The Last Bus Ride

“Happy Birthday, man.”

I looked up and saw that Tom Wiley was standing in the aisle. Tom was an outspoken redhead and a good friend of mine.

“Thanks, Tom.”

“No problem.” He slid into the seat across from me. “So this is your last ride?”

I grinned. “Hell yeah, and thank God. I hate this damn thing.”

“Hey, who doesn’t?” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe your folks wouldn’t let you drive to school.”

“Yeah, I know, but that’s over now. I’m eighteen; I’m a legal adult, and I’ve had my license for two years.”

Tom snorted. “Yeah, and all of three weeks until you graduate. Still, better late than never, I guess.” His eyes darted to the window at my right shoulder. “Hey, here comes Annie.”

I turned to look. She was pressing through the usual after-school crowd, making her way toward our bus.

Barely four-feet-eleven and built with the slender grace of a dancer, lots of guys boasted that they could lift little Annie with one arm, but let them try it! Anne had enough spirit for three girls her size.

Always pretty, she cut an especially striking figure today. Her short pleated skirt and sleeveless sweater really showed off her smooth skin, dark hair, and her deep, dark eyes. Anne was, in my opinion, the best-looking girl in our school.

I tore my eyes away from her and shot a wry glance at Tom. “Don’t let her hear you call her Annie.”

He held up his hands. “I know, I know. Do I look like the kind of guy that wants to start World War Three?” He glanced down, and then back up sheepishly. “Speaking of which, I’d better get out of her seat. I’ll see you later, man.”

“Later, Tom.”

Tom made his way toward the front of the bus. And just in time; Anne was just getting on.

She smiled at me as she walked down the aisle, and I had to force myself not to watch her skirt slide over her thighs as she moved. She sat in the seat that Tom had just vacated, crossing her legs and tugging on the hem of her skirt. “Happy Birthday,” she beamed.

“You too,” I said.

Anne and I had been born on the same day. Our mothers met in the hospital and became fast friends. Anne and I were practically raised together. When we started school, most of the other kids thought we were brother and sister.

Unlike me, Anne had been allowed to drive the day she’d turned sixteen, but she still rode the bus so that I wouldn’t be alone with the underclassmen. I was glad that she did. We’d grown apart in high school. Different interests, different classes. Our bus rides were about the only time that we had to talk.

“Thanks,” Anne said. “Eighteen. It feels nice, doesn’t it?”

“It’ll feel better tomorrow when I finally drive to school. By the way–want a ride?”

“Everybody sit down!” The bus driver yelled back. I looked around, and–as usual–the closest person to us was six seats away; as seniors, Anne and I had the back of the bus all to ourselves.

“Tomorrow morning you mean?” Anne asked.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I accept.” Then an odd look flashed over her face. “This is our last bus ride, then?”

“I hope so.”

She nodded and looked away, toying with a dark lock of her hair and chewing on her bottom lip.

“Is everything okay?” I was worried. She’d been acting kind of strange all day. Several times I’d caught her giving me strange looks in the hallway between classes, and I’d felt her eyes on me all the way through lunch. Something was going on.

She nodded, offered me a playful smile. “Just thinking.”

I knew full well that was a lie and was about to say so when the bus surged forward as the driver jammed it into gear. I was thrown slightly off-balance and had to steady myself on the seat ahead of me.

I glanced at Anne to make sure she was all right, and froze. During the sudden movement her knees had moved apart several inches–and I could see right up her skirt! I was hypnotized by the silky-black triangle of cloth that covered her. A moment later I realized I was staring and looked up to see if she’d noticed my attention.

She had, and was blushing mightily. She shifted in her seat, but–to my shock–she wasn’t closing her knees; she was spreading them even further apart. My jaw dropped, and all I could think about was the flesh under those flimsy panties.

“Like what you see?” she asked.

I was light-headed; this was just too surreal. I mean, it was Anne! “Huh?”

“I said, ‘Do you like what you see?'”

“Y-yeah,” I admitted.

“Tell me.”

“What?”

“Tell me that you like what you see.”

I hesitated. Was she teasing me? She had to be. Anne and I had been best friends for years, and suddenly she catches me staring at her crotch! I was ashamed of myself.

“I’m sorry, Anne. It’s just… I mean–I didn’t mean to stare. You’re beautiful and I–”

“I’m what?” she interrupted.

I steeled myself for the storm that I knew was coming. “You’re beautiful.”

“My God,” she said. “Is it possible?”

