Misc. Erotica The Night Bus (COMPLETED) - by Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

The Night Bus

by Novelist Casanova

My name is Sudha and I am a housewife living in the city with my husband Rajesh Mani, who is a successful criminal lawyer and earns handsomely. I have a fair glowing face with large dark eyes that look wet even when I am only standing quietly, full lips that stay a little open when my mind is elsewhere, and a heavy body that I have carried since I was a young woman. My breasts sit high and full and need proper hold through the day, which is why I always wear a regular Indian everyday bra — seamed, panelled, double-layered, full coverage, non-wired, non-padded, 100 percent cotton, with a back closure — because it keeps my breasts in place when I cook, bend, and walk around the house without letting them bounce or show their shape too clearly under my saree. My waist goes in sharply and then my hips open wide, and my thighs are thick where they meet when I sit, so when I walk from room to room my ass cheeks move under the saree in a way I have stopped trying to hide.


I wear my petticoat low, below my navel, the way I learned years ago, and under it I wear hipster panties because they sit on my hips instead of cutting across my waist and they stay hidden under the low petticoat without riding up when I move. My mangalsutra hangs between my breasts and small gold earrings touch my neck whenever I turn my head.

Rajesh leaves early in his white shirt and returns late; he kisses the side of my head and the house becomes quiet again. I keep the house, I fold his clothes, and I wait.
God has blessed us with three handsome sons who all look exactly like my husband, and that is the one thing Rajesh and his family never stop being proud and happy about. They see those three faces and they see him repeated, and in their eyes that is enough. What they do not see, or what they refuse to forget, is my side. Rajesh hates my family. He hates my relatives most of all because years ago they insulted him in front of others, spoke to him as if a man who had come up by his own work was still less than them, and he has never let that wound close.

Then the news came from the village. Their car met with an accident on that narrow road. My aunt Kasiamma died on the spot. Santosh, who had been driving, lost both his legs. His wife Lydia was left completely paralyzed. When I heard it I felt a heaviness in my chest that had nothing to do with Rajesh’s pride. These were still my people. I sat across from my husband that evening after the boys had gone to their rooms and I told him I had to go to the village, attend Kasiamma’s funeral, sit with Santosh and Lydia and give them my condolences.

“I will not come,” Rajesh said. He did not raise his voice. He only looked at the files on the table as if the matter was already finished. “You want to go, go. I am not stepping into that house.”
I felt my throat tighten. I asked him again, and then once more, keeping my voice low so the boys would not hear.
“Please come with me, at least for one day,” I said. “They have lost everything. I cannot walk in there alone.”
He shook his head the same way he shakes it in court when he has already decided.

“I said no. Go alone if you must. I will not.”
There was nothing left to argue. I had no other choice. I packed a small bag and decided I would travel by myself to Kasiamma’s funeral in that remote village in Tamil Nadu.
I went into the bathroom and closed the door behind me and pulled my yellow nighty up over my head and dropped it on the stool, then I hooked my thumbs into the sides of my cream color panties and pushed them down my thighs and stepped out of them so I stood bare. I turned the shower on and stood under the warm water and let it run from my hair over my face and then over my breasts and down my waist and across my hips and between my thighs. The water hit my nipples and they tightened and stood out while the streams ran between my breasts and over the heavy underside. I soaped my breasts with both hands, lifting each one and sliding my palms under them and then over my nipples, feeling how full they were. I turned and the water ran down between my ass cheeks and I reached back and soaped each cheek, then I brought my hand between my thighs and washed my pussy, fingers parting the lips and rubbing over my clit until the water rinsed the soap away and left me warm and a little open. I stood a moment longer with the water on my shoulders and my breasts rising and falling, then I turned the tap off.

I took my towel and dried my hair and my face and my neck and I pressed my towel over my breasts, squeezing each one, and then I dragged it down my stomach and over my hips and between my thighs, rubbing my pussy once more, and then I dried my ass cheeks and the backs of my thighs before I wrapped my towel around myself and stepped out.
In the bedroom I opened my cupboard and dropped my towel on the bed. I picked up my maroon color panties and stepped into them and pulled them up over my hips so they covered my pussy. I took my white color bra and hooked it behind my back and settled my breasts into the cups and pulled the straps onto my shoulders. I stepped into my white petticoat and tied it low, below my navel, over my maroon color panties. I put on my yellow blouse over my white color bra and hooked it in front. Then I took my yellow chiffon saree and wrapped it around my waist and tucked the inner end, brought the pallu across my breasts and over my left shoulder, and pinned it. I picked up my handbag, looked once at myself in the mirror with the mangalsutra lying between my breasts, and I was ready to leave for the village to attend Kasiamma’s funeral.

