The coach on the bus

THE COACH ON THE BUS
By The Tall Man

It all began with what seemed like a harmless jerk off competition between the lads, a spontaneous lark to relieve (haha) the boredom on the journey home to Newcastle after this year’s 18 to 21 age group inter-counties athletics championship at Crystal Palace, London; it was June and pretty hot weather, for a change.

What we didn’t know immediately was that the athletics coach, Peter, had been left behind; nobody noticed, not even his wife Carol until we had been rolling for almost an hour. By then we were just onto the M1 motorway going north after our team bus had weaved its way across London through very difficult traffic congestion.

Carol had got a call on her mobile phone from Peter and as she talked, she began looking around her, as though she could hardly believe he wasn’t on the bus with us. We heard later from those sitting near Carol that Peter was hopping mad; but he finally told her not to have the driver worry about turning back at that late stage. He had been running around in ever decreasing circles (ageing 400 metres runner that he was), and had been fortunate enough to find another team bus in the car park of Crystal Palace which was also travelling roughly north but not to Newcastle; knowing at some point he would have to change modes of transport, he took the only available solution right then to being stranded a long way from home. He was mad, but thinking straight, so we were instructed to continue our trajectory. Poor Peter. Lucky us, as it turned out.

Carol looked vaguely upset and wide-eyed guilty at first – I suppose for not noticing that her husband of the last seven years was not visible. But shortly afterwards a distracted smile came back to her pretty face and she started to busy herself with her usual homeward bound, on-board club duties. This was a part we all loved. Everything about Carol, we loved.

All of us – or most of us who stayed awake, anyway – had been ogling Carol at every chance on the way down to the track and field meeting very early that morning. For the next couple of hours, Carol would be again the centre of male club athletes’ attraction, as she always had been for as long as I remember; on the track, in the clubhouse, coaching alongside the high jump fan or in the gym during workouts and weight training. Now she had started walking up and down the aisle of the bus, fetching and carrying goodies from ice boxes and handing out cereal bars and energy drinks, supposedly to reward us and restore our vigour after what had been a good county performance overall.

Carol was tall and lithe with slim but shapely and muscular legs, as you would expect from a former international high jumper. Those legs! The smoothest of tanned skin decorated her thighs below her bermuda shorts. At 30, her competitive career had sadly come to a close in the last two years. She still trained and coached, and her body was still in magnificent shape; I for one said it was a body to die for, and I was one of her willing apprentice jumpers. Unlike a lot of female athletes, she did not have a flat chest. Her breasts were full and firm, without a hint of sag, and swayed slightly with the rhythm of the bus as she walked the gauntlet of greedy young eyes.

I swear she was braless and I could see her nipples poking through her snug yellow club t-shirt as she approached us with the cereal bars and cool drinks. She had shoulders which were quite broad for a woman; her waist was trim and her hips were by no means the child-bearing kind, all this on a five feet nine inch frame. Her sporting style, short blond hair and blue-grey eyes enhanced her facial beauty, which compared well with that of the actress Charlize Theron. Well, almost. Whatever, any of us would settle for this beauty.

She of the complete athletic sexuality was now being ogled to a more or less secretive extent by at least ten horny, adrenalin driven young athletes fresh from the showers, and mostly with hardons fuelled by her luscious curves. I was one of them.

That’s how it started.

Dave the Shot, absolute winner in his event today by twenty centimetres, came up with the opener. “Kinell, I’ll need a wank soon. Just look at Carol, she’s given me a mother and father of a stiffy” he said quietly, almost, but not quite, to himself. Dave was not considered the most articulate of young men.

Those of us in line of sight looked down at his crotch. Dave was a big boy, well over six feet four at 19 years of age and a big, solid frame, as you would expect of a man who pushed big weights, ate like a horse and threw discus as well as the shot. The swelling showed. His big fist closed around the engorgement and he began to squeeze his cock slowly on the outside of his tracksuit pants. If I thought the first glance of his cock was impressive, within a minute I saw enough swollen meat bulging against his pants leg to fill two teenage girls’ hands. And he knew it. Dave was not shy.

There was a WC on board, in a tiny closet accessed via steps down to a lower galley. Jim the Miler (actually 1500 metres junior champion), a slim, long legged, good looking boy with jet black hair, grinned “Go on then, the toilets are down there. You might get to rub it up against Carol on the way.”

“Yeah, I’ll go next after you, be quick about it” said Roy the Javelin, only fifth in his event, a shorter but muscle bound power house of a boy who would surely progress through the ranks in his specialist event when he got his technique right. He was sitting on the other side of the aisle opposite to me. “Wouldn’t mind rubbing mine up against that lovely bum either, he said grinning lasciviously”

So it went on. Nobody went to the toilet. All talk.

