Chapter 2: The Bus, Again

The second time was quite different. It was probably five or six years later, and I was taking a bus back from a meeting where I had given a presentation. The trip was probably about six hours, and it was during the day. I was in the back of the bus, and there was a pretty, rather sturdy young Mexican-looking girl next to me. She was wearing a dress that almost seemed ceremonial, and looked like she was about ten years younger than me; I prefer to think she was of age, but to be honest she might have been 16 or 17. We were sitting near the back of the bus and by the time this happened, several hours into the trip, there was no longer anyone seated near us. This wasn’t a long-haul bus and the seats were actually rather narrow, and the girl was fairly plump. We were touching slightly from the moment we sat down. Once again by a sort of mutual consent, we ended up with our bare forearms touching. My heart was pounding and I initially assumed it was completely accidental. But we did a kind of dance, each in turn moving the touch a tiny increment further, until we were definitively touching each other. I stroked her arm; she stroked mine with her other hand. Then I ventured a little further, putting my hand on her white dress, over her belly. She stroked my cheek. I moved my hand up slightly and felt the roundness of her abdomen, and she touched my chest. I moved my hand, finally, to her breast, and she looked a little breathless and put her head against my chest. We went on like this for a while, until finally I ventured to put one hand on her thigh under her skirt. She obligingly spread her chubby thighs a little and I found her panties and, bolder than I had been last time, immediately put my hand under the waistband. She wriggled out of them a little. Her pubic hair felt kind of wispy, not dense at all. I could smell, acutely, the musk of her desire.

I yearned to touch her breasts but the arrangement of her clothing didn’t let me get any real contact; I satisfied myself with stroking her décolletage; her low neckline revealed quite a lot. She put her hand on my bulge, then unbuttoned my jeans. I was nervous but emboldened by the lack of anyone nearby and let her pull the waistband of my briefs over my erection. She fondled it while I cautiously slipped my finger between her labia, then slowly penetrated her. Her vagina felt tight but she was wet and I was able to put it in without too much difficulty. She sighed, began to move against my hand. On each thrust I did my best to rub up against her clit and mons pubis with the palm of my hand and soon I was holding my hand steady, one finger still in her, as she rubbed herself intensely against my hand. She was touching my penis cautiously and inexpertly, but with evident enjoyment. I believe she had several orgasms; at the very least she went through several peaks, breathing hard, her vagina contracting and her chest above her breasts turning pink. On the third or fourth, I took my free hand and wrapped it around her hand on my penis, and indicated that she could be a bit less careful. She soon got the idea and, squeezing me, rubbed her hand up and down until I couldn’t stand it any more. I put my hand over the head to avoid making a mess and came into it; I’m afraid I dripped a little onto her hand, but it didn’t seem to bother her.

Afterwards we put our clothes in order and she rested for the remainder of the trip with her head almost in my lap. I sat there, bemused, and slightly worried that she could be underage. Imagine my shock when, finally arriving at the depot, we filed off and ... she rejoined (I assume) her parents and little brother who had apparently been sitting at the front of the bus. They also looked like they were dressed for some ceremony. Perhaps it was just travel clothing for them. For a second or two I thought my life would be over, but of course she didn’t say a word. At least nothing I could recognize with my limited Spanish.

We hadn’t spoken a word, I’ll note, during the entire encounter. When we were off the bus I sought her with my eyes and she rewarded me with a placid, content expression, looking over her little brother’s head. I don’t know how old she actually was — hopefully not less than 18. Perhaps I misjudged her age and she was younger than I thought. Perhaps she thought I was younger than I was. But it was in any case a completely mutual encounter; her intent couldn’t have been plainer. I often fantasized, completely unrealistically, that I’d meet her again, but of course I never did and even if I had, I doubt anything could have come of it. But I wonder — I wonder if I was a young girl’s first that day on the bus.