After my last bus ride I couldn’t stop replaying the erotic events in my mind. The older man arousing me as we sat on a long distance bus, after dark, surrounded by others totally unaware of what was going on. The following week, on the Friday morning, knowing I would be on the same bus trip, made me tremble with anticipation. The last time I had been on the point of ejaculation and the idea of edging for the whole bus trip seemed impossible. But what if I came? I wasn’t sure if I could keep silent, and I knew from other experiences how the unmistakable smell of semen permeated small enclosed areas in a way that couldn’t possible escape notice.
I couldn’t forget the geography field trip and my tent partner, releasing himself as silently as he could In the pitch darkness of the cedar forest. He wanted to be entirely unobtrusive – and would have succeeded – were it not for the strong smell of semen, almost like fresh laundry, that suddenly floated across from his sleeping bag. It was a smell that was highly erotic for me from some past experience, I could sadly, no longer exactly place.
Earlier this week I was told I had made the competition dive team, and the coach had told me that next week they’d fit me for my dive suits, and that I’d have to fully shave “down there” and “all round the back”. I had already taken him at his word, and was loving the way it felt and looked. I hoped my older friend on the bus would like it as much.
As I packed my bag for the weekend back with my uncle, I wondered what I should wear on the bus. I wanted to be sure I was “accessible” but not to attract undue attention getting on or off the bus. I settled ankara travesti for a tshirt and track pants and top – but what underneath? I wondered about the dive suit but worried it would get too tight if he started touching me again.
I finally settled for a pair of very light weight white soft nylon running shorts, with very high split sides. I sometimes wore them in bed to sleep in and I had taken out the support liner. They would keep me covered, whilst giving him all the access he chose.
I looked around for my friend as I queued for the bus, he turned out to be several places further back in the queue. I briefly smiled and he responded in a similar way, we recognised that we knew what we wanted to happen and exchanged that, in a look no-one else could have deciphered. As we went down the bus most of the other passengers stayed near the front and I picked a seat almost at the back of the bus. After stowing my bag in the overhead rack, he arrived and took his place beside me.
It was the beginnings of spring and the bus journey started in daylight. It seemed we both felt it would be more discreet to wait until we were on the highway and it was fully dark before resuming the activities we both knew we so wanted to happen.
We made polite small talk like any other passengers on a bus. I told him I had made the dive team, he told me he did some work for the college, had been a maths academic and a chess wiz, as well as having an interest in photography. As the evening drew on and the bus drove on into the darkness on the freeway, he said after a pause “Is Jake Evans still the swim coach for diving?”. I was a little surprised ankara travestileri that he knew so much about the college. I told him yes, Mr Evans was the dive coach.
He leaned closer towards me and whispered in my ear “So you’ll have got the fully smooth instruction? Is that something I could help you with?”. I could feel my face and ears burning, as I said, “Well I already had a go.” I wondered how he could know so much about such intimate detail of college staff? Was he in some sort of network?
He reached into his pocket and passed me a small packet. From the light of the an occasional street light I saw it was a small ziplock sandwich bag, with a few folded Kleenex tissues inside. “Just in case of any accidents, I can dispose of the evidence for you. Do you want open up for me?”. It took me a short time to catch his meaning, but as discreetly but rapidly as I could, I slipped my track pants down to my ankles, opened my track jacket, and looked out of the window, as though anything that might possibly happen, was nothing to do with me.
He didn’t need me to slip my running shorts down. The soft nylon and the split leg meant I was fully accessible for him. His hand could reach in, cup me, stroke me and even reach between my legs, to my anal rim, which he ran his finger around.
Instantly I felt my cock engorge to a degree I had never felt before. He tested bending it down and away from me but it was so stiff it stayed vertical. The excitement I felt was so extreme I knew I wouldn’t last long and I opened the ziplock bag and got the several tissues out and into my hand.
As he reached around my testicles and groin, travesti ankara he leant over to whisper again, “Not a bad shave job, but let me do it for you next time.” His warm hand and it’s gentle encouragement meant I knew I wouldn’t last long, and his gentle rhythmic movement on my cock produced the inevitable result. I struggled to keep as silent as I could as I tried to catch the spurts of semen that shot from me, in the Kleenex.
Some went on his hand which he quickly slipped to his mouth and whispered, “Wow you taste wonderful. I want more soon. By the direct method.”
As I fathomed what that meant whilst I mopped myself up, I could smell my own semen and was terrified the nearest passengers could too. He gathered the creamy tissues from me and put them in the ziplock bag, which he closed and it went into his pocket. My semen smell faded but a male passenger a few seats in front turned and looked back rather knowingly at us both.
My friend explained to me that perhaps I might like, the following week, to catch an earlier bus and go back to his place, and that he’d drop me at the bus station so that – and it immediately pricked my attention – “you’ll be there at normal time for your uncle to pick you up”. Uncle? I had never told him about my uncle, how did he know of him? Did my uncle know him? Was he part of this network too?
I knew I wanted more than anything to be able to enjoy these sexual adventures without the risk of others discovering us. My mind fixated on what exactly “by the direct method” meant, and I was fairly certain I knew. I remembered a packet of photos I had found, that belonged to my uncle, which showed an older man and probably a male about my age, practicing what I guess would be described as the “direct method” on each other. I had found the photos, guiltily, very erotic, and I had never dared let my uncle know I had seen them.