2 comments/ 49671 views/ 8 favorites End of the Line By: Cal Y. Pygia I'd been sleeping for the past several hours, and I was groggy when I woke in the cramped seat, the beautiful brunette beside me. Outside, it was dark. Lights flashed past, streaking the huge window with reds, oranges, ambers, yellows, whites, and greens, as if some gigantic, invisible hand were painting an illuminated garden upon a canvas of glass. Through the slits of my half-open, rheumy eyes, I could make out the indistinct square, rectangular, and triangular shapes of buildings crowded together in a close rank. We were traveling through the downtown area of yet another city. The last I could remember, we'd been crossing a bridge over the Mississippi River. Vaguely, I wondered what state we were in now. I turned my head upon the high-backed seat. Dimly, I recognized that my seatmate was busy. Her arm was moving, and she moaned softly. I looked down, at her lap, and saw that her pumping fist gripped her cock. The lady beside me was no lady; she was a he! Moreover, the transsexual tart was masturbating! I didn't know what to do. I mean, I wasn't offended, not in the least. It was damned sexy, having a beautiful "woman" masturbating in the seat beside me, on a Greyhound bus. If she was aware that I'd awakened, she gave no sign. She continued to masturbate, her fist bouncing around her stiff, straining cock, moaning softly from time to time as she squirmed in her seat. I was facing her--somehow, despite the erect penis jutting from her lap, I couldn't help but to think of her as a woman--and, keeping my eyes half closed, I observed her as she continued to stroke herself, trembling and heaving in her seat. She was close to orgasm, I knew, and I wondered whether she'd continue until she ejaculated. Thank goodness, I thought, for the fat old broad who occupied the aisle seat adjacent to the shemale sweetie who sat beside me. The matronly old Medusa had fallen asleep with her overhead lamp on. The focused illumination from the small bulb was sufficient for me to see the transsexual; otherwise, I'd have been denied the sight of her pleasuring herself, although I might have guessed, easily enough, what she was doing beside me in the dark by the muted moans that she made and the intermittent shuddering that seized and shook her slight frame. As it was, I was able to enjoy both the sight and the sound of her masturbation. "You're beautiful," I said quietly. Beside me, she froze, sitting motionless and silent. "I saw what you were doing," I informed her. She said nothing. I don't know, to this day, where I got the nerve, but I reached over, took her still-stiff prick in my hand, and began to stroke it. "Let me do that for you," I suggested. She still didn't say anything; she still didn't move. My fingers rolled the cylindrical shaft between them. Then, I took her cock in my fist. I held her manhood firmly as I pumped my fist up and down. I heard her gasp. Tightening my grip, I increased my tempo, and she moaned. I felt her shiver, and her thighs clamped together involuntarily. Her balls were high and tight, risen in the contracted pouch of her scrotum. She was close to orgasm. She groaned, shuddering, and her thighs squeezed tightly together. I squeezed her prick in my fist, several times, rapidly, and she rolled her eyes, helpless in the grip of ecstasy. My hand bounced fast and hard, up and down, pushing and pulling the taut skin of her cock back and forth over the straining shaft and jiggling her balls inside the tight-drawn pouch of her risen scrotum. She sobbed with pleasure as her thick, warm semen spurted from her trembling penis, forming small opalescent pools that looked like melted pearls. She'd sown some of her seed upon my fingers as well as her pubes and lower belly, and I lifted my hand to my mouth and tasted the nectar of her loins. It was salty and delicious. I wished I'd sucked her cock instead of having masturbated her. I also wished she could have returned the favor, imagining the wild sensations and delight that her lips and tongue and mouth could create within my heart and soul (and genitals). She'd closed her eyes, looking as lovely as a sleeping angel as she breathed deeply, her whole body relaxed and still. Her little penis had already begun to wilt, returning to its natural, limp state. Her semen glistened in the pale light of the adjacent overhead lamp. Were I a photographer, I'd have snapped her picture; were I a painter, I'd have captured her likeness in oils. As it was, I was content merely to gaze upon her loveliness. She was as beautiful as any woman I'd ever met or seen and far lovelier than the multitude. I longed to see her completely naked, so I could behold and fondle her breasts and buttocks as I'd caressed her cock and balls. She opened her sapphire eyes and regarded me under thick, dark lashes. Her smile melted my heart. "Thank you," she whispered. I heard the bus' airbrakes. The gargantuan vehicle slowed. A sign outside the window announced "Philadelphia." "You live here, in Philly?" I asked her. My gorgeous seatmate nodded. "Do you?" Grinning, I answered her nod with a nod of my own. "On Winchester Street." "Let's exchange phone numbers," she suggested, adding, after a moment's pause, "and addresses." We scribbled the information and handed our notes to one another. Taking mine, she tucked the paper into the cleavage of her fabulous breasts. "Call me," she invited. "I will," I promised, my cock stiffening at the thought of the good times we could have together in the City of Brotherly Love. "I want to get you into my bed," she declared. "I want to suck your cock and fuck your ass." "And I want to suck your cock and fuck your ass," I returned. The driver's voice bawled from the front of the bus: "Philadelphia, Pennsylvania! End of the line!" End of the Line This story is based on an event which happened to me many years ago. Soon after I left school, at 18, I got a job working in a newspaper office in Fleet Street -- in the days when the world's news was published there - and made my way there daily in the tube. It was always crowded in the rush hours and I was always pushed up against the other passengers. By the time the train got to my station in the morning there was never as seat and in the evening again I always stood for most of the journey. One evening I found myself pressed up against a well-built coloured woman, about 20 or so years my senior. Somehow my hand had got trapped between her and another passenger and was pressing against her firm buttock. After a minute or two like this she turned to me and stretched to