What We Let Show on the Road to Seville

I pick you up at four in the morning. I wrote to you two weeks earlier, almost as a joke, not expecting an answer: “If you feel like it, we’ll go to Seville for a few days.” We work at the same company, in different departments, and had never crossed paths beyond long looks at the coffee machine. That’s why, when I got your email at midnight with an “I’m in, I’d been waiting for you to say it for months,” I had to read it three times.

We live in a town in inland Murcia, far from everything, and at that hour the car’s thermometer reads sixteen degrees on the screen. A luxury, for what’s coming. You come out of your building in a sheer dress, light-colored, one of those that the air moves as if it had a life of its own. You get in, leave your bag behind, and glance at me from the corner of your eye. I pull away without saying a word.

We drive for almost an hour on empty roads before merging onto the main motorway. That’s when everything changes: trucks appear, lights, people who get up early to arrive on time. We hadn’t turned on the AC to save fuel, so a couple of mosquitoes have slipped in through the window. You raise the glass, I finally turn on the air, and the bugs, cornered, take it out on you. I’m driving, so I laugh to myself.

—Stop it already —you say, waving them away—. This is your fault.

—You chose the passenger seat —I answer without taking my eyes off the road.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see your dress strap slip down. First one shoulder, then the other. The fabric slides to your waist and reveals your breasts, round, neither huge nor small, the dark areola and the nipple tight with cold. I’d imagined them so many times that seeing them for real steals my breath for a second.

—Do you want to touch them? —you ask, staring straight at me—. I’m not going anywhere.

I reach out without turning my head. I have to stay focused on the asphalt. I caress them slowly, knead them carefully, run my thumb over the nipple until it gets even harder. You close your eyes and let out your breath through your nose.

***

What you didn’t expect is what happens outside. A truck overtakes us and the driver honks. Then another, which stays beside us longer than necessary, not even pretending otherwise. I see a third man talking on hands-free, gesturing, and I imagine the conversation between them, the radio on, one warning the next.

—They’re looking at us —you murmur, and you don’t cover yourself. Quite the opposite.

Something about knowing they’re watching you turns you on in a way I hadn’t seen before. I urge you to take the dress off completely and you do it without thinking. Then I discover you weren’t wearing anything underneath. You spread your legs toward your window, offering anyone passing by a view that for you is a game and for me is a privilege: only I get to touch you.

And that’s what I do. I trace your lips, which swell with every caress, more and more visible to anyone looking from a high cab. I sink two fingers into your wet pussy and you writhe in the seat, gripping the overhead handle. When I pull them out, I take them to your mouth and you suck them while looking at me.

—Your turn —you say, your voice hoarse.

You slow the rush of my nerves by lowering my zipper yourself. You don’t give me a choice: you have my cock in your hand before I can say anything, and you start moving it, slow at first, faster after that, until I’m so hard it’s hard to keep my focus on the white line of the road. You stroke my balls, you lean in, and the rest of the trip turns blurry.

When I finish, you need a moment to pull yourself together and I have to take several deep breaths. There are ten minutes left until the station. I pull into a dark alley, we fix our clothes amid laughter, and we keep going. The idea was to arrive with time to spare. After that kind of show, we’re cutting it close.

***

The AVE leaves Alicante at eight in the morning on August first. We’ve requested assistance for travelers with reduced mobility, because since the accident I get around in a wheelchair, and that means being there two hours early. They wait for us by the platform, board us via the ramp, and I roll comfortably up to my reserved seat. Inside, we’re greeted by blessed air conditioning: outside it’s already twenty-eight degrees, and in Seville they’re promising forty-something.

We have all four seats in the group to ourselves. For now. We set off and, during the first hour, everything is calm and dry landscape rushing past the window. Then, as expected, the heat starts to be noticeable even in here, the air becomes less effective, and your dress starts doing what it did before. The straps slip. Your breasts come into view, restless, nipples pointing at the carriage ceiling.

You start touching yourself, slowly, looking at me sideways, until I can’t take it and I touch you too. You unbutton my trousers with impatient fingers. The elastic of my boxers barely gives because I’m so hard. You do everything with deliberate slowness.

—We’ve got almost five hours —you say—. No rush.

I answer you the same way, stroking you slowly, until a single look makes us understand each other. At the next stop we slip off to the bathroom. You sit on the edge of the sink, open your legs, and I go in all at once. What we didn’t count on is that at that station the train stops for twenty-five minutes, and not everyone who was waiting on the platform has boarded.

Some of them are still there, outside, exactly level with the bathroom window. They’re watching us.

—They can see us —I whisper in your ear.

—I know —you answer, and instead of stopping, you turn toward the glass.

You press your breasts against the window while I fuck you from behind, your legs trying to hook around mine. More than one person on the platform disappears all of a sudden, without waiting for the doors to close. I tell you and you laugh.

—Do you know where they’re going? —I ask.

—To finish what we started —you answer, breathless.

We wash up as best we can and go back to our seats. This time we sit opposite each other, me with my fly open, you with nothing under the dress. We pick up where we left off without touching with our hands, only with our feet, sex against sex, playing at making no noise while the carriage sleeps around us. When you’re close, you let me taste your wet fingers. Then, at last, we give in to sleep until Seville.

***

At the station we ask for an adapted taxi. You sit beside me and the driver, with a cheekiness he doesn’t even try to hide, positions the rearview mirror so he can see you in full. You notice right away. And instead of closing up, you spread your legs just enough for him to see what no cab driver should see, while you slip your hand into my trousers and grab my cock without taking it out, just to feel it.

The man gets so distracted we almost kiss the car in front.

—Watch the road and stop spying on us! —I shout at him.

He obeys without arguing. He straightens the mirror and drives the rest of the way with red ears.

***

We arrive at the hotel. He lowers me down the rear ramp, you get out, take the suitcases, pay him. Once we’re walking away, the taxi driver gives your ass a loud smack and pulls off before you can react.

While you check in, because from the chair I can’t reach the fucking counter, I take the chance to stroke one cheek beneath your dress. Your small shifts in posture give you away: you’re enjoying it. In the reflection of the glass I see the receptionist has noticed too. He’s, conveniently, the same man who takes our bags upstairs.

—I know what you were doing down there —he says in the elevator, with a self-satisfied smile.

—And we know you were staring at us the whole time —you reply, brushing his trousers as you pass—. Though for all that bragging, it’s not that much.

The man is left speechless all the way to the top floor.

***

The room has a terrace. We go out thinking there’ll be some cool air up there, but the wind is hot, thick. It doesn’t matter. We start kissing and, at the same pace, our clothes begin to become unnecessary. My fingers end up inside you, yours wrapping around my cock, and we both know how this is going to end before we decide it.

I climb up onto the wide edge of the terrace wall and lie down. You lean over, take me into your mouth with a slowness that is almost cruelty, and when I turn my head I discover that on the terrace opposite there’s a couple watching us in silence, glass in hand, not moving.

I don’t tell you. Or maybe you already know. You straighten up, position yourself over me, and take me inside you with a steady rocking motion, adjusting to the posture, the heat, the weight of the eyes on us. Then you speed up, as if we’d been challenged to something, as if what’s at stake were who can last longer under the orange light of the Andalusian sunset.

The couple across from us is still there. The receptionist, who knows. The truckers from this morning, the ones on the platform, the taxi driver with the red ears: they’re all already part of this trip without knowing it, they all saw a piece of what now belongs entirely to us.

—Shall we do this again tomorrow? —you ask, exhausted, resting your forehead on my shoulder.

—Only if you let them keep watching us —I answer.

And I know, by the way you smile, that the answer is yes.