A drunk stranger on the bus

The last bus from the city to my remote district center. Ten o'clock at night, exhausted beyond belief. The bus was half empty—a couple of students with headphones in the front, an old woman with bags by the driver, and me in my usual window seat at the very back. Rain streamed down the window in slanted streaks, the streetlights flickered like garlands. I buried my face in my phone, thinking only about getting there and collapsing into bed. At the stop near the business center, she glided onto the bus. She walked unsteadily, holding onto the handrails. She wore an expensive burgundy coat, a pencil skirt, and heels. Her gaze was empty, slightly glassy. The air smelled of frosty air, perfume, and... whiskey. She walked slowly across the bus, swayed, and plopped down on the seat next to me, even though there were plenty of empty seats. “Sorry,” her voice was hoarse, tired. “I’m just... here. Okay?” “Yes, of course,” I moved towards the window. She shrugged off her coat, crumpling it across her lap. Beneath it, a silk blouse undone one button too many. A gold wedding ring with a small diamond gleamed on her left hand. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bag, then remembered where she'd put them and stuffed them back. “Damn,” she whispered. “A corporate party. My boss is an asshole. My husband is an asshole. Everyone is an asshole. Except you. You don’t look like an asshole.” I chuckled. - Thanks, I guess. She turned to face me. She was about thirty, no more. Beautiful, but her beauty was marred by smudged mascara under her eyes and slightly puffy eyelids. — Where are you going? — In Zarechye. The final stop. "Oh," she nodded, as if this was very important news. "And I... I was supposed to go to Green. But I think I missed it. Or did I? Damn it." The bus started moving, and her shoulder gently nudged me. She didn't move away. “Warm,” she muttered. - Sorry? "You. Warm. And my life is one big draft," she laughed, but there were tears in it. Then she looked straight at me. Her eyes held longing, loneliness, and that insolence that only comes with alcohol. "My name is Katya. What's yours?" - Alexey. "Lyosha," she said, drawing out the sounds. Her hand fell on the armrest between us. Her little finger touched my thigh. I didn't pull away. A stupid, dangerous thought flashed through my mind: "What if?" She talked. About work, about her husband, who was always away on business trips, and when he returned, he only slept or watched TV. About how she was thirty-two, but she felt ninety, faded and useless. She spoke frankly, as if she were talking to a therapist or a random fellow traveler on a night train. And her finger drew circles on my jeans. Then she fell silent. The bus plunged into a dark section of the highway, and for a few seconds we were plunged into the semi-darkness and the rumble of the engine. I felt her hand rest on my knee. Warmth seeped through the fabric. "You're a good listener, Lyosha," her breath smelled of whiskey and mint gum. "And handsome. You have... good hands. It's obvious they work." Her hand crept higher up my thigh. My mind screamed at me that this was madness, that she was drunk, married, that there were people around. But my body responded instantly, treacherously tensing under her touch. I'd been alone for over a year, and her warmth, her attention, even so dirty and casual, hit me like a drug. “Katya, there are people here,” I tried to whisper convincingly, but my voice broke. "Everyone's asleep," she said, waving her hand toward the bus. Grandma was indeed nodding off, and the students were glued to their screens. The driver was separated by a partition. "And no one looks back. This is the safest place in the world—the last row of a night bus." Her fingers found my fly. I froze. My heart was pounding somewhere in my throat. The loud click of the zipper sounded like a gunshot in the silence. She deftly unfastened the button and zipper. Her hand slid inside, grasping me through the fabric of my boxers. I gasped dully, throwing my head back on the seat. "That's good," she whispered with satisfaction. "You're reacting. Really. I thought all men..." She slipped her hand under the elastic, and her fingers, cool and hesitant, wrapped around my already hard cock. I dug my fingers into the seat. The world narrowed to the muffled hum of the engine, her ragged breathing, and that wild, melting tenderness in her hand. Then she looked back. The car was dimly lit, only the flickering lights outside the window catching her profile. She clumsily kicked off her heels, planting them on the floor. She slid off her seat and knelt in the aisle, in the cramped space in front of me. Her face was level with my stomach. "Katya, don't..." I tried one last time, but she had already pulled my jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh. Cold air touched my skin, followed by her hot breath. "Be quiet," she ordered quietly. "Just sit." She took me in her hand and massaged me, gently stroking the head with her thumb. Then she leaned down and touched it with the tip of her tongue. Softly, experimentally. I held back a groan. She took just the head in her lips, sucked gently, then let go. "I love it when it's like this," she whispered, looking up at me. Her eyes held not only hungover shamelessness, but also excitement, and a kind of thirst for approval. "I like doing it. But he doesn't. He says it's humiliating." She took my cock into her mouth again, deeper this time. Her lips wrapped tightly around the shaft, her tongue sliding along the frenulum. She braced her hands on my hips for stability. The bus jolted over a pothole, and her lips skimmed almost to the base, choking. She cleared her throat