speak into my ear as the noise in the carriage was to loud for whispered conversation. "Young man," she said, "You have two options, either you remove your hand from my arse or you leave it there and stay on the train to my stop and come home with me." I looked her in the eye and gave her arse a slight squeeze by way of a reply and she smiled. Gradually the train emptied as we passed from station to station and soon there was no excuse to be pressed up against her. My station came and went and I asked her how I would get off the train as my ticket wouldn't be valid any further alone the line. She told me that her station was almost at the end of the track and generally there wasn't a ticket collector at the barrier. I had never bee as far along the line as this when we got to her stop and as we left I told her that I should call home and let my parents know that I wouldn't be back at my usual time and that they shouldn't worry as I was meeting a friend. Well, it was almost the truth. I walked the short way to her house with my arm around her shoulders and I could feel her firm body beneath the layers of warm clothing that she wore as it was late November and quite cold out. We got to her house, a typical three bedroomed, suburban semi, and she ushered me in to her living room and told me that she was going to hang up her coat and put on the kettle for a cup of tea. It all seemed so domesticated and comfortable and I felt not in the least bit nervous. I heard her moving about in the kitchen, filling the kettle, lighting the gas, the rattle of teacups, and then she called me to come in to the kitchen. What I saw was definitely my cup of tea! She stood before me, her tan skin set off by a white bra and panties that did little to hide her full, firm body. "Sugar? Milk?" she asked. "Er, just milk please." I replied. She put two cups on the table and asked me to sit down. We both drank our tea in this surrealist scene and when we finished she got up and stood behind me and began to stroke my hair and continued down feeling under my shirt. Soon she was undoing the buttons and eased me out of my clothes, standing me up so that she could remove my shoes, socks and trousers as well. As soon as I was naked she stood with her back to me and I undid and removed her bra and slid my hands again over her firm arse but this time inside her panties. As I eased them down she turned around and found my self facing her cunt, the first that I had ever seen one. My pulse was at about 250 by now and my cock was as long and erect as it had ever been. Instinctively I kissed her hairy mound, burying my nose in her curls and inhaling the most amazing scent that I had ever smelt. I wanted to explode there and then and she must have heard my moaning and she pulled me to stand up and we kissed, her full, firm breasts pressing into me chest and her round belly pressing against my cock and gently moving and massaging it. All at once, she broke from me, took me by the hand and led me upstairs to her bedroom. She lay on the bed and spread her legs, inviting me to enter her. I climbed on the bed and she guided me into her wet cunt experiencing for the first time the amazing sensation, which to this day always excites me. I came very quickly and she said "Now that we've got that out of the way we can get down to some serious sex." And from thereon we proceeded to fuck and suck in every possible position and place in the house. After about three hours of fucking, playing, teasing, touching and licking we just sat naked, next to each other on the couch in the lounge and relaxed. She put on some soft music and I was half dozing, next to her with my head on her breast and my hand between her legs when I heard a key in the door. I jerked up but she pulled me back to her telling me that it was only her daughter and I shouldn't worry, just to relax and get my energy back. End Of The Line Yet more people crammed into the already over-crowded carriage as I shuffle closer to the cold window pane. At least the seat's a single even if it does mean both sitting backwards and being right in the firing line of everyone walking up and down the aisle. A whistle blows and with a jerk the dimly lit station outside starts to slowly slip backwards. Rain lashes down turning the already dark countryside into a blur as we rattle onwards. From somewhere down the carriage a mobile phone rings, then another. I hate this trip, always have done, should be an hour and it always takes double that, half the time you have to fight for a seat, the other half you're wedged in a corridor somewhere and there's always someone who decides to just let their mobile ring and ring. In fact that's happening now, somewhere close by and very loud to, why not just answer the damn... oh, it's mine. Right. I glance at the caller ID and feel my stomach flip. No name, just one word, a word I've come to associate with a world of pain, tests of endurance, hours spent imprisoned and tormented.. and wonderful, breathtaking pleasures. I hit the call answer button and bring the phone to my ear. I know the rules, I cannot speak first and must wait for permission if she decides to grant it. All I hear for a long, long moment is silence, and I almost move the phone away from my ear to check I didn't hang up instead of answering. Just in time I hear a long, low chuckle and suddenly there isn't a force in heaven or earth that could make that phone move. "Such a shame you're stuck on that train from hell, I'm really looking forward to seeing you tonight". She laughs again and her voice shoots through me, an almost primal response to those throaty, lusty tones I know so well. I'm not supposed to be seeing her tonight but any plans I had for the night just got thrown out of the window with her announcement. "I'm in a very, very bad mood. Today has just been awful. Nothing's been going right and I need to work off my... tension." I swallow, THAT tone I know from past experience and it's usually very bad news indeed. "I'm going to tie you down to the bed and fuck your brains out. Just grab your cock, shove it inside me and ride you until you explode." Funny, I don't remember how to breathe right now, all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears. That and her laughter. "Actually, I'm lying. I'm going to tie you down all right, but strapped to the cross not the bed. I've got a few girlfriends coming round tonight and you're going to be the star attraction." Fuck that sounds bad. And good in a very twisted way but mostly bad. "And you are going to get to cum, twice actually, but I'm not going to fuck you until