The Cheerleader Bus — Away Game Hookup
We won. The stadium was two hours behind us, the highway was dark, and the school bus was chaos — everyone screaming, singing, passing around Gatorade bottles. I was still in my cheer uniform, the short pleated skirt and tight crop top, my hair in the high ponytail I'd worn for the halftime routine. I was 19, a sophomore, and the adrenaline from the game hadn't worn off.
Jason Collins, the quarterback, slid into the seat next to me somewhere around the state line. He was 21, a senior, with arms that looked like they could throw me as easily as a football. We'd flirted at parties before, but nothing had ever happened.
"You were amazing tonight," he said, his voice low so only I could hear.
"You scored four touchdowns, and you're telling me I was amazing?" I laughed.
"I was watching you," he said, and his hand landed on my bare knee.
The bus was dark. Everyone around us was either passed out or loudly singing off-key. His hand slid up — slowly, deliberately — past the hem of my skirt. My breath caught. I should have stopped him. I didn't want to.
His fingers brushed the inside of my thigh, and I parted my legs just slightly. An invitation. He took it. His knuckle pressed against me through the thin spandex of my cheer shorts underneath the skirt, and I bit my lip hard to keep from making a sound.
"You're so wet already," he breathed into my ear. My cheeks flushed hot.
For the next forty minutes, he teased me mercilessly. His fingers traced patterns on my inner thighs. He'd press against my clit through the fabric and then pull away. By the time we were twenty minutes from campus, I was dripping, desperate, practically grinding against his hand.
"Come to the back," he whispered. "Last row. Nobody's there."
I should have said no. Instead, I followed him to the very back of the bus, past rows of oblivious teammates. The last bench seat was empty, tucked into the corner where the darkness was deepest. He sat and pulled me onto his lap, my back against his chest, facing forward. His arms wrapped around me.
His hands found my breasts under the crop top, squeezing, thumbs circling my nipples through my sports bra. I bit my knuckle to stay quiet. He pulled the bra down, and the cool bus air hit my bare nipples. His fingers pinched and rolled them until I was squirming.
"I want to taste you," he growled into my ear. "But there's no room. Next time."
Instead, his hand dove under my skirt, pushed my shorts aside, and finally — finally — touched my bare pussy. I almost cried out. One finger slid inside me easily, then two. His thumb found my clit and worked in slow circles while his fingers curled against my g-spot.
"Oh my god," I whispered, gripping his thighs. My hips bucked against his hand.
He finger-fucked me until I came, my body trembling, my moans swallowed by the bus noise. My pussy clenched around his fingers, and I saw stars.
But I wasn't done. I twisted around, knelt on the floor between his knees — there was just enough space — and pulled at his sweatpants. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip wet. I looked up at him through my lashes and took him in my mouth.
I'd given blowjobs before, but this felt different — risky, urgent, hot as hell. I worked him with my tongue, my lips, my hand, bobbing faster as his breathing went ragged. His hand tangled in my ponytail, guiding me, not too rough but insistent.
"Jess, I'm gonna—" He tried to pull me off.
I shook my head and sucked harder. He came with a strangled groan, hot and salty, and I swallowed every drop.
I climbed back into his lap, and he kissed me deep, tasting himself on my lips. We stayed like that until the bus pulled into the parking lot, sticky and satisfied, neither of us saying a word about what had just happened — but both of us knowing it would happen again.