Those words hit me like a punch to the stomach. Anne knew; she had to. If she hadn’t before, she did now.

She knew the secret I’d been fighting to keep for months now.

She knew that I was in love with her.

But before I could apologize–before I could promise her that I would get over it, that I wouldn’t mess up our friendship–she was across the aisle and next to me in my seat, putting a finger over my lips.

“No,” she said. “Don’t talk. I won’t be able to do this if you talk.” She took a deep breath. “Do you want me?”

Yes. I did. And I knew I couldn’t lie to her. No matter what the consequences. “Yes,” I told her. “I do.”

For a long moment we just looked at each other.

Then Anne leaned forward…and kissed me. I was too surprised to kiss back, and she pulled away and laughed at my expression. “I want you, too,” she said. She reached under her skirt, tugging at something. As she wriggled next to me, I realized that she was pulling off her panties.

She winked at me. “This is something I’ve wanted for a long time.”

She’d managed to free her panties from her hips and she slid them down to her ankles in one smooth motion, pulling them completely off. She held them up. A black satin thong. She laughed at my expression again and dropped them into her purse.

“Every day on this bus…the two of us alone back here in the back…I’ve wanted to do this.” Anne began inching her skirt up her legs, and I lost coherent thought. There was nothing under that skirt but her.

She pulled her skirt a little higher, and I saw everything: her neat, trimmed patch pubic hair; the slit of her outer lips; a hint of the pink inner lips within. I just stared, openmouthed.

Anne giggled and took my hand, guiding it to her crotch. “It’s okay,” she told me. “I don’t bite.”

I let my hand rest on her, soaking up the sensations: the moist slickness of her lips; the soft hair above them; the warmth of her flesh. She kissed my cheek and–lips so close to my ear that I felt her breath on them–she whispered, “If this is our last bus ride, then this is my last chance.”

Afraid and unsure, but–unwilling to disappoint Anne–I began to move my fingers.

Anne closed her eyes, and her eyebrows came together, making her expression one of intense concentration. Her breath hitched in her throat as I ran my fingertips between her folds.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She looked at me, and I knew she was suddenly shy. “Yeah, it’s just…this is the first time that anyone but me or my doctor has…touched me. It’s strange, and–” she hesitated, grinned almost sheepishly, “I’m nervous,” she admitted.

“Me too,” I said. “I’m afraid of doing something wrong, or hurting you.”

“It’s okay. Just be careful here,” she pointed. “My clit. It’s really sensitive.”

“What else?” I asked her earnestly.

She blushed. “I’m not used to talking about myself like this.” But her embarrassment didn’t last long. An impish smile curled her lips, and she took my right hand in both of hers. She guided my fingers into her mouth–the fingers that had just been in her lap.

My jaw dropped as she suckled my index and middle fingers, tickling them with her tongue. After a few moments of teasing, she pulled my hand away from her hot mouth, still sucking my fingers until they escaped with an audible “pop.”

“Don’t let your fingers get too dry,” she said.

My mind was miles away. “I, um–okay.”

She was looking at me expectantly, so I let my hand fall to her lap and between her legs. My fingers still glistening from her saliva, I touched her again.

I took my time now. I explored the crease between her inner and outer lips; I let my fingertips rub lazy circles around the spot she’d said was sensitive, and I learned more about girls–about women–in sixty seconds than I had in six years of sex ed.

All this time I felt her growing wetter and wetter, so finally I let my fingers find her entrance. I paused and met her eyes. She nodded.

I pushed gently, and my index finger slid into her up to the knuckle. I couldn’t believe it–she was so tight, so smooth, so warm–it felt like heaven had a grip on my finger. Nervously, I glanced around the bus and–relieved to see that no one was paying us any attention–focused on the finger that I had buried in Anne and fully explored her.

I was at it for a long time, my attention divided between my hand and her face.

I could see that she liked when some places were touched, like that small, bumpy knob I’d found just inside her–she’d squirmed when I’d rubbed it. “It feels like I have to pee,” she’d said, but her expression suggested that she didn’t mind the sensation.

But other things I did didn’t seem to have any effect on her at all. When I’d slowly slid my finger in and out of her, mimicking the motions of sex, she’d been indifferent.

I kept trying other things, kept exploring, touching her everywhere I could think of, inside and out, but–on a whole–her reactions were minimal and after a while she gently pushed my hand away.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I apologized.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You weren’t bad, and we can work on it later. But–” she glanced out the window, “there’s something I want to try before we get to your stop.” She looked at me as though she were asking my permission.