His messages turned me on in the middle of traffic

I met Mateo on one of those apps you open without expecting much. The first date was different from the very first minute: that strange chemistry you can’t fake, the laughter that comes on its own, the conversations that stretch on until the waiter starts checking the time. We went out a couple more times and, after the third, ended up at his apartment. It had been a long time since anything had felt so easy and so intense at once.

That third night was the one that marked me. The moment he closed the apartment door he had me against the wall, with his tongue shoved deep down my throat and one hand already hiking up my dress. There was no polite preamble or offer of a drink. He tore off my underwear in one pull, dropped to his knees, and buried his face between my legs right there in the entryway, my bag still hanging from my shoulder. He ate my pussy slowly at first, parting my lips with his fingers, his tongue tracing circles around my clit until my knees started to give out. When he slipped two fingers into me and curled his fingertips against the exact spot while he kept licking me, I came standing up, screaming his name and yanking his hair. Then he took me to the bed, put me face down, lifted my ass with both hands, and drove into me in one deep thrust that made me bite the pillow. He fucked me slowly and deeply at first, gripping my hips, then at an animal pace that made the bed creak against the wall. He came inside me with a rough growl against the back of my neck, and still hard he turned me over and started again. That night he made me come four times. That’s how it all began.

As the weeks went by, we started sending each other dirty messages now and then. I’m not the kind of woman who sends that sort of thing; it made me self-conscious, even with myself. But with him it was different. It came naturally, effortlessly, as if we’d discovered a private language. I was always curious about my own body, one of those people who take their time alone to understand what they like and what they don’t. Mateo, without meaning to, had put words to that.

At first they were hints, half-finished phrases that each of us completed in our own way. Then came descriptions, detailed memories of that first night, questions I answered with my pulse racing beneath the sheets. He wrote things like, “I remember how tight your pussy was the first time, how you sucked my cock all the way down without letting me move,” and I, with my hand between my thighs, told him how wet I was just from reading it. I learned to text him in the middle of the night, when the house was silent and nobody would interrupt. I also learned that those conversations left me turned on for days, replaying them in my head at the worst possible moments: in a meeting, in the supermarket line, in front of my work computer.

That afternoon I was coming home from work and the whole city seemed to have agreed not to move. Three lanes at a standstill, the air conditioning on half power, the low hum of a hundred idling engines. I just wanted to get home, take off my shoes, and forget the day. And then my phone buzzed.

It was him.

“Hey, gorgeous. I can’t stop thinking about the last time. Do you remember how breathless you got when I shoved it all the way in?”

I felt the shiver before I even finished reading it. A heat that started at the nape of my neck and moved slowly, deliberately, as if it knew exactly where it was going. Suddenly, the traffic didn’t bother me quite so much.

Another message came in, stacked under the first.

“Imagining you breathing like that drives me crazy. This weekend I’m going to lick your pussy until you beg me to stop, and then I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk. You’re mine for a long while.”

I read those lines three times. Every minute stuck in the jam turned endless, but for a new reason. I didn’t want to get home to rest anymore. I wanted to get home to answer him, to stretch this out, to see how far he was capable of pushing me and how far I was capable of following.

I rested my head against the headrest and let my imagination do the rest. I remembered the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t seeing him, that half-smile of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. I also remembered his cock: thick, long, with that slight upward curve that hit me exactly where it needed to hit me. I pressed my thighs together without thinking, almost by reflex, and noticed that the skirt I was wearing that day wasn’t helping to calm me down at all. I could already feel the wetness soaking through my underwear.

***

It was a black skirt, short, tight, made of a soft, slightly stretchy fabric that clung to my hips. I’d put it on that morning feeling bold, and now that same boldness was working against me. Or for me, depending on how you looked at it.

The phone buzzed again, and this time it wasn’t text. It was a photo.

Mateo, standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, with that confidence of his even when he was just breathing. Shirtless, his body toned, one hand resting on the doorframe as if the camera had caught him by accident. But what left me speechless wasn’t his torso. It was the bulge marked against the fabric of his tight boxer briefs, the hard line of his cock outlined from tip to base with no shame at all, even the thickness of the head visible against the cotton. I had forgotten how good he looked with less on. And, above all, I had forgotten how much I liked that part of him, how full he left my mouth when I sucked it, how deep he went when he rode me.

I bit my lip. I looked in the rearview mirror, to the sides, at the car in front that showed no sign of moving. We were all there, stranded, each in our own bubble of glass and metal, oblivious. And I had that photo burning on the screen, my nipples tightening against my bra and an unbearable tingling between my legs.

I started slowly. I rested my left hand on my knee and let it travel up, unhurried, over my stocking. My fingers traced the skin of my thigh, and the skirt gave way, lifting just a little. It was a game with myself: seeing how long I could hold out before giving in. I didn’t hold out long.

The heat of my own touch intensified when I reached the edge of my underwear. The fabric was soaked, literally glued to my pussy, and beneath it desire had already outpaced my intentions. I pressed with the pad of my fingers over the cotton, tracing the shape of my swollen lips, and a trembling sigh slipped out of me on its own. I felt my clit throbbing beneath the fabric, hard as a little stone, demanding attention. I looked around again. Nobody. Or so I wanted to believe.

The risk changed everything. Knowing that anyone could turn their head, that a truck driver from his high cab would have a perfect view of my hand between my legs, that it would only take the car beside me looking a second too long to catch me masturbating in the middle of rush hour. That possibility, far from stopping me, pushed me on. My breathing turned short and hot, and my fingers began to move with more purpose, finding the exact spot they knew by heart.