It was evening when I locked the house and took an auto to the bus terminal, sitting in the back with my handbag on my lap and my yellow chiffon saree tucked around my knees while the city lights slid past. At the terminal I found the bus that went to the village and I was lucky, I got a seat near the window because the bus was almost empty, only a few men and two old women, and I sat with my pallu over my shoulder and watched the road turn from city streets to dark highway and then to the narrower village roads until we reached the main village stop.
I took a local auto from there to our remote village, the vehicle bouncing on the uneven path, and when I stepped down Santosh received me from his wheelchair and Lydia lay on the cot inside, unable to move, and they told me how brutal the accident had been, how the car had gone off the road and turned, how Kasiamma had died on the spot, how Santosh had watched his own legs crushed and how Lydia had not moved since that hour, and how their lives had changed forever and become the worst kind of living. I sat with them and I felt sorry for them in a way that sat heavy in my chest and I had no words that could make any of it lighter.

After Kasiamma was buried that evening I took another local auto and went to the bus stop on the highway, the kind of place where you stand at the edge of the road and raise your hand to stop the buses that go to the city. It was eight in the evening. Almost every bus that came was already crowded, faces pressed to the glass, people standing in the aisle, and none of them slowed enough for me. For the next one hour no bus came at all. I stood alone at that highway stop with my handbag held against my side and the dark road stretching both ways and I was scared. I decided that the next bus, no matter how crowded it was, I would get into it.
The crowded bus slowed at the highway stop and the conductor jumped down from the front opening with the ticket board in his hand. I stepped forward from the dark edge of the road, holding my handbag and the pallu of my yellow chiffon saree against my chest.
“City,” I said.
He tore a ticket and I paid him and took it and folded it into my handbag while the engine kept running and men shouted from inside. The front opening was blocked with people already standing on the steps, so I walked quickly to the back and put my foot on the first rear step and began to climb.

That was when I saw him. An ugly stranger stood half-turned in the aisle near the rear door, and he looked straight at my face and did not look away. His eyes moved over my mouth and my eyes and then down to my breasts under the yellow blouse and back to my face again, and he stayed like that, spellbound, as if he had already decided he wanted to do me now, right there, before the bus even moved.
I lifted my yellow chiffon saree with one hand and climbed. Hands from the side pressed my hip and the back of my thigh as I took the second step. I kept my face down and held the rail and did not turn because I did not want to create a scene on a dark highway.
“Move, get in,” a man above me said.
I pulled myself up through the back opening and pushed into the aisle until I was fully inside. The conductor climbed back through the front, slapped the side of the bus, and we jerked forward. I grabbed the overhead rail with my right hand and stood facing the dark window.
The ugly stranger moved in behind me until his chest almost touched my back. He bent his head near my hair and sniffed, slow and open, taking in the perfume I had put on my neck and my shoulder after my shower. Then his left hand came around and settled on my waist, over my yellow chiffon saree, fingers spreading on the dip above my hip.
I pushed his hand off at once.

