The Taxi Driver’s Detour on My Last Night Out

I’d spent the whole week in a city that wasn’t mine, locked in a glass tower where the air conditioning worked as if it wanted to get me out of the country. Endless meetings, presentations with clients who only listened halfway, heavy lunches in restaurants with white tablecloths. At ten on Thursday night, when we finally signed the last addendum, my feet were wrecked and I had a dull exhaustion that not even three coffees would shake.

I swapped my heels for a pair of flats I’d been carrying in my bag since early that morning and dragged myself down to the lobby. The street was hot. One of those June nights when the asphalt gives back all the heat it’s swallowed during the day, and it seeps through your stockings into your thighs.

The white shirt, thin, had gone see-through with sweat. I hadn’t put my bra back on after lunch—in the restaurant bathroom I’d taken it off because I couldn’t stand the underwire, and then I’d forgotten, or maybe I hadn’t felt like it. My nipples pressed against the fabric like two dark spots demanding attention. The charcoal-gray pencil skirt clung to my hips and rode up a little with every long step.

I ordered the taxi through the app without thinking. Three minutes. Dark gray Skoda Octavia. Driver: Andrés.

When he stopped in front of me and rolled down the window, I knew at once the night was going to go off the rails. He had to be around forty-five, dark-skinned in that way of men who get tanned out on the street, not at the beach. Short hair, almost buzzed down to nothing, a pronounced receding hairline. A shabby dark beard, several days old. A blue shirt rolled up to the elbows showed two forearms covered in messy tattoos, as if he’d had them done over the years without thinking much about the overall effect.

—Good evening —he said.

The sound of his voice dropped through me like someone putting out a cigarette in my stomach.

I got in the back, on the passenger side, not behind him. I wanted him to see me clearly in the rearview mirror. I crossed my legs and let the skirt ride up just enough for the hem of my stocking to show. I gave him the hotel address and got started.

—That’s a long ride —he said—. Thirty-five minutes with traffic.

—Without traffic, then.

I saw him smile in the rearview mirror.

You’re not doing anything yet. You’ve only crossed your legs. You can still stop.

I didn’t stop.

The first button was almost an accident. The second, a decision. The third, a confession. The shirt opened down to my navel and left my tits almost bare, held in place only by the pressure of the fabric. I leaned forward as if I were looking for something in the bag on the floor and let them swing, heavy, shining with a coat of sweat that hadn’t gone away.

When I lifted my head, his eyes were on the rearview mirror, not the road.

—Watch the seat belt —he said.

—Mine?

—Mine. If you keep this up, I’m going to snap it.

I let out a low laugh, the kind that isn’t really a laugh. I tugged the shirt wide until my tits came fully out. I cupped them in my hands, squeezed them slowly, played with one nipple until it stood hard as stone.

—Fuck —he said under his breath, almost to himself—. What beautiful tits.

—Don’t get polite on me now —I said.

He swallowed. I saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall.

—What big, soft tits, slut. You going to stay like that the whole way?

—If you want more, all you have to do is ask.

The next traffic light caught us red. He turned halfway around in his seat, without letting go of the wheel, and looked at me without blinking.

—Take off your panties. Open your legs. I want to see that cunt.

I did it without answering. I hiked my skirt up to my waist, hooked my fingers in the black lace thong, and dragged it down my thighs slowly. I let it fall to the car floor, on top of my bag. I leaned back against the door and opened my legs as far as the seat would let me.

The light turned green. He didn’t move.

—Fuck. You’re soaked.

—I’ve been like this since one.

Someone behind us honked. He pulled off slowly, looking at the street in stretches and at me between them. Two hundred meters later he turned right, toward an area that wasn’t mine. I’d never been in that city, but it was obvious right away we were leaving the center behind.

—Aren’t we going to the hotel?

—We are. But the long way.

The streetlights began to space out. Wider, darker streets, shuttered warehouses with painted metal blinds. The smell of industrial oil coming through the vents. He killed the meter with a sharp slap. I saw it on the dashboard display.

—I’m going to stop for a moment —he said—. Don’t move.

He stopped in a dark alley between two closed warehouses. He got out, walked around the car with a calm that made me hotter, and opened my door.

—Get out.

I got out. My legs were shaking a little, not from fear. My skirt was bunched at my waist. My tits were out. My flats crunched on the gravel.

He’d opened his pants. His cock came out thick, dark, with a shine at the tip. He grabbed my hair—not hard, but firm—and pushed me down.

—First things first, wet it.

I knelt on the gravel, ignored the stones digging into my knees, and opened my mouth. I took him all at once, as far as I could, and then a little more. The taste of salt and clean skin filled my mouth. I went up and down, slowly at first, then with saliva running down my chin. I licked his balls, ran my tongue up his shaft. He held my hair with both hands and set the rhythm, not giving me more than I could take, but not letting me stop either.

