Lost Afternoon with Bus Stop Babe

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I have difficulty thinking of human beings as being of different races. To me people are people what ever their skin color. This is a story of erotic sex. Enough said. Hope you enjoy it.


Wild is the wind in the early morning

Rigid my cock without warning

Morning is the perfect time

For making love so fine

When you make love that way

If only for one day…

I’m 42 years old, an attorney in Minneapolis. I’ve always loved blonds and I’ve always loved black women. Can’t get enough of them. Being married I don’t have the freedom to pursue what really turns me on. Of course, like most men in my situation I try to keep my cock in my pants and stay out of trouble. But a little flirting can’t hurt? Or can it?

Not that my wife isn’t a piece of ass, she’s a blond as well, of Norwegian heritage, but I confess that passion I felt when we married diminished after I found out she was having an affair with her boss at the same time we were engaged. Of course I didn’t find out about it until the day of the wedding when her paramour got drunk and told me how lucky I was to be sharing her vagina after “he’d broken it in and trained it,” those were his exact words. I think it was at that moment when I broke his nose. And who do you think was comforting him on the way to the ER?

Talk about marriages starting off on the wrong foot? Being an adult sometimes means sucking it up, forgiving and moving on. Sadly, the heavy passionate sex that you practiced when you were busy forgiving, eventually runs out. It was as if the harder you fucked your wife, the more you were forgiving her. About that time, her reluctance to perform certain sex acts had disappeared. You thought you were set for life. Guess again.

Unfortunately, her reluctance returned several months later. Eventually the impetus that led to aggressive sex, punishing sex, based on her betrayal, dies out. You can only forgive so many times before life returns to normal and all is forgiven. Then you revert to gentle fucking like you practiced during the courtship, and then to the occasional once a week fucking, and then to the once a month fucking. Well, you get where I’m headed. And blow jobs and anal, that good dirty stuff that makes your cock leak just thinking about it, well forget about all that, It ain’t happening.

And as for the forgiving? Do you ever really forgive or just continue sucking it up?

As e.e.cummings said, “There is some shit that’s hard to eat.” And as Mickey Jagger’s said, “Sometimes we don’t get what we want.” They’ve said it and I’ve lived it. I guess that’s where I’ve arrived with my Norwegian sourbrodt wife. I can still fuck the wife like a bull on a cow, if she’ll let me. If I slip her a Bloody Mary with two shots of vodka I can get my way, she just about passes out. That’s where the last kid accidentally got into the game.

We’ve stayed together and tried to make the best of it. Little by little you and your spouse are soldered together like the steel chains on the swings out there in the children’s playground. Oh yeah, kids, ya love em but it sure fucks up the timing belt on the engine of life. Something is missing and you both know it. What is missing is that immutable trust and you look at other woman and think, so what if I shared a night with them, that bitch of my spouse betrayed me, why can’t I do the same?

I’m not turned off by the fact that my wife has turned into a porker, a little bit of fat keeps you warm on cold Minnesota nights. I know her trips to the gym are just the first steps towards a hip or knee replacement. If she forgets to shower after a few hours at the gym, well can you imagine stink cheese lost in the back of the fridge? And once you learn that the wife was capable of fucking behind your back, you’ll never ever trust her again. Even a trip to the supermarket may include a prearranged gang bang in the meat locker with the guys from the butcher department? Ah yes, Norwegian women are always fond of sausage.


Well, let’s change direction and move on. Let’s talk about black and white. Out here in the Northwest we still have racial discrimination. Although our state was major source of recruits way back in the time of the Civil War, 150 years ago, I think it was the preservation of the Union rather than the freeing of the slaves that fed the enlistment rolls. I don’t believe emancipation was never a major consideration. In my experience, nobody really loves any minority, be it blacks, jews, gypsies, native americans, and on and on.

That’s sad because we are all the same race, the human race, and we can all fuck and create offspring. If I recall my college biology classes, the ability to reproduce among disparate population proves we are all of the same species. The color of our skin may vary but our sperm is viable and all the same color. You can’t breed a mouse with an elephant but stick a Chinese woman with an African male or a Laplander with a Thai princess in a dark room and both couples are tuzla escort going to be spitting out kids 9 months down the road.