the morning." Okay, that doesn't sound so bad.... "First we're going to play a game. We're each going to take turns giving you the very best handjob we can." Still not seeing the bad here... "Then whoever makes you cum gets to ride your face until she's completely satisfied." Again, not seeing the bad there... "Oh, just one thing. After each turn trying to make you cum the one giving you the handjob kneels down in front of you and can't move. You cum and you soak her face. Whoever that is gets to pick their own revenge for your act of insolence." Oh FUCK ME! I know some of the people she's likely to have invited to this and have 'played' with them before and those were some of the most physically intense sessions I've ever gone through. What the hell are they going to be like after that? I can feel my body shudder at the very thought and yet, somehow, I'm as hard as a rock. I realise she's still talking and force my attention back to her voice from the hell of my imagination. "Of course you're not going to do that to me but if you do... well, I know your buttons better than anyone pet." True enough and a fact I'm almost regretting at the moment. "I'd tie you to the bed and let the winner get on top of you, tie her legs down so she can't move too much, tie her hands to a ceiling ring or three to make sure you can't throw her off. A human blindfold and gag for you, completely cutting off sight, sound... and air. Let you bring her to climax quickly, make sure she's twitching enough so you don't suffocate and then we start." She pauses and in my mind I can picture her hand sliding down that silky smooth flesh and between her legs. Another laugh and the carriage, the people, the rain, everything else but her voice, her presence, melts away. Someone could steal the clothes off my back now and I wouldn't notice. "Then we start tickling you pet. All four of us who aren't otherwise... engaged bringing our talents and energy to bear on your flesh. Lying across you, holding you down, fingers raking at your soles, digging in to your flesh, diving between your toes, delighting in your muffled laughter. Oh, but of course, that wouldn't happen right away would it? You have your pride after all, and that pillar of strength you can cling to so well. That's good, by the way, you're going to need that strength because at the first laugh we pull from you your real punishment begins." Another pause and I gulp a breath, as if I can already feel strong, sleek thighs around my throat, blocking my air and the world. "So we'll start at your feet and work up your legs. All the time you grunt and swear... yes pet, I know you'll swear but for tonight we'll wave the penalty for that, it would be asking too much to do otherwise. Just imagine that, trying to stay silent with four domina torturing your sensitive feet, legs and knees, working their way upwards as a fifth beautiful lady writhes above you. No, we'll let you scream, especially when we reach your cock and balls..." Oh god, of course she knows about that, I thought I'd managed to hide that particular weakness but apparently not. "I think we'll each take a different area for that, one of us on each ball, another on your waist and I'll get your cock. Forty devilish fingers flicking over your skin, brushing the very tip of your cock, maybe sipping a nail in the slit as we work you over as you start to move from screaming to silence." Another laugh, another pause. "God I can read you like a book by now, this really is going to be terrible for you. Because by now I'll be reaching the end of my patience, the cum still dripping and drying on my skin, worn like a mark to remind me why I need to punish you, why I shouldn't weaken or show you mercy." "As I see your muscles tense from the effort we all shift, take up positions and just attack you. Fingers, mouths teeth, tongues, hair anything we think will get a reaction. Slashing and diving into armpits, raking ribs, diving into your belly button and scraping your sides, pinching and kneading your thighs and legs and, of course, raking your soles and digging nails just under your toes until, inevitably..." The mental images build, burst like a dam over me and I can't help but let out a single gasp which, of course, she hears. "..you crack". "I untie the winner and she gets off you, reluctantly I imagine, I know how good a ride you can give after all pet. But I want you to see what's about to happen. In fact I'll prop your head up on a pillow as the girls gently rub your shoulders and legs to ease the tension. I grab hold of your cock and give it a good hard squeeze then a couple of slow, luxurious strokes. Got to loosen it up after all..." I don't like the sound of that but somehow manage to stay silent though I'm vaguely aware I'm shifting in my seat like someone's set my trousers on fire. Which in a way I guess they are. "Then I show you the sounds." Oh god... sounds are something we've played with just once and I hated it. Thin metal rods that get inserted into the cock and hurt like hell, especially when she hooked them up the electricity. "But this time I'm not interested in cooking you, just stuffing you. Yes, stuffing you pet, the biggest diameter you can handle until there isn't the smallest gap around that cold steel shaft, just the tip sticking out of your cock. Then the girls start back on the attack, this time with electric toothbrushes running up and down your flanks, your legs, all over your feet until you start laughing. Shouldn't take long, I doubt you'd have much fight left in you." Too right I wouldn't.... not after that. "As soon as you laugh, I'll start giving you the most wonderful blowjob of your life, pumping you up and down, driving you towards orgasm. Just picture it, five beautiful ladies giving you the sensations of a lifetime of sexual stimulous... all at once. Imagine what that will feel like, naked flesh pressed against yours, every inch of your body alive, a warm mouth on your cock, the cum boiling in your balls.... and no way for it to release." What. Oh my god, I hadn't even considered that, hadn't... "Yes, after all your cock is all full of that nasty metal rod. I wonder what'll happen when you cum. I wonder if it'll push the rod out... or maybe it'll stretch you and leak out the sides... or maybe it'll rupture something and you'll bleed for your pleasure and ours.... I honestly don't know but I'm looking forward to finding out. I imagine the pain will be intense whatever happens, and all of us tickling the crap out of you at the same time is going to push you to a whole other level. And all because you couldn't help cumming