Bus Ride

Hester was an amazing woman and I might have loved her had I not been older than her father and if she had given me a blow job on the bus instead of just a hand job. It was that close and yes, as simple as open, insert and suck. But that never happened and sadly I never loved her.

Now I've always loved a woman's hands, the intricate delicacy of her fingers, the careful detail of the nails and the incredible softness of the skin. The lotions, creams and liquids they try just to make their hands softer, more beautiful are all so luxurious and exciting. Just the thought of what each woman does for her hands makes a woman's touch so exciting. Unfortunately Hester bit her fingernails, her hands were rough and I had no idea where those hands had been.

It started on a bus leaving Austin late at night heading to San Antonio and points west. I had lugged my bag walking along Congress from Nineteenth Street through the State Capital building and on to Eighth Street. I remember how my tennis shoes squeaked on the polished floor of the capital building, echoing up through the light blue dome. It was early evening then and the few people left had loosened their ties and generally looked a bit disheveled as they headed to their cars. Of course at their disheveled worst, they didn't look as bad as me in my dirty jeans, tee shirt and squeaking shoes.

What I find even more exciting is when a woman uses some of her creams or lotions when touching me. The slippery feel of her fingertips running over my chest, moving in slow, concentric circles, getting smaller and smaller, finally honing in on my nipples is simply ecstatic in itself, but then when they trail down my stomach, through the curly patch of hair all I can do is arch my back and submit to however she wants to take me. Nice, but we were stuck in the back of a bus, jammed in the back seat and had to keep it quiet or we'd quickly have an audience.

With my bag I thought they would make me walk around the building, but after a quick stop with security they let me proceed, though I did feel their eyes on me each step of the way. I passed through the rotunda and continued through the front door and then walked down the steps and onto the great walk leading out to downtown Austin.

Yes, in the perfect hand job my balls are hers for her amusement, fingernails may scrape, fingers may probe or her entire hand may squeeze letting me savor the painful pleasure as my cock twitches in anticipation. Depending upon her enthusiasm, the exquisite wait until my cock feels the cool wetness of her lotion can become almost heavenly in itself. And still I found myself yearning for the inexperienced hands of a woman young enough to be my daughter.

I met Hester on 13th Street, still about seven blocks from the bus station. She was pretty blasted, apparently on a binge for her 21st birthday. Yeah, back in my day, the eighteen year olds were allowed to drink and, what the hell, give hand jobs, or suck or fuck. Now they could do everything but drink. Hey, I wasn't about the debate all that, no at that time I was only interested in making the bus. After walking a block or two with Hester, all I was interest in was getting in her pants.

It's that interminable, urgent wait for the stunning delight that can make the difference between the sublime and the earth-shattering. Of course, a hurried tussle in the back seat of a westbound bus can be spectacular too.

Anyway, when I found out she was heading west too, I offered to pay her bus fare. Sadly that ticket didn't buy my passage into her jeans, but it did get me a seat next to her in the back of the bus. I even threw in another drink as we waited for the bus, wanting to keep her properly drunk.

Once on the bus I tried to convince her to do more, but finally settled for a quick hand job. Ah, all those wonderful conceptions of the exquisite way a woman could please a man with just her hands swirled out the bus window when she looked up at me and said, "Take it or leave it."

What the hell, I took it, quickly unzipping my pants and pulling my cock out. She reached down with her nail bitten fingers and rough scratchy hands and began to stroke my cock up and down, slowly at first, then quickening. While she worked with her right hand, she tickled my balls with the left.

All my fantasies of being teased and prodded, drawn just to the edge and then let down, only to be stroked to the edge again and again, slipped quickly away as I moaned softly, arched my back and came, spurting out onto her sleeve and my pants leg.

"Damn, you got some on me," she complained, wiping her sleeve on my shirt. In a tiff she moved up to the seat in front of me.

I dug through my pack and found an old tee shirt to mop up some of the cum off my leg and I knew it would dry before my stop so I wasn't too worried. Anyway, at that time I did what any warm blooded man would do when accompanied by a beautiful young woman who just finished jacking him off, I drifted off to sleep.

By the time I woke up she was gone. I still had several hundred miles to go to reach El Paso, so I simply closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep. Yeah, it was a nice hand job from a pretty girl, but nothing more. Perhaps if she had given me a blow job it might have been more.

Now I've always loved a woman's mouth, the lovely shape of her lips, the wet sensuous movement of her tongue, and the incredible softness...