There was only one competitor from each event on board; I was Bob the High Jump, almost 6 feet long and very slim but with powerful legs and very pleased to have got a second place today behind a winner who was two years older. I kept quiet, just thought about it and got harder and harder. I thought about doing more than rubbing my dick up against that desirable piece of tail, but I’m sure we all did; that’s how inexperienced adolescent fantasy goes.

We all thought about doing it, but never imagined it would happen. I was a virgin; all I had so far was wanking and fantasising how it might be. Before long, it seemed the whole men’s team on the bus had a raging erection of indescribable proportions, and the prospect of having to wait another three hours until we got home for release was not easy to contemplate. But it was either that or going down to the WC one after the other.

I can’t remember who got his cock out first; I think it was Steve the Hurdler, a powerful sprinter who had finished third in the 110 metres highs. I do remember however, that Dave the Shot‘s sprang into view immediately afterwards; he had no inhibitions about his cock. We should have named him Dave Horse’s Cock from that moment of revelation.

We had all seen dicks in the communal showers, of course, but never taken much notice; I didn’t recall seeing any of them stiff before, so I guess all of them were revelations. Homo or not, there was no contest, no question – when all the team’s cocks were out (at least the cocks attached to those who were not too timid), Dave’s was the stunner – the rest were, well, just big, stiff and angry. And begging for some sort of attention, any attention.

The three lads on the back seat were first to wave their hard as iron organs before us, like two pale gherkins and a red cucumber with veins, maybe thinking themselves safely shielded pretty well from uninterested people on board – for there were some non-participating athletes who had come along as supporters plus a few parents and friends. Still, they were mostly up at the front end of the half empty coach, and we stud athletes were near the back. Plenty of empty seats in between.

I was fairly quick to join in. And why not? We either got away with it or we ALL got rumbled. Safety in numbers, perhaps.

The two out-in-the-open cocks on the second to back row, were turned sideways, so that the masturbation group could be sure everybody got a good view. Roy the Javelin, opposite to me was kneeling up on his seat, his proud stiffy out and his jeans down below his bum. Although not afraid to be seen – as I realised quickly that my cock was of pretty good dimensions alongside theirs (Dave apart), I pumped mine more discreetly. A couple of lads who, finally, were too shy to let theirs out into the fresh air stood up in the aisle; they wanted to see of what was going on (gay or what, I thought.) Problem was we couldn’t any longer get a proper look at Carol to fuel our pleasure, because they partially blocked the view both ways. What to do? We hissed at them to clear our line of vision.

I leaned over to see Carol standing up less than halfway along the length of the coach, sideways on and talking to one of the parents, smiling, the outline of her t-shirt encased breasts tantalising us and enraging our hormones, even speeding up our ejaculation ETA. Even her teeth were perfect and I saw a flash of her pink tongue as she laughed. The stuff that wet dreams are made of. Or surreptitious wanks.

We now had five proud erections on display; five fists of various dimensions clasped around five rigid, uncontrollable cocks, at various paces and rhythms on the unstoppable road to five major ejaculations. Dave Horse’s Cock, full of lust and bravado told the two curious spectators again to get out of the way; he wanted to dedicate his sperm to Carol, even if she didn’t know she was going to get it. We all craned for a look at Carol’s swaying breasts, and occasionally her tight bum, and we stroked.

It was Jim the Miler who suggested the competition, an adept it seemed at the ancient art of masturbation. I can’t remember whether it was meant to see who could come first, or who could hold it the longest. We must have made a little too much noise with our enthusiasm for the contest, because Carol turned around and started to walk with apparent nonchalance towards the back of the coach. On her way along, she glanced out of the windows and smiled at one or two passengers.

Curiosity about the subdued cheering at the back, to bring us more cereal bars and energy drinks or whatever her reason for walking towards the back of the bus, we never found out. But it was simply impossible that Carol would not see what was going on.

No-one had spurted yet. I feared our contest was at an end.

The smile we had seen on Carol’s face a moment ago faded away rapidly. Carol stopped after walking unsteadily a few paces, roughly halfway towards where we were sitting, dropped a few bars and drinks on an empty seat and stood there looking, her breasts still swaying with the bumps of the bus. She said nothing, just looked, her eyes darting from one face to another, then down to the one or two cocks that were plainly visible, one to another.

Fists stopped pumping, except one. Roy the Javelin, opposite me, still kneeling when Carol saw us, plopped down onto his seat, trying unsuccessfully to pull up his jeans and stuff his hard appendage back into his zipper, but he showed himself to be totally inept at doing that rapidly whilst seated. We all felt his embarrassment. I was shielded from Carol’s view by the seat in front. Some on the back seat were in plain sight, and it was those that Carol saw first and fixed her eyes on. Only Dave Horse’s Cock, still unafraid, unashamedly carried on stroking his erection, deliberately and very slowly now, and looking directly into the eyes of his and everybody’s jerk-off fantasy. He had a lascivious half smile on his face, and the tip of his tongue showed between his lips. He moved his fist lower on his cock, as if to expressly reveal the notable size of the angry red head of his circumcised lust. It seemed that Carol looked at it for an eternity, motionless in the bus aisle, hips and breasts swaying slightly. Her face gave little away.

