Leave the Driving to Us
Copyright© 2009 by Tony Stevens
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Just another Friday night at my part-time job. My hot girlfriend wouldn't be stopping by. She was a cheerleader and there was a game at our school. I'd be getting off work too late to attend. A quiet night at home ahead for me. But sometimes, you just get lucky.
Working in a small-town bus depot wasn't the most stimulating job going. It was a somewhat better job than most high school kids had, but I was hoping it wouldn't turn out to be the high point of my working career.
I sold tickets to destinations all over the U.S. and sometimes, Canada. I researched bus connections and schedules for customers, working, in those long-ago days, not from a computer but from a giant paperback book, big as a Manhattan telephone book and more than four inches thick, containing schedules for passenger bus lines throughout North America.
The job took a good working knowledge of geography, some skill in using the research materials, and (in my case) the ability to convince customers that I knew what I was doing, despite my being barely seventeen and not appearing particularly mature for my age.
Of course, the bulk of our business at the depot didn't involve complex cross-country scheduling or fare calculations. Most folks were just heading over to Indianapolis for a day's shopping, or maybe down to Evansville to spend a little time with a family member. These customers could be handled with relative ease.
Business wasn't usually all that brisk. The little L-shaped storefront room in which the depot was located wasn't much larger than a typical family living room. At the extreme rear, a high wooden counter separated the small workspace where I did my thing from the "waiting room" area up front. There were church-pew-style benches along one wall and in front of the plate glass front window. Near the entrance door in the shorter section of the "L" there were a few storage lockers, a gumball machine, and a little table with local bus schedules people could pick up and take with them.
We had only four Greyhounds a day, all running east-west, and four Lanier Transit buses running north to Chicago and, through our little town, southward to Evansville. That was the whole business. Eight buses coming through between seven a.m. and nine p.m. daily.
I was everything there was — ticket seller, information clerk, baggage handler, you name it. It wasn't rocket science, but it was a fairly responsible job for a kid still in high school.
For me, the job was after-school, four to nine p.m., six days a week. Thirty hours. My work day would run little longer if the last bus arrived late. There was lots of down time between bus arrivals, and it usually wasn't difficult to get my homework done while on the job.
I was the only employee of the local franchise owner, Herb Chicote, who was there working for all the hours the place was open when I wasn't on the job. That meant Herb worked seven a.m. until four six days a week, and seven to nine — fourteen hours — on Sundays. That came out to something like sixty-eight hours a week, but ol' Herb didn't seem to mind it much. He was a fifty-something bachelor and didn't have much of a social life outside of his TV shows. Since I had the evening shift every day except Sunday, Herb was free on most evenings to veg out in front of his TV.
Working at the depot cramped my social life some, and in the spring it kept me from playing baseball on the high school team, as I desperately wanted to do. The truth was, though, that I wasn't that good as a player, having been only a marginal member of the varsity during my sophomore year before I started working.
Luckily, the cramped social life wasn't as bad as it could have been, because I had a loyal steady girlfriend, Felicia Skinner, who kept herself available for early (or late) Saturday and all-day Sunday dates.
Felicia also showed up at the bus depot several times a week. We would do homework together, standing side by side behind the counter, and if there were no customers in the waiting room, we'd just talk, or, occasionally, engage in a mild make-out session.
Felicia was a virgin, and since she was a top student and destined for a scholarship at a classy college somewhere after graduation, she wasn't keen on changing her virgin status.
Happily for me, however, she was an adherent to the notion of "technical" virginity only. That is to say, she had no problem with virtually any of the more conventional sexual activities that didn't involve a pregnancy risk.
As a result, some of our mild make-out sessions weren't all that mild. Felicia was especially fond of getting down under the high counter, protected on three sides by wooden partitions, and unzipping my fly, extracting my penis, and playing reindeer games with it for lengthy periods.
She licked and kissed it with a fondness and enthusiasm rare in teen-aged females of that era. I never had to beg for these kindnesses. She bestowed them readily and frequently, just because she was as horny as I was and, for us, this was the only game in town.
I would have gladly returned the favor (and sometimes did, after the depot was locked up tight for the night after the last bus). But while the lights were on and the door unlocked, the only feasible sex act we could perform was with me standing there, looking out into the empty waiting room, and Felicia under the counter, sucking my appreciative, insatiable young cock.
Occasionally, of course, a customer would come in while Felicia was busy doing her thing under the counter. She could hear, easily enough, when someone came in, and she was in no danger of discovery so long as the customer stayed in the waiting room area on the counter's opposite side.
The setup seemed peculiar, though. When an arriving customer approached the counter and stood before me, the customer was every bit as close to Felicia's body as I was. Usually (but not always) Felicia would separate herself from my penis for the duration of my conversation with a customer. If, however, Felicia was in a particularly playful mood, the nasty young woman would keep right on sucking during the entire time I was trying to respond to questions about departure times and ticket prices.
