In Transit Ch. 01

I tried to imagine the inside of the intercity coach was one of the small regional aircraft I was more accustomed to traveling in. Maybe a Fokker Friendship or something. Normally, that was my definition of slumming it, preferring proper airliners with a fist class section, warmed blankets and champagne. But now, here I was on a Greyhound bus, among the kind of people I usually manage to avoid. I never thought I would have to travel coach, let alone travel actually by coach!

I hadn't dressed up, accurately predicting I would have stood out like a beacon in a brand-name dress with color-coordinated luggage, but admittedly, my white sweats were a matching set. I had my hair uncharacteristically up in a neat ponytail, and only the minimum of makeup (a girl can't completely forego the basics).

My attempted fantasy of an air travel analog faltered quickly, the illusion collapsing as we all got seated. I had boarded quickly enough to get a window seat, albeit in the second last row, but only when I had stowed my bag and settled in did I realize how vulnerable that made me. I would have no choice of traveling companion. I decided to hop up and sit next to the middle-aged lady across the isle, preferring the assurance of a nice companion to the little luxury of a window seat, but before I could move, a heavy-set man in hi-vis flopped into the seat beside me with a loud grunt. He winked at me in a disturbing way, and his smoker's breath assaulted me with, "Hey, darlin'."

Now, I am nobody's 'darlin'. But whereas normally, when I'm on, for example, a proper airplane, I surely would have snapped back with a sharp retort at such patronizing language, instead in this situation I felt exposed, out of place, and very small and alone. I said nothing, but harbored substantial resentment at the remark.

The combined odor of cigarettes and stale sweat swirled from the unclean man, invading my nostrils and seeming to hem me in further in my limited space. As if to emphasize the effect, his legs then fell apart, and he adopted the classic man-spread as he adjusted himself. He loosened his belt, surely to the relief of his apparently pregnant abdomen, and let his head fall back, his unshaven, sun-damaged face slightly inclined by the travel pillow behind his neck. His face was unattractive. His arms were burly and strong, and yet, under their thick scraggle of hair the failed to be a symbol of strength, instead seeming grotesque. His trousers were grimy, presumably from some sort of physical labor. His hands were calloused, and his nails dirty.

Such an incongruous pair we made, me with my gleaming white sweats, lip gloss, high ponytail, and modest, but meticulously maintained nails, and he with his grubby, filthy clothes, bad breath, body odor, and all-round unattractiveness.

I found myself squeezed, partly by this man's physical bulk, and partly by my desire to shrink from the smell and the thought of his uncleanness, into the corner against the window. Before the bus pulled out, he was snoring.

Thus trapped, and pervaded by his putrid stench, redolent of dank standing water and decaying carrion, I found it difficult to have nice thoughts. On an aircraft, I felt nurtured and respected. Here, I was in a dungeon, held captive by this ogre. As the bus groaned out into the heavy evening rush hour traffic, I pulled my paperback from the seat pocket and tried to lose myself in the sweeping romance, set in rural Victorian England, a complex feud between landed gentry involving a broken line of inheritance, a scandalous secret from generations past, and a star-crossed love unrequited.

My eyes followed the words, and one part of my brain processed each sentence, but no sooner had I read it, the text dissolved and failed to enter my conscious mind. I had to scan back up the page and read it again, because I had not retained any of it. And it happened again. And again.

Meanwhile, the reason I was not able to absorb the (admittedly fairly predictable) story was that my imagination was prompting me with fantasy distractions that were dark and titillating. The phantoms of my mind were tempting me down a path towards unwholesome obsessions, usually reserved for my alone time, in a five-star hotel, for example, attended by champagne, pornography, chocolates, and a vibrator. But here, in a darkened bus, trapped against the glass by the cumbersome presence of a positively repulsive man, my darker thoughts were awake and running interference on my reading efforts.

Presently, I had to close the book, and my eyes, and just go down the rabbit hole of my naughtiest impulses, a slave to their vicissitudes, in surrender.

In my imagination, he awoke, now even more ugly than in real life, his nose and ears were magnified, his lips had scabs and cracks, and his skin was pocked. He leered at me possessively, an ulcerated tongue sliding across his scabby lips as Jabba The Hutt famously demonstrated.

I was paralyzed, a helpless damsel in his clutches. My chest heaved in anticipation and fear.

His gnarled hand reached out uninhibited, grabbing at the pure whiteness of my top, and pulled it outward to allow his other, equally calloused and dirty hand to reach up inside and find my little tank top. Pushing under it, he further discovered my delicate red bra.

In my fantasy I didn't merely sit and suffer this intrusion, but arched my back, assisting his exploration of my softness.

His hideous hand groped at the bra, yanking it so hard the shoulder strap snapped painfully, but I did not object, instead merely gasping in mock dismay. A reaction that would surely encourage, not dissuade further assaults.

