Christmas. At least that’s my excuse. Party season, networking season.
A client’s PR company threw a big thrash in some cool Covent Garden
bar. “Cool” was funny, because cool was the *last* word you’d choose
to describe that crowded, clattering cavern. The place was steaming.
Full of laughter; of smoke; glasses clashing. The noisy babble of
reckless, drunken people.

Now I’m waiting for the night bus. Wrapped up in a thick wool coat to
cover my party clothes. You don’t advertise your jewelry — or cleavage
— on London streets past midnight.

“Christ, it’s cold,” I’ve always had a tendency to talk to myself and
I’m worse drunk. Carry on entire conversations. Only way to get a
sensible answer half the time. Though not this time…. Too fuckin’
uptight. Lonely, horny, freezing cold.

Broke up with my boyfriend this autumn. Not that I regret it. He was a
wanker. But the trouble is you get used to sex as and when you want a
piece. So tonight I’d thought about finding myself a shiny new man — a
little piece of Christmas mystery.

“Naah,” I’d said to myself in the ladies room mirror as I did my
make-up (see — I even do it sober). “You can’t shag the customers.
Doesn’t look good.” So I planned to schmooze the room, chat up useful
faces and have a bit of clean career girl fun. No sex, no full-on.
Just some decorous dancing, a few canapes, fewer drinks and talk to
the right people.

I’ve fucked up a bit this evening. Not badly, though. Nowhere near as
badly as quite a lot of the other guests. Christ, that *was* funny….

I’m gleefully re-running the scene when another guest, from a rival
firm (Yes! Yes! Yes!) had wrenched a fire extinguisher off the wall
and threatened one of our hosts. I break out a grin. Christmas, eh?
One minute it’s “Hark the herald angels sing” and the next it’s
slurring, puking, your face = the gutter….

But I have fucked up, even if nobody noticed. I’ve fucked up my peace
of mind. Danced too long, too close with one of their delectable new
account managers. I’d been able to feel his hard-on against my thigh.
An experienced thirty isn’t old for a woman, but it makes blond boys
fresh from college look terribly young and angelic… I’d played with
fantasies about corrupting him, but no. Back off, you wicked girly.
He’s a client — and a junior one at that. Don’t mix business etc.
etc…

So I’d left the party, and the pretty boy, safe and sound. Not really
a fuck up, then. No harm done, not unless there were any mind-readers
around. Just that now, as I stand in the bitter cold by the bus stop,
clutching my big coat tightly around me, I can feel how strung up I
am.

I have sore nipples all winter anyway — they go rock hard whenever I’m
chilly so the tips get chafed after a few weeks of frost. Tonight
they’re hard and red as frozen raspberries. My big breasts are heavy
and swollen — premenstrual — horny too…. What a combination, eh?

I’m not like a cat. Don’t like to play with my food. Either I want it
or I don’t. Hate winding myself up if there’s nothing at the end. So
now I’m standing in the cold wishing I had someone to kiss. Wish I had
someone to wait for the bus with…. to catch the bus with… to go
home with… And now the fucker’s starting to rain…. More rain
landing in the puddles left hours earlier. Shit. Double fucking shit
and bollocks.

The friendly yellow ‘for-hire’ light of a big black London cab is
coming down Russell Street. Balls. Oh, Christmas balls. I’ll get a
cab. Stuff the expense. Pre-New Year resolutions of economy fall
shimmering into the puddles. Foot on the curb, hand raised. The cab
glides in to meet me.

Slide down the window and “Clapham Common, please”, swing the door
open and slide into the back. Cosy black in the back. Settle down for
a long trip. It’s roughly a new sweater’s worth of cab fare from
Russell Square, WC1 to my suburban flat.

Love these old black taxis. Huge back compartment, straps to hold onto
when you swing round corners. And love the drivers too. Totally
reliable. Licensed by the police. Every single one. Chat to you about
the government as the meter clicks in full view — no surprises.
Financial or otherwise. And such amazingly effective heaters. The
cabs, not the drivers. Within half a minute I’m thawing out.

After another minute I’m leaning back. Starting to feel cosy. Starting
to unfreeze. Unbutton my coat, put my handbag on the floor. Stretch my
legs. Party stockings, sheer and black.

“Been to a party, then?”

