more polite," he said, tapping her on the back of the hand.
She turned to face him, her eyes and mouth full of anger. "Why should we, you old pervert?"
His finger stopped tapping and remained solidly lodged against the top of her palm.
"Because you never know when you might meet someone who can change your life... permanently."
Any response she might have made was caught in throat, as her eyes rolled up in her head and her body stiffened, her fingers gripping the armrests as if she was suddenly in intense pain.
His finger moved from her hand to her temple. "Sleep," he said softly.
She slumped, as the tension that was there only a moment before disappeared.
He shook his head sadly, murmuring to himself "Why does everyone have to be so rude anymore?"
Still, his gaze lingered on the sleeping form of the young woman. Her baggy gray sweatshirt bore the logo of a major southern university. 'Ahhhh... how I remember my own college days. Classes in the morning, parties all night. It's amazing that I ever got anywhere at all in my life!' he thought, chuckling at his own private joke.
Something inside him stirred at the thought of his own carefree college days, and suddenly one particular idea that had been mixed with the myriad memories of the past was isolated and carried to the front of his brain.
Looking over at his seatmate, Sidney grinned wolfishly. "Looks like I was right my dear," he said softly to the uncomprehending co-ed. "Never be rude to the man who can... and is... going to change your life. Permanently."
He settled himself comfortably into his own seat, his right hand encircling her left wrist.
And then he closed his eyes.
The sign by the side of the road said "Thank you for your stay in ATLANTA, GA. Come back and see us soon."
Having seen it many times before, Mr. Greene paid no attention. His mind was on his driving, his eyes on the road. In the lengthening shadows, he switched on the bus lights, anticipating the coming of night.
What happened behind him didn't matter to him at all.
'Express service... shit! 14 hours of hell, that's what it is!"
Denise Burcham hated buses. 'No, that's not quite right, ' she corrected herself. 'I hate traveling, period! Cars, trains, planes... they're all bad enough. But buses have to be the worst!'
However, expediency and funding had come together to force Denise to take the quickest form of transport she could afford. Had she boarded one of the regular, stops-in-every-other-city buses, she would've been 12 hours late for her sister's elopement. As it was, she might just make it to the courthouse to stop what Denise knew would be a regrettable error on her sister's part. Which was why she was on the all-night express bus to Dallas.
'In the fucking shitter, no less, ' she cursed mentally. 'Damn my weak bladder!'
Still, she had to admit it was a cleaner toilet than most she had encountered on buses in the past. It didn't smell like chemicals, or old piss. It smelled... sweeter, somehow. It was almost enough to make the need to use the little closet bearable.
As she stood up, she rammed her elbow into the side of the metal box that served as a sink, and again was reminded that people of her size were not necessarily the models used when such bathrooms were designed. 'Thank God this bus is half-empty! I don't know what I'd do if I had to sit beside somebody and try to squeeze into what the bus company thinks is a suitable seat!'
She stood for a moment, her pants around her ankles, caught between the momentary pain of her elbow and the constant rage she felt at being large. Nothing ever seemed to fit her; nothing ever seemed to be made just for her; no one ever seemed to look at her and think nice things. Their faces mostly reflected disgust, or pity. Looking into the metal rectangle that passed for a mirror, Denise whispered softly, "Fuck me."
Still, there was something... distracting... about the smell floating around the bathroom. She took a piece of toilet paper from the roll next to the toilet and blotted her crotch absently, trying to identify what it was about the scent that so captured her imagination. Her mind was so wrapped up in the thought that she didn't notice when the wad of toilet paper fell from her hand... or when she began rubbing her finger over the mound that hid her clit.
Lost in thought, she remained standing, gazing into her own reflection, her finger's motion quickening as her own juices lessened the friction over her clit. Sliding back and forth... back and forth... mmmmmmmmmmm...
At that moment, the bus hit a pothole, throwing Denise back into the door of the small toilet.
"What the hell am I doing?' she whispered angrily, pulling her hand away from her clit. "Fingering myself in a fucking toilet, for God's sake! I must be out of my mind! Thank God the door didn't pop open when I fell against it!"
She trembled at the mental picture of her, naked from the waist down, falling out into the aisle of the bus, her hand still buried in her pussy. She again pulled some toilet paper from the roll and blotted herself, then flushed it down the toilet.
Beside the sink stood a small bottle of what looked like anti-bacterial soap. As she squirted some into her hand, the scent she had been so keen on just a bit earlier hit her full in the face again.
'Oh, it's the soap that's making that smell.' She brought her hand closer to her face. 'Damn, that's some good stuff.' She took another deep whiff, closing her eyes. 'I wonder where I can get some of thisssss... '
Lost in the scent, Denise Burcham's mind simply hung on that last word, the pearly liquid in her palm held mere inches from her nose.
