Manila traffic is hell, but sometimes hell hands you heaven on a silver platter.

I hopped on the EDSA Carousel at Ayala, already packed like sardines. That’s when I saw her: pure Makati corporate fantasy. Jet-black blazer cropped just above the waist, white silk camisole peeking underneath, and a black pencil skirt so tight and short it barely covered the lace tops of her stockings. Heels sharp enough to kill, hair in a sleek low bun, red lips, the whole “I close million-peso deals before breakfast” vibe. She grabbed the overhead rail right next to my seat, ass practically in my face every time the bus lurched.

I didn’t plan it. Swear to God. But the universe did.

Three stops in, the crowd shoved her even closer. Her hip brushed my shoulder. The skirt rode up half an inch with every sway of the bus, revealing the faintest shadow where thigh met heaven. My pulse was already racing, cock stirring just from the view. I shifted my bag to my lap (classic move), then let my left hand drift.

Knuckles first. Barely grazing the back of her thigh just below the hem. Warm. Silky. She didn’t move. Didn’t even glance down. So I went for it. Palm flat against that perfect round ass, squeezing lightly through the fabric. Firm, toned, the kind you dream about. She shifted her weight… and pushed back into my hand.

Green-fucking-light.

I started slow, tracing circles, feeling the heat through her skirt. Each rotation got bolder until I was full-on groping her, fingers digging into soft flesh. The bus was insane: people everywhere, some dude’s backpack in my face, a tita’s grocery bag smacking my knee, but down low? My own private show. I slipped my hand under the hem, skin on skin now, tracing the lace edge of her thong. Tiny. Barely there.

She widened her stance just enough. Invitation accepted.

I pulled the lace aside and fuck, she was soaked. My fingers slid along her slick lips like they were made for it. One slow stroke, then two. She bit her lip so hard I saw it in the window reflection. I circled her clit, light teasing flicks, then pushed one finger inside her, tight, scorching hot, clenching around me like she’d been waiting for it all day.

The bus jerked hard at Taft. Everyone swayed. I used the chaos to sink deeper, two fingers now, curling just right. Her hips rolled back in tiny, secret thrusts, fucking my hand while pretending to check her phone with the other. I could feel her getting close, thighs trembling, breath hitching.

Then the speaker crackled: “Next stop – MRT Taft.”

She straightened like nothing happened. Pulled away smooth as silk, tugged her skirt down, fixed her blazer. Turned just enough for me to catch her eyes, dark, glassy, pupils blown. That red mouth curved into the tiniest smirk. She licked her lips once, slow, deliberate, then glided to the door like a goddamn queen.

Crowd swallowed her. Doors closed. Gone.

I sat there dripping with her on my fingers, heart slamming against my ribs, cock aching so bad I almost came just from the memory. I don’t know who she is. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. But I swear on everything holy, next time I’ll drag her to the back of the bus and finish what we started.