Nipples.

That’s all that needs to be said.

I love nipples. A nipple itself — or merely the shape of one seen through a bra or some other impediment — or even the slightest hint that one might possibly be in the neighborhood. Any of these nipple situations gets the attention of my lord and master — Mr B. He’s my crown jewels, my package, my decision maker — and it was he, Mr B. himself, who ordered me to take the front seat in the small bus when I saw who was to be our new, pretty and well-proportioned, English-speaking tour guide.

I was exploring some of the sights to be seen in Turkey. The nine others in our group aboard the sixteen-seater bus all found places near the rear. Their heads could just be seen peering over the high seat-backs. I sat excitedly alone in the front row, immediately behind the driver, right next to where I knew today’s tour-guide would be standing, speaking into her microphone. It was an ideal spot where I could easily stare at her bosom, trying to spot a nipple shape without being too obvious.

The door closed and the bus leapt forward, soon attaining the alarming speed that is the hallmark of every Turkish bus driver I have encountered.

She stood up with her microphone grasped in one hand, while her other hand brushed her long brown hair away from her face and tried to tuck it behind one ear. She looked towards the group at the back, nodding her head as she counted them off silently with her hazel eyes. From my side view I noted her sensible walking shoes under her dull grey, calf-length skirt. Not too interesting. Luckily I could count on the uneven surface of the road to produce a certain amount of jiggle under her attractive matching grey sweater. It was an expensive-looking garment — possibly cashmere. I badly wanted to feel it.

Already I was beginning to get a better idea of the shape of her breasts. My observant eye made me wonder about her bra. Was she even wearing one? It looked as if her tits had plenty of room to maneuver, but if no bra — where was the outline of her nipples? Her sweater was thin and tight enough for a very nice viewing.

“I will being you guide today,” she announced, interrupting my thoughts. “My name Fatima,” she began, and I could tell I was in for another day of trying to fathom what I was being told by someone who apparently had passed the exam that all the guides are required to take. “English-speaking” was a generous title she held, and I knew there must have been some bribery involved in the test-taking.

But who was I to complain? I could watch beautiful Turkish scenery without even looking out of the windows!

I went on with my ‘research project.’ She must have been wearing a shape-blocking bra unless, perhaps, her nipples were “innies” that didn’t protrude; but that’s not too common.

She held her mike close to her shiny-bright made-up lips, and her other hand gestured wildly trying to formulate English words with her heavy Turkish accent.

“Cappadocia ees area, no city,” she confidently stated as the whole group stared at her, expressionless, wondering what historical, cultural gem they had all just missed. I held my gaze on the place where her nipples should have been outlined, but nothing.

Disappointed, I turned to my imagination. Mr B. stirred as I began to create scenarios in my head where Fatima could possibly be standing in front of me, proudly flashing her naked nipples down the center aisle of the bus. Maybe a delegation of American naturists were on board heading towards Ankara for a conference on how to wear a burka at a nudist resort?

No — a bit far-fetched. But Mr B. fell for this unlikely story and began to fill the available space in my shorts.

Fatima was struggling to tell us about the Ottoman Empire and the fall of Constantinople in 1493, when suddenly the bus lurched violently sideways.

I was safely secured to my seat by a shoulder and lap belt, but Fatima completely lost her balance and threw out her arm to catch anything solid. Her hand landed firmly on my lap and her fingers clung to Mr B!

Fatima yelled harshly at the driver in Turkish and he responded calmly. Eventually she righted herself and let go of her support, but not before she must have felt Mr B. expanding somewhat under her fingers. She gave up standing in the aisle, and carefully knelt on the seat next to me and leaned forward onto the backrest with her head peeking over the top.

“Dog,” she explained to the group, and I believed her. There are lazy, slow-moving dogs all over Turkey, sunning themselves far too close to the highways.

“Mustafa Kemal founded Republic Turkey, 1923. He called Ataturk, meaning father of Turkey pipple.” Fatima went on valiantly in her thick accent.

And then the bus lurched again, nothing like the first time, but Fatima immediately reached out for support and found it again in exactly the same spot. Mr B. was starting to enjoy this bus ride, and I was beginning to think that Fatima might be thinking the same. It took her hand a lot longer to let go than the first time, and when she did, her eyes remained glued on the spot where her hand had been.

