The Greyhound
by Sandra Alek
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Erotica Sex Story: Erotic coming-of-age / hardcore college corruption tale Sweet, sheltered 19-year-old farm girl Lila leaves her hay-scented hometown for the very first time, wearing nothing but a too-short sunflower sundress and zero underwear beneath it.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Teenagers Consensual BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Gang Bang Anal Sex Double Penetration First Oral Sex AI Generated .
Lila had never been more than twenty miles from the farm in her whole nineteen years. The morning she left, the air still smelled like cut hay and warm cow, and her daddy pressed a crumpled hundred-dollar bill into her hand like it was made of gold. Mama cried. The hired men just stared at her legs in the little sunflower sundress she’d sewn herself (the one that stopped halfway down her thighs and buttoned all the way up the front). No bra, no panties; those felt like city nonsense she hadn’t earned yet.
Now the Greyhound hissed and lurched out of the county seat, and Lila pressed her forehead to the cool window, watching cornfields blur into interstate. The seat under her was cracked vinyl that stuck to her bare thighs every time she shifted. She liked the feeling. Liked it too much. Every bump sent a jolt straight between her legs, and she’d been damp since the county line.
She didn’t notice the man in the seat beside her until his arm brushed hers.
“First time leaving home, sweetheart?”
The voice was low, amused. Lila turned and forgot how to breathe.
Marcus filled the seat like he’d been poured into it: six-three at least, dark skin, neat dreads pulled back, a faded Morehouse hoodie stretched across shoulders wide enough to block the sun. Gold canine glinted when he smiled. He smelled like cedar and something sharper (city smell, she thought, and her nipples tightened against the thin cotton of her dress).
“Y-yes, sir,” she managed. “Going to State. Got a full scholarship for agriculture.” She blushed the second the words left her mouth. Agriculture. Like she was still planning to milk cows instead of ... well, whatever city girls did.
Marcus’s eyes traveled down slow, taking in the way the dress clung to her breasts, the freckles across her chest, the hem riding higher every time the bus swayed. “Agriculture,” he repeated, grin widening. “That’s real cute.”
The next hour was torture in the sweetest way. The highway was old; every pothole rocked the seat, and the vibration hummed straight up into her pussy like a promise. Lila squeezed her thighs together and tried to count telephone poles, but the numbers melted. By the time the sun sat low and orange over the dashboard, she was openly squirming, breath hitching every time the bus hit a seam in the concrete.
Marcus never looked away. After a while his big hand settled on her bare knee (casual, like it belonged there). Lila froze. He didn’t move, just let the heat of his palm sink into her skin while the miles rolled by. Then the bus lurched hard, and his hand slid an inch higher.
She should have said stop. She didn’t.
Another mile. Another inch. When his fingertips brushed the soft skin where thigh meets hip, Lila let out the tiniest whimper.
Marcus leaned in, lips almost touching her ear. “You wet, farm girl?”
She couldn’t lie. She nodded, braid flicking against her shoulder.
He made a low sound, half laugh, half growl, and slipped two fingers under the hem of her dress. No teasing, no permission (just pushed the fabric aside and found her slick bare lips like he’d done it a thousand times). One thick finger traced her seam, collected the shine there, then slid inside her so easy she gasped out loud.
“Shh.” His thumb settled on her clit, slow circles. “Folks are sleeping.”
Lila bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood. The bus headlights swept over trees and guardrails while Marcus finger-fucked her in perfect silence, knuckles curling just right, thumb never stopping. She came with her face mashed against the window, thighs shaking, a silent scream fogging the glass. Her pussy fluttered around his fingers like it was trying to keep him forever.
When she floated back down, Marcus pulled his hand free, brought those two glistening fingers to his mouth, and licked them clean while watching her eyes.
“Sweet,” he said. “Like fresh cream.”
The bus brakes hissed. Port Authority, 9:47 p.m. Lights flickered on. People stirred, grabbing bags.
Marcus stood, all that height unfolding, and offered her his hand. “C’mon, country. Night’s young.”
Lila took it without thinking. Her legs felt like warm jelly.
He led her down the steps, across the grimy terminal, past rows of plastic chairs and sleeping homeless men, straight to the very last restroom (the one with the OUT OF ORDER sign nobody bothered to obey). He pushed the door open with his shoulder, tugged her inside, and locked it behind them.
