Roxy's Bus Ride
Roxy stepped onto the nearly empty evening bus with a soft sigh, the doors hissing shut behind her. Her dad’s place always left her restless—too many lectures, too much forced small talk. The short walk to the stop had done nothing to shake the tension from her shoulders. She slid into the long back bench seat, the worn fabric cool against the backs of her bare thighs. The black mini-skirt rode up a little as she settled, the heavy silver buckle of her belt resting against her lower stomach. She dropped her battered backpack beside her, set the half-finished coffee on the floor, and leaned back, one arm draped along the top of the seat, the other propped so her fingers could rest against her cheek.
The bus lurched forward.
At first the vibrations were just background noise—the low, steady thrum of the engine working its way up through the floorboards and into the metal frame of the seat. Roxy stared out the wide rear window at the blur of streetlights and neon, her expression bored, almost irritated. But every time the bus hit a rough patch of road the whole bench shuddered, and the motion travelled straight up between her legs.
She shifted, crossing one ankle over the other. The skirt’s hem slipped higher. Another bump, deeper this time, and a soft pulse answered between her thighs. Roxy’s grey eyes narrowed slightly. She told herself it was nothing—just the residual annoyance from the afternoon. She uncrossed her legs, let them fall open a fraction wider, and the next wave of vibration pressed more deliberately against the thin cotton of her panties.
Heat bloomed low in her belly.
She stayed still for several more stops, jaw tight, watching the city slide past. The bus was almost empty; only a handful of passengers scattered ahead. The air conditioning hummed, but it did nothing to cool the flush slowly climbing her neck. Every acceleration, every brake, every uneven stretch of asphalt sent another deliberate throb through the seat and straight into her cunt. Her nipples tightened under the thin black bandeau, the white skull print suddenly feeling too tight across her chest. She could feel herself getting wet, the soft fabric between her legs growing damp and sticky.
Roxy’s breathing slowed, deepened. She let her knees drift farther apart. The skirt rode up until the lower curve of her ass kissed the rough upholstery. Another long, rolling vibration—almost like a tongue—dragged against her clit through the soaked cotton. A quiet sound escaped her throat before she could stop it.
She glanced around. No one looking. The nearest passenger was several rows forward.
Her right hand left the window ledge and settled on her thigh, fingers tracing idle circles just below the hem of the skirt. The bus hit a series of potholes and the seat juddered hard; her hips rolled forward on instinct, chasing the sensation. The pressure against her clit was relentless now, a deep, filthy tease that made her cunt clench around nothing. She was soaked. She could feel it.
Fuck it.
Her fingers slipped under the pleated edge of the skirt. Warm, slick heat met her touch the second she brushed over the crotch of her panties. She bit the inside of her cheek and pressed two fingers firmly against her clit through the wet fabric, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that matched the rhythm of the engine. The vibrations amplified everything—every stroke, every tiny shift of her hips. She worked herself harder, grinding down against her own hand while the bus carried her through the darkening streets.
The cotton was in the way. She hooked a finger under the edge and pulled it aside, baring her slick folds to the cool air and the relentless thrum of the seat. Two fingers slid between her lips, gathering her wetness, then pushed inside. She was so swollen and sensitive that the first thrust made her thighs tremble. She fucked herself in time with the bus’s motion—slow and deep when the engine settled into a steady drone, faster and rougher whenever the road got uneven. Her other hand stayed propped against her cheek, partially hiding her face, but her eyes had gone heavy-lidded, mouth parted. Soft, wet sounds rose beneath the skirt, drowned by the engine but still filthy in her own ears.
She added a third finger, stretching herself open, thumb circling her clit with short, urgent strokes. The dual stimulation—her own hand and the constant, dirty vibration of the bus—pushed her higher and higher. Her hips rolled in small, needy circles. Sweat gathered at the small of her back. The choker felt tight around her throat. She was close, so close that every bump in the road sent a sharp spike of pleasure through her core.
Roxy’s free hand dropped from her face to grip the edge of the seat. She bit down hard on her lower lip and came with a silent, full-body shudder, cunt clenching rhythmically around her fingers, thighs shaking, a fresh rush of wetness soaking her hand and the seat beneath her. The orgasm rolled through her in long, pulsing waves that left her breathless and limp against the worn fabric.
Only when the last aftershock faded did she open her eyes properly.
