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

[Samreen Shaikh]

He came over me in the grey light and opened my thighs with his knee. I felt the cool air on my pussy for one second and then the head of his cock was there, thick, rubbing up through the wetness he had left in me at night, smearing last night’s cum along my lips and over my clit, once, twice, as if he was using my own mess to open me.

He put the head at the hole of my pussy and pushed. The first inch stretched me. I was swollen from sleep and from the night and I felt every ridge of him as he went in. He gave me another inch and stopped, breathing against my mouth, then he pushed again and my pussy took him in a slow wet slide until he was at the root and his heavy body was on my breasts and the mangalsutra was trapped between us.
“Ah—slowly—ahh.”
“Mm. Morning,” he said, and he did not thrust. He stayed buried. He ground in small circles so the root of his cock rubbed my clit and the head rubbed that inner place at the same time. My pussy clenched on him by itself. I felt the leak of last night move around his cock and come out onto my thighs.
My legs came up. I did not tell them to. They closed over his hips and locked him in. He kissed my filthy-kissed mouth and I kissed him back, slow like the cock inside me, while he kept those small circles and my breasts moved under his chest.
Sudha, he is at the root and you have not even said a full no. You can still push him off and sit up and ask for the bus. Your legs are around him. That is not how a woman asks for a bus.

“I have to go,” I said into his mouth.
“After this,” he said, and he ground deeper, still not stroking, just filling me, owning the morning from the inside.
I held his back and felt him pulse inside my pussy and I did not create a scene. The first thrust had not even begun. I was already taken.
He drew his cock out until only the head stayed in my pussy and then he pushed it back to the root. That was the first real stroke of the morning. The slide was wet and long. Last night’s cum and this morning’s wetness made a sound between us that the thin lodge walls would have heard if anyone had been listening. He did it again. Out to the head. In to the root. Slow. Heavy. Unhurried. Each time he landed, my breasts moved under his chest and my mouth opened.

“Ahh. Ahh. Don’t—so deep—ah.”
“Take it,” he moaned. “Ugh. Mm. Hold me inside.”
He found a rhythm and kept it, the same count he had used with his fingers on the bus, as if my pussy already knew his timing. In. Grind. Out. In. His filthy mouth came down on mine between strokes and I kissed him back, shameless in the grey light, my tongue lazy with sleep and want. He held my ass cheeks and tilted my hips so every inward stroke hit that inner place and my clit at once. My thighs began to shake against his sides.
I bit his shoulder to keep a moan small and the moan came out anyway.
“Ahh—wait—ahh.”
“No wait,” he said, and he kept the rhythm.
You said after. There is a bus on that highway. Your pussy is sucking a stranger’s cock in the morning like it belongs there. Stop meeting his strokes. You are meeting his strokes, Sudha.
I was. My hips came up off the sheet to take him. The bed creaked. The fan clicked. He kissed my neck and my mouth and my wet nipples when he could reach them and he fucked me in that deep morning rhythm until I could not remember the sentence about the bus, only the next inward slide and the moan that came with it. I did not create a scene. I created that wet sound instead.
The slow rhythm broke.

He planted his knees, lifted my ass cheeks in both hands, and drove into my pussy harder, deeper, the bed knocking the wall in a dirty knock-knock that matched his thrusts. The wet sound got louder. His cock came out shining and went back in to the root and my breasts jumped on my chest and I could not keep the moans in my mouth.
“Ahh—ahh—I’m—ah—don’t stop—”
“Ugh. Come,” he moaned. “Give it. Mm. Take it.”
My legs slipped on his hips and he caught them and folded them back so he could look down at my pussy swallowing him. I saw it too for a second — my lips stretched, his cock disappearing, last night’s white still on my thighs — and the sight shoved me to the edge. My belly tightened. My pussy started to flutter around him. I grabbed his shoulders and shook my head and still pulled him in.
“Ah—I’m going to—ahh—”
“Then come,” he said against my filthy-kissed mouth. “Come on it.”
If you come again in this room you will walk onto that city bus with a stranger’s second load in your pussy. Your knees will remember this bed. Come anyway. You are already there.
He rubbed my clit with his thumb on the in-stroke and slammed the inner place on the same count and my mouth opened on a long broken sound and I hung on the edge, shaking, wet, full, the latch still on from the night, the highway awake outside, and I did not create a scene. I only held him and waited for the fall.

