What Happened on the Last Round of His Shift

That Thursday in February was unseasonably hot, and downtown was the usual chaos, only multiplied. I don’t know who thinks it’s a good idea to go out shopping at that hour, but the guilty one was me. I hate crowds, I hate that people don’t know where they’re walking, that they come to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk as if the world were ending right there. I was in a hurry, ticking items off a mental list, dodging shoulders, when my phone vibrated in my pocket.

It was him. On my screen I’ve got him saved as “Honey Eyes,” because he has that impossible color that looks lit from within. I met him months ago and ever since then we’ve been that kind of people who understand each other with half a sentence. I answered without stopping.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Right downtown, fighting half the city,” I told him.

“Stay there. I’m three blocks away.”

Mateo drives one of the trams on the line that cuts through downtown. At that hour he was finishing his route, with little left to get to the terminus, turn around, and go back to the starting point. Me, to make things worse, I’d been turned on since morning, that kind of wanting that settles in without warning and won’t go away no matter what you do. My panties were already wet before the phone rang, just from thinking about anything at all, and now, with his voice in my ear, I felt my cunt throbbing with a mind of its own, as if it had its own pulse. I quickened my pace, shoved the bags away as best I could, and planted myself at the stop just as his car rounded the curve.

I got on and sat near the cab, in that side seat from where I could see him in profile. We started talking about anything and everything, about the day, the job, how unbearable the weather was. Mateo is just like me: direct, teasing, with that easy laugh that disarms you. At one point he nodded toward a passenger who had started flirting with a girl two seats ahead, clumsily as hell, and we both burst out laughing under our breath.

“Look at the pro,” he murmured without moving his lips, eyes fixed on the tracks.

“Leave him alone, he’s doing what he can,” I played along.

I love that about him. That we can be dying of laughter one second and the next my breathing can catch just from looking at his hands on the controls. He has big, calm hands that do everything with a precision that makes me nervous for reasons that have nothing to do with the tram. I know by heart how those hands spread my legs, how two of those fingers slide into my cunt to the knuckle and curl inside me, searching for the exact spot that undoes me. Just looking at them gripping the lever made my nipples harden under my T-shirt.

We kept talking about nonsense while the tram moved on, but there was something different in the air. Every so often he’d catch my eye in the rearview mirror and I’d hold his gaze a second too long. No need to say anything. We’d been at it for a while, measuring each other, like two people who know perfectly well how this is going to end and decide to stretch out the anticipation because it’s the best part.

The route thinned out. At each stop people got off and fewer got on, until by the time we reached the terminus we were practically alone. Mateo stopped the car in the maneuver yard, that closed-off area where the vehicles wait before going back into service. He took off his uniform cap, ran a hand through his hair, and looked at me in the mirror.

“I’ve got twelve minutes before I head out again,” he said.

It wasn’t an innocent invitation. I knew it by the tone, by the way his smile loosened. I’d known it too since I got on. Twelve minutes were more than enough for everything I’d been imagining since I answered the phone.

***

There was another operator in the yard, one who had to take the car back to the line while Mateo took his break. Mateo spoke to him over the radio, in that half-coded language they use with each other, as if I didn’t perfectly understand what he was saying. He asked him to move the car a few meters toward the back, where the light was poorer and the platform cameras couldn’t get a good angle. The other guy answered with a “copy” and a pause that said a lot more than the word itself.

We walked toward the back of the car, where the windows were fogged with heat and no one could see us from outside. My heart was pounding in my throat. It wasn’t exactly fear; it was that mix of shame and arousal that leaves your skin hypersensitive, as if your whole body were listening. I could feel the wetness already running down the inside of my thigh, soaking my panties, and every step rubbed the fabric against my swollen clit.

“Are you sure?” he asked me softly, even though his hand was already on my waist.

“Shut up and take it out,” I told him, and bit his lower lip while I set my palm over the hard bulge in his pants.

