0 comments/ 31608 views/ 2 favorites Lube Job By: Blake Sometimes being a mechanic has it's advantages. I had always heard these stories from other mechanics about women that have come into their shop and the adventures that happened afterwards. I always thought it was more liquor talking than anything until last week. I was working on a transmission linkage last Monday when I saw her. Laying flat on my back on a creeper under that Chevrolet, I looked out into the driveway and saw a beautiful woman getting out of her Acura. Her long legs swung out from the drivers seat and when she stood up, I saw her blonde hair blowing in the warm breeze. Her sundress did little to block the morning sun behind her as I studied her silhouette through the sheerness of that skimpy dress. Her breasts were perfectly round and pert and she walked as one who was accustomed at being looked at. Her hips swung with each step as she balanced her small frame on her high heels. She walked right up to the fender of the Chevrolet as I swung my creeper to the edge of the car and looked up. Standing there, I stared straight up her dress to spy her lacy panties. Her legs seemed to stretch forever until finally merging at her slim waist. I felt my manhood starting to move as she bent sideways to see my face. Sliding a little more, I wiped some grease from my face with my sleeve and caught her eyes staring at me. "What can I do for you?" I inquired. "I hope a lot. I mean, my car is handling rough and I was wondering if you could fix it." she replied to my question. "When do you need it? I'm kinda backed up right now. I can have it for you by Friday." "Friday afternoon is great. I'm going out of town and will be back then. Well, my cab is waiting, see you Friday." she said as she walked to the cab that was pulling in behind her car. I stared again as the sun lit up her body. "I could only dream of holding a woman like that. Oh well, back to work." I told myself as I continued on the Chevy. As the week went on I kept thinking about her and her beauty. She was obviously a woman of higher means than myself but what I would love to do to her! I repaired her car by Wednesday and took it for a test drive. It handled very smoothly and as I pulled back into the garage, I wondered what she had left behind in her car. I opened the glove box and found her insurance card and registration. There was not a mans name on either so maybe there was hope yet. There was a beer bottle stuck beneath the passengers seat so I removed it for her. "Well, maybe she it not as high class as she appears." I wondered. On Friday afternoon, business was a little slow and it was a beautiful day so I told my helper to go home. After he left, I had nothing else to do while waiting on her so I crawled under the Acura. Back on my creeper, I was giving her front end a free lube job. I was trying to really please her so she would come back if anything else went wrong with this car. Another cab pulls in the drive and I recognize those legs stretching out of the door. Paying the man, she walks back up to the fender of her car. "Hello?" she says as she bends over peering under the hood. Sliding out, I catch another view of her legs. This time I can see more because she is bending over and her legs are spread out a little. She has no panties on! "Beautiful pink lips" I think to myself. "Are you through?" she asks through the engine compartment not aware that I am not under the car but watching her pink pussy. "Just giving it a quick grease job" I reply back under the car to make her think I am under it. "Be done in a minute." "O.K. Take your time. I would prefer it be done right." She said as she leaned her elbows on the fender still looking into the engine compartment. Doing that caused her to spread her legs even farther apart and I was starting to get excited. My cock began to push its way upward as I looked lustily at her legs and pussy. She moved as if she was going to stand up so I scooted the creeper back under the car. My legs were sticking out from under it and when she did stand up, she saw my growing tool. I started clanging some wrenches around to make sounds like I was at work. "What does the grease do for the car?" she asked. "It helps the front end runs smoothly. It helps it handle easy." I replied. "How often do you have to do it?" she asked again. "Whenever you feel it starting to feel rough when steering or you hear a squealking noise." I responded. "Well, I feel rough after my trip and I see your dipstick is standing like it needs to go to work." She said rather nonchalantly. Her statement was such a surprise to me I dropped a wrench and it hit me in the head. "Ow, shit!" I shouted as I slid out from under the car holding my forehead. She squatted down and moved my hand away so she could inspect my wound. Her legs were spread open as she squatted there giving me an ample close up view of her pink privates. I could see her pussy lips slightly open and began to dream of exploring her with my finger, tongue, dick or anything else I could get my hands on. My manly tool began to ache for attention. "Your head will be alright" she commented as she turned her head to check if anyone else was in the shop. Looking down she noticed my rod standing at attention on my coveralls. "This head needs some attention though." She announced as she began to unzip my coveralls. When she had them unzipped, I stood up. She pushed the material off my shoulders and they fell to the floor. I never wear other clothes under them so I was totally nude from my ankles up. My cock reached out to her and she reciprocated by grabbing the head of it and