The Taxi That Changes Fate - 6
(Ow.)
The hand had burrowed deep between my thighs and was slyly patting away at my pussy, my ass — I gave it a pinch and turned the problem over in my head.
What am I even supposed to bring up here?
There was no denying it: this was a situation where I had to do the seducing. Before I knew it, the meter had ticked past 3,000 and was already racing toward its next milestone. And yet I hated the idea of taking the initiative right now — because if I seduced her and ended up on the receiving end of another "anal kiss" or whatever that had been, I would genuinely want to die.
"What do you want?"
Rule 4: ask the driver what she desires, then pay the corresponding fare. Honestly, asking like this felt a little better. I wasn't doing this because I wanted to — I was asking as a victim who'd been dragged into this situation against her will. It let me hold on to the bare minimum of dignity. The very, very bare minimum.
(Sex, anal, handjobs, blowjobs, paizuri, pussy licking, rimming, enemas, declaring yourself my sex slave while masturbating...)
"?!"
(Grinding your ass on top of me is nice too. A handjob with your armpit or the backs of your knees. Holding my cum in your mouth and enduring for a few minutes...)
"S-stop it already!"
The list just kept coming. At first it was stuff even I could follow, but little by little, things I'd only ever heard about in words started spilling out.
(After taking a lactation drug, genuine milk-play would be lovely. Or enduring a full minute on the condition that I creampie you the moment you climax...)
"I said stop!"
(I'd love cosplay too, but honestly, outfits lewder than what you're wearing right now can be counted on one hand. Such a shame.)
"Excuse me?!"
Lewder than cosplay. At those words, I looked down at myself.
A t-shirt drenched in sweat, sucked through the fabric while I was wearing it, my nipples plainly visible underneath. Even by my own standards it was more obscene than being naked — I could only imagine what it looked like to a third party. The moment I registered that I'd been swaying my hips in this getup, my face went up in flames, and the instant I remembered that from the waist down I was wearing absolutely nothing, I yanked the hem down over myself.
"Nngh..."
This way, there's literally no difference between asking and not asking.
The hand on my thigh, as if it wanted me to be just a little more embarrassed, crept up to my chest and gave my nipple a light tug. I forced myself to ignore it and desperately rerouted my thoughts. I'd asked the question hoping for some peace of mind, but the result was identical — the menu was so vast that whether I asked or not, it amounted to me choosing anyway.
Come to think of it — dirty talk and sexual harassment counted too, didn't they.
Everything up to now had been fare. This was prepayment. I'd completely blanked on that fact, because actually paying the fare was... so humiliating, and took so long — the fact that during the prepayment phase, you could knock the fare down by satisfying the taxi driver's lust with dirty talk or sexual harassment.
Fine. I'll do it.
I closed my eyes and steeled myself. Say something lewd to that pervert, sexually harass her, and it would come back at me several-fold at best, dozens-fold at worst. But all of this was for the sake of escaping this ghost story — I resolved, firmly, that it was nothing I meant from the heart. It was the bare minimum of... a mental barrier. For my own sake.
"Can I stroke your cock?"
(If you think that alone will lower the fare, dream on.)
"I'll stroke it and talk dirty to you while I do."
The moment the words left my mouth, the taxi driver's hand folded over mine and guided it onto her cock, telling me to hurry up and touch.
Haah...
The fare, which had been climbing toward 8,000, dropped by 500 with that single act. Her face stayed perfectly blank, but those wide, glistening eyes — brimming with expectation — bored into me for a long, long moment.
"You. The taxi is your real body, isn't it?"
(...!)
The hands on the wheel and the feet on the pedals froze. It had been strange for a while now. Both hands idle, and yet the driving carried on automatically. No one touching the gearstick, and yet the taxi moved on its own.
(You're quick on the uptake.)
"Doesn't really matter — I'd already figured it out. I only brought it up because it's necessary for this prepayment. So you don't get blindsided halfway through and break your immersion."
(Ah... understood.)
"Hands off, eyes closed, and stay still. Even a regular taxi driver stops the car to take payment, right?"
(Fair point. I'll drive on autopilot and keep my hands to myself, eyes closed.)
With that, the taxi driver shut her eyes, released her grip on my chest, and laid her hand down at her side. The very picture of someone intending to immerse herself, utterly, in whatever I said next.
"If I were to sign a flesh-slave contract with you..."
Gulp.
The sound of a swallow, the instant the topic landed. Probably... for a taxi driver, this was the most realistic, most mouth-watering IF scenario there could be.
(The setup and the way you're touching me... both excellent. Please continue exactly as you are.)
What I was doing right now was not the up-and-down stroke of masturbation. I'd placed my hand on the underside of her cock — a spot that almost never gets any attention — and was gliding it slowly up and down.
"I'd probably... try to seduce you. I'd have to stay on your good side for three years, after all. I'd need days off at my discretion, at the very least."
(I see.)
"So I'd probably..."
I let the words trail off on purpose — giving her time to guess what came next.
(Probably...?)
"I'd call you first. Have you come over to my place."
(Why?)
"Because before the slave part of it — a woman picking up the phone herself and asking you to come over? That's an incredibly arousing situation."
Schlop.
She was picturing it — so deeply immersed that she didn't notice her own drool until it had nearly slipped free, at which point she hastily sucked it back.