and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s okay, worse things have happened,” she smiled hoarsely and continued. It wasn't a perfect, technical blowjob. It was uneven, sometimes too wet, sometimes with an unpleasant grinding of teeth. But there was a wild, animal sincerity to it. She sucked greedily, as if she wanted to absorb not only my cock but also all her loneliness, all the anger of the evening. With one hand, she massaged my balls, with the other she clutched my knee. I ran my fingers through her disheveled hair, not guiding, just touching. She moaned in response, and vibrations ran through my entire body. I was on edge. It didn't last long, but the intensity was mind-blowing. “Katya, I’ll be right there...” I managed to exhale. She didn't pull away. On the contrary, she pressed herself even tighter, taking everything deep into her throat. Spasms rolled through me, squeezing out every last drop. She swallowed, then again, and only then let go, breathing heavily. Her chin glistened. She rose to her knees, her face flushed, her lips swollen. But in her eyes I saw not satisfaction, but emptiness. The same emptiness with which she had entered the bus. She put a finger to her lips. “Thank you,” she said clearly and quietly for some reason. Then she stood up, unsteadily, and plopped back down into the seat. She lit an e-cigarette, ignoring the rules. I thought that would be the end of it. I was ready. I pulled myself together and sat silently, processing what had happened. Shame was already starting to creep up my throat. But Katya suddenly turned sharply. She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her chest. Her heart was beating very fast. “Still warm,” she said. “And I... I’m cold too. Will you warm me up?” She didn't wait for an answer. She stood up, swung her leg over my hips, and sat on my lap, facing the window. Her weight, her scent, the warmth of her body through her thin skirt—all of it exploded inside me again. I automatically wrapped my arms around her waist. “I didn’t come today,” she whispered, pressing her butt against my crotch. To my surprise, I was hard again. “He came, but I didn’t. It’s always like that. It’s not fair, is it?” Her hands reached back, toward my fly. A minute later, I was free again. She rose to her knees and lifted her skirt to her waist with one hand. She was naked beneath, only smooth skin and a dark triangle of hair. She groped for me with her hand, running the head over her lips, smearing it with the juices that were already flowing copiously. "Come on," she ordered, and it wasn't seduction, but a request, a plea. "Come on quickly. Before I sober up." She sank down on me, her insides, hot and tight, wetly enveloping my cock. She sat down all the way, pressing down with her weight, and froze, breathing heavily into my neck. “Oh, God,” she breathed out. “That feels so good.” Then she began to move. Slowly, hesitantly, her hands gripping the back of the seat in front of her. I helped her, holding her hips, lifting and lowering them. The friction was shallow, but desperate. She toyed with herself, her breathing becoming ragged. We were silent. Only the rustling of clothes, the slurping sounds of intercourse, her stifled sobs. I looked over her shoulder at the window. Lights flickered in the reflection, and I saw our dim silhouettes merged into one. I saw her face, distorted either with pleasure or pain. I saw how she bit her lip to keep from screaming. She spun faster, her movements becoming abrupt and imprecise. "Yeah, just like that, just like that," she muttered through her teeth. "Oh, damn... Lyosha..." Her body suddenly spasmed, she pressed herself against me, and a strangled, hoarse cry escaped her throat. Everything inside her clenched and trembled. I lasted another ten seconds before coming. She sensed it and pressed herself harder against me, as if she wanted to take in every drop. Then she went limp, the full weight of her body light on me. We sat like that, motionless. The bus slowed to a stop. The interior light flickered on for a second. I saw a mole on her neck, a tan mark from her chain, and fine wrinkles around her eyes. The light went out. She slowly rose from me. I felt the warm sperm flow out of her and drip onto my pants. She slid back into her seat, pulled her skirt down, and adjusted her blouse. The bus stopped. A sign flashed: "Green Village." "Mine," she said quietly. She gathered her coat and bag, and put on heels on her bare feet. She stood up and, without looking at me, walked down the aisle. At the exit, she turned around. In the dim light, her face was pale and tired. “Thank you,” she repeated. And she walked out into the night. The doors closed. The bus jerked into motion. I sat there, feeling the sticky coolness on my thighs and the scent of her perfume, mixed with the scent of sex. Something gold glinted on the seat next to me. I picked it up. A wedding ring. She must have taken it off so it wouldn't get in the way and forgotten about it. I clenched it in my fist. The metal quickly heated up. I sat there until my stop, staring into the dark glass, where I was now the only one reflected. With the ring in my pocket and a heaviness in my chest that was far more noticeable than the momentary weakness in my legs. I got off at my stop. The rain had stopped. I walked home slowly. And I wasn't thinking about what had just happened. I was thinking about how she would look for that ring tomorrow morning. How she would rummage through her bag, remembering through the pain of a hangover. And how, perhaps, for a second, her face would contort not from annoyance, but from something else. From memory. About warmth. And about the draft that caught up with her again as soon as the bus doors slammed.