How One Taxi Ride Changed Everything

All grown women have something to remember on a quiet evening... Hello. My name is Tamara. I decided to write something down while my memory is fresh. I'm 42 years old. My figure, as they used to say, is "blood and milk"—small but shapely, with heavy D-cup breasts and curvy hips that no skirt can hide. My hair is light brown, my own, and falls below my shoulders. I work as an administrator at a private dental clinic, and I'm used to being the face of the clinic—a smile, a manicure, a smart suit. I've lived alone: my husband died five years ago, and my son is in the army. Out of boredom, I sometimes allow myself small pleasures—wine on Fridays, dancing at an adult bar where you don't have to think about age. This story happened in November. I was returning from a company party. I'd stayed up late and had too much to drink. My boss offered to get me a cab, but I refused—I didn't want him to know my address. He'd been looking at my lap with unkind eyes all evening. I went outside, a nasty drizzle was falling, and my phone was almost dead. I hailed a private driver—an old Toyota with a checkered pattern on the windshield. Behind the wheel sat a man of about fifty, a large man with a shaved head and strong arms. He introduced himself as Arthur. The car smelled of tobacco and something sweet, like cherry air freshener. I gave him the address, he nodded, and we set off. "Have you been celebrating, my beauty?" he asked, looking at me in the rearview mirror. "So dressed up. I'd take a passenger like that to the ends of the earth for free." I smiled and adjusted the hem of my dress. Compliments from strangers always lifted my spirits, especially when I was in my thirties. We started talking. Arthur joked, and I laughed. He said he needed to stop by a friend's for a few minutes to pick up some box of orders; it was literally on the way. I didn't object, thinking: so what, I'm in no hurry. If only I knew what this “box” was and where it would lead me. We turned into an industrial area. Every other streetlight was lit, and then they completely disappeared. The car stopped at the iron gates of some garage cooperative. Arthur got out, opened the gate, and drove inside. I heard the gate clank shut behind us. “Wait a couple of minutes, Tamara,” he said and disappeared behind some door in the depths of the garage. I stayed in the car. Five minutes passed, then ten. I started to get nervous. I took out my phone—there was only one signal, and it was blinking. I wanted to get out, but the door on the side of the garage opened, and people appeared. Arthur and two other men. One was very young, about twenty-five, skinny, with insolent, darting eyes. The other was older, with a gray beard, stocky, in dirty overalls. "Here, guys," said Arthur, pointing at me through the glass. "Look what a present we got." I pulled the door handle. It was locked. My heart pounded somewhere in my throat. "Open the door immediately!" I shouted through the glass. "I'll call the police!" Arthur pressed something on the key fob, the doors unlocked, and I was immediately dragged out of the car. I tried to break free, but they held me tight. "Hush, hush, beauty," the bearded one muttered, pinning my arms behind my back. "Don't move, you'll be safer. Or do you want us to leave you right here on the concrete?" Arthur came close and took me by the chin: "You, Tamara, are a grown woman, and you should understand: no matter how much you scream, only stray dogs will hear you here. Better yet, relax and enjoy yourself. We won't kill you. We'll just respect you like men and let you go. Maybe you'll thank us later." They dragged me into the garage's utility room. It looked like a lounge—an old couch, a table with dirty mugs, a calendar with naked girls on the wall. It smelled of machine oil. I already realized that resistance was pointless. There were three of them, they were stronger, and they clearly knew this place down to the last crack in the floor. I remember what happened next in snatches, like a torn film of an old movie. They stripped me naked. They pulled my dress up over my head, ripped my underwear off, and didn't even take my tights off completely—they pulled them down to my ankles so I couldn't take a step. First, they forced me to my knees on the cold concrete. Arthur unzipped my fly and, without ceremony, thrust his cock into my mouth. I choked, tears streaming down my face, but he held me by the back of my head and methodically moved his hips. "That's it, bitch, use your tongue," he said. "It's obvious you're an experienced slut; this isn't your first time servicing men." Then they turned me over and threw me stomach down on the couch. The bearded one spread my buttocks and roughly entered me from behind, not even bothering to lubricate. I screamed, but the young man immediately covered my mouth with his hand. They took turns, sometimes staying inside me together—one in front, one behind. I lost track of time. I remember the smell of their sweat, the rough fingers on their nipples, twisting them until they bruised, and my own voice, croaking something unintelligible. Once, to my horror, I felt a spasm of pleasure grip my lower abdomen—and I moaned in a completely different way than I had a moment before. "Look, Dimon, he's cumming, the slut!" Arthur laughed. "And you said, 'Let go.' You like being fucked in three-way, admit it!" I'm ashamed to admit it, but I actually came. To the sound of their dirty jokes, to the greedy slaps on my buttocks, to the rhythmic creaking of the old sofa. My body betrayed me completely. They took their time. They smoked, drank beer from cans, and discussed me like a thoroughbred mare—"soft breasts, a great ass, not a woman, but a dream." Then one of them climbed on me again. I couldn't tell which one. At some point, Arthur took out his phone and started filming, shining a flashlight on my contorted face. I tried to turn away, but they held me by the hair. "Smile, beauty, for the archives," he said. "You'll know better than to get into a car with a stranger. And if you tell anyone, the movie will end up online." The young man came on my chest and spread the cum with his palm like cream. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the rusty streaks on the plaster. Towards morning, they finally had their fill. Arthur threw my own underwear in my face and told me to get ready. I dressed with shaking hands, missing the sleeves. The young man led me to the car and shoved me into the backseat. Arthur got behind the wheel and silently drove me to my neighborhood, stopping two blocks from my house. "From here, you do it yourself," he said without turning around. "If you want to do it again, you know where to look." I tumbled out of the car and slammed the door. The same nasty rain was falling. I hobbled to the entrance, holding on to the walls. It was a good thing the entrance was empty and the elevator was working—I simply couldn't have walked up. When I got home, I immediately jumped into the shower and stood there for probably an hour until the hot water ran out. My whole body ached. Crimson spots from their fingers blossomed on my thighs, and marks from their grabs on my wrists. My legs ached so much that I had to walk around the apartment with my legs splayed. I didn't go to the police. And what would I have told them? That I got drunk in a strange car? That I allowed myself to be driven into an industrial zone? And Arthur had the video... No. I decided to forget. I returned to work the next day, having asked for time off, ostensibly for family reasons. I wore a high-necked blouse to hide my hickeys. My boss, Sergei Valerievich, called me into his office, ostensibly to discuss my schedule. He locked the door. "Tamara, you seem a bit tired today," he purred, placing his hand on my waist. "Maybe I should cheer you up?" He'd been hinting at intimacy for six months. And after that incident, something inside me had burned out. I simply nodded. I knelt down right by his desk and unbuttoned his pants. Sergei Valerievich was even taken aback by such submissiveness. While he moved in my mouth, breathing raggedly, I thought about how the boss's dick was the purest and simplest thing that had happened to me in recent days. "Tamara, you're a treasure," he exhaled, fastening his belt. "Come early tomorrow, we'll discuss the promotion." I left the office, fixed my hair, and sat down at the counter. It was raining outside. I looked at the gray November sky and wondered if Arthur still had that video. I wrote this purely for myself. They say that if you put your experiences down on paper, it becomes easier. I don't know. I haven't felt any better yet. But maybe at least I'll stop dreaming about that garage. This isn't fiction. Although my friend, who sometimes brightens up my lonely evenings, said I was being overdramatic when he read it. He smirked and asked me to describe "the one with the beard" in more detail. Men... you'll never understand what we go through, even when you think you're just having fun.