I Fell into the Driver’s Trap and Don’t Regret It

After my divorce, it wasn’t the pain that surprised me, but the desire. I had just turned forty-two, my two children were already at university, my house was too quiet, and my body had been silent for far too long, with my pussy forgotten, dry from never being touched. My best friend Carolina had convinced me to download one of those dating apps, and at first it was only curiosity. Then it became a habit. And in the end, a dependency. I spent my nights with my hand between my legs, wetting my fingers with messages from strangers, coming alone in a double bed that no one had shared with me for three years.

I met Andrés there. Thirty-eight years old, a driver for an urban transport company covering the route between the north and south of the city. Big hands, a calm gaze, a smile that promised more than it said. We had arranged to meet on a Friday afternoon, after his last run. For two weeks he had been writing things that made my skin hot just from reading them: how he was going to lick me all over, how he was going to make me beg for his cock, how he was going to fill my pussy with cum until it ran down my thighs.

“I’ll pick you up at five today,” he had told me the night before. “I’m eager to make good on everything I promised you. Every word, ma’am. Every one.”

But Friday dawned cloudy, and by eleven in the morning I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had woken up with my pajamas stuck to my sex, soaked, with my panties turned into a wet rag from dreaming so much about a cock I hadn’t even seen yet. My children were away, my ex-husband lived in another city, and my calendar showed an entire day without any commitments. I decided I wasn’t going to wait until five. I was going to go find him myself.

I got ready carefully. A denim skirt above the knee, a white blouse with wide straps, my freshly washed hair falling over my shoulders. Underneath, a black lace set I hadn’t worn yet. I looked at myself in the mirror and, for the first time in years, recognized myself: an adult woman, confident, who knew what she wanted. Who wanted a hard cock between her legs and wasn’t planning to go home without having had one. I called a taxi and gave the driver the address of the terminal where Andrés kept his bus.

“Are you sure, ma’am?” the driver asked when I repeated the destination. “That’s a rough area.”

“I’m sure,” I replied, without taking my eyes off the rearview mirror.

The ride took forty minutes. The streets grew wider and emptier, the buildings lower, the vacant lots more frequent. In the end, the taxi left me in front of a chain-link gate with a faded sign: “Central Transport.” I paid him, asked for his number in case I needed to come back, and walked in slowly.

The terminal was a huge yard of packed dirt, with a dozen buses parked in disorderly rows. It smelled of diesel, dust, and male sweat. Three men were talking beside a corrugated-metal booth. When they saw me, the conversations stopped. They all stared at me, and I kept walking with my chin held high, pretending to have a confidence I barely possessed. I felt their eyes travel down my cleavage, my skirt, my legs, and instead of frightening me, it made me even wetter.

“Good afternoon,” I said when I reached the booth. “I’m looking for Andrés Treviño. Do you know if he’s around?”

The youngest of the three looked me up and down with a mocking smile and scratched the back of his neck.

“Andrés left half an hour ago, ma’am. He won’t be back until three.”

I felt the disappointment like a sharp blow to my stomach. I had come for nothing. I was about to turn around when one of the older men separated himself from the group and approached. He looked about fifty, tall, with graying hair and a neatly trimmed short beard. He wore the blue uniform shirt open to the second button and faded jeans that fit him as though they had been made to measure. A thick bulge was visible on the left side of his fly, and I, without meaning to, looked at it for a fraction of a second too long.

“I’m Mauricio,” he said, holding out his hand. “Andrés’s coworker. Would you like to wait for him in my bus? It’s too hot to stand out here.”

I looked at him uncertainly. There was something about him, a calmness that was reassuring and dangerous at the same time. A gaze that knew how to read things I still didn’t know how to say.

“Only if it’s no trouble,” I replied.

