I know you, I thought, looking at my passenger in the rearview mirror. I’ve seen you somewhere before.
She glanced up and caught my eye and I knew that if I’d been a male driver, she’d have glared at me, telling me to back off. Women travelling alone are really nervous about taxi drivers these days, which is one reason I get so much work. Because I’m a woman, she just gave me a quick social smile and looked down at her briefcase again.
I still knew that I knew her, from somewhere. A junior government minister? No, too well groomed. A TV weathergirl? No ... too old, but in a good way, in a crinkles-around-her-eyes, knowing-what-she-wants-and-how-to-get-it kind of way. Nope, it nagged and it niggled but I couldn’t work out how I recognised her.
I pulled out into traffic, whistling tunelessly through my teeth in accepted London cab driver style. It was all an act, like her busy career woman pretence. I was actually knackered, completely cream-crackered, having spent half the night logged into Gong-Bangers, even eating my takeaway curry with the laptop balanced on my knees so as not to miss a second of the various shows going on. There was one woman with blue-black hair that snaked over her shoulders, down to her breasts, hiding her nipples, but in no way concealing the astonishing jet-black Brazilian that punctuated her mons. She swayed to a music I couldn’t hear and turned, revealing beautiful dimpled buttocks with her inky hair swinging and bouncing over her spine, before returning to face the camera and leaning forward, pale nipples sliding into view as she chatted online. In a corner of my screen the messages popped up. Her “name” was Sirene and watchers called Mojo, Adelaide and Ginny begged her to spread her legs, suck her fingers, wiggle her arse ... But I’m too shy to talk to women like Sirene, even via a webcam and chatroom.
The thing is, I just knew I recognised this passenger from somewhere, even in my sleep-deprived state. It was really starting to annoy me, so I kept up the meaningless chit-chat that taxi drivers are supposed to provide, as I flicked my eyes over her, using the rearview mirror to refresh my memory.
She bent her head over her documents, tucking her dark hair behind her ear with a ringless left hand and I remembered where I’d seen her. Or at least where I imagined I had, because I must have made a mistake. Surely I had ...
A few weeks ago there had been a woman on Gong-Bangers – a little older than the average, a little less femme. She’d worn an oyster-coloured satin nightshirt, formal and severe in styling, but not thick enough to hide the wide, dark nipples that pressed against the fabric, nor the darker patch between her legs, barely glimpsed as the shirt moved in response to her shaking body. For she was nervous, despite her defiantly raised chin and the arms folded beneath her breasts. The tiny vibrations of her fear made the sheer cloth shimmy over her hips and thighs. I found myself leaning closer to the screen, willing her to speak.
Instead she leant over too, and pressed a button out of sight of her webcam. Slow, smoky music came tinnily through my speakers. Billie Holiday crooning something about violets and furs.
From her nervousness, and the unflirtatious style of her clothing, I wouldn’t have expected her to be much of a mover – but she was. Either she was a natural exhibitionist or a trained dancer, and I’d have put my money on her being both. She was no longer self-conscious, in fact it was almost as if she’d forgotten the camera was there and a couple of times she moved out of its range, causing me to hiss with disappointment. I could imagine women all over the world, howling at their computer screens as she slipped from view.
She unbuttoned the nightshirt slowly, swaying and turning, singing along to the music with her eyes closed, twin fans of chocolate-brown lashes resting on peachy skin. When her eyes opened again, her pupils were large and dark and I moaned, willing her to slide the shirt from her shoulders to reveal the dark discs of her nipples, her navel, the triangle at her thighs. Instead she turned her back to the camera, tucking her hair behind her ear with the gesture I’d recognised when I saw it again, and then held her arms wide, shaking her hidden backside in my face like a threat ... or a promise.