in my face!" A pause, the longest yet, and I hang suspended in time waiting for her voice to connect me to reality once more. "Of course, it might not be me you cover. But then..." she laughs one more time and I shudder from the threat contained in such a delicious sound. "the others are a damn sight more... inventive than I am so you may be better off with me." There's a shudder that doesn't come from me and I realise we're pulling into the last station on the line. The conductor comes on the speakers to announce we've arrived and people start shuffling for the exits. "Ah you've arrived then. Good. I'll see you here in half an hour." What can I say, despite knowing what lies in store I'll go, and go willingly. How can I refuse her, she owns not only my physical body and responses but my mind and soul as well and well she knows it. Yes, she asks the earth of me, but I delight in rising to her challenge no matter how stacked the odds are against me. And she loves me, she's proven that time after time, every single moment I spend staring into her eyes and seeing it reflected back, every time she holds me after she's pushed me beyond what I'd previously considered my limits and, on those ultra-rare occasions when she consents to be my sub, even if only for the night. No retribution, no resentment, just a desire to let my own imagination run wild upon her, an honor she has bestowed on no-one else. "Half an hour pet... unless you have other plans?" Now, finally, I can reply and in the only way I can, the only way I would ever wish. "No, I await your pleasure as always... Mistress." End Of The Line In place of her bed was a long, narrow cushion seat, enough to fit her 5'2 frame but a passenger of any size would find the edge too close for comfort. There was not one window, but almost ten, twice as many when you include the actual areas to let in the cool, autumn air. In her room she would find a desk, an office chair, and a pile of books on business ethics and social responsibility, while in front of her now were rows and rows of blue coloured seats. Far more worryingly, where on earth were her clothes? Kristin had a case of the shivers in areas of her body that she remembered perfectly well being clad with one of her favourite red dresses, the one with flowery design by its sides and its silky material showing off plenty of thigh. She sat up and embraced her own knees, dragging back her bare feet and feeling only skin on skin bar a bra and matching underwear. It was desperately cold up here, and extraordinary that any sleep was achieved at all. Luckily the pool of vomit was tucked away in the corner, but escaping its foul stench was an impossible task. In fact the upper deck had not been cleaned at all; on one seat there were two empty cans of Heineken, directly across, a crisp packet that was neatly stuck in the steel part of another as if it were a form of compassionate littering. She did understand she could be guilty for any of it, it was not the first time she had overshot her limit by an inadvisable amount but it usually ended safely with a helping hand out of the taxi. Her head was dizzy, mouth dry in a premature hangover. Whatever the hell the young woman did tonight, she didn't spontaneously strip to her bare essentials and ask for a ticket – this was an act of cruelty, one that no one deserves despite reckless behaviour on a night out. Above all she felt let down, by a chain of people, starting with one of her friends who probably ran off with her long time boyfriend, to anyone else on board that failed to wake her when the end of the line was approaching. The bus creaked under her one hundred and fifteen pound weight, something you don't notice when surrounded by the urban din, but here, it was clear she was the only one making a sound in the building. She walked to the stairs, catching hold of the rail as spared dirt collected on her soles. It was mostly dark but the steps were reasonably visible. The ticket waste had been opened; allowing bunches of paper, sweet wrappers and a plastic cup to make a rubbish ramp in the centre of the lower section. It might sound strange, but she was only afraid of two things – if she was unfamiliar with the area and would be forced to walk a great distance with no shoes, and second, that she would be embarrassed by passersby. Worst case scenario in the immediate sense, she had answered the question of what happens if you not only miss your stop, but never get off at all? It was one of the newer models, "AX", as could be told by its extra space, especially the luggage compartment with a roof of bars. When she looked out the windows, she could see herself in the reflection of another; it was parallel buses showing the exposed student making her way past the driver's cab. Then, before she could step outside, she was startled by the sight of a pair of high heels, neatly parked like the vehicles as if they were waiting her for. They were hers, too. Black, patent leather, four inches and of course the trademark red "lipstick" underneath – she almost felt apologetic to Mr. Louboutin as his work was among the garbage of a nation. Kristin dipped her feet into each shoe; sure they can be a pain to walk in, but it seemed a more attractive option than the oily ground below the final step. There was very little space between the sides to slip out, but when she managed it, there were only more obstacles. There was about four-five feet between rows, all double deckers except for one a few lines down, the "WV." A faint hissing sound could be heard in addition to the click of her footwear, and she folded her arms to endure the cold of the garage. It was, at least, fully lit, as long as you weren't sandwiched between them. It was a stretch to even imagine working here, especially the graveyard shift. A bus is large, noisy and messy, never mind a hundred of them, and even when static the maze was intimidating if you hadn't been inside it before. The plan went as follows – hide behind the corner of one of these monstrous transports, work her notoriously irresistible eyelashes and call over a nice mechanic for help. She'd rather scamper unnoticed, but perhaps they could provide her some clothes. She held her hand on the curve of the front lights, now in the first row, roughly in the centre of the depot. One bus had special treatment, on its own between her position and the pits, or maybe there was no room anywhere else. There was a pool of water around its wheels and lengthy, soaked tire tracks from one end to the other. They are "picked" of rubbish when they come in, brought onto the bay to be