He led me to an urban bus parked at the far end of the yard, away from the others. He climbed in first, offered me his hand, and helped me up the two steps. It was cool inside. The gray curtains were drawn and the engine was off. It smelled of disinfectant and a man’s cologne that seemed vaguely familiar, as though I had breathed it in during some dream I no longer remembered.

“Please, sit down,” he said, pointing to the first seats. “Would you like some water?”

“Thank you.”

He took a cold bottle from a cooler beneath the dashboard and handed it to me. Then he sat across from me, in the opposite seat, and looked at me openly. I took a long drink and held his gaze. I didn’t know when the conversation had stopped being a courtesy.

“Andrés told me about you,” he said at last. “Not much. But enough.”

I felt the blood rise to my cheeks.

“What did he tell you?”

“That you were a very beautiful woman. And that he was lucky to have met you. That he’d been dreaming for two weeks about sticking it in you.”

I smiled despite myself, biting my lip. The word “woman” had pricked me a little at first, but coming from his mouth, in that deep, unhurried voice, it sounded different. It sounded like respect and desire at the same time. I finished the water, left the bottle on the floor, and tucked my hair behind my ear.

“And what do you think?”

Mauricio leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes never left mine.

“I think Andrés undersold it. And I think you came here to have your pussy fucked, not to sit around waiting.”

The air inside the bus grew denser. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my neck, my wrists, between my legs, where I could already feel the dampness soaking through the lace. I hadn’t felt this way in years: seen like that, desired with such precision. Mauricio wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t flirting. He was simply saying what he thought, and that disarmed me far more than any of the compliments the men at the entrance had given me.

“I have a proposition,” he continued after a pause. “If you let me, I’ll give you what you came here looking for. I’ll fuck you like no one has fucked you in years. And nobody has to find out.”

My mouth went dry.

“And why should I agree?”

“Because you’ve been thinking about leaving for twenty minutes, and you haven’t moved from your seat for twenty minutes. And because I can smell from here that you’re already wet, ma’am.”

He was right. Of course he was right. Andrés was a promise. Mauricio was the present. And I, after being silent for so long, had no patience left for more promises.

“And Andrés?” I asked in a whisper, more to myself than to him.

“Andrés is my friend. I won’t tell him anything. And neither will you. This will be ours.”

I nodded slowly. He stood up, went to the back of the bus, and lowered a thick fabric blind that separated the last seats from the rest. When he returned, he held out his hand. I took it. And I walked behind him to the back, feeling each step carry me farther from the woman I had been during twenty years of marriage, while the lace dug deeper and deeper into my pussy.

Behind the blind was a bench seat, wider than the others, with a thick cushion on it. Mauricio sat down and gestured for me to come closer. I remained standing in front of him, my pulse still racing.

“Take off your blouse,” he said. It wasn’t an order. It was an invitation.

I obeyed. I pulled the blouse slowly over my head, letting him look at every inch of my skin. When he saw the lace bra, he let out a short sigh, as though he had been struck in the chest.

“Fuck,” he said. “I imagined you were a woman like this, but not this much like this. The skirt too. Take off your skirt.”

I undid the fastening and let the denim slide to the floor. I stood before him in black lace, my nipples showing through the cups and my panties already darkened in front by my wetness. Mauricio slowly ran his tongue over his upper lip and beckoned me closer with two fingers. I took the two steps separating us and stood between his spread knees.

He kissed my navel first. Then he moved up my stomach, slowly, with a patience I didn’t remember ever receiving. When he reached my breasts, he slid the bra cups down instead of taking the bra off and sucked them as if he had all the time in the world. He caught one nipple between his teeth, tugged it gently, released it, let it redden, and then ran his broad, flat tongue over it, soaking it with saliva before sucking it deep, burying half my breast in his mouth. I threw my head back and let out a moan I didn’t even recognize as my own.

“Quiet,” he murmured against my flesh. “Even if no one’s nearby, stay quiet. I want to be the only one who hears you.”

