Consent on the Night Bus

The bus from Montreal was supposed to be a straight shot, six hours of nothing but highway and bad coffee from the rest stops. I'd been awake for maybe the first forty minutes, watching the city lights smear into suburbs and then into nothing but dark trees and darker sky. You were beside me, Bobby, your shoulder warm against mine, and Peter was across the aisle, one seat ahead, his reflection visible in the window whenever a highway light passed. I remember leaning into you and mumbling something about being tired. You laughed softly and told me to sleep. Peter turned around, looked at me with that expression he gets — half serious, half something else — and I told you both, quietly enough that the old man three rows back couldn't hear, that whatever happened while I was out, I was okay with it. I said it clearly. I said it more than once. You squeezed my hand, and Peter nodded, and that was the last thing I remember before the bus became a rolling lullaby and I was gone.

I don't know how long I was out before anything started. The bus was mostly empty — late night run, maybe eleven other passengers scattered around, most of them asleep themselves. The driver had dimmed the interior lights to that low blue glow that makes everything look like an aquarium. I was wearing a loose sundress, one of the ones that barely holds onto my shoulders, and no bra because my breasts have been so swollen and tender lately that anything with a band underneath makes me want to cry. The pregnancy has made them heavier, rounder, and my nipples have been constantly pink and sensitive, reacting to every shift of fabric.

I felt it before I understood it — a slow, deliberate pulling at the neckline of my dress. I didn't open my eyes. I just felt the air touch my chest, cool and then warm again as someone's breath replaced it. Fingers — I could tell they were Peter's because of the way he always starts with just his fingertips, barely there — traced along the top of my right breast. My skin prickled. I felt my nipple tighten before he even touched it, the anticipation enough to make my body respond. He pulled the fabric down further, exposing me, and I heard him exhale through his nose — that quiet sound he makes when he's appreciating something.

"She's out," you whispered, Bobby. I could hear you shifting in your seat, leaning to look.

"Full consent," Peter whispered back. "She said it twice."

"I know she did."

His hand cupped my breast then, the whole thing, and it fit differently now that I was swollen with milk. He squeezed gently and I felt warmth spread across my chest, a slow heavy ache that made me breathe deeper. He rolled my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and I felt a drop of milk leak out, wetting his fingers. He paused. I could feel him looking at it.

"She's leaking already," he said, voice low.

"Of course she is," you said. "She's been doing that all week."

He brought his mouth down and I felt his tongue, hot and wet, circle my nipple. He sucked lightly and I felt the pull deep in my chest, that strange sensation that connects my breasts to something lower in my body, something that makes my thighs press together instinctively. More milk came out — I could taste salt on the air, or maybe I just imagined it — and he swallowed and sucked again, harder this time.

I smiled in my sleep. Or maybe I wasn't fully asleep anymore. Maybe I was in that place between where everything is felt but nothing is seen. My hand moved on its own, finding your knee, Bobby, and squeezing. You put your hand over mine.

"She's smiling," you said.

"She always smiles when she likes something," Peter said, and I felt him switch to my other breast, pulling my dress down further until both were exposed, the cool bus air hitting my wet nipple on one side and his mouth covering the other. He sucked and I leaked and he swallowed, and my body was doing that thing where it doesn't know the difference between comfort and arousal, where the sensation is so warm and deep that it all becomes the same feeling.

His hand moved down then. Slow. Over the curve of my belly — round and firm now, the pregnancy making me soft in new places — and down to my thigh. He pushed the hem of my dress up. I felt the seat fabric under my bare skin. I wasn't wearing underwear. I never do on long bus rides because everything feels too tight and too hot and too much.

"Fuck," Peter said, quietly, when his fingers found me. "She's soaked."

"Has been since Montreal," you said, and I could hear the grin in your voice.

His fingers slid along the outside of me, not pushing in, just feeling. I was smooth there, completely bare, and wet enough that his fingers moved without any friction. He traced up and down, slow, and I felt my hips shift toward his hand without meaning to. My body knew what it wanted even when my mind was somewhere else entirely.

He pushed one finger in. Just one. Slow. I felt myself clench around it, that involuntary squeeze, and he made a sound — almost a laugh — and pushed deeper. His thumb found my clit and pressed, not moving, just holding there, and I felt everything in my body focus on that single point of pressure.

"Open your mouth," he said, close to my ear, and I did. I don't know if I was awake or asleep or somewhere in between, but my mouth opened and I felt him shift, heard the sound of his belt, the zipper, and then the head of his cock was against my lips. I tasted salt and skin and that faint musk that is specifically him. He pushed in slowly, over my tongue, and I closed my lips around him without thinking.

"There you go," he said, and his hips moved, slow, fucking my mouth in rhythm with the bus's movement over the highway. His finger was still inside me, his thumb still on my clit, and the dual sensation made everything hazy and warm and close.