The driver’s speaking to me over his shoulder. His light voice catches
me unawares. I was thinking about that boy executive, about how his
pale silky hair slid under the flashing lights, about his stupid shirt
untucking at the back as he danced. Endearing how men’s shirts do
that. No hips, I suppose… But the driver’s comment breaks into my
reverie. He must have noticed my party dress.

“Yes, that’s right. One of those work things. You know.” We’re
spinning along The Strand now, the city brilliant in December
darkness. A million lights blistering the puddles. Every hotel has its
trees and garlands, every store its lavish displays. The rain is
heavier now, giving the lights that extra dazzle.

“Don’t I just. Office parties, eh? It’s all we get this time of year.
Good business too, as long as they don’t spew in the back of the cab.
You don’t look as if you’re going to do that.”

“Certainly not,” I say. I’m not sober, though. No way. I only seem to
have been sober for brief patches this last couple of weeks. Lunches,
buffets, presentations. Every professional anything I’m linked to in
any conceivable way has had some sort of do or other. At least three
invites a day — apart from weekends. Work drinking. Work networking.
Bloody tiring. At least I’m bloody tired now. But not feeling sick.
Not at all. “No, I’m not going to mess up your cab. Promise!” I laugh.

“Does it happen a lot?” I continue, politely. For some reason I feel
duty bound to carry on the conversation.

“More than I’d like. It’s the curse of our lives this time of year,
punters throwing up. But I’m getting pretty good at spotting them now.
Wouldn’t have stopped for you if you’d looked wobbly.”

For some reason I feel rather pleased at being identified from 50
yards as being unlikely to vomit. It’s an accomplishment of sorts. I
preen myself. I relax further into the corner of the seat. It’s so
lovely and velvety warm in here.

“D’you mind if I pop on the reading light?” Black cabs have a little
light in the back, and I’ve got a new fashion mag. I fancy a look at
in my briefcase. Bloody silly combination of things I’m wearing —
party dress, sparkly earrings, party face and thick wool overcoat.
Thick wool overcoat and heavy leather briefcase. Schizophrenic clothes
for a schizophrenic month.

“You go ahead, love.”

And we relax into silence, him driving, me flicking through my
magazine. Articles on fashionable festive faces for memorable holiday
glitz. Mentally I try them on.

I’m easing right up now. Off stage. No more drinks to drink. No more
smiles to smile. I stretch my legs out, shift my hips on the seat. Now
I’m warmed through I can’t help noticing the hot, syrupy feeling in my
belly brought on by slow dances and too much Christmas spirit. Tits
still heavy, nipples still hard. Could do with a bunk up. But then
when couldn’t I?

I lean forward to slip my shoes off then remember they’re the stupid
high heeled ankle strap ones. Can’t take them off without undoing the
buckles — bit too much of a performance for the back of a cab. Ever so
pretty, but totally impractical. Suede, with diamante bits. Hate to
think what even a spot of rain’s done to them.

“You take ’em off, love. It’s a good long way to Clapham. ‘Spect
you’ve been on your pins all night.”

“Yes, I have,” I respond, feeling somehow warmed by his concern.
Bugger it, I will take them off. I fiddle with the buckles in the warm
dark by my ankles. If I was at home I’d hoick my foot onto my lap, but
I’m not so out of it I want to give the cabbie a flash of my knickers.

My shoes are off, and we’re leaving central London behind — the black
spaces of the parks, the glittering necklace of Park Lane. South to
Clapham, gentrified suburb for smart young things.

With one leg under me now, I’m back in my magazine studying new ways
to fix your hair. As all the models have completely different hair to
mine I start to drift. Start thinking about… Well, nothing much,
just how I felt tonight. The dancing, the chat. The flirting. That was
the most like a real party of all the work-related celebrations I’ve
attended this year. But it wasn’t like a real party…. Not a *real*,
real party. Might have met someone I wanted to shag at a real party…

“You’re really horny, aren’t you?” he says.

I can’t have heard that. It’s the engine. He must’ve said something
else.

“What was that?” I lean forward slightly to pick up his words.

“I said ‘You’re really horny, aren’t you?'” he says. His voice is
friendly, not intense.

