The Taxi That Changes Fate - 3
(A fare will be charged once the meter reaches 50,000)
When the meter hit 35,000, the driver spoke.
She wasn't even trying to hide the cock standing rigid and erect anymore, meeting my eyes dead-on. Whatever I said, it seemed the value had already climbed as high as it was going to climb.
“I was on my way to meet someone I know. So I can't get off here, right?”
(Do you think that's possible?)
'Just as I thought…'
Getting off through ordinary means appeared to be out of the question. Which meant the only options I had were to create a method of exit the taxi itself would recognize, here and now, or to soften the rules through a bargain.
'The invitation… I really should save that for last.'
Using it would raise my value, sure — but as something rare and precious, it might just make her cling even harder. And there was a chance word would get around even if I won. No, the invitation truly had to be the final card.
“So what are the normal conditions for getting off?”
(I have no obligation to tell you.)
“You said earlier you wanted to touch my body, right? I'll grant something reasonable, so name your terms for a trade.”
(An exchange for information… very well.)
(Unfortunately, your information isn't worth much, so we'll end this with me groping your ass.)
“Fine.”
Still seated, I lifted my hips slightly. Making it easy for a hand to slip in.
(…)
“What? Not doing it?”
(I'll give you information from someone who actually escaped. Take off your bra and jeans.)
“No.”
I refused on the spot. That was the next fare. If I gave in to this and the next charge turned out to be sex until her lust was satisfied, I'd be trapped with no way out.
The meter currently read 40,000. With barely any distance left to 50,000, I didn't even have enough time to prepare.
(Is the next fare the problem?)
“That's part of it — the real problem is that you'll pull tricks. What if you introduce some method I can't possibly perform? Then it's over, isn't it?”
(You could perform it.)
“It might be something outrageous, though.”
(It would be difficult, yes. One is a grueling method. The other is an outlandish one.)
“Then I decline.”
(Aren't you curious where exactly the line lies — how far you need to go to leave this place?)
(The next fare will stop at sucking your chest and stroking your pussy.)
'Absolute refusal on that one.'
Going by the driver's personality so far — and she did work for the Company, after all — she struck me as clear-eyed about costs and benefits. Whatever method she described would surely be something I couldn't actually pull off. And the way she looked at me, with that faintly obsessive gleam, suggested she stood to gain something personal from this deal.
(Hmm…)
I would not be crossing that line. She seemed to read that in my eyes and fell into brief deliberation — and by then the meter had already crept up to almost 45,000.
(Once you pay this fare, I'll move you to the front seat.)
'…!'
(However, that would be a tremendous loss for me, so you must also grant me the right to touch your chest and thighs with my hands.)
The front seat. It was different from the back.
Unlike the back seat, where the rules explicitly demanded that you inhale gas every time you paid the fare, the front seat was nowhere in the rules — which meant no gas.
'There's a chance I could take control of the situation.'
Paying the fare in advance. If that privilege stayed open at all times, I might be able to proactively secure the driver's permission and pay fares through acts on par with skinship, before she ever dictated them.
'Information on the escape criteria. Release from the gas restriction. The right to pay fares first.'
And in exchange, two articles of clothing and my chest and pussy being touched. Wasn't that a reasonably fair trade?
“You said stroke my pussy. Be precise.”
(Five orgasms. Consecutive climaxes can only count two at a time. In other words: two in a row, then one single.)
(For your chest, I may freely demand that you lift your shirt or put it back on.)
'…That much, at least.'
The terms were clearly defined, which was something. The consecutive-orgasm clause worried me a little, but I'd been through it a few times with the Stalker's ghost story. The problem was that when I needed to move, my strength wouldn't come and my head wouldn't turn for a moment — beyond that, nothing serious had ever followed.
“During collection. Does the fare keep climbing?”
(Since the driver won't be driving, I'll park on the shoulder.)
“So no driving means no fare increase?”
(Yes, correct. And we'll be inside the Anomaly World at that point, so no real-world drivers will come to harm either.)
It was rational. But the more reasonable, clearly-defined rules she kept producing, the more my suspicion sharpened instead. Did a normal entity worry about real-world drivers? Wasn't this systematized to an eerie degree?
So reasonable that it called to mind those contracts — the kind where, to bury one strange clause, you draft ninety-five percent perfectly normal terms and slip the oddity into the remaining five.
'Wait a second. Why does it feel like every one of these conditions assumes we'll be parked on the shoulder for a long time?'
“Hold on. You're not planning to drag this out deliberately — not making me come, just stretching the clock?”
(Tch.)
(Correct. With consecutive orgasms I'm obliged to send you over quickly, but with single ones, the timing is at my discretion.)
'Unbelievable.'
