The Bus

If you asked her the first time a man had touched her on the bus, riding around the city, she wouldn't have been able to tell you. The first touches had been so long ago, perhaps on a city bus, perhaps on one painted yellow. She wasn't sure. She just knew it was a constant. She always pretended to hate it and perhaps even did in the beginning. Strange peers and men, all taking without asking, touching without permission. She wasn't even that pretty, not really. Not ugly by any means, not a butter-face as some might say. Just plain, unassuming, wearing little if any makeup and no clothing begging for attention to be drawn to her.

She didn't even really date or go out. She kept to herself and as she moved into her small apartment, the only other thing in her life was her cat to keep her company as she watched TV or slept. Other than that, the only other constant in her life was her work. A boring job at a boring department store that took a boring 45-minute bus ride to arrive and often closer to an hour to get back from. She was gray personified in a world of color, a shadow, just background noise that no one noticed or cared about.

Except, that is, for the occasional man on the bus. Despite her claims of hating it, of the unwanted attention, her legs would part as a man saw the empty space beside her, just a bit. If he could have smelled her in the dirty bus, he would have detected that tell-tell scent of wetness. But her eyes, meek and downcast, were what drew most of them in. They knew her type, the quiet ones who don't talk, the ones that are either freaks or let you do freaky things to them, never objecting. Not enough to matter anyway. Their "no's" were always more a suggestion than an order, easily discarded and ignored. And thus, some would sit beside her.

Almost none of them talked to her, not really. A few barked orders quietly, and a few just grabbed. They saw the parted legs and their rough fingers would explore, smiling at the soft whimpers and slick hole. Biting her lip as they thrust their fingers into her, often hurting her. Dirty hands, too long of fingernails, too rough, it didn't matter. She never said no, though occasionally a tear or two would slide down her face, often right before she would shudder, shaking. Some would taste her on their fingers, some would make her taste herself, or smear her juices on her face or clothes. All the while, smiling.

A smaller amount, on quiet days usually in the mornings, would try other things. Pinching her breasts, fondling her, all for their enjoyment. Many of the strangers would unzip themselves, pulling out their cocks, so hot in her hand as they wrapped her fingers around their members. Usually, she'd make them pump her hand up and down though sometimes she did it herself. Slow, fast, alternating, always rewarded with a sticky ball of heat in the palm of her hand. A present to be licked off as they got off at the next exit, not even thanking her. Those were the best days.

Then, one day, she didn't reach work. A man heading home from the third shift sat beside her. His eyes scared her, looking through her as he sat next to her. Only a few people rode the bus that morning as he stroked her hair, then shoved her face against the window. She whimpered, crying softly, as he pulled her back. He grinned as her cheek turned red, pawing and inspecting her. She was a deer in his headlights and did nothing as he pulled her off the bus at the next exit. Shockingly, she had never done this before with any of the strangers. Just dirty little transactions on the bus. She'd never left the safety there. The man never talked to her. Oh, he called her names and shouted at her, but he never talked to her. To him, she wasn't human. To him, she was a punching bag.

She'd had sex before, felt pain, the aggressive thrusting of a man over her, but never anything like this. He didn't want to fuck her so much as hurt her and he did. Slaps and shoves and chokes at first, then she found herself on the floor, the room spinning, unable to think clearly. He all but strangled her as he rammed into her, black always on the edge of her vision, creeping in, eyes fluttering. But he never let her fade out, making her feel every moment. He took her anal virginity, covering her mouth as she finally screamed in agony as he tore at her guts. When he was done, he kicked her out, white and red leaking from her, a black eye and concussion, with bruises galore. Somehow she made it home, called into work, and told them she got mugged. It was a believable enough story looking at her.

When she finally returned to work, riding the bus, she looked for that man. She honestly didn't know if she wanted him to appear or never see him again. She had dark and violent wet dreams of him taking her from the bus, disappearing her from the outside world. She wondered as she woke, soaked, would anyone even care or report her missing? She doubted it. She didn't know what she wanted, but when another man sat down beside her, she parted her legs for him. Her routine began again, her normality returning. She wondered who would touch her next, telling herself she hated it, even as she craved and waited for the next to sit beside her and add color to her world. Perhaps she'd get off on the exit with the next man and see where that would lead. The bus was her journey, but she knew it would never be her destination.

So, the next time a stranger left a wet gift in her hand, she licked it and followed him off the bus to see where it would lead her. Her world perhaps becoming darker, but a little less gray.