The Taxi Driver Who Looked at Me and Couldn't Touch Me

I had been standing on the sidewalk for half an hour, my heels already wedged between the paving stones, when I finally heard the horn. That morning was the most important of the year for me: the publishing house Papel y Lumbre had read the stories I uploaded to a writing platform and wanted to publish them as a summer collection.

I had dressed to win. Black pencil skirt, fitted blazer, high heels, and a white blouse two sizes smaller than I should have been wearing. An old trick: whenever something important is at stake, I buy tight clothes. They emphasize my hips, lift my breasts, and force me to walk straight. At thirty-four, with a body that still works, I’m not ashamed to admit that I know how to use it.

—Aurora Street, sixty-eight, I told the driver as I got in.

—Perfect, miss.

The taxi pulled away and I settled into the back seat. Between the driver and me was one of those partition windows found in old taxis, thick glass that muffled sound and turned the man in front into a half-seen silhouette. For the first few minutes I focused on my phone, reviewing the presentation.

Ten streets later, the car stopped. And it didn’t move again.

—A truck overturned on the ring road; they just told me over the radio, the driver informed me, turning halfway around. It’ll be a while, miss. Make yourself comfortable.

That was when I looked at him properly for the first time. He must have been in his late thirties, with a short honey-colored beard, light eyes, and worn jeans. A handsome guy who didn’t realize he was handsome. His black polo clung to his chest in the heat.

—The car’s air conditioning is broken, he added, as if reading my mind. Roll down the window if you like.

I rolled it down. It made no difference. The air from the ring road came in hot, heavy with exhaust fumes. August in the capital, the pavement boiling, not a breath of wind.

To kill time, we started talking.

—And you, miss, where are you off to looking so elegant?

—A meeting with a publisher. To see if they’ll publish some stories I wrote. And don’t call me “you,” I’m sure we’re even the same age.

—Well, a writer in my taxi, he said with a short laugh. I’m Damián. And I’m not actually a taxi driver. My father is. He got sick this morning and asked me to fill in for him. Don’t report me.

—Marina, I replied. And you’re safe. I’m not going to report the only man who can get me out of this traffic jam.

He laughed again and turned back toward the road. I also pretended to look out the window. But something had happened during that first exchange of glances in the rearview mirror. We both knew it. And for the moment, we both let it go.

The minutes began to drag, as thick as the air. The sun beat directly onto the roof of the car and the passenger compartment became an oven. Drops of sweat first appeared on my forehead and neck. I felt one run down my sternum, slip between my breasts, and disappear into the waistband of my skirt. Another followed, then another.

My white blouse was sticking to my skin and revealing my black bra. I opened my blazer. I undid the first button. Then the second. I wasn’t thinking; I was just hot.

I looked at my phone and a drop went into my eye. I lifted my head to blink away the sting, and that was when I caught him. Damián wasn’t looking at the road. He was staring at me through the rearview mirror. His eyes were fixed on the gap in my blouse, where the wet fabric revealed a piece of tit and the black edge of my bra.

When our eyes met, he immediately turned his face toward the windshield. I didn’t.

I stayed still, holding his gaze in the mirror, waiting for him to look back. And he did. It took him less than thirty seconds.

Then, very slowly, without taking my eyes off him, I undid another button.

I saw him swallow. I saw his Adam’s apple move. Through the glass, I heard the small, wet click in his throat.

There it is. It’s started.

My pulse shot up. It wasn’t the first time a guy had looked at me, nor the first time I’d let him. But there was something about that glass between us, about the absolute impossibility of his getting out of the front seat and coming for me, that had me burning in under a minute.

I ran my index finger over a drop of sweat on my neck. I dragged it slowly upward, to my mouth. I put the whole finger between my lips, closed them, and sucked it as if it were something else. Without stopping looking at him in the rearview mirror.

Damián’s shoulders tensed. I saw his right arm disappear from my field of vision, saw it moving below, saw him start to rub. I heard the slow brush of his hand against the denim. He was touching himself over his pants, watching me.

A jolt ran up my back. His cock was getting hard because of me, less than a meter away from me, and he couldn’t do anything. Neither could I. We could only look at each other.

My breasts, squeezed by the blouse two sizes too small and by how horny I was, finally tore the last buttons away. I heard them hit the taxi floor. The fabric opened completely, leaving my tits half spilling out of the black bra, bouncing with their weight, covered in sweat and gleaming beneath the midday light.

Damián let out a muffled, restrained groan, as if someone had punched him in the stomach. That finally undid me.

I pulled the bra straps down and pushed it beneath my tits so they were completely bare. My nipples had been hard for quite some time. I pinched them while looking at him, one with each hand, tugging and twisting them until my mouth opened on its own into a silent O.