Black people have had to fight for their rights here in the Northwest as everywhere else. If you believe the recent survey in the Post-Bulletin, it says that if you ask a Minnesotan about discrimination in America, they will reply that discrimination is mostly against whites. However, the total black population in our state is only 8%? How can whites be the discriminated class? That myth is beyond my comprehension?

I’ve lived here all my life and although this state isn’t Nirvana, it is a nice place to live. There is something cool and refreshing about the winter snow and the hot summer heat. At least you can fuck in the winter without dripping sweating. Provided you have a willing partner.

I never had a problem crossing the color line. I dated several black girls in college and had a serious romance with Rebecca Simmons, but in the end she wanted to move to New York to pursue her career in designing clothes. She was a knockout and a part time model. I wanted to finish Law School, so we agreed to disagree and we split. I still get Christmas cards from her. She is married to a white guy and seems to have a happy marriage with two curly haired kids. I’m not jealous but I know I missed the boat on that romance and I sure miss that honey’s sweet peach, oh do I!

There is something about black women that has always excited me. Does that make me a racist? I don’t think so. The black woman I’ve known intimately were always large framed and strong. You felt protected and secure in their arms. I have always loved big tits. Maybe it’s that old adage that opposites attract? I know this is going to sound crazy, but black pussy to me tastes like filet mignon and white pussy tastes like chicken. Isn’t that stupid? But that’s how it seems to me. Maybe it’s psychological? I love a good steak but there’s nothing wrong with a fried spicy chicken sandwich.

On a bright sunny morning months back, I was thinking about Rebecca’s pussy and wishing they’d invent a time machine so I could go back and sniff it once more. Forgive my crassness.I was driving past the bus stop a few blocks from my home and I saw this beautiful woman. She was black and she was blond! How was that possible?

When I first saw her standing at the bus stop I was completely taken. Love at first sight? Yeah, I’m a believer. Wasn’t that a pop song by the Monkeys? What ever happened to them? I think one, was it the English one, died recently and the lead singer probably got rich from his Mom’s invention of “post its,” if you believe that story.

But let me get back on track. This blond black woman must have been in her mid thirties, old enough to know a thing or two and not far removed from her prime. Woman past thirty are women, they aren’t girls. They don’t tease and then say no. If they like you, they commit. They spread their legs like a flower awaiting a honey bee. You know you are in for a real good time. Just make sure you give as good as you get or expect to hear from the complaint department.

I favor woman, they make better sex partners then girls and they are comprehensive of an adult’s situation. They don’t expect a simple fuck to mean you are leaving your wife and a divorce is on the way. They’ll take a new cock in their mouths like a gourmet tasting a shiitake and get back in the saddle after a spit or a swallow. Also, women always wash their pussies before a tryst.

It wasn’t my intention to cheat, to be unfaithful. Shit, if my wife would let me fuck her two or three times a week I’d be able to control myself. So I guess this adventure is really the fault of my wife. Doesn’t that make me sound like a horse’s ass? No, it’s not anyone’s fault but my own, but no regrets, I’m sorry to say, and no apologies. They say, “The heart wants what the heart wants,” or more to the point, what the cock desires, it often gets.

Don’t blame me because I waved at her, the first time I saw her. I just thought she should know how cute she looked. She smiled back. Her skin was that rare ebony color that shone like gilt in the sunlight, as if she was a bronze statue on a marble base. Her smile was magical, she might have been an Amazon, she looked so strong and powerful. She could have led the charge of the Light Brigade. She was tall, my height at least, probably even taller; a presence, there was no sign of fragility.

I watched as she turned and took a few steps. She appeared tall and willowy, graceful and yet she possessed very large breasts that would have been ponderous on a lesser woman. They thrilled me. Her breasts seemed all the larger because of her narrow waist.Those honeys were partially hidden by her neat conservative business attire, but those big tits were as obvious to me as an earthquake. So beautiful and attractive, she might as well have been holding a corsage of beautiful roses against her chest. I so wished to be a honey bee.

Each day I’d look for her standing at the commuter tuzla escort bayan bus stop, clutching her oversized pocket bag. The free commuter parking lot was just across the street. I assumed she must live outside the area. Like a good citizen she took advantage of this convenience and willingly joined the fast moving cluster of commuters arriving at the bus stop awaiting the short bus ride to work in the downtown corridor.

