The Rearview Mirror That Saw Everything

My love,

It’s almost two in the morning and I can’t get to sleep. The room is silent, only the noise from the street coming muffled through the window, and here I am, tossing and turning in this bed that feels three times bigger since you’re not here. Your pillow still smells like you, though I know that at some point it’ll stop, and that makes me feel a strange sadness I don’t know how to explain to you.

I miss you with an intensity that fills my whole body. Not just my heart, though that too, but my skin, the palms of my hands, the lower part of my belly. I miss you in a way that isn’t comfortable or poetic, but urgent and inconvenient, like a thirst you can’t quite quench. Right now, as I write to you, I’ve got my hand between my legs and my cunt soaked through, and I’m not ashamed to tell you because I know you’ll read it smiling.

And the reason I can’t sleep is one particular night. One that keeps replaying in my head every time I turn off the light.

The taxi one.

***

We’d arranged to have dinner with your friends at a restaurant near the square, the one we went to the first time I came to visit you and where the tables are so close together you always end up overhearing the conversation at the next one. It was a Wednesday, or a Thursday, I don’t remember exactly now. What I do remember is the dress I was wearing: navy blue, with thin straps, and a neckline low enough to be interesting without being ridiculous. Underneath, a tiny black thong, one of the ones you like, and nothing else: no bra, no stockings. I’d bought it without you, but while I was putting it on I thought of you. I always end up thinking of you.

We arrived first and ordered wine while we waited for the others. You took my hand over the table, with no attempt to hide it, as if we’d been doing it all our lives. That’s what I like about you: that you’re never embarrassed for it to be obvious that you’re with me.

Dinner was long and lively. Your friends are good people, the kind who talk a lot and talk well, and the conversation jumped from one subject to another with that ease that makes hours pass before you realize it. We drank more wine than we’d planned to. We laughed. And you, all the while, did your thing with a patience that undid me.

A hand on my knee when someone was telling a long story. Your thumb drawing slow circles on my wrist while you listened. Once, when the waiter brought dessert, you leaned in to say something in my ear, something completely innocent about the menu, but what you really did was brush my neck with your lips and linger one second longer than necessary. I felt the heat all the way to the base of my spine, and a tug at my nipples, which pressed against the dress without me being able to do anything about it.

There was a moment, near the end of the night, when our eyes met across the table and you raised one eyebrow ever so slightly, a gesture so small no one else at that table would have noticed. I understood it perfectly. It was a question and a promise.

By the time we asked for the bill I’d had the thong literally stuck to my cunt for a good while, soaked through, and my legs were clenched under the tablecloth so I wouldn’t give myself away. I knew that you knew. You always know. Every time I changed position I could feel my own juices running down the inside of my thigh, and just thinking about you licking there as soon as we got home let out a sigh I covered by taking the last sip of wine.

***

The goodbyes at the restaurant door were long, as always. Hugs, promises to do it again soon, someone who couldn’t find their car keys. I was there with my jacket over my arm and the wine moving warm through my blood, waiting.

You ordered the taxi on your phone before I said anything. Five minutes, the app said. You put the phone in your pocket and looked at me that way. It’s not a look I can describe exactly, but I always recognize it: the one that tells me what’s coming next is not going to be discreet.

The car arrived on time. A dark sedan with the driver’s license laminated on the dashboard: Marcos, forty-something, serious face. He gave a brief greeting, entered the address into the GPS without asking, and drove off.

I got in first. You closed the door.

Before the car had gone a single block, your hand was already on my thigh.

***

It wasn’t a clumsy or hurried gesture. It was your palm flat on my leg, your fingers pointing inward, exactly where the dress ended. A declaration, not a question.

I looked ahead. The city passed by the windows, streetlights and shopfronts and the occasional terrace still full of people at that hour. The rearview mirror was small and neatly framed by the windshield. Marcos was driving with his eyes on the road, or so it seemed.