It could sometimes become a true test of my mettle as a young businessman.
Felicia wasn't without skill as a fellatrix. She had learned somewhere (not from me) that the best blowjobs involved the application of ample moisture to the target area, thus increasing the sensations of heat and lubrication. Accumulated saliva also provided an aural bonus — the noisy sound of sloppy slurping that greatly increased not only the tactile pleasure of this forbidden act but — perhaps even more importantly — gave cock-sucking its wonderful aura of utter salaciousness.
Felicia might be a resolute virgin and determined to stay that way at least well into her sophomore year as a full-scholarship student at Yale, but she was truly a fun girl, all the same. Because she was an endlessly willing seeker of other forms of sexual gratification, my being hooked up with a career virgin didn't prevent me from having what might have been the happiest cock in town.
Felicia loved it when I could get my head down between her thighs and pay back some of the considerable deficit that had arisen as a result of her having readier access to my hard cock than I had to her lovely little quim. While Felicia could have stood in my place behind the counter and faced incoming customers while I tongued her twitching twat, she, being without training, would have been unable to answer scheduling questions for arriving customers. She might perhaps know when the next eastbound for Indianapolis was due, but follow-up questions would have likely been stumpers, and it would hardly do for me to come out from under the counter, jack-in-the-box style, and answer the follow-ups with pussy on my breath.
Besides, stand-up cunnilingus just isn't as satisfactory as the horizontal variety, where everything is arrayed there for you in an easy-to-reach format, and the lickee's nether lips — not to mention her thighs - can be parted far more effectively.
Naturally then, I continued to enjoy a decided advantage, orally speaking, during bus depot duty hours. I would be blown at least once during virtually every Felicia-visit to the premises. After closing time just after nine, if that sweet girl had stayed around long enough, she would get all the attention she wanted or needed, on the floor behind the counter in the darkened depot, with only the streetlight outside to light the way.
My boss, Herb Chicote, knew that I had frequent visits from Felicia Skinner during duty hours, but he was a laid-back sort of fellow and he had no objection so long as I was doing the work properly and not neglecting customers. Herb, of course, didn't know that neither the customers nor his ticket agent were being neglected. Doubtlessly he never dreamed that the incredibly innocent looking little Ms. Skinner was capable of undercover activities, as it were.
The only risk, really, that we were taking in our after-hours cunniligual payback sessions was that Herb might come in to the depot, turn on the lights, and proceed to do his taxes or something. Granted, the entire time I'd been working there, Herb had never reopened the depot for any reason after the last bus had left for the day.
But I suppose it could happen. Then, as Desi Arnez used to say, his young ticket agent would have some 'splainin' to do.
I was willing to take the chance, however. The floor behind the ticket counter might not be a king-sized bed, but it was far more private than the back seat of my ancient Chevy, and the risks of our being discovered back there were far less great.
What's the worst that could happen? Herb could catch us in the act and fire my ass.
More likely, he'd just yell at me a little and tell me not to do it again. Maybe, if he was really pissed, he would threaten to tell Felicia's mother what her daughter was doing with her spare time.
More likely though, were Herb to find out, he would do nothing at all. Still, it would be bad, because I knew there would be no end, thereafter, to the knowing, sidelong glances I'd get from the boss man, and maybe some tasteless teasing humor at my expense.
Best that it all remain Felicia's and my little secret.
It's kind of amazing, really, that Felicia and I are so tight. I mean, she's this hot little head cheerleader, so cute and sexy in her little uniform there at the basketball games every Friday night.
I miss that — seeing her jumping around on the basketball floor, her tight little ass twitching away in that short, pleated skirt designed, no doubt, by Satan himself to give adolescent boys instant bone.
And there were all those basketball players she had panting after her. (Football, too, but here in Indiana, football isn't that big a deal, really.) I often wondered why she seemed content to stick with little old me? It's not like I had the heaviest hammer. Girls don't seem to give all that much of a damn, anyway, about how big a guy is down there. At least they're not as concerned about it as most of the guys are.
Maybe the poor girl just hasn't had an adequate basis for comparison. But I've been in the shower with all those guys in gym class, for years now. It's not just their arms and legs that are longer than mine.
Still, Felicia seems happy enough with just me for a boyfriend — even with me unavailable six nights a week, unless she wants to come down to the depot.
Friday nights — game nights during most of the school year — are the only evenings I usually don't get to see my girlfriend at all. I get off early enough — just after nine, that we could hook up somewhere, but the games go longer than that, usually, and she's got activities afterward with the other girls on the cheerleading squad.
This one Friday night, I was disposing of my weekend homework at the depot counter, waiting for the last two buses of the day — the 8:35 p.m. Lanier Transit southbound from Chicago and the nine o'clock Greyhound heading to Indianapolis and points east.