pulling me to the front of her car. She reached up and slammed the hood down and pushed me backwards forcing me to lay out on the front of this car. Kneeling down she parted her red lips and invited my cock into her hot mouth. "This head is red and swollen also." She commented as she took my dick in her mouth. She licked around the crown of it while she played with my dangling balls. I was really beginning to get warm when she slid my cock all the way down her throat. Her hot and wet mouth felt like I hoped her pussy would feel as she bobbed her head up and down on my swollen shaft. She maintained a steady rhythm as she pumped my meat and fingered my scrotum. I felt my load swelling inside of me and I hoped that I could hold it off so I could explode inside of her cunt. She felt my urges rising and she withdrew her mouth and licked her lips. "Well baby, like I said, I feel rough also. Do I need a lube job?" she asked. I grabbed at her flimsy dress but she backed away from me. "No no dirty man. Let me." She scolded me as she unbuttoned the top three buttons of her dress, shook her shoulders to make it fall and stepped out of it throwing it onto the top of the car. I almost shot my load when I saw her breasts exposed for the first time. Like me, she wore nothing underneath her clothes this time. She stepped closer to me and I reached out to hold her tits in my masculine hands. I cupped them gingerly and bent down to kiss here nipples. "Easy baby, I've been running rough" she reminded me. "I'll have you purring in no time." I replied as my hands ran over her breasts and rubbed her nipples. Standing at attention, her nipples were begging for a kiss again so I bent over and took each breast in my mouth, I sucked her nipples and rolled them in my mouth as she recoiled her body in response to the sensations pounding in her. "Yes, thats what I need. Fix me Mr. Mechanic" she commanded. I reached down with one hand and probed her pubic mound. She spread her legs apart to allow my hand to feel her labia. I rubbed my hands over her and she moved in response. I smelled her sweetness rising from below so I stood up and gently picking her up, laid her down on the hood of her car. I spread her legs apart with my hands and moved in to lick her pussy. "Find a problem?" she asked wimpishly. "I'm gonna clean out this vacuum hole here before I give it a lube." I replied as she bent her head back and closed her eyes in anticipation of the upcoming attention. As I got closer to her pussy, I saw her wetness beading up around her lips. I reached up with my hands and gently pulled her lips apart as my tongue dove into her love hole. I licked her pussy inside and out while I got intoxicated on her scent. I found her clitoris with my mouth and rolled it between my teeth. "Oh yes baby! That's what needs to be fixed" she started to scream. Her body started to tremble with each touch on her clit. I moved my hands up and fondled her tits while I massaged her clit into ecstasy. She quivered and shook as she came in my mouth. Her back recoiled from the pleasure as I continued my assault on her pussy. "Oh my God!" she screamed again. "Now, how about that lube job?" I asked as I felt my dick throbbing for attention. "Yes baby, fuck me now!" she demanded as I slid her down the hood until I could reach her with my cock. I grabbed her legs with my hands and pulled the straight up. I placed the helmet of my cock at her entrance and gave her one hard push ramming my dick to the hilt. "Oh shit!" she screamed. "Fuck Me Baby! Fuck Me Harder!" I rammed her as hard as I could. Her tits were dancing with each thrust as my cock pushed inside of her exploring her very depths. Her breathe was in very short pants as her body shook again in orgasm. "Yes. Yes........" she screamed as my cock began to fill with my load. I draped her legs over my shoulders and grabbed a tit in each hand as I pumped harder and harder until I exploded in her. " Oh yes baby" she cooed as she continued to spasm from her ecstasy. I stopped pumping to let my cock drain its load in her spent pussy. Her arms fell to her side as she rolled her head sideways also. She let out a long sigh of relief as I withdrew my spent rod from her cunt. "Oh baby, how long will that lube job last me?" she inquired. "I'll need to use my dipstick every few days to check." I replied as she began to compose herself. "I wouldn't want you to run low". She grinned as she stood up to get her clothes back on. "I'll need to get my car now." She said as she completed getting dressed. "No problem, it runs great now" "I'm sure it does. If you touched it, I bet it purrs like a kitten". She said as she blushed slightly. "I like to satisfy my customers" I said as I handed her the bill. Lube Job This was the third time my stupid car had broken down in a fortnight. Maybe it was my fault for going for retro charm over reliability. I have a real soft spot for mini coopers though, having lost my anal cherry in the back of one and so when the time came to buy my own car I instantly went with the one that appealed most when it would have made much more sense to get something that wasn't going to end up in the garage every week. Right now the car was still running although the temperature gauge was going through the roof. Not long before it was gonna blow. My usual mechanic was a friend of mine who was a good guy and always cut me a decent deal but I was starting to wonder if his workmanship was up to scratch. I decided that it was time I took the car to someone else, maybe they would have better luck with it. There was a garage a few streets away and I drove (very slowly) towards