I dropped off my last load of kids at the local high school, my three morning school bus routes complete. Spring was in the air in Boise and I had an itch to enjoy some of the mountain sunshine before my noon routes.
I own a restaurant in town, but since my place is only open for dinner, my days are free. To pick up some extra cash, I put my commercial drivers license to work and found a job with the school district, driving a bus. I enjoyed the kids, and the pervert in me really gets off on the hot teenage coeds, especially with the lackadaisical dress codes public schools enforce today. As winter gave way to spring, belly shirts, low-rise jeans, and mini-skirts made a boner-inducing comeback. I don't know how these kids' parents let them out of the house dressed, or should I say 'undressed', like they are, but I'm not complaining; plenty of fucking eye-candy to keep my thirty-seven year old dirty mind spinning.
To save on transportation costs, Boise schools vary their hours; elementary schools start at 7:15am, middle schools at 8:00am and high schools at 8:45am. After dropping my high school kids, I had a couple of hours to kill before picking up the half-day kindergarten kids for their ride home.
I often use these free morning hours to pick-up restaurant supplies, my big yellow bus serving admirably as a delivery truck. The school district wouldn't like my entrepreneurial spirit, but what they don't know won't hurt them.
Today, I had different plans. A little country road out past the high school leads into the foothills, winding along a pretty gurgling stream full of rainbow trout. One of my high school kids, Trisha (more on her later), knew I was a fishing junkie and had recommended this little secluded spot for the trout season opener. I had a backpack full of fishing gear, a couple of joints, a six-pack of beer, a bag of chips, and some of my favorite reading materials. I wouldn't dare risk the tires or suspension on my Camaro on this little washboard dirt road, but I knew the old school bus could handle it.
I drove for several miles, slowly gaining elevation, the combination of the mountain air and my first lid quickly having the desired relaxation effect. As I searched for a secluded turn-off, my mind wandered back to the bevy of young, spoiled beauties I had shuttled this morning.
Lucky for me, my route included one of the most exclusive sub-divisions in town. Eastside High was the cream of the pubic school crop in Idaho. The football team was a perennial powerhouse and the well to do of Boise lived in Eastside Heights, endowing the school and the athletic department with deep pockets and an even deeper gene pool. My kids were the best and most beautiful Boise had to offer.
As the cold of winter subsided, the kids had converged on the malls, their substantial allowances burning holes in their pockets, scooping up the latest in spring fashions. This morning, I had caught myself several times, jaw dropped, mouth wide open, ogling at the skimpy outfits these girls professed to wear as school clothes.
"You trying to catch flies, Mr. Hopper?"
"A picture lasts longer, Ted."
"Is that a roll of quarters in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me, Mr. Hopper?"
The kids were relentless. The hot girls were wicked teases, knowing damn well the emotions they stirred in the red-blooded American male and loving every second of it. There was nothing malicious in their teasing, they just enjoyed flaunting their good looks and loved the resulting attention.
As I revisited the mental checklist of teenage talent that had paraded through the bus door this morning, rubbing the growing bulge in my jeans, I kept returning to Trisha; Trisha Simpson. Trisha was a senior and a star on both the swim and volleyball teams. As a junior, she was a cheerleader, but she quit the cheerleading squad to concentrate on her academics in her senior year, becoming a photographer for the senior yearbook.
The Simpson family did not exactly fit the Eastside High demographic. They lived on the outskirts of town on a working ranch. The Simpson boys were heroes in Boise; football and basketball stars that had lead Eastside to several state championships over the years. The Simpsons were simple folks; the kids all remarkably shy, especially given their athletic prowess.
Trisha was no different than her family. She tried to fit in with the other popular kids, wearing the same fashions and dating some of the A-list boys, but she was a down-home country kid at heart. While most Eastside kids went for the all-American beauty pageant style, Trisha had her own look.
She was a knockout, with medium-length dark hair and big, full, pouty lips. Her skin was fair and a light sprinkle of freckles dotted her face. Her eyes were bright and piercing and she had the cutest little pug nose. When she smiled, a billion perfect white teeth filled her large mouth, a shining tongue stud one of her few outward signs of rebellion.
I nicknamed several of the regular bus kids. Trisha was Vick V because of her striking resemblance to Fairuza Balk, Vicki Vallencourt from Adam Sandler's movie the Waterboy. She liked her nickname and was always quoting lines from the movie to make me laugh.
