The Taxi That Changes Fate - 5
"Do as you like."
The same self-offered posture I had taken before, presenting myself shamefully. But this time was different. Back then I had been forced into it by stimulation; this time it was by my own will.
(Hmm…)
'Wh… what is this?'
Down on all fours, hips raised high, offering up my lower half. The taxi driver had assumed that the moment I took this pose, he would dive face-first in and savor it. Instead he simply stared, unblinking, letting out a strange, low moan that never seemed to end, while I—having bared myself of my own accord—couldn't even break the pose, left holding it in mortifying silence.
(May I give you an enema?)
"Khhak! Kughk!"
Until now, I'd never understood people who choked on their own spit. It had never happened to me, so there was nothing to relate to. But now I finally knew exactly how it felt. Hear something so deranged it defies imagination, and yes—a person can choke on air itself.
"What kind of insane nonsense is that?!"
I had no idea he was this far gone, this depraved. How on earth does watching a woman kneel with her ass in the air lead to the thought I want to give her an enema?
(Hmm… the wrinkles around your anus are so pretty I want to have anal sex with you. And to do that, well, first we'd have to get what's inside out.)
(In all my existence, I have never seen such a beautiful anus.)
(I almost want to photograph it. Close-up, of course.)
(Truly…)
"Shut up! Please…!"
I cut him off before any more madness could come out. Every fresh utterance cracked open some new horizon I never wanted to see. But the taxi driver, unable—or unwilling—to express himself with words any longer, seemed to decide that actions would do just fine, and began pressing little kisses against my anus.
"Ugh… ughh…"
This was no fleeting brush of lips. The time his mouth stayed pressed against me was nearly equal to the time it pulled away, a steady rhythm of contact and release—like the way someone showers a cute little animal with kiss after kiss after kiss.
'I'm going crazy. I'm actually going crazy.'
Sensually, it barely registered. It was a repetition of faint, frictionless stimulation—the kind of touch that even aimed directly at an erogenous zone would hardly stir anything. But the shame those kisses produced was greater than anything I had endured so far. And worse—the worst part, the truly terrifying part—was that he was doing it purely because he loved doing it, which meant there was no telling when it would ever end.
Mwah. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.
"Stop it! Stop! You promised you'd give me a proper orgasm! A normal one!"
I had held my tongue out of gratitude for the roughly one-minute reprieve he'd granted me. But the shame had long since blown far past anything I could tolerate, so I screamed at him to stop. And when the kissing lips let out a petty little "tch" through his nose, something boiled up inside me.
'I'm the one holding it in—why are YOU acting like I'm the one being unfair?!'
The shame was driving me out of my mind. Just as the stimulation of being handled against my will differed enormously from the stimulation of offering myself up, so too did the shame—being forced was nothing compared to the crushing weight of having chosen it.
"Pl… please, just let me come already…"
Swish, swish.
I begged, swaying my hips from side to side. My pride took the hit, but this time I truly had no choice. The moment the taxi driver finished his long, leisurely stare and repeated the same torment, I was going to lose my mind to the humiliation—so rather than that, I preferred a humiliation I could at least brace for: begging, and the stimulation that came with it.
'Is this really the right call?'
But as I kept rocking my hips, a deep, ringing clarity settled over me—the kind of post-nut serenity I had never once felt even as a man. My head understood the logic: this body was female now, and this motion was the textbook optimum for seduction. The problem was the situation itself—that I had been hounded to the unimaginable极限 of shame until I performed it.
Mwah.
"That's enough already…!"
Still swaying, still begging—until it seemed he'd finally had his fill. A hand slapped down on my hips, and I felt lips press a kiss squarely against my pussy. Another flurry of kisses, I thought, and opened my mouth to scream—
Nibble.
"Kyah—?!"
Teeth closed lightly around my clitoris, and my voice and body both froze solid. I trembled uncontrollably. I had never imagined such a stimulus could even exist.
Squelch-squelch-squelch.
Mwah. Mwah.
"Haahh! W-wait—! Why all of a sudden—!"
Fingers plunged into me without warning, and my clitoris had become the new target of his kisses. Two sensations arriving with zero preamble—and my body bolted forward on pure instinct, trying to flee. Yes, there was a goal, my own orgasm, but it had all come too suddenly; instinct chose escape.
"Aahh!"
My feeble rebellion was crushed in an instant. I managed to scramble maybe a single adult male's stride before the hands clamped on my hips—hips that practically begged come take me, come now—dragged me bodily back, and I was made to receive my punishment of an orgasm: kissed relentlessly, fingered relentlessly, over and over.
"…!!!"
Both hands clamped tight over my mouth exactly as instinct demanded, hips hiked as high as they would go—that was how the climax took me. My trembling lower half gasped and flexed, pussy and anus opening and closing, moaning on my behalf, wailing why, why is this happening to me—and the mouth behind me answered each cry with kisses in turn: clit, pussy, anus, one after another.
Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.
Because. You. Got. Turned on. That's. Why.
"Hnnnngh—!"
The instant that answer reached me, my body ignited. Right in the middle of one orgasm, a wave of sensation crashed through me all over again—weak climax stacked upon weak climax.
'I was wrong about him… I misunderstood everything.'
I'd assumed there was some grand operating principle behind him. But the taxi driver's principle was nothing so lofty. Every single thing he did ran on one word: because. Because the anus was pretty, he'd wanted to try an enema. Because the anus was pretty, he'd wanted to kiss it. Because watching me shake my hips turned him on, he'd caressed me. And the kisses just now? No deeper thought at all. He'd kissed me because he felt like kissing me.