He was so hard the seam of his uniform was outlined. I squeezed him through the fabric and felt him throb against my hand. I shoved him against one of the seats and knelt in front of him, on the dirty rubber floor of the tram, not giving a fuck. I unzipped his pants slowly, looking up at him from below, enjoying the way his jaw tightened. I pulled the elastic of his boxer briefs aside and his cock sprang out, thick, hard, the tip already shining with pre-cum. I know what he likes. I know he likes it slow at first, to be teased, to be made to wait.

I started with my tongue, unhurried, tracing his full length from base to glans, lingering over the thick vein running underneath. I licked his balls one by one, sucking them softly while my hand gave him a slow stroke that drew his first stifled groan. Then I moved back up, circled the head with the tip of my tongue, played with the frenulum, and only then did I take him into my mouth. All of him. All the way to the back, until the tip hit my throat and my eyes filled with tears.

“Like that,” he breathed, head thrown back. “Slowly, for fuck’s sake.”

I obeyed him for a long while. I took him in and out slowly, letting my saliva gather and run down the base, soaking his balls. Every so often I took him out completely and ran a flat tongue from bottom to top, looking him in the eye with my mouth open and his cock resting against my cheek, just to blow his mind. I took him back in and sped up for two or three thrusts, then slowed again. I was driving him to the edge and stopping, to the edge and stopping, until I felt his legs tense and his fingers start scraping my scalp. Then I changed the rhythm, deeper, faster, sucking him with my cheeks hollowed while with my other hand I stroked his tight balls, until he couldn’t hold onto his calm-man act anymore. He grabbed my hair with both hands, not violently, with that urgency I know, and started moving my head to his rhythm, fucking my mouth slowly but firmly.

“Come here,” he said, and with a gentle yank he lifted me off the floor before he came.

He turned me around against the backrest of one of the double seats. He yanked my jeans down to my knees, pulled my soaked panties off to one side, and paused for a second. I felt his fingers spreading me open, sliding two of them through my slit to gather the wetness, pushing them in to the hilt with an obscene waterlogged sound that echoed through the empty car.

“Look at how wet you are,” he whispered against my nape. “Dripping.”

He pulled his fingers out, smeared them over his cock to lube it on top of what was already there from my saliva, and shoved in in one single thrust to the balls. I had to bite the back of my hand not to scream. He filled me all at once, in that way that steals your breath, that leaves you for a few seconds not knowing whether it’s pleasure or whether it’s too much. The pleasure hit me mixed with the raw adrenaline of knowing we were a few meters from a platform full of people, separated only by fogged-up glass and the luck of a dead camera angle.

“Quiet, quiet,” he whispered in my ear, and the order turned me on even more.

He started moving in alternating thrusts, some fast and others slow and deep, calculated to drive me insane. He almost pulled all the way out, left just the tip resting at my entrance, then rammed back in suddenly, all the way, until his pelvis slammed against my ass and the wet sound of skin against skin echoed between the seats. One of his hands gripped my hip hard, digging his fingers in, and the other slid under my T-shirt, searching for my breast, pinching my nipple with a slowness that contrasted with everything else. I could barely breathe. I was bent forward, gripping the seatback with both hands, mouth open against the leather, feeling his cock split me open from the inside with each thrust.

“Harder,” I asked quietly, almost voiceless. “Fuck me harder.”

He obeyed. He grabbed my hips with both hands and sped up, pounding me as if he wanted to break me, so deep I could feel the tip ramming into something inside that made white spots dance before my eyes. His right hand went to my hair, wound it around his fist, and pulled my head back so he could bite my neck at the nape, not enough to mark, but with teeth. It’s true that adrenaline weighs more than anything else: it turns every minute into eternity and every touch into something electric. I could feel the cold of the fogged glass against my forehead, the smell of his uniform, the distant sound of a bus honking outside, and his cock going in and out of my soaked cunt with machine-like precision.