it praying the car wouldn't conk out. I puttered into the driveway and pulled up outside the garage doors. I stepped out of the car and ventured into the workshop looking for assistance. It was quite dark inside and I didn't see the toolbox that was open on the floor until I'd tripped over it. A couple of spanners went flying as I fell to the ground next to an old volvo. "Hi" came a voice. As I lay on the garage floor I looked to my left and saw a handsome face with a huge smile beaming out at me from under the volvo. "Are you ok?" Before I could answer he was out from under the car and helping me to my feet. I stammered out an apology, rubbing my knee and trying to get the feeling back in my leg. "Don't worry about it, it's fine. I'm Dave by the way, how can I help you?" he said. "Hi Dave, I'm Portia," I replied "I've been having some trouble with my mini. I don't suppose you have the time to have a look at it?" "Sure thing, young lady. I tell you what, I got to finish up on this volvo and then I'll take a look at your mini. Maybe if you could come back this evening around 5.30pm, I should have been able to take care of it by then." I thanked Dave and handed him the keys then walked out to street to catch a bus. As the bus pulled out from the curb I found myself thinking about how strong Dave's arms had looked... ------------------------------------------------ The day flew by and before I knew it I was back on another bus heading towards the garage. It was a little later than the time Dave had asked me to be there, nearly six o'clock and I was hoping that the garage would still be open. The bus reached my stop and I got off, I could see a light still on in the workshop, the rest of the business was closed up for the day. 'Phew,' I thought 'just made it.' I walked into the garage and called out to Dave. A moment later he appeared, smiling again and rattling my keys. "How's the knee?" he asked. "It's fine," I smiled back "thanks for asking. And how's the car?" Dave produced a slip of paper and took me through all the things that he'd found wrong, what he'd been able to fix that day and what still needed to be done. "That's great," I said "thank you so much. What do I owe you?" "Let's call it 200 pounds." replied Dave. I reached into my bag for my purse but came out empty handed. I put my bag on the bonnet of the car and started searching through it. "Lost something?" enquired Dave, a slight smirk on his face. "My purse, I had it when I got on the bus but its gone." I said. "Just when I thought this day was getting better. Look, I don't suppose I could take the car tonight and drop by tomorrow morning with the money?" "Well," Dave looked unsure "If it were up to me, it would be fine. Thing is if the manager comes in tomorrow and asks about it I'm gonna get in big trouble. I wanna help you out but..." he trailed off. I noticed his eyes looking me up and down and the smile crept back onto his face. "Maybe we can come to some kind of an arrangement." he said. "Like what?" I stupidly asked. "Maybe if you let me take a look under your hood, we can call it even." I could feel my heart rate speeding up. I had daydreamed about Dave taking me in his arms on the bus ride into work, and again all through the day to be honest, but met with the reality of it I was a bit unsure. Dave took a step closer, taking off his glasses "What do you say?" he said slyly, "I'd love to give you a free lube job." It seemed like there was no other option and honestly was being fucked by this hot guy really a bad deal? No way! "Ok," I said "but what do you want to do?" "Easy," he replied "there's only one part of you that I want, you don't have to do anything, just lay back. All I want is that hot little ass of yours." My mini was parked behind me and he pushed me up against the side of its bonnet, running his hands up my legs and tearing at my pants, pulling them off and then spinning me around so that my back was facing him. He pushed me forwards so that I was now bent over the hood of the car and pulled my skirt down to my ankles. My ass stuck out at him in all it's glory and he ran his fingers over it gently, then WACK! His hand came down hard on my left cheek. "Ahhhh," a slight sound involuntarily escaped my lips. WACK! he slapped my other cheek, then rubbed them both until the sting subsided. I could feel his hot breath against my bottom, then felt his tongue teasingly run over my pussy and then up into my asscrack. "I want you to hold those cheeks apart for me ok?" commanded Dave "Nice and wide." I did as he asked, gripping both white orbs of my ass and pulling them apart for him. His tongue lightly flicked at my puckered rosebud, it felt incredible. He rimmed my bumhole continuously, sending shivers of pleasure through my whole body then began working his tongue into my tight behind. I pulled my ass cheeks apart further hoping it would allow him to gain deeper penetration with his tongue. He tongued my ass for what felt like an eternity, teasing me with his mouth, until I suddenly felt him pull away. His tongue was replaced by a finger, and as it slid into my now well lubricated asshole I let out a low moan. He began making circular motions in my ass with his finger, opening me up more and then sliding a second digit in. "Oh fuck," I sighed as he fingered my bottom, quite hard now, ramming his two fingers inside of me. It was all I could stand. "Oh please give me your cock," I begged "I need your hot dick in my ass." It was all the encouragement Dave needed. He withdrew his fingers from my asshole and stood up. I looked around to see him standing behind me unbuckling his pants. Then I