6:15pm. I am standing at the bus-stop with Miss X. We are kissing. At some point in the next ten minutes, our carriage will arrive to transport us from the cold, grey village in which X lives through to the equally cold and grey city ten miles away that is home to myself and 200,000 other reprobates. It is getting dark and, more pressingly, I have a boner. I put it to my travelling companion that if my chubby were to be joined in a happy union with her mouth, I would have no trouble in arriving before the bus. Miss X says no, citing her recently-pierced tongue as the get-out clause. I reluctantly concede . After all, her swelling is greater than mine.The bus trundles into view. It is one of those faded, double-decker monstrosities that, due to a lack of funding for rural bus routes, has yet to be decommissioned. Your grandfather probably went to school on it. At the front of my mind, an idea starts to form. 'Would you like to go upstairs?' I ask. 'Sure' says X unsuspectingly. We board, show the driver our tickets and clamber up the steep spiral staircase. The first floor is empty save for the rubbish strewn across the aisle, like a movie theatre after the end credits have rolled. We creep our way towards the back like guilty teenagers, locate our seats and start making out. Miss X is not so unsuspecting now, but neither is she complaining. By the time we have left the village and are cruising along the dual carriageway, my hands are up X’s top and she is squirming on my lap. There will be no alternate endings to this movie - I wrote it, I’m directing it and I have a pretty good idea who’s gonna finish it. On my cue, Miss X lowers her trousers, pulls her panties aside and eases me into her. With the pair of us facing forwards, she grips the seat in front and starts to bounce up and down on my lap. I watch her face reflected in the window and she watches back, amused. As the bus speeds up, so do we. Should the driver decide to check his upstairs mirror, the only thing he will be able to make out is a pair of bobbing heads. We are the oh-so-cute puppy dogs who nod at you from the parcel shelf of the car in front. One mile on, the bus pulls over to let more passengers on. We freeze in our positions, waiting for the inevitable interruption of our movie. Thankfully no interval is required. The new arrivals take their seats downstairs, and we continue.If I’m gonna cum, I have to do it before we reach town. Miss X might be an exhibitionist, but even she draws the line at performing to cheering randoms stationed on the first floor of McDonalds. I close my eyes, grab her tits and go for broke. The orchestra performing the score (which I also wrote incidentally) rises to a crescendo in this, the climactic scene. And then, suddenly, I arrive. My five second soliloquy is hastily delivered and it’s all over. All over her pants that is. The music fades, Miss X dismounts and we make ourselves respectable again. Five minutes later, the bus pulls in at our stop. We get off, kiss goodbye and go our separate ways. I am heading back to my flat. She is meeting her mate in the pub. As Miss X crosses the road, the camera zooms in slowly on her tight body, homing in on the waistband of her jeans. Inside that precious line, a million tiny sperms are squirming. The credits roll.