a blessing and a curse

You love how eager she is about things like this.

A horny girlfriend is a blessing and a curse in equal measure. The blessing is the sparkle, the speed, the way she treats your orders like gifts. The curse is that your body has not had a quiet hour in two weeks and she is standing in the hall with her sandals already on, wrap dress tied, looking at you like the street is a playground you just unlocked.

Seconds. That is how long the shoes take. Then she is strapped to your side for the rest of the time it takes you to get ready, orbiting while you find keys, wallet, a shirt that does not advertise the hickey necklace she designed at dinner. Tissues and water that you know will come in handy. Her eyes actually sparkle when you glance at her cracked phone and ask, mild as anything:

“Charge enough for photos?”

She checks. Nods too fast. The implication sits between you without needing a speech—just the fact that you might want a record.

You change pants.

Stiffer pair. Belt. Necessity, not style.
She is turned on non-stop, and if you walk out in the soft stuff you will be parading a hard cock down the pavement for anyone with eyes. The belt helps. A little. She watches you buckle it with a look that does not help at all.

At the door she skips ahead to the passenger side of her father’s car and waits, expectant, for the chirp of the lock.

You do not unlock it.

You walk past the driveway toward the bus stop.

Sandra’s brain visibly buffers.
Then the meaning lands and she makes a sound that is not appropriate for a residential street.
Public transport. Not a private box with tinted windows. A bus. Other people.
The wrap dress and DADDY’S SLUT sitting one layers of fabric away from a stranger’s knee. She falls into step beside you so fast she almost trips, and you can see both kinds of drool threatening—mouth parted, thighs pressed together as she walks.

“Bus,” she whispers, like she has to check the word is real.

“Bus,” you confirm.

She laughs once, high and wrecked, and takes your hand hard enough to hurt.
Every few steps the dress flutters. She keeps it decent with her free hand by instinct, then seems to remember that decent is not the point of the reward and lets it fall again, hem kissing her knees, the knot at her side the only thing keeping the whole secret closed. A car passes. She flushes. A dog-walker nods at you both. She nods back like a person who is not currently dripping on her own markings.

The stop is three minutes away. She fills all three of them with silent, vibrating want. When the schedule board says seven minutes she looks at you as if seven minutes is a sentence.

“Photos,” she says, not quite a question.

“If you behave.”

That word does the same thing it did in the kitchen. She straightens. Swallows.
Stands at the stop like a good girl waiting for a bus, wrap dress neat, sandals planted, eyes shining, public transport turning her on so hard she has to breathe through her mouth.

The bus is sparsely occupied.

Five other people including the driver. A woman with shopping bags near the front. Two teenagers with headphones. An older man reading his phone. Nobody looking back. You guide Sandra down the aisle and take one of the reverse seats at the rear—the pair that faces the wrong way, boxed toward the window, out of the driver’s mirror and out of anyone’s casual line of sight. A bit of graffiti shields her from casual eyes outside.

She sits by the glass. You take the aisle. She is already breathing hard just from that: boxed in, public air, the dress still tied. She glances at the other passengers once, then again, and you can see her decide that this is the whole game. Sitting. Almost being seen.

She thinks that is it.

Her eyes go wide when you undo the knot.

The wrap falls open the way it was built to. One pull. Bare breasts, bare marked stomach, bare cunt sitting out in the thin afternoon light of a moving bus.
You do not glance around first. You do not ease into it.
Your hand is already between her legs, two fingers sliding through the wet that has been waiting since the kitchen, and you have no intention of going small.
You already had small. Alley-small. Under-the-blanket-small.
This is the reward she labelled herself for.

Sandra slaps a hand over her own mouth.

The bus hums. A stop is called. Nobody turns around. Your fingers curl inside her, thumb on her clit, open and unapologetic, her dress a fallen frame around the work.
She is soaked. She is shaking. She keeps flicking her eyes toward the front of the bus and then back to your face like she cannot believe you are actually doing this, and then her hips roll into your hand because she can.

“Quiet,”
you murmur, close to her ear.
“Good girls get to keep their clothes open. Loud girls get the knot tied again.”

She nods, frantic, and bites her own palm. You fuck her with your fingers in steady, filthy strokes that make a soft wet sound under the engine. The markings shine. The count on her thigh flexes when her muscle jumps. A teenager laughs at something on a screen twenty feet away. Sandra comes apart in silence, eyes wet, thighs clamping your wrist.