saw it. His big black cock, at least 8 inches long and so thick. He took my hips in his hands and guided his dick up into my asscrack, lining it up with my asshole. I felt the head pressing hard against me but my anus protested, refusing to give way to his cock. I would have to help. I braced myself for his onslaught and pushed out to open my ass for him. Suddenly his fat cock slid into my asshole and he let out a satisfying grunt. I gritted my teeth and felt my bum stretching wide to accommodate him. It was definitely the biggest cock I'd ever taken up my ass and it wasn't easy. It stretched me to the limit. He waited a few seconds then began working more of his tool into me. I was engulfed by waves of mixed pain and pleasure as he slowly started fucking my asshole. "Oh yeah," he groaned "do you like that, huh? Do you like that fucking great big black cock of mine up your little tight ass? You ever felt a dick like this in you before?" "Ugggghhh, Oh god," I managed to get out between breaths "I fucking love it." "Tell me how much you love it." "Oh please fuck me, I want it, I love it. It feels so fucking big in my ass" I yelled back. Dave was fucking me quite hard now, his cock sawing in and out of my hot bunghole. "Fuck, you're so fucking tight around my cock. Ohhhh, you dirty bitch, you fucking love it in the shitter don't you. Tell me how much you love it." Dave yelled at me. "Yes, yes, oh fuck more than anything. Give it to me, give it to me." I screamed back. His commanding words were turning me on like nothing else. I loved the idea of being his little fuck toy and my pussy was getting wetter with ever word he yelled at me. However it wasn't my pussy that was getting seen to and Dave obviously had no intention of transferring his meat from ass to my other hole. He settled into a constant rhythm, his cock like a piston in my ass, fucking me senseless and sending me into the abyss. I couldn't see straight anymore. I was being banged so hard against the bonnet of the car and the cock in my ass was driving me out of my mind. Suddenly my orgasm exploded in me, it tore through my ass and pussy and shot through me in giant waves. My asshole contracted tightly around Dave's huge cock which must have sent him over the edge. He took hold of my hips and drove his cock as far into my bottom as he could. I felt him explode inside me, filling my ass with his cum. Moments later he slid out of me leaving my ass feeling open and empty and wanting his hot cock back in there again. "Bet you don't get that kind of service with your other mechanic." I heard Dave say. "That was incredible." was all I could manage to get out. "That's only the 'B' service," replied Dave "wait until I give you an 'A'." Lube Job Growing up in the Southwest, where land is cheap and roads abound, you need a car. Some missteps out of high school that delayed my entry into college had left me with a rather poor cash-flow situation. For other kids I knew, as 18 wore on into 19, 19 into 20, the compact but late-model Honda was part of the territory, probably financed in part through parental generosity or judicious allocation of student loan funds. Me, it was all I could do to get a first car that was as old as I was: an old 4-cylinder BMW 2002 sedan. For those reading this who may be unfamiliar with this long defunct model, don't let the number fool you: 2002 was the model number, not the year. (I don't even know the exact year of the car but it was in the 70s.) And don't let the make fool you either—BMW would eventually come to be best known in the United States for its sport and luxury models, but this squat, boxy, vaguely Eastern-bloc looking sedan was (or had been when brand new) no more than a German grocery-getter. When I finally took possession of it, seeming destined to be its last owner, this rusty, dented, tired looking old nag of car had the dubious virtue of being, in the words of Mike, a co-worker at the gas station where I worked, a "hipster Eurotrashmobile"—strangely admired by a certain skinny-jeans-and-bowling-shirt set, who perhaps enjoyed the irony of a status-symbol label on such a piece of crap. (Honestly I'm not sure what they saw in it. I would much rather have had a later model that had a warranty and started reliably.) So I had a love-hate relationship with the car. It was hard to start cold, smoked like a train, stalled out at idle, and had sticky vinyl seats that were sagging and distended, with springs and foam and horsehair protruding errantly through various tears and gashes in the upholstery. Almost nothing on the instrument panel worked—AC, heat, cigarette lighter, dome light, radio. And yet I couldn't help but enjoy the persistent compliments from strangers, sometimes averaging one a week, even if they were mostly from hipsters whose aesthetic sensibility generally bewildered me. It wasn't just a car; it was a conversation piece. "The dyke from next door likes your car," Mike told me one day after I came back in from changing the price signs. The "dyke" he was referring to was a tall, heavyset, tomboyish blonde named Sam who worked at the oil change shop whose lot adjoined ours. She was dour, apparently humorless, and would grace our shop at least once a day with her grease-spattered coveralls and whatever hair she had up tucked into her ball cap, to buy Marlboro Lights and fountain Dr. Pepper. She was not unfriendly—not rude the way many customers can be. In fact, I always thought there was something good natured and trustworthy in her deliberate southern drawl, her steady, confident, no-nonsense gaze. She just wasn't one for chit-chat, that was all; not one who