She snapped the nightshirt out around her like a flag, the whip-crack echoing through the speakers. My hands were locked around the arms of my computer chair, willing, insisting, begging her to take it off. Slowly, glancing over one shoulder and then the other, she eased the garment down her arms so her beautiful spine was displayed. Then she turned, shyness gone, to show the viewers her breasts. The merciless light – where was she? A kitchen, an operating theatre? – deprived her skin of shadows. Even so, she was glorious, right from the mother-of-pearl cleft between her breasts to her deeply indented navel.
‘More,’ I whispered to the screen, sure I could hear the rest of her audience whispering with me.
The creamy fabric was caught together by a single button below her navel, barely hiding the dark patch further down. The cloth gathered in folds and creases under her breasts and pulled into taut bands over her well-muscled upper arms. I had never in my life wished so much to be able to reach into the computer and twitch and tug the garment away.
And here she was again, in front of me, or rather, behind me, as untouchably framed in my rearview mirror as she’d been in the computer screen. If only I could remember the name she’d used on Gong-Bangers! But even if I did, what could I say to her? I was absolutely no good at talking to women – that’s why I paid the hefty membership for exclusive online access to natural, normal women who simply enjoyed showing their bodies to other women.
My fare tutted at something on her laptop, and I realised I’d been driving on autopilot. I jumped back into the real world – checking the meter and both wing mirrors before glancing into the rearview again. I was sure it was her. What had she been calling herself?
Then again, I didn’t have to remember her screen name – there were other ways I could indicate my knowledge to her.
‘Nice laptop,’ I said, nodding towards it.
‘Thank you.’ She didn’t look up.
‘I’m more of a flat-screen fan myself,’ I said. ‘Webcam, all that stuff, you know?’
She shrugged, casting me a glance in the rearview mirror, her dark eyes as cold as iced coffee. And the chilly glance gave me her name, as clearly as if she’d said it aloud – Mocha!
I grinned to myself as we pulled up to a red light. Mocha. And after the brief teasing moment when she’d stood with her oyster nightshirt and waited for her audience to beg and plead, she’d simply shrugged, just as she had a moment ago in the cab, and the cloth fell away to leave her naked.
Her mouth and nipples were like overripe plums, dark and sweet, and her mound was generously covered in jet-black curls, each neat and glossy as if a top hairstylist had just set them in place.
‘More, more,’ bayed the watchers, their messages of pleasure and suggestions of further intimacies scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
And then, as sometimes happened, my screen went black. I cursed, tapping my fingers in the mouse until the “Activate Webcam” message appeared. It was a random check to ensure that the person watching the show was the same person who’d paid the massive membership fee. I snapped on the webcam and read out the sentence that appeared on my screen. The unknown security person, or robot maybe, obviously accepted that I was the same stocky, square-jawed, blue-eyed butch who’d appeared in the video clip Gong-Bangers had captured during my membership interview. He, she, or it flicked me back to the action.
Mocha was gone. I stared in horror at the screen, where a kittenish Asian girl was now playing with an orange dildo. How far had Mocha gone while I was being security checked? Was she coming back? Had she given a time or date for her next show?
Since then I’d been watching Gong-Bangers whenever I could, eating in front of the screen, dozing off in my computer chair, but Mocha had never reappeared.
Until now. Until she’d slipped into my cab, all business, acting like an ice-princess with attitude, but I knew better – there was no ice in those veins: it was pure caffeine, adrenaline and “look at me” exhibitionism that filled her body. Mocha – the kind of dream that kept a woman awake all night.
Too soon we were there. Her destination was one of those silvery boxes designed by an architect to look like an ice cube, and for a moment I imagined the sheer hot sexuality of Mocha, hidden beneath her executive clothing, melting the building as she walked into it, so that her clothes were made wet and clinging, embracing her body the way I wanted to.
Her company had an account, so I didn’t even get to touch her hand as she gave me a tip, and as I pulled back into the traffic, I felt sick. Twice I’d let Mocha slip away from me, and now I might never see her again, virtually or in the flesh. Was I a woman or a mouse?
