The Taxi Driver Collected the Wait with My Submission

One of my tasks at the construction company where I work is taking care of payroll deposits and payments to suppliers. That means going to two or three banks on the first morning of every month, always with the same routine and almost always with the same rush. To avoid wasting time, the company booked me a taxi that stayed at my disposal for the whole route.

That morning in late spring I called the dispatch center and asked for a car. While I waited, I touched up my makeup in the elevator mirror and added one more drop of perfume behind my ear. I was wearing a black dress with a short skirt, open-toe stiletto heels, and underneath, a lace set with a tiny red thong. My lycra stockings reached halfway up my thigh, held up by a silicone garter. I didn’t dress like that for anyone in particular. Or so I told myself.

The taxi arrived on time. I went down, got in, and greeted the driver, who returned the greeting with exaggerated courtesy and didn’t quite hide the way his eyes went to my legs when I sat down and the skirt gave way a few inches. His name was Aníbal. He was probably in his late fifties, sturdy, broad-bellied, clean-shaven, with short dark hair. He was one of those men who talk all the time: whenever I got into his car, he would tell me in painstaking detail how his day had gone or what each of his children was up to.

He took me to the first bank and waited while I paid several bills at the window. Then we went to the second, where I had to drop off the payroll sheet. But the system was down and the line wasn’t moving. I stepped outside for a moment to let Aníbal know I’d be delayed, and he, with a crooked smile, told me that this wait was going to cost me.

—Don’t be mean —I laughed back at him, and went inside again without giving it much thought.

It took me more than an hour. When I finally finished the errand and got back into the taxi, the only thing I wanted was to get to the office and take off my shoes. But Aníbal didn’t start the car.

—Lore —he said, looking at me through the rearview mirror—, you don’t think this can be settled with money, do you?

—Charge the company for the waiting time —I answered, not fully understanding—. It’s work-related; they’ll pay it without a problem.

He shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes off me.

—No, little one. I’m not talking about that. What I want is for us to treat each other well in here, in the car.

I went silent for a few seconds. He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying.

—What do you mean? —I managed to ask.

He turned in his seat and nailed me with his eyes.

—I want to collect the wait with your attentions. You’re gorgeous, Lore. And I’m sure they don’t treat you at home the way you deserve.

—No, Aníbal. You can’t ask me this —I said, more out of reflex than conviction.

—Why not? —he insisted—. I know how to treat a woman like you. You won’t regret it.

The truth, and it’s hard for me to admit, is that I hadn’t been touched by anyone for weeks. My husband was absorbed in some delayed construction work, and at home we barely exchanged a word. And although I was far from a desperate woman, there was something about the way that man spoke to me —as if he had already decided for me, as if my resistance were just one more errand of the morning— that tightened something inside me.

I looked at him properly. Given his size, given the confidence with which he moved, I wondered what I had to lose. And I couldn’t find a single solid reason to refuse.

—I’ll only touch it —I told him, setting the limit with one finger in the air—. Nothing else.

He smiled like someone accepting the first move in a game he already knew he’d won.

***

He drove a few blocks to a deserted parking lot far from the center, where there were barely a couple of dust-covered cars. He turned off the engine, got out, and climbed into the back beside me. The seat creaked under his weight. For a moment he did nothing: he just looked at me, told me how beautiful I was —a lie so enormous it almost made me tender— and that he would give anything to have me for himself.

I didn’t wait for him to keep going with the act. I lowered my hand and touched the bulge over his pants. It was big, still soft, heavy. He unzipped and took it out. It was a thick cock, almost hard already, generously shaped, and I couldn’t help liking it as soon as I had it between my fingers. I started stroking it up and down, slowly, feeling it firm up with every movement.

The car’s air grew thick right away. It smelled of heat, of skin, of that dense scent that only appears when two bodies decide to stop pretending. We kissed. Wet kisses, slow, with tongues, and I heated up faster than I was willing to admit.

Aníbal slipped his right hand between my legs. My stockings ended halfway up my thigh, so he reached the tiny fabric of the thong without effort, moved it aside, and slid one finger inside me. I was wet, much more than my pride wanted. I let out a sigh against his mouth while my hand stayed closed around his shaft, now hard, hot, throbbing.

—Look at how wet you are —he murmured, not taking his finger out—. And you were still saying no.

I didn’t answer him. I leaned in and kissed him. I kissed the tip, pink and tight, and then I took it into my mouth. I sucked him eagerly, without haste, letting myself be carried by his smell and by the way he dug his fingers into my hair.

—You’re amazing at this —he said, voice breaking—. If I let you, you’d stay all day.

I let him talk. I knew it was all bullshit, like all men. But the bullshit, at that moment, was also arousing.

***

After a long while I asked him to fuck me right there. I thought he’d go straight for the obvious. But he shook his head and smiled at me.

—No. What I want is that ass of yours. I’ve been looking at it all morning.

Something in the way he said it —without asking permission, assuming I was going to obey— finished bending me over. I turned around in the seat, lifted my skirt, and offered him my ass. He took his time. He licked me, worked plenty of spit on me, played until I myself started pushing back, looking for him.

When he guided the tip against me, my whole body trembled with anticipation. He pushed firmly, without pausing, and at first I complained about the pain, that sharp burn that later turns into something else. He worked it in slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until I felt him all the way inside. It hurt. And even so, the only thing I felt was the need for him not to stop, for him to use me, for me to be exactly what he wanted me to be that night —that morning.

The back-and-forth became steady, deep. My eyes were closed and I was biting my lip. In the silence of the parking lot, the only sounds were our gasps and a dry, rhythmic thud: the heel of my shoe hitting the car door with every thrust. Tap, tap, tap. I felt impaled, dominated, split in two, and that absurd sound turned me on even more.

I lowered my hand and started rubbing my clit while he kept going. Pleasure and pain mixed together until I no longer knew where one ended and the other began. I felt like a slut there, paying with my body for a wait that wasn’t even my fault, and the idea —instead of shaming me— set me on fire.

—Tell me you like it —he ordered, grabbing my waist.

—I like it —I panted, without a shred of pride—. Don’t stop.

He didn’t stop. He sped up until I felt him tense, and he came inside me with a long growl, in hot spurts that ripped a brutal orgasm out of me, the kind that leaves you breathless and a little scared of yourself.

***

We stayed still for a few minutes, recovering. He got out to smoke a cigarette leaning against the hood, and I cleaned myself with a rag he handed me. There was a little blood, and burning, and the garters on my stockings had shifted with the movement. I adjusted them slowly. He had hurt me a little. I didn’t care in the least: I had enjoyed it, and a lot.

He got back in front, started the car, and finally took me to the office, chatty again, as if none of it had happened. He dropped me off at the door, wished me a good day, and left.

I went up in the elevator with my legs still weak and a smile I couldn’t wipe off my face. I knew the following month I would have to go around the banks again. And I knew, too, that it wouldn’t be the last time I gave myself over completely to that man.