The taxi driver

memorylaneI met the taxi driver the same way I met Mike, but there was a better click between him and me than there was between Mike and me. Funny enough, I could remember Mike’s real name, but no matter how hard I tried to remember the name of the taxi driver, I just could not. Let’s call him Doug, as my memory keeps telling me his name started with a ‘D’. Doug used to write poems. Love poems. Poems about sad times. He had a website back then, but even searching for that did not help me to find him or remember his name.

Doug and I met each other quite a couple of times. He worked irregular hours and I only worked a couple of days a week. Mostly we met at his place and only twice in all those meetings did we have sex. Many times I just visited him for a cup of coffee and left again without us having touched each other. He was in and out of a relationship and frequently talked to me about the problems in his relationship. I offered him the shoulder he needed. I can only clearly remember one of the two times that we had sex.

I arrived at his house some time in the afternoon. He had to go to work a couple of hours later, but had time for a visit. We had coffee and sat talking on the couch. There was some fondling, some kissing, some laughter, some serious talking. He was yet again going through a difficult time in his on-off relationship and he gave me the feeling that he had to let of steam. He was compelling, clearly wanting some kind of release and I somehow suspected that it was not only a physical release he was after. He needed an emotional release too.

I was an easy target. I liked that he took control, that he was not to be stopped. He might have brought me to orgasm while we were still sitting on the couch. He might have grabbed my breasts. He might have fingered me hard. I might have sucked him. I might have had my hand on his cock. Maybe we kissed a lot, fondled a lot, moaned a lot. I cannot remember exactly what happened before we went to his bedroom.

Doug pulled me with him towards his bed. I was naked by then. My clothes were all over the place. He was naked too and his erection told me he wanted to fuck. The bedroom was very tidy for a man living alone. Actually, his entire house was always very tidy and cozy. He had white linen on his bed – sheets, pillow cases and duvet cover. I remember that his room was very light, mostly decorated in shades of white. I lay down on the bed. He got on the bed too, standing on his knees between my legs. He held my legs widely spread, pushing his thighs against my inner thighs. Slowly he rolled a condom over his erect member. He pushed into me hard and started pounding. It was definitely not about making love, but about fucking. He fucked me as if it was the only thing left for him to do.

I liked the hard pounding. I liked to see the absent expression on his face, as if he had forgotten about me and that all I was, was a cunt for him to satisfy himself. He held onto my legs and frequently looked down at his cock moving in and out of me. Not once did he look at me, at my face. I liked that he used me, but back then I did not think of it as being used. It was only when I look back on it later that I understood that he had used me to let off steam. He climaxed and he groaned as he did so.

He was gentler afterward, once we were dressed again. He offered me some more coffee, which I declined. I left him within half an hour after hour fucking, partly because I wanted to get home and partly because he had to work a bit later. I’ve seen him again after that and still spoke to him quite a lot until I started my life with Master T.

Somehow, seeing how our life is developing at this moment, I think Doug would have been a nice addition. Master T would definitely have approved of him. But alas, I cannot even remember his name and for all I know his relationship shaped up to be a really happy man and he is not ‘available’ anymore.

This is a good memory though…

© Rebel’s Notes

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