Sex on the M40

It’s the summer term of my second year  at university. Late May perhaps, or early June. South-East England has been bathing in a long, hot spell of early summer sunshine, and my boyfriend and I have spent the weekend camping with friends, near Oxford.

On Sunday afternoon we have a long lazy pub lunch, five friends together in a country pub. Then we drive back to Oxford where the other three are studying. We drop off the camping kit and have a final few beers together, getting the most out of the weekend before studying resumes.

It’s nearly midnight when my boyfriend and I head to the bus stop to catch the coach back to London. Oxford Tube coaches run all night, even on a Sunday, though late at night they are 40 minutes or more apart, so we check the timetable and arrive at the stop just in time.

It’s just the two of us waiting, standing at the stop with our big camping bags. When the bus arrives we ask the driver if he wants them in the luggage lockers under the coach, but he says no, the coach is empty, we can stash them inside.

And it’s true, the coach is almost empty. Downstairs there are just two people in seats. We put our bags on the luggage racks then walk up to the top deck, where we are all alone. Every other seat is empty. We sit down on a double seat towards the back, as the bus pulls away onto the dark streets.

The Oxford Tube stops just a handful of times in Oxford, before starting its hour-long drive down the motorway to London. After picking us up, it stops just twice more. If anyone gets on, nobody comes upstairs, and we have the top desk to ourselves as we accelerate down the sliproad and onto the M40.

Motorway lights flash past. We join the other cars and buses, lorries and coaches, their lights white and red, orange and yellow sodium, moving together in a steady stream.

I’m relaxed on my seat, my book in my hand, nicely drunk, muscles tired from walking. I can feel the weekend of sun on my skin, maybe even a prickle of burn on my shoulders and chest. I’m always nagging the others to wear sunscreen, but rarely wear it myself. My brown skin seldom burns. If it has, I resolve not to tell my boyfriend!

The thought seems vaguely treacherous. We’ve got on so well, all weekend, close and comfortable together. I look at his profile beside me, reading his own book, and I shuffle closer, lifting my leg and hooking it over his. He moves his leg to make room, and I sit slightly sideways as he rests his hand on my knee. It’s comfortable, companionable. Close.

I read my book, and my boyfriend reads his, his hand resting on my bare knee. For once, I’m wearing a dress. It’s been too hot for t-shirts and jeans, and so for most of the weekend I’ve been in summery dresses. I’ve even shaved my legs! My dress on the coach is knee length. I remember exactly the one I was wearing, it has a pattern of tiny horses on it! Sitting as I was, with one leg hooked over his knee, had exposed a lot of my leg. And as we sat there, both reading our books, his hand started to stroke it.

He starts off slowly, idly, stroking my knee, and the lower part of my thigh. His hands are warm and soft. He spreads his fingers, using his fingertips, caressing the skin on the inside of my thigh now. I lift my eyes from my book, but he’s still reading. His novel in one hand, the other moving upwards very slightly, slowly, stroking as they go, but unmistakably moving up my thigh. I feel a flicker of interest from between my legs. A little flutter in my chest.

He takes his time. For the longest while I’m not sure if he’s being naughty, or just affectionate, as he strokes my skin with featherlight touches. He’ll move up my thighs and I’ll be sure he’s heading further up, but then back away for minutes at a time, stroking my knee, my calf, even down to my ankle.

I’m staring at my book but I’m not reading it, as he moves his hands back up my leg, and now I know he’s teasing me, his fingers moving up, all the way, under my skirt, brushing my inner thighs right against my underwear. I move my legs slightly further apart. Our eyes haven’t met, but we’re both complicit in this now.

For the longest time he just softly strokes my inner thighs. Teasing the sensitive skin with warm fingertips and gossamer strokes. When he finally touches me, it’s through my pants, stroking the material, running his finger over the cotton, over my lips, along the cleft between.

I’m definitely not reading now. Not even pretending. I’m fully turned on, heart pounding, my pussy pulsing with desire. I wonder if he can feel my wetness through the cotton yet. He presses a little harder, and I’m sure it must be seeping through onto his fingers. I squeeze my own breasts with my left hand, feeling my nipples hard through my thin bra and thin cotton dress. I’m breathing hard.

Finally he hooks up one side of my knickers, and slips his fingers underneath. I bite my lip, keeping quiet, digging my fingers into his thigh as he touches my clit.

He fingers me slowly, blissfully, and I close my eyes and lose myself in the sheer pleasure of his touch. I hear the sound of the coach, the tires on the road, the roar of the wind. I feel his thigh, warm under my hand. And as his fingers slide over my clit I think back to that morning, waking up in our tent, our lips meeting in a kiss. Zips being undone as we open the sleeping bags, nightclothes pushed down or up, skin against skin, hands stroking, groping, and finally his cock hard inside me as we fucked silently, knowing our friends were in their own tent just inches away.

Reliving our morning sex in my head, his fingers moving against me, I fumble for his other hand and grip it as I approach orgasm. Head back, eyes closed, I squeeze his hand hard as I come. Pulsing my fingers in time with the contractions, trying to be silent, any noise I do make lost in the roar of the road.

I open my eyes and look at him. He knows I’ve come, because his fingers are still, but the fucker is still reading his book! Or pretending to, because he looks over at me, one hand still in my knickers, and laughs softly as my breathing gradually settles down.

“Oh sorry, did I distract you from your book?” He asks.

“Oh yes, very clever,” I say half mumbling as I lean forward to kiss him.

I turn and hook my leg fully over his, so I’m facing him, sitting on his lap. There’s not much room, the rear of the seat in front is pressing against my back. I kneel up, pushing my body closer to his, my breasts at his eye level. 

He pulls my bra and dress down together in one quick movement. “James!” I say, sounding shocked. I look quickly up and down the coach. Kneeling on the seat, I’ve got a good view of all the other seats. They’re all empty.

I look down at him. Smiling up at me, cheeky and charming, he kisses my nipples, strokes my breasts with his hands, and I relax into the sensation of his warm lips, as I watch the cars outside the window.

I wonder what their drivers would think if they knew I was here, breasts exposed, pussy still soaked from my orgasm. Wonder if they suspect just meters from their steering wheel is a guy with an erection, bulging in his shorts.

Thinking about his erection, I reach down and touch it. Sure enough, there’s a hard bulge, straining against his fly. It seems only polite to do something about it, give it some freedom. And so I lean back a little and reach down, undoing his button and fumbling his shorts out of the way and pull it out between his flies.

I stroke his hard cock, sliding his foreskin over it using the tips of my fingers, and lean forward to kiss him.

He slides forwards in the seat, making more room for me to squat, and with his fingers he pulls my knickers to one side again. I lower myself onto him as he guides his cock with one hand and holds my knickers with the other, and I gasp as he slides into me. 

With my arms around his back, and his knees jammed either side of the seat in front, we fuck. It’s awkward and difficult to thrust or even do much more than rock, but it feels incredible. Having him hard inside me as we race along the road. His lips against my tits, his hand grasping my bum. The coach moves over bumps in the road, adding to our movement, and he braces his hands against the seat and manages a series of good upward thrusts into me as he cums, grunting with the effort or with the pleasure of his orgasm, or a combination of both.

We hold each other for a minute or two but it’s not particularly comfy, and we untangle ourselves and go back to our books, smiling at each other, as the dark motorway races past outside.