His hands moved up beneath nothing, because I was already only in my panties. He slipped one hand beneath the lace in front and ran two fingers all along the slit of my pussy, from back to front, slowly, gathering the wetness as though measuring something.

“You’re soaked, ma’am,” he said, then brought his fingers to his mouth without taking his eyes off me. “Soaked.”

He yanked my panties down in one pull, took them off my ankles, and tossed them aside. Then he made me spread my legs, held me by the hips, and drew me toward his mouth. I had to grab the front seatback to keep my balance, because when his tongue plunged between my lips and rose to my clitoris in one slow, deep lick, my knees buckled.

“Oh, God,” I whispered, covering my own mouth.

Mauricio ate my pussy as though he had been waiting his whole life for that moment. He sucked my clitoris with his lips, released it, thrust his whole tongue inside me, pulled it out, and licked me from my asshole to the top in one long, firm motion that made me tremble. He inserted one finger, then two, and curled them, searching for that spot inside me my ex-husband had never found. When he found it, he pressed down, and I came standing up, my fingers buried in his graying hair and a muffled moan caught in my throat.

“Good,” he murmured, his beard glistening with my wetness. “That’s how I like it. Have the lady come before she’s even tasted the cock.”

Still trembling, he made me turn around and sit astride him, my legs spread on either side of his thighs. He looked up at me with a new smile, less restrained now.

“Look at me,” he said. “I want to see your face while I do what I came here to do to you.”

I opened his shirt, one button at a time. He had a broad chest dusted with gray hairs and a small scar above his collarbone. I kissed that scar first. Then his mouth. His tongue was slow and exploratory, and tasted of me, of my pussy, which aroused me even more. I lowered one hand and undid his pants. I pulled his briefs down just enough and took him out. He was thick, curved upward, with prominent veins and a tip already wet with fluid.

“Oh, my God,” I said before I could stop myself.

Mauricio chuckled softly.

“Suck it a little first, ma’am. I want to see it filling your mouth.”

I slid down to the floor of the bus, between his spread legs, and took him into my mouth. First I licked him from base to tip, my tongue flat, the way he had done to me. Then I opened my lips and began lowering my head, swallowing him little by little. He reached the back of my throat and forced me to breathe through my nose. Mauricio held my hair, not hard, just enough to set the rhythm, and I began moving up and down, sucking him eagerly, licking his balls before coming back up with my mouth a slobbery mess.

“That’s it, ma’am, that’s it,” he panted. “You suck so well. With that respectable mouth.”

When he felt himself getting close, he pulled my hair upward and brought me back onto his lap. He held my waist with both hands, and I took his cock and slowly guided it toward my pussy, opening myself with my other hand. Feeling it enter was a gulp of air after years of breathing halfway. It opened me slowly, inch by inch, until I felt it touch the deepest part of me and let out a long, broken moan.

“All the way, ma’am, every inch,” he murmured, biting my shoulder. “It all fits.”

I began moving on top of him, gently at first, holding onto his shoulders. Mauricio held my waist with both hands and set the rhythm, but without imposing it. It was a conversation between our two bodies. I rose, he lowered. I sped up, he held me back for a moment to make it last longer. Then he smacked my ass, neither hard nor soft, exactly the way I needed to remember who was in charge.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s it, ma’am, just like that. Ride that cock the way you’ve wanted to for years.”

The word “ma’am” stopped bothering me. It began to turn me on. Every time he said it, I felt a current run down my back to my pussy. Maybe because for the first time in a long while, someone was treating me like an adult woman, with respect and hunger at the same time. Like a woman who deserved to be desired for what she was, not in spite of it. Like a lady who deserved to be fucked properly.

“Say it again,” I asked, panting against his mouth.

“Ma’am,” he repeated, thrusting upward, driving into me to the hilt. “My ma’am, my fucking ma’am, the way you squeeze me.”

