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Public Transportation

by Juniper Maclay © 2010


erotic fictionI am thinking that I just might be able to fall asleep.  It’s two more hours to my stop at the station in Laguna Beach.  That’s enough time for a good nap.  There’re only four passengers on the bus, including me.  We all sit as far from each other as possible.  I can’t see any of the others from where I sit, fifth row, by the window.  I lean my head against the glass as the driver weaves in and out of traffic, obviously used to driving in LA.  He’s got to be pushing eighty miles an hour, zooming past cars and trucks.  I am white knuckling it a little, trying to trust him to get us there safely.  The early morning traffic gets thicker and the driver keeps bulldozing, sending smaller vehicles scurrying out of the way.  Through the steam of my breath on the window, I see the pale balloons of other drivers’ faces, bodiless from this angle, peering up at the bus as we flash past.  The bus sways and the door of the tiny, cubicle bathroom bangs open and shut with the motion, wafting the stink of blue toilet bowl deodorizer up the aisle.

I know the others are there, but being unable to see them makes me have brief moments of surreal aloneness.  Just me, in a pod, hurtling through space wrapped in the garish squares of an afghan knitted by my great-grandmother after cataracts robbed her of her ability to see colors clearly.  Bringing the blanket had been part of my plan to sleep on the bus.  Grab a few winks; arrive refreshed.  I don’t think I can fall asleep going this fast though.

The pulsing throb of the big diesel engine accelerating works its way up into my seat.  I’m starting to sweat a little.  The motion from outside tricks my eyes and seems to transfer to the squares of the afghan.  They begin to swim, their knitted patterns, each one different, dragon’s scale, climbing vine, and others I don’t have names for, all seem to undulate.  The vibrations buzz and buzz and buzz and I can feel the seam of my jeans riding up, conducting the motion to my clit.  I shift, trying to relieve some of the building pressure.  No matter how I move, though, I can’t get away from the droning vibrations.  I look around.  I still can’t see anyone else on the bus.  I give in, twitching my hips to the left, grinding down on the seam like I would on a lover.  The steady thrum of the engine and the staccato cracks of the bathroom door create a kind of music, a strange accompaniment to my rising tension.  Adrenaline from the near-fear generated by this wild ride transforms the heat between my legs into an inferno.  I feel like I am riding some big metal beast, fucking the beating heart of it.  My hand is suddenly under the blanket, inside my jeans.  I barely touch myself and I am coming, white stars explode in my vision as my eyes squeeze tight, my breath hot and fast on the glass.

I doze for a short time, fingers pressed into the wet folds of my cunt.  I wake to the tremor of the engine, insistent against my ass.  I judge by the scenery that there is a little more than an hour left in my journey.  Still time for a nap, I think.  Or not.  I sink my fingers into myself, ready for the rest of the ride.

© 2010 Juniper Maclay. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Juniper Maclay is a word geek, a voracious reader, a bookbinder, a people watcher, a photographer, a blues singer, and a damn fine cook. She’s been a casual scribbler of mainstream fiction since she learned her letters and, after stumbling across the ERWA website while hunting for juicy online reads, she decided to try her hand at writing erotica. She hopes that you have as much fun reading her stories as she has dreaming them into existence.

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