“Don’t,” I said, keeping my voice low.
He waited only a second and grabbed my waist again with the same left hand, firmer this time, pulling me back a little so my ass almost touched him, and he sniffed my hair again as if he had not heard me at all. I held the rail and stared at the glass and did not create a scene.
His left hand stayed on my waist even after I had pushed it off once, and then his fingers began to move, slow, following the line of my yellow chiffon saree where it was tucked at my side. He found the inner edge and slipped two fingers under the tuck and reached inward across my stomach until the pads of his fingers touched the bare skin above my white petticoat. My petticoat sat low, below my navel, so there was a strip of open skin there, and that was where he stopped.
He pressed his fingertips into my navel first, circling it, then flattening his hand so his palm covered the whole of that soft dip while his thumb rubbed the rim. He bent his head again and sniffed the perfume on my neck as he did it, as if my navel and my scent belonged to the same thing. I sucked my stomach in and tried to twist away from his hand without letting go of the rail.
“Remove your hand,” I said, still looking at the dark window.
He did not remove it. He only pressed deeper into my navel and dragged his finger around it again, then down to the exact place where my white petticoat began, hooking that edge for a second and lifting it a little so more of my stomach came under his palm. The bus jolted and his hand stayed locked there, warm and heavy on my navel, and I felt the heat of it go lower than I wanted to admit. I held the rail tighter and did not create a scene.
He did not take his hands off my ass. He shifted closer until I felt him, hard, pressing into the split of my ass cheeks through my yellow chiffon saree and my white petticoat, and he held me there by the ass cheeks so I could not step forward. He rolled his hips once, slow, dragging that hardness up and down my ass crack, then again, using the sway of the bus to grind against me while his fingers kept sinking into the underside of each ass cheek.
Sudha, this is a night bus full of men. You have three sons. Your husband would not even come to the funeral. What are you doing standing here letting this ugly man grind his cock into your ass crack? Shout. Elbow him. Call the conductor. My mouth stayed shut and my hand stayed on the rail and the only thing that moved was my ass in his palms.
His right hand stayed on my ass. His left hand slid around my hip, under the hanging pallu of my yellow chiffon saree, and found the low tie of my white petticoat. He followed that string with two fingers, rubbing along the skin just above it, then down onto the petticoat itself, pressing until the cloth outlined the round of my hip and the start of my ass. He sniffed my neck again, open-mouthed now, and I felt his breath wet on my skin.
Rajesh only kissed the side of your head this morning. He did not even look at you. And this man is weighing your ass cheeks in his hands like he already owns them. Stop him, Sudha. My pussy was wet. I could feel it with every grind, the lips swelling, the heat spreading down the inside of my thighs, and I hated that my body was answering him while I still held the rail like a decent woman on a night bus. If he puts his hand lower you will stop him. You will. Don’t be stupid. Even as I told myself that I knew I had already let him stay too long.
“People will see,” I said.
“Let them,” he said against my hair. “You are standing like you want it. Your ass is sitting in my hands.”
You don’t want it. You can’t want it. You are only scared. The bus is moving. There is nowhere to go. He pulled my ass cheeks apart through the saree and then crushed them together around the shape of his cock, and he kept that rhythm, grind and squeeze, grind and squeeze, until my knees dipped and I had to lock them to stay standing. I stared at the black window and saw only my own mouth slightly open. Sudha, if you don’t move now this man is going to finish what he started. And still I did not create a scene.

His right hand stayed on my ass cheeks, still crushing them around his cock through my yellow chiffon saree and my white petticoat. His left hand left the petticoat string and came up under the pallu and closed over my breast, over my yellow blouse, taking the full weight of it in his palm.
He squeezed. My breast overflowed his hand. He found the nipple through the blouse and rolled it between his finger and thumb until it stood hard, then he opened his hand and took the whole breast again, lifting it, pressing it, flattening it against my chest and letting it fall back into his palm. He did the same to the other breast, crossing over, squeezing both one after the other while he kept grinding into my ass crack from behind.
Sudha, that is your breast in a stranger’s hand. You are on a bus. People are standing this close. Take his hand off. Take it off now. I did not take it off. My nipple hurt in a way that went straight down to my pussy, and I felt more wetness gather between my thighs each time he pinched.
“Not there,” I said.
“Why?” he said against my neck, sniffing again. “They are sitting in my hand like they were waiting.”
He used both hands then for a moment, leaving my ass only long enough to hold my breasts from behind, one in each palm, thumbs rubbing the nipples through my yellow blouse in tight circles while his cock stayed pressed into my ass crack. My breasts moved in his hands when the bus jerked. I bit my lip and held the rail.
You are letting him milk your breasts in front of all these men. Rajesh has not held you like this in years. Stop him before he puts his hand inside the blouse. Sudha, stop him.
He went back to one hand on my breast and one hand on my ass cheeks, squeezing both in the same rhythm, and I stared at the dark window and did not create a scene.
He left my ass and brought his other hand up too, so both his hands were on my breasts over my yellow blouse. He stood tight behind me with his cock still pressed into my ass crack and he held my breasts as if that was all he had come on the bus to do.
He weighed them first, one in each palm, lifting them and letting them sit, then he squeezed them together so they met in the middle of my chest and I felt the heat of his fingers through the blouse. He opened his hands and took a full grip again, fingers sinking into the heavy underside, thumbs on my nipples, rolling them, pinching them, flattening them, then letting them spring back. He moved his hands in slow circles, massaging the whole of each breast, then he pushed them up and held them there so the shape showed hard against my yellow blouse, and he made a sound in his throat like a man eating.
Sudha, both his hands are on your breasts. He is enjoying them in the middle of the aisle. Everyone behind you can see his arms around you. Push him. Shout. Do something. My arms stayed up on the rail. My breasts moved in his palms with every bump of the road and my nipples were so tight they ached.
“You are spoiling my blouse,” I said.
“I am holding my woman,” he said into my hair, and he squeezed harder, gathering as much of each breast as his hands could take. “These are heavy. They fill the hands properly. Don’t stop me.”
He bent his knees a little so his cock rubbed up and down my ass crack while he kept both hands busy on my breasts, kneading, lifting, pressing the nipples in with his thumbs and rubbing them in small hard circles. Wetness had soaked through between my thighs. I could feel it when I shifted my feet.
He is using your breasts like they belong to him. You showered and wore this blouse to go to a funeral and now an ugly stranger is milking you on the highway. If you don’t stop him he will put his hand inside. Sudha, he will.

