glimpse of us

New guests board while your fingers are still inside her.

A group of young adults—four, maybe five—loud in that way packs are loud when they have just made the bus. They crowd the driver. Tickets. Cards that will not tap. Someone arguing about zones. It takes a while. Long enough for Sandra’s breathing to go ragged against your shoulder, long enough for your thumb to keep its cruel little circles on her clit, long enough for her to start shaking in the kind of silence that is only silence because her hand is still clamped over her mouth.

Then one of them says it, clear as a bell over the engine:

“Let’s go to the back. There’s free room.”

Right next to you.

Sandra’s orgasm hits on the words.

It is not a polite climax. Her whole body seizes. She squirts—hot, sudden, more than you expected—and for a split second the wrap, the seat, and the bus are all in danger. You move in a tight, ugly sequence because there is no other option.

Tissues first. You press tissues hard against her cunt, catching the worst of it, cupping her so the dress and the upholstery do not take the evidence. She jerks into the pressure, still coming, a wrecked sound dying in her throat.

Photo second. One snap: her eyes rolled back, mouth slack behind her own fingers, dress still open, markings and tally and soaked tissues all in frame. Proof.

The dress third.

You haul the wrap closed around her. The knot will not cooperate from your angle—one-handed, her body still pulsing, the bus already filling with footsteps. You shove the folded edges into her weak hand.

“Hold it.”

She holds it. Barely.

You pull her head into your chest and make it look like cuddling. A couple on the rear reverse seats.
Her face hidden in your neck. Your arm around her shoulders. The tissues still trapped between her thighs under the fabric, your other hand looking idle and being nothing of the kind.

The newcomers pass.

They are close enough that their bags brush the seat back. Close enough to smell perfume and street and whoever had fries. One of them glances at you two and files you under cute, leave them alone. Another drops into the seat across the aisle. The rest pile into the row behind the reverse bench, still talking, still too loud, none of them knowing that the girl “asleep” on your shoulder is shaking through the tail of a squirt with DADDY’S SLUT written above the cunt your hand just left.

You feel all of it against your ear.

The tremors.
The silent moans she cannot fully kill. An occasional love confession, tiny and wrecked, breathed into your skin like she has to put the words somewhere now that her body has already spent itself in public.

“I love you. I love you. Fuck. I love you.”

You keep her face tucked. You keep the dress pinched in her fist. The bus pulls away from the stop. The young adults laugh at something that has nothing to do with you. Sandra’s thighs squeeze the tissues and your wrist in the same pulse, and she stays there, boxed against the window, holding herself together by the fold of a dress and the fact that you told her to be good.

You leave at the next stop.

Not because you need that stop. Because you need "off the bus". The landscape is fuck-off nowhere—fields, a strip of road, a lonely bench under a little outhouse roof meant to keep waiting people out of rain and wind. Sandra glues herself to your side as you step down. She holds the wrap closed so tightly it looks like she is sick, hunched, protecting her middle. An older woman getting off behind you offers genuine condolences.

“Sleeping on the bus always made me queasy too, love. Fresh air will help.”

You both smile through it. Thank her. Watch the bus pull away.

The second it is gone Sandra breaks down on the bench—not crying. Laughing. Collapsing into the wood, dress still pinched in her fist, talking at the sky.

“That was so good. That was so—we were this close. They sat right there. I thought I was going to die. It was the best thing. John. It was the best thing.”

Then she looks up at you.

She knows you are not done.

Your belt is already undone. Your cock is out, hard, aimed at her. No speech required. She lets the dress fall open without being told, obedient, still panting from the bus.

“Are you sure?” she asks, glancing at the empty road.
“Cars could come. Any second. They’d get a glimpse of us.”

“Then they’ll see how much of a slut you are.”
Your voice stays low.
“You’ve got until the next bus. Get me off.”

She leans in, tongue already out.

You pull it back with two fingers on her chin.

“Dress first.”

She blinks.

You hold out your hand.

“The last point of decency you’ve got. Hand it over. You won’t be able to cover yourself. Not even in an emergency.”

Sandra stares at your palm, then at the road, then back at you. A shaky laugh leaves her.

“You’re really taking on steam with this,”
she says, standing, fingers at the knot.
“The dominating. The exhibitionist stuff. I know I’m in danger. I love it. I shouldn’t love it this much.”

The wrap comes off. She is fully nude in the outhouse shadow—markings, tally, wet thighs, sandals still on because you did not tell her to take those. She puts the dress in your hand like an offering.

You throw it on the concrete so her knees will have something other than grit, then angle yourself so she will be bare toward the street. Not hidden by your body. If a car comes, they get her back, her ass, the fact of her on her knees.

“On the dress,”
you tell her.
“Mouth. You talk too much when you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”
She drops to her knees anyway, looking up, eyes bright.
“I’m—okay. I’m a little scared. The good kind. Daddy.”

“Good girl.”

She takes you into her mouth.

The road stays empty. Wind moves the outhouse roof. Somewhere a bird complains. Sandra works you with the same single-minded hunger she had on the sofa, except now there is gravel in her peripheral vision and the possibility of headlights. She moans around you when you rest a hand in her hair. She pulls off just long enough to say, wrecked and honest:

“If someone stops I don’t know if I can get up. I don’t think I want to get up.”

“Then don’t.”

Hands on your thighs, markings on display to a road that has not asked to see them, dress crumpled under her knees, sucking you like the timetable on the pole is a loaded gun and she wants to beat it.