My Bus Broke Down
Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, DomSub,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - My bus broke down on the way home from work one day. That's when I met Sally. Cute, intense, erotic Sally. It's not often we can pin down the moments that changed our lives, but that was one for me. Note: D/S is quite light.
My bus broke down one day. Well, I say 'my' bus, but it wasn't really mine, I was just sitting on it. Myself and around 20 other hapless passengers. Lothian Regional Transport service number 42: Davidson's Mains <-> Portobello - that was 'mine'. Still, it was on the way home from work (which meant this one was a bus from Portobello to Davidson's Mains) and I'm a laid back kind of guy so no pressure. OK, maybe I would have quite liked something to eat soon.
My name is Dave: 'Dave Cuthbert' if I have to give you my surname and 'David Edward Cuthbert' if I have to show you my passport or you're my Mum. I always thought 'Cuthbert' was kind of dorky - and a bit English sounding too, which can sometimes be a bit of a liability in Scotland. I suppose I should respect my ancestors more or be interested in my roots and all that crap, but I never could bring myself to care about genealogy: it's like gossip about people who aren't even alive any more (sorry ancestors). 'Dave' I like though.
I'm 5' 9", so about average around here, with blue eyes, dark brown hair and a cheeky smile. My complexion must come from some Mediterranean background somewhere (like I said, I don't keep track) because I tan easily, unlike most Scots. Unfortunately, due to the scarcity of sunshine strong enough to make it worth baring flesh, I'm as peely-wally as everyone else most of the time (curse you, Scottish weather!).
As we waited for a replacement bus I sighed and stared out of the window. It was pitch black, so I couldn't really see anything, but I didn't need to: I was lost in thought. Mostly about how my life sucked. Dave Cuthbert, recipient of a crappy surname; a crappy corporate wage-slave working from a crappy cubicle in a crappy building for, and this was the worst part, a crappy boss. The rest I could take: the surname I had learned to live with, the cubicle and its surrounding building might be OK if people were friendly and the computer corporation I worked for treated us peons reasonably well, considering; but my boss was an arse and he made my life hell.
My boss was one Mr Anderson and, as I have just stated, he was an arse: a big fat hairy arse. Right, now that I have those admittedly childish sentiments out of the way, the big problem with Mr Anderson was that he was a control freak. Couple that with his lack of knowledge in the team's field of endeavour (his qualification was a management degree, no other IT experience) and you get a recipe for instant disaster. In our case, make that repeated instant disaster. How he could serve up so many such disasters and not be fired by the higher-ups was the source of much gossip amongst the team, whispered with many glances over the shoulder to make sure 'Mr A' wasn't in range.
Now I was the longest survivor in the team, and I'd been there since before Mr A arrived, so I thought I knew why. I reckoned there were several things amiss, all converging into the miniature miasma of doom that presided over us.
First up: Golden Child. Mr A had previously worked in another section of the company. There he had had the luck to be in charge of not one but two highly successful projects. These success stories had firmly established the aura of light around him in the eyes of local head management.
"There's one to watch", I was sure they said to one another in conspirational tones.
Unfortunately for them (and subsequently my team), those projects were mostly successful because of one Amanda Barrett, a damn good software engineer and, as it turned out, brilliant project manager. She had left for a competitor after Mr A stole her credit - a story I had discovered after Mr A did the same thing to me, albeit on a less grand scale.
Next: Blame Shifter. Mr A was a master of shifting blame - away from himself. It helped that he had been assigned to our team as a troubleshooter. We had missed some targets; targets our previous boss had tried to argue were completely unrealistic (which they were). Unfortunately all he got for his trouble was reassigned to the corporate equivalent of Siberia - we hadn't seen him again since. And so Mr A came to town. Whenever something went wrong he would blame one of our team, and since we were branded as 'trouble' and he was the golden child, the blame would stick. This was the main reason I was the old hand around here: all of the rest had either been fired to cover for one of Mr A's mistakes, or had quit in disgust.
Last: Glamorous Bullshitter. As much as Mr A was ugly on the inside, his outside was all sweetness and light: tall, handsome, sharp suit; you know the drill. As study after study shows, tall, handsome blokes get through life more easily - people just seem to want to believe them. He also had the gift of the gab: if he happened to fancy some equine limb, he could convince the proverbial donkey to do without its hind legs for a while.
So why hadn't I left? Well I hadn't been blamed or fired yet because I was the most clued up, most effective member of the team; not that the others had been numpties - far from it. Mr A needed me around to make anything happen and he knew it. I hadn't quit because I'm a coward. I had the fear. The fear of being jobless in a recession, the fear that Mr A would sabotage my references and I'd end up working as a goat-herd in Azerbaijan, and the fear that my mum would find out I'd been fired (sad, I know). I dreamed that one day I'd quit: I'd tell Mr A to stuff it where the Sun doesn't shine. I'd been careful to keep copyright on most of my code - I would take all of my knowledge and expertise and start my own wildly successful company with fancy offices, attractive secretaries and a helicopter! That would show them.