He did not put his hand inside yet. He only enjoyed my breasts with both hands, slow and greedy, sniffing my neck between squeezes, and I stared at the black window and did not create a scene.
His left hand left my breast and travelled down, palm open, over my ribs and across my stomach until the fingers found my navel and paused there, pressing into that dip above the low tie of my white petticoat. Then he turned his hand and pushed it under the tucked portion of my yellow chiffon saree.
I felt the saree loosen a little at my waist as his hand went in. His knuckles dragged over my lower stomach, hot and rough, and then his whole hand was inside the petticoat, trapped between the petticoat and my belly, moving down in that tight warm space where the petticoat was tied low. The string of the petticoat scbangd the back of his hand. His fingertips reached the waist of my panties and stopped for a second on that elastic, and I felt every finger separately as they hooked under it and pulled it toward him just enough to make room.
The elastic dragged across my hips as his hand sank inside my panties. First the back of his fingers touched the hair, then his palm covered the mound, heavy and wide, and then his middle finger slid into the split of my pussy and I felt it in one long stroke from the front of the lips down through the wetness. My pussy closed on that finger by itself. He opened the lips with two fingers and the air inside the panties was already wet and hot around his hand.
I caught his wrist through the saree and tried to stop him.
“No,” I said.
He turned and kissed my right cheek, mouth open, and his hand stayed inside, cupping my pussy so that my clit sat under the pad of his finger and my lips sat in his palm.
“No. Take it out,” I said, pulling at his wrist.
The hand did not come out. It only settled deeper inside my panties, inside the petticoat, under the tucked saree, and began to play.
Sudha, you felt every inch of that hand coming in. You felt the saree tuck give way and the petticoat string and the panty elastic and then his palm on your pussy. You are holding his wrist and he is still in there. Pull him out before he puts the finger inside. My fingers stayed weak on his wrist and I did not create a scene.



He kept his right hand heavy on my breast over my yellow blouse and he kept his left hand inside my panties, under the white petticoat, under the tucked portion of my yellow chiffon saree. He opened the lips of my pussy with two fingers, slow, peeling them apart so that the wet inner flesh sat exposed against his fingertips, and he held them open like that while his thumb found my clit and rested on it, not rubbing yet, only pressing, as if he was counting how hard it had become.