—Fuck, you suck so well. Swallow it. Deeper. Like that. Good girl.

He pulled his cock out of my mouth in one yank when he felt himself getting close. He dragged it across my face, my lips, my tits. He smeared saliva over my nipples. Then he leaned in and, without letting go of my hair, slid his free hand between my legs. Two fingers. Then three. Then four, with a short motion that sounded wet and slapping.

—Look how this cunt opens. Four fingers and you still want more. What a filthy slut you are.

—More —I said, because no other word would come.

He hauled me up by the hair and shoved me against the hood of the car. The metal was still warm from the engine. My tits flattened against the panel. I felt the sweat mix with the car dust. He took me by the hips and lifted them until I was on tiptoe.

—I’m going to fuck your ass —he said—. You know that, right?

—Yes.

—Say it.

—Fuck my ass.

He wet his cock with saliva and with what he’d taken from my cunt. He set the tip in place and pushed. The first thrust tore a shout out of me that bounced between the two warehouses. The second shut it down. By the third, it didn’t hurt the same way anymore.

—Ahhh… fuck… what a tight ass…

—Harder —I begged, face against the hood—. Harder. Please.

He shoved it all the way in. He took my tits from underneath, one in each hand, and squeezed until his finger marks were left on me. He bit my neck, right where the shirt collar wouldn’t cover the next day. Every thrust made me bounce against the hood. His hips slapped against my ass like broken applause.

—You love this, don’t you? Look at your cunt dripping while I open your ass. Squeeze harder. Like that. Good whore.

—Yes… ahhh… yes…

—Tell me you’re mine tonight.

—I’m yours tonight.

He changed the rhythm. He’d pull almost all the way out and drive back in to the hilt, slowly, so I could feel every centimeter. Then short, fast bursts that made me scream words I didn’t remember ever saying. He slapped my ass. He squeezed it until my back arched.

—Turn around. I want to see your face.

He turned me without fully pulling out of me. He sat me on the hood, spread my legs, and impaled me again. My arms went around his neck almost on instinct. My tits bounced against his chest. He looked me in the eye and didn’t look away for a single second. That melted me more than anything else.

—You’re so beautiful when you stop being shy —he said, and kissed me for the first time. His beard scraped my lips.

—Keep going —I answered against his mouth—. Don’t stop.

He grabbed my hips and lifted me up and down on him as if I weighed nothing, his fingers digging into my ass. I bit his shoulder through his shirt. I heard him growl.

—I’m going to come.

—Inside.

—Where?

—Wherever you want.

He came with a low, almost animal sound, biting my neck. I felt the hot spurts filling my ass, then slowly running down inside my thighs. I stayed on top of him for a long while, forehead resting against his shoulder, feeling him breathe in gasps against my chest. We were both soaked in sweat and racing heartbeats, like we’d been running. It smelled like sex, sweat, and car dust.

He helped me down from the hood. He ran a hand through my hair, fixed it as if something like that could be fixed. He took some paper napkins from the car—from a bar, the logo still on them—and wiped me between my thighs without asking permission, with a strange care for someone who’d just done what he’d done to me.

—Put your skirt on. We’re getting to the hotel decently.

—We’re not decent anymore —I said.

—On the outside.

He helped me straighten my shirt. He fastened two buttons. Left the third one open, I don’t know if by mistake or on purpose. He picked my thong up from the car floor, folded it, and put it in his pants pocket.

—So you remember.

—I don’t need to —I said—. But keep it.

He drove the rest of the way with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh, under my skirt, not moving it, just resting there. We didn’t talk. The radio played softly, an old song in another language that I no longer remember. The city slid past the window as if none of it had happened.

He dropped me at the hotel entrance. He got out first, opened the door for me like a gentleman who hadn’t been, ten minutes earlier, biting my neck in an industrial district. He gave me a card with a number handwritten on the back.

—Next time you come back to this city —he said—, call me first. And book the whole night.

I took the card. I nodded. I went up the hotel stairs without looking at the receptionist, with my ass full, my legs weak, and a smile I couldn’t get rid of.

In the room I threw myself onto the bed still dressed, skirt hiked up and shirt half open. I took the card out of my bag, left it on the nightstand, and stared at it for a while. Then I slid my hand down between my legs and masturbated slowly, thinking about his beard, his low voice, the sound of the car hood under my tits. When I came, it felt like the room still smelled of industrial oil.

***

On Friday, at the last meeting before catching my flight, I sat with my legs crossed and my thighs still a little sore. My client asked if I’d slept well. I told him yes, that the city was quiet at night.

Andrés’s card is still in my wallet. I’ve looked at it more than once. I still haven’t called.

But I’m going back. And next time, I’m booking the whole night.