I find myself doing a reality check. What the fuck? Yes, I’m extremely
surprised. I haven’t hardly ever heard anything so unexpected. Black
cab drivers are like doctors. They’re supposed to be utterly safe,
sexually neutral. On the other hand I’m definitely not frightened. He
doesn’t alarm me. I don’t think he’s going to do anything I don’t want
him to. Why I feel this confidence I can’t say.

“What makes you think that?” I ask, looking into his rearview mirror.
He looks up, and I catch the glint of his eyes, crinkling.

“Can’t miss it. Takes one to know one. Spotted you before I even
stopped the cab. You’re like me.”

“What do you mean?” I ask lightly, though I have a dreadful feeling I
know exactly what he means. I’ve spent years reassuring myself my
obsessive interest in sex — and wild delight in its pleasures — is
normal. Other women feel exactly the same as me, I tell myself. The
only difference is that I’m more upfront about it. That’s my theory,
anyway.

Suddenly I’ve got a feeling this man has noticed something I’ve spent
a lot of effort pretending isn’t true.

“You’re drenched in it. Drenched in sex. I can see it in people.
You’ve been out, had fun. The only natural thing for a woman like you
to do now is go home with some bloke and fuck yourself stupid. But you
aren’t going to…. And it doesn’t suit you.”

“D’you realize,” he continues, “that since you got into the cab you’ve
done nothing but try to get yourself comfy? You’ve been untangling
yourself, and shifting on that back seat, and sighing under your
breath. You’re like a cat on a bloody hot tin roof.”

He’s right, of course. And oddly enough, my main reaction is pleasure.
I’m delighted. It’s almost unbeatably flattering when a complete
stranger suddenly notices something important about your character.
He’s right. I am extremely horny, and it doesn’t suit me at all.

“Now I’ve got a suggestion,” he says. He speaks gently; relaxed and
slightly humorous. “And I want you to know that it’s only a
suggestion. You say no and I’ll just take you straight home to
Clapham, no problem. But if you’re interested — and only if you’re
interested — I know a quiet place we could park up between here and
there for an hour or two. I’m healthy, single and I like to think of
myself as a gentleman. I swear nothing would happen you didn’t want
to.”

“So what do you say?” he finishes. He’s smiling into the mirror above
him. I can see his eyes.

I lean back. I gaze downwards. I play with my necklace as if I’m
thinking. I’m not thinking. I’m drawing his attention to my cleavage
which looks particularly gorgeous in the slinky black jersey sheath
I’m wearing. Jesus, I’m horny. I’m getting hotter by the second. In
some deep inside place my head nods approval. How do I know this is
safe? I do know, however I know it. What he’s suggesting is safe. And
I’m going to do it. In fact I can’t fucking wait to do it….

I admire his psychology. I don’t know him well enough to ask him home.
I do however, being me, know him well enough to fuck him in the back
of his taxi.

I look up and widen my eyes into the mirror above him.

“Yes. I say yes.” And I catch his eyes again. They smile with a wicked
crinkle. He doesn’t give any other reply. None is needed — and if he
talked too much I might get nervous.

As we drive on without speaking I’m picking up what visual cues I can.
He looks young, or youngish. Leather jacket. Checked shirt. The neck
and shoulders suggest twenties, thirties. He’s got great eyes. His
voice tells me he’s at ease with me, with himself. I find his sheer
nerve and his style irresistible. How did he recognize me? How did he
know I wouldn’t scream or report him? He’d have lost his license for
sure if he’d made a mistake, asked the wrong woman. So how did he
know? That’s the real killer…..

@—}—-}——-

This story is (C) BronwenSM 1998. Sorry to break your flow but putting
this in the middle of the story helps catch the pirates.

@—}—-}——-

He’s timed it well. Only a little while passes until we turn off the
high road into some railway arches. If I’d had a long time to think I
might have lost my nerve. He parks in an incredibly dark place. Just
as well, I acknowledge.

He stops the car, but leaves on the heater. Just before he gets out of
the driver’s compartment he says, in such a warm, friendly voice, “OK
in the back there?” It’s a little touch of reassurance, checking I
haven’t changed my mind. It lets me say ‘No, I’m not’ if I want to —
or ‘Take me home’ — but I don’t want to.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I say. “Come back into the warm! It’s freezing out
there.”