Even an innocent bystander could not have failed to make out the clearly defined outline of a turgid cock hidden only by a thin layer of fabric.  But there were no innocent bystanders; only Fatima who could not keep her eyes from ogling, and it was becoming harder and harder for her to keep her commentary going.

Her spare hand was working over-time, trying to formulate English words for Turkish historical events, and as I stared at her breasts, she would often brush her hand across them, or press them into the seat-back.

“Suleiman the Magnificent is ruler Ottoman Empire. He expanding empire include Turkey, Middle East, Greece, Hungary.”

She dropped her head away from the mike and leaned down towards me.

“Take out!” she whispered to me.

“Take out?” I questioned.

“Yes, take out!” she hissed, pointing at my cock.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You want me to take my cock out?” I questioned again.

“Yes,” she replied emphatically. “Touching, touching.”

She grabbed my hand and held it against her tit. Then in quick order, she dropped my hand, lifted her sweater, pulled down her flimsy bra, (so she DID have a bra!) gave me a quick glance, grabbed my hand and pulling it under her sweater, placed it right back again on her soft, rounded tit.

I was in shock! But this was only the beginning. Now she reached out one finger, and with a neatly manicured orange-painted fingernail she scratched the head of Mr B.

“Take out — take out!” she growled in my ear. I was starting to understand the set up. No one could see what was going on from their seats except the driver. He could have seen if he’d turned around, but going at the speed we were, that would have been suicidal.

I withdrew my hand at once, quickly unzipped and tried desperately to get Mr B. out of my pants. In his condition, this was not easy, but once I opened up my belt, he obliged and stood to attention for inspection.

Fatima kept glancing down to my lap, and amazingly kept on with her commentary. Her voice had now dropped an octave, and her broken English came out in a hoarse, sexy way.

“. . . many informations about Turkey,” she was saying, and I could tell her mind was clearly elsewhere.

Between wild gestures with her free hand, she would reach down and touch my cock, and I went back to slipping my arm up under her sweater and fondling her smooth, warm tit.

But where was her nipple? I couldn’t feel it to start with, but with a little stroking in the usual spot it started to shape up. Before long it stiffened and I could actually grasp it between my thumb and middle finger. Perhaps it was an innie after all! She reacted visibly when I gave it a little pinch. A twist to the right and she inhaled, bared her teeth, sensing the connection between her nipple and her pussy; a twist to the left and her hand would reach out and pump Mr B. a few times.

And all the while she was telling the people about Ephesus and the town of Troy and the wooden horse!

I was getting close to cumming, when the driver turned his head and spoke to Fatima in Turkish.

She translated for the tour group. “Bus coming Cappadocia five minutes,” she purred into the mike. To me she whispered, “You come my room, hotel tonight.”

“But what about your boyfriend or your husband?” I whispered back, thrilled but anxious.

“I asking husband,” she told me, and I agreed with her.

“Yes, you better ask your husband,” I said sadly, thinking that would be the end of it.

“No problem,” she assured me.

I managed to put Mr B. away as the bus slowed, entering the little picturesque town of Cappadocia. Fatima chatted with the bus driver as we came to a stop. I let everyone else get off first, wanting to talk more with her to see if there was an outside chance that we could meet later.

“My husband say OK,” she told me.

“You spoke to him already?” I queried as I hadn’t seen her using a cell phone.

“Driver my husband,” she told me candidly. “He say, OK. No problem.”

I was stunned. He must have known all along what Fatima was up to right behind him. I had no idea what to say. But he turned in his seat, looked me right in the eye and spoke to me in a very cultured English style.

“What a pleasure to meet you!” He held out his hand and we shook. “Fatima does this all the time. Forgive her, she just needs to be fucked rather often. Unfortunately, she has cuckolded me, but I do get to watch.”

I was trying to take in everything he was saying when he reached out his hand again, and — just like his wife — put it right on Mr B.

“Oh yes,” he grinned, feeling its girth. “You’ll have an exceptional experience tonight. And if you have any trouble the second or third time around, I am an excellent fluffer!”