I’d gone less than half a mile when it was too much for me. I pulled off the road and sat for a few minutes with my eyes closed, remembering the hot Mocha who’d stripped for strangers on a webcam and the iced Mocha who’d sat in my cab like a robot. Why would a woman like Mocha get her kit off online? She could have snapped her fingers and had a dozen lovers falling at her feet: male, female, whatever she wanted. Was it possible that she found it as difficult as me to talk to other women?
I tilted the rearview mirror to look at myself. OK, I wasn’t a great looker, but I was in shape, I had good teeth and my hair was short and neat ... I was OK. And I might never again meet a woman like Mocha in the flesh, a dream made real, and it was up to me to decide if I had the guts to try and make the dream come true. Or just make the dream come.
The play on words made me grin at my reflection. I thought about calling Dispatch and saying I had an engine problem and would be taking the rest of the day off, but then they’d just try and get me to take another car out, so I simply ignored the squawking radio calls, shoved the cab into gear and headed for New Covent Garden Market where I bought all the flowers I could afford, a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
I drove back to the ice cube like a madwoman and sat outside, one eye on the entrance, the other concentrating on ripping the flowerheads off their stems and chucking them into the back of the cab where they hit the seat or floor at random. The scent of freesias and carnations, rose petals and lilies filled the enclosed space and I imagined Mocha’s milky limbs crushing their cool softness into liquid pleasure. I pictured myself tearing sunshiny marigolds to pieces and sprinkling their vibrant petals into her black pubes before licking them out again with the tip of my tongue.
The idea that I was only going to get one shot at success made my heart knock in my chest like some small creature trapped in a box. I was pinning everything on her not having booked a cab for the return journey because there was nothing logged on the system as a forward booking for her company, but she could be staying in there all day, or perhaps she liked to walk home after a meeting – if I’d got it wrong, I’d wasted a fortune on flowers and fizz and I’d never see Mocha again.
But no, after an hour or so, there she was, striding out of the building, tucking her hair behind her ears, looking up and down the street. Head north, I thought, north is where I want you to go ...
And she did. I pulled back into the traffic, zooming past her and skidding to a stop outside a coffee shop I’d already earmarked. I half ran inside and yelled out my order like a madwoman, then slapped a tenner on the counter, grabbed my two takeaway mochas and ran, not waiting for my change. Back in the cab I slotted the hot drinks into the cup holders that I used during night shifts and waited for Mocha to walk past me.
I pulled back into the traffic, cruising slowly until I was level with her, then I hit the window button and my horn simultaneously so that she looked over.
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I just wondered if you fancied ...’ Her face was stony and I faltered. ‘... fancied a coffee? I mean a mocha. I mean ...’
She stopped walking. I felt my heart drumming again.
‘Mocha?’ she said.
‘Oh yes, it’s my favourite.’ I was babbling and I knew it, but at least she’d spoken. ‘You can’t find a better drink – strong and sweet and very sexy.’
‘Sexy?’ Her eyes widened and she almost smiled. I grinned back.
‘Oh yes, a mocha’s the sexiest thing on Earth, except perhaps ...’
‘Perhaps?’ Now she was definitely smiling.
Instead of answering I leant back and flicked open the door of the cab. I didn’t even glance behind me, I just watched the look on her face as flowers fell out into the street and the wave of scent hit her. Those big dark eyes, never bigger, never darker, that smile, never softer or more mysterious – I’d seen it once onscreen but now it was aimed at me.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I would like to cover you with flowers and toast you in champagne, but to start with, we could drive to Battersea Park and drink these mochas before moving into the back of the cab so I can make love to you until the tyres melt with lust.’
Tyres melt with lust? What kind of corny line was that? But Mocha didn’t seem to mind; instead she tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled down at the ground before tapping her fingertips on the cab door. ‘How did you know I didn’t suffer from hay fever?’
My mouth dropped open. I’d never thought she might be allergic to flowers. She laughed out loud before opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat.
