“Pass It On”
PART TWO
‘Express service…shit! 14 hours of hell, that’s what it is!”
Denise Burcham hated buses. ‘No, that’s not quite right,’ she corrected herself. ‘I hate traveling, period! Cars, trains, planes…they’re all bad enough. But buses have to be the worst!’
However, expediency and funding had come together to force Denise to take the quickest form of transport she could afford. Had she boarded one of the regular, stops-in-every-other-city buses, she would’ve been 12 hours late for her sister’s elopement. As it was, she might just make it to the courthouse to stop what Denise knew would be a regrettable error on her sister’s part. Which was why she was on the all-night express bus to Dallas.
‘In the fucking shitter, no less,’ she cursed mentally. ‘Damn my weak bladder!’
Still, she had to admit it was a cleaner toilet than most she had encountered on buses in the past. It didn’t smell like chemicals, or old piss. It smelled…sweeter, somehow. It was almost enough to make the need to use the little closet bearable.
Almost.
As she stood up, she rammed her elbow into the side of the metal box that served as a sink, and again was reminded that people of her size were not necessarily the models used when such bathrooms were designed. ‘Thank God this bus is half-empty! I don’t know what I’d do if I had to sit beside somebody and try to squeeze into what the bus company thinks is a suitable seat!’
She stood for a moment, her pants around her ankles, caught between the momentary pain of her elbow and the constant rage she felt at being large. Nothing ever seemed to fit her; nothing ever seemed to be made just for her; no one ever seemed to look at her and think nice things. Their faces mostly reflected disgust, or pity. Looking into the metal rectangle that passed for a mirror, Denise whispered softly, “Fuck me.”
Still, there was something…distracting…about the smell floating around the bathroom. She took a piece of toilet paper from the roll next to the toilet and blotted her crotch absently, trying to identify what it was about the scent that so captured her imagination. Her mind was so wrapped up in the thought that she didn’t notice when the wad of toilet paper fell from her hand…or when she began rubbing her finger over the mound that hid her clit.
Lost in thought, she remained standing, gazing into her own reflection, her finger’s motion quickening as her own juices lessened the friction over her clit. Sliding back and forth…back and forth…mmmmmmmmmmm….
At that moment, the bus hit a pothole, throwing Denise back into the door of the small toilet.
“What the hell am I doing?’ she whispered angrily, pulling her hand away from her clit. “Fingering myself in a fucking toilet, for God’s sake! I must be out of my mind! Thank God the door didn’t pop open when I fell against it!”
She trembled at the mental picture of her, naked from the waist down, falling out into the aisle of the bus, her hand still buried in her pussy. She again pulled some toilet paper from the roll and blotted herself, then flushed it down the toilet.
Beside the sink stood a small bottle of what looked like anti-bacterial soap. As she squirted some into her hand, the scent she had been so keen on just a bit earlier hit her full in the face again.
‘Oh, it’s the soap that’s making that smell.’ She brought her hand closer to her face. ‘Damn, that’s some good stuff.’ She took another deep whiff, closing her eyes. ‘I wonder where I can get some of thisssss….’
Lost in the scent, Denise Burcham’s mind simply hung on that last word, the pearly liquid in her palm held mere inches from her nose.
Had she been able, she might have been more than a bit startled by what happened next.
The ‘soap’ in her hand began to move.
It slid slowly across her palm, until it rested just below her nostrils. Then, like a dog rearing on its haunches begging for a treat, it started to rise, shaping itself into tendril no larger in diameter than a drinking straw. It continued to rise, reaching the woman’s left nostril. Pushing itself deeper. Then, apparently stretched to its limit, the movement stopped, but only for a moment.
Finding purchase somewhere inside the nostril, the creature started pulling the rest of itself up, away from the hand in which it was resting. Slowly, like white mucous flowing in reverse, it packed itself into the nasal cavity. Then, probing, sliding, and shaping itself as needed, it burrowed through the soft tissue behind the nose and into the cranium, using its tail to seal its passage.
At which point, Denise Burcham had a massive orgasm. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, she slid down the wall into the floor, unconscious.
And, reclining in his seat with his eyes closed, Sidney Wickington smiled.
His hand no longer held the wrist of the entranced co-ed next to him, but instead rested on her denim-covered crotch. Pressing down in one spot.
A spot that was now sporting a dark-colored stain.
“WELCOME TO ALABAMA” read the newest sign the bus passed in the night.
Mr. Greene never took his eyes from the road.