On the Public Bus

It was another freezing January evening in Manhattan and Camelia couldn't wait to get home. Clutching her Gucci handbag firmly and clicking her Prada stilettos maniacally against the concrete, she waited for the public bus to arrive. She normally took a cab, but, inexplicably, she wanted to take the public bus today. Perhaps her lapsed choice in public transportation was due to the difficult day she'd had today. She couldn't wait to get home and relax with a take-out meal and the remote control. Tonight was Chinese food night. She was grateful that she lived in the thirty-minutes-or-less restaurant emporium that is Manhattan. Who needs a kitchen and a stove nowadays when you have take-out?

"Hey," a messy-haired man in a sloppy white t-shirt and run-down jeans greeted.

Camelia nodded absently—hoping that he wouldn't talk to her further. She hated it when strangers initiated conversations. Didn't they know this was New York—a.k.a., the snob city capital of the world?

"Where you headed?" the man asked.

She tucked a strand of her straight raven hair behind her ear and huffed, "Downtown."

"Really? Me too! Gotta have a chat with my ex. She don't wanna return my stereo. Well, she gon' have to, that's all I know."

Camelia smiled politely and looked away. She'd had a lousy day at the office—a place she'd recently titled The Hell Hole for All Freelance Fashion Designers—and she wasn't in the mood to have a conversation with a man who obviously couldn't grasp the English grammar. She'd just about had it with her boss's tantrums. Camelia's latest creations had received a lousy review by Penelope Porizchova—the eccentric woman whose name was used for said garments. "Unique!" Penelope had shouted. "I want unique! Can't you grasp the meaning of the word unique? This"—she picked up a pile of Camelia's newest inventions and dumped them flat on the floor—"is rubbish. All of it! Rubbish! The same uninspiring crap you've designed for four bloody years. I want to see something so un-fucking-believable that the entire press would fall on their knees during Fashion Week. Have I made myself clear?" Camelia nodded meekly and scooted out of Penelope's office before she uttered another stinging retort.

Now all Camelia wanted was an uneventful commute to her apartment. Was that too much to ask?

Luckily, the bus finally arrived. Unfortunately, the messy-haired guy—whom she now inwardly referred to as Chatter Box—also got on it. Camelia hoped that he'd sit somewhere else—preferably forty-feet away—but Chatter Box sat on the empty seat next to Camelia, even though all of the other seats were empty. Chatter Box plopped on the seat and took a deep breath. "God, I'm tired," he said. "Can't wait to get my stuff and go home."

She shot him a sharp look and hoped that that would be shut him up. But Chatter Box did not take the hint. "You're very pretty, eh? Bet you got a boyfriend waiting for ya . . . 'cause a pretty girl like yourself gotta have one of them investment bankers eating out of your hand. Lucky dude, I'll tell ya that!"

Turning to him, she was about to tell him to piss off when she noticed something. Despite his unkempt exterior, Chatter Box was gorgeous! His greasy brown hair flopped around his chiseled face, adding a majestic air of enigma in his hazel eyes. His rampant chest was visible underneath his sweaty t-shirt and his jeans revealed what could only be described as a massive erection. Camelia gasped as she felt a surge of excitement swift through her loins. What was happening to her? How was it possible for a man to go from a sloppy pest to a sex god in a matter of seconds?

Dazed, Camelia shook her head and said, "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Well," he replied as he smiled provocatively, "that wouldn't be the case, if it was up to me, babe."

His bad grammar and poor dress style no longer bothered her; she had to have him. There. On the public bus. In public . . . Or at least in front of the bus driver. Camelia scarcely behaved this way, but fucking a sexy loser on a public bus after a disastrous day could well brighten up her day.

But how would she initiate the courtship?

As if reading her thoughts, Chatter Box grabbed Camelia and walked her to the back of the bus, where he bent her over, removed her pink lace La Perla thong and massaged her pussy lips using two fingers.

"You're wet," he marveled. "You see? I knew you'd want me. 'S why I started talking to ya. Spoiled rich girls like you just want a real man to take charge and fuck 'em senseless once in a while. Ain't it the truth? I bet you do this all the time. I bet you fuck strangers in the worst areas of the city all the time. Do you not want to be fucked senseless on the back of this filthy bus, baby?"

