Bus 3 (2)
Haa... Hot breath slips past my lips. Even hotter air is leaking out from between my legs. I reach down and stroke my pussy over my panties. Just that sends a thrilling jolt of pleasure racing up my spine. Huu, it feels so good. Everyone else is sitting there fully dressed, but I'm the only one with my pants pulled down to my knees, fiddling with my pussy. Existing in this utterly abnormal state amid such a mundane, everyday scene is dizzying.
A clear, sticky thread clings to my finger as I pull it away from my pussy. I wasn't even doing anything that dirty... but my panties are soaked through like this. It feels strange, like undeniable proof that I'm a pervert. Well, I am an undeniable pervert. I can't deny that part. But having this blatant evidence thrust right in my face, condemning me, stirs up a whole different sensation. It's like all my sins are being exposed one by one, stripping me bare—a lewd feeling slowly creeps over me.
At this rate, wiping it off won't help... My panties are already drenched. Even if I took them off and cleaned up with wet wipes, it probably wouldn't show. Should I change them, then? Right here? Even if there aren't many people, that means stripping my pants off completely in the middle of the bus? You think that's reasonable? Or should I just wear these soaked panties for hours? Who knows how long it'll take for this intercity bus to hit the highway and reach a rest stop.
An angel and a devil duke it out in my head. Both sides make valid points. Any sane woman wouldn't dream of taking her pants off on a bus, and yeah, wet panties feel sticky and uncomfortable. Neither side will compromise. So one has to give. And I chose the devil. A perverted bitch who's stripped naked in public before isn't exactly the picture of sanity anyway. For someone like me, who's already done way worse things multiple times, taking off my pants on a bus isn't that hard.
It's actually better conditions than stripping in an empty playground: people are around, but the odds of someone suddenly turning around are low, and it's an enclosed space on all sides. But above all, the most important thing... is that it feels like it would be way more thrilling. A silent laugh keeps bubbling up. Anticipation, thrill, and arousal for what's coming blend together, filling my chest to the brim.
Huaa... I'm really doing this. I'll just close my eyes and yank them off in one go. It's not hard. Just pull off the pants, grab fresh panties from my bag, and change. My fingers hook into the skinny jeans clinging to my thighs. The rough texture feels especially vivid between my knuckles at the hem.
Every time I lift my hips to pull them down, the fabric sticks to my thighs in resistance. The thick, tight material, soaked with sweat, refuses to budge. I need to change quick... Anxiety makes me stretch my legs out, yank at the fabric, and squirm, but it only clings tighter. My breath comes in gasps, my arms strain, my fingertips tingle—only then do I finally wrestle the skinny jeans down to my ankles.
I carefully extract my legs so they don't touch my shoes or the floor. Only then can I clench and unclench my numb fingers to shake them out. Phew, I had no idea taking off pants outside would be this tough... But I got them off, so now I just need to change. The leather seat sticks to my sweat-slick bare thighs like sticky flypaper, the sensation amplified by my lewd anticipation.
As I open the bag I set beside me to fish out some panties, a sudden thought hits me. Sure, I've made it a rule to do dirty things outside every weekend, but that's not the first rule. The very first one I ever set was wearing a nightie dress to bed. Right when I got my first roommate, I decided it so she wouldn't catch me naked if she woke up. Back then, I didn't think of it as a "rule," but looking back now, it totally qualifies. I've worn nothing else to sleep ever since. No problem there.
But the next thought I had... that's the issue. When changing clothes, get fully naked first. I decided that unconsciously during the thrill of changing outside once... If I'm making rules anyway, shouldn't I include that too? Doesn't matter if it's outside or in a room... whether anyone's watching or not, if I'm changing—even if it's just socks—I have to get naked. Panties go without saying, obviously. You have to strip half your body to change anyway, so why not strip the other half too?
It's a high-difficulty rule to follow right now, but... if I only do what I want, what kind of rule is that? Rules should include stuff that's hard and unappealing, right? What if I get caught? What excuse do I make? Getting busted changing panties is embarrassing enough—no excuse needed. Might as well go for maximum pleasure. That's better, isn't it? It's just stripping a little more. Just enjoying the thrill, that's all.
The angel and devil in my mind start fighting again. My heart pounds wildly. If I strip completely here... everyone's sitting up front, new passengers could board anytime... exposing all my secret parts would feel incredible. Just imagining it sends shivers through me. What if you get caught? Can you handle it? People will stare weirdly. They might even call the cops. But, but... that thrill of maybe being seen feels so good. You love it anyway.
The intoxicating pleasure and the guilty thrill of doing something bad flood my mind. I can't overcome those massive emotions. My hands automatically peel off my knit cardigan. In an instant, a girl appears on the intercity bus—alone, pants and outer layer gone, wearing just tiny panties and a thin t-shirt. But I'm not satisfied with this. My increasingly aroused brain, my heart thumping so hard I can hear it, demands more.
I slide my arms inside the white short-sleeved t-shirt, where the faint outline of my bra shows through. If anyone glanced over, they'd wonder what the hell that girl's doing. I'd tell them straight: I'm a pervert who gets off on stripping in public. Go ahead and look all you want. I'd flash a grin. Amid my hot exhales, I've somehow become a pervert in nothing but underwear. I neatly fold the discarded t-shirt on the seat beside me.
Lewd juices keep flowing endlessly from between my legs, soaking the leather seat. At this rate, it'll reek of sex. Haha... that sounds fun. Everyone on this bus would smell my slutty scent, not knowing whose it is or how it got there. Just imagining it gets me excited. For the dizzying pleasure of showing off my body, I could do even worse than this.
I reach behind my back and hook a finger under my bra strap. With a soft pop, my breasts spring free. The freed flesh jiggles lightly in the air. The lukewarm leather seat against my bare back feels strangely novel—a texture my skin has never touched before. Unbeknownst to me, my nipples have hardened, asserting their presence. A light flick of my finger unleashes a sharp burst of pleasure.
"Huuu..." An unrestrained moan slips through my gritted teeth as my panties grow even wetter. No, actually, they've been utterly drenched for a while, soaking the leather seat. Every twitch of my hips lets the slickness seep between my cheeks, coating my skin. I need to get these panties off quick. Huffing hot breaths in rapid rhythm, I finally reach for my waistband.
The waistband still feels fluffy, fresh from the wash, but the crotch is so sopping wet it could wring out juices. Dumb. I lift my hips lightly and slide my hand down my legs. Huaa... all off. Stripping completely this far from the dorm, this close to people—it's a first. Just beyond the window, crowds of people mill about. And right next to them, under the excuse that no one knows, I'm in the most depraved state imaginable.
I really did it. Stripped naked. On a bus. An intercity bus, wearing nothing. Out in public like this. Another unspeakable secret is born. The space between my legs clenches tight. So stupid. But it feels good. So fucking good.
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