vacuumed, fuelled and oiled, and finally taking through the wash, but for whatever reason her '54' from town had not. That would explain why no one spotted her up on the back seat, and the driver must have been an unsympathetic soul at four in the morning. "Hello...is someone here?" she asked. The building merely answered back with an extended hiss, and the fuel pump in the distance hadn't been turned off. The crew had to be around; after all they had shunted her own bus into its place. She ran her hand through her soft brown hair, still feeling the effects of the booze. Maybe it will end up being a famous story with her best friends, but for now, her head hurt, she was freezing and just wanted to go home. Careful on the slippery, concrete floor, she made her way toward the big shutters. Past the notice board was the wash on her right, and to left were some recently built offices. In the corner was a single door and surely the exit, so she pressed down the handle bar and began thinking what an impressive accomplishment it was to avoid wolf whistles from old men in their overalls. The door didn't budge. The racket echoed about the silent garage, especially the frustrated second and third attempts. A horrid feeling washed over instantly, that she was in a fine mess and wasn't sure what to do. Her heart began beating so hard it threatened to leap out of her chest, and the worry transferred to her wobbly legs, as she walked over to the nearest office window. Kristin peeked inside but the chair was empty, there was a red folder opened on the desk with a pen resting in the middle, and beside that was an open laptop with earphones plugged in. There was a very worn board behind the glass, which showed the assigned duties for each man on the roster. There were eight in total, while another few fell under the ill and holidays categories. On the opposite side, there was a small yellow bus parked inside the second wash closest to the back wall. The ticket bus sparked a memory from the evening, and she worked through the fog to recall a petty argument with Deirdre, which then led to their separation. The canteen – that's where these guys are, and one of them will have a key. She returned to the centre of the garage, and it was a like a private catwalk to see the young woman in only her undergarments strut and stumble to an audience of parked cars. Her heels made their last step by the tire store, however, as an odd sound caught her attention. It was a man speaking on a walkie talkie, followed by a sharp beep, and the process would repeat. It seemed close, but every time she felt she had chosen the correct one, she had to approach a different point. It came from the cab of a bus in the second line, a man from headquarters babbling from the speaker. The latest noise was a fallen tool; the clang filling the air from must what have been the far side of the depot. "Hello?" she called again, "Could someone help me, please?" She then stayed on course with the new strategy, walking over to some storage facilities where the path led to the toilets. Through that doorway, and on the right, was the kitchen and a locked door which prevented access to the changing rooms for those without the code. Kristin pushed open the first door to be greeted by five white tables, a fridge, sink and microwave. Under the TV/DVD combo...was a man, slouched in his chair. Her mouth closed just as soon as it opened – draped over the chubby worker's shoulder was a red strap, a ladies' handbag clutched in his arms. Her lips pursed with the tension, but not only was the fellow's back turned, he had drifted off for a nap. She slowly reached for the handle, almost skidding on the tiled floor in her nervous escape. It was obvious now it wasn't some hooligan passengers on the Nitelink that took her things, it was these shameful employees! The shutters are up day and night in this place, every bus goes through maintenance, none of this made sense. She turned the corner of the walkway once more, past some railings and an old table covered in filthy cloths and parts. Suddenly, the grumble of an ignition could be heard as the engine of one of the two dozen park buses switched on. This of course trumped the hissing, the fuel pump and her anxious heartbeat combined, and the vibrations lured each of her senses to it, no matter what was waiting. Walking along the back line, Kristin felt out the powered presence and went the opposite way. Adjacent were more store rooms, a stack of cushions and underneath those were three pallets. Another bus fired up, and she appeared to be right in the middle of the two. Her logic was limited in her condition, but she concluded that it was a game. These automobiles weren't doing this themselves, and when she called for assistance only a moment ago, no one was interested. Out of the corner of her eye was another of the staff, and this one was carrying a black sack, dumping the contents in one of two skips available. She put herself out of sight, but the man went about his work like it was just another night. That's when the third bus joined in, and this was no more than twenty feet from her location. The three rumbled in a symphony of pulsation, and one of them even revved the engine for extra effect. If there were indeed eight men on duty, she was now aware of about four or five. Two big feet lost the fight against gravity and jumped to the ground, his footsteps disappearing, but enough to alarm Kristin as she crouched by the emergency door of the WV. She remained that way but progressed, under the windows and middle doors. More footsteps – more buses switched on. She covered her ears, the beasts may aswell be driving over her head given her state. It was not the time to be thinking about it, but it was foolish to leave her friends and try to make her own way home. It was stupid to get smashed beyond belief to celebrate a significant improvement in her grade point average. She reluctantly went down to her knees, the heel of her feet popping from the shoes. The grimy floor welcomed her pale skin, and the two became fully acquainted when she made the decision to slide her entire body underneath the bus to her right, just behind the front wheel. She had lost count now, a good ten or twelve of them were working their monotone madness, but thankfully not the one directly above. That possibility soon became a probability, however. Two black boots made their way over, laces so poorly tied that they hung over the sides. They stopped, turned for a moment, and didn't move again for an entire sixty seconds. Their owner spat carelessly by the wheel that Kristin had one