The place stank of piss and bleach, fluorescent bulb buzzing overhead. One cracked mirror, one dripping sink, graffiti carved into the stall doors. Marcus turned her to face the mirror, hands already on the buttons of her dress.
“Look at yourself,” he ordered.
Lila stared. Cheeks flushed red, braid messy, lips bitten. Dress half unbuttoned, small breasts heaving, nipples hard enough to cut glass. Between her thighs, a shine of wetness trailed down one leg.
Marcus pressed against her back (jeans undone, cock out, thick and dark and already leaking). He was huge. Bigger than the stallions back home, and she’d spent plenty of afternoons sneaking looks when no one was around.
“Hands on the sink,” he said. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
She obeyed. He flipped the sundress up over her hips, kicked her boots apart. One second to line up, one second of burning stretch, and then he slid home in a single slow thrust that punched the air from her lungs.
Lila watched it happen in the mirror (watched her own mouth fall open, watched her eyes go wide and glassy as he filled her for the first time). He gave her maybe five seconds to adjust, then started fucking her like he owned her. Hard, deep strokes that slapped wet against her ass, his hands bruising her hips, her little breasts bouncing with every thrust.
“Thank you,” she whimpered, voice cracking. “Thank you, thank you—”
Marcus laughed softly, reached around, and rubbed her clit again. Thirty seconds later she came a second time, harder, pussy clamping down so tight he groaned and slammed deep, spilling hot inside her with a final grunt.
He stayed buried while they both panted, her forehead pressed to the cold mirror. Cum started to drip down her thighs the second he pulled out.
Marcus tucked himself away, zipped up, then gently turned her around and buttoned her dress back up like she was something precious. He kissed her forehead, right between the eyes.
“Welcome to the city, Lila.”
She smiled, dazed and dripping and happier than she’d ever been in her life.
Outside the bathroom door, the terminal speakers crackled with the next departure. Lila took one wobbly step, felt the warmth of him leaking out of her with every move, and thought: I’m definitely gonna like college.
New Roommate
The campus cab dropped Lila in front of Hawthorne Hall just after midnight. Her thighs were still sticky, her sundress wrinkled, and every step made Marcus’s cum shift inside her like a delicious secret. She had to stop twice on the stairs because the feeling almost buckled her knees.
Room 312 was cracked open, music thumping low (something with a bass line that pulsed straight between her legs). Lila knocked once, shy, then pushed the door wider.
The girl on the left bed looked like sin dipped in black ink.
Valentina (Val to everyone who wanted to stay alive) had a shaved side of her head dyed violet, the rest a waterfall of black curls. A septum ring glinted under the string lights. Tattoos crawled over both arms and disappeared beneath a ripped crop top that barely contained her tits. When she looked up from her phone, her eyeliner was sharp enough to cut glass.
“Well, fuck me,” Val said, grinning slow. “They sent me a literal milkmaid.”
Lila blushed so hard her ears went hot. “Hi ... I’m Lila. Guess we’re roomies?”
Val’s gaze traveled down (sundress, cowboy boots, messy braid, the unmistakable smell of fresh sex rolling off her like heat off asphalt). She inhaled once, deliberate, then laughed, low and dirty.
“Girl, you reek of cum. Come here.”
Lila obeyed before her brain caught up. Val cupped her chin, tilted her face to the light, thumb brushing Lila’s swollen bottom lip.
“Someone popped your cherry tonight,” she declared. “And did it raw. I like him already.”
Lila just nodded, dizzy. Val’s thumb smelled faintly of weed and cherry lip gloss.
Val kicked the door shut with one combat boot. “Rule one in this room: we don’t lie about sex. Ever. Rule two: we share everything. Toys, stories, tongues (whatever). Cool?”
Lila swallowed. “Cool.”
Val’s grin turned wicked. “Good. Strip.”
The dress hit the floor in one motion. Lila stood naked except for her boots, freckles glowing under the fairy lights, Marcus’s load still glistening on the inside of her thighs.
Val circled her like a shark. “Jesus. Look at these tits. And that little waist. You’re a walking country-boy wet dream.” She stopped behind Lila, traced one finger down her spine, then lower, collecting the dripping cum on two fingers and bringing them to her mouth. She sucked them clean, eyes locked on Lila’s in the mirror over the dresser.
“City dick tastes different, huh?” Val murmured. “Less hay, more attitude.”
Lila laughed (a nervous, breathy sound) and Val pounced.