Your hand began to move slowly upward. So slowly that I could have denied it if anyone had asked me, though no one was going to ask. I felt the fabric of the dress riding up with your fingers, felt the car’s interior air on the upper part of my thigh, and then your hand crossed the edge of the fabric and found the soaked bulge of the thong directly.

I held my breath for a moment. Then I forced myself to let it out slowly, to keep my posture, to keep looking forward as if nothing that was happening mattered more than the nighttime city beyond the glass.

—Are you okay? —you asked, in that completely normal voice of yours, conversational, as if you were asking whether I’d taken the keys.

—Perfectly —I said, and my voice sounded normal too, though I don’t know how.

Your fingers pressed the thong’s fabric and immediately felt what you already knew. You pressed your knuckle against my clit through the cloth and I bit my lip until it hurt. The fabric was so wet it stuck to my lips and you felt everything, every fold, every little corner, with the calm of someone who was in no hurry. The car stopped at a red light and the silence inside the cabin became more present. Only the radio at very low volume, something I couldn’t make out.

I lifted my eyes to the mirror.

Marcos was looking at the mirror.

It was a brief moment, less than a second, but it was real contact: his eyes on mine in that small rectangle. He didn’t look away immediately and neither did I. The light turned green and the car set off again.

Let him look, I thought. Let him look all he wants.

***

You moved the thong fabric aside with two fingers, leaving my cunt exposed on the dark seat. The first direct contact with skin made me jerk, and I tried to hide it by tightening my jaw. I was so wet your fingers slid with no resistance, and I heard perfectly the wet sound they made as they ran from bottom to top. An obscene sound, impossible to disguise in the car’s silence. Marcos heard it. The three of us heard it.

You slid two fingers in, slowly, all the way, and I felt my whole belly tighten around them. Your thumb found my clit with that precision of yours that no longer surprises me but still makes me forget where I am. You pulled them back to the tip, glistening, and pushed them in again with a slow, deep motion that tore a gasp from me. My hips started moving without my deciding to, a small rhythmic rocking that anyone not watching closely could confuse with the motion of the car.

But Marcos was watching closely. And I opened my legs a little wider.

It was my gesture, conscious, deliberate. I let my right knee fall against the door and my left against your leg, and with that my dress rode all the way up and my cunt was spread wide open, with your hand working me and the rearview mirror pointed directly at that geography. Marcos gripped the steering wheel with both hands. I saw his knuckles turn white.

—Look how wet you are —you said quietly, and it was a statement, not a reproach—. You’re dripping, darling.

I nodded, unable to speak. Your fingers went in and out with a wet splashing sound that filled the whole cabin, louder than the radio, louder than the engine. You added a third and stretched me, and I felt that particular burn only you know how to make me feel, that good burn that comes before what happens next. With your other hand you yanked my neckline down with a precise tug and pulled out a breast, without ceremony, and started pinching my nipple between thumb and forefinger while you kept pumping your fingers in and out of me.

The car gradually slowed and took a turn that didn’t match our route. I noticed it in the steering, in the change of texture under the wheels. When I opened my eyes, which at some point I’d closed, we were on a narrow side street, with a single streetlight at the end and silence on both sides.

Marcos had turned off the engine.

He turned in his seat with deliberate slowness. No apology. No words. Just looking. His hands were in his lap, still, but the bulge of his cock was perfectly visible beneath his jeans, hard, pressed tight against the seam. He wasn’t touching himself. He didn’t make a move at any point. He had an expression that wasn’t exactly lust but something more complicated: the focus of someone witnessing something he knows he has no right to touch and also refuses to miss.

You didn’t stop.

You didn’t slow down or change position. On the contrary: you pulled your soaked fingers out of me, held them up to the streetlight so Marcos could see them shining, and then you put them in my mouth. I sucked them clean, without looking away from the rearview mirror, tasting myself with my tongue, and I heard Marcos swallow. Then you took your hand back down to my cunt and resumed exactly where you’d left off, with your fingers now even slicker from my own saliva.

