Most of the discussion in this thread has been about the woman's perspective. I was just thinking about the perspective of the friendly but lecherous bus driver who enjoys making women--one woman in particular--run for the bus. I wrote this little intro to a story. Any thoughts about where it could go?
Whenever I'm sitting at the ninth street and twelfth ave corner and I see her coming down the street, I close the doors and put the bus into gear. It's not that I don't want her on my bus; infact, it's quite the opposite. But I love to see her run: the awkward heels and long legs; the skirt riding up a little; the breasts, those tremendous, bountiful breasts, rising and falling like waves on the ocean. I have nothing against small breasts--I have had one or two tremendous small-breasted lovers. But the aesthetic beauty of a large-breasted woman running full speed without the aid of a sports bra is a thing of beauty. Then I'll stop at the last minute, pretending to see her only then, and open my doors. She's invariably gracious and apologetic, profusing thanks upon me for waiting. and then bending over, fumbling for her change, legs apart for balance as I pull out. She often wears something a little low cut: tank top under a blazer, or a v-neck sweater where the v plunges all the way down to her breasts. On such days, when she's bent over, fumbling for her change, I take a good look down her cleavage. Not by turning my head to the side--that would be too obvious; but by using the rear-view mirror. It's positioned just perfectly for such occasions. She heaves in attempt to recover her breath. I know that a heaving bosom is a cliched image--but when a bosom heaves, it deserves mentioning. Sometimes, she'll avoid cleavage for something tight and form-fitting. She works at a bookstore. I know, because I heard her discussing this with a friend on the bus. And she's always carrying books, often clutching them against her, as though in an embrace, while she's standing there. I remember this one time, she came on and the bus was incredibly packed. It was a cool day, but after I had made her run, she had sweat running down her neck and I could smell her scent. She was wearing this tight, pale blue ribbed turtleneck, and she had to squeeze in tight, pressed up against this younger woman's back. Every time the bus came to a sudden stop or hit a bump, she would fall into this woman, her breasts lifting and slamming in against the girl, no matter how she tried to brace herself. Sometimes, when the bus is less full, she'll sit in one of the seats at the front, her legs crossed, her short skirt coming just to mid thigh, her legs reaching midway across the aisle--giving herself a bit of a stretch after the sudden run. I love to watch her in the mirror, imagining those legs wrapped around me as her skirt slides higher, her hands taking my head and holding me against her breasts. Of course, I get hard, thinking about such things. She's not the only woman on my route who causes me thoughts of lust. There's a young woman, a college student, who lives out on the very east edge of the city, at the end of my bus route. When she's riding the bus home, she's usually the last one off, and she'll stand up at the front and talk to me, tell me about her life and her boyfriends and girlfriends and how open-minded she is. I've thought of just stoping the bus and taking her, but you can never tell with these girls if they're flirting with you or if they're this open with anyone. I'm young enough that she might be trying to flirt with me; I'm not as old as most of the bus drivers in the city. I suspect, though, that she flirts with me simply because she can. And it doesn't work, trying to make her run. She's always wearing running shoes, and she works out a lot, so there's none of that lovely awkwardness when she runs for the bus. I much prefer the bookstore woman.
Whenever I'm sitting at the ninth street and twelfth ave corner and I see her coming down the street, I close the doors and put the bus into gear. It's not that I don't want her on my bus; infact, it's quite the opposite. But I love to see her run: the awkward heels and long legs; the skirt riding up a little; the breasts, those tremendous, bountiful breasts, rising and falling like waves on the ocean. I have nothing against small breasts--I have had one or two tremendous small-breasted lovers. But the aesthetic beauty of a large-breasted woman running full speed without the aid of a sports bra is a thing of beauty. Then I'll stop at the last minute, pretending to see her only then, and open my doors. She's invariably gracious and apologetic, profusing thanks upon me for waiting. and then bending over, fumbling for her change, legs apart for balance as I pull out. She often wears something a little low cut: tank top under a blazer, or a v-neck sweater where the v plunges all the way down to her breasts. On such days, when she's bent over, fumbling for her change, I take a good look down her cleavage. Not by turning my head to the side--that would be too obvious; but by using the rear-view mirror. It's positioned just perfectly for such occasions. She heaves in attempt to recover her breath. I know that a heaving bosom is a cliched image--but when a bosom heaves, it deserves mentioning. Sometimes, she'll avoid cleavage for something tight and form-fitting. She works at a bookstore. I know, because I heard her discussing this with a friend on the bus. And she's always carrying books, often clutching them against her, as though in an embrace, while she's standing there. I remember this one time, she came on and the bus was incredibly packed. It was a cool day, but after I had made her run, she had sweat running down her neck and I could smell her scent. She was wearing this tight, pale blue ribbed turtleneck, and she had to squeeze in tight, pressed up against this younger woman's back. Every time the bus came to a sudden stop or hit a bump, she would fall into this woman, her breasts lifting and slamming in against the girl, no matter how she tried to brace herself. Sometimes, when the bus is less full, she'll sit in one of the seats at the front, her legs crossed, her short skirt coming just to mid thigh, her legs reaching midway across the aisle--giving herself a bit of a stretch after the sudden run. I love to watch her in the mirror, imagining those legs wrapped around me as her skirt slides higher, her hands taking my head and holding me against her breasts. Of course, I get hard, thinking about such things. She's not the only woman on my route who causes me thoughts of lust. There's a young woman, a college student, who lives out on the very east edge of the city, at the end of my bus route. When she's riding the bus home, she's usually the last one off, and she'll stand up at the front and talk to me, tell me about her life and her boyfriends and girlfriends and how open-minded she is. I've thought of just stoping the bus and taking her, but you can never tell with these girls if they're flirting with you or if they're this open with anyone. I'm young enough that she might be trying to flirt with me; I'm not as old as most of the bus drivers in the city. I suspect, though, that she flirts with me simply because she can. And it doesn't work, trying to make her run. She's always wearing running shoes, and she works out a lot, so there's none of that lovely awkwardness when she runs for the bus. I much prefer the bookstore woman.
