After about ten days of Tet back home, the day finally came to head back to the city. My hometown isn’t too far from Saigon, but there’s no official bus station. So every trip home or back means hitching a ride from another stop.
I usually took PT buses—everyone knows the company. Back then, PT still had seated buses for shorter routes. I preferred seats over berths—no need to take off shoes, way less hassle. But I could only get seats going home; returning to Saigon meant catching a berth bus from the farther stop.
I always bought tickets last-minute, so I ended up with an upper berth at the very back. I’m easygoing—didn’t care much about position. It’s just a short lie-down before getting off, right?
Minh Quang stayed at my grandparents’ until the day I left—he even took me to the stop. As the bus pulled away, I looked back and saw him watching, a pang in my chest. But it’d pass soon. He’d go back to his old life, before we hooked up. Or better—meet someone right for him, less lonely.
Leaving rural thoughts behind with the rolling wheels, I checked my ticket and headed to the rear. My spot: last berth, window side, right. Those old PT buses had the five back berths in one long row—meaning I shared with four strangers. Lucky I was on the edge; only one neighbor to deal with.
Last-minute ticket meant boarding at 6 p.m. Sky dark before we’d gone far. I sighed, praying no traffic so I’d reach the dorm before 11 p.m. curfew. Plugged in earbuds, let music take me—dozed off without realizing.
Woke to the bus stopped at a rest area. I never eat at these places—just waited for others to return. Bored, I habitually opened app B (you know the one), turned on location, scanned for nearby “friends.”
At a rest stop? Of course there were hits. Dozens—10m, 20m, 50m away. Most profiles cute and open. One stood out: no face pics, mysterious vibe. Curiosity won—I tapped in. Still no face, just abs and impressive dick shots.
I smirked. A stud in this random stop?
He viewed my profile back, requested private pics.
Standard dance: he asks for mine, I ask for his. His privates: ripped six-pack, quality cock pics. I thought: Damn, premium goods here.
He messaged: “So hot! Exactly my type!”
I replied: “Flattery! But you’re hotter.”
He: “Heading home or back to Saigon?”
“Back to Saigon.”
Passengers trickled back, filling seats. I typed: “Bus leaving soon. Sucks—we could’ve met if we had more time.”
He: “Get off and meet me. Pretend you lost the bus, catch the next one.”
I laughed outwardly: “Don’t tempt me! All buses are packed these days!”
He relented, we said bye. Short chats like that eased the loneliness sometimes. Conversation over, but I kept scrolling his pics, daydreaming what meeting him would be like.
Bus rolled five minutes—my mind still there. Reloaded the app, hunting similar profiles. Reading one when the mystery guy messaged again.
His text jolted me: “Why’s the distance stuck at 10m?”
I: “App lag probably. My bus has been moving.”
He instant-replied: “Mine too.”
We both freaked, typing at once: “What’s your bus plate?”
I dug out my ticket—goosebumps, heart racing. Same number he sent: 51B-194.
I asked: “Which berth?”
He: “B4. Upper left side!”
I: “Look back right corner!”
Message sent—instantly, eyes from above angled 135 degrees toward me. I looked up—surprised. From build and style, about my age.
He messaged: “What are the odds!”
I grinned watching him crane awkwardly. He saw me smile—no masks mandatory yet. My dull night bus suddenly lit up. I replied: “Yeah, crazy.”
We’d been on the same bus the whole time—app only connected us at the stop. Fate, right?
Joy short-lived…
TRAFFIC JAM…
I muttered: “Fuck. Late arrival means a warning slip!”
Endless line ahead—no visible start. Big vehicles jammed tight; motorbikes pulled over waiting. Driver stepped out for a smoke. Worst jam I’d ever seen.
Passengers reacted differently—some slept, some scrolled phones. Me and the guy above? Stolen glances and shy smiles.
I messaged: “Stop staring—come down and play!”
He: “You’re even cuter in person. Way hotter than pics. Can’t stop looking.”
I: “Overdoing the compliments!”
Suddenly he hopped down, backpack and shoe bag in hand. Walked straight to me. I stared wide-eyed. He tapped the foot of the person next to me: “Miss, mind switching berths? My friend and I are on the same bus—didn’t realize till now. Let us lie together? Thank you so much!”
Next to me: a woman, 24–25. He was polite; she agreed instantly. But I suspected she preferred not sharing the row anyway—she looked relieved.
I helped him settle. Once done, he leaned close, whispered: “Told you—gorgeous in real life.”
