The Samaritan’s Secret
It was a humid Saturday morning, the kind where the air feels thick and heavy. I was halfway through my morning jog when I spotted a taxi idling haphazardly by the curb. A man, the driver, was crouched beside a young man who lay sprawled on the pavement, barely conscious. Thinking there had been an accident, I rushed over to help.
The driver looked up, a polite but inscrutable smile on his face. “He’s just wasted,” he explained. “Found him passed out on the street.” The young man was indeed in a deep, alcohol-induced stupor, mumbling incoherently. He had no ID, no phone, and no wallet. The driver suggested we take him to his apartment nearby until he sobered up. I agreed, and together we hoisted the limp body into the backseat of the cab.
Once inside the apartment, the situation became more intimate. The young man was filthy, smelling of spirits and street grime. As we helped him into the bathroom to clean him up, I noticed something. As I knelt to remove the stranger’s shoes, I caught a glimpse of the driver’s trousers. There was a prominent, unmistakable bulge. I smiled to myself; this man wasn’t acting out of pure altruism.
We stripped the young man of his soiled clothes, revealing a lean, athletic physique and tight white briefs. We moved him to the bedroom, laying him face-down on the mattress. I stepped away to put the dirty laundry in the wash, but when I returned, the driver was leaning against the wall, openly stroking himself while staring at the young man’s exposed backside.
“You know,” the driver whispered, his voice husky, “sometimes these boys don’t even mind.” He looked at me, noticing that I, too, was now fully aroused. “Do you want a turn, or should I go first?”
I didn’t hesitate. I reached into my nightstand for a tube of lubricant and handed it to him. I watched, breathless, as the driver prepped the sleeping youth and slowly slid inside. The young man let out a soft, guttural moan, but he didn’t wake. The rhythm grew faster, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the quiet room. I stripped off my clothes, my heart hammering against my ribs.
When the driver finally withdrew, glistening and satisfied, he stepped aside. “Your turn,” he panted. I took my place, sliding into the warmth the driver had already prepared. The sensation was overwhelming—the tight grip of the young man’s body and the sight of the driver watching us, his own desire still simmering.
We spent the next hour alternating, using the young man as a shared vessel for our lust. We shifted his position, lifting his legs high, exploring every inch of his passive form. The shared experience created a sudden, electric bond between me and the stranger in the taxi.
Afterward, we stood naked in the kitchen, sipping coffee and sharing stories of past encounters. The driver confessed he had done this before, finding a thrill in the vulnerability of the intoxicated. The conversation only served to reignite our passion, and we returned to the bedroom for one final, exhaustive round.
Hours later, once the young man had finally regained a shred of consciousness, the driver dressed him in clean clothes and drove him home, leaving me with a secret that would haunt my morning jogs for a long time to come.