Had she been able, she might have been more than a bit startled by what happened next.
The 'soap' in her hand began to move.
It slid slowly across her palm, until it rested just below her nostrils. Then, like a dog rearing on its haunches begging for a treat, it started to rise, shaping itself into tendril no larger in diameter than a drinking straw. It continued to rise, reaching the woman's left nostril. Pushing itself deeper. Then, apparently stretched to its limit, the movement stopped, but only for a moment.
Finding purchase somewhere inside the nostril, the creature started pulling the rest of itself up, away from the hand in which it was resting. Slowly, like white mucous flowing in reverse, it packed itself into the nasal cavity. Then, probing, sliding, and shaping itself as needed, it burrowed through the soft tissue behind the nose and into the cranium, using its tail to seal its passage.
At which point, Denise Burcham had a massive orgasm. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, she slid down the wall into the floor, unconscious.
And, reclining in his seat with his eyes closed, Sidney Wickington smiled.
His hand no longer held the wrist of the entranced co-ed next to him, but instead rested on her denim-covered crotch. Pressing down in one spot.
A spot that was now sporting a dark-colored stain.
"WELCOME TO ALABAMA" read the newest sign the bus passed in the night.
Mr. Greene never took his eyes from the road.
Denise Burcham awoke to frantic knocking at the door of the bathroom.
"Hey, lady! Are you going to be in there all night? I've got to use the bathroom!"
"uhhhhhh..." She couldn't remember much. Fragments of memory spun. Fingering herself. Orgasming. The smell of that wonderful soap.
"Are you alright in there? Do you need some help?"
"NO! I'll be right out!" She didn't want any more embarrassment. She'd already done something so seedy, so completely unlike her...
'But you enjoyed it, ' the thought came, unbidden, into her head.
As she slowly pulled herself up off the floor, she acknowledged that she had never cum like that before, either with anyone else or by herself.
'You'd love to do it again, too.' Again, the thought came floating across her mind as if in someone else's voice.
Pulling up her pants, she thought that, at the right time, in the right place...
'No. Soon. Here.'
And with that thought, Denise froze. 'Something is very wrong here, ' she had time to think...
The pounding at the door began again. "Lady, I'm going to get the driver if you don't come out of there!"
Not wanting that, Denise cracked the door.
"Really, I'm okay. I think I hit my head on door when we hit a pothole, but I'm okay. Just let me wash my face, and I'll be right out."
The red-faced man standing outside the door looked at her doubtfully, but, spurred by his bladder, nodded and mumbled something about "just hurry up" before quickly averting his eyes.
Her pants were still unfastened, and she flashed a bit of her panties through the door as he watched.
A fact that did not seem to bother Denise Burcham one bit.
Reluctantly, she did fasten her pants, and bent quickly to retrieve the bottle of soap she had knocked to the floor when she fell.
Holding it in her hand, she relived the intense sensations the smell of the soap had given her. Looking at the bottle, she wondered...
'Take it. No one will notice, ' said the voice in her head.
She slid the bottle into her front pocket, careful to remind herself to remove once she got back to her seat.
Then, smiling happily, she left the bathroom and walked back up the aisle.
Roger Cord watched the fat woman waddle back down the aisle to her seat, wondering what she seemed so happy about.
'If she really did hit her head, maybe she addled her brains so much, she doesn't realize she's been locked in the damn toilet for two hours! Stupid cunt!'
Cord eased cautiously into the toilet, expecting to find a mess. Finding only the normal metal fixtures typical of such things, he was at least grateful that he didn't have to wade into someone else's leavings.
'The fat cow was even considerate enough to leave the toilet seat up for me.'
Unzipping, Cord pulled out his cock and waited a moment for the piss to work its way up the length. 'Been holding it in so long, now it doesn't want to come out!' In the meantime, he began to sniff the air.
'Huh. This is the nicest smelling bus toilet I've ever been in. Wonder what they use to keep it smelling so good?' Occupied with that question, he barely noticed when his urine began streaming into the bottom of the metal bowl.
He continued inhaling the scent of the bathroom, his eyes looking up at the ceiling without really seeing it. As his bladder finally emptied, Cord stood, his dick in his hand, unmoving.
Until he finally began moving his hand slowly down the length of his penis.
And back up again.
Squeezing slightly, with his thumb and forefinger in an 'O' around the base.
Until he was hard as rock.
It was only when his ministrations actually began to hurt that he looked down at what he was doing. 'Sonofabitch! What the hell I am doing?'
Of course, by then, it was much too late for him to stop.
