Of All The Cabs, Why Did It Have To Be This One?

Of all the cabs I could have stepped into, why did it have to be this one? Why did it have to be driven by this guy?

Because the glimmer in his eyes when he spoke about my habits, my desires, says he spoke from experience.

In retrospect him dashing across all those lanes of traffic so he could pull up next to me probably should have been a pretty good indication that he was up to no good. He probably glanced me on the side of the road and already the wheels were turning, the ones in his head. He was plotting and planning and he was going to find some way to get me here, if not precisely here then surely somewhere close.

He wanted me like this. He made it happen. So was I really to blame?

I know I'm grasping at straws here and trying to justify my choice but that's only because it makes no sense and only because every moment since I peeled my shirt up has had a kind of inevitability to it. A part of me needs, more than with anyone else that I've ever been with, for this to be justified by some external ****.

I can't even understand why a girl who is wholly and solely Emily would ever be with a man like this, let alone someone with my far more complicated history with gender and sexuality.

And I need something. I need some explanation for why someone who was a guy a few days ago kept on finding themselves in situations that become progressively more difficult to justify. Why I keep on getting on my knees for men who are bad for me just as much as I do ones who are good for me.

Why I'm getting on my knees for men at all.

And I need something to explain why I move just as fast as he did when he dashed across all those lanes of traffic to pick me up but I'm not moving to pick him up, I'm moving to satisfy the urgent craving inside of me. My mouth already salivating at the thought of his disgustingly potent taste as I push off the door behind me and practically launch myself down between his thighs.

I moan as I slide my hands up those fat hairy thighs of his. I bite my bottom lip as the pulsing head of his thick cock becomes the entirety of my view. I arch my back and press my skirt clad ass up in the air as I inhale deeply through my nose and close my eyes while I slide forward and plant a long and lingering kiss right on the underside of the head of his cock.

"That's a good girl," he pats me on the head, "Now be bad."

My hands slide up and slide over his before slipping under and replacing his hold on his cock. He is warm and he is so fucking hair. He is so fucking hard as I slide my tongue out and let it glide along the underside of his head before slipping around it in full.

And I moan again. I moan as I tighten my grip and stroke up the length of him with one hand. I moan while the other hand slips under and gently tickles and fondles his balls with the tips of my nails. I moan in the moment before I open my mouth wide into an O and push down to take the head of him inside of me.

Bobbing onto him, I take the first few inches. My jaw, temporarily having received a break from the ache of trying to stretch around him, starts to ache immediately once again. But the pain of it doesn't stop me as my eyes roll into the back of my head and I do my best to take him deeper and deeper with each push down.

I know I can do it. I've done it before and god I want it. I want to pain pleasure of **** myself on him, the burn in my lungs and the **** in my jaw and the humiliation of it and I can't quite have all of it just yet, I have to build up to it.

I can only have a degree.

But of the three the humiliation is strongest. Because when I finally focus my eyes and turn them up to look at him he's grinning lewdly down at me, entirely confident and sure that he had me dead to rights.

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