One push and Lila was on Val’s unmade bed, black sheets cool against her back. Val peeled off her own top, revealing pierced nipples and a tattoo of a snake curling around one breast. Then she crawled up Lila’s body like a cat, knees bracketing her hips.
“First lesson,” Val whispered, inches from Lila’s mouth. “Girls do it better.”
She kissed her (slow, filthy, tongue sliding in like she owned the place). Lila moaned into it, tasting cherry and smoke. Val’s hand slipped between them, two fingers pushing straight into Lila’s swollen pussy without warning. The wet sound was obscene.
“Still full of him,” Val said against her lips. “Gonna add my own flavor.”
She started fingering her hard and fast, curling just right, thumb flicking Lila’s clit. Thirty seconds and Lila was already shaking, oversensitive from the bus and the bathroom. She came with a broken cry, hips bucking off the bed, Val’s name ripping out of her throat.
Val didn’t stop. She scooted lower, shoved Lila’s thighs wide, and buried her face.
Lila had never felt anything like Val’s tongue (hot, pointed, relentless). She licked Marcus’s cum out of her like it was frosting, humming the whole time. When she sealed her lips around Lila’s clit and sucked, Lila saw stars. She grabbed fistfuls of black curls and ground against Val’s face shamelessly.
“More,” she begged. “Please, don’t stop—”
Val laughed into her pussy, slid three fingers in this time, and fucked her through another orgasm that left Lila sobbing and squirting weakly onto the sheets.
When Lila finally floated back to earth, Val was straddling her chest, phone already up and recording.
“Smile for the camera, milkmaid.”
Lila did (big, dazed, covered in spit and girl-cum). Val flipped the phone around so they could both watch the replay: Lila’s legs spread wide, Val’s violet head between them, the wet sounds loud and unmistakable.
“Memories,” Val said, saving the video. “And maybe a little blackmail if you ever get shy on me.”
She tossed the phone aside, crawled up, and kissed Lila deep so she could taste herself mixed with Marcus.
“Your turn,” Val said, rolling onto her back and spreading her own thighs. Black lace thong already soaked. “Show me what they taught you on that farm.”
Lila didn’t need to be told twice. She dove in like a starving thing (messy, eager, licking broad stripes up Val’s pussy through the lace before ripping it aside). Val moaned loud enough the neighbors probably heard, fingers tangling in Lila’s braid.
“That’s it, country—fuck—use your whole tongue—”
They sixty-nined until the room spun, Val grinding on Lila’s face while Lila humped Val’s fingers like a desperate animal. When they finally came (together, screaming into each other), the headboard had left dents in the wall and both of them were shaking wrecks.
Later, tangled in sweaty sheets, Val traced lazy circles around Lila’s nipple.
“Tomorrow,” she said, voice hoarse, “I’m taking you to a frat party. You’re gonna get used like a toy and love every second.”
Lila just smiled into Val’s neck, pussy still twitching with aftershocks.
“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered.
She was definitely going to like college.
First Frat Party
Friday night, Val dressed her like a sacrifice.
Denim cutoffs so short the pockets hung lower than the frayed hem. A red-and-white checked flannel tied under her breasts, sleeves ripped off, top three buttons missing on purpose. Cowboy boots polished shiny. No bra. No panties. Val painted Lila’s lips cherry-red and smeared mascara under her eyes “so you look freshly fucked already.”
“You walk in there like this,” Val said, slapping Lila’s bare ass, “and every dick in the house will point north.”
Sigma Chi’s Victorian mansion throbbed with bass and sweat. Red Solo cups everywhere, strobe lights turning skin purple and green. Val disappeared almost immediately with a wink and a “find me when you’re dripping.”
Lila lasted maybe ten minutes on the main floor before a lacrosse guy (tall, blond, jaw like a comic-book hero) steered her downstairs with a hand on the small of her back.
The basement was darker, hotter. Couch cushions on the floor, a single red bulb, the smell of beer and horny boys thick enough to chew. Five of them waited, already shirtless, muscles gleaming. Someone killed the music overhead so all she could hear was heavy breathing and the wet click of her own thighs rubbing together.
Blond guy (he said his name was Hunter, but it didn’t matter) pushed her into the middle of the circle.
“Freshman initiation,” he grinned. “Heard you’re from a farm. Let’s see if you can handle the whole team.”
Lila’s heart slammed against her ribs, half terror, half prayer. She dropped to her knees without being told.