recognized any value in the social lubricant of please and thank-you, greeting and leave-taking. She would come in, place her order, pay, and leave. That was that. And she was, very probably, a lesbian, or so I thought. But I privately disliked Mike's insistence on referring to her as "the dyke." She may not have been the most pleasant person, but she wasn't exactly unpleasant either; she had never given me any reason to disparage her behind her back. In a business like ours where so many people are rude, it seemed wrong somehow to trash-talk one of the better customers, even if she would never find out. But there was more to my private mental defense of her than that. What I could never admit to Mike: I actually found her quite attractive. She was fat, which I don't mean pejoratively—just descriptively. I've always liked bigger women. She had a belly and love handles and big boobs and a great big round behind. But even so, fatness was not her most salient feature; the impression she gave was of someone strong and sturdy, a tall, square, durable frame hung with capable muscles. Her womanly traits were dampened by her boxy coveralls, her strong, businesslike carriage, and the fact that she never wore makeup. But her womanly traits were there nonetheless, available in plain view to the observant and the imaginative. You could tell she had the boobs even if she wasn't doing anything to help you notice them, and the fact that she looked as good as she did without makeup, with her deep blue eyes and smooth pink-freckled cheeks, should have been a clue as to how nicely she would clean up. It was so unusual to think of Sam actually chatting with one of the cashiers that I wasn't even sure I believed Mike at first. "When did she say this?" I asked, probably betraying a note of challenge in my voice. "Just came in a minute ago when you were out changing the pump sings. Said 'who's car?', and I told her it was yours and she said 'nice car', and that was it." "Really?" I asked, and looked futilely across the lot to the lube shop as though I could gain some information by studying the open garage bay doors. "Yep. Dyke digs your car bro'." I know. I really should have protested, should not have been tacitly complicit in his disrespect. But on some level I was part of the same stupid conspiracy he was furthering, to deny what I liked, to consent—if only by my silence—to the ridiculous truism that a 5'11", 180 pound Amazon woman with boobs and biceps can't be gorgeous, as Sam so obviously was. Or that a big strong woman who worked on cars had to be a lesbian (which, alas, seemed a slightly safer generalization). I was intrigued, though; my curiosity was piqued. "So," I thought to myself with a smile, "the dyke likes my car." * * * I was scheduled to open the following Sunday. Sunday-open is both the best and worst shift to work at a suburban convenience store. What makes it the worst the fact that it's, well, Sunday morning; opening up at six means waking up in the five o'clock hour on a day when the rest of the world is sleeping off a hangover. But, paradoxically, this is precisely what was nice about actual workload of the shift itself. Weekday-open you're always slammed, and everyone's irritable and in a hurry to get to work, and you have to juggle the endless line at the register with the near-constant need to brew fresh coffee. Sundays it was not unusual to have the first coffee-and-newspaper customers saunter in at a leisurely pace, happy and well-rested, well into the nine o'clock hour. Once I made it all the way to ten—literally half-way through my shift(!)—before seeing my very first customer of the day. Unlike weekdays and afternoons, they only schedule one cashier for Sunday open, and there's a certain peace in the solitude. The sun was still low in the east, the sky its morning pink-orange-blue, and, sitting on my stool and sipping my coffee, I looked up from my newspaper to gaze out the window and take in the serene view. The spell was broken by the tinny clatter of the bell-string tied to the door to announce the entry of a customer. I spun around in my stool and there, in fresh blue coveralls with embroidered patches—an ovular one over the breast pocket that ringed a cursive "Sam," another high on the sleeve advertising "ASE" certification, whatever that meant—was "the dyke" herself, padding over to the soda fountain to fill a quart-sized plastic cup with Dr. Pepper. "Morning," I hailed, not expecting and not receiving a reply. I plucked a pack of cigarettes down from the overhead rack and set them on the counter. She came up to the register. I looked at my watch. "You're here early. Thought you guys didn't open up until ten on Sunday." "I've got inventory today before my crew gets in. Marlboro Lights soft-pack." The pack was already on the counter so I slid it forward to draw her attention to it, and to the fact that I had helpfully anticipated her order. If she was impressed by this example of great customer service she did nothing to so indicate. I watched as her clean strong hands retrieved bills from her Harley-Davidson chain wallet and noted how spotlessly clean her closely cropped fingernails were, which they never were at night. An image flashed into my mind of her with pumice and brush, scrubbing assiduously until every trace of grime was dispatched, knowing full well she would repeat the ritual the next day, and every day after that. She had meticulous streak in her, I decided. Suddenly, I had an urge to make small talk, to try to keep her in the store if only for a moment longer. "It's beautiful eh?" I tried, gesturing with a cock of my head to the