The beautiful bald man was on the other side of the seat. She knew him a little, had started at him often, all lean and muscle and power, like a fucking sexual battery, the only one in the big sprawling company who seemed to be allowed to wear running shorts and a t-shirt. Not that anybody complained, since nobody seemed to be sure what his job was exactly, and even the men seemed to admire his body, though of course they'd never admit it.
All he could see of her right then across the back of the seat was her head (big flashing smile, bright blue eyes, wild curly mostly-blond hair), her left hand playing with her hair, her neck, the shoulders of her black leather jacket and a hint of the slope of very tasty looking breasts under her tight striped sweater (or at least that's how she hoped he saw her).
He couldn't see some of her best features - most of her chest, her stomach (extremely flat and taut for a woman her age, whatever age that might be, she certainly wasn't telling) or her hips or her ass, or her legs, or her right hand. Nobody could see her right hand, or her legs, or her right hand between her legs. The guy sitting in front of her, curled in the corner across from the driver, could have seen, had he lifted his head, but the brim of his hat was pulled low, and his face was buried in a book (or so she thought. Humans in this regard are only slightly brighter than ostriches, and generally assume that if they can't see your eyes, your eyes must not be able to see them).
She'd been buried in a book too when she first got on the bus, a Danielle Steele that she'd stuffed quickly into her bag when the bald man sat behind her. All one motion: book in the bag, turn the body sideways, draw one knee up, twist the neck, toss the wild curly mostly-blond hair, smile invitingly and say "good morning" with a slight batting of the bright blue eyes. The book was good, but he was the real thing.
He smiled such a big smile at her that she forgot everything she had planned to say, all her best seductive tricks. He smiled and babbled something about his job that she probably wouldn't have understood even if she was listening. Her right hand grasped her own right ankle, stroked it lightly, as though it were his hand, for she knew he would be gentle at first, then stroked upward, the long red nail scratching the denim of her tight jeans up the back of her calf, back down to her ankle, up again, tickling the back of her own knee ever so gently, sliding the whole grasping hand hand back down the leg, and back up, imagining a tongue along with it on the other side, a tongue on the inside of her thighs, a beautiful bald head between her legs, deep blue eyes staring at her as he licked her.
The sound of his voice and the cadence of the words, whatever they were, was enough to drive her hand between her legs, to cup her hand over her cunt through her jeans, to press hard as his voice rose and fell, as she thought of him, rising and falling, her ankles locked behind his back pulling him in, hitting her deepest spots, face right down on her kissing her, pushing back up like a pushup, too strong to resist, plunging down again, filling her violently, filling her thoroughly, achingly, completely.
If the bald man noticed, he said nothing, merely smiled, and kept on talking, while the man with the hat pretended to read and saw everything, taking careful mental notes of every detail, every nuance, every little gesture that the blond woman made.
The bald man exited the bus first, walking with a spring in his step to the building where he did whatever it was he did all day in his t-shirt, sneakers, and running shorts, the blond woman staring wistfully after him, having loved the attention as much as him but wanting much more than she had gotten. Still convinced that the man in the hat was too engrossed by his book, or that she was too subtle, or perhaps just too excited to care one way or the other, and having only a minute or three before the bus reached her building, she made some shrugging motions with her shoulder that could only be interpreted as a hand unzipping a tight pair of jeans and then stealing inside to satisfy a swollen clit with fingertips more subtle than her pressing palm. But it was her face that the man in the hat enjoyed the most, her head thrown back, her eyes glazed and half lidded, her mouth barely open, whispering half-formed thoughts in quiet rapid desperation, completely in the moment, in her hand, in images of the beautiful bald man and his hard beautiful body as she came, right there, on the bus, stifling her gasps with her other hand before recognizing her building out the window of the bus, pulling the cord, zipping her pants, jumping into the aisle with a look of panic, suddenly noticing that the man in the hat had dropped all pretense of ignorance and was winking, saluting, and then blowing her a kiss as she traipsed dizzily across the parking lot to the mundane world of her thankless desk.
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