Taste of Pleasure (Short Pleasure Collections)

My Innocent Chauffeur 1

The way he drove... it was so hypnotic.

The low hum of the engine, the rhythmic swaying of the vehicle as he navigated the rain-slicked streets of the city, the faint scent of leather and rain that clung to him like a second skin.

I was sitting in the backseat, my knees pressed together, trying to ignore the damp heat pooling between my thighs like I always do when we are together.

I’d always thought about how wonderful his c**k would make me feel inside my p***y. It was a thought that haunted me, a secret obsession I kept locked away in the dark corners of my mind. He had always looked so innocent, his jaw usually relaxed in a way that belied a hidden intensity, his dark eyes holding a calmness that I desperately wanted to disturb. But I hoped, with every fiber of my being, that he was far from innocent.

He was always calm, silent. His jaw stayed in a tense, controlled line, his eyes never lingered for too long in my direction, and his voice too, the few times he spoke to me, always seemed to reach straight to my core. When he spoke, the words seemed to wrap around me, stripping away my composure until I was trembling, breathless, and desperate for him to continue.

“Mr. Drew,” I whispered to myself, testing the name on my tongue.

“He is thirty five.”

He had been a driver for my dad for the past five years now, so hard working, a constant, unseen presence in my life. A fixture. A shadow. But tonight, with the rain starting to fall and the city lights turning into streaks of blurred color, that constant seemed to shift. I found myself wanting to climb in there anyway! I had asked him to take me to a supermarket, a mundane errand that had suddenly become a game. And here he was, doing his damn job like always.

I leaned forward, the leather seat creaking as I moved. I wasn't wearing any underwear, and the dress was so tight and cut just high enough that I could cross my legs in the wrong way without anyone noticing. It was a daring choice, one I’d made with the specific intent of driving him crazy. I could feel the fabric of the dress rubbing against my bare skin, a constant, friction-filled reminder of my lack of undergarments. He’d notice. And of course I wanted him to notice. I wanted him to know what he was missing, to know how much I wanted him to touch me.

“So I made the move, it started with my voice, whispered seductively, a little too close to his earlobe as I leaned forward from the backseat. My hair brushed against his neck, smelling like rain and expensive cologne.”

“Drive the long way.”

His eyes flicked up to the mirror. A pause as he stared, his dark eyes holding mine for a moment before he swallowed. I could see the pulse in his throat, a small, rapid beat that betrayed his composure.

“Yes, Miss Olivia.”

Miss Olivia. My first name. It sounded so cold, so detached, the way he said it. It made me want to shiver, not from cold, but from the way it made me feel small and in his power. It was the distance he kept, the professional wall he built between us. And I wanted to tear it down. I wanted to see him break, wanted to see the man beneath the driver’s mask, the man who drove five years for my father but seemed to have his own secret life.

Ten minutes into the drive with heavy rain falling down, the city lights streaking the windows, I pressed my thighs together, feeling the damp heat pooling between them. The friction was exquisite, a sweet ache that made me gasp softly.

“Why do you always keep both hands on the wheel, Mr Drew?”

“I'm always paid to keep them there.”

I smiled. But what if I asked you to use them somewhere else?

A sharp inhale from him. No answer. I could feel the tension radiating from him, the way his muscles seemed to vibrate with suppressed energy. It was like holding a wire that was about to snap.

I reached closer to him, my fingers grazing his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was rough against my fingertips, his skin hot underneath. “Do you ever want to touch something you weren't supposed to?”

“Every f*****g day.” He muttered. Finally meeting my eyes in the mirror. His gaze was black, hot, and filled with a hunger that made my breath hitch. He was no longer the silent, calm driver. He was a man on the edge, a man who had been holding back for too long.

Without saying a word, he swerved off the main road without hesitation, turning down a dark, narrow side street. He drove fast, the tires hissing against the wet pavement, the engine roaring. He was driving me somewhere, somewhere private.

We stopped close to the supermarket, but not at the supermarket. We stopped in the shadow of an old oak tree, the rain hammering down above us. The engine hummed, a low, vibrating sound that seemed to echo in my chest. He turned to face me slowly, his face unreadable, but his eyes dark with decision.

“I can lose my job for this,” he said.

“Don't worry, I won't tell,” I whispered, crawling into the front seat onto his lap. The movement was bold, a declaration of intent. He caught me by the waist hard and fast, like he’d been wanting me for years. His hands were rough, calloused, burning through the thin fabric of my dress. His grip was firm, possessive, leaving no room for doubt.

And before I knew it, his mouth crushed mine. No pretense. No buildup. Just raw, pent-up lust that shattered any line we were pretending to stay behind. His kiss was demanding, his teeth nipping at my lower lip, his tongue probing, searching, tasting. It was a kiss that spoke of years of suppressed desire, of stolen glances and quiet thoughts.