Denise Burcham made sure that, when she returned to her seat, she unfolded the blanket she had brought with her. After carefully removing the 'soap' she had stolen from the bathroom and placing it in her purse, she sat down in the middle of the two seats she had to herself, and leaned them both back, covering herself in the blanket once she was comfortable.
She had been grateful that the bus was nearly empty, since it meant she didn't have to share her seats with someone else. Now, she was grateful because no one was sitting across the aisle from her. So that, when she eased open her pants and reached her hand under her panties, no one observed her movements. No one saw the rhythmic motion of her fingers between her already slick pussy lips. No one watched as her head thrashed back and forth, as her body jerked as if being intermittently shocked by electric current.
While he could not see her directly, Sidney Wickington didn't need to. Lying quiescent in his seat, he could sense every time the core of her being was assailed by the constant battering of orgasm after orgasm. Until it finally collapsed under the assault.
Denise Burcham was no longer unhappy with herself. None of it mattered to her anymore. She lay reclined in her seat, her fingers finally stilled, a smile on her face.
The same smile that was on the face of Sidney Wickington.
Roger Cord's face had gone from its customary red to near purple.
He had lost track of how long he had been running his hand over his cock, of how long he had stood on the edge of orgasm. All he really felt was that something was missing, something that would allow him to finish, and that he needed it desperately.
It was desperation that finally lead him to open the cabinet below the sink, to find several dispenser bottles of what the label identified as antibacterial soap. Grabbing one, Roger was distracted for a moment by the scent... but only for a moment.
Placing the dispenser bottle on the counter, he quickly pumped out a handful of the pearly-white cream, and began running it over his erection.
Almost immediately, he felt an easing in the pressure in his penis. A sense of relief, a sense of peace flooded through his body as he massaged the gooey substance over his shaft. As he pumped faster, the 'soap' ran down his crotch and onto his ball sac. Somewhere in what was left of his consciousness, Cord thought 'It feels like someone is squeezing my balls!' A thought that was followed more or less immediately by 'uuuuuuhhhHHHHHHH!!!' as he came like a fountain in the toilet.
His knees giving way from the intensity of his relief, Cord found himself prostrate on the floor in front of the toilet bowl. Leaning against the metal lip of the basin, he could not see what was happening around his dick. Perhaps it was a small blessing that he couldn't.
The 'soap' that he had used to bring himself off was slowly pooling, moving from individual strands into a mass around the base of his penis. From there, small tendrils were extending up his cock, moving quickly toward the head. Even as Cord started realizing that something felt wrong down there, the first of the tendrils reached the opening at the top.
Startled, Cord jerked his head up and stared down at his crotch. Just in time to see the first of the tendrils bury itself in his penis. Followed by a second, and a third.
Any further thoughts, such as trying to stop the invasion of his cock, were swamped by the incredible pain of a biological entity forcing itself up the tube so recently evacuated by his jism. As his body went rigid in pain, the last thought Cord had before passing out was 'OHHHH SSSSSHHHHHIIIIIITTTTtttttt... '
In his seat, Sidney continued to grin. His hand had slipped inside the waistband of the young co-ed, and, as he stroked her, she moaned and shook in her forced slumber.
The sign by the side of the road this time read "WELCOME TO MISSISSIPPI."
Mr. Greene only had eyes for the road ahead.
Samantha Cord timidly approached the door of the bus toilet.
She had been sleeping fitfully since the bus had left Atlanta, and when she awoke, Roger was not in the seat next to her. After waiting for more than hour for him to return, she had finally gotten up herself.
At Roger's insistence, they had sat in the second row of seats from the front, away from the rest of the bus' passengers. Not that there were that many to begin with.
As Sam walked back toward the door of the restroom, she passed a large woman covered by a blanket, apparently dreaming of something nice, as she was smiling in her sleep. A few rows back from her, an older man was also asleep, also smiling. Beside him, a girl that could be his daughter turned restlessly, her face covered in sweat.
Beyond that there were several rows of empty seats. The only other passengers on the bus sat in the next-to-last row: a young Hispanic couple, both asleep, the young woman with her head in the man's lap, her legs curled up into her chest. A few more steps, and she stood in front of the door of the only place left that Roger could be.
She raised her hand to knock... and then hesitated.
When Sam and Roger had gotten married five years earlier, he had been a caring and romantic person, always bringing her flowers, calling on the phone, taking her away for weekends in the country where they would rarely leave the bed.
The last few years, though... they had seen a deterioration in their relationship. As the economy had tightened and money had gotten scarce, Roger had changed. No more flowers. No more weekend trips. Fewer and fewer phone calls. Their sex life had dwindled to once a week, if he was in the mood.
