I Ran Out of Money for the Taxi and He Suggested Something Else

My name is Carla and I’m twenty-seven, though that’s the least important thing in this story. What matters is that I carry something inside me that very few people know about: I like to play on the edge, to feel a stranger desire me, and to see how far I can go without anyone in my life finding out. I’ve had a boyfriend for two years. I love him. And even so, this story I’m going to tell happened on the way to his place.

That afternoon I’d dressed up for him. A pair of denim shorts shorter than any mother would approve of, a red top with thin straps, my stomach bare, and nothing under the top, because I hate bras and because I love the way everything shows when it’s hot. I left the building, turned the corner, and raised my hand. A taxi stopped almost immediately.

I gave him the address, settled into the back seat, and let the city slide past the window. The driver was an older man, about fifty, with big hands resting on the steering wheel and a gaze that every so often sought me out in the rearview mirror. It didn’t bother me. I admit there’s something in me that lights up when they look at me like that.

It was halfway there when I reached into my pocket and my heart dropped.

“Excuse me, sorry… I just realized I don’t have my wallet,” I said, patting the pockets of my shorts as if it might magically appear.

“Don’t tell me that, miss,” he answered, not angry, almost amused. “And to make it worse, it’s far. I assume you know that the ride out there isn’t cheap.”

“I know, I know. It’s not the first time I’ve gone. I left everything at home, even my phone. When we get there I’ll pay you, I promise,” I insisted, and it was true: my boyfriend could cover it.

“And how do I know you’ll pay and not run off?” he asked, looking straight at me through the mirror. “You don’t have a wallet, or a phone, or any ID you could leave me as collateral.”

“And what do you want me to do?” I blurted out, half joking.

“Well, you seem pretty lightly dressed. What if you show me your tits?”

He said it like that, direct, no beating around the bush, and I swear that single sentence set me on fire inside. I felt the heat rise up my neck and drop at the same time. You shouldn’t even answer him, I thought. But my pulse had already picked up.

“And you still want me to pay you?” I replied, laughing to hide how nervous and turned on I was.

“No. If you show them to me and let me touch them a little, I’ll take you for free.”

I could have said no. I could have asked him to stop and gotten out right there. But the truth is I wanted to keep playing, because that’s exactly what turns me on, that tension of not knowing where it ends.

“And how do I know you won’t want more afterward?” I asked, dragging it out.

“I can’t promise you that,” he answered, and gave a low laugh. “The truth is, with you, it makes you want to ask for more. But you’re in charge.”

“I make no promises,” I murmured, biting my lip.

The part of me I keep locked away almost always was starting to slip out.

***

We were already entering the neighborhood where my boyfriend lives when the cabdriver, instead of going straight, turned a corner and pulled the car into an empty lot, far from the avenue. He turned off the engine. Suddenly the silence was enormous. He got out, opened the back door, and sat down beside me.

“All right, do you take them off yourself or do I?” he said, with that calm men have when they’re sure of what they want.

“You do it, I’m embarrassed,” I replied softly, pretending to be shy when I wasn’t at all.

If he had known what I really wanted was for him to rip my clothes off in one pull…

He took one strap and slid it off my shoulder. Then the other. The red top fell to my waist and I was bare from the waist up, my skin prickling from the air and from the stare of that stranger. He didn’t ask permission. He covered one breast with his whole hand and started to squeeze slowly, kneading it, and I let out a moan I didn’t even try to hold back.

I’m too sensitive there. I always have been. He pinched my nipples, rolled them between his fingers, and every touch arched my back and pushed me toward him, searching for more. I closed my eyes. I let myself be carried away by the rough hands of a man I’d met fifteen minutes earlier, someone who wouldn’t have even turned to look at me on the street.

Then I felt his mouth. He bit one nipple while squeezing the other, and a “fuck, that feels so good” slipped out of me that sounded more like a plea than a complaint.