I dropped my hand from the rail and caught his wrist through the saree and tried to pull him out. The wrist did not move. His fingers only opened my pussy a little wider.
“No. Don’t put it in,” I said.
He turned his face and kissed my right cheek, filthy and wet, and at the same time he brought the tip of his middle finger to the hole of my pussy and paused there, just the pad of the finger sitting on that opening, feeling it twitch. Then he pushed. The tip went in first, stretching me, and I felt every grain of his finger as it entered, the wetness making a small sound inside the panties that only we could hear. He pushed again and the finger slid in up to the first knuckle, then to the second, then in to the root, until his palm was flat against my pussy and the whole finger was inside me.
My pussy closed on it by itself. I felt the walls grip him and I felt my own wetness run along the sides of his finger and down toward his palm. He did not pump yet. He only kept the finger buried and moved it in a tiny circle inside me, pressing the front wall, while his thumb came down on my clit and began the smallest rub.
I pulled at his wrist again. My knees had already started to soften. I locked them and they softened once more. His cock was still hard in my ass crack through the saree and the petticoat, and every time I tried to stand straight I only sat back on that hardness with his finger deep in my pussy.
Sudha, that is his whole finger inside you. You can feel the knuckle. You can feel your pussy holding him. Pull the hand out. Stand straight. You are a married woman on a night bus and you have a man’s finger in your pussy.
“Take it out,” I said, and my voice was already thinner than I wanted it to be.
He kissed my right cheek again and kept the finger in, buried to the root, and began, very slowly, to draw it out an inch and push it back, out an inch and push it back, so that I felt the slide of it along the wet walls of my pussy from the inside. I bit my lip and held his wrist and held the rail and I did not create a scene.
He drew the one finger out until only the tip stayed in the hole of my pussy, and then he put a second finger with it and pushed both in together. The stretch was sudden. My pussy opened around the two fingers and then closed on them, tight, and I felt the ridge of both knuckles pass inside me one after the other until his palm was flat against my pussy again, two fingers buried to the root under my panties, under the white petticoat, under the tucked yellow chiffon saree.
He opened the two fingers inside me, spreading the walls, then brought them together, then opened them again, feeling me from the inside. He curled both fingertips forward and found that rough place on the front wall and rubbed it in short hard strokes while his thumb came down on my clit and pinned it. Each curl of his fingers sent a jolt up through my lower belly. My hips jerked. I tried to stand straight and my knees folded a little and I had to lock them, and when I locked them my pussy only gripped his fingers tighter.

I pulled at his wrist through the saree.
“Take them out,” I said.
He kissed my right cheek and shook his head against my face and kept the two fingers working, curling, rubbing, in and out in a short filthy stroke that never left my pussy empty. The bus hit a hole in the road and both fingers slammed deeper and I grabbed the rail with my other hand and a sound almost left my mouth. I bit it back. Wetness ran over his fingers and pooled in the crotch of my panties and I felt it when he spread his fingers and the wetness made a small slick noise.
Sudha, there are two fingers inside you now. You can feel them opening you. You can feel them rubbing that place that makes your knees go. Stand up. Pull his hand out. If you keep standing like this he will think you want the third finger too.
My thighs started to shake. I tried to close them and only trapped his hand more firmly between them, two fingers still buried, thumb still on my clit, his cock still grinding into my ass crack from behind. I stared at the dark window and I did not create a scene.


He found a rhythm and he kept it. Two fingers in, two fingers out, in to the root, out to the first knuckle, in again, never leaving my pussy empty, the wet sound of it trapped under my panties and the white petticoat and the tucked yellow chiffon saree. His thumb stayed on my clit and moved in the same count, circle on the in-stroke, press on the out-stroke, so that every time his fingers filled me his thumb punished my clit at the same second. His right hand squeezed my breast over my yellow blouse in that same count, nipple caught between finger and thumb, so my breast and my pussy were being worked as if they were one thing.

I bit my lower lip. I bit it until I tasted it and still a moan started in my throat and I swallowed it and bit again. My hips began to move. I told them to stop and they moved anyway, a small dirty push onto his hand each time the fingers came in. I tried to stand straight. My knees dipped on the in-stroke and I locked them on the out-stroke and they dipped again. The rail was wet under my palm.
“You are holding it in,” he said against my cheek. “Let it out.”
“No,” I said, with my lip still between my teeth.
He fucked my pussy a little faster. The two fingers curled on every inward push and rubbed that inner place until my belly tightened and my thighs shook and I had to lean my weight on the rail to stay up. His cock ground into my ass crack in the same rhythm. Wetness ran down his hand inside the panties and I felt it on my inner thighs when I shifted my feet.
Don’t moan, Sudha. Don’t you dare moan on this bus. Bite your lip and stand. If you make a sound the men next to you will know what his fingers are doing inside your pussy. Don’t come. Not yet. Not here.

A broken breath left my nose. I bit my lip harder and held his wrist and held the rail and I did not create a scene.
The bus swayed and every sway drove his two fingers deeper into my pussy. I tried to keep my back straight and my knees kept folding. I locked them and they folded again. I locked them a third time and a tremor went through my thighs and up into my belly and I knew I was on the edge of coming. Wetness ran along his fingers and soaked the crotch of my panties and slipped onto my inner thighs. He spread the two fingers inside my pussy and closed them, spread them and closed them, stretching me and then making me grip him, and my mouth opened and I bit my lip to shut it and the bite was not enough.
He took his right hand off my breast and caught my jaw. His fingers held my chin and the side of my face and he turned my head away from the window and toward him. I saw his ugly mouth coming. I said no and the word was still on my tongue when his filthy lips covered my lips.

