My wife and I both have a taxi sex fantasy. We’ve never talked about it, but she’s dared my friend Mr. X to lure his wife or girlfriend into the back seat of one, and Mr. X has written to her with a four-wheeled fantasy of his own. Tragically for us both, my wife has a car (although she’ll occasionally take the bus) and I have a bike. Are you caught up now? Cursing countless missed opportunities like me? Well that’s why you go on vacation – for the taxis.
Madrid would have hundreds of them, I suspected, white SEATs, Audis and Peugeots zipping through crowds of drunk Spaniards at all hours of the night (also we have friends there and had decided to stop off for a couple of days – insignificant facts compared to those zipping taxis). Plus, with the sexual revolution still swinging in Spain 35 years after Franco, surely taxi drivers got an eyeful all the time. Hell, I’d been getting an eyeful all afternoon as we’d strolled through the Parque del Buen Retiro after some Velezquez in the Prado. It was sunny and hot and more than a few bikini tops had taken wing to land off in the grass next to the beach towels of bathing lovelies. As for the flocks of miniskirts twitching past, I figured Madrid must have ateliers every block or so, like hair salons, where they painted them straight onto pert Spanish asses so that foreign observers could study the Iberian anatomy without the obstruction of actual clothing. Ah, Spain. I was horny.
That night we had a pizza on the Plaza del Dos Mayo in the Malasaña neighborhood, where everyone – gay, straight and undetermined – looked to be in love and turned on, or prepared to be if the right stranger came along. Kids French kissed on the cobblestones, running their hands over each other like aspiring massage therapists. Coming around a corner I massaged my wife’s delicious ass (unfortunately clothed, as we hadn’t been able to find one of those ateliers), and she squirmed and kissed me right back, hard, daring me and the rest of the world to want her. After dinner, instead of walking back across the Puerta del Sol towards Santa Ana, where we were staying, we decided to catch a taxi. (“You going to take advantage of me in that taxi?” she said. “What do you mean?” I said.)
Sex was in the air, but as soon the doors plunked shut behind us, the atmosphere was so thick with it that without a thought in my mind, my cock snaked out across the top of my thigh until my pants stretched into a sharp outline. I felt violent. I wanted to leap onto her and hold her between claws. Her eyes were strangely pale under the flickering streetlamps, as if her pupils had rolled up into her head. She looked down at my cock – if the taxi hadn’t been careening through the streets so quickly, if it had decided to stop at a red light, we could have watched it pulse, it was so alive. She reached out to cover it with a hand, the tip of her tongue darting out to touch on the edge of a smile, and then lightly at first, then with increasing pressure, she began to began to score the swollen base of my blood-throbbed head with her fingernail. A groan came up through my body from somewhere down past my balls, and I wanted it in her mouth.
The driver was about fifty-five, partly bald, gray at the temples and flecked through his mustache. Either he worked out or he hadn’t been a taxi driver all his life – his shoulders rippled every time he turned the wheel, and his neck was as wide as his head. Otherwise I’d hardly noticed his face when I’d given him the address.
My wife’s hand stayed at my cock, rubbing it faster now, pressing hard with the heel of her hand, her red-tipped fingers splayed up into the air like summer fireworks. I feared I would come and soggily limp home, so I took my revenge. I tickled her neck with my teeth and tongued a line up towards her ear that tasted faintly salty. My hand massaged the swell of her breast through her shirt, and the flushed skin plunging from her neck, but I wanted more, so with a quick turn of my palm I brought out a breast like scooping up ice cream. We were collapsed into each other now, she still at my cock and clumsily fumbling with the zipper as she kissed me hard, and me openly caressing her taut, exposed breast, wanting to take off all her clothes, wanting to fuck her for this man and for Madrid.
Now she was moving the nails of her thumb and forefinger up and down the length of my furiously imprisoned shank of flesh, modeling it out of the fabric like a sculptor until I looked as naked as those painted asses in the park. I wanted to driver to see what she was doing, and I wanted to go further. But I kissed her first, wet and long, pulling her closer and running a palm down over her neck until it pressed into the form of a hardening nipple, the faint outline of aureole, on the low-cut shirt she hadn’t worn a bra beneath. The driver paid this no mind. He was too busy muttering at midnight Madrid traffic.
She’d gotten her hand through the slot of my zipper and had snatched my underwear aside to find a cock so hot it must have branded her. She was kissing me like a drowning woman, gasping air from my lips, and I raked the shirt down over her other breast. The shirt pushed them both up and out into the air, and they seemed to need a tongue. The driver was still driving and was only interested in what there was to honk at in front of him, not what might be in the rearview mirror. I furtively lowered my head from her lips to her nipple, which I began to flick with my tongue. I heard a faint moan over the Spanish cacophony outside. I began to lick her with a hunger, gobbling her up. When I turned up to look at her face and see if we were pushing too far, I saw that she had thrown her head back on the back of her seat and had closed her eyes completely, caring only about her own pleasure. Covering her with my body, I ran a hand up the inside of her thigh until the tip of a finger found a moist cotton membrane of underwear. She was panting in my ear. I knew we were getting close – to Santa Ana.
I pulled away, my final and most daring erotic act. She just lay there for a moment, her head flung back, her breasts still out, reeling as if she’d just fucked a hundred lovers. That’s when I sensed some imperceptible shift in the muscles of the driver’s back. I glanced up at the rearview mirror and found his eyes there. They didn’t move, as if he was expecting something more, or as if he saw this kind of thing every night and wanted to prove it to me. My wife had deftly slid her breasts back into her shirt and was slowly returning to the world. I grinned at the driver.
“Lo siento,” I said with a shrug. He pointed to the meter and said: “Ocho euros.”
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