hand resting on, while she swallowed a scream and held her nerve. The worker finally rounded the bus in the next row; it rocked slightly under his leap up the steps and the cab door slammed. She winced as she felt her chest pressing into the repulsive filth, the dusty mechanics of the vehicle only inches above her shoulder length hair to boot. She heard a bus pulling away, and that seemed to be the signal for the one right next to hers to start up. Eventually, all three of them in that vertical row had left their parking spaces behind and her hiding place was now a vulnerable one. Her breasts and legs scraped the ground, and they now looked like they had been through a hard day's labour with one of the boys. Kristin pushed herself up and ran by the employees' cars without looking back. There had to be an exit at every corner of the garage and so it proved, her heels clicking past the second skip and the pit on the far left. She pounded on the thick door but to no avail, the callous brutes had secured every emergency outlet. Some steps presented themselves, taking her to a mechanic's back yard. The grated steel caught one stiletto, and considering how much they had slowed her down anyway, she opted to peel off the shoes and carry them instead. She journeyed through the lower levelled pits. There were seven openings in total, allowing the experts a clear view and access underneath the parked buses. Across from those were numerous presses, with countless wrenches, bolts and boxes of those light blue surgical gloves. She noticed a yellow trash can, labelled "rags", while the other one said "Oily rags only." Lifting the lid, for a moment it looked as if her prayers were answered, tops and pants galore. On closer inspection, every one of them was cut into pieces and none could pass as an outfit, the idea being that they are small enough to fit in your hand. She observed her scantily clad figure, humiliated at running around half naked with black marks in many places. Her high heel pumps dangling from two fingers, she approached the other staircase. Obviously, those three departing buses had nowhere to go, and they seemed to just be laying and waiting. She cautiously finished the last step and peeked down the side, finding two men, one inside a running bus, and the other with his arm resting against the windshield. "What do you want!" she screamed, adding a second for good measure. They wore navy overalls, usually a couple of buttons unfastened, hoods, and white dust masks revealing only their eyes. The barefoot student did work up enough courage to advance, passing some railings and the office window where these guys receive their pay packets. By the notice board, she came to a halt, as still these louts hadn't responded. She went to the shelf where employees punch in, removing a card from its place and checking for those who had clocked last night or later. "What do you want, Darren Murphy? How about you Aaron Byrne? Fuck you...Brian O'Neill....fuck you and fuck your masks!" Kristin caught her breath, holding the rail in frustration and anger, and the two workers merely looked at one another, rather amused by the outburst. She had thrown the cards wildly on the ground in a feeble attempt at attack. These were not men of mystery, she thought, they were just men, with names and jobs, in a government owned company. They simply had to stop holding an innocent person against her will immediately – period. Instead of pointing to the exit, the nearest fellow passed her his trusty black bag. Before she could explain how preposterous this was, she had been urged onto the AX by the persuasion of a gloved hand at her back. Out the front window provided some comfort, as the garage shutters were finally up, revealing a dark, early Saturday outdoors. Behind her, the standing man, without speaking, picked up a coffee mug from the floor and spared the rest of the rubbish, placing it in her new sack. The message had been delivered; at least he felt it had before a rough push to the shoulder was required. Kristin glared back at him, his unflinching brown eyes showing that it was no joke. The bus jolted, shifting forward and eventually outside the large entrance, as the woman got to work. Bottles, cans and papers were all tossed in, as she scoured between the seats, right up to the back window where someone had kindly discarded an apple. As she returned to present her findings, she met a finger pointing upstairs. She figured that if she played along, soon they would quit the pranks and she'd be curled up under warm blankets in no time. The long bag rattled as she climbed the stairs, the bus just starting to accelerate, but within a couple of seconds the driver put on the breaks. Kristin, even while keeping hold of the rail, lost her footing and her left knee paid the price on the edge of one step. Sympathy from the other guy came in the form of the tapping of his watch under his sleeve. Wincing in pain, she ascended to the top and began bending under seats to find hidden garbage. Again the bus gathered as great a speed as it could in the premises. Have you ever pressed the 'stop' button and stood up while on the upper deck, as your destination drew nearer, only to find yourself struggling to walk? Well, now imagine flexing and reaching in those conditions. Most of the crap in this one was near the back, and that was two Heineken cans, a crisps wrapper, and, you guessed it, that lovely spot of sick in the corner. This was her bus. She held on tight as it turned and appeared to return inside the depot, past some lockers and a forklift. As she approached the stairs once again, she made sure to give the finger to that large, circular mirror, no doubt facilitating some spying down below. Kristin made her way down and met up with her instructor, who calmly exited the front doors and expected the woman to follow. He strayed by some wheelie bins, so she took this as a sign to make the dump here. Then, she fetched her expensive heels that she had left by the cab, and headed towards the exit. Job done – lesson learned – don't litter, etc. etc. 