by Sophie Richard
(09/24/03)

It was one of those Friday afternoons when you feel like anything could happen, because you've got hours ahead of you with nothing pressing to do. There's a web of possibilities stretched out in the golden sunlight and they all seem equally good. Usually nothing special happens on those afternoons, but they make even going home and taking a nap seem like a reprieve from daily life.

My accounting classes were over for the day and I was alone on the university's shuttle, which goes around the massive campus and then up to the parking lots. I sat on the wide banquette in the very back of the bus, absently watching the early spring breeze shake gold-green pollen from a tree while the bus driver did whatever it was he did on his break.

It wasn't really spring, only late January. But sometimes in Arizona, that's all the spring you get, so you learn to take advantage of it. The unseasonably beautiful weather made me think about ice cream. Not seriously, but just sort of letting the idea float around in my head. I closed my eyes against the sunshine that had found its way through the tinted windows. Sweet cream...cherry burgundy...chocolate...

I heard the bus driver settle back in his seat, and I waited for him to start the bus moving again, wondering if I'd have the bus to myself for the rest of the ride up to the parking lots.

She stepped onto the bus with a smooth, almost loping stride, her high heels announcing her arrival without hesitation.

My sigh of impatience at no longer having the bus to myself caught in my throat when I opened my eyes and looked at her. She wore a short, pleated black skirt that accentuated her long, white legs. As one who had lusted after countless Pre-Raphaelite paintings, I thought her pallor perfection. Her blouse was a lightly frilled wrap-around in a shade of pink that echoed my earlier thoughts of ice cream.

I looked up at her, tearing my gaze away from her soft cleavage. She had a sharp, decisive face, framed by smooth, dark curls. The moment I looked into her eyes, I knew she'd caught me.

She walked towards me slowly, and, out of all the empty seats on the bus, sat down right next to me, so close that our thighs touched. I crossed my ankles nervously. With careful deliberation, she placed a book with an Italian title beside her. On the cover was a picture of two women embracing. Confused, I tried to look out the window, and her whisper into my ear caught me off guard. "You like girls, don't you?"

I swallowed and turned to look at her. How the hell did she know that? Every person I had ever told about my passion for the female sex had been shocked out of their wits. But her lips were curved in a smile, and I could see a fine dusting of green-gold pollen caught in the strands of her dark hair. She carried the maddening fragrance of blossoming trees about her. I nodded dumbly.

She took advantage of my proximity to plant a brief kiss on the corner of my mouth. It burned like fire. "The bus driver," I whispered, momentarily regaining my ability to speak.

"He's not looking. We're too far back." She kissed me again, just under my left ear, and flicked out her tongue to catch the amber drop earring that hung from my earlobe.

I shivered, and without making a conscious decision, sought her mouth with my own. She tasted like bitter chocolate, strong and dark. I gave a little sigh, and she inhaled deeply, as if trying to steal my very breath.

We kissed, her tongue teasing and coaxing me, her teeth offering an occasional nip. Just the feeling of her lips was making sitting still almost impossible. I wondered, vaguely, if the people outside the bus could see us, and decided I couldn't care less. Before I knew what was what, she had worked my shirt tails out of my skirt and was caressing my bare back with one hand, while the other was pulling up the rough fabric of my skirt. My legs uncrossed, as if her hands were the magic key to unlock them. Just her touch on my skin was so powerful that I couldn't object to the incursions she was making, nor did I really want to. This, I thought, was what all the afternoon's honeyed promise of possibilities had been about.

When her hand touched my bare thigh, I almost came off the seat. She laughed softly at my gasping reaction, and murmured, "Good thing you're wearing a skirt."

"I always wear a skirt," I replied stupidly.

She kissed my collarbone briefly and looked at me fondly. "Of course you do. Donna." The lilt of her voice made me realize that she was not taking an inaccurate stab at my name, but was calling me woman, in Italian. Or was it lady? I didn't know much Italian. I wondered if ladies got fondled in the backs of buses. My grandmother had never covered the subject.

Yearning for closer contact, and wanting to make her nerves as tremulous as mine were, I slid a hand onto her bare thigh, clinging to her shoulders with the other. She kissed me hard, her eyes dark with arousal, and I felt her hand move higher, meeting the barrier of my silky panties. It was all I could do not to pull away from her, her touch disarmed me so. Instead, I slid my legs further apart, which was apparently invitation enough, since she took the opportunity to push my panties to the side and touch my soaking wet cunt.

I made a sound, and tried to look away as her fingers began carefully manipulating me. She grabbed my high, tight ponytail with her free hand and jerked my head round. "Look at me, Donna." she said, softly.

I watched her dark eyes, and she gave a careless smile. I slid my hand higher under her skirt, wanting to share my arousal, and she gave a tiny hiss. "No." I withdrew my hand hurriedly. I wasn't sure whether to feel rejected or angry. As usual, when torn between two emotions, I selected neither, and focused on the dance of her fingers between my legs.

The next instant she had thrust two fingers deep inside me. I choked back the cry, and saw her smile widen. Damn it. This girl had me, literally, in the palm of her hand. She dipped her smooth head, rewarding me with a nip to my throat. "You're very tight," she whispered, moving her fingers back and forth as her thumb rubbed lazy circles on my aching clit, spreading the moisture.

"Oh, yes, well, good genes I suppose." I'm really not at my best conversationally at such moments, but that must have been an all-time low. I pushed my hips forward, grinding myself hard against her hand. Better.

She snorted with laughter and pulled my head in for a hot kiss, probably to shut me up. My body was now effectively pinned in the corner, against the seat, and she dipped her mouth to my cleavage, tracing her tongue up my chest until she came to the small pendant at my throat, which she took into her mouth and sucked. Her fingernails were digging into the back of my neck, and I knew they would leave a little trail of crescent moons. Good.

I felt that sudden, unaccountable flush of heat in my throat and thighs, and knew I was seconds away from coming. Her fingers never stopped their brutal assault; indeed, the force of her thrusts increased inside me as her thumb pressed down hard on my clit. "Come for me, Donna," she whispered. "Come hard." Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed. She looked just pleasantly excited, nothing more, and I was falling apart.

I hardly needed the command, and with a groan, which she quickly stifled with her mouth, my body began shaking. She ruthlessly drew out the orgasm, pumping her fingers hard inside my churning, clenching cunt. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, panting and suffused with warmth.

At the moment I gave my last heaving shudder, I felt her other hand leave my neck. When I heard the ding, I realized she had pulled the cord to signal her stop. I was having the most intense orgasm ever, and she was keeping track of the stops. It should have irritated me, but from her, it seemed right.

She pulled her slick fingers from my now tender cunt, and wiped them carelessly on her pale thighs. She smiled at me, and rearranged her skirt almost primly. When the bus stopped, she stood and walked off without a word, not even a "thank you" to the bus driver. Rode hard and put away wet, wasn't that the term?

My necklace was still coolly damp against my throat, and on my lap were a few grains of pollen. I crossed my ankles.

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