But when it really came down to it, when the chips were down and it was time to do or die, I wouldn't do it; I knew that. The fear ruled my life. It had steered me to this point slowly and surely, and it kept me where I was now: on a bus on the way home from a dead-end, high stress job.
We sat there waiting. The driver settled down with his tabloid paper - slightly crumpled in the middle to fit over his portly, sit on your arse all day for a job belly. The man behind me with an annoying cough proceeded to die slowly, one 'I'm a smoker with a cold' wet rasp at a time. Up front, a small boy was playing with some cheap bit of plastic in the shape of something that must currently be popular with kids; it was probably from McDonalds or something. His mother was making a heroic effort to keep him interested (God bless her), but you could tell he was getting bored and would be charging up and down the bus soon. A petite, mousy but cute girl forward from me was looking around. She caught my eye and we gave each other a resigned sort of look and a sigh. The obligatory little old lady on one of the front 'reserved for little old lady' seats was trying to get the woman behind her to tell her what was going on.
Wait. Back up a moment: girl?, cute??, exchanged a look??? My brain caught up at this point to the fact that there might be an opportunity to score with a girl (cute, no less). And yes, like most guys, my brain thought about scoring with her well before it thought of any possibility of a relationship. At least I was civilised enough to feel guilty about that once the more tardy rational part of my brain caught up: I'm not evil, my instincts are just faster than my not being evil.
I looked back to the girl. Unfortunately the loss of eye contact between us had been just long enough for her to go back into staring into space mode while she waited. I'd have to do something to gain her attention again. Damn. The most obvious thing to do would be to go and sit beside her; strike up a conversation, but then again, I could have been wrong about that look. I'd be shot down in flames in front of all these passengers and have to walk the walk of shame all the way back to my seat. I felt the fear grip me again. This time social embarrassment was the big stick.
I resolved that this time I would do something about it: I would go up and talk to her - people be damned! I didn't know them anyway. I tensed to get up out of my seat, my mind whirring as I tried to figure out what to say, how to introduce myself and come across as the wittiest, most charming guy she would ever meet ... but I didn't go. I chickened out. If anyone was watching they must have thought I was having a spasm or something. Over the next 10 minutes or so we all sat, and we waited, and I almost, so very nearly almost, got up to speak to Miss mousy-but-cute literally several times. No such luck though - chickened out every time. Sometimes I suck.
Then, just as I was reaching the point where I really was going to talk to her this time, honest, a pair of wide-set headlights pulled up behind us and our driver said loudly:
"Right: everyone off, and on the next bus."
Curses! And yet ... relief. Another opportunity, another chance to do something exciting or meet someone new (and cute this time) passed by, dooming me to my boring, ordinary life. But I was now divested of the responsibility to do something: surely it was all over now.
To this day I don't know what made me do it: there was no moment of self reflection and realisation; no supporting words - real, imagined or remembered made their way into my consciousness and certainly no alcohol was involved, but the next decision I made would have profound consequences for the rest of my life.
As we got on the next bus, I followed Miss Cute up the stairs, heart thumping, and sat beside her.
She smiled as I sat down: she genuinely looked pleased that I had come to sit beside her. A wave of relief swept through me - no walk of shame after all, at least not yet.
"Hi, I'm Dave", I said.
"Sally", she replied.
So far, so good. Now was the time to dazzle her with my wit...
"Umm...", was my next utterance. Uh oh. "Mind if I sit here?" OK, could have been worse, but hardly charming, and not very intelligent considering the fact that I was already sitting.
"Great", she almost gushed. "I mean fine. Yes, I'd like that."
It sounded like she was nervous too: possibly even more nervous than I was. Good. Not that I would wish such things on anyone, but I reckoned that meant a few things in my favour: she wouldn't notice my slip-ups so much (and there were bound to be a few); we were in the same boat (a little bit of shared adversity never hurt in these situations); and she might even fancy me back.
The opening salvo of the conversation was now over. Neither of us had started well, yet somehow we were both happy. We had made contact in our clumsy way, each with the cute (I may be being generous to myself here) stranger they had being eyeing up on an otherwise dull bus journey. I was exhilarated! I think she was too. I could feel the warmth where our thighs touched - a tiny bit of intimate contact. The small seats on buses necessitated contact, of course, but she had not made the polite 'I'm making room for you' wriggle that bus passengers commonly did for each other. Nor was her body language the usual 'we're touching, but I'm going to pretend we're not'. Quite the opposite, in fact: she seemed to be subtly squishing closer (if such a thing is possible).
Despite the incredible nature of the events that would follow, that first bus ride home still rivals them all in my memory. I sat beside her, feeling the warmth from her as we conversed. Sally told me she was an artist. At least that's what she wanted to be: the money was currently coming from office temp work. As she talked she would occasionally flick her hair back from her face. I somewhat grudgingly volunteered that I was a boring corporate wage-slave, working in IT. She put her hand on my arm in commiseration. I pretended not to notice but inside my pulse quickened as I felt her touch.