Imagine This

Dear Department of Transportation:

Imagine a taxi. Make it a seductive little conveyance on four wheels. Deck it out with leather seats, furry little balls lining the roof, neon plates…. Now imagine me in the backseat. I'm wearing a dark linen suit and a white shirt with a few buttons undone. Is that the hint of a hard-on you see outlined against the fabric at my crotch? Imagine that, and a hard-on it will be. Imagine me riding without a destination, taking my time, checking out the women in their summer dresses as they glide past my windows. Imagine the high heels and the short slit skirts. Remember that hard-on you were imagining? You don't have to imagine it anymore. Consider the hard-on a fact.

"Circle around the block," I tell the driver, because there's one woman in particular who has caught my eye, and I imagine she looks a bit like you. I like the sway of her hips as she walks along, half lost in a daydream. I imagine inserting myself into her imagination, and I imagine her breasts swaying so slightly on top of her stride, and the moment she stops to study herself in a shop window to apply a lash of red lipstick. And then she's coming round again, unsuspecting, her ass tucked so neatly into a red skirt that matches the lipstick. She's coming round again as we circle the block, feeling the presence of my magical taxi and tipping her sunglasses down to her nose to wonder why we're idling to take in her every inch. I roll down the window, wanting this woman more than I've wanted any woman before. I am no longer thinking of you and your play for control. I am thinking only of her.

"We've got the best rates in the city," I call out the window. "Service with a smile."

"Oh yeah?" she drawls, repressing a grin, shifting her weight over to one hip. "Just a smile?"

"We also do in-flight entertainment," I say. "Get in." And she does, stabbing the pavement with heels to scissor her way into the backseat with some feminine magic of her own. Do you know that trick too? Prove it….

And so I look her in the eyes, smile, and toss my head towards the driver. She gives him an address far across town, and we roll. She does not take off her sunglasses.

Have you ever had a moment when no words will be enough, when words can only be a failure? It's happened to me only once or twice in my life, and this was one. Instantly the tension was so thick in that back seat that that my mind dissolved and all I knew to do was put my hand on top of hers. She did not flinch. She wriggled a finger free to hook it around one of mine, and in my imagination her body swayed into my side. I could feel the line of her sharp curves as if she were naked, and I was instantly drunk on the scent of her perfume. She leaned closer. I felt her dark hair brush against my neck, and we both knew what came next. There could only be this: she turned up her face and kissed me hard, her tongue darting into my mouth like an explosion, not a woman in a swoon, but a woman as possessed as I was. My body met hers in a dozen different places. Our mouths locked, one hand circled her neck before sliding down over her neck to cup a breast. She had a hand at my chest too, frantically undoing a button. As I lowered my face to kiss the top of her breast, she groaned, and as I glanced up at the rearview mirror I saw the taxi driver watching us placidly as if we were just more traffic. Imagine him with a mustache and an inscrutable face. I would teach him, I would make him blink. One hand at the woman's breast, the other was sliding up the hot, soft sweep of the inside of her tanned thigh. She was mine. I could have split her open and fucked her right there. She could have broken me up into parts and made me into a Picasso painting. Our mouths still locked, my hand found a wet patch of underwear as she raked my chest with red fingernails while manipulating my cock through the thin pants. My zipper was undone, and she fumbled around for a moment before discovering a hard thrust and the tip of my cock stretched past the elastic of my underwear. She had raced ahead, but I could race faster, and with one flick of my wrist I shifted her bra aside until a breast eagerly popped out. I wanted the driver to see this. And I wanted her to see him watching as I lowered my mouth to lick at her firm dark nipple. Her lips parted, and her eyes locked on the mirror with a sigh. So much depends upon. A dark nipple. Slicked by a tongue. In the back seat of a taxi.

It all began to break up, like some distant radio station. We were two lovers in pieces, mad jazz and Rachmaninoff, and I had never known such lust. I remember imagining the sight of her full and perfect thigh clenched over mine, her knee pushing insistently at my crotch. I remember imagining her hand on my bare cock and her tongue in my mouth again. And then her skirt hitched up over some black silk underwear, and me with a thousand fingers, penetrating her from octopus angles. Both of those beautiful breasts, I remember. I remember imagining seeing them both in the rearview mirror, and seeing the driver's darting eyes in the mirror too. Where were we going again? Nobody knew. My fingers were dripping with our excitement, which I repeatedly found in the depths between her legs with a flash of cunt and a lick of lips. We were completely off the map. The streets had no names.

Are you keeping up? Imagination is not enough, my little protégé. There are a thousand taxis careening through the night, longing for your flesh. There are a thousand rearview mirrors waiting for your image to appear. I want you to understand how this works. I want you to understand how the stranger named me lusts for you. I want you to understand the direction in which this game flows. And I want you to find a taxi – not the one in our imagination – and rape the man you find beside you. The taxi is your task – today, next week, next month. The taxi is my task, too. I will not step into one without growing hard at the thought of you stepping into one. I will always be looking in the rearview mirror, imagining I see flesh, and next time I fervently hope that the flesh will be yours.

Imagine a taxi. Now step into it.

X

Republished with permission from The Sex Experiment. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.