He lowered one hand and found my clit. It was swollen, slick, and he started massaging it with the pad of his middle finger, in tight circles, without stopping his thrusts. That was it for me. I felt everything gathering in my belly, that tension rising and rising without asking permission, and I came apart. I clenched my teeth around my own wrist and came in silence, a shudder running from my nape to my heels, my cunt tightening around his cock in spasms he felt as clearly as I did. My reaction set him off, I could tell by how his breath broke against my neck and how his rhythm went erratic for two or three thrusts.

“Turn around,” he asked hoarsely, pulling his wet cock out of me.

He didn’t need to explain anything. I knelt again on the tram floor, my legs still trembling, and took him into my mouth in one go, tasting myself all over him. He was hot, slick with me, and that mix of flavors tightened everything downstairs again. I sucked him fast, with both hands, one at the base stroking him in time with my mouth and the other fondling his hard balls, looking up at him with my mouth full. I saw the exact moment it hit him: he squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth fell open in a silent gasp, and he grabbed the back of the seat so he wouldn’t shout.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

He came with a muffled groan he tried to hide and couldn’t quite. He filled my mouth with a hot, thick spurt, then another, and another, while I kept him inside and stroked his balls until I got every last drop out of him. I swallowed the very last bit without breaking eye contact, and only then did I take his cock out of my mouth slowly, giving the tip one last wet kiss. I stayed still for a second, savoring the moment more than anything else, that strange intimacy of sharing something forbidden in the most unlikely place in the world.

***

Then came the part that always makes me laugh: the reconstruction. Mateo tucked his still half-hard cock back into his boxer briefs, zipped up, adjusted his pants, put his uniform cap back on, and in a matter of seconds he was once again the immaculate line operator. I pulled up my jeans, adjusted my soaked panties clinging to everything, ran my fingers through my hair, smoothed my clothes, and took a deep breath so my face would stop giving me away. I could still feel his semen going down my throat and my cunt throbbing like a drum. We looked at each other and both burst out laughing, that nervous laugh of someone who’s just pulled off a huge stunt and gotten away with it.

“You’ve got a look on your face,” he said, amused.

“So do you, and you have to drive,” I shot back.

We walked to the front of the car as if nothing had happened. The other operator, the one who had moved the vehicle to the back, was already there waiting to take over. He stayed quiet, with a half smile he either couldn’t or didn’t want to hide. He must have seen something on the monitors, or maybe he imagined it, doesn’t matter. Mateo patted him on the shoulder as he passed.

“Any day you’re stressed, she can help you relax,” he said, nodding toward me with a totally innocent face.

The poor guy went red to his ears and I elbowed Mateo, dying of laughter and secondhand embarrassment. I got off at the next stop, picked up my bags from the seat where I’d left them abandoned, and waved goodbye as the tram started up its route again, right on time, as if the last twelve minutes had never happened.

I walked the remaining blocks with my legs still trembling, my sticky panties clinging between my thighs and a smile I couldn’t wipe off. I stopped by the greengrocer’s, by the pharmacy, finished the shopping I’d gone out to do. And while I waited in the checkout line, with people jostling and the heat sticking to my skin, I thought that no one around me could imagine where I’d come from or what had just happened.

The woman in front of me was complaining about the price of tomatoes. A guy was arguing on the phone. A couple was choosing cookies as if it were the most important decision of the day. And I was there in the middle of it, still hot all over, my swollen cunt throbbing against the seam of my jeans and the taste of his cum still in my mouth, feeling like I owned a huge secret in the middle of the most banal routine in the world. There’s something about that double life that fascinates me: being able to be, in the same body and the same day, the ordinary woman who goes shopping and the slut who drops to her knees without thinking in the most forbidden place to suck the cock of a guy in uniform.

That’s what I like most about him, I thought. That he turns an ordinary day into something I later won’t dare tell anyone about.

I don’t know whether that’s right or wrong. I do know that every time the phone rings and I see “Honey Eyes” on the screen, my pulse races and my panties get wet just like they did that Thursday. And that if he asks me again where I am, I’m going to answer the same as always: where I am, and wait for him to show up around the curve.