by Shauna M. Greenwood.
(06/15/11)
I'm the studious-looking brunette with glasses, immersed in thought, typing on my laptop in the corner seat of a bus, teeming with exhausted businessmen, students, and shift workers.
Little do they know.
The fit 50-something man with black ankle-high boots, eyeing me, probably guesses I'm writing a letter or completing homework.
Little does he know.
I'm using him as a muse -- a muse of the dirtiest sort. My screen burgeons with words of sexual delight, of visions and desires and erotic mischief, and is only a quick glimpse away.
His boots are thick black ropes binding his spread legs to my kitchen chair. Torn clothing strewn in haste, his naked body writhes against leather restraints, immobilizing all but his mouth. His friendly chatter is moaning, sighing, breathing, ecstatic shouting, as I lean close and command his hot tongue to circle my breast.
My crossed legs resting on the bus seat are straddling him, my black handbag now a blindfold I'm tying tightly. I release one of his well-toned arms and direct his fingers under my skirt, into the wetness between my legs. Then I demand that he touch himself. I want him to come all over me.
His free hand pumps his cock obligingly but greedily, his sweat-slicked body straining fruitlessly against unyielding bondage. Faster, louder, shuddering, screaming...
The bus jolting to a halt is the man's searing pulses of come, dousing my face and breasts with pungent warmth. The man stands and works his way through briefcases, jackets, and limbs. The doors clang open, and he leaves into the night.
Little does he know.
