Night Bus Desire

Not on the night bus. When we’re dancing inside a packed pub in Indiranagar and my boyfriend Karthik wanders off to the smoking zone or the restroom, I, Archana, like to test how fast I can pull another man. He leaves me alone more frequently than he normally would if it were just the two of us. When we hang out with our college friends, he manages his bladder just fine, and he does not need to step outside for a smoke every few minutes. We dance in a circle, laugh loudly, and every now and then he slides a warm palm down the back of my jeans and inside my innerwear. But the moment we are by ourselves, he disappears because he knows this is our little game. He drops a lingering kiss on the side of my neck—a semi-bite, sucking and possessive. He gives my arse a firm pat and drifts away into the crowd, leaving me entirely on my own. I have grown quite skilled at this solo dancing routine. I close my eyes and move with the rhythm, like some clichéd motivational post on social media: moving like no one is actually watching me. Then, when I feel that rush of confidence and readiness, I open my eyes.

I scan the men standing near me, quickly sifting through them to spot who might be the right target. That guy right there. The tall one in a crisp linen shirt and sneakers, holding his kingfisher beer like it is a floating log in a shipwreck, looking completely out of his depth. Not the arrogant corporate guys who leer shamelessly, but him—the nervous, hesitant one. I shuffle closer, letting my hips sway right towards him. He gulps hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. I am not going to spell out the entire seduction routine because it is predictable: the subtle smiles, the casual brushes of our arms, and how I inch closer to him millimeter by millimeter. It works surprisingly fast in the dim pub lights. Within minutes, he is keeping pace with my steps. Now his arms are wrapped securely around my waist. He sets his beer bottle down on the sticky floor near a structural pillar so he can slide a trembling hand deep down the back of my jeans, right into my innerwear, exactly the way I love it. Now he is squeezing. Now I am pressing my body harder against his chest to see if I can coax a stiff bulge out of him. Now my lips are on his neck, pressing that exact same sucking-biting mark that Karthik left before he vanished.

And now... Now Karthik is back from the restroom, leaning casually against the pillar, fixing me with a dark, intense look—a blend of possessive determination and wry amusement. Our new friend hasn't spotted him yet, and I certainly do not want to scare him off prematurely. So I lean close and whisper right into his ear, “Don't look now, but my boyfriend is here.” He turns around instantly, looking utterly shocked, his feet hesitant to stop dancing. “It’s OK. He’s happy. He likes to watch.” The stranger nods slowly, gulping again as his throat works overtime. He waits for me to give him either the green signal or a firm brush-off. “Kiss me,” I breathe out, and his lips crash against mine while Karthik watches from barely a few feet away, his eyes burning with silent heat.

Later, after we have danced ourselves into a sweaty haze—the stranger, Karthik, and I—I nod toward the exit, lifting my eyebrows to signal it is time to move. In the deafening roar of the pub music, gesturing is far easier than trying to shout over the bass. To be honest, a mild tremor is already running through my limbs. We have played this exact scenario out before: the public watching, the stolen snogging, and the heavy, aching desire to push things further. But we have never actually crossed that final line. If this stranger decides to follow us home tonight, it will be a first, and I am not entirely sure how I am going to manage the throbbing ache between my legs during the long, bumpy BMTC ride back across Bangalore. The stranger nods in agreement, his eyes locked onto mine, completely caught in the web we spin every weekend.

On the late-night Vajra bus, the seating is strictly in pairs. The stranger sits right next to me, I am pinned against the window seat, and Karthik sits directly in the row in front of us. He does not bother turning his head around to chat; if a random passenger were watching us, they would assume he was traveling completely alone. Just another tired IT guy heading home past midnight, entirely oblivious to the heavy, furtive groping happening just inches behind his seat. The moment we settle into our seats, my once-shy stranger sheds all his hesitation. There is no more gentle stroking or tentative testing of boundaries: he drapes his heavy jacket across my lap to hide our movements and shoves his hand straight down the front of my jeans and deep into my innerwear. His wrist is awkwardly bent against the cramped bus seat, so I unzip a bit further and wiggle my hips to help him get comfortable. When his fingers finally find my wet heat and plunge straight inside, a sharp, breathless gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it.

As I quickly turn that runaway gasp into a fake cough, I spot Karthik tensing up instantly in the seat right in front of us. I can see the sharp line of his neck muscles contracting. I watch him swallow hard. Once. Twice. The stranger’s hand is still buried deep inside me. I tighten my core around his fingers—squeezing my muscles deliberately to feel every twitch and slide as he fingers me with a steady, rhythmic pressure. His other arm is locked securely around my shoulder, gripping me tightly as if he thinks I might try to bolt. But I am not planning on running anywhere. What I am actually visualizing is completely impossible, but my mind dwells on it anyway while the stranger teases my swollen clit with his thumb. I picture a night bus that is entirely empty of other commuters. A ride where my boyfriend sits in front just like he is now, swallowing down thick waves of arousal and holding back loud moans of jealousy while he listens to this stranger ravage me with his hands.

If we were completely alone on this bus, I could lean forward and sink my teeth into Karthik's neck. I could sneak a peek at how hard his erection is pressing against the fabric of his trousers. I could slide my own jeans down so the stranger gets an unobstructed grip, allowing Karthik—sitting calmly right in front—to hear every single wet, sucking sound of his girlfriend getting fingered exactly the way she craves. I could loop my arms around my guy’s neck, pretending to give him a simple hug while using his body for leverage, letting the stranger slide into my warm seat and offer his hard cock straight to me. I would drop right down onto it, letting the solid length fill me completely while we both moan in absolute satisfaction. But we cannot do any of that because the other passengers scattered across the bus would be utterly scandalized. They would never understand that Karthik and I share this thrill, that we hunt as a team. So instead, as the stranger's fingers move faster and my core twitches tight around him, I reach out one hand, grab a fierce handful of hair at the back of my boyfriend's neck, and pull down hard as I finally come.