The bus hummed, rolling steady through the night,
dim lights flickering, casting sleepy shadows.
Passengers swayed in quiet oblivion,
heads resting against cold glass,
eyes heavy, lost in their own worlds.

But not me.
Not us.

I felt your warmth before I saw you move,
your breath, a whisper against my ear,
your fingers—innocent at first—
brushing my wrist, my thigh,
a touch so light, so fleeting,
that no one would ever think twice.

But I knew.
I knew what you were doing.

A secret between us, woven in silence,
your hand slipping beneath the folds of my coat,
finding the bare skin of my thigh.
A slow inhale caught in my throat,
but I kept my gaze forward,
kept my lips sealed,
as your fingers danced higher.

The bus rumbled on,
the old man two seats away snored softly,
a woman scrolled through her phone,
a couple whispered about their day—
and yet, beneath my clothing,
hidden in the hush of movement,
you set my body on fire. 

Your fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns,
teasing, testing, making me ache.
I shifted, pressing my thighs together,
but you would not allow it.
A subtle parting, a silent demand,
and I obeyed—helpless, trembling.

My pulse thundered in my ears,
my breath shallow, controlled,
as you explored me with measured precision,
finding me wet, wanting,
so ready it was almost unbearable.

The bus hit a bump and my body jolted,
your fingers pressing deeper,
my nails dug into my palm,
biting my lip to hold back the sound
that nearly betrayed me.

My thighs quivered,
my skin electric,
as you worked me closer,
slow, torturous,
waves rising, building,
heat pooling,
an unstoppable tide.

The woman in front of us sighed,
shifting in her seat,
oblivious to the storm raging inside me,
to the pleasure unraveling in careful silence.

Your fingers curled just right,
a perfect, knowing stroke,
and the world blurred.

I gripped the metal rail beside me,
my breath catching, body tightening,
pleasure washing over me in slow, pulsing waves,
a silent climax, stolen between bus seats,
hidden in the mundane hum of the city.

You withdrew, slow and cruel,
a final brush that made me shudder,
as if sealing your victory.

I turned to you,
cheeks flushed, chest rising,
meeting your gaze—dark, smug, satisfied.

And as the bus rolled on,
as the world continued, unaware,
I clenched my thighs and exhaled,
knowing the night was far from over.