—Open wider, darling —you whispered in my ear—. Let him see properly.

I obeyed. I lifted one leg and put it up on the seat, resting my foot against the back of the front passenger seat, and I was completely open, my cunt pushed forward, toward the mirror, toward Marcos’s gaze. With your other hand you pulled my thong down to mid-thigh and took it off with a yank, then left it thrown on the seat between us, black and soaked, the physical proof of what was happening.

Marcos didn’t look away once. Neither did I from his eyes.

You leaned in and kissed my jaw slowly, and I felt your breath near my ear when you said, so quietly only I could hear:

—He can only look.

Those three words. I don’t know exactly what they did in my head, but the effect was physical and immediate. Everything inside me clenched around your fingers, a prelude tremor announcing what was coming. And you, noticing it, sped up. Three fingers going in and out of my cunt, your thumb pressing my clit in quick circles, your mouth sucking my bare nipple, and Marcos there in front, silent, his hands tense on his thighs and his cock outlined under his jeans, taking it all in with his eyes.

The orgasm came sooner than I expected, with the intensity of things that have been building for hours. It started in my pelvis and spread outward, to my thighs, my belly, my arms. I pressed my lips together with all my strength and still the sound that came out filled the inside of the car, a rough, long moan with no elegance at all. My hips drove into your hand, my cunt clamped tight around your fingers, and I felt myself come literally against your palm, a warm gush running down the crease of my ass to stain the seat. I stayed there for seconds I couldn’t count, motionless, my legs trembling and my breath completely broken, with one breast still out of the dress and my cunt open and on display for a stranger who looked like he’d witnessed a miracle.

Your fingers stayed inside a little longer, still, letting the spasms fade on their own. Then you slowly withdrew them, and gave them one last lick yourself before you settled me back. You pulled my neckline up, put my breast away, lowered the hem of my dress, and put your jacket over my legs. You tucked the thong into your jacket pocket. You never gave it back to me, by the way.

Marcos turned back to the steering wheel without saying anything. He started the car.

***

The rest of the ride we did in silence. I rested my head on your shoulder and you put your arm around me and the city kept sliding past the windows as if nothing had happened, as if we were just any couple going home after a quiet dinner. I could feel the semen and my own fluids drying on the inside of my thighs, sticky, and I realized I was smiling against your neck.

When the car stopped in front of our building, we both got out. You stayed for a moment by the driver’s window while I waited on the sidewalk, unable to hear the conversation. I saw you hand him something, and him refuse it with a wave of his hand.

—How much do I owe you? —I heard you ask.

Marcos shook his head and smiled for the first time all night. A smile that held a lot of things inside it.

—Tonight’s on the house —he said.

And he drove off before you could answer. I watched him go down the street until he turned the corner and disappeared. As he was leaving, I thought that as soon as he parked somewhere dark he was going to pull down his pants and jerk off thinking of me. And I liked thinking that. I still do.

***

That’s what won’t let me sleep, my love. Not just the memory of the pleasure, though that’s there too, vivid and immediate. It’s the image of that rearview mirror, Marcos’s eyes meeting mine, your voice telling me “he can only look” with that absolute calm you have when you know exactly what you’re doing.

I wonder whether Marcos remembers it too. Whether whenever he has someone in the back seat, that side street comes to mind, that streetlight at the end, that silence he himself created by turning off the engine. Whether he still smells me somewhere in the upholstery.

I know I’m going to remember it for the rest of my life.

This bed without you is too big. I think about your hands, how well they know me, about all the places they’ve been. I think about the next time we see each other and what I’m going to do when I have you in front of me. I’m going to kneel in the entryway before you’ve even let go of your suitcase and I’m going to pull your cock out right there, and I’m going to suck it until you fill my mouth with cum. Then you’re going to fuck me against the wall, and in bed, and on the floor if necessary. I’m not letting you leave the apartment for days. I’m warning you in advance.

I love you more than I know how to say.

Forever yours, Nadia.