You were watching, Bobby. I could feel you watching. Your hand had moved from mine to my hair, stroking it back from my face, and I could hear your breathing — heavier than normal, the way it gets when you're turned on but trying to be quiet.

"She looks so good like this," you said.

"She feels better," Peter said, and pushed deeper into my mouth. I took him as far as I could, my tongue moving against the underside of his cock, tracing the vein that runs along it — the one I've told him about, the thick one I can feel when he's hard. He groaned, a low sound he tried to swallow, and I felt his cock thicken against my tongue.

He pulled back. I felt the wetness on my lips, the emptiness where he'd been, and then he was shifting again, moving in the narrow bus seat, and I felt him between my legs. He lifted my thigh, draping it over his, and the cool air hit me for a second before the head of his cock replaced it, pressing against my opening.

"Still asleep?" he asked, not really asking.

I made a sound — something between a sigh and a yes — and he pushed in. Slow. Inch by inch. I felt myself stretch around him, that fullness that makes everything else go quiet, that makes my whole body say *yes* and *more* and *stay*. He buried himself completely and held there, and I felt my walls clench and release around him, adjusting.

"Fuck, she's tight," he said, through his teeth.

"She's always tight," you said. "Especially now."

He started moving. Slow thrusts, barely pulling out before pushing back in, that teasing pace he likes, the one that drives me insane when I'm awake. Being asleep — or half asleep — made it different. I couldn't rush him, couldn't beg him to go faster, couldn't grab his hips and pull him deeper. I could only feel it, each thrust like a wave building, and my body responded on its own. My back arched slightly. My breathing changed. My hand found your thigh, Bobby, and gripped.

"She's squeezing me so hard," Peter said, and his voice was strained now, that thin edge it gets when he's trying to last. "I'm not going to—fuck—I'm not going to make it long."

"Then don't," you said. "You've got all night."

He thrust harder. Three, four times, deep and deliberate, and then I felt it — that pulse, that warmth, him coming inside me. I felt every spasm, every rush, and my body clenched around him like it was trying to keep everything. He stayed inside me, breathing hard, his forehead resting against my shoulder.

He pulled out slowly and I felt his cum leak out of me, warm and wet, pooling against the bus seat. He kissed my shoulder, pulled my dress back down over my thighs, and then — I felt this too — he brought his fingers to my mouth again, wet with both of us, and I licked them without opening my eyes.

He wasn't done. Neither was I, technically, though my body was floating in that hazy space where orgasms build without permission. He sat back, adjusted himself, and I heard him and you talking quietly.

"Want me to take over?" you asked.

"Not yet," he said. "Give me a minute."

The bus hit a bump and I shifted in my seat, felt the wetness between my legs, felt my nipples hard against my dress where he'd pulled it back up. Everything was warm and loose and waiting.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe fifteen. The bus stopped at a rest stop and I heard people shuffling off, the doors opening and closing, the driver's announcement muffled and distant. Neither of you moved. When the bus started again, Peter was back.

This time he pulled my dress down off both shoulders, baring my chest completely, and I felt the air and then his mouth again, sucking milk from my left breast while his hand played with my right, pinching and rolling my nipple until more milk leaked out and ran down my skin. I was making sounds now — small, sleepy moans that I couldn't control, and I felt you lean in and lick the milk from my other breast, your tongue warm and broad across my nipple.

"Two of you," I mumbled, the first real words I'd said. "That's cheating."

"She talks," Peter said, and bit my nipple gently.

"I'm still asleep," I said. "This is a dream."

"Then I'm going to keep going," he said.

He moved down again, pushed my dress up, and this time he put his mouth on me, his tongue flat against my clit, and I felt my hips buck. His cum was still inside me, still leaking out, and he didn't care — his tongue moved through everything, tasting both of us, and I felt my orgasm start to build. That tight coil low in my belly, that pressure that gets worse and worse until it breaks.

He pushed two fingers inside me and curled them, hitting that spot that makes my vision go white even behind closed eyelids, and I came. Hard. My thighs clamped around his head and I heard him laugh against me, the vibration making it worse, making it last longer. I felt myself contracting around his fingers, felt more wetness rush out, and he licked through all of it.

When I opened my eyes, finally, the bus was dark and mostly empty and you were both looking at me with identical satisfied expressions.

"How long was I asleep?" I asked.

"Long enough," you said, Bobby.

Peter kissed my thigh. "Round three when we get to the hotel?"

I pulled my dress back up, felt the sticky warmth between my legs, felt my nipples tender and leaking against the fabric. "You two are going to be the death of me," I said.

"But what a way to go," Peter said.

I leaned my head against your shoulder, Bobby, and closed my eyes again. "Wake me when we get there," I said. "And if something happens before then—" I smiled. "Full consent."

You laughed. Peter kissed my forehead. The bus hummed on through the dark, and I fell back asleep with the taste of him still on my tongue and the feel of both of you still warm on my skin. Best bus ride I've ever had. We're never flying again.