Damn this dress. Why did I wear this?

I asked myself this question for perhaps the hundredth time.

"Wear that little black dress," he said. "You look crazy hot in it," he said. He’s right. I do look hot in it. The problem is, he wasn't here to appreciate it.

"Sorry, honey, something's come up at work. Promise I will make it up to you."

I didn't reply.

I reread the message while finishing the large glass of wine I had been nursing, waiting for him to arrive. I looked up, got the waiter's attention, and ordered another. My mood was not lifting, but the alcohol on an otherwise empty stomach had begun to kick in. I drank the second glass, settled the bill, and headed out.

I stood in the cold of the night. It’s dark, and the sun has long since set. My dress offered me little protection from the night breeze. I lit a cigarette, unlocked my phone and ordered a ride home. Three minutes.

I took the last pull on my cigarette and felt my phone vibrate, telling me the driver was nearby. I looked up and saw a car parking and flashing its lights, and I walked toward it.

The driver smiled as I approached the back door. Damn this dress! He was looking, I could see, not overtly, but his car mirrors made an excellent wingman. The car was low. Of course it was. I slid my hand down my hem and attempted to get in while retaining some dignity.

He looked in his rear-view mirror and smiled, confirming my name and destination and perhaps looking for a second or two longer than was appropriate. The car smelled of man. The nag screen I had studiously ignored offering me a “premium” ride now appeared a more sensible option. He took another look at me and then pulled out of the parking space.

He made a clumsy attempt at small talk. His accent, perhaps Indian or Pakistani, was heavy. I smiled but didn’t engage and asked if I could open the window. He took the hint and, another lingering look aside, went back to driving.

A phone blasted out a bizarre-sounding ringtone. He asked me if I minded him taking it, and I nodded.

He began a speakerphone conversation with a man on the other end. It was in a language I didn't understand, and it was abnormally loud. I looked down at my phone and doomscrolled while listening to the back-and-forth.

He broke heavily at a red light, which jarred me out of my phone. I looked at his rear-view mirror and once again saw him checking me out. I smiled and then looked away, and when I looked again, he was still looking at me. He apologised. Apparently, he was not used to picking up beautiful women. I smiled again at his clichéd attempt to engage with me.

“I’m sure you say that to every woman you pick up?!” I asked.

He assured me this wasn't the case.

I heard the disembodied voice from his handset. The driver smiled and spoke briefly before looking in his mirror again and telling me I could ask his friend if I didn’t believe him.

I smiled. “Does your friend speak English?” I asked.

“Yes, he does,” the driver replied.

This was followed by an affirmation from the voice on the phone. The driver took his phone from the cradle housing it, and passed it back to me. I chatted with this stranger. It was good-natured and amusingly flirtatious. He asked me to turn on the camera. Was I as beautiful as his friend had told him I was?

I smiled again.

Cute. I thought, but no, I wasn't going to do that.

“No, I think we are fine as we are,” I replied.

“How about a picture? Face only?” the voice asked.

Face only? Did he think I would show more? The thought stuck with me as I declined.

The driver intervened. “Just one face pic. Show my friend how beautiful you are."

I took the phone up to face height, pressed the camera app, and watched my image appear on the screen. I smiled and pressed the button.

The voice asked if I took the pic. I giggled and confirmed as I passed the phone back to the driver.

The driver kept an eye on the road while prodding at his phone. I heard the whooshing sound of a message being sent, a pause, and then an excited reaction from the voice.

The car slowed. Traffic. The driver took this opportunity to turn to face me. His eyes immediately fell on my bare knees, which had been kept close together since I dropped into his back seat.

“Do you mind my asking how you ended up travelling alone?” he enquired.

I tried not to roll my eyes and internally thought he needed to work on his game.

I decided to be honest. He listened and told me my husband was a fool. I smiled.

Yes, he was. But your corny lines are getting you nowhere. I thought.

He smiled. And then it happened. His hand fell onto my knee. It took a second to register, but it was certainly there. His hand moved from the top of my knee to its side. I looked at him, but the speed at which it happened had caught me by surprise. A loud noise came from the car behind us. His hand moved from my leg as he turned to begin driving again.

My brain scrambled to make sense of what just happened. Why didn’t I get angry? My thought obliterated as his arm moved back, and his hand felt my bare leg.