I fell.
My pussy clamped on his cock and the orgasm went through me in pulses, hard, dirty, morning-long, and I moaned into his filthy lips, “Ahh—ahh—mm—ahh—”, my legs shaking in his hands, my breasts crushed under his chest, my nails in his shoulders. Each pulse milked him. Wetness spilled out around his cock onto the already stained sheet.
He did not slow down to be kind. He fucked me through it, groaning, “Ugh—mm—take it—”, and then his body locked and he slammed to the root and came inside me a second time. I felt every jet, hot, filling the same pussy he had filled at night, and he moaned into my mouth, “Ahh—ugh—mm—”, while I was still clenching, so that his coming and my coming ran together in one wet shaking mess on the narrow bed.
He stayed buried until the last twitch left him. Our mouths stayed open on each other, only breathing now, a small leftover “mm” in both throats. Then he pulled out. I felt the empty hole and then the leak, thick, running from my pussy down my ass crack onto the sheet. He looked at it. He put two fingers there and felt his own second load coming out of me, and he wiped it once on my inner thigh the same way he had at night.
“Don’t wipe it off inside,” he said. “Wear your saree over it.”
“The bus,” I said. My voice was used.
“Wash your face. Wear the saree. We eat. I put you on the bus.”
I sat up on the edge of the lodge bed with his cum sliding down my thigh, my yellow chiffon saree and my white color bra and my maroon color panties and my white petticoat still on the floor, the latch still on, the highway loud now, and I did not create a scene. The morning fuck was finished. The city was waiting.
I washed my face and my neck with the lodge bucket and I did not wash between my thighs the way he had told me not to. I picked my maroon color panties off the floor and stepped into them over the leak, then I hooked my white color bra behind my back and settled my breasts into the cups. I tied my white petticoat low, below my navel, over the panties. I put on my yellow blouse and then I wrapped my yellow chiffon saree around myself and tucked it and brought the pallu over my shoulder and pinned it as if I was only a woman going home from a funeral. The mangalsutra sat between my breasts. My handbag was on the chair where he had dropped it.
He watched me dress. He did not help.
We walked to a small idli shop on the highway edge. He ordered idli and coffee for both of us and we sat on the bench and ate. He ate like a man who had finished his night. I ate because my body needed something that was not him. A little of him still leaked into my maroon color panties while I sat there with the steel tumbler in my hand.
“That bus,” he said, pointing with his chin at the stop. “City.”
He walked me to the edge of the road and raised his hand. The bus slowed. He put my handbag in my hand.
“Go,” he said. “Don’t tell your husband.”
“I will not,” I said.
I climbed in. This time no one stood behind me. I found a seat by the window. He was already walking back toward the lodge side of the road. The bus pulled out. I sat with my yellow chiffon saree arranged decently over my knees and his cum still in me and I watched the village thin into highway and the highway thicken into city.
I reached home in the afternoon. I unlocked the door. I bathed. I changed. I cooked. Rajesh came late, kissed the side of my head, and asked if the funeral had been all right.
“It was all right,” I said.
I did not tell him. I set the plate down and I did not create a scene. The house was quiet again. Something in me was not.
The city bus ran and I sat by the window in my yellow chiffon saree with my handbag on my lap and his cum still in me under the white petticoat. No one stood behind me. No hand came to my waist. I watched the highway become streets and the streets become the road that led toward my house, and I rehearsed the only sentence I was going to need.
I unlocked the door in the afternoon. The house smelled the way I had left it. I went straight to the bathroom and washed his mouth off my lips and his hands off my breasts and I washed between my thighs last. I watched the water take the rest of him down the drain and I did not feel clean. I wore a fresh saree. I tied a fresh petticoat low below my navel. I cooked.
The boys came in from college. I asked about homework. I kept my voice ordinary. Rajesh came late, white shirt, files, the smell of court. He kissed the side of my head in the same place he always kisses.
“How was the funeral?” he asked.
“It was all right,” I said. “Kasiamma was buried in the evening. Santosh and Lydia are as they were. I took the night bus back.”
“You should have stayed another day,” he said, already looking at his phone.
“I wanted to come home,” I said.
I set his plate down. I sat across from him. I ate. I did not tell him about the crowded aisle or the fingers inside my panties or the highway kiss or the lodge register where another man had written wife beside his own name. I did not tell him I had come on a stranger’s hand and again on a stranger’s cock and again in the morning before idli. I cleared the plates. I folded his shirt the way he likes, collar first.
At night I lay on our bed and he slept with his back to me. I looked at the fan. It was not the lodge fan. I put my hand on my own navel, on the place the ugly stranger had touched first, and I took the hand away.
Sudha, you went to a funeral and you came back a different woman and no one in this house knows. You will get up tomorrow and make coffee and he will kiss the side of your head and you will let him. That is the end of it. That is not the end of it.
I closed my eyes. The house was quiet. My marriage was in its place. Something under my yellow-saree days was not. I did not create a scene.
That was the end of the story. I never told my husband.

The End 

Regards 
Novelist Casanova



Fantastic and mind blowing.... Hats off