We must have all been thinking the same thing, each of us; we had been rumbled. We waited, some of the lads looked down, began to fumble with their clothing to find the most discreet way of putting their shame back into its rightful place. I did the same, still just out of Carol’s range of direct vision.

Then after what seemed like several minutes, but which must have added up to less than one, Carol did nothing that any single one of us expected that day, there in that coach on the northbound carriageway of the M1 motorway. Later, we would talk about it for several years, mostly at shower time. Carol looked back over her shoulder for an instant and advanced, in a way that seemed perfectly normal – as though she had cereal bars for us, or energy drinks even though her hands were now empty. No-one else at the front of the bus was looking our way. As she went past my seat towards the back of the bus, she glanced left at me; first into my eyes, then down at my shrinking cock. I thought I detected a tiny smile – the kind she had given me before on occasions when I had got my high jump technique wrong, made a balls-up of a takeoff and collided with the bar – but I may have been imagining that. She then looked to her right, at Roy the Javelin, by now deflated and no erection to be seen, jeans badly arranged.

Carol just paused and looked expressionless into his face before moving on to face the back seat, where the brazen shot putter was watching every tremble of her breasts and holding his cock so that it stood up long, thick and bulbous against his belly, reaching almost to his throat it seemed, his t-shirt now pulled up for effect, to reveal his hard, muscular and very hairy belly. I cringed inwardly.

When Carol finally stood in front of Dave, she explored briefly around the backs of the second row seats and looked at the other lads, Steve and Jim who by now had similarly half erect but wilting cocks; hardly impressive, I thought to myself with an embarrassed smile, since mine too was a poor example of an erection by now. Only Dave was still hard, and I for one wondered how on earth he could keep it up at such a discomfiting moment. Pure lust, I guessed.

Having taken in the whole scene by now, Carol looked back at Dave, straight into his eyes, then back to his fist around his cock. She said nothing. She put her index finger to her lips and made a long nasal noise ssssshhhhhhhhh. She made some sort of hand gesture towards Jim the Miler (actually 1500 metres) who shrank back towards the window of the coach, leaving room for her to sit down half sideways beside Dave, whose horse’s cock throbbed like I had never seen my own throb; the veins bulged obscenely. I envied for a second his hugeness. I envied also what came next.

Not a word was spoken.

Roy the Javelin and I were now up kneeling on our seats for viewing advantage. We saw Carol take hold of Dave’s fist with the tips of the fingers of her left hand, like she would hold a dirty dish cloth; she pulled his hand away from his own cock, and then replaced it with her own right hand. We all saw her long, tanned, well manicured, delicate woman’s fingers skim along the length of Dave’s throbbing entity then clamp them around that monstrosity of a penis, tighten her fist and squeeze hard.

We could see the whites of her fingers, and Dave winced – with pleasure or pain, I didn’t know. It took about a minute to bring Dave to climax. A few very slow strokes, then about ten rapid pumps and suddenly Dave was spurting all over his bare belly, his t-shirt higher up, his open tracksuit pants and Carol’s hand. There was a phenomenal quantity of youthful, slippery white stuff, and I thought afterwards, at least she had the foresight to direct his dense seminal dedication to her upwards and backwards instead of outwards, thus sparing herself a messy club t-shirt.

Dave’s head went back, he gasped and shook. His hips rose up. Big, tough Dave was reduced to a blubbering mass by the intensity of his ejaculation, which seemed to go on and on. Carol didn’t let go; all the time watching her handy work, she continued to pump and squeeze the head of Dave’s penis until the white stuff stopped coming and Dave sank back onto his backside.

The next was funny, in retrospect. Carol’s mouth twisted in what might have been taken for distaste, then she wiped the thick gooey mess off her hand onto Dave’s t-shirt, which had fallen down now onto his belly. He was soaked, and, maybe unable to decide what to do next, he didn’t look at Carol; he kept his eyes down.

Dave’s bodily quaking started to calm down, and, motivated by shame or simply in a rush to clean up and recover, we didn’t know, he got up and made a beeline for the toilets, pulling up his jogging pants as he rose, he leapt down the galley steps and went into the closet. He didn’t come out for quite a while.

Meanwhile, Carol turned towards Jim the Miler, previously hugging the coach window and now leaning forward, having had the best view of all of us of the gift just bestowed upon lucky Dave by our lovely high jump coach. Amazingly, Jim’s cock was now beginning to appear again and poking though his hastily half fastened jeans. Carol beckoned him over; that’s what it was, a wordless beckon – with one finger, all the time looking into his eyes with that half smile I had detected before. Jim slid across the seat and Carol reached for the head of his swelling cock. She didn’t need to hold all of it, just the most sensitive part.