I looked up at the rearview mirror. He was looking directly at me. I maintained my stare, and he smiled and asked me to come sit up front.

The question felt like a lightning bolt, and his searching hand brushing my legs added further voltage.

Instinctively, I laughed, placed my hand on his and softly pushed it away from my leg.

“Now, why would I do that?” I asked.

He laughed.

“Fun! Come on, come up front. Come sit next to me,” he replied.

The voice concurred.

I smiled. Was I enjoying this? Perhaps. Did I plan on going up front? No, but he was growing in confidence and his lines, although poor, were kinda amusing in that way they can be.

I was now enduring a double team. The conversation had switched to English and involved repeated cajoling to take the passenger seat, flattery, and occasional requests for another photo or the camera to be switched on.

It was good-natured. Persistent, but not annoying, and having an effect. Now my mind openly entertained the thought. I didn’t say this out loud, but it fed through in my reactions to their flirtations. I noticed a stream of red lights through the windscreen. More traffic.

He turned to face me and placed his hand on my knee again.

“Come on. Come up front.” He asked again.

My mind swam with the possibilities. I knew full well what getting into the front seat would signal, and this idea then just hijacked my thought process. And my pussy. I felt my palms glaze with sweat. My pulse was racing.

I smiled and removed my seatbelt.

The cold air hit my body again as the door opened, and I once again tried to get in without my dress becoming a belt, his hand reaching out to grasp at my thigh as my ass hit the seat.

He kept his hand on my thigh and welcomed me.

The voice then chimed in, asking for proof that I was indeed in the front seat. The driver snapped a pic. His hand was still on my thigh, my dress hem north of where it should have been. He sent it as he inched the car forward in the heavy traffic.

“Wow. That dress looks even better than when you first got in," the driver commented.

I felt my heart leap. Why? Not exactly a killer line, but the relentless compliments, to my shame, had begun to land. That and the fact that his hand hadn’t left my thigh since I got in. And I hadn’t asked him to remove it. It had stayed squarely on my quad but was slowly working its way inward. My brain shot out an alert. If his hand makes it to your inner thigh, you know how that makes you feel.

I did. And, at that point, I decided I wanted to feel that way.

His touch tingled. It had been a while since a hand other than my husband's had touched me so intimately, and my pussy was now firmly doing my thinking. His hand slid between my legs and rubbed on my inner right thigh. That feeling began. I caught a breath, louder than I intended, which caused a large smile to appear on the driver's face. It also made him begin to move his hand upward. I felt my thighs loosen, offering this hand space to occupy, which it gladly took. His hand moved higher and then traced a line along my panties.

Oh my god, I thought.

“I saw those black panties when you first got in. You're so fucking hot,” he said.

His middle finger slid downward and brushed over my now very sensitive clit. I gasped louder and widened my legs for him. His fingers grasped my panties and firmly pulled them to one side, gaining access to my now-wet pussy. I moaned as I felt his coarse fingertips probe me.

His index finger slid up and over my clit slowly rubbing. My eyes closed as I surrendered to the pleasure that pulsed through me.

“Widen your legs,” he said, almost like a command. One that I obeyed without question. He grabbed at my left wrist and guided my hand between my thighs and onto my pussy. He then took my right wrist and moved my arm toward his lap. My hand was guided to something warm and hard, and I naturally closed my hand around it and jerked it slowly.

He inched the car forward while I massaged my clit with my left hand and his cock with my right.

The voice, up till that point silent, asked again for the camera to be switched on.

The driver's hand moved to join mine between my legs, rubbing softly before placing his index finger, now wet and sticky, on my lower lip. I kissed the tip and then lapped it with my tongue before sliding my lips over his finger and sucking. He watched me intently.

“Why don't you put that married mouth to better use?” he said.

Now that's a killer line!

Almost on autopilot, I moved around on the chair and lowered my head toward his lap. His arm reached back and cupped my ass, grabbing and slapping my cheeks.

I opened my mouth and took as much of his cock as I could, sucking hard as I slid my lips back toward his fat cockhead and swirling my tongue around it once I got there.

He moaned loudly.

The voice became more agitated.

The driver switched back to his native language, interspersed with admiration for my cock sucking abilities in English.

I was now very turned on. So much so that when the driver suggested letting his friend see what was going on, I moaned all over his cock and just sucked it harder.

