Such A Bad Man

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Thank you and I hope you're enjoying Chapter Eight of My Second Chance!

I don't know exactly what I expect from him. I mean the man made it clear what type of man he is. He made it clear what he was expecting and what he thought of me.

As if I needed the clarity of his actions for it to be explicit. He practically screams out creep from the greasy look of him to the way he would glance at me, peering at my legs when this was all still innocent and I was just getting a ride.

All along it was more than clear to me that the kind of ride he wanted from me wasn't the sort that involved any kind of wheels.

It takes him less time to dress than it does me. Makes sense. He just sort of pushed his pants down to get his cock out, thankfully. His shirt stayed on and so most of his flabby body was kept hidden from view.

Meanwhile I took my shirt off. I pushed my panties to the side. I made a mess of myself through effort and that took time to clean up and remedy.

So when it comes time to dress, after we're done, he just has to hike his pants up and zip and button them up. He's already waiting and watching when he pops open the glovebox to pull out a packet of wet wipes and hand it over to me.

"Thanks," I say numbly. I actually thank the asshole for it.

Of course even the act of cleaning myself is of benefit to him. He gets to watch as I run the wipes over the skin of my breasts, wiping up the spit from his lips and tongue. He gets to watch as I slide it up under my skirt and remove the evidence of my wetness, of the wetness of my pleasure and my need.

And he gets to watch when, after I've got my panties back in place and my shirt back on, I pull the mirror down to check my makeup and fix it up.

Don't want it to look like I've done something crazy like sucked cock first thing in the morning. I'm supposed to be a lady.

"You don't need makeup, darling," he coos at me, "Believe me, you're better au natural."

I scoff. He doesn't know. He's never seen me... Oh, that's what they mean...

I'd always heard the sentiment, back when I was a man, that guys idea of what 'no makeup' looks like is fundamentally flawed. And I mean I'd done some looking into it, but I never really wholly believed it. Some part of me believed there were women out there who truly didn't use makeup and I believed that they were all the better for it. I believed that if you needed makeup it started to make it an excuse, started to make it so that you couldn't go without.

But Emily didn't really use makeup.

She didn't and yet she had today, and last night, because of my influence. And something in the way that the asshole cabby talks about the way I look makes me realize that he probably truly thought that I was all natural when I stepped into his cab when I was clearly wearing an awful lot of makeup.

And that made it click for me. It made it make sense. Just another part of the feminine experience that I'd never truly appreciated.

So I roll my eyes but I try to give him a little credit because he doesn't know any better, because I didn't know any better.

"I'll just be a minute," I tell him, quickly adjusting and marveling at the fact that aside from a few smudges my work was still remarkably mostly intact.

Not good, mind you, because I wasn't particularly great at applying makeup. But given that I was expecting running mascara and lipstick smears on my cheeks and having to start all over from scratch this was definitely an improvement.

"Good," he says, "Because at this point you're just costing me money."

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