“Flippin’ is!” he says as he slips off his jacket and slides from
front compartment to back. He climbs in and sits beside me, swiveling
slightly to embrace me. We sit like that, slightly awkwardly, and he
starts to kiss my neck. He rubs his face against mine but he doesn’t
kiss my mouth. Damn good thing, too. After all, I hardly know the man!

Although I was so desperately horny before he stopped the taxi I feel
a little strange now. Well, this *is* strange, even for me. But he
nuzzles my neck and cuddles my waist and I start to settle. He smells
different from the men I know. They wear subtle designer cologne. The
stuff he’s wearing reminds me of the aftershave I used to buy daddy
for Christmas when I was a little girl. Fresh, clean but cheap.
Another generation’s idea of masculine. It’s nice though, and spicy.
Slightly incestuous in a peripheral sort of way…

Close together in the faint light for the first time I can just make
out his features. He *is* young. And *very* good looking. Lucky me!
Mind you, that would account for his confidence. I could only see the
back of his head but of course he knows how attractive he is whatever
the light’s like. If he was old and flabby he might not have had the
necessary bravado.

He licks and kisses my neck, sliding his hand up from my waist to cup
my tits gently against my ribs. A bit of very subtle stroking informs
him that he can’t get at them via my neckline. My party dress is too
close-fitting and formal, but he massages my swollen breasts through
the fabric. I can feel my nipple stone-hard against his palm. So can
he. And as he kisses and strokes I start to respond. I kiss his neck,
at first timidly, and then with mounting fervor.

He puts a hand softly on my knee. With part of my mind I’m admiring
how he does it, so gentle. His whole approach is friendly, open. I
cannot for the life of me work out why none of this is threatening. It
just isn’t. It’s his attitude….. He slides his hand up my sleek
thigh. I wriggle slightly to let him raise my skirt.

“Stockings,” he says with a grin in his voice, and much satisfaction.
“I had a little bet with myself that they were stockings. You know how
to do the thing properly. A lot of these girls, they wear the fine
black stockings and the pretty shoes but when you get to where it
counts it’s not the real thing. A dress like this deserves stockings.”

“Christ you’re observant! Scotland Yard has nothing on you!” I giggle.
“I was standing by a bus stop at midnight wearing half a ton of winter
coat. How did you clock both the stockings and the horniness at that
distance?”

“I was right, though, wasn’t I?” his hand has gone smoothly up under
my skirt, past the sheer welt of my stocking top and straight under
the hem of my red Christmas teddy. Between my legs is another world.
Outside the world is crisp and chill. Inside my sex is already molten
syrup, the silky fabric of my gusset wet and hot. Even the hair is
softened by the slick heat. I’m so aroused that once past a certain
point his hand almost slides inside me, my pussy a man trap. He has a
thumb erect against my twanging clitoris and three fingers in my
soaking cunt, and starts to finger fuck me, slow and deep. I slide
forward on the seat, parting my thighs eagerly, arching my pelvis to
help him penetrate deeper.

My hand is on *his* thigh now. But I’m not as diplomatic. Mine slides
straight up to cup his crotch where I find a fat erection straining
his jeans. One-handed I undo the button, unzip him, disentangle him
from his underpants. He’s got a lovely cock. Rock hard. Good thing
too! If he wasn’t I’d be mortally offended. I clutch it like a gear
stick. “Well, *hello*….” my voice is stage sultry in the dark as I
grin. Score two for my taxi-driver’s panache. I’m breathing more
quickly now. I grip his shaft, slowly wanking the foreskin over his
silky bell end.

He slips off the seat and between my thighs. His glans juts through
the gap at the bottom of his shirt. His underpants and jeans are
twisted round his legs. I recline on the seat, spread on the very
edge, offering myself hot and horny, fluid with lust. He ducks his
head and runs his tongue rapidly up the sticky parting of my lips.
They open and he darts the tip of his tongue into my depths, just for
fun. Then, side play ended, he makes a calculated assault on the peak.
He sucks my clitoris into his mouth, that tiny penis hard and cocky.
Suckling, he twangs it with his tongue. Normally this would hurt, but
it doesn’t tonight. Now it makes me pulse and gasp. I am all
sensation. Greedy. Wild. Where’s that nice fat cock I saw?