east-facing window behind me. "What?" she asked, looking up from her wallet, as though annoyed by the interruption. "Rosy-fingered dawn," I said wistfully. Her eyes narrowed and a deep furrow cut into her brow and, with a surprising note of hostility she snapped: "What?! What are you talking about?" I was so surprised by her apparent anger that I had no idea what to say. After a few glottal stops I managed: "Just trying to make conversation." "Well look, I don't know who the fuck this Rosie and Dawn are or why you think it's okay to tell me this—" "N-n-n-no!" I interrupted hastily, palms forward, "it's-it's-it's Homeric epithet! From the Odyssey. You know, mythology? Eos the dawn has rosy—rose-colored—fingers like, like, like the uh, you know, like those pink streaks of clouds," I pointed out the window. She studied me with arched eyebrow, the skeptical air of someone trying to determine whether she's being had, and eventually broke my gaze to look out the window behind me. She looked at the sky for a moment, her face betraying no particular appreciation of the view, and then her eyes brightened noticeably as they lit on something in the nearer distance. She looked at my name tag and then at me and said, with as cheerful a tone as I had ever heard from her: "You're Bart!" I was puzzled by the sudden change in tone. "Yeah," I confirmed warily. "I had you confused with another dude in here works nights. That's your car," she pointed. "Oh. Yeah. Yes it is." "That is a great car, sir." I was still a bit back on my heels, reeling from her rapid change of mood, which is probably why I flubbed my first and probably only opportunity to find common ground with this woman. Perhaps all that was needed was for me to agree with her enthusiastically, and we might have proceeded to have a pleasant conversation. But instead, unthinkingly, I damned my car with faint praise, saying, "yeah, it's okay I guess." Immediately her face fell, any trace of brightness or felicity extinguished. "It's a great car," she affirmed, with the tone of someone who doesn't suffer philistinism well. "Yeah, no, I didn't, I mean—uh" I hastened to save it, blurting out: "I've always liked BBWs." Now her brow sank again into an expression of withering disdain. Then I heard it too, the Freudian slip, and clumsily tried to fix it: "BM!" I nearly shouted, and then, miserably, realized that that too demanded correction—I couldn't seem to open my mouth without digging a deeper hole. "W!" I added. Finally: "BMW! Was... what I meant to say. Instead of, you know.... Look, can we start this whole conversation over? Like maybe you could go out and come back in." I flashed what must have seemed a simpering grin. "How much oil are you losing?" "God, it's ridiculous—like a quart every time I get gas, feels like. Is that typical for those cars?" "No." "Well, then, how did you—" "Because you're getting blue-black smoke. I saw you pulling out onto the road the other day." "Is that bad?" "You think it's good? Means rings eventually. But in the mean time at least you can try heavier viscosities, maybe an additive. When's the last time you had the oil changed?" I averted my eyes and, in a conspicuous poker tell, looked anxiously at the floor before saying: "Um, it was—" "Don't lie 'cause I'll know. Soon as I get a look at that dipstick I'm gonna know." Absurdly, all I could think to say to this was: "I'm sorry." To this day I'm not sure if I was apologizing for thinking of bullshitting her or for not being a better custodian of my car. "Sir, a high-mileage vehicle like that—the oil is the single most important thing." "Guess I figured as often as I was adding quarts the oil was kind of—" I shrugged and let out a nervous chuckle "—changing itself." At this she let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. "Listen, sir—" "Wh-why don't you call me Bart?" (Honestly, what was this "Sir" business anyway? She had to be at least five years older than I was. And she was talking to me like I was an oil-change customer—but she was in my store, I wasn't in hers.) "Bart. Why don't bring her in and let me get under that hood. You can pull her round right now if you want. We're starting a special on oil and lube tomorrow but I'll give you the discount today." "Well, that's awfully kind of you to offer but, didn't you say you had inventory?" "I can work around my crew this afternoon if I have to. I consider this like a medical emergency." * * * It was not even eight o'clock when she phoned the store to summon me to her work bay, where I stood feeling a bit like a kid at the principal's office. She had the hood propped and the dipstick lay out on an improbably clean looking shop towel. "I just figured I'd leave this out for you, let you see it." She presented the stick for my inspection. "See how black that is. Now touch it." I hesitated. "Go on. Wipes right off. Just see how watery it is." I touched it. "Pretty watery," I agreed. "That's what you're doing when you just add instead of changing. Viscosity breaks down over time. You end up with a crankcase full of black water and sludge. She wiped the stick, slid it into its housing, and retrieved it once more. The stick was now coated (to within a millimeter of the correct quart mark) with a transparent yellowish oil. "That's how it's supposed to look, sir." "Bart." "Bart." But my dressing down continued as, point by point, she walked me through all of the evidence of neglected basic maintenance: Sooty spark plugs; underinflated tires; corroded battery terminal posts. If my car had been a dog she would have called the SPCA. Oddly, as all this was taking place, I didn't feel nearly