My wife and I were on the bus.

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

To prepare furniture for our wedding, my wife and I went to a furniture store. We boarded the No. 19 bus, which had just arrived. Oh no, this bus is still so crowded! I cried (I don't know if the tears were from complaint or joy, haha). I held my wife and we moved to the middle of the bus. Then my wife found a comfortable spot and we stopped. I stood beside her, protecting her. The crowded bus was filled with people rubbing, complaining, and pushing each other.

I slid my hand down to my wife's buttocks and slowly stroked them, occasionally blowing air into her ear. My sensitive wife couldn't stand my caresses, so she rested her head on the arm holding the handrail, closing her eyes and panting softly. Suddenly, the bus braked sharply. I took the opportunity to pull my wife's pencil skirt up to her waist. Perhaps she was enjoying it too much, or perhaps the light was dim, but she didn't resist at all. Her buttocks were thus largely exposed to the air. You might have seen this scene in porn or cartoons, but the nudity in front of me felt very real. Just then, an older man got off the bus and squeezed through the crowd. He glanced sideways and saw the exposed skin on this side. Pushing and shoving, his hand slid over my wife's bare buttocks. My wife, alert, quickly pulled down her skirt, which now covered three-quarters of her buttocks because my hand was still underneath. This gave her some sense of security, and she continued to enjoy my caresses. The bus was still dimly lit, and the tight-fitting short skirt perfectly accentuated the curves of my wife's buttocks, vaguely visible in the dim light. Seeing things through the fog always adds a layer of beauty. I stopped after a while. I had discovered the other side of the scene. My wife gave me a slightly resentful look, but didn't say anything. I knew her pleasure had been interrupted, and she was a little unsatisfied. What

I saw then was a very interesting perverted scene, one I had never seen before. Not far from me, a young man was holding a retractable folding umbrella with his arm hanging vertically, so the umbrella was positioned right under the crotch of the young woman next to him. As the bus swayed, the man gently rubbed the young woman's genitals back and forth. At first, the woman would occasionally glance back, noticing an umbrella accidentally brushing against her, but after several times, she became disgusted and walked towards the back of the bus (it seemed that even if the man were caught, there would be no evidence to convict him; how cunning). No one around, except for me and the man, knew what was happening.

Afterwards, the man used the same method to assault another woman. This woman, like the first one, initially glanced back, but then unexpectedly spread her legs wider and thrust her buttocks back, seemingly cooperating with the man's actions, her expression one of enjoyment. I noticed this woman; her clothing style was different from the first one—a tank top, a short skirt revealing her midriff, a curvaceous figure, and a large bottom. It seemed the man's technique was quite good. Watching from the sidelines, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself; people in this world are truly diverse, reacting differently to the same thing—perhaps this is just individual variation.

Then we arrived at another stop, and five or six people got off. Later, the woman who had been harassed got off the bus, and my wife moved to her seat. We were back-to-back with the guy, with another person blocking his view, so he couldn't see my face, but I could vaguely see his movements.

Just then, my phone rang. I quickly picked it up, moving half a body's distance from my wife, and answered. It was a colleague from work, talking about tomorrow's tasks—how annoying, this was causing delays. My eyes were still constantly watching that direction.

The guy then used the same method again, extending the umbrella towards my wife's genitals. My wife, already sensitive, initially flinched, then reluctantly glanced back. Seeing it was just an umbrella, she turned away. But with the bus's jolting and the pent-up pleasure she'd already experienced, a sweet, blissful expression gradually spread across her face. She turned to look at me, and I pretended not to see what was happening and continued my call. My wife then turned back to the guy, letting him continue his actions.

Perhaps because of her earlier complaint about me interrupting her pleasure, my wife didn't immediately tell me anything. After finishing the call, I returned to my wife. She was staring unsteadily out the window, her cheeks flushed. I guessed she was conflicted. If she told me what had happened, she felt I would immediately stop the boy—he was strong and tall, and if something happened, I would definitely be at a disadvantage, and I would also have interrupted the pleasure I had just experienced, which is torture for a woman. But seeing me return, she was trying her best to suppress her expression, unwilling to show any pleasure. Then I noticed her suddenly biting her lip and closing her eyes tightly. I could guess the meaning behind that familiar expression and asked, "Honey, are you feeling unwell?" "

No." "Honey, oh, oh." "Honey, hold me, I, I'm a little cold." My wife's words were a little slurred.

I held my wife and looked behind me, suddenly surprised to find that the boy was facing away from us, his head looking out the window, but the hand that had been holding the handrail now held the umbrella he had been holding earlier.

The crowd around us was still very large. From my angle, I couldn't see what was happening below. My wife's eyes remained tightly closed. I told her I needed to tie my shoelaces, then turned and leaned down to look under her pants. What I saw made my blood boil: her skirt was pulled up, exposing half of her buttocks. Her legs were spread apart, and her thong was pulled down to her labia. The man was rapidly thrusting two fingers into her vagina. Any experienced man knows that this angle easily hits a woman's G-spot. Because of the close proximity, I could hear the squelching sounds as he thrust his fingers in and out. At the deepest point of her vagina, I could also hear the slapping sounds of his fingers hitting her skin. My wife's vaginal fluid was everywhere, flowing down her long, slender thighs. The scene was incredibly lewd. My wife was still thrusting her round, white buttocks back and forth, energetically responding to the man's thrusting.

Perhaps a woman's body often honestly expresses her primary needs: food and sex are fundamental, and only then do other things come into play.

As I straightened up, my wife suddenly stiffened, arching her back as if in a spasm. I quickly hugged her tightly; I knew she had been finger-raped to orgasm.

I helped her straighten her skirt. We arrived at a stop, and I saw the man get off without looking back. I guess he could feel the trembling and throbbing of her vaginal spasms from the orgasm on his fingers. After a

long while, my wife opened her eyes and said, "Honey, someone molested me from behind. I... I wanted to call you." Then she looked at me tenderly, tears welling in her eyes with guilt. "I... I didn't call out. Honey, honey, please don't blame me." I gently embraced her and said, "It's okay, we're almost at our stop. We'll get off and go home. Don't worry about it." Afterwards, I felt a little guilty because I didn't know if the man's fingers were clean; I hoped there wouldn't be any future problems. Walking along the road, holding my wife, I stopped, paused, and said earnestly, "Honey, I love you. No matter what happens." My

wife looked at me with deep emotion and gratitude, and then remained silent the rest of the way. There was just something wet welling up in my eyes. I knew what that meant.

This story is over again. The kind of scene where someone strips naked on a bus and has sex with a grown man until he's drenched in sweat—maybe we can only see that in movies about bus perverts. In reality, we can't demand too much from life. Cultural repression still exists; a little fun is enough, isn't that enough? I think it's enough. [The End]

[The End]

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My wife and I were on the bus.

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