My clenching fingers on his shoulders urge him to rise and fuck me. He
straightens. I want him out of those clothes. At least some of those
clothes…. I start to unbutton his shirt, and then we’re doing all
those muddly things… He’s trying to get my tits out of the top of my
dress (can’t) while I’m trying to get tangled trousers off a kneeling
man (impossible).

After a few clumsy seconds we start laughing and give up. He takes my
hands and pulls me upright. Sitting up, I lean forward against his
chest to let him unzip my dress. It’s already above my waist so as
soon as I hear the zip open behind me I pull the dress over my head.
It pulls my bra straps down as it comes off. I can hear his intake of
breath when he sees how I fill my bra, how the garter belt looks…
He’s staring at me as he rushes through his buttons. I love having big
tits. I so much enjoy the effect they have…..

He has a lovely body too — pale, firm and smooth. His shoulders and
chest are broad, his waist neat. Not over muscled but no hint of flab.
With me on the seat and him on the floor his head is about six inches
below mine — putting his mouth in the perfect position to suck my
nipples. He wraps his arms round my shoulder and my hot oily sex is
crushed against his smooth flat belly.

Hefting one breast from beneath, he draws the nipple of the other into
his mouth. “Ooo!” I give a sharp intake of breath. “Watch my nipples.
They’ve had so much frost the ends have worn off.”

“Not from where I’m sitting, love. But I’ll be careful.” He cups both
breasts admiringly. “You don’t mind me touching them?”

“No, it’s lovely, just don’t concentrate too much on the ends. They’re
red raw.”

“Red, anyway.. They look black in this light.”

Things are moving quite slowly again. We’re perhaps a little wary.
Then he pulls me tight against him, chest to chest and, wrapping one
affectionate arm round my neck, bites my shoulder. A slow, painless
intense suction that turns me electric. My breathing is speeding
up…. He eases me back on the seat. My head’s at a bizarre angle, but
my cunt couldn’t be better presented. His fingers find my clit
without fumbling and, as his touch flips my stomach and I gasp once,
he enters me.

“YES!” I cry in some sort of jubilation. Total satisfaction floods me.
I may not have come yet but everything about him, about our fit, about
our skins’ connection, tells me this was one risk that paid off. I am
nothing but core-deep response. Rising to meet his every move, the
syrupy savagery of our conjoined movement is perfect. Seamless. We
move like ice-dancers, never a false note. And, after a few minutes of
slowly gathering momentum I go into one….

It’s only occasionally I do this. I start coming and then I reach a
certain point and it just keeps happening. Every thrust, every single
fucking movement, is like the very moment of crisis, again and again.
I can’t do anything but be. My head could fall off and I wouldn’t
know. This man knows his stuff. He takes over. He must feel my fevered
grip, hear my wild, quiet repetitive cries of pleasure. He doesn’t
stop, he doesn’t slow, he holds me, fucks me, lets me go on coming
until finally, with one slow, echoing rumble of sensation, I fade back
into the world.

He leans back a little, sweat running down his chest, dripping off his
eyebrows in the near dark. He’s grinning. His cock is gleaming. “Fuck,
you’re hot,” he says, admiringly. “That was really something.”

“Good, eh?” I’m breathless, happy. “Why don’t we try this?” And I
slant myself diagonally across the seat. This unkinks my neck, which
I’ve just noticed is threatening to snap, and offers a half-on,
half-off the seat missionary position.

“Oh, yes,” he agrees, and slides over me again. This time we’re
slower, fencing, each having fun flaunting our expertise to the other.
Two strangers engrossed and happy in the exercise of our greatest
skill. As I pull off a particularly fancy prolonged milking movement
with my internal muscles he catches my eye and raises an eyebrow in
glittering appreciation. “Slick stuff, girl,” he comments. “Try a bit
of this.”

And taking one buttock firmly in each hand he opens me endlessly. My
sensitive pussy is totally exposed to every subtle pressure. He drives
into me with a smooth aim that makes orgasm almost instant. My knees
go up involuntarily and grip him cruelly. I shout right out loud as
the wave knocks me flat on my back. Blinking, I look up, impressed.

“Fuckin’ ace,” I gasp. “Now what can I do you for?”

“Classy lady, classy games. I’ve always thought a pearl necklace
looked good on a pretty girl.”

