Red-Eye Cab Ride

I've just gotten off a red-eye flight for a business conference. Since the airport is some distance outside the city center, I've elected to get a cab directly to the conference rather than stop at my hotel. I figure I wouldn't be able to check in yet anyway, seeing as the breakfast hour isn't even over, let alone checkout time. The downside of this choice is that I had to fly overnight dressed for work, rather than in something comfortable like yoga pants. Consequently, I didn't get much sleep on the plane. I feel fried.

The cabbie loads my suitcase into the trunk. I ease into the back seat. I'm pleased it's a new model sedan; it lacks the odors of old gasoline and sweat one usually finds with airport hacks. The back seat is actually kind of comfortable, believe it or not. When the cabbie gets in behind the wheel, I ask him how long a trip into town we can expect. "Echhh. It's an hour without traffic. Now in the morning rush, it might be an hour and a half, an hour forty-five."

I echo his "echhh." It's a long time, but not quite enough to nap my jet lag away.

"Long flight?" he asks. I nod miserably. I'd bought a bottle of a fizzy caffeinated soft drink in the airport, but I don't want to drink it much before I get to my destination. I don't want the kick just now; better to wait to when it'll do me some good.

"I don't suppose you know any good remedies for jet lag, do you?" I ask, sighing.

"Lots," he replies.

I smile. "Any that can happen in an hour-long cab ride?"

He chuckles a bit. After a moment of silence, an idea comes to him. "Foot massage!"

"What, you're going to rub my feet for me and drive at the same time?"

"Hah! No, you can do it. Just take your shoes off, put your feet up on the seat, and press into your soles."

Now, I like a good foot rub. But my boyfriend usually does the honors, while I'm relaxing with my eyes closed and a glass of wine. On the other hand, I have time to kill and nothing to lose. I slip off my heels and curl my legs up onto the bench seat. I take my stockinged right foot in hand and begin kneading the pad, curling my toes, and rubbing the arch. How do you like that! I can feel the improvement in my mood nearly immediately. "Oh, that's really good," I enthuse.

"See? Toldja."

After a bit, I happily swap feet, giving my left foot its due. The hem of my dress slides up my leg, revealing the tops of my thigh-high stockings, but I calculate it's too low for the driver to see. No need to adjust.

As I work the foot, pleasant sensations wash over me. It's just as if I'm home with the wine and the boyfriend. I must have zoned out for a bit, because the next thing I know, one of my hands is inside my button-down dress caressing my bra-covered breast while the other still kneads my foot. The minute I'm aware, I glance to the rearview mirror to see if the driver has noticed. What I don't do, however, is move my hand. That might be problematic, but gosh, it feels so nice. The driver isn't looking at me at first, but before long, I catch him stealing glimpses. Rats. Now I have to decide whether to make myself presentable, or risk real embarrassment. I can feel myself blushing.

The heat in my cheeks has a surprising effect on me. Rather than shaming me into stopping my self-touch, I feel increasingly turned on. I can feel my nether parts swelling and moistening. It must be the muscle memory of all those foot rubs at home - they are, simply put, foreplay for us. My body is responding now as it does when I'm at home. I avert my eyes from the mirror and slowly unbutton the top of my dress.

The driver clears his throat. I pause, worried he wants me stop. Instead, he says deliberately, his voice thick, "I hear that massaging other body parts is also good against jet lag." Oh, right. Jet lag. That's what this is for. I meet his eyes in the rearview and continue the slow unbuttoning. Feet forgotten, both hands push aside the fabric to access my lace-covered mounds. I take the advice just given and begin a thorough massage of my tits. I rub and squeeze, I pinch my nipples, I lift and let fall. And I moan. Softly, but unmistakably. My bra has a front clasp, and I debate if that's a line I should cross. "Wow. That's beautiful", my cabbie says. Debate over.

