Cross-country commercial bus rides are seldom memorable, except for the pain in your butt and back. After the interest in looking at the moving scenery wears off, these trips mostly consist of long periods of boredom broken only by intervals of confusion over making transfers and anxiety about getting a seat on the next bus. But for me, this pattern was about to change in a very strange and pleasurable way. You do not (and I am not) have to be a believer in the paranormal to know that some strange things can never be explained.
I had been riding all day long and was currently westbound from Atlanta. The bus was perhaps a little more than half-full when we stopped in Birmingham, Alabama for a 40-minute rest stop to change drivers and transfer some passengers. I reboarded after having a smoke and took my right-hand window seat about five rows from the front hoping that the bus would remain only half-full so I could stretch out to sleep. The new passengers filed on board, when a woman who seemed to remind me of someone entered. All of the double seats already had at least one occupant, and as she surveyed the available seating, our eyes locked for a brief instant. She proceeded up the aisle carrying her purse and a thigh-length nylon windbreaker, stopped and asked if she could sit in the seat next to me. As I moved my bag, I pondered—why had she chosen to sit with me? Was I less intimidating—maybe, but there were other seats occupied by only single females? Was I more attractive? Hardly, my full grey beard and slightly overweight frame camouflaged any attractiveness I might have had in my youth. At almost 60, I did present a fatherly figure.
While the interior ceiling lights were on, I surveyed her features. I could not associate her resemblance with any specific memory, but there was a vague air of familiarity. The woman was a brunette; her hair styled in a sort of pixie-cut. She was about five-and-a-half feet tall, dressed typically for a bus trip in jeans, sneakers, and a knit top. I guess her age as early to mid-40s, an assumption I based on the loss of firmness in her breasts (maybe a B cup) and buttocks; there was a slight belly bulge below the beltline testifying to pregnancies earlier in her life. The lights were turned off, and the bus returned to its route. For the first hour we chatted about our kids (she had three grown children, confirming some of my initial assumptions), horses (a common interest), and previous bus-ride experiences. The conversation dwindled and we settled down to nap as the bus droned on into the night.
In her sleep, she made the cutest little coos, gasps, and moans. I wondered if she was reliving a sexual experience. She slept fitfully, unable to get comfortable; in order to give her more comfort, I raised the armrest from between us allowing her to lean against my side. I fell asleep. Inspired by her closeness and the sounds she made, I fantasized graphically in my dreams about feeling her right breast, slipping my hand under her bra to fondle a stiffening nipple. My imaginary musings vanished as we were all rudely awakened by the interior bus lights being turned-on announcing our arrival into Meridian, Mississippi. I noticed that our bodies were in contact from ankle to shoulder, and was fully aware of the heat of her's through my clothes.
During the rest stop, we each attended to our separate needs, and I did not see the woman again until I reboarded. It was a pleasant surprise to see that she had taken the same seat, even though empty double seats were now available. She stood as I slid past to take my seat next to the window. The lights went out as we continued our journey, and she snuggled back against me resuming her sleeping position covered with the windbreaker. I dreamed; I vividly imagined attempting to slip my fingers under the waistband of her jeans. This was difficult with the belt cinched up and her pants buttoned and zipped. I took to tracing the outline of her pussy lips through the crotch of her jeans. I imagined that she enjoyed this as the coos, gasps, and moans continued. Beneath her jacket she silently unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped her pants providing me freer virtual access. My fantasy was graphic. My hand was now inside her panties; my fingers sliding up and down the wet folds of her pussy. I slowly circled her clit and slid a finger into her wet hole.
I awakened as she stirred against me; and "pop", the images of my dream evaporated, but my memory of the fantasy remained. She continued to sleep, but I wrestled internally with the idea of attempting to really actualize the activities I had imagined in my dream. Deciding that my love and faithfulness to my wife were more important than a few moments of illicit pleasure, I pulled my hat over my eyes and drifted back to sleep. But in dreamland my imagination was unrestrained by fidelity, she reciprocated my previous advances by rubbing my cock through my jeans. In the fantasy my erectile dysfunction did not exist, my penis was hard and strong. The entire bus was suddenly startled awake when the bus hit the first pothole in a particularly rough stretch of interstate. I actually did have an erection in my jeans, the first in several years.
Again, the interior ceiling lights came on waking those who were still able to sleep. This stop in Jackson, Mississippi was short, and on reboarding, neither of us chose to change seats. We resumed our positions; she spread her windbreaker as her cover. She was soon sleeping, and once again slumped against my side. I, however, was in a state of confused arousal, and sleep, though I wanted more than anything to return to dreamland, for me came with difficulty. But, it did come. Beneath her windbreaker, we mutually masturbated each other. In my dream, her windbreaker, our clothes, the nearby passengers, and all of the adjacent seats vanished, vaporized into the nonexistence of dreamland. Only she and I, our seat, and the exquisite sensations we affected in each other existed.
We broke our embrace. For the first time I saw the object of my desire; her nudity was beautiful. Leaning back and spreading her legs, she guided me to kneel on the floor to pay oral homage at the center of her womanhood. Her pubic area was trimmed by not shaved, and glistening drops of nectar were visible on her slightly parted pussy lips indicating her arousal, and attracting me like the hummingbird I was trying to emulate. I kissed her nether lips parting them with my tongue. My tongue frenched its way between her labia, down her slit, and into her already sopping wet hole. She urged me to lick her clit. With this extra stimulation, her little organ slowly peeked out and got hard as could be. Running the tip of my tongue back and forth over this tiny pearl caused her entire body to tense and buck. She bit her knuckle to keep crying out as her body shook in spasms as she orgasmed. The juices she released lubricated her for what was to come. My cock was drooling pre-cum. I had her kneel on the seat facing the rear of the bus; I stood behind sliding the head of my cock through the wet furrow formed by her labia. She ordered me to stop teasing and to fuck her. With the crown of my cock at the entrance to her cunt, I stopped relishing the moment, but she could not wait. She pushed her hips back at me just as I pushed forward. The result was a much faster initial penetration than I had intended and that she had anticipated. She yelped at the sharp pain, and I held very still, buried deep within her, until she permitted me to continue.
Dawn always returns us to reality, and so it did as this night ended. The billboards on the roadside advertised Shreveport's casinos and indicated out proximity to the next stop. But Shreveport was my companion's destination, and this knowledge saddened me. I was still nagged by her vague familiarity. Our bus exited the interstate and was soon pulling into the station. On parking, she waited for the overly eager crowd to move past, or was she unwilling to part with me? Finally, she was able to stand and gather her belongings. To my surprise, she leaned close, looked into my eyes, lightly kissed me, and then whispered "thank you". She turned, leaving me sitting there in a bewildered state. Thanking me, for what? All I could do was stammer, "W..whats your n..ame?" "Sandy", she replied exiting down the stairs.
Sandy! The name burst upon my consciousness recalling a cascade of memories from more than four decades ago. It was then that a 24-year old goddess named Sandy had taken the virginity of a naïve 18-year-old in the hay of my father's barn. It was Sandy from my past that Sandy of the bus ride resembled. By the time I regained my composure enough to follow her, she was gone. My bus resumed its westward route. I sat in that same seat more confused and lonely, than a married man has the right to be.