You’re joined by a sweet-natured Australian musician in a polka-dot sundress

You decide to stay on the bus if only to gaze longingly at its newest occupant; a honey-blonde vision in a red polka-dot sundress. She’s tanned, youthful, and lugging a guitar case when she clamours on board, her bright and expressive eyes briefly scanning the small portion of bus real estate available to her before settling on the lone empty seat at your side.

“Excuse me, sir?” she inquires in a thick Australian accent, “Were you planning to sit?” She gestures shyly toward the seat in question, obviously unaccustomed to the common urbanite habit of shoving people aside to get where one needs to go.

“Oh? Nope, no - all yours!” you bumble, shuffling aside to allow her access to the seat. Her smile of gratitude is dazzling; almost as dazzling as the valley of tanned cleavage that greets your seeking eyes when she finally lowers herself into the offered seat.

“Whew! Thank you!” she huffs, setting her guitar case aside and looking up at you in blissful ignorance of your ogling. She’s a beautiful, wholesome-looking girl; a slightly rounded face, cutely prominent front teeth, and eyes that shine with an infectious inner light really set her apart from the average hottie her age... And that’s to say nothing of the plump mounds and deliciously curvy physique she’d somehow managed to squeeze into the confines of her tight, form-fitting sundress.

“Not a problem,” you reply, having managed to regain some measure of composure by now, “You new to the city? That sounds like an Australian accent.”

“Bingo,” she answers, “I moved here with my husband a year or two ago - I love it so far.” That hurts you to hear; you didn’t think you had much of a chance with her anyway, but the fact that she seems to be happily married certainly puts a damper on things.

...You like her, though, so you carry on chatting regardless.

“You seem young to be married already,” you observe, trying to swallow your disappointment, “It must be hard to make ends meet after a move like that.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” she says with a wry smile, “We started as high school sweethearts... It was his idea to move here. He said I had a pretty voice - that we could support ourselves by busking if we had to. I’m actually on my way to meet him right now.”

While she’s speaking your eyes begin to wander in the direction of her chest despite your best efforts. You can tell that she’s noticed by the way she tracks your gaze, and for a moment you think that all may be lost... That is, until she responds to your transgression with nothing more than a sweet smile and a casual boobward glance.

“Oh? Were you interested in these?” she asks, speaking with the detachment of a shop assistant as she lowers a forearm to perk them up for your viewing pleasure, “You’ve been so pleasant to me... I’m sure Ricky wouldn’t mind if I showed them off a little.”

You’re utterly gobsmacked by this reaction. These things simply don’t happen to you - especially when it comes to hot young newlyweds. Yet you’re able to look on in awe as this married, seemingly un-whorey young lady reaches beneath the neckline of her dress in order to adjust her bust for you, nudging her unruly mounds this way and that until damn near half of her abundant titflesh is bulging out into the open air!

“Wow... How big are they?” you ask, openly watching for a glimpse of areola as her dress strains to withhold her ascended mounds in much the same way as your pants strain to contain your erection; an erection that just so happens to be eminently visible from the girl’s current vantage point, being that her eyes are level with your waist.

“I’m a 38E.” she proudly proclaims, still not showing any signs of either shyness or arousal as your greedy eyes rove the vast, jiggling expanse of her cleavage. Her eyes DO eventually fall upon your prominent bulge, though, and it’s at this point that her full, painted lips form the most salacious words you’ve heard from her yet; “Did you want me to take care of that for you?”

“...Here?” you begin, clearly incredulous, “On the bus? You’d do that?” You’re almost afraid to bring up her husband, fearing that it might jolt her out of whatever manic nympho phase is encouraging her to act this way.

“Sure - just tell me what you’d like!” she chirps, sitting forward in preparation for whatever depraved indignities you intend to visit upon her nubile body, “I’m a busker, after all, so I suppose I’m used to taking requests.”

She sits at the ready now, perfectly poised for your use. The tops of her mounds jiggle enticingly with every breath, her wide, innocent eyes gazing up at you in trust and admiration while you’re mulling over your options.

“I’m Eliza, by the way,” she reveals with a cheerful grin, “...But you can call me whatever you’d like.”