End of the Line

byCal Y. Pygia©

I'd been sleeping for the past several hours, and I was groggy when I woke in the cramped seat, the beautiful brunette beside me. Outside, it was dark. Lights flashed past, streaking the huge window with reds, oranges, ambers, yellows, whites, and greens, as if some gigantic, invisible hand were painting an illuminated garden upon a canvas of glass. Through the slits of my half-open, rheumy eyes, I could make out the indistinct square, rectangular, and triangular shapes of buildings crowded together in a close rank. We were traveling through the downtown area of yet another city. The last I could remember, we'd been crossing a bridge over the Mississippi River. Vaguely, I wondered what state we were in now.

I turned my head upon the high-backed seat. Dimly, I recognized that my seatmate was busy. Her arm was moving, and she moaned softly. I looked down, at her lap, and saw that her pumping fist gripped her cock. The lady beside me was no lady; she was a he! Moreover, the transsexual tart was masturbating!

I didn't know what to do. I mean, I wasn't offended, not in the least. It was damned sexy, having a beautiful "woman" masturbating in the seat beside me, on a Greyhound bus.

If she was aware that I'd awakened, she gave no sign. She continued to masturbate, her fist bouncing around her stiff, straining cock, moaning softly from time to time as she squirmed in her seat. I was facing her--somehow, despite the erect penis jutting from her lap, I couldn't help but to think of her as a woman--and, keeping my eyes half closed, I observed her as she continued to stroke herself, trembling and heaving in her seat. She was close to orgasm, I knew, and I wondered whether she'd continue until she ejaculated.

Thank goodness, I thought, for the fat old broad who occupied the aisle seat adjacent to the shemale sweetie who sat beside me. The matronly old Medusa had fallen asleep with her overhead lamp on. The focused illumination from the small bulb was sufficient for me to see the transsexual; otherwise, I'd have been denied the sight of her pleasuring herself, although I might have guessed, easily enough, what she was doing beside me in the dark by the muted moans that she made and the intermittent shuddering that seized and shook her slight frame. As it was, I was able to enjoy both the sight and the sound of her masturbation.

"You're beautiful," I said quietly.

Beside me, she froze, sitting motionless and silent.

"I saw what you were doing," I informed her.

She said nothing.

I don't know, to this day, where I got the nerve, but I reached over, took her still-stiff prick in my hand, and began to stroke it. "Let me do that for you," I suggested.

She still didn't say anything; she still didn't move.

My fingers rolled the cylindrical shaft between them. Then, I took her cock in my fist. I held her manhood firmly as I pumped my fist up and down. I heard her gasp. Tightening my grip, I increased my tempo, and she moaned. I felt her shiver, and her thighs clamped together involuntarily. Her balls were high and tight, risen in the contracted pouch of her scrotum. She was close to orgasm. She groaned, shuddering, and her thighs squeezed tightly together.

I squeezed her prick in my fist, several times, rapidly, and she rolled her eyes, helpless in the grip of ecstasy. My hand bounced fast and hard, up and down, pushing and pulling the taut skin of her cock back and forth over the straining shaft and jiggling her balls inside the tight-drawn pouch of her risen scrotum. She sobbed with pleasure as her thick, warm semen spurted from her trembling penis, forming small opalescent pools that looked like melted pearls.

She'd sown some of her seed upon my fingers as well as her pubes and lower belly, and I lifted my hand to my mouth and tasted the nectar of her loins. It was salty and delicious. I wished I'd sucked her cock instead of having masturbated her. I also wished she could have returned the favor, imagining the wild sensations and delight that her lips and tongue and mouth could create within my heart and soul (and genitals).

She'd closed her eyes, looking as lovely as a sleeping angel as she breathed deeply, her whole body relaxed and still. Her little penis had already begun to wilt, returning to its natural, limp state.

Her semen glistened in the pale light of the adjacent overhead lamp. Were I a photographer, I'd have snapped her picture; were I a painter, I'd have captured her likeness in oils. As it was, I was content merely to gaze upon her loveliness. She was as beautiful as any woman I'd ever met or seen and far lovelier than the multitude. I longed to see her completely naked, so I could behold and fondle her breasts and buttocks as I'd caressed her cock and balls.

She opened her sapphire eyes and regarded me under thick, dark lashes. Her smile melted my heart. "Thank you," she whispered.

I heard the bus' airbrakes. The gargantuan vehicle slowed. A sign outside the window announced "Philadelphia."

"You live here, in Philly?" I asked her.

My gorgeous seatmate nodded. "Do you?"

Grinning, I answered her nod with a nod of my own. "On Winchester Street."

"Let's exchange phone numbers," she suggested, adding, after a moment's pause, "and addresses."

We scribbled the information and handed our notes to one another.

Taking mine, she tucked the paper into the cleavage of her fabulous breasts. "Call me," she invited.

"I will," I promised, my cock stiffening at the thought of the good times we could have together in the City of Brotherly Love.

"I want to get you into my bed," she declared. "I want to suck your cock and fuck your ass."

"And I want to suck your cock and fuck your ass," I returned.

The driver's voice bawled from the front of the bus: "Philadelphia, Pennsylvania! End of the line!"

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