• Experience,  Poetry

    In the Back Seat of the Bus

    Boarding the bus, we claimed the back seat, seeking the cover of night’s inky cloak —  So no one would see your hand slip into my jeans, fingers searching out my heat. Palming a small vibrator, you slowly stroked me to wetness, and only the streetlights knew. You guided my hand between your thighs, where your warm, exposed penis occupied my attention.  The lust built up, so sweet and thick ’til we came closer to our stop. We zipped our desire back in the discrete shell of acceptable appearance, and hopped down the stairs onto the glittering, black street, watching the red taillights become tiny dots. Continuing on with my…

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