Camelia wanted to tell him that she was neither rich nor spoiled, but his fingers pushing in and out of her swollen sex had made her speechless with shock and ecstatic with desire. This situation would have seemed frightening in other circumstances, but she couldn't help but admit to herself that he was right. She wanted to be fucked . . . fucked hard on the back of a filthy public bus by a groggy stranger.

She felt him rummage through his jean pocket. He produced what could only be a condom. "Gotta protect the good stuff, babe," he confirmed.

He unbuckled his belt, dropped his pants to his ankles, put the condom on and, before he entered her, asked tentatively if she was sure she wanted to do this.

"Yes!" she shouted in uncontainable excitement. "Yes . . . yes, I do. I do!" She arched her back and spread her long legs wider apart to indicate that she was ready.

"That's my girl," he cooed, running his hand up and down gently on her vaginal walls. She twitched with desire.

And suddenly she felt it—the overpowering sensation of his cock gingerly making its way inside of her. He entered her with an artful skill that she'd never experienced from a man before. He made his way inside of her slowly at first. Then his thrusts became harder and rougher as his animal hunger increased. (And she couldn't help but notice that the wall of flesh entering in and out of her was very well endowed.)

Camelia was facing a window and moaned to the passersby as euphoric waves of pleasure contracted inside of her in the form of pre-orgasmic ecstasy. Chatter Box pulled her teal-colored Valentino top up so that her breasts rolled free. They bounced rhythmically with his thrusts. Camelia had always considered her breasts to be her most desirable asset, and she knew that men went gaga over them—after all, she paid a handful of money on saline implants to ensure that that would be the case.

He groaned and drove farther into her as she ground her hips onto his, urging him to move faster. They'd found a rhythm and moaned in unison, until Camelia felt a powerful and exquisite eruption paralyze her entire body. She came again a few seconds later. Then she came again. And again. An orgy of orgasms. She'd scarcely had orgasms, let alone ongoing ones.

His breathing quickened and intensified, announcing that it was his turn to come. "Oh yeah," he groaned, his hands pressed against her hips. "Oh yeah. Oh shit!"

He collapsed on top of her, panting like a dog. Camelia, too, was wiped out—goose pimples pricked her skin like an aftershock.

Finally he composed himself, put on his jeans and walked leisurely toward his seat. Camelia donned her top and noticed that she had missed her stop. She requested an exit to the next one.

Before she left, she walked to Chatter Box and playfully flung her panties to his face. "A souvenir," she said.

He laughed, took a whiff of the used thong and deposited it in his jean pocket. "Thanks, babe," he said. "There ain't no chances of seeing you again, are there?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid not. Other than enjoying sex on dirty places, you and I have nothing in common."

"And you just wanna end it so abruptly then?" he asked with a glint in his eye.

"It was an abrupt encounter in the first place, wasn't it? So, it might as well end the same way."

"Ain't you even gon' tell me your name?"

She smiled. "Camelia."

"Camelia. Exotic! Mine's"—Chatter Box!—"Alex."

"Right. Alex."

They gazed at each other in silence, smiling. "Okay . . . well, Camelia, thank you for the lovely chat and for everything else. A fancy-looking bird like you shouldn't ride on a bus by herself. Someone might take advantage of ya." He winked.

Camelia laughed. "I'll take my chances. And good luck getting your stuff back from your girlfriend."

"Have a nice evening, Camelia."

As she walked out the door, the bus driver smirked and said, "That was some show!"

Camelia stared at her reflection in a shop window. Her glossy dark hair was smooth and flawless and she looked poised and pristine in her suit—certainly did not look as though she'd just been ravished by a stranger on the back of a public bus. Her skin, however, had a post-coital glow. A cheesy grin was plastered across her face. Her green eyes sparkled with glee. That was the best fuck she'd had in a long time. It was a great conclusion to an otherwise gruesome day.

With a flourish, she click-clacked her Prada stilettos through the downtown traffic, where she hailed a cab that would take her to her stylish SoHo loft. She'd have a bath, order Chinese and call her boyfriend. An important investment banker, he had to leave for a conference in London and she'd promised to give him a call that night.