His hand moved away from my ass, and then I heard the voice turn into a director of some kind.

“Pull her dress up, show me that married ass!”

“Why are her panties still on, man? Get them off you idiot!”

The driver pulled roughly downward and dragged my panties over my ass and down to my knees.

“Push that ass out for me!” the voice demanded.

Holy fuck! Was I in a porn movie at this point?

I couldn't help but push it out for him, much to his pleasure.

Otherwise, my thoughts were consumed with pleasuring the thick cock in my mouth. Above average in both length and girth. Taste, too, truth be told. My eyes, closed through most of my performance, sensed a light. It was the phone, now resting on his right leg, and pointing directly at me. I couldn't help but look at it, his cock forcing my cheek to bulge as I did so.

It captured the second my ears heard the driver loudly announcing his approaching orgasm. I took him as deep as I could and sucked hard and fast. His hips began pushing upward, and then my mouth filled with cum. I quickly swallowed as he continued to empty two heavy balls full.

I took him out of my mouth and licked at the cum oozing from his cockhead, giving it one last French kiss before raising my head.

I sat back in the seat, the salty taste of thick cum still on my tongue. The driver passed me the phone.

The voice asked me to open my mouth and then stick my tongue out.

“All gone?” the voice asked

I extended my tongue fully for the camera.

“Good girl!” the voice responded.

We are through the traffic and close to home. The driver alternated his left hand between grabbing my breasts and groping my pussy.

“Does your husband know what a slut he has for a wife?” the voice asked.

I was still holding the phone. The voice hadn't activated his camera, but he was still watching.

“Open your legs, put the phone between those thighs, show me that married pussy,” he instructed.

My god! They had clearly saved their best lines till last. I thought.

The driver's hand grabbed my right thigh and pulled it toward him, and he said, “Make sure you give him a good view!”

I took the phone in my left hand and lowered it between my legs.

“Oh fuck!” The voice liked what he saw.

His grunts suggested he was masturbating.

“Spread your married pussy for me,” the voice commanded.

I used my right hand to part my pussy for him.

“Fuck. Yes! Keep it there, keep it there!”The voice moaned low and then yelled out.

Not for the first time that ride I had drifted from reality. The car stopped abruptly, and the driver got out. At that point, I realised I was home. I also noticed my husband wasn't.

I said my goodbyes to the voice, looking down at the footwell and seeing my black panties.

Let him keep them. I thought.

Just as I got my bearings, my door opened, and a hand reached in to help me out. The cold air shocked me.

“This your house?” he asked as he helped me from the car. I nodded, and he walked me toward the door, remaining the perfect gentleman while I fumbled with my keys and unlocked the door.

His persona shifted the second he closed the door. He placed his mouth on my ear and whispered, “Get out of that dress.”

Before I could respond, his eager hands were already pulling it downward. As I stepped out of it, he began shifting me towards our living room area and the large sofa at its entrance.

He pushed me forward and bent me over the sofa. I felt him move closer, his legs forcing mine further apart.

And then....

A surge of pure pleasure, starting between my legs, radiated outward. His thick cock sliding up to its hilt in one easy motion.

Fortunately, for the sake of my marriage, the sofa had numerous large cushions in which I could bury my face and muffle the moans and squeals that were emanating from my mouth.

He fucked hard and fast, grabbing at my hair to try to gain extra leverage. My head was spinning, the blood rushing to it not helping. He kept on. Not stopping. Just pumping that thing he had into me.

I was cumming. Good god was I cumming! I screamed into the pillow and squeezed my pussy around his cock. I felt myself going limp. Luckily, the sofa back took my weight as my legs turned to jelly. He upped his pace even more. Slamming my lower half into the sofa, my top half rocking back and forth.

He yelled out and now began filling my pussy with his second load. His hands were grasping my hips and grabbing at my hair.

I couldn't move. My legs were shaking. My head was spinning. My pussy was satiated.

I felt a hard, sharp slap on my ass. He leaned behind me, kissing my shoulder and neck.

“Tell me we are going to do that again?” he whispered.

I let out a contented sigh, nodded my head, and breathlessly replied, "Yes."

He got up, slapped my ass again, and left.

I heard the door close and felt his cum trickling down my leg.

Damn that dress.