He kissed me open. I kept my mouth tight for one second and then I kissed him back, shameless, my lips parting, my tongue meeting his, while his two fingers kept fucking my pussy under the panties and his thumb rubbed my clit in hard fast circles. He held my jaw so I could not turn away and he ate at my mouth as if he had been waiting for that more than for the rest of me. I moaned into the kiss. The sound went into him. My knees gave and I hung from the rail and from his hand on my jaw and from his fingers inside my pussy.
Sudha, you are kissing him. You are kissing this ugly man on a crowded bus with his fingers in your pussy and you are about to come. Stop the kiss. Pull your mouth away. If you keep kissing him you will come on his hand in front of all these men.
I did not pull my mouth away. I kissed his filthy lips harder and my pussy clenched on his fingers and the first wave started and I still did not create a scene.


I came on his fingers with his filthy lips on my mouth.
The first pulse closed my pussy hard around the two fingers and the wetness poured out over his hand in a hot rush, soaking my panties inside the white petticoat, running along his knuckles, and I kissed him through it, shameless, open, my tongue in his mouth while my body shook. He held my jaw with his right hand so I could not break the kiss and he kept the two fingers buried and kept his thumb on my clit, rubbing me through every pulse, dragging the orgasm out instead of letting it finish. My knees went. I hung on the rail and on his mouth and on the hand inside my panties. A moan went straight into his filthy lips. My ass sat back on his cock through the yellow chiffon saree and my breasts lifted against my yellow blouse and my pussy kept squeezing his fingers, pulse after pulse, as if it would not stop.
He did not take his fingers out. He only slowed them, still inside, still wet, still moving just enough to make the last waves keep coming while he kissed me and held my jaw.

Sudha, you came. You came on a night bus on a stranger’s fingers and you kissed him while you did it. You can feel your own wetness all over his hand. You can taste his mouth. You cannot pretend this was only the crowd anymore.
He pulled back from my lips only enough to speak against them, his fingers still in my pussy.
“Next stop is mine,” he said. “Get down with me. I will take you to a room and put you on a bed and do this properly. You cannot go home like this.”
“I am going home,” I said, but my voice was used up and my pussy was still fluttering on his fingers and my mouth was still wet from his filthy kiss.

“You will get down,” he said.
The bus slowed for the lights on the highway. He kept his hand inside my panties and his other hand on my jaw and I stared at him and I did not create a scene.
The bus began to slow for the next halt. He still had two fingers in my pussy, wet from my coming, and he still held my jaw as if I might turn back to the window and pretend nothing had happened. He drew the fingers out slowly, dragging them over my clit on the way, and I felt the empty ache they left inside my panties. He wiped those fingers once along my inner thigh, under the white petticoat, and then his hand came out from the tucked saree and rested on my waist again like a man who had finished one thing and started the next.
“This is my stop,” he said against my mouth. “Get down.”
Sudha, sit. Stay on the bus. You already came on his fingers. That is enough shame for one night. Go home to Rajesh. Wash. Sleep. Do not get down.

The conductor shouted the name of the place. Men near the back door started to shift. The ugly stranger took my handbag from the crook of my arm and held it as if it was already his, and with his other hand he held my elbow.
“I have a house to go to,” I said.
“You have a wet pussy and a husband who did not even come with you,” he said. “Get down. I will book a room. I will say you are my wife. No one will ask.”

The door at the back opened. Night air came in. I looked at the dark highway and at his ugly face and at my own yellow chiffon saree, still tucked, still looking decent from the outside. My thighs were wet against each other. My lips were wet from his filthy kiss.
If you step off this bus you are not the same woman who locked the house. If you stay you will sit in this seat with his wetness still on your thighs all the way to the city. Choose, Sudha.
He went down the rear steps first and turned and waited on the road with my handbag. I held the rail. I lifted my yellow chiffon saree with one hand. I put my foot on the step. I got down.
The bus pulled away and left us on the highway edge, the red lights shrinking, and he put his hand on my waist again and walked me off the road toward the small lodge lights he already knew. I did not create a scene. I had already left the scene behind.


to  be continued