"And when you arrive at my place..."
(Then?)
"I'll answer the door in plain, everyday clothes. Specifically to disappoint you."
Throb. Throb.
The cock under my palm was lodging a complaint. This is clearly a lewd situation, a proper scenario — why did you just slam the arousal meter into the floor?
"And right before you get annoyed and pounce on me, I'd say —"
"Doing it this suddenly kills the mood. I'm going to shower first."
(In which case I'd get annoyed and pounce on you anyway.)
"Even if I winked one eye at you?"
(...Just once. I'd grant you one more chance.)
She was properly under now — I could tell. So I set the hand stroking her cock to a steady, even rhythm. A sudden jolt of real-world stimulation could shatter the immersion.
"So I go into the bathroom like that,"
"and I take my clothes off, one piece at a time."
"Top, bottom, bra, panties — one by one."
I didn't specify the clothes. Getting cute with the details — describing some specific outfit — would only lower the immersion.
"And I pass each piece out through the bathroom door, one at a time."
"First, the top. I crack the door open — casual, like this is just how it's always done."
"And then the bottom..."
(The door... isn't locked, is it?)
Slowly. Very, very slowly, I stretched the moment out — not so long a pause that it curdled, not so short that it rushed. Just enough silence for the taxi driver to realize the door was unlocked and imagine, fully, what she would do about it. Then I picked the thread back up.
"Th... next comes the..."
(The bra...?)
"No. The panties."
Twitch. Twitch.
The cock in my hand leaked a bead of precum from the tip. It kept flinching and firing off questions — why the panties before the bra? what comes next? — and I let a tiny beat pass before answering.
"Because when the door slides open, what's hanging there... is the bra."
(...!)
Not a word came out, but the cock, rigid to the point of pain, said it all. She was picturing the scene in perfect clarity. She was deep in it now.
"And after that?"
(I... have to go in.)
"You step in and... it's all hazy with steam? Can't see a thing."
(The door's open, so the steam will drift out gradually.)
Now she was steering the scenario herself, in a breathless, urgent tone — show me more, show me something dirty, anything, please.
"It really is clearing. The shower stall's starting to come into view."
(Wh... what's in it?)
"In the shower stall... there's me. The me who was expecting you. My ass is—"
(Your ass is?)
"pressed flat against the transparent wall."
(Hngh..!)
Spurt. Spuuurt.
The cock I'd been stroking, as if it could bear no more, erupted with a powerful surge of cum. As if such a sight had exceeded even its imagination.
(I'm... I'm opening that stall door right now—!)
"To you, reaching for that stall door — to you, at the absolute peak of arousal — I say:"
(Like hell I'm listening—!)
"This view? You only get to see it right now."
(...!!!!)
The spurting cum stopped dead. Not because the arousal had cooled, and not because she'd emptied herself — the flow had cut off because the cock had clenched with everything it had.
"Ass pressed to the wall. You can see my pussy too, from there."
"But this state only exists right now. Isn't it a waste to let it go?"
(Th... that's...)
"Next time you see it — will it still hit like this? Honestly?"
I knew this well, being a man. Whatever drove you insane with arousal the first time feels different the second time you see it. The problem is you can't know whether "different" means disappointment or an even bigger high. If it's a bigger high, fine. But if it isn't...
(Th... then what... what do I do—)
"Move your hand to your cock."
With those words, I withdrew my hand. The me inside the fantasy was the one doing the seducing — if my real hand touched the cock, the immersion would break.
(Just a little longer. Please, keep that pose just a little longer.)
"I've been waiting so long my legs ache... you're awfully late, you know."
(Just once... let me cum, just once.)
"Mmm... you do realize that if I hadn't signed that slave contract, none of this would be happening, right?"
(One moment... just a little...)
Utterly submerged, the taxi driver conversed naturally with the me inside her head — while her real hand closed around her real cock and jerked it frantically, up and down. She couldn't bear to lose the breathtaking sight before her eyes, the one that might vanish at any second.
(Nngh...!)
And so the deeply immersed taxi driver pumped her cock hard and came — and I, to sell the sensation of that transparent wall, caught the load with my palm about fifty centimeters above the tip. Simulating even the splash would send the immersion soaring, after all.
(One more... just one more time.)
"No."
(I'm... I'm! Your master!)
Eyes still shut, lost to the world. So I did the courteous thing and delivered a dose of cold, hard reality — seizing her cock in a tight grip as I said:
"Why, exactly, would you be my master?"
(Huh?)
The reaction of someone violently yanked out of a daydream. Her eyes flew wide open; she floundered, bewildered — why was the me who belonged inside that shower stall here, like this? — then glanced around and finally came back to herself. But her cock, still marooned in the fantasy, kept heaving out cum in intermittent spurts, so I grabbed it and shook it, telling her to wake up from the dream already.
"Did you enjoy that?"
(Ugh... ngh...)
The irritation of being torn from a happy dream. The fury of why did you wake me. And underneath it all, the pleasure being forced into her whether she liked it or not. Faced with that three-part harmony — three things no one could ever feel all at once, even if they tried — the taxi driver twisted her body with a blank face, letting out strange little sounds. But my hand kept moving, and she was made to come, all over again, whether she wanted to or not.