End of the Line

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.