I already dislike your brother, and I can tell you do too by the way you move to the back of the bus without a second thought. I can only imagine what it must feel like to be away from him for the first time in days. You ask if the seat next to me is taken and of course it isn’t. I like your smile as you sit, and you like mine.
He’s still pamphleting up at the driver’s seat, trying to sell my friends on the virtue of seizing the means of production. I’ve known a few hitchhikers in my time (and by known you know what I mean) but your brother is the first one I’ve seen to still be a tweedy stick-armed turtleneck wearing bitch-man even after weeks on the road. Sooner or later reality is supposed to come back to them. Clearly it came back to you sooner. That’s new.
We’re not five minutes on the road, up the interstate into the night once more, before I think you catch the scent of this gang. You realize none of the men you’re seated among share your brother’s interests. Nor his physique; we’re all fit men here, and confident in our capacity for domination. What pains you amuses us, so we still let him talk.
You notice our women too, the leather-clad makeup splattered minxes arrayed just a few rows ahead of us. The cutesy pigtails and smeared eyeliner, the handcuffs worn on one wrist as jewelry, noses and eyebrows pierced. Perhaps you’ve caught the scent, the air of expectant and waiting intensity. The way our women’s eyes hit the floor at once as soon as it meets one of the men’s. From respect and fear alike.
You’ve avoided small talk. Your brother is still stealing all the speaking air, us still as attentive to him as the Norcal redwoods standing outside. Our driver manages a switchback too quickly. You bunch into me.
When you straighten up again my arm is around you. You don’t push it away.
You’re dirt-soaked and weather-worn from your time on the road, but I can see the pretty thing underneath it. I can see more of you than you think. You must sense that in your innermost self, eyes on your womanhood that rarely is seen.
I can tell the question building inside you. Who are we? What kind of group is this? We look like bikers but we ride an old schoolbus. We’ve lived more collectively than your brother could ever dream, but we’re not equals. When your hand reaches to feel the muscles of my chest, and my legs, you can tell this body is equal to few others.
You squeeze me, testing my density. It’s like pinching a rock, I know.
That’s trust enough. I loop fingers through your hair to tilt your head back and plant my seal on you.
That sour dirt-stained mouth feels like a wet dream. And your intensity. I can tell you haven’t fucked your way here. I can tell you haven’t fucked in a long while.
When I pull you away it’s only to put your face between my legs. You didn’t hear me unzip, or see me pull free, but what you find stretches your mouth wide, and instantly. I feel you gag, a heavy nasal choking as you try to exhale around me.
I know you trust me more, so I do all the work, pulling your head up by the hair and pressing you back down again. You get the hint and bring your hands around to jerk me off, sloppy wet stickiness dripping from your mouth down onto my balls. Two of the girls seated ahead of us hear and turn to watch, leaning over the seat with toothy girly smiles.
Your brother is still boring us about how Stalin never killed anyone by the time I hit virgin territory in your throat. That makes your eyes bulge, then squint, then tear. You look up at me like a misbehaving dog. I pull your hair tighter and hear you wince.
That’s it. Yes. Yes.
When you sit up again it’s with none of the mousy insecurity you wore on your way back here. Instead you unwind, like the used whore you are, exhausted and excited all over. My sum is spilling from your mouth, glittering in the highway lights and making you prettier than any makeup ever could.
But the moment that seals your night isn’t from me. No, it’s one of the girls, the one I took last weekend, who leans down and plants her lips on yours, tonguing you silly to drink up the white, caressing your face like it was her and not me who used you. You lean in without question, kissing her like you wish I would kiss you.
I think we’ll leave your brother at the next gas station. Hand him a twenty, tell him where the nearest Grayhound station is, and wish him more luck than he deserves. We have no room for bitches, but plenty of space for whores.
We all get on the bus for different reasons. We all stay on for the same reason.
And it's not because we like Karl fucking Marx.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/3xa6ul/gas_grass_or_ass_mf_fsub_exh