“Hey, don’t get carried away, you said only touch,” I protested, with no intention of making him stop.

“I know, miss,” he answered against my skin. “But I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity.”

He kept licking, sucking, biting, both hands and tongue sharing my breasts. I didn’t stop panting. I grabbed his head and buried my fingers in his hair so he’d stay right there. And at some point, between one moan and the next, the shameless part of me took over.

“You’re right,” I told him, using tú for the first time. “You shouldn’t waste an opportunity. So take it out, because I’m going to suck it.”

He didn’t hesitate for a second. He unzipped his pants and pulled it out: thick, hard, with a swollen head and a bright drop at the tip. I spread it around the whole glans with my thumb before leaning in. First just the head, while I stroked him with my hand. Then I went lower, finding the rhythm, until my hand was no longer needed.

I could feel it hitting the back of my throat. I gagged, my eyes filled with tears, and still I didn’t stop. I loved that state: my mouth full of a stranger’s cock, mascara running, with no control over anything. He held me by the nape of my neck and set the pace, pushing me to take him deeper.

“That’s it, just like that,” he panted. “If this is what you wanted, you should’ve asked from the start.”

I didn’t answer. My mouth was busy, and besides, he was right.

***

It lasted a good while. Long enough for my knees bent against the seat to start burning and for my makeup to be completely ruined. At one point he gave my hair a gentle tug so I’d lift my face.

“I’m about to come,” he said, his voice rough. “Are you going to swallow it?”

“Give it all to me,” I replied, and sank down again.

I felt him tense, hold my head with both hands, and then he finished inside my mouth. The amount surprised me. I coughed, some of it slipped out and fell onto my chest, and another spurt hit my cheek and a lock of hair. I was a mess, with semen on my face, in my hair, and on my breasts, besides what I managed to swallow.

I sat up slowly, catching my breath, and wiped myself as best I could with the back of my hand. He was looking at me with a mix of disbelief and gratitude, pulling his pants back up.

“Do me a favor,” I told him, still breathing hard. “Take a picture of me. And give me your number so you can send it to me.”

I like seeing myself like this, tousled and marked, and keeping it for myself. It’s one of my little weaknesses, one almost nobody knows about. He smiled, took out his phone, photographed me exactly as I was, and promised to send it. I fixed my top, arranged my hair as best I could, and decided not to worry too much about the trace still on my cheek. I was betting my boyfriend wouldn’t notice.

“Take me to the address, please,” I said, now calm. “And wait for me a second so I can pay you there.”

He started the car. Five minutes later we were in front of my boyfriend’s building. I asked him to wait, got out, and rang the bell. When he opened the door, I smiled at him as if nothing had happened.

“Baby, I forgot my wallet,” I said, putting on a worried face. “Do you have money for the taxi? Sorry to ask.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied, pulling out some bills. “Here, give them to him.”

I went back to the car, paid the driver, thanked him, and, with my back to my boyfriend, winked and blew the driver a kiss that only he could see. I could feel my cheek tight from the way it had dried there. When we went upstairs, my boyfriend pointed at my face.

“You’ve got something here,” he said, rubbing his own cheek to show me where.

“Oh, it must be makeup,” I replied, shrugging. “I didn’t blend it well.”

He believed me, of course. He always believes me.

***

That night, when I got back home, I checked the phone I had left behind and forgotten. I had a message from an unknown number. It was the photo: me, with tousled hair, my face and breasts smeared, my eyes shining. I looked at it longer than I should admit. It turned me on so much that I ended up touching myself, reliving every minute of that back seat.

I never saw the taxi driver again. I didn’t look for him either. He’s part of those things that happen only once and, precisely for that reason, are never forgotten. My boyfriend never found out. And I suppose that’s why I keep it: because it’s mine, only mine, one of those confessions a woman never says out loud.

This is the first time I’ve written it down. And, I admit it, telling it has made me almost as hot as living it.