It was a humid Friday night in Hyderabad. My girlfriend and I were slightly tipsy after dinner at Jubilee Hills. Couldn’t get a cab, so we flagged down an old-school auto(tuk-tuk) .
We sat in the back, bodies pressed close. The engine growled, and the breeze did little to cool us down. Her hand slipped under my shirt as the auto bounced over potholes. I bit my lip.
She leaned in, whispered, “No one’s watching.” Her fingers slid down to my belt. I froze. The driver glanced in the mirror, smirked, then turned the volume up on his radio. He knew.
I was hard within seconds. She teased me, slowly stroking me over my jeans, while pretending to look out at traffic. My heart raced every time the auto stopped at a red light. She didn’t care. She was wet, wild, and whispering filth in my ear in Telugu.
Before we reached home, her hand had already made me finish—right there, under a thin shawl, with the city roaring around us. We tipped the driver extra. He didn’t say a word. Just winked.
Hyderabad autos? Never felt safer. Or sexier.