—Fuck, I heard him say quietly on the other side of the glass.

I heard a zipper going down. A quick movement, a shift in position. He had taken his cock out. I could see it. I couldn’t see him, because the glass and the seatback hid it from me, but the sound of his hand sliding along his shaft was unmistakable. That faint wet slapping, that slow rhythm that was about to stop being slow.

I hiked my skirt up to my waist in one pull. Underneath, I was wearing a soaked black thong. Truly soaked. I moved it aside with two fingers and let him see everything: my open lips, my swollen clit, the wetness between my thighs.

The smell of hot, sweaty pussy rose through the passenger compartment. That smell has always turned me on, mine or anyone else’s skin. When I smell that, I know I’m out of control.

I put in two fingers, my index and middle fingers. I pulled them out dripping and brought them to my mouth. I sucked them slowly, tasting myself, watching him. I lowered my hand again, and this time I shoved them in all the way, tearing a moan from myself that I didn’t try to hide.

—Fuck, fuck, fuck, Damián repeated, almost in a furious whisper, pounding against his hand.

I began fucking myself with my fingers, two, three, in and out, while with my other hand I circled my clit. I could hear my own pussy, that wet, sloshing, obscene sound each time my fingers went in to the knuckles. And I could hear his fist pounding against his open fly, faster and faster, rougher and rougher.

We stared into each other’s eyes in the rearview mirror without a break.

At one point I raised a leg, rested my heel on a plastic protrusion sticking out from the partition, and opened myself completely. My pussy was offered to those light eyes that seemed ready to pop out of their sockets. Damián was red and sweaty, mouth open, panting as if he had just run a marathon.

And that was when I remembered that the side crank on one of the windows was loose. I had noticed it when I rolled it down. I grabbed it. I pulled. It came off entirely, a cylinder of hard plastic about eight inches long. I looked at it. I looked at him. And I put it in my mouth.

I covered it in saliva, spat on it, and sucked it again. When it was gleaming, I lowered it.

I pushed it slowly into my pussy, watching him lose his mind. The first two inches, then halfway, then all the way. I began pumping it in and out, imagining that it was his cock entering and leaving me. With my other hand I rubbed circles over my clit, squeezing, releasing, squeezing.

Damián slammed his head against the headrest and began hammering his shaft with a violence I hadn’t seen from him before. I could hear him perfectly. That quick, dry slap of a hand clenched around a hard cock, a furious piston. At one point he struck the glass with his open palm, twice, three times, as if he wanted to break it so he could get to me.

He couldn’t. I knew it. He knew it. And that impossibility was making me explode inside.

My orgasm hit so suddenly that my vision almost went dark. My whole body went rigid, I arched my back against the seat, my thighs closed around my own hand, and I felt a gush spill out of me, soaking my hand, the seat, and my hiked-up skirt. I screamed. I screamed loudly, without holding back, and the scream bounced off that thick glass and reached Damián muffled and distorted, as if I were coming inside someone else’s dream.

The spurts splashed across the glass. A liquid, gleaming pool completely covered his face. I saw him blurry on the other side, thrashing with his cock in his hand and his mouth open, shouting something I couldn’t make out. He came without being able to see me anymore, against glass stained by me, punished for not being faster, for not being able to leave his seat. That was my small act of cruelty. And I loved it.

***

We dressed in silence. I pulled my skirt down as best I could, buttoned my blazer over the blouse in tatters, and wiped my fingers with a tissue. He took longer to arrange his pants. When the traffic finally started moving, neither of us said a word during the ten minutes remaining before we reached the publishing house.

When we arrived, I looked at the meter. Forty-two euros. I opened the door, put one leg out, then the other, and before closing it I turned to look at him one last time. His green eyes were shining, but I was already out of his reach.

—Thanks for the ride, I said with all the calm in the world.

And I closed the door without paying a single euro.

I arrived half an hour late to the meeting at Papel y Lumbre. The editors didn’t reproach me in the slightest. They confirmed the summer collection and asked me for one more last-minute story, something fresh, something that would put the finishing touch on the anthology.

—Coincidentally, I have one I just wrote, I lied, opening my laptop. It’s about a woman and a taxi driver trapped in a traffic jam, masturbating for each other on opposite sides of the car’s partition glass. They can’t touch. They can only look at each other.

The editor laughed and looked at me the way you look at someone you’ve just discovered.

—Brilliant, Marina. Where do you get these things?

—From my imagination, I said, squeezing my thighs beneath the table. Sometimes it’s very bad.

To this day I still wonder whether Damián managed to clean his father’s taxi window. And whether it got him hard again when he did.