"I'm going… I'm actually losing my mind…"
I didn't understand him completely. But I understood him halfway, and halfway was enough. The taxi driver had cornered me because he was honest. All my scheming, all my careful maneuvering for position, had been useless because there was genuinely nothing behind his actions to outmaneuver. His cost-benefit calculus only protected the truly fatal things; everything else was just I want to do lewd things to this woman.
(Ah… it's already over, isn't it.)
(I shall pay the fare.)
'Hold it in… just hold it in…'
He brings me to the edge with his own sudden groping, ends it himself, and then laments how quickly it's over, what a shame. For a heartbeat his contradictory words and actions grated on me, but I swallowed it and waited for what came next. It was his turn now—the fare for the bargain.
(What was it again?)
Grrrind.
I gritted my teeth so hard I nearly cracked them. With a rule in place that he couldn't lie, saying that could only mean one thing: he had genuinely forgotten.
"The front seat. Information about the passenger who got off there."
(And permission to touch your thighs and breasts, as well, was it not?)
"Front seat first. Let me get there first."
The taxi driver—who had, with breathtaking selectivity, remembered only the lewd parts—reached out to grope me, but I slapped the hand away. Those two privileges only kicked in once I was actually in the front seat.
Snap.
With a disappointed flick of his fingers, the vehicle rearranged itself in an instant. Me in the front—precisely, the passenger seat. The taxi driver in the driver's seat. There was no divider between us; the partition existed solely to separate the back seat from the front.
"Ngh…"
Apparently feeling he had nothing left to be denied, a hand seized my breast outright. I flinched at the suddenness of it—but I let it stay. He kneaded and rolled my chest, then stroked down deep along my inner thigh until his fingers grazed my pussy, teasingly, maddeningly close, while I waited for the next words to come.
(To explain simply: this taxi has two modes.)
(The first is when an ordinary passenger boards.)
(The second is when, alongside an ordinary fare, a… forgive me, a beautiful passenger boards.)
(Ordinary passengers pay their fare with their bodies. Fingernails, toenails, fingers, toes. That sort of thing.)
(Beautiful passengers pay with their bodies too. Just… the lewd kind.)
For a moment, I felt a flicker of relief. I could all too easily imagine how wretched it would be if the fare for a taxi I'd been forced into turned out to be a finger or a toe.
(Now, the escape methods for the first and second modes, respectively.)
(A first-mode passenger simply severs two of their four limbs. Request a blade from me, cut them off yourself, then declare you are going to the hospital. In this case, the lifespan you gain from escaping my ghost story roughly equals your medical bills—so it is not, strictly speaking, a profitable method.)
(A second-mode passenger—that is, you—signed a flesh-slave contract as your fare.)
(A contract obligating you to come running and have sex with me whenever I call, for three years.)
(Your status has fallen from passenger to slave, and slaves cannot use currency—therefore you cannot pay the fare, and so I am obligated to let you off.)
(Of course, you will still be serving me for those three years.)
The taxi driver said all this while kneading my breasts, idly flicking my nipples. One path: forfeit the lifespan a ghost story would grant. The other: become inventory in exchange for becoming his flesh-slave. Neither was the best option. Only second-bests, both.
"And the… unconventional methods?"
Still, the information wasn't useless. One: sustain a grave injury and go to the hospital. Two: become someone unable to pay the fare, and you are no longer a passenger. I had those two pieces now. But it wasn't enough—because those were the kinds of fallback options I must not copy. Whether I could survive the bleeding long enough to reach a hospital was a coin flip, and the flesh-slave route meant throwing away three years of my life. I needed more.
(The first passenger—after a phone call with a subordinate, ordered the assassination of a close friend. Upon its success, he alighted on the pretext of attending the funeral.)
(The second passenger—received permission to use an item in trade, became pregnant, and alighted on the pretext of visiting an obstetrician to calculate her due date.)
'Huh?'
The fallback options earlier had made sense. Gain one thing, lose one thing—clean arithmetic. But the unconventional methods refused to add up. Why? Why would those count as reasons to get off?
'Let's break it down.'
A close friend's funeral. Fine, that one tracks. Setting aside the fact that he'd ordered the hit himself, a close friend's funeral is a major life event. But… calculating a due date? What on earth? Why would that be a valid reason to disembark?
'Severe bodily mutilation. Inability to pay the fare. A friend's funeral. A due-date check.'
'There's a rule behind these disembarkation reasons—one I don't know yet.'
Still not enough. There was no connecting thread between them, no link that tied the four together. To find it, I needed more information. And… the one holding it was right beside me, this degenerate of a driver who never stopped groping me or sexually harassing me. I would have to trade for it, piece by piece, my body as the currency.
(Your thighs are so soft, yet wonderfully firm under pressure.)
(Thighs like these are perfect for taking it from behind. The way they cushion while still holding firm when I press down to wring every last drop out of myself…)
(Your face, your chest, your hips—top of the line, every one. And your thighs are this good too? The synergy will be exquisite.)
(They'll also be perfect to hold during a breeding press, I should think.)
'Haah…'
Hands appraising my thighs like a merchant inspecting goods. Squeezing my breasts hard enough to wring them dry—then, seeming almost apologetic, soothing them with gentle strokes. And I had to keep drawing information out of this pervert, trade by trade, paying with my own flesh.
(Now then—shall we be off?)