FICTION
Operator 84

By Thomas Roche & Alison Tyler
Excerpt from Hers

It’s a long ride, as the crow flies, from Tribeca to the Upper West Side. But traffic’s next to nothing at four in the morning -- even on Saturday night.

We’ve been dancing in one of those exclusive Tribeca clubs -- you know the one you like so much. You always get turned on when you’re dancing. You always get really turned on.

Maybe that’s why you can’t wait.

Or maybe it’s because we’ve stumbled upon one of those rare New York fixtures -- the female cab driver. Instead of grunting at us and talking about politics, traffic or the weather, she asks us in a musical voice: "Where can I take you?"

There’s plenty of room in the back seat, but you snuggle up against me, your body lithe in its tight little black dress. You lean back and kiss me.

"Tenth and 77th," I tell the driver. Smiling, I add: "And make it snappy!"

"You’ve been reading too many detective novels," she says, smirking a little. She’s somewhere in her mid-twenties, probably a student. She’s got long blonde hair and pretty eyes, which she disguises with a Yankees cap pulled down indelicately over her face. "Been dancing?"

By then, you’ve started to snug up your black dress and reach under it. I look down at you with my eyes wide; I want to ask you what you’re doing, but I sense instinctively, from knowing you so well, that nothing is going to stop you -- so I may as well enjoy the ride.

"Yeah," I tell the driver. "We’ve been dancing."

Your lacy thong comes smoothly down your thighs, over your ankles. You kick off your flats and tuck your panties into the pocket of my dress slacks.

"Lots of great dancing down in Tribeca nowadays," says the cab driver, looking at me in the rear view mirror. I can see the side of her face and she’s smiling; she’s got a bright, enticing smile, and I spend about five seconds trying to figure out whether she knows what’s going on. "Yup, the neighborhood’s really bouncing back."

"Uh-huh," I say as you reach for my cock. "Bouncing."

By then you’ve slid down behind the seat and you’re kneeling between my legs. Knowing better than to argue with you, of course, I spread them enough to give you access.

"Yeah," I say, my breath coming short as your hand closes around the rapidly-growing bulge in my pants. "There’s nothing quite as great as a night dancing." I swallow nervously as you make short work of my belt and pants, apparently not carrying if the driver recognizes the telltale jingle of my belt buckle, the revealing sound of my zipper going down.

"Sure," she says. "Dancing’s great. Getting all sweaty. All those bodies pressed in against yours...." She utters a girlish giggle, something I never expected to hear from a cab driver of any gender. "Meet anyone interesting?"

Your lips descend on my hard cock, sliding down effortlessly as your tongue works against the underside. I have a lot of difficulty speaking at this point, but I manage to carry on the conversation. "Oh, well, you know," I croak. "My wife and I....we weren’t really there to meet people. Just to....dance."

"With each other," she says, turning to look at me and smile as the cab comes to a stop in traffic.

"Yeah," I say, as your mouth works its magic on my cock. "With each other."

"I can tell. Does your wife like dancing?"

My cock slips out of your mouth. "Oh yeah," you say from between my legs, slurping a little as you lick your lips. "I love to dance."

For a moment I’m afraid the cab driver’s going to lean over the seat and look down, but she doesn’t. Instead, she turns back around and hits the gas, giving your mouth on my cock a unique sort of gravity as you slowly pump my hardness in and out. I’m having trouble, now, struggling not to moan as the cab driver talks about how much she loves dancing.

"I love wearing something really sexy when I’m dancing," she says, glancing back to smile at me. "I can’t dress sexy with my job, obviously. So I really like to doll up when I go to a club."

Now you’ve pulled my pants all the way down; they’re around my ankles and your mouth is on my balls. "Oh really," I say, my throat tight with the effort of speaking. "What do you like to wear."

"Oh, you know, something like what your wife is wearing." She glances back again, her eyes dark with mystery. "Where’d she go, anyway?"

"Oh, I think she’s asleep," I murmur. "She had a bit to drink at the club."

"I bet. I guess there’s no reason to stop now."

My ears ring as I realize, without a doubt, that she knows what’s going on. But both of us maintain the pretension, even as you take the hint and climb up into my lap -- facing me.

"Yup, there’s something very sexy about getting dressed up to go dancing," the cab driver says as you take my spit-slick cock in your hand and guide it to the entrance of your pussy. The cab driver looks back at us. "Oh, I’m sorry, am I distracting you?"

You moan softly as you settle down on top of me, my cock deep inside you. You slump forward against me, heavily, and your hips start grinding in that way you do, barely moving but causing almost more friction than I can take. You know how to make me come -- but, more importantly, you know how to make yourself come, and your hand is wedged tightly between our bodies, rubbing your clit.

"Of course, wearing something like what your wife is wearing, I can’t wear much under it. I mean, when it’s tight, you know, you get panty lines. I have to go with a little tiny thong. Do you find that, too?"

She glances over her shoulder, pretending not to notice that you’re grinding on top of me, kissing me hard as you drive my cock rhythmically into your pussy.

"Yeah," you moan softly. "Sometimes I don’t wear anything at all."

She giggles, turning back to the road. "Me, too," she says. "Of course, I didn’t want to say that, but sometimes I just go with nothing on under my dress. Saves time later."

"Yeah," you say. "Oh God....saves time...."

I can tell you’re going to come, and now we’re clear of the midtown traffic, hurtling down Eighth Ave at a breakneck pace. It’s almost like the cab driver is in competition with us, trying to see if she can get us where we’re going before we can finish. But you’re quick as a wink with that hand on your clit, and you don’t try to camouflage your moans when you come. Your body presses hard against mine, your hips pumping rapidly, and you moan loudly, throwing back your head and whispering "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes...."

Which is when I come, my hips working my cock up into you, your smooth thighs pressing against mine. I’m not quite as loud as you, but any hint that the cab driver is clueless is long since gone. I clutch you tight and kiss your neck as my orgasm dwindles.

When I open my eyes, I see that the driver is turned around in her seat, her legs tucked under her. She’s watching us -- openly, shamelessly.

"Here we are," she says.

You slide off of me, my cock slipping out of you, wet and soft. I reach for my pants and start to pull them up, groping for my wallet as I do.

"How much do I owe you?" I ask, my face reddening.

"Oh, look at this," the driver says. "I forgot to turn on the meter. Well, we’ll just call it even."

"Thanks," I say as you smile at her and get out of the cab.

"Operator eighty-four," she says, smiling as she hands me a card. "I work Fridays and Saturdays."

She smiles. She’s taken off the Yankees cap, and I can see her pretty eyes flashing under the streetlights.

She turns back around and puts the cab in gear.

"Next time, though, don’t expect the ride to be free."

I get out of the cab and hurry after you to the door of our apartment building.

Excerpted with permission from
Hers
By Alison Tyler & Thomas Roche
(Pretty Things Press, 2003, ISBN: 1-57612-185-2)
208 pages, softcover $14.95
ORDER NOW