Christ, we’re a good match. Some women don’t like this, I understand,
but it just happens to be one of my personal favourites. “Yes. Yes.
That’s an *excellent* idea,” I say.

He slips back up onto the edge of the seat, legs spread wide. I kneel
on the spacious floor of the cab and settle myself, religiously, to my
task. One hand cradling his shaft, the other playing with his balls.
As I slide an exploratory finger under them and up his cleft he slides
forward to let me at his arsehole. He likes that. I withdraw my hand,
lick my finger, and put it back to massage along under his balls. Soon
I will slip the tip inside his anus, but not just yet.

I take his glans in my mouth, I grip his shaft hard. I slip the
foreskin right back and, covering my teeth with my lips, I mouth-fuck
him vindictively. Tender isn’t what’s required. He’s groaning. I can
feel the shaft pulse in my mouth.

After a minute or two I slow and begin cherishing his glans. Lovingly
I bathe it, swirl it like ice cream. As he relaxes luxuriously I up
the pace again. Soon he breathing fast through his nose, and his cock
is oozing pre-cum on my tongue. I slip my sticky finger just inside
his anus and, from his gasp and the pulsing deep within the shaft I
know he’s nearly there.

Slowing, I look up at him. His head is sunk back but he raises it to
gaze at me. “Oh, yes, love,” he gasps. “Right on the button.”

He squeezes my big firm tits up together. They make a high satiny
balcony — almost like an arse. I cover his hands with my own and he
slips his out from under. Now he can wank himself, jerk himself off on
my full white tits as he stares at the picture I make. I’m holding
them out like a target, grinning up at him with my red lips, my party
make-up. “Yeah,” I growl. “Go for it, babes. Give it to me. I want
that spunk.” Everything about the situation is erotic. His frenzy, my
dirty talk, the outrageous provocation of my pouted breasts and lips.
His hand blurs his cock.

And he starts to come. Gout after gout of thick milky semen spattering
my face, my neck, my hair, my tits. It’s such a fucking turn-on. A
flashback of my last orgasm ruffles my belly. One deft hand between my
own legs as the last drops trickle from him brings a tiny, closing
spark from me.

“Fuck, that was amazing,” His words overlap with my comment: “Soooo
good!”

Immediately we start to become strangers again. We dress, we share a
cigarette. We help each other. I find his sock. He zips my dress.
We’re polite. He kisses me once, mouth shut, and says “Time to go
home, eh, Cinderella?”

“Yes. I’m so glad we did this.”

“One in a million, eh, girl?” And he grins at me as he gets out and
climbs back into the driver’s side. The diesel engine grumbles and
we’re off, back onto the main roads again.

I snuggle down in the back alone, but not lonely. I don’t feel
deserted, neglected. I feel marvelous…. If he’d pressed me for a
date, for a number…. Then I’d have worried. After all, we hardly
know each other. But my body feels so wonderful I’m nearly asleep by
the time he slows as we drive into the maze of streets near my flat.

In fact we’re turning into my street now, and I fumble in my handbag.
“It’s half-way down on the left,” I say.

As he parks I speak. “It’s a bit weird…. Because we stopped I’ve no
idea what I owe you… I mean it wasn’t what you’d call waiting time!”
I giggle.

He turns off the engine and turns round to look at me. He’s grinning,
thinks I’m a fruitcake. “Have this one on me!” he says.

“Oh, I couldn’t!” I’m genuinely a little shocked. “I mean it’s like
whoring — sex for taxi fare. I may be a trollop but I’m not a cheap
trollop!”

He laughs. “See what you mean. Well, you can pay me if you like,
though it goes against the grain… Or you could have it as a sort of
Christmas present… Season of goodwill — all that shit.”

“Well, I could. OK, I will. It seems wrong not to pay — but I can see
it might offend your pride if I did…”

“Give me a break, girl. Let’s just forget about the fare. It’s not
payment. It’s not hooking. It’s just a ride between friends.”

“OK,” I said, and grin. “Just a ride between friends.” He smiles back
for a long moment, turns away and turns off the driver’s light. I jump
out, and turn on the pavement under a streetlight to look in at him
where he sits, gazing at me in the dark.

“Goodnight!” I call, softly. He raises a hand in salute and drives
away. And I let myself into my flat.