'Byrne' had a firm grip on her slim wrist, however, and she hadn't even been successful in leaving the AX at all. She scowled at him, saying that they had had their fun, but she was quickly led away so that the bus could position itself. Her shoes dropped out of her hands near a shore and she continued to walk on the unforgiving ground, sometimes rising on her toes to avoid the gritty rasp against her delicate soles. Welcome to the bay. Where a near one hundred buses pass through each night, and where only one in the entire fleet remained without service on this night. She was guided to one of two seats, the other stacked with newspapers and a half empty, two litre bottle of water. A pair of gloves were flung on her lap as she took in the area; two, long yellow hoses on the ground, tangling with each other. She comforted the developing bruise on her knee and shook her head, both at the madness of it all and the murkiness of her own brain at the time. The 18 tonne monster entered her picture once more, there was actually very little space for it to maneuver the turn between the paths, so it grunted at the strain of the driver spinning the wheel as far is it would permit. 'Kavanagh' pressed the green button on the wall, and what followed was a deep thump inside the vacuum, eventually providing powerful suction in both tubes. The bus lined itself nicely on the bay, the middle doors facing the seats, while the fuel and oil supply were on the far side. Three times she barked to be let go, and each time the men, now three of them including the shunter, blatantly ignored the plea. This had to be the coldest point of the building; it was near open shutters and the buses only provided heat once you were close to them. She fixed a loose bra strap, rubbing her shoulders to combat the chill. Her decision to make a run for it was short lived, as one of those large figures pre-empted the idea. There was a WV behind the bay, so the only available space was through him - or through the wash. The same men drew nearer and offered her a vac, a once in a lifetime opportunity to be one of the boys. End Of The Line "Go to hell", she snarled. She hadn't even put on the rubber gloves. "I want my clothes...and I want out of here!" came the next screech, so effective that a pigeon seemed to flee for its very life instead of continuing to search for bread crumbs. They did the opposite. One of the ruffians had sneaked behind her and began unhooking her bra, as she squirmed in horror. A second man grabbed her arms and allowed the 34B top to slide off and expose her breasts. "Bastards", she repeated over and over, as they bullied the young woman towards the bus steps. She was childishly prodded with both hoses until she agreed to take one, only while hiding her chest with an entire arm. Trouble is, operating this vacuum require two of those, unless you were reasonably strong and familiar with the routine. Debased by these lowly cleaners, she opted to do as she was told, as her nude form could inspire other ideas - or worse - violent ideas. She commenced the labour, pulling the hose so that she could complete the deck, snatching tickets, wrappers, tissues and everything that could fit between the nozzle. Its width was such that a wider card than its diameter would get jammed, but a banana skin is instantly sucked in for its travels. She humiliatingly let her boobs relax, knowing that six eyes were enjoying the show through the windows. Upstairs was the hard part. The tube was so thick and awkward that it had to be manipulated, and could easily get tangled on the way. Indeed, this happened. Kristin had to return a couple of times to free it up, struggling up the steps so that it could reach all the way to the back seats that she had made a temporary bed. Her breathing was very heavy under the strain, and the old tube was adding to the filth already accumulated on her skin. The unprotected hands got it the worst, and by the time it came to actually begin cleaning, she was exhausted. There was always a pull against her on the damn thing, and her muscles were aching. She wouldn't have believed it at the time, but only one man per night vacs the upstairs of every bus in the depot. For the vomit, she took a deep breath and held it, otherwise she might create some more at the mere odour of emesis. She still didn't know for sure if it was hers, but the workers probably assumed it was. Once it had been cleared, some quick footsteps could be heard - Kavanagh, the true gentleman that he is, had saved her the trouble by fetching the mop. The sudsy water dripped to the floor as she reluctantly took it, and with some of the windows opened, she could actually hear clapping down below. The two gazed into one another's eyes for a few moments. "Are they going to hurt me?" she whispered. Just like his friends, he didn't say a word. She wiped the stain left behind from where someone had hurled and watched him follow the yellow tube road. Kristin returned downstairs herself, trying to manage both the hose and the dirty mop, and she dropped both on the way out, feeling the effects of the duties fulfilled. For the first time since it began its route earlier tonight, the bus was cleaner than she was. A strong arm lifted her to her feet once more, and that always meant there was somewhere else to go. Her breasts bounced as they felt the warmth of the bus through its air holes and exhaust. All four of her new colleagues rounded the back and mounted the platform, the closest she had been to that humming of the fuel pump since she woke up in this God forsaken place. The ticket bus she had observed earlier wedged her between the walkway and "her" bus, as the men retrieved the oversized trigger from its barrel, removed the cap and inserted it inside the filler. The counter was activated and began adding in the hundreds. Their boots clanked on the steel floor, a floor so polluted it would ruin a pair of runners within seconds, never mind the bare feet of a woman. She cowered by the barrel, already tattooed in dirt and her energy waned. Why were they doing this? How do they think they can get away with it? A well lit hut was at the end of the path, containing a clip board, some company sheets and a red stool. Once Byrne had made his notes, he pointed to the bus and demanded Kristin take care of it. What she didn't realise was that the fuel hadn't automatically discontinued yet, a distinct click being the signal if the fuel/oil man was reading the latest chapter in his book while he waited (Curiously, the counter did not face the hut). She reached for the trigger, removed it and the inevitable happened – it hadn't finished, and the out of control liquid was splashing against the bus and right back onto her exposed flesh. The workers howled with laughter, as the naked college student dropped it a couple of times in the panic. Eventually she managed to put it back, but her legs were drenched and she was nearly in tears, arms wailing in annoyance. Barely enough time to settle down, the trainee was next off to the oil. Truthfully, AX694 did not need any, but the three jerks had to finish the job - and