When I Started Driving a Taxi
Copyright© 2026 by Guisamo
Chapter 3
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 3 - "Is it true that Black men have bigger penises?" I don't know how I came up with the idea of asking him that, but I blurted it out. He said, "Man, it's the same with black guys as with white guys, some have bigger ones, some have thicker ones, and some have both bigger and thicker ones."
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Gay Interracial Black Male White Male Anal Sex Double Penetration Oral Sex
The clock read 7:12 when David finally managed to stand without stumbling. The glass table in front of him reflected his distorted image—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked like a different man. He felt like a different man.
“Your clothes are on the sofa,” Roberto said, nodding his chin as he adjusted the towel around his waist. “We’ve gathered them up. Though I doubt they’ll fit the same after ... everything.”
David walked to the sofa, conscious of every step, of the lingering sensation of Marcus inside him, of the taste of Roberto that still clung to his tongue. His taxi driver’s uniform—white shirt, dark trousers, jacket—was folded with ironic, almost reverential care.
He dressed in silence, aware that both men were watching him. The fabric brushed against his sensitive skin, each touch a reminder of the night. His pants felt different now, as if his body had subtly shifted, adapting to new possibilities.
“Here,” Marcus said, approaching with something in his hand.
It was a card. Black, with gold lettering embossed on it: a phone number and nothing else. No name, no address.
“If you ever get bored with the usual races,” Marcus said, pressing the card into David’s palm. “Or if you need some other ... training.”
David closed his fingers around the card, feeling the unusual weight of that small rectangle of cardboard. It was a portal to something he didn’t know if he could ever cross again, but which he now knew existed.
“Thanks,” he murmured, the word sounding strange in his mouth, inappropriate for what had happened between them.
Roberto laughed, a deep, warm laugh.
“Don’t thank us yet,” he said, stepping closer and gripping David’s jaw firmly, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Next time we won’t be so gentle. Next time we’ll prepare you to last longer. To take more.”
The promise—or the threat—made David’s stomach clench with a mixture of fear and excitement he was just now learning to recognize.
“Now go,” Roberto said, slapping him hard across the floor, the sound echoing through the apartment. “Before we decide you need another lesson in goodbye.”
David left the apartment at 7:23, thirteen minutes later than usual. The building’s hallway seemed excessively bright, too ordinary. The elevator smelled of industrial cleaning, a scent that contrasted sharply with the aromas still clinging to his skin—male sweat, sex, something animalistic and primal.
In the lobby, the concierge—a sixty-year-old woman with chain-rimmed glasses—looked at him over the top of her lenses.
“Good morning,” David said, forcing a sense of normalcy he didn’t feel.
“Good morning,” she replied, and for a moment David was sure she could see him, that she knew exactly what had happened in apartment 4B, that she could read the word “used” written on his forehead.
But she simply returned to her newspaper, and David went outside.