Before a taxi-ride blow job

Me - but twice! Featuring boobs, because my boobs are the best.

Today I desperately wanted someone to cup my tits and play with my nipples, because I was freezing cold and I wanted warm hands squeezing and playing with me. I’m not sure if today’s story is quite as hot or filthy as many of the other posts in my erotica tag, but for anyone who has ever fantasised about a taxi-ride blow job, you’ll love the last line…

It had been a long day, but even though I was a sodden mess of rain-flattened curls and laddered tights, I couldn’t help but grin when I saw his text.

I swap a wet skirt and soggy pumps for jeans, some layered t-shirts, and a pair of boots more than capable of navigating the streets’ puddles. Remembering a conversation from last week, I put on eye liner and mascara in the hope that they’ll run when he fucks my face later, making me a messy girl who he’ll taunt cruelly as he comes in the back of my throat.

It’s stopped raining when I step outside again, but that only means more people see me as I run to the end of the road to catch a bus. Half an hour later, I stumble into the pub and make my way over to the guy who has already secured us seats that are secluded enough so he can whisper dirty things in my ear, and ordered us drinks. I’m freezing cold once again, but this time, at least, it is only my cunt that’s wet.

The filthy sideways grin he gives me as I slide into the booth next to him suggests he might know that, though.

“Long day?” he asks, pushing my glass towards me.

“Are you going to say that ‘can you fuck the utter shit-ness of today out of me in the toilets?’ isn’t a good seduction?”

I look at him over the edge of my glass as I take a drink, trying to look adorably cute and probably failing entirely.

“Not your worst line,” he concedes, “But you need to relax first. C’mon, take your jacket off.”

There’s tone of command in his voice that makes me shiver and makes me wonder what he’d do if I didn’t. I’m a good girl though, and shrug the coat off while imagining him bending me over the table to use his belt on me until he’s hard, before fucking me so hard that each stroke feels like a punishment. My cunt, already aroused from imagining make-up smeared blow jobs on the bus, twitches in agreement: it’s hot.

He takes my jacket from me and folds it carefully, before beckoning me closer. Obediently I scooch towards him, and am rewarded by a hand down the front of my top and warm hands groping my boob.

“Want to talk about your day?” he asks – casually, as though his fingers aren’t teasing my nipples.

He squeezes a little tighter as I open my mouth to reply, and I squeak. He looks at me sharply, expecting an answer. He’s already heard about my day though, having received at least a dozen texts from me and sending me back six supportive messages and a cat gif. I appreciate the fact he offers, and because he has offered, he bought me a pint, and his hand is on my boob, life suddenly seems a bit better.

“Just keep touching my tits, please?”

He nods and for a while we stay there. When he feels me relax and wriggle a little closer to him, he starts talking, relaying an amusing scene he saw involving a street artist, a cat and a window cleaner on the way to work that morning. I smile and make stupid jokes that he laughs at, and before long both his hands are down my top. That doesn’t stop him from pouring half of my remaining pint into his glass, though, when he finishes his drink first, and telling me it’s a tits-tax. I argue, but mostly because I hope he’ll smack my inner thigh in the way that makes me squirm. He does.

He pulls me closer, but he’s clever. Instead of it feeling like he’s trying to comfort me, it feels like he’s doing it for his pleasure. Playing with my tits is making him horny and I can feel his half-hard dick through his jeans if I put my hand on his crotch. I rub slowly at the denim, and he squeezes harder, twisting my nipples and daring me to continue.

“Want to come back to mine?” he asks, and I nod almost instantly.

Somehow, over the last couple of weeks, some of my underwear and a toothbrush have appeared in his flat, and I’ve kidnapped one of his t-shirts to sleep in on nights I stay over after shagging. We still hadn’t talked about it until a few days ago, when he pinned my hands above my head in the hallway and kissed me until I was panting and eager for his cock – then said he wouldn’t fuck me until we had an adult conversation.

It’s an unfairly above the belt tactic, but it’s effective, and later he fucked me with a dildo while calling me filthy names, then used my cunt until he came deep inside me.

“It’s raining again. If I treat us to a taxi back to my flat, want to suck me off in the back so I can mess up your make-up on the way home?”

Oh yeah, that is why I had a clean bra and shirt at his flat.

3 thoughts on “Before a taxi-ride blow job”

    1. Your kinky mind was working overtime when you wrote this – I got a bit nervy on your behalf that people in the pub would see the down-T-shirt fumbling (silly of me I know!) This was frantic, and fervent and hot! I hope you did get your make-up streaked!

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