English Sleeper bus 1

Okay, so this happened in 2022, and I’m still kinda shook. I was on this sleeper bus from Pune to Bangalore, one of those AC ones with the cozy double berths, you know? I’d booked a single upper berth cos I just wanted to chill, listen to some Badshah, and sleep. But, like, life’s got a way of messing with your plans, right? This sweet aunty comes up to me before we leave, says her leg’s acting up, can’t climb, and asks if I can swap with her son for the top double berth. Her son’s standing there—dude’s my age, tall as hell, total Punjabi munda vibes. One look at him, and I’m like, damn, he’s fine, but his mom’s right there, so I’m thinking, nah, nothing’s gonna happen.I say cool, no problem, and climb up to the double berth. He follows, all grateful, like, “Bro, you’re a star, mummy ji’s leg was killing her, thank you yaar!” His voice is deep, super hot, and I’m just like, “Arre, it’s all good, this berth’s pretty comfy.” We start chatting—random stuff, like Bangalore’s crazy traffic, Pune’s monsoon chai scenes, and what’s hot on Zomato. He’s a Bangalore boy, but not Kannada—proper Punjabi, roots in Chandigarh. I’m sneaking looks at him, and man, he’s built like a gym bro but natural—broad chest, thick beard, hairy in all the right places, and taller than me. I’m trying not to stare, but it’s tough, okay?Bus stops at some dhaba for dinner, and we grab spicy masala dosas, the sambar smell making my mouth water. Back in our berth, the curtains are drawn, and it’s all dim and cozy with the AC humming. Outta nowhere, he’s like, “I’m changing, yaar.” Bro, he strips down to his briefs, no shame, and I’m just sitting there, eyes stuck on his abs and that hairy trail going… you know. He catches me staring, flashes this naughty grin, and slips into a sando and shorts. “Kya dekh raha, bhai?” he teases, all flirty. I’m blushing like I’m in a Karan Johar movie, mumbling some nonsense, and grin back.He points at my jeans, like, “Oye, you sleeping in those? Change na, get comfy.” I’m like, “Uh, didn’t pack anything else, I’m fine.” Truth is, I’m mad shy. He’s all, “Arre, kon dekhega? Just chill in your boxers, koi nahi bolega.” I laugh, like, “Nahi yaar, too shy for that.” He shrugs, but his eyes are doing this thing, like he’s undressing me with them, and I’m getting all tingly.It’s late now, bus is cruising, and the berth feels… small, you know? I’m lying next to him, his warmth hitting me even with the AC. My hand’s near his thigh, and suddenly, his fingers brush mine. I freeze, like, was that a mistake? Then he does it again, slow, sliding his hand from my palm to my shoulder. My heart’s going dhak-dhak like I’m in a Salman Khan flick. His hand moves to my chest, grabs my chubby man-boob, and he lets out this low “Mmm.” I’m nervous but also, like, hell yeah, this is happening.I whisper, “Bro, yeh safe nahi hai,” cos the curtains aren’t that thick, right? He just smirks, all Punjabi swagger, “Chill, koi nahi dekhega.” His hand’s back on my chest, squeezing, and he’s like, “Yeh toh bada mast hai.” I’m blushing so hard I could light up the bus. I get bold, pull off my shirt, and he’s on me, kissing my chest, sucking like he’s starving. His beard’s scratching my skin, driving me wild. Then, he slides his hand down, sneaky-like, and before I know it, his fingers are teasing my ass, slipping in slow and firm. I gasp, like, whoa, this is intense, but it feels so damn good, his touch all warm and confident, making my whole body buzz.I’m curious now, so I reach down, and oh my god, he’s… big, thick, super hairy down there. He pulls it out, lets me play, and I’m just like, damn. We’re all tangled up, his sando’s off, and his hairy chest is like a jungle I wanna live in. We start smooching, all spicy and messy, tasting like dhaba dosa and desire. I can’t stop myself, go down on him, and it’s so clean, no weird smells, just him. He’s moaning soft, grabbing my hair, and he’s playing with me too, his fingers still working their magic, making me feel things I didn’t know I could.Morning’s creeping in, bus is slowing down near Bangalore. We stop, panting, just staring at each other, like, what the hell just happened? He leans in, whispers in my ear, “Yeh toh bas shuru hua, bhai. Mera flat Bangalore mein hai, aa na, I’ll show you a proper Punjabi dhamaka.” He slips me a crumpled note—his number, scribbled messy, with a “Call me, sexy” and a wink.I step off the bus, the Bangalore sun hitting my face, his scent still on me. That note’s burning a hole in my pocket. This city’s not just a stop now—it’s where I’m gonna hit up this munda and see what kinda fire he’s got waiting. I’m already dreaming of late-night fun, sneaky makeouts in his car, and maybe more in his flat, curtains drawn, just us. Who knew a sleeper bus could turn into this kinda wild ride?