I had no plans except to close up after nine and head home, maybe tune into the local AM radio station to find out who had won that night's high school basketball game.
When the Greyhound arrived, right on time at nine, I helped my one and only passenger board with her small suitcase, said a few words to the driver, and watched the bus depart.
Unfortunately, I couldn't close up as usual because the southbound Lanier Transit coach had yet to arrive. It was now a full half-hour late.
I called the next town up the line to the north, and the agent there verified that the bus had already left more than twenty minutes ago, and should be arriving at our depot very soon.
It did arrive — at 9:15 p.m. — and three passengers got off. Two of them, an older couple, picked up their bags from the bus driver at curbside and departed without ever entering the depot.
The other passenger, a good-looking young black woman, came inside with the driver. "The Indianapolis Greyhound left yet?" the driver asked me.
"Yes," I told him. "Right on time at nine."
"Damn!" he said. Turning to the young woman, he said, "You missed it, Honey."
Our town wasn't exactly a major switching point for bus travelers, but it wasn't too unusual for a Lanier passenger to change buses here to pick up the eastbound Greyhound. Unfortunately, this time the connection wasn't there. The young woman had missed her bus.
There was some discussion with the driver about whether she should continue south with him, but the gist of it was, there were no other towns on the route where she could expect to make a change of buses and head east. This was it.
"What's the next bus for Indianapolis?" she asked me.
"Not until 8:05 tomorrow morning," I said.
The driver brought in her bag and set it on the long pew just inside the door. "Sorry about that, Miss," he said, and left.
"There a hotel anywhere close?" she asked me.
"Just up the street," I said, "but it's Canal Days here this weekend — that's a local celebration — and I wouldn't be surprised, the hotel was filled up. You better call and see."
I got her the number and waited while she called, standing at the counter and using my house phone.
"They've got nothing," she said. "What else is there?"
She called two motels for which I furnished numbers out of the thin local phone book. There was no room at the inn.
"I guess I'll have to sleep on the bench, there, if that's okay," she said.
"Well, I'm sorry, but that won't work. We close this place after the last bus. Usually, that's at nine when the one you were trying to catch leaves. Tonight, it's your Lanier bus, because it was so late getting here."
"You couldn't just lock me in?"
"My boss would raise hell," I told her. "What would happen if there was an emergency, and you were locked in?"
"What emergency?" she said. "A fire? I could break that big window and get out. It's not really a real-world problem."
"He'd be pissed, though," I told her.
"Because you let a black girl stay in here overnight?"
"It's not because you're black. Really. He'd be pissed if I let anybody stay in her after hours."
"Could you maybe call him? Just ask? Hey, it's October out there. Kinda cold."
"Maybe you could come home with me."
She looked at me kind of funny. "Who're you?" she asked, "the farmer's son? Am I in one of those old jokes, here?"
I laughed. "Naw, I'm just a high-school kid, works here part-time. Let me call my mother, ask her if it's all right. I know she'll say it is, but I'll ask her."
I did call home. Home was only a city block away, across the street, down the alley, and there it was. Mom and I lived in a three-story apartment building, top floor, behind the First National Bank building up on Main.
"Mom, there's a young woman here, missed her connection to Indianapolis. She can't find a hotel room in town. I offered to bring her home to sleep in our place. Is that okay?"
Mom was telling me that it was okay when the young woman said "Let me talk to her" and reached for the receiver.
"Ma'am?" she said. "Listen, your son didn't tell you I was Black. I just thought you ought to know, 'case it makes any difference to you."
She listened a moment, and then handed me back the receiver. "She said it didn't make any difference," she told me.
I told my mother we'd be there shortly and hung up. "I could have told you my mother wouldn't have any hang-ups about your race," I said.
The young woman introduced herself. Her name was Donna Johnson and she lived in Chicago. She'd been heading for her hometown, Indianapolis, to see her older sister who still lived there. Her trip travails had been considerable. In Chicago, she'd missed out on a much more direct thru-bus to Indianapolis and had taken the alternate connecting route via Lanier Transit as a last-minute substitute.
She could have waited in Chicago another four hours for a direct connection on a Greyhound. "This way took longer — more road time -- and I would only have gotten into Indianapolis maybe two hours sooner than the later thru bus would have, but I figured I was better off sitting on a bus going south than sitting in the terminal in Chicago. You ever been to the bus station in Chicago? It's a dump!"
"It would have been a good-enough plan, if your bus hadn't been late," I offered. "Do you want to call your sister and let her know what happened?"
I gave her the arrival time in Indianapolis for our morning bus so that she could tell her family when she'd be getting there. She made the brief call and offered to pay for the long distance charges, but I graciously declined. Let Herb Chicote pay for it in the name of good customer relations.