I moved the fabric aside. There was no way to pretend innocence now. My fingers slid over bare skin, slippery, swollen with need, and pleasure shot up my back like an electric current. I drew them slowly between my lips, soaking them, then moved up to brush my clit in tight circles. I kept my other hand on the steering wheel, pretending to be calm when I wasn’t, my eyes half-closed, attentive to the distant traffic light and at the same time completely lost in what I was doing to myself.

I slipped one finger in, then two, and felt my pussy tighten around them as if that weren’t enough, as if it were asking for Mateo. I curved them, searching for that internal spot he knew how to hit with his cock, and a jolt ran through me from top to bottom. With my thumb I kept rubbing my clit in precise circles, while my fingers slid in and out with a wet little sound that was drowned out by the engine but that I heard perfectly. My palm filled with my own slick, slippery and thick, and that smell of sex began to fill the car’s cabin, mixed with the scent of the air freshener.

It was a strange and delicious sensation, inhabiting two worlds at once. On the outside, just another driver in an endless traffic jam, with the tired face of someone who only wants to get home. On the inside, a heat-crazed bitch with two fingers buried to the knuckle and a fire growing with every touch, fueled by Mateo’s photo, by his words, by the memory of his cock coming in and out of my pussy, of the salty taste he left in my mouth when I sucked him down to the base. I closed my eyes for a second and let the image of him fill my head, his weight on top of me, the way he grabbed my hair as he fucked me from behind, and my fingers responded to that memory on their own, faster, deeper.

***

When the traffic light turned red again — that red that day seemed like a blessing — I took advantage of the pause to do something I had never done before. I stretched out my arm, framed the camera toward myself, toward the skirt hiked up to my waist, my underwear shoved aside, my fingers shining with wetness buried in my open pussy, and the expression of pleasure I didn’t bother to hide. I took the photo and sent it to Mateo without thinking twice.

I hit “send” and adrenaline slammed into me. It wasn’t just the physical pleasure; it was knowing that somewhere in the city he was going to open that image and see my soaked pussy, my fingers inside, and understand, without a single word, that I was masturbating thinking about his cock in the middle of a traffic jam. Imagining him gripping his dick through his pants when he saw the photo turned me on in a whole new way.

My hands moved with more determination. The rhythm stopped being a question and became an answer. Every caress took me higher, and the noise of traffic — the engines, a horn in the distance, a radio blasting on the right lane — mixed with my own breathing until it became one constant background hum. I sank into it completely. I slid in a third finger, opening myself wider, while my thumb kept working the swollen clit. I stopped calculating, stopped looking to the sides. All that was left was the sensation growing, tightening, approaching a point of no return. The walls of my pussy started squeezing my fingers in small contractions, those tiny signs that tell you it’s almost here, very close.

I felt the tension gathering in the center of everything, that instant when the whole body prepares to let go. My movements became urgent, almost clumsy from need, three fingers in and out at an obscene rhythm, my trembling thumb on my clit hard as a pearl. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t make a sound and still a muffled noise slipped out of my throat. I was on the edge and I knew it, and the idea of finishing like that, trapped among a hundred strangers who had no idea I was about to come all over the fabric seat, pushed me over the line.

The orgasm split me in two. A dense, long wave that made me arch my back against the seat and grip the steering wheel with my free hand until my knuckles went white. My pussy contracted hard around my fingers, over and over, milking them as if they were Mateo’s cock, and a warm surge soaked my whole palm, dripping down my wrist and onto the seat. A deep, liberating moan slipped out of me and bounced around the car’s closed space. My body trembled with each spasm, my thighs closed over my own hand, trapping it there, and I was trying to keep at least some semblance of discretion that I had lost long ago. Still with my fingers inside, I kept pressing softly, stretching out the last tremors until my clit became too sensitive to touch.

It took me a few seconds to come back. My breath ragged, my heart pounding, a thin layer of sweat on my forehead, my hand shiny and sticky when I pulled it from between my legs. I sucked my fingers almost without realizing it, tasting what Mateo would have tasted if he’d been there. I pulled my skirt back down with still-clumsy hands and leaned back in the seat, staring at the car roof as if I’d just landed from another planet.

That was when I dared look to the side. The driver in the car beside me, a man in his forties, had his eyes fixed ahead with a smile barely drawn on his lips and, it seemed to me, a small suspicious movement in his lap. It was impossible to tell whether he had seen anything or whether that was just his face of patience in the jam. But that doubt, that smile that could mean everything or nothing, sent one last shiver of pure adrenaline through me.

The phone buzzed on the passenger seat. I didn’t need to read it to know what it said. I left it there, face down, to stretch out a little more the feeling that I was the one in control of this story.

The traffic light turned green. Engines roared around me, the jam finally began to break apart, and I rejoined traffic with a new calm and a smile nobody else was going to understand. I let out the air slowly, turned on the radio, and let the city move again.

He could wait until the weekend, I thought. I already had my own version of the story to tell him, photo and all.

I only picked up the phone when I got to the parking lot at home. His message was short, three words and a full stop that sounded like surrender: “You’re a goddess.” I smiled, rested my head against the seat for one more second, and understood something that afternoon made perfectly clear: desire doesn’t need a bed, or a closed door, or even the other person in front of you. Sometimes all it takes is a traffic jam, a phone, and the urge not to stop.

I answered with just one line. “Next time, it’s your turn to imagine my fingers inside me. And I swear you won’t be able to hold out without coming.”