A few rows ahead, an old man sat half-turned in his seat. His pale eyes were locked on her. He didn’t look away. He didn’t smile. He simply watched, expression unreadable, as Roxy slowly pulled her glistening fingers from under her skirt and wiped them on the inside of her thigh.
The bus rattled on.
The bus lurched forward.
At first the vibrations were just background noise—the low, steady thrum of the engine working its way up through the floorboards and into the metal frame of the seat. Roxy stared out the wide rear window at the blur of streetlights and neon, her expression bored, almost irritated. But every time the bus hit a rough patch of road the whole bench shuddered, and the motion travelled straight up between her legs.
She shifted, crossing one ankle over the other. The skirt’s hem slipped higher. Another bump, deeper this time, and a soft pulse answered between her thighs. Roxy’s grey eyes narrowed slightly. She told herself it was nothing—just the residual annoyance from the afternoon. She uncrossed her legs, let them fall open a fraction wider, and the next wave of vibration pressed more deliberately against the thin cotton of her panties.
Heat bloomed low in her belly.
She stayed still for several more stops, jaw tight, watching the city slide past. The bus was almost empty; only a handful of passengers scattered ahead. The air conditioning hummed, but it did nothing to cool the flush slowly climbing her neck. Every acceleration, every brake, every uneven stretch of asphalt sent another deliberate throb through the seat and straight into her cunt. Her nipples tightened under the thin black bandeau, the white skull print suddenly feeling too tight across her chest. She could feel herself getting wet, the soft fabric between her legs growing damp and sticky.
Roxy’s breathing slowed, deepened. She let her knees drift farther apart. The skirt rode up until the lower curve of her ass kissed the rough upholstery. Another long, rolling vibration—almost like a tongue—dragged against her clit through the soaked cotton. A quiet sound escaped her throat before she could stop it.
She glanced around. No one looking. The nearest passenger was several rows forward.
Her right hand left the window ledge and settled on her thigh, fingers tracing idle circles just below the hem of the skirt. The bus hit a series of potholes and the seat juddered hard; her hips rolled forward on instinct, chasing the sensation. The pressure against her clit was relentless now, a deep, filthy tease that made her cunt clench around nothing. She was soaked. She could feel it.
Fuck it.
Her fingers slipped under the pleated edge of the skirt. Warm, slick heat met her touch the second she brushed over the crotch of her panties. She bit the inside of her cheek and pressed two fingers firmly against her clit through the wet fabric, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that matched the rhythm of the engine. The vibrations amplified everything—every stroke, every tiny shift of her hips. She worked herself harder, grinding down against her own hand while the bus carried her through the darkening streets.
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The cotton was in the way. She hooked a finger under the edge and pulled it aside, baring her slick folds to the cool air and the relentless thrum of the seat. Two fingers slid between her lips, gathering her wetness, then pushed inside. She was so swollen and sensitive that the first thrust made her thighs tremble. She fucked herself in time with the bus’s motion—slow and deep when the engine settled into a steady drone, faster and rougher whenever the road got uneven. Her other hand stayed propped against her cheek, partially hiding her face, but her eyes had gone heavy-lidded, mouth parted. Soft, wet sounds rose beneath the skirt, drowned by the engine but still filthy in her own ears.
She added a third finger, stretching herself open, thumb circling her clit with short, urgent strokes. The dual stimulation—her own hand and the constant, dirty vibration of the bus—pushed her higher and higher. Her hips rolled in small, needy circles. Sweat gathered at the small of her back. The choker felt tight around her throat. She was close, so close that every bump in the road sent a sharp spike of pleasure through her core.
Roxy’s free hand dropped from her face to grip the edge of the seat. She bit down hard on her lower lip and came with a silent, full-body shudder, cunt clenching rhythmically around her fingers, thighs shaking, a fresh rush of wetness soaking her hand and the seat beneath her. The orgasm rolled through her in long, pulsing waves that left her breathless and limp against the worn fabric.
Only when the last aftershock faded did she open her eyes properly.
A few rows ahead, an old man sat half-turned in his seat. His pale eyes were locked on her. He didn’t look away. He didn’t smile. He simply watched, expression unreadable, as Roxy slowly pulled her glistening fingers from under her skirt and wiped them on the inside of her thigh.
The bus rattled on.
26-30, F