I'd nearly walked into it. Even if an entity is faithful to its role and never tells a direct lie, that unscrupulous cabby exists somewhere — the kind who circles the block on purpose to run the meter up. Which meant an entity could imitate the unscrupulous cabby's behavior too.
“Then promise the single orgasms won't be strung out either. Do them properly.”
(…In return, one condition.)
“Which is?”
I wanted to snap at her — you tried to con me a second ago and now you're imposing conditions? — but I held my tongue. Push too hard, and the taxi driver could scrap the whole deal outright.
'I have to get the front seat.'
Information, I could pry loose by twisting my body a little. But the front seat might never surface again outside this trade — or, once she realized how badly I wanted it, it could come back priced far higher. I absolutely had to win it now.
(Cover your mouth with your hand. Moaning is fine — but if your hand leaves your mouth, that counts as consenting to deep kisses as well.)
“That's…”
(The mouth sucking your chest rises. It means my mouth is free to choose between your chest and your lips.)
“…Fine.”
It wasn't a crushing loss. Kissing a beautiful woman was hardly a hardship for me either. Honestly, as long as she wasn't one of those ghost stories where losing makes you a slave, I'd have been willing to do it any day of the week.
“Deal.”
(Whew… what a shame. In fact, the meter passed 50,000 ages ago, but all this negotiating has run the trip into overtime.)
(This one is purely my loss.)
(I'll begin collection now.)
The moment the car rolled to a stop on the shoulder, a hiss — and pink gas drifted down from above. Instinct made me clamp my hands over my mouth and nose, trying to keep it out, but I remembered the condition: I had to inhale at least once, unconditionally. So I let in the faintest sliver of breath.
'My body grew a little more sensitive. Warmer.'
Eyes closed, I took stock of what the gas had done. Along with the feverish heat, my womb throbbed heavily as if it had already been caressed, and my chest felt a notch more tender than before. I couldn't say exactly what the aphrodisiac gas did, but from one breath, it seemed the ceiling was simply a body in a post-caress state.
(I'll be boarding the back seat now.)
The door wrenched open.
“Kyaaah?!”
After that measured assessment of my gas-addled state, I opened my eyes — straight into the taxi driver flinging open the door right beside me. I jumped out of my skin.
She could control the inside of the vehicle this whole time?!
“Why… why are you coming over here?”
(Rather than manipulate the vehicle, doing it here — inside the cabin, where we belong — carries a special flavor, don't you think?)
(Looking outside will do you no good. Exiting without cause is not permitted.)
(If you try to leave now and get caught, it wouldn't count as defeat — but it's a violation grave enough that I could reasonably rule it as you granting me a free-use pass on your pussy.)
'Tch.'
For one instant, the open back door. I thought about hurling myself out of it right then — maybe that would count as getting off — but the driver's warning, plus the reminder that even a Grade 3 anomaly carries physical strength on the order of heavy machinery, killed the idea. A Grade 2 anomaly like the taxi driver would only have more of that, never less.
(Then, I'll undress you.)
“I-I'll do it myself!”
(It's the fare. Priority is mine. I will be the one to take them off.)
'Wh… what is this?'
Her tone was as logical and expressionless as ever. But the words out of her mouth were pure petulance — a sulking child insisting that this toy was hers, don't take it away. The mismatch between that flat face and that whining voice was almost unbearable.
Then I caught sight of that rigid, upright cock and understood. This, too, was not a bad situation for me. The blinder her lust became, the better off I was.
(First, the jeans.)
Her hand slid in smoothly, undid the front of my jeans, and began easing them down over my hips. Being stripped by someone else was so alien, so uncanny a sensation, that before I knew it I twisted away and raised a leg to block her — and the hand working my pants down climbed up onto the half-lowered denim in silent rebuke, seized my bare ass, and started kneading it roughly, like doling out a punishment.
“Nyahk!”
(An easy-birthing ass, I see. Top grade here as well. Truly excellent.)
“That wasn't in the terms!”
(You mustn't interfere with fare collection.)
The hand that had been working my pants down came back up and mauled my ass at will — spreading it wide, squeezing it shut, over and over — then gave the puckered ring of my asshole a light probing poke through my panties, as if checking its tightness, lingered a moment, and withdrew. After that it simply went on kneading my cheeks in big handfuls, tracing slow circles over them, before finally dropping back down to finish with my jeans.
(I never knew an ass could be this satisfying to touch… I should have added this to the deal.)
“Nnh… fine, I'll take my shirt off for you, so…”
(That does not please me.)
The hands that had checked my thighs and calves as they stripped the jeans away climbed back up my belly, traveled across it toward my chest — then gripped my bra-clad breast once, memorizing the shape, before circling slowly around and flicking the back clasp open with a soft pop.
'Ugh — this one's hands are off too.'