The next time I saw her, she was bathed in warm sunlight, as if the Gods on high were spotlighting her. I couldn’t look away.My heart skipped a beat. The traffic light was in my favor so I had no choice but to continue on. First I looked quickly to my right where she stood waiting and then I quickly proceed forward. The traffic behind me was unforgiving. A moment’s hesitation would have invoked a cacophony of horn blasts. Didn’t they know what I was looking at?

On other days, I’d catch the red traffic light that compelled me to stop. I’d pass that glorified minute staring at her, her beauty blinded me. When the car behind me voiced its disapproval of my slow departure with a sharp horn blast, she looked up and our eyes met. In that moment there was neither time nor space, just the two of us. I don’t believe I’ve ever been the same.

Emboldened, when I saw her, I’d wave frantically, even toot the horn quickly to get her attention. Oh, that electric moment when she responded. It was all I needed to enhance an erection that appeared and reappeared all day long. Sometimes I was afraid to get up from behind my office desk when my daydreams filled my mind. I would imagine I was standing behind her, my cock inside her; her vagina, her ass, her mouth. Oh God, anywhere she’d let me put it. Of course my cock responded.

Before I knew it, three or four weeks had passed. Our flirty waves and my occasional brief staccato horn honks became a habit, an addiction, a part of every day. If she wasn’t there, I’d think maybe she had a cold or a day off. Who knows why? But if I didn’t see her in the morning, the day was spoiled for me. I was short tempered, my balls hung cold and listless, my penis drooped and retracted. When I went to the Men’s Room, my cock looked like a turtle that had pulled his head back into his shell. I’d hold my balls back so the piss wouldn’t dribble down and drown them.


We were now in early spring. The weather wasn’t as cold and often she was wearing a light coat or jacket. The coat was a light tan color, sort of a raincoat. The jacket was light brown with ivory threads in a herringbone pattern. I was pleased that she’d shed her winter clothes, now I could examine her in greater detail, her large breasts seemed ever more prominent.

And then came the fire…

On a clear day, hardly a cloud in the sky, I was listening to the local jazz station on the car radio. It was that time of the month when the non profit station was raising money. More talk than music. I was just about to change the station when a large cloud of black smoke arose. Several cars in front of me came to an abrupt stop. Just beyond them I could make out an older Pontiac sports car, the one with the curvy streamlined design, a nicer models they don’t make any more.

For some unknown reason it burst into flame. A huge black smoke cloud billowed from the front of the car. I thought may a malfunctioning fuel injector hose sprayed gasoline onto the hot motor. Boom, it was time for a barbecue. The firemen arrived quickly from the fire house nearby. The street was quickly closed. Traffic was stopped for forty minutes.

Of course the commuter’s bus could not arrive with the fire truck blocking the street. The long red fire truck, squared and chromed, had cut through the traffic maze like a cake cutter through a cream cheese cake. They did this with unusual efficiency, honking and shouting directions through a loudspeaker. They quickly cleared the traffic lane coming towards me. Three yellow coated firemen, their heads behind protective hazmat helmets, sprayed a chemical foam over the now blackened Pontiac hood and the plume of black smoke subsided.

Having no chance to proceed I pulled my Mercedes close to the curb in front of the bus stop. I got out and walked over to “Blondie” (that was what I’d named her) and introduced myself. She seemed genuinely glad to see me. She never even mentioned the fire except with a pointed finger and a look of exasperation. I lost no time,

“Hi, who would have expected this, but it’s about time we met. I see you almost every morning. I’m Brad. What’s your name?”

She opened her big eyes, and responded,

“Oh I’m sure you have a name for me. Come on, out with it.”

I hadn’t expected that and I was embarrassed. I’m sure my face turned red. She wasn’t just a beauty, she was smart, one step ahead of me right from the start.

“Oh come on, your face is so red it looks like you swallowed a viagra.”

“Oh my, you seem to know everything, well…ok, I call you ‘Blondie.'”

“Well, then ‘Blondie’ escort tuzla it is, I have no problem with that.”

I came right to the point, “Blondie, I’d like to see you some time.”

“Well, you do, you see me every morning.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Oh I know what you mean, you mean you want to see me naked while you pound your cock into me.”