that meant lifting out the gun and emptying it somewhere else. Kristin released a gasp of horror as she felt the greasy sludge build in the back of her panties, the last of it dripping from the valve as 'O'Neill' waited for the tank to click. She was afraid to even touch herself back there; the material was now completely black as the slimy oil merged with her backside. She stumbled from the bay, disorientated from the fumes and disgust. The three had quickly circled her, nudging her back to the passenger side of the bus and leaning her against the window. They were all tall men, but none over six foot one, and O'Neill was the shortest of the group. He had black, curly hair peeping out from the hood, while Kavanagh had an ear pierced and was well built. Byrne, the shunter, donned a cap with the logo of the city's most famous football club. They were mostly interchangeable, though, masked figures pestering her at every opportunity and loving their little games. Byrne took her wrists and began binding them, using a fairly thin rope that she had seen earlier to tie stacks of cushion seats. When she kicked out at him, Kavanagh was soon on the case to calm her down - he clutched her oily panties and in one swoop they were torn from her body. The rope was passed through a slight opening in the window; O'Neill had recently gone about shutting all of them in both decks as it is one of the responsibilities before moving the bus on. It was tied to one of the bars for the luggage section, and the brunette felt the wrench of the twisted fibres in her suspended arms against the side of the vehicle. She writhed in irritation, fully exposed to the workers and tied to the bus like a prized ornament. Byrne could hardly help himself, his latex gloved hand roaming her soft skin, five fingers sliding from her torso to her inviting chest. He squeezed one of her supple tits, perhaps finally showing his true colours, circling her nipple repeatedly. Oddly, Kristin smiled back at him a moment, though this was probably because she was planning to catch him right in the groin with her good knee. His mates cackled at his failure, watching him collapse to the pavement and hold his injured testicles. O'Neill had securely fastened the bondage, while Kavanagh shut down the vacuum. The wash switch went in the opposite direction, as he palmed the red, circular button. Through the small gap between the wall and the bus, she could see the rotating brushes kick start – it was time for a shower. And this would be no ordinary shower; it would be a truly cleansing experience. The bus shifted into gear and advanced from the platform, as Kristin anticipated the 15-20cm extra she would have to drop once said platform had ended. She could just about reach the ground on her tippy toes, the nail polish from this morning a distant memory, and her feet and rear end were so greasy it didn't bear thinking about. Slowly the bus moved in the tunnel of the bay, the water sprays already intense. The bristles made contact with the public transportation, they were in this together now whether she liked it or not, the ropes tightly attaching her. The naked girl screamed to her heart's content, at least managing to turn 180 and face away from the imposing brushes, as they were spinning wildly and beginning to abrade her fragile skin. The bristles did their work on her fuel contaminated body, as she walked with the bus' every movement, even faster during this point but the rope didn't budge. She hugged the dusty-turned-saturated body of the machine, pressing her face against the glass and squeezing both breasts into panels. The bristles had passed but the noise of this twenty year old bay was never ending, and the squirting cold water painted her back, ass and legs as clean as a whistle. Finally, the system shut down, the structured bars retreated and thankfully before the second brush had encroached her position. Her screams, having been lost so easily in the clatter had now subsided, and she cried silently to herself through the side window. She waited for whatever was next in store, whichever cruel prank they had thought of forcing her to undergo. She was utterly sober by now, so she could not even go missing in the hazy world she had been in a short time ago. After a couple of minutes, she dared to peek out. Kavanagh, with his loose laces was chatting to a lanky individual in a long white coat. O'Neill startled her, but this time his hand was only intended for her unpredictable mouth. He clasped it with the greasy rubber as Byrne left the driver's seat to stand directly in front of her assaulted body. The foreman seemed upset about something; the Nitelink had been handed over to the depot at 3:15, yet over an hour later it was only being serviced now. Also, although it was a four man job, it was the last bus of the night after a gap of two hours, so it was common practice to have one volunteer take care of it. "Wait a minute...", said the foreman. No, it's not what you think....Kristin screamed into the glove for help and jerked aggressively on the restrain - surely it was unmissable! The boss was allowed inside, stepped towards the cab, swiftly found what he was looking for, and with his back turned to the huge wash, called over Kavanagh once again. His head dropped, his lips parting to attempt making an excuse, but there wasn't one. The foreman adjusted his oversized spectacles and held out his hand. Kristin could feel the tension among the assailants, her own sky blue eyes as wide as theirs as they waited, her arms so tired and throbbing. Once again, there were but two sounds, the hissing and the humming, and on the human side of things there was the breathing through two nervous noses. "What's this?" At last, his hand unfurled....to reveal a tiny bus fare receipt. The trainee had carelessly overlooked it, but as Kavanagh was the vac man for Friday night, it was only he who could shoulder the blame. The supervisor left him with the crumpled waste and returned to his personal office (Rumour has it he had downloaded every episode of 'Dexter'). Meanwhile, O'Neill and Byrne skipped over the puddles of water and started discussing plans for socializing that evening. Kavanagh, sweeping brush in hand, met up with his buddies once he had scooped up a pair of black, designer high heel pumps and placed them in the trash can nearby. She was lost for words as she remained trapped inside the wash, listening to their fading management complaining in the middle of the garage, as they headed back to the bathroom/locker rooms after a good day and night's work. "He's such an arsehole" The End