Through it all, Samantha had held on to her belief that things would get better. Even as he ignored her, she kept trying to show him how much she loved him. Keeping house. Cooking. Kissing him, touching him.
And then he had hit her.
She had only wanted to remind him that his mother was coming by for dinner; she had walked into the den and walked in front of the television, saying his name...
She explained the bruise on her face to his mother as a misadventure in the shower.
It had happened a few times since, and each time he had gotten down on his knees and begged her forgiveness, promising it would never happen again. And each time, she forgave. Wondering about when the next time would come.
So she hesitated, knowing that the next time could come any time.
But he had been gone so long...
"Roger? Are you in there? Are you okay?"
Unlike Denise Burcham, Roger Cord felt no pleasure after his body was invaded.
His body was on fire, each nerve flooded with severe pain.
If Cord were aware enough to reason, he might have understood that the creature had used his cock as a convenient gateway, but that its true target was his brain. And, with the shortest distance between two points being a straight line, his spinal cord provided the most perfect pathway from his nether regions to his spongy control center.
And so, Roger Cord was simply a mass of quivering flesh, writhing in pain on the floor of the toilet, when his wife knocked on the door.
"Roger? Are you in there? Are you okay?"
Roger Cord, the man, was in no position to answer that question.
The creature that was slowly squeezing itself up Roger's spinal cord was in no position to answer it either.
Sidney Wickington just smiled... and began to move his lips.
She heard Roger call her name through the door.
"Roger? Honey? Is something wrong?" She pressed her head against the door, trying to hear him.
"I think I fell. I'm not sure. Hard to think..."
"Can you open the door, sweetheart? I'll come in and help you."
There was a long pause.
"Roger! Talk to me!"
"I think I can move enough to open the lock. Stand back."
She stood back a step; a minute passed, then two. Until finally, she heard the lock click on the door, and the sign changed from "occupied" to "vacant."
Samantha opened the door and stepped inside.
When you are in a room the size of a closet, 3/4ths of which is taken up by a sink and toilet, there isn't much room to sprawl.
Yet, Roger Cord was indeed sprawled in the toilet, his head lying against the base of the metal toilet bowl, his legs above his head, resting against the cabinet under the sink.
Had Samantha taken a moment to think, she might have wondered what Roger could have been doing that would have possibly gotten him jammed into this position.
Instead, she immediately knelt down beside his head. "Honey, are you all right? What happened? Can you move?"
"Ohhhh, my head. Keep it down a little bit, okay? I have a serious headache!"
She lowered her voice slightly. "Can you move?"
"I think I can, if you help me. You'll have to help me turn a bit, so I can push myself up."
She pulled his legs outward from where they rested against the sink, enabling him to push his body into a sitting position, with his legs blocking open the door.
At that point, she noticed his cock. Out of his pants. Pointing at her.
"You... you... you've got a hard-on!" she gaped.
"I've got a headache! Who cares about my cock?"
Under normal circumstances, Samantha would have been more concerned with whether her husband was seriously hurt. However, he had been holding her wrist ever since she had helped him turn over.
And his hand was covered in 'soap.'
As was his cock.
In short order, three things happened:
Roger found himself on the toilet seat, to make himself more comfortable;
Samantha was on her knees, Roger's cock buried up to its hilt in her throat;
And Roger found himself sporting a wolfish grin. Just like Sidney Wickington.
The sign across the bridge said "WELCOME TO LOUISIANA."
Mr. Greene never even noticed.
Samantha Cord was quite content.
When her husband came like a geyser down her throat, she swallowed everything. Including the 'soap' that had covered it.
She panicked for a moment when she felt something moving in her throat, when she felt what she thought was cum reversing its course and starting to travel back up toward her mouth.
She tried to yell, to scream, but with her airway blocked could only make a slight squeaking noise. She tugged on her husband's leg, but he lay with his head back and eyes closed, a feral grin on his face.
In a few moments, the mass that had invaded her throat had risen into her nasal passages, and she gasped desperately for air through her mouth. But by the time she had recovered enough to think about screaming, a thin tendril had extended itself into her cranium, right into the pleasure center of her brain.
And, soon after that, Samantha too sported a grin. Which was mirrored on the face of her husband.
Which started on the face of Sidney Wickington.
When Samantha awoke again, she quickly stood up, kissing her husband on the lips.
For the first time in years, he grabbed her and kissed her in return.
The problems of the past were forgotten. All that mattered was here, and now.
She stripped for him, as he sat watching her, his cock again growing hard at the sight of his once timid wife doing a strip tease in front of the still open door of the bathroom.
When she was finished, she fingered her glistening pussy, then slowly brought her finger to her mouth, tasting the juice that had blossomed there.