Her touch itself was too gloomy. Where the Stalker had been an unpredictably inventive pervert, this one was closer to the sullen, brooding kind. The impassive face with the stiffened cock was one thing; the hands that lingered over every inch as if insisting on savoring each taste separately carried less a sticky feeling than a dark, damp one.
(Now then, let's begin. Cover your mouth.)
“W-wait, why are you… why are you sniffing my bra?”
(I'm savoring your scent.)
(Black panties, black bra. Haa… you really do know what you're doing.)
'Insane. She's not a gloomy pervert — she's just a top-shelf pervert, full stop.'
She had the cool, beautiful face of a model, but her behavior was the sort you'd only find in fiction. That handsome mug of hers was exactly why I'd been so slow to pin down her inclinations.
“Okay, okay, I get it — so put that down. Now.”
(Sweet and cool… not mugwort. More like a sweet carbonated drink.)
“I'll cover my mouth, so drop it! Please!”
I'd never understood it when I watched through other media. Why the women being molested by perverts always overacted, shrieking and recoiling like that. Now I got it. When someone does this to your face, brazenly, in the flesh… it's not disgust that hits first. It's fear — the raw shock of witnessing something beyond imagination.
(I like that expression.)
Shrieking, I snatched the bra away from her and flung it aside. She gazed after the discarded bra with something like genuine regret, then fixed her eyes on my face and stared and stared — before her hands, apparently deciding it was time to do their duty, began creeping slowly, slowly toward my pussy. Folding and spreading her fingers as she came, unhurried, sticky, as if to say this is what's going inside you.
'Ugh… ugh, she was a pervert from the very start.'
That blank face had fooled me. The taxi driver was not a creature of costs and benefits at all. If anything, she was the kind of pervert who put the dirty business first, even at her own expense — and worse, the kind who relished exactly what women hated, the kind who fed on the shrieking.
(Cover your mouth, please.)
She wasn't grinning slyly the way the Stalker did. She just announced it, flat and open. Her face was as expressionless as ever, but her intentions couldn't have been clearer from her actions alone: she wanted to do filthy things so badly she could die.
The regret flooded in — I should have chosen the other method — but I covered my mouth obediently. Resisting now would be pointless. It was already too late.
“Mmmph…”
Her hand slid down over my belly, slipped between my panties and my skin — fingers invading my pussy. Meanwhile her mouth, playing what could only be a game of match-the-nipples, lapped all over my chest until my t-shirt clung wet with spit to the outline beneath, and only then did her lips finally close and bite.
'Don't close my legs… don't…'
A tongue circling around and around, sticky and slow — and beyond it, besides the index and middle fingers squelching into my pussy, other fingers toying with everything around it. Between those two sensations I caught myself clenching my thighs, trying to refuse — then remembered what refusing had earned me before, and spread my legs to the side all over again.
Squelch. Squelch.
“Nngh…”
She sucked my breast upward with sheer suction, lifting it — then yanked the fingers out of my pussy in one motion and ground her whole palm against it instead. Those fingers, determined to taste every last sensation my pussy had to offer, one by one, made my back arch and shiver before I could stop it. I'd braced myself for being stroked. I hadn't anticipated being kneaded by hand, fingered one digit at a time, and enjoyed.
'Why… why are you looking at me like that…'
Her eyes bore into me, asking when exactly I intended to lower my hand. And I was cooperating to the hilt, legs spread without a trace of resistance to speed this along — but that shameless gaze, trained so obviously on my mouth, made irritation spike through me for an instant.
“Mmph… mmph…”
I gave the signal the only way I could — opening my mouth wide behind my hand and moaning through it, I'm coming. The hand understood at once and began moving fast, while the mouth on my breast, as if asking why the rush, started flicking its tongue against my nipple in quick little taps.
“Nnnghhh!”
I pressed my hand down hard over my mouth to keep it from dropping — and the pressure of the press, combined with the moan of my climax, came out sounding like someone desperately holding something back. By sheer force of will I rode out an orgasm that nearly buckled my legs—
“Mmph! Mmph!”
—but her hands didn't stop. I was still mid-climax, every nerve raw and screaming, and she carried on with that oblivious, indifferent touch, as though it were none of her concern. Then a delicate bite on my nipple wrung a fresh spasm out of me and my thighs snapped shut —
— and finally, delightedly declaring that I had interfered with the fare collection, the taxi driver's free hand seized my ass and began to knead.
Kneading, sucking, squelching.
The hand working my cheeks. The mouth planting little kisses on my nipple, as if to say I'll kiss you like this, so get that hand out of the way. And the fingers squelching into my pussy, scratching at my walls — all of it drove me up and over again—
“Nngh! Nnnghhhh!”
— and this time I couldn't resist at all. My back arched off the seat, and I came, again, one after another.