Her body is incredible. I often drive the swim team to meets and have seen Trisha in all her swimsuit glory. She is about 5'7" without an ounce of fat on her. Her legs stretch for miles, only stopping in the most perfect little bubble butt. Her supply of belly shirts bear witness to her ripped abs, toned from endless laps and repeated spike drills on the volleyball court.
But her tits; oh my God, her tits. Most athletes are fairly flat chested, but Trisha was the exception to that rule. Her broad swimmer's back gave her body an incredible v-shape and made her perfectly proportioned round globes appear to float above her rock solid tummy. No shirt or bra could adequately conceal the perfection of her boobs. On chilly fall mornings, her nipples tented the thin cotton of her form-fitting sweaters. The shoulder straps on her book bag further stretched the already stressed material of her blouses, her erect posture proudly displaying a world-class rack. I could only imagine how perfect her bare tits were and trust me, I imagined those tits every chance I got.
Yea, you could say I was infatuated with Trisha; me and every other straight male in Boise. Unlike many of the girls, she derived no pleasure from shameless cockteasing. But somehow, her innocent 'aw shucks' attitude did more to stir my loin than any of the other rich-bitch cockteasing sluts.
These are the perverted thoughts that some good Maui Waui, a cold beer, and a stunning Spring morning could unleash on my twisted mind. Pulling alongside Cripple Creek, I cut the engine and popped a second beer, turning up the volume on the stereo. Fishing into my backpack, I pulled out my favorite intellectual periodical; Cheri magazine.
Kicking back in the driver's seat, my feet up on the dashboard, I unzipped my fly and dug out my favorite toy, old Mr. Johnson. As usual, thoughts of Trisha's nubile young body had my cock rapidly inflating to full attention.
Today she had been wearing a pair of denim cut-offs, so short they barely covered her cute round ass cheeks. Her long legs were perched on top of a pair of black fuck-me heels. She wore a tiny half t-shirt that just stretched below her ample jugs, her belly exposed revealing a shiny silver tummy-ring. The t-shirt was ripped from her neck down to reveal her sexy cleavage, unencumbered by a bra. Modestly, she wore her boyfriend's extra-large football letter sweater draped over her frame to partially conceal her magnificent body.
Thumbing through the porn magazine and slowing stroking my rock hard cock, I was oblivious to my surroundings. It had been several months since I broke up with my long-time girlfriend and I had been tentative to leap back into the dating pool. Lucky for me my active fantasy life and my infatuation with my own dick were keeping me well in practice.
I love jerking off. While my hand can't replace a wet mouth or a warm pussy, it was more than adequate for the current job. And my hand doesn't beg for attention, run-up my credit card debt, or get a headache.
I am a decent looking guy. I played semi-pro baseball and still work out regularly. I have a full head of hair, a flat stomach, and a pleasant smile. The kids all like me, cause I never really grew-up, so I relate to them on a level their parents have long outgrown. Over the years, several of the high school girls have come on to me, but I'm not stupid; jail is not in my future. I flirt back sometimes, but that's as far as it goes.
As I was saying, I love beating my meat. My dick is well above average, nearly 8 inches long, thickly veined and straight as an arrow. I've seen bigger guys in pornos and in the gym locker room, but I've never had a woman complain. I love the way it pulses in my hand, a never ending trickle of pre-cum keeping me well lubed and ready to rock.
I am a bit of a voyeur and enjoy sex in public places. Unfortunately, my past sex partners have not always shared this kinky perversion. To satisfy my public obsession, I have reverted to jerking off in dangerous places; the dressing room at the GAP, leaving a special surprise on the dressing mirror; under the table at the local IHOP; public restrooms; on wilderness trails; and most recently on my big yellow bus.
I unbutton my shirt and play with my nipples and chest as I continue to jerk my tool, the porn magazine open to a gangbang spread on my lap. Laying my head back, I close my eyes and imagine the parade of high school girls filing onto the bus, each watching with awe and lust as I stroke my manly dick, AC/DC blaring from the bus's stereo.
"What are you doing, Mr. Hopper?"
My eyes popped wide open, my hand freezing in mid-stroke. Her eyes darting between my face and my crotch, Trisha Simpson is standing in the aisle, her hands on her hips and a look of shock and surprise on her face.
"Vicki V...I mean Trisha, what, err, I.....what are you doing out here?" I stuttered, trying to hide my raging boner beneath the open magazine.
"I might ask you the same thing, Mr. Hopper," Trisha teased.