They didn’t rush. First they just stood around her, stroking themselves through gym shorts, watching her chest heave. Someone reached down and popped the knot on her flannel. The shirt fell open. Five sets of eyes locked on her bare tits like they’d never seen nipples before.
Hunter stepped forward first, pulled his cock out (thick, curved upward, already leaking). He painted her lips with the tip, smeared pre-cum like gloss.
“Open, cowgirl.”
She did. He fed it to her slow, letting her tongue swirl, letting her get used to the weight. Then he grabbed her braid like reins and started fucking her face in earnest. The others groaned, pulled themselves free. Hands everywhere (squeezing her tits, pinching her nipples, sliding under the cutoffs to find her soaked).
Someone shoved a cold beer bottle against her pussy. She squealed around Hunter’s cock. The glass neck was slick with condensation. They worked it in alongside two fingers, then three, twisting, pumping. The stretch burned so good she started rocking back onto it herself.
Hunter came first, thick ropes down her throat. She swallowed greedily, coughing only a little. Before she caught her breath another guy (darker hair, thicker everywhere) took his place, deeper, rougher. Hands lifted her hips; the cutoffs were yanked down and off. Someone slid under her on the cushions, pulled her down onto his cock in one slick drop. She moaned so loud it echoed off the cinder-block walls.
After that it blurred into pure motion.
One in her mouth, one in her pussy, one in each hand. They rotated like clockwork. Someone found the beer bottle again and fucked her with it alongside a real cock (double-stuffing her until she screamed into whoever’s balls were on her tongue at the moment). The stretch, the cold glass, the hot flesh; she came so hard she squirted around both, a gush that splashed the guy’s abs and made everyone cheer.
They flipped her, bent her over the arm of the ratty couch, took turns on her ass while she licked the cushions clean of whoever had just been there. Someone aimed for her boots and painted the leather white. Another pulled out of her mouth at the last second and striped her face, thick ropes clinging to her lashes.
Last guy (quiet one with the Southern accent) lifted her bodily, impaled her on his cock standing up, and walked her around the room like that, bouncing her while the others watched and jerked off onto her tits, her stomach, her back. When he finally came inside her, legs shaking, he set her down gently in the empty bathtub full of half-melted ice someone had dumped earlier.
Lila lay there, shivering and glowing, cum cooling on every inch of skin, hair stuck to her cheek, pussy throbbing like a heartbeat. The red bulb made everything look like a crime scene in the best way.
Hunter crouched beside the tub, brushed a strand of hair from her lips.
“You okay, farm girl?”
She smiled, slow and filthy, and licked a drip of someone’s load off her bottom lip.
“Gosh,” she rasped, voice wrecked, “that was barely five. Back home the bulls had more stamina.”
The basement erupted in laughter and fresh hard-ons.
Upstairs, the party was still raging. Down here, round two was already starting.
Lila closed her eyes, let the ice melt against her skin, and waited for whatever came next.
She was definitely, definitely going to like college.
The Professor’s Studio
Monday morning, 8:05 a.m. Lila slipped into Life Drawing 201 still smelling faintly of frat basement and cheap beer. Her thighs ached in the sweetest way, and every step made dried cum flake off her skin under the sundress (same yellow one from the bus ride, now washed but forever ruined in her memory).
Professor Hart was waiting at the podium: mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair tied back, linen shirt rolled to the elbows, forearms streaked with dried clay. Wire-rim glasses, quiet voice, wedding ring that glinted when he moved. The kind of man who could make “please pass the charcoal” sound like foreplay.
The model hadn’t shown. Hart told the class to sketch from imagination for twenty minutes, then dismissed them early. Everyone filed out except Lila, who lingered over her sketchpad.
She’d drawn a stallion from memory (massive, rearing, cock hanging heavy between its hind legs). Not subtle.
Hart stopped beside her stool. “Miss ... Mayfield, is it?” He studied the drawing, then her. “You have a good eye for anatomy. Stay after. I want to discuss your portfolio.”
The door clicked shut behind the last student. Lock snicked.
Hart circled her like he was already sculpting in his head. “Stand up.”
Lila did. The sundress buttons strained when she breathed.
“Take it off. Slowly.”
Buttons popped one by one. The dress slid down her arms and pooled at her boots. She wore nothing underneath except the faint bruises on her hips shaped like lacrosse-player fingerprints.
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