I was glad that it was nearly evening, and dusk was close. All around me, as I drove to Battersea, cars were putting on their headlights. As long as I proceeded slowly, I might have the cover of darkness to seduce her.
What was her name? Could I call her Mocha? Suddenly I was embarrassed and unsure and found my eyes locking on the road ahead, too shy to glance over at her, but in my peripheral vision I saw her hand reach out for the cup of mocha and sip it as we moved sedately through the rush-hour traffic. When she replaced the cup in the holder she flicked my ID which was pinned to the dashboard. ‘Rosa?’
I nodded, eyes on the road.
‘Pretty name,’ she said.
‘Not as pretty as Mocha,’ I replied, and then blushed. I didn’t dare look over until she laughed out loud.
‘I’ve been caught, haven’t I?’ Her laughter was as rich and dark as her name.
I nodded. ‘I only saw you once, but that was enough – I could never forget you.’
‘I only did it once.’ She tucked her hair behind her ear again and sighed. I dared to glance over.
‘Why do it at all then?’
‘Oh, it was a mad, exciting adventure, but I couldn’t repeat it. I didn’t have the nerve.’
And then I told her everything. How I’d been seduced from the first moment I saw her but how the security scan had taken me away from her performance at the last and worst possible moment. As I talked and drove, I watched her profile, seeing the colour rise in her cheeks as I described her body to her, telling her how lush and elegant she was, how enticing and svelte. I pretended I was talking to the screen on which I’d seen her, rather than to Mocha herself, and the words poured out until we arrived at the park and I pulled the cab in under the willow trees.
I got out and opened the back door, releasing that intense fragrance again. Mocha slipped from the car and stood beside me, her shoulder touching mine and I took her fingers and tugged her gently into the back seat.
It would be a lie to say everything went smoothly. To begin with I was worried about ruining Mocha’s suit, but she didn’t give a damn, and as she wriggled the skirt up her thighs, I definitely heard a seam rip but she simply grinned like a naughty girl. She was wearing neutral-coloured hold-ups with lacy tops and I nearly lost control of myself when I saw them appearing as the skirt hem was tugged up. I followed her into the cab, slammed the door behind me, and knelt on the floor as her white cotton knickers, stretched tight across the sable pubes, came into sight. I didn’t even bother to pull them out of the way, I just tongued her through the fabric until her lips swelled and her clit pressed against the wet cloth and I couldn’t tell if the juice came from my mouth or from her, everything was so slick and shiny and tasting of flowers and sex.
When she came she shuddered, her thighs bracing against the seat, her arms outstretched along the back like a crucified Venus. When she came again she arched her back so my hands slid right under her pearly arse and helped to lift her body into my face. When she came the third time she made a sound like a violin string breaking, like a body stretched beyond pain and pleasure, like an angel crying.
The windows of the cab were steamed up like the Ironmonger Row Turkish bath on ladies’ night. Under my knees and under her thighs lay a smear of petals like heaven’s carpet. Over our heads the willows moving as gently as Mocha’s breathing as she relaxed back into the seat, her head drooping, dark wings of hair framing her pink cheeks and soft, inky eyes. I put my arm around her, pulling her forwards onto my fingers and, as I entered her swollen wetness, she sighed and I almost thought I saw her breath in the cab like the steam rising from hot coffee. I opened her as easily as blinking, and she moved herself around with short curling motions like a spoon in a cup until she came again, her head back, her neck strained as she stared sightless into her own ecstasy.
And then, in the silence that followed, I heard a tiny sound. My meter had clicked over. I turned my head and looked over my shoulder. In all the fear and excitement I’d forgotten to turn it off, and it had just hit a figure it had never reached before. I pulled Mocha’s head down to mine and kissed her deeply, sliding my tongue around her teeth and into her cheeks to explore every inch of her I could reach. According to the meter she’d cost me £400 in lost fares. Her hands gripped my shoulders and slid down my arms as she pulled back from the kiss to nibble my neck.
It had been worth every penny.