I wait until we've cleared a knot of other traffic, so he can safely split his attention between the road and my tits. I unclasp the latch and pull the cups aside. My hands continue their work on my now exposed flesh; I start to squirm. My tits are double-d cups, which means they are more than a handful for me. If I cover my areolae, there is still plenty of underboob, sideboob, and overboob completely uncovered. After a minute of kneading, I abandon the pretense of covering my nipples. They jut out stiff, pink, and proud. I circle them with my fingertips, pinching them lightly.

"Oh, god. Amazing," the cabbie breathes. "Sooo good." I watch him take a hand off the steering wheel and drop it into his lap. He navigates the traffic expertly, distracted as he clearly is. I notice he's also avoiding getting close to the highway truck traffic, which I take as a compliment. He doesn't want to share this view with other drivers. He wants me and my tits all to himself.

My pussy is now thoroughly wet. It's time to do something with it. A mischievous thought occurs to me. "I think I should massage something else now," I tease. His eyebrows shoot straight up. I pull up my legs and drop my knees, pulling up the bottom of my dress, spreading my thighs. "Can you see?" No answer, just a gulp and a nod. I'm wearing a pale pink thong, which is nearly invisible next to my pale pink skin. One index finger begins circling my slit, sliding back and forth through the creamy folds. I pull the thong aside and dip the naughty finger in. I hear a low whistle of admiration. I continue to writhe with the sensations. Another finger in, and my other hand leaves my breast to touch my clit. Oh, god, I'm completely lost to my arousal. I can't believe I'm masturbating here in a stranger's cab.

A stray thought disturbs my reverie. "How much longer till we're there?" I ask weakly.

"About a half-hour." Oh, good, I think. That's better. I settle in and get back to work. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the bottle of fizzy stuff I brought. An even naughtier idea forms. I pick up the plastic cylinder and slide it between my breasts, using my arms to crush them against it, as if it were the cock I wish it were. The driver begins urging me on. "Go on, give it a good titty fuck with those big ol' titties. That's right, oh, baby, you can do it." As I slide the bottle towards my lips, I part them and begin licking around the bottle cap. "Yeah, baby, that tastes good. Suck that dick."

Now that it's wet, I bring the bottle down to my pussy. I slide the slender neck into my glistening hole. The ridges along the cap provide a delightful friction. I work it in and out, while my driver continues, "Yeah, stuff that dick in that pretty pussy. I bet that pussy's nice and tight. I buck in ecstasy. Another minute with the bottle in my cooch and my finger on my clit, and I pitch over the edge of a loud, clamoring orgasm. I must be crying out, but all I can hear is the driver: "Come on, baby, come for daddy. Come all over that big fat dick. Cream it up, honey."

My tits bounce wildly as I pitch and lurch. "Fuuuuuck. Oh, fucking shit, shit, shit, shit!" Finally, I withdraw the bottle, panting to catch my breath. My hand goes back to my tits and rubs them softly. My core is still pulsing; I can't move any other muscle, as wave after wave of orgasm aftershocks crash through me. After several minutes of listening to the driver coo at me, I replace my thong and begin to straighten up. I catch his eye and declare, "I think I'm over my jet lag now!" We share a truly dirty laugh.

We've arrived in the downtown area, and are about five minutes from the conference center. Now that we're off the highway, we have intersections to contend with. Much to my disappointment, I have to fasten my bra and button up my dress, lest I flash a city full of people. I slip my shoes back on, smooth out my hair, and check my makeup. At the entrance to the conference center, the driver retrieves my bag from the trunk. As I step out of the car, a thought occurs to me. "Did you come?" I ask him. "I couldn't see."

"No, ma'am. I have to save that for later."

"Oh, wow, gosh, well, that's probably safer anyhow." I nod my chin to the bottle, glistening and fragrant with my juices, that still sits on the back seat. "Maybe that'll help you out." We smile at one another, and as he hands my bag to me, I feel his hand brush my tits, pausing just briefly for a quick squeeze. Another shudder courses through me.

"Here's my card," he says. "Call me when you need another ride." I slip the card into my bra.

I just might do that.