Chapter 1

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.