My bra rendered useless and thrust aside, the monstrous hand then had full access to my delicate breasts. He mauled them mercilessly, the callouses scratching and rasping against supple skin. He grabbed one and squeezed painfully, but I couldn't cry out lest I wake the other passengers (in my fantasy it made sense to let them sleep through it, for some unexplored reason). He pinched the other nipple savagely, as if challenging me to cry out, a challenge I managed, if barely, to survive with only a whimper.

My fantasy attacker started yanking at the sweater, signalling that it should come off. In an outrageous admission of complicity, I took over and drew the whole garment up and off, over my head. Fantasy me then gestured at the tank top and broken bra, as if to offer to remove those also.

Listen, in real life, I don't let men push me around. I just don't. Especially in the bedroom! I object to the symbolism of masculine dominance, and prefer to play the stronger role in lovemaking. I wouldn't want a man to think he could lord it over me. Yet, here I was, in my fantasy, blowing past all my own taboos. It was a dark place for me to be, and dangerous. I didn't know how far I would take it, and so I maintained a morbid fascination, watching the fantasy unfold, wondering what the limit would be. The watching and wondering was itself a dark fantasy, urging me on, daring me to vitiate the next taboo, and the next.

The man stirred. With a shot of adrenaline I was alert. He snuffled and grunted, and allowed his head to loll to the other side, before quickly falling back into the regular breathing of heavy sleep. I closed my eyes and slid back into my naughty, rude, thoroughly inappropriate story.

With my breasts now fully available, the fantasy ogre was able to use both hands to maul them. He painfully squeezed and pinched, tweaking the nipples just a bit too hard for my erotic enjoyment, instead simply establishing his proprietorial right over my body. Something I would never surrender in real life, but here, I was thrilled to offer it up.

He then turned his attention to my pants. The long, white fleecy-lined pants that were so comfortable, so conservative, were his next fixation. Leaving one scabbed and dirty forearm held against my naked breasts, with the other he began yanking and tugging at the pants. Of course, sitting in a bus seat, that wasn't going to work.

Submissive, obedient, prurient fantasy-me gestured that I would take them off, and he gave me room to do so. I slid them down my legs to my raised knees, and pulled them off my feet under his lewd gaze. Once they were off, and had vaporized as discarded items often do in dreams, I indicated my little knickers, the matching pair to the bra, delicate and petite, a lacy thong. I gave a questioning look, as if to ask whether he would have me remove these also.

He hovered over me in my fantasy, delaying his decision, forcing me to remain in this compromised, submitted posture as he pondered the various humiliations he intended to visit upon me.

Perhaps he lingered in my fantasy because I was unsure which would be the more wanton path for the story to take from there. Did I want to experiment with my fantasy ogre retaining one tiny garment for a while, or fast-forward to full nakedness?

There was a mighty bang, and my head was walloped painfully against the glass of the window. The bus had collided with some pothole or similar, and it jolted me from my saucy little dozing pleasure.

My neighbor was also jolted awake. He uttered a muffled curse and made some other gruff sounds, turned his head once again, and began a rapid descent into sleep. This time, his hand, rendered limp by the receding influence of a mind surrendering to sleep, slid down to the space between us. The outside edge of it was touching my leg, if lightly, and the sensation of it sent surges of lustful aphrodisiac through my poor, overstimulated body.

I could move it. My leg. I could pull it just an inch closer to the window. But I didn't. The man's breathing came heavy and regular again, and I left my leg there, as though plugged into an electric socket. My breathing was shallow, and my mind a blur of erotic thoughts. The fact of his touch was radiating from the leg across my body.

I closed my eyes and wrapped myself again in the familiar fantasy.

The ogre eventually, having extracted a maximal toll of humility and submission from me, indicated with a purposefully nonchalant flick, that I was to remove my last shred of protection. Obediently, I lifted myself awkwardly from the seat to pull the little garment under, then slid it to my knees. The monster stopped me there, so I pulled my hands back, raising them over my head in surrender to what he might do next. His thick, knotty fists clutched the lacy finery and wrenched it violently across my feet and off.

As if it were a natural reaction to the violent action, I allowed my legs to spring back, up, and apart. I rested one foot on his muscular, misshapen shoulder, and the other on his lap. This left me spread for him in an unmistakably wanton posture of invitation.

The bus noticeably decelerated as it exited the expressway. The driver started babbling about our destination, the time (oh, god, 2 hours had passed!), and information about connecting services. The cabin lights came up, and a general bustle began, up and down the bus, as people started gathering their stuff.

This was not my destination. I would be traveling most of the night, but as my companion awoke, he appeared to be preparing to disembark. I would be free of him at last.