I didn’t believe this, and I am sure the others didn’t imagine she would start on another cock, but here it was, happening before our very eyes. Jim was there, Carol’s hand was fisting his cock end hidden in her palm and Jim was beginning to groan already. Carol changed hands; her left replaced her right and took Jim’s cock in what seemed to be the gentlest grip imaginable. She half turned toward Steve the Hurdler, sitting the other side of where Dave had been and gave him the same delicious, one finger come hither. No hesitation on Steve’s part, he was fishing his cock out in double quick time and it was hard even faster than we onlookers might have expected.

No words were necessary; we all watched and waited to see if our turn would come.

Carol proceeded now to do two hand jobs at the same time. It was so skilful I could not remember whether she was right handed, left handed or ambidextrous. It didn’t matter to Jim or Steve. It took a couple of minutes to get them both fully hard and ready to shoot. Carol’s fingers must have felt so soft, I thought, and just watching them move on both cocks made me as erect as I had been before, probably harder than ever in my life before. I wanted to call out ‘what about me, Carol’ but it wasn’t the moment. I looked over at Roy, who was already rubbing his erection again, this time on the outside of his jeans.

Once again, Carol seemed to know exactly when to redirect the jet of youthful sperm as it rocketed out of her young victims’ cocks. Her hands got some, but Steve’s and Jim’s clothing got the most. I am surprised, looking back, that the passengers towards the front of the bus did not turn round to see what the grunts and hisses of unrestrained pleasure were all about. Maybe the noise of the bus engine was enough to hide the sounds of lust. But we were getting away with it.

I didn’t have to call out ‘what about me, Carol’ now. That wonderfully erotic one finger come-and-get-it gesture was not long in coming. Nor were Roy and I. We both had our cocks in hand by now, as we both stood down off our seats and hurried forward – perhaps a little too eagerly, bumping hips on the way. Side by side, our jeans down to mid thigh, we stood before Carol seated there on the back seat facing the aisle, and allowed her astonishing, undreamed of ministration of our cocks. Two more hand jobs at once were under way, before an already satisfied and drained audience. What consummate skill, I thought later; but right then I was simply in paradise and wanted this, my first jerk off by a someone of the opposite sex, the first time a female had ever even touched my cock, let alone wank it, to last forever.

I wanted to reach down at this vision of beauty seated before me and touch, just once, those firm looking breasts thrusting from her yellow t-shirt; but I lacked the courage anyway, so fixed my gaze on them trembling under her t-shirt as she moved her arms in rhythm. Carol saw totally focused on what she was doing to Roy and me during this moment to remember forever. I tried, oh how I tried to hold back, but Carol knew what she was about; she had done this before (lucky husband!), and knew exactly how to take us to paradise quickly.

Jim came first, almost shouting his climax and spurting, like the others over his own clothing, mostly his jeans. I lost the little control I was trying to achieve and got there seconds later, celebrating my climax but stifling my wish to scream Carol’s name and ‘I love you’ to the world.

I don’t believe in the rest of my life since, that I have ever produced as much thick, white viscous liquid from my balls as I did at that moment, nor that I have ever felt such outrageous pleasure. As we both stood there trembling, knees shaking, breathing heavily, Carol continued to squeeze the heads of my cock and Jim’s cock firmly until she seemed satisfied there was no more to squeeze out. We were not spared the routine of hand wiping on our clothing, but every single one of us would forgive Carol such a final cleansing act.

Carol looked up at both of us with a half smile and eyes twinkling. She didn’t have to push us away nor make any more hand gestures. Jim and I hurriedly pulled up our pants and made a gap for Carol, who by this time was on her feet.

This was probably the best way to end it all, now that the release was all over. Once more she put her index finger to her lips and made that delicious, sexy, adorable, nasal noise ssssshhhhhhhhh, whilst looking at all five of us in turn. She seemed pleased with herself, a gorgeous smile on her face, teeth sparkling white, lighting up her tanned face. Then she slid her fingers under her nostrils, as though sniffing the residue of her handiwork, and simply began to walk gracefully down the aisle of the coach. I felt she swayed those gorgeous slim hips in an exaggerated way as she moved. We all watched and desired it to happen again one day. It never did.

As Carol got to the point where the steps lead down to the galley, Dave’s head popped up. He looked down, as though afraid to meet Carol’s eyes; he didn’t know what had happened during his absence. He would find out later. Carol stepped aside to let Dave pass, then smiled back at us, waving a hand in an oh so playful way, turned and went down the steps to the galley toilets.

The lives of five young athletes would never be the same again.

---