She pressed her bottom back against his penis, is what she did.

To this day, when she thought about that moment, which was often, she could hardly suppress a smile. It was a delicious moment. The fire in her belly churned, the torment between her legs itched so much that she had to twist herself against the side of the bus.

She dropped the corn husk and her purse and raised her hand to the strap above her, the better to display herself for the foreigner’s pleasure. Standing on tip-toes, her calf muscles taut, she firmly, without a hint of shame, hidden by the noisy darkness, moved her derriere against his dick and began rubbing herself up and down like a mare in heat cajoling a stallion, for in heat she was.

She was wearing a red blouse made of silky material and although it was demure in style, with long sleeves and a big collar, she could actually look down and see her nipples pushing through the fabric. She placed a hand on her left breast and teased the stiff, thrusting peak of her nipple, playing with it, pinching, tweaking the small living cone, then, moving her fingers to the other breast, repeated the torment.

Her breath was rapid, further fogging the glass inches in front of her mouth. The hefty meat of the stranger’s prick gave off such a heat as to warm her bottom. The two of them, existing in their sensual zone of privacy amongst this mass of flesh around them… a zone made all the more thrilling because of its proximity to danger and discovery… began to move in time with the bus’s lurching motion.

His hands, unable to restrain themselves, left the strap and used her shoulders, and then her waist, for support. He leaned into her, and her bottom clenched and unclenched as his turgid love club, so fearfully constrained by the cloth of his khaki pants, pushed against her black skirt and silk panties, layers of material it was desperate to break through. Suddenly, the bus swerved off the highway and bumped down a short track to pull up, with a groan of brakes and a sigh from the ancient transmission, at a dimly lit way-station.

The bus stopped and the passengers pushed and jostled towards the door, which had swung open with a bang. Within seconds, they were alone on the vehicle, save for the baskets of vegetables and fruits, the slatted crates of chickens and a few pigs tethered by their hind legs.

She leaned down to pick up her purse, fighting to control her pumping breath, conscious of the soggy sweetness between her inner thighs, hardly able to turn from the window and escape her torturer. But turn she did, and fled, unable to make eye contact with the man, so shy did she now feel.

She climbed down the steps shakily and walked towards a soft drink stand. She didn’t know how long she stood staring at the rows of bottles, back-lit by the flickering oil lamps of the tiny café. People milled about as night moths flew around her head and around the soft, hissing glow of the lamps. She was lost in a personal trance, the feel of the man’s mighty cock alive in her memory. She forced herself to drink a bottle of sugary soda. She paid for it with trembling hands and entered the forest behind the café to take a pee before returning to the bus.

As she strolled back to the dusty vehicle, she saw the man leaning against a tree. In front of him he held a big suitcase. She guessed he might have travelled a long way. What route had he taken that fate had planted him so near to her on this night? Where was he coming from? Where was he going? She smiled at him timidly, but his eyes were averted. She knew the suitcase was held in front of him to conceal the bulge in his shorts.

The driver of the bus shouted and clapped his hands. They were on their way again, ready for the final hour’s drive through Manaha’s morbid outskirts and from there to the center of the city, and she had a decision to make.

Would she, could she, return to the back of the bus to take up her former position by the window? Would he follow her? Should she stand, this time, at the front of the vehicle to escape him? Was she a slut or was she a decent Verubian whore on the way back to peddle herself once more along the dangerous waterfront of the capital? Was she losing her mind?

She sprang onto the bus near the head of the line of passengers and strode back to her original place. A small smile was upon her lips. So she was a slut after all. So be it. She could hardly wait for the man. She knew with the female’s carnal intuition that he would soon be behind her again. She knew his need, and needed that need.

She knew he was there as the bus thumped and jolted back to the highway, stopped, changed gears with a hydraulic hiss, and swung to the left to begin its final lap of the night. Her dark, pretty eyes lit up with an inner fire as once again his manhood pressed against her jouncing young bottom cheeks.

But this time the playing was over. She had signalled her permission.

She had, in effect, surrendered any rights she might have as a young girl travelling alone in the night, a citizen of this country, a human being going about legal business. No, that was gone.

His strong hands pulled the black hem of her skirt up and took the elastic band of her panties and slipped them down. She gasped and wriggled. One of her hands dropped from the strap to curl behind her and place itself on the marvellous length of his dagger, and the feel of it was breathtaking.

The man was wasting no more time, an urgency was upon him, a grim need, as his hand took her wrist and assisted her in unbuttoning the buttons of his military type shorts with their safari pockets.

The buttons were swiftly opened and his weapon, smooth and helmeted, truly a warrior in the night, thick and veined, fell from his pants, jerking and twitching into her hand. She whimpered and turned and was lifted onto his suitcase, which was kicked under her by his booted foot, and she was now face to face with the enemy and her arms went around his sweet bony body.

She felt his ribs through the T-shirt and put her hands under the shirt to feel his muscular lean back, her hands hidden under the denim jacket… Oh, Jesus, he felt so good, his skin was like a baby’s, but so hot.

He was burning as she opened her legs like a shameless hussy, eager to be entered. His lips brushed her forehead and his fingers swept the black hair from her sparkling eyes.

She gazed with love, yes love, into his face, searching every wonderful imperfection of his features, her mouth hungry for the taste of his lips and tongue and… dear God… the helmet of his naked baton touched the soft hair of her snatch… the man was going to fuck her! Not here… please not now… we’ll be caught, she thought, her mind a turmoil. We’ll be seen.

The bus will stop, people will shout and point, the police will arrive and lock them up like animals in a cage, her picture will be in the papers, her mother, her sisters… no, worse, her poor father… will see her stupid face plastered over every journal in the land. She’d be a laughing stock, totally notorious like one of those starlets she liked to read about and criticize…

This was the end, she had to escape, she just had to, and… it felt good, so good, as the length of his cock slipped one inch into her open, pulsating love lips. She stood on his suitcase, eyes glazed, lips wet, and eased slowly onto his cock.

She felt the ramrod enter her straight and in command. She was but its subject, its slave, two inches, three inches, and more, please free me from this pleasure, and suddenly he was all the way in, who knew how many inches now, and she felt the bigness and tightness, and felt she might die. It was too big, was she to be slaughtered by this animal, this white bastard was going to kill her, and then she began to pump with him, for him, around him, tightening her wicked quim, stroking his back, biting his mouth till she tasted salty blood, kissing him so she couldn’t scream, her heart pounding as her orgasm came to her without warning.