“Oh God no, I didn’t mean that.”

She looked me in the eye and parted her curved lips, the light gloss made her lips as inviting as a ripe mango, her eyelashes seemed to long to be true.


I back stepped, she had me, one hundred percent.

“Ok, you’re right, that’s exactly what I meant.”

“Well, Brad, that’s always a possibility, that we meet someday. Oh my, the firemen have untangled the accident and I can see my bus is arriving.”

She leaned forward and kissed me on my cheek. I remained breathless when she whispered in my ear,

“Keep the faith baby, all things in life are possible.”

The cars began to honk, I ran back to the street and jumped into my car without even attaching the seat belt. I merged back into traffic, my seat belt alarm ding donging as I drove away.


In the weeks that followed, what of Blondie and me? Nothing to report. We resumed our usual morning waves and smiles again, nothing more, nothing less. Only my expectations remained.

Then one early morning I passed by her bus stop. I was about 15 minutes early. I thought, why not surprise her? I parked on a side street and trotted over to the bus stop shelter. I didn’t pull into the commuter lot because I was afraid I’d look like a stalker and I didn’t want to invade her privacy by checking out her arrival.

I stood there under the plastic topped shelter and waited. In about ten minutes she emerged from the commuter parking lot and came into view. She was wearing a yellow knit skirt and a chestnut colored blouse with what looked like a colorful Gucci scarf around her neck. She had on what must have been 3 inch heels, that matched her skirt, sort of a golden tan leather. When she saw me she was ready with a comment.

“Oh, so now you are taking the bus too?”

“No, I just wanted to spend a minute with you, Blondie.”

She smiled and her luscious lips parted, her perfect teeth shone like pearls.

“Oh did you?”

I tried to make some small talk to distract her from the fact that my cock had started to grow and the bulge in my pants was becoming prominent.

“I love your scarf, is it Gucci?”

“Good guess, no it’s Hermes.”

“Wow, only the best for you.”

“My husband only buys me the finest.”

“Oh you are married.”

“Isn’t every one?”

“I guess.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yes of course, but…” and she cut me off in mid-sentence

“Don’t you worry, everybody is. Anyone our age who isn’t is probably gay.”

“Your husband…” I said. Again she was rapid fire.

“But you don’t have to be concerned about Godfrey, he’s an older man, was my prof in college. He’s real sweet, not the jealous type.”

“Oh, there would be no reason for him to be jeal…”

“Tell that to whatever is growing in your pants.”

Oh God, she’d noticed, she doesn’t miss a trick.

“Why has your face turn red? We are both adults and obviously you are a normal male.”

“Thanks for understanding. I apologize.”

“No need to apologize. I take it as a complement.”

“Oh it’s not only a compliment, with you it’s a reflex. I see you, I think of you and this happens.”

I looked down at the bulge, then tried to change the subject.

“I find you very attractive and stimulating Blondie. Can I ask you when you grew up?”

“You mean where I grew up don’t you?”

“Of course, see, you make me tongue tied. You see what you do to me?”

“Oh I see all right, I just hope the tongue tying isn’t the only thing you have in mind.”

Was she thinking bondage?

“You don’t have to worry,” I answered. ” I’m 100 percent normal male.”

“Yeah, 100% and a few extra inches.”

We both laughed.

“So where are you from? I asked again.”

“Well Brad, I’m from around here.”

“Oh come on Blondie,” I no felt no hesitation to address her, “You’ve got too much of a southern accent to have winged the cold winters here.”

“Oh Bradley, you are a smart one with a good ear. Yes, I grew up in the burbs of Charleston, came out her when I was only twelve. I guess the South is still here inside me waving its reb flag, even if I want to hide it.”

“No need to hide it, look at Atlanta, its become an international city, a southern capital. All the hip hoppers are building mansions, even Elton John lives down there.”

“Yes,” she said and her eyes lit up and she smiled, “and all the famous strip clubs where they rain money.”

“What do you know about that?”

“Next to nothing, I was never there, I only know what I read or see on TV. While those fillies were stripping down south, I was up her in the North attending business college, studying, I never took in that scene.”

“Don’t be offended but as beautiful as you are there is still a club career waiting for you. You’d make it rain till it pours”

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