My second orgasm came almost without warning. I pressed myself against him and stopped moving, biting my lip to keep from screaming. I felt my pussy clamp around him in spasms, one pulse after another, and my legs trembled against his thighs. Mauricio held me, kissed my forehead, and waited. When I stopped trembling, he made me stand, arranged me on my back over the cushion, and positioned himself above me, his cock shining with my juices, still hard, still red at the tip.

“I’m not finished with you yet,” he said.

He entered me again, and this time it was different. Deeper, more determined. He lifted one of my legs and rested it on his shoulder, folding me almost in half, and from that angle he began fucking me with long, dry thrusts that struck my thighs with a wet slapping sound that filled the back of the bus. I stared at him without blinking, my bare breasts bouncing with every blow and my skirt rolled up around my waist like a belt. He returned my gaze and began moving with a new rhythm, more serious, more his own.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he said. “I want to see you.”

I didn’t close them. I watched him fuck me. I saw his jaw tense, the vein in his neck bulge, sweat running down his temple. I saw his abdominal muscles contract every time he drove into me to the balls. I saw him lower one hand and squeeze my clitoris with his thumb while he kept thrusting, and that was when I felt the third one coming.

“I’m going to come again,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

“Come, ma’am. Come on my cock. Soak it.”

I looked at him as I felt myself coming, this time with a trembling that began in my thighs and rose to my neck, to my hair, a long orgasm that arched my back against the cushion and made me dig my nails into his shoulders. I felt my pussy contract around him, and he let out a short, guttural groan, clenching his teeth.

“Fuck, ma’am, I can’t hold back like this.”

“Inside,” I begged without thinking, without thinking twice. “Come inside me.”

His whole face tightened. He thrust three, four, five more times, each one deeper, each one slower, and on the sixth he went very still, buried to the hilt, his cock trembling inside me. I felt the hot spurts one after another—one, two, three, four—filling me, and each one was accompanied by a restrained groan against my neck. I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him against me, feeling him empty himself inside me to the very last drop.

And I still looked at him afterward, while he remained above me, breathing against my neck, in no hurry to pull away, his cock still inside me, still hard, slowly softening inside my filled pussy.

When he finally collapsed onto the seat beside me, I felt him slide out with a wet moan and noticed his semen beginning to run between my thighs. We both took a long while to speak. He was the first.

“What’s your name?”

I let out a short laugh, almost voiceless.

“You’re asking me that now? After leaving everything inside me?”

“Before, I thought it was unnecessary.”

I told him my name. He gave me his full name, his number, and a promise not to contact me if I didn’t want him to. He helped me dress with the same calmness with which he had undressed me. He picked up my panties from the floor and, instead of handing them to me, put them in his pants pocket while looking me in the eyes.

“A keepsake,” he said.

He pulled up my skirt’s zipper, straightened my blouse straps, and ran his fingers through my hair. He handed me the water bottle, warm by now, and gave me one last kiss, this one without urgency, just to bring things to a close—a slow kiss that tasted of me again.

When I got off the bus, Andrés had just arrived. I saw him in the distance, parking his bus, without having seen me yet. For a moment I hesitated, my pussy still throbbing and another man’s cum running down the inside of my thigh. Then I took out my phone and sent him a brief message: “Something came up. We’ll leave it for another day.” I put my phone away and walked toward the exit without looking back.

Mauricio watched me from the door of his bus, leaning against the frame, his shirt still open and the marks of my nails red across his chest. He raised two fingers in a silent farewell. I smiled at him, squeezed my legs together as I walked to hold on a little longer to what he had left inside me, and crossed the gate without hurrying.

I called the taxi. While I waited, I sat on a concrete bench in the sun and felt his semen run between my legs, slowly soaking the new panties he had made me put on before letting me leave, reminding me of everything that had just happened. Forty-two years old, two children at university, a house that was too quiet waiting for me when I got back.

And a pussy that, at last, after so much time, had begun to speak again.