Flattered and shy: “Classic trap boy lines. Who can resist?”
He: “Innocent! Never trapped anyone…”
I whispered: “What’s your name?”
“Phú. Yours?”
“Hưng. Phú as in rich? Got the ‘big’ kind?”
He smirked wickedly: “Probably!”
I: “Don’t need to answer—I know from those pics.”
Biggest surprise: Phú was handsome, stylish—yet no face pics on the app.
He: “All photoshopped. Wanna see the real deal?”
Me: “Hell yes. When we get the chance, compare pics vs. reality.”
He: “Chance? Right now—while it’s hot.”
Words barely out, he grabbed my left hand and placed it on his crotch. I jolted—didn’t expect that bold. He lay facing me; we shared blankets (two thin ones—people might see movement otherwise).
The three guys in our row snored dead asleep; no one cared. Goods delivered to hand—I had to explore, or betray my own desires.
Phú wore thin shorts with drawstring. Fabric light—I felt his cock clearly over shorts and briefs. Tucked upward, head already peeking over waistband. I loosened the string; waistband dropped a bit, head fully out.
I straightened my left leg, bent right against the window—for more space under the blankets without drawing eyes.
Driver returned; traffic eased. Lights dimmed to night mode, engine hummed. Down here, I gripped Phú’s “gearshift,” stroking steadily. Don’t know if lights were dim, but his eyes glazed with pleasure.
Phú bolder than expected. He shoved his shorts to knees, lifted shirt to chest, pinched his own nipple. I stroked his shaft, fondled trimmed pubes, cupped his tight balls. Engine noise masked his ragged breathing in my ear.
His left hand teased his nipple; right explored me. I wore zipped khakis for travel. He rubbed outside, whispered: “Not losing to any top, huh?” Then lifted my shirt, hand diving in. I sucked in to give space.
My cock pointed down—now hard, stayed tucked. He found the head, stroked upward. Then repositioned it pointing up.
Withdrew, unzipped me smoothly. Pulled zipper just enough—head poked out. Let go; zipper held it upright under blankets. Then he gripped and stroked.
He squeezed my shaft; I squeezed his. He sped up; I matched. He paused; I paused. Mirror game—two idiots grinning silly.
Secret jerking in a crowd? Terrifying and thrilling. Cocks stayed diamond-hard. Pleasure intense but silent. Near climax, Phú grabbed my hand to stop, biting lip, breathing slutty gasps.
We edged—build and stop—till entering city limits. Phú looked; I nodded. Time to finish.
He whispered: “Let’s cum! Held back a dozen times—can’t anymore. Who first?”
I smiled. He: “Where? On the bus?”
I shook head, patted his stomach. He got it—lay flat, bent left leg for space. Aimed cock toward navel, pulled shirt down over it. I stroked through fabric—less direct but more friction. After all that edging, minimal stimulation would trigger.
Few strokes—he gritted teeth, gasped. Bit lip, panted. His hand still on me—stroking, squeezing. Three more and he clamped my hand. Bus nearing station—I couldn’t let him hold longer. Kept going. He pressed head to mine, bit my earlobe, muffled moans in throat.
Five-six thick spurts soaked his shirt. Fishy scent filled our blanket cocoon. He quickly pulled shorts up, tucked semi-hard cock away, zipped jacket to trap smell.
My turn. Tucked back into khakis, angled sideways in briefs. Phú slipped hand in—over briefs—rubbing/stroking. I neared fast—closed eyes, bit lip against moans.
Few more rubs—I pulled his hand out. He resisted, kept inside. Felt under shaft as I pulsed—hot cum soaking briefs. He rubbed the head, smearing fresh load.
Done, he withdrew, sniffed fingers: “Not too strong—don’t drink or smoke much? Good boy.”
I grinned: “Guessed right.”
Bus lights brightened, turning into station. We waited till everyone disembarked—cum smell would’ve panicked people.
Climbing down, he: “Why cum in your briefs? Should’ve told me—mine reeks now!”
Me: “My pants thick—no leak. Yours thin—your flood would’ve soaked through. Whole Saigon would know you jerked on the bus… or worse, think you pissed yourself in sleep!”
He roared laughing, called me genius. Then he caught a city bus—lived nearby. I took the shuttle back to central Saigon.
Phú, Quang—like breezes passing through each other’s lives. Not forever, but in those moments, pure joy. Life’s just a string of memories—we’re glad to be happy ones in each other’s stories.