as miserable as one might expect. In fact, it was actually turning me on. Maybe it was just because I'd been attracted to her all along, and so welcomed the opportunity to follow the sway over her big blue-clad hips as she circled back and forth around my car to point out the various evidences of neglect. Or maybe it was deeper than that—that I felt somehow cared for through all this attention to my car, as though I had finally broken a thick layer of ice with this mysterious "dyke next door," even if her attitude was like that of a drill sergeant inspecting a particularly sloppy platoon. Or maybe I was discovering a submissive streak in me that I didn't even know I had—maybe I actually liked the drill-sergeant treatment a little. Whatever it was, it was getting worse and worse: The longer she talked the less I could seem to concentrate on what she was saying, and the more brazen I became in my attempts to steal glances at her, here at her wide hips and big butt as she bent into the engine compartment on the leeward side of the car, there as she betrayed a rare glimpse of cleavage when she bent over windward. As the lecture wore on I started to get an aching boner. It was mercifully soft, as boners go—not the kind to press noticeably against my pants. But even at half-strength it was throbbing ravenously and siphoning off all my attention. To make matters worse, she was so stern and serious that I found myself strangely tempted to make inappropriate jokes at about every other sentence she uttered. I managed to restrain myself (for a while), but the urge was uncanny. I was like the kids in that old cartoon show, Beavis and Butt-head, hearing sexual innuendo in every little thing she said: "...getting some blow-by here..."; "...need to get that good and lubed up so it slides right in..."; "...getting some pulsation on the rear-end..."; "...and it slides in and out over and over at very high speeds..." It was dizzying. I could barely contain myself. Everything she said sounded like it had a double meaning! "One more thing," she said, with a welcome note of finality. "On these terminal posts, after you do the baking soda thing we talked about..." she walked over to a work bench where there sat—I hadn't noticed it before—and institutional-use, gallon-sized jar of Vaseline. I felt my pulse quicken a little at the sight of that jar here, in this setting, incongruously placed amidst all the various parts and tools. I may have even blushed. The reason is a little embarrassing. I grew up in a religious (you might say fundamentalist) household, where I spent much of my pubescence shamefully convinced that I was among a tiny, insignificant percentage of the human population that was actually depraved enough to masturbate. My weapon of choice had been the family's community stock of Vaseline, tucked away under the sink in my parents' bathroom, and I was probably kidding myself in hoping no one in the family noticed its frequent, too-rapid depletion, nor even just the oily smell of it on me. I have long-since discontinued the use of Vaseline for this purpose, but I still get a giddy little twinge when I see a jar of it—afraid to look at it lest someone decode my facial expression and instantly know my history with it. Accordingly, as she popped the lid off the giant jar (the old familiar smell wafted up to my nostrils and—talk about conditioned response!—I felt my stiffening cock actually jump in my pants), I quickly averted my eyes. She scooped out a thick handful of the yellow-gray goop and walked over to the far side where the battery sat; I stood motionless, feet fixed to the floor. "If you'll just smear a little like so, it will protect against corrosion." Finally I gathered the courage to look up and, directly in front of me, across the expanse of engine, there was the single best cleavage view I'd ever gotten of Sam. Ordinarily she kept the coveralls zipped pretty high up on her chest and wore a crewneck t-shirt beneath. Today, perhaps owing to the fact that it was Sunday, she had some type of tank-shirt on underneath the uniform and, at the same time, the zipper was unzipped nearly to the bottom of her bosom. My eye moved back and forth from where her strong hand was spreading translucent goo onto my freshly cleaned battery, up to her enormous freckled boobs that were now jiggling in time with the mildly circular motion of her hand. I couldn't help but juxtapose the two images in my mind, a sort of gestalt, as I imagined her spreading lubricant on my shaft and then enveloping me between those large tits until I erupted in orgasm onto her chin, neck and sternum. I was staring now in a mute trance and I'm pretty sure my mouth hung slightly agape. Then she froze. I looked up, about two-beats too late, and found myself looking directly into her now-narrowed eyes. Busted. "Getting all this?" she asked, with a note of angry sarcasm. At this worst of all possible moments, as though from some kind of neurological misfire, I did perhaps the worst thing I could have done. I did not apologize; I did not try to play it off or protest my innocence. What did I do? I finally succumbed to the idiotic urge to make a double-entendre and, before I could even think what I was doing, blurted out (smarmily): "Now that's what I call a lube job." She immediately stood up and zipped her coveralls up to her neck. "I'll go get your invoice," she said huffily, and started to walk away. "No! Wait! Sam!" I cried, "I'm sorry—please!" "I'll get your invoice." Lube Job "Wait!" I sprinted around the back of the car and—careful not to obstruct her path directly—stood between her and the door to the office. "Let me explain." "There's not much to explain, sir." "Bart. And you're right. No, there isn't. Look, I just misjudged. That joke—it was inappropriate, and I'm sorry, but I wasn't trying to, to...." Suddenly it all sounded so stupid to me and I couldn't think of another syllable that would help in any way. "Just," I finally said, "I'm really sorry." "For which part? For the tasteless joke or for ogling my breasts while I'm in here trying to do you a favor." "For the joke. Look, I meant what I said—it was inappropriate but—" "Just the joke?! Not apologizing for the other?" "Well, yes, that too. I mean... no. Well, not as much anyway. Can I help that I find you attractive? How can that part be offensive?" "Have you been living under a rock? You mean in your whole life you've never heard of the concept that women don't want to be ogled?" I was dumbstruck. The only answer that came to mind was an answer I could not possibly give: Quite frankly, I would have thought that "being ogled" became less desirable to a woman in proportion to how often it occurred and, furthermore, I would have thought that Sam, a muscled, non-make-up-wearing fat chick in greasy coveralls didn't get all that much ogling. I would have thought it would be a compliment for Sam to have someone look at her admiringly. Of course, I couldn't say any of this—I couldn't insult her by putting this into words. So I just sat there stupidly, guiltily quiet. Worse, it was as though she read my mind anyway, saw what my rationale would have been for thinking it was okay to stare lustily at her tits. After a moment's pause she demanded: "Why is it that men see this big contradiction between wanting sex and not wanting to be ogled like a piece of meat? I'll never understand what part of that y'all don't get. See I know your type, Bart. You're one of these guys who likes fat chicks and thinks it's okay to just stare your ass off because nobody likes fat chicks and you're basically doing us a big favor by wanting to fuck us so we should be flattered when you stare instead of offended. Is that about right? What you're not getting is that the guys who won't look at us all 'cause we're somehow off limits, and the drooling perverts like you—" "I'm not a pervert!" "—are both doing the same thing wrong! You're both seeing meat! Those guys look at me and see bad meat and you look at me and see good meat but y'all don't see people. You're the same you and them." I could think of no reply to this. "I bet I know what you were like in high school," she continued. "I bet you were the skinny geek couldn't get with the skinny hot cheerleader girls 'cause they all wanted jocks or whatever, and so you went to the b-team which was ugly chicks and fat chicks and all these girls who were passed over in the musical chairs of life and damaged and taught to believe they weren't as good and that they had to settle, and so they actually responded to your bullshit and after a while you got used to it and now you expect it from all of us." I looked down at a kidney shaped oil stain on the cement and thought about all this. Was she right? She was surprisingly on point in her surmises about my personal history. I was a shy kid—I didn't even lose my virginity until after high school. And it was true, I could always get more flirty banter out of a fat chick than anyone else. Was that why I found them attractive? Did I just condition myself to cultivate a taste for fat because fat is what I could get? I didn't think so—I thought I liked big curvy bodies back before I noticed that I found fat girls easier to talk to. But suddenly I couldn't be sure—and what an unsettling thought! "Are you going to deny any of that? Go ahead if you want, but remember you're a shitty liar." I continued staring the oil stain a moment longer before looking up and meeting her glare head-on. I held her gaze and began a measured, resigned reply. "Look," I finally said, "if what you're saying is true, then it's true on some subconscious level and how'm I even gonna know? All I know is I like what I like. Maybe I'm a bit self-congratulatory about it, like I'm better than those creepy guys who are so awful to f—to plus-sized women—" "Fat chicks," she corrected. "Might as well say what we're talking about." "—and yeah, maybe I need to get over myself about that. But I never meant to disrespect you or anyone I've been attracted to. And if it offends you the way I look at you, all I can say is I didn't even know I was looking at you in any certain way. I guess I'm pretty transparent if it's that obvious to you how...." I trailed off for maybe four or five long seconds, eyes returning to the oil stain, then back to her, whose features—was it my imagination?—appeared to have softened somehow, before concluding: "... how hot I think you are." There. I had finally gotten the words out. I began to continue: "I just—" But I was interrupted by her strong left hand clasping the back of my neck and pulling my face violently into hers. Without any warning the brim of her ball cap was smashed up over my brow and she was shoving her tobacco-sour tongue into my mouth while, with her left hand, she began hastily unfastening my belt. It took me a minute to recover my bearings and, when I finally started fumbling awkwardly with her zipper, I found that there was little more I could do with her coveralls, without her cooperation, than just unzip them. So unzip them I did, and began awkwardly bobbling her boobs through tank-tee and sports bra. Meanwhile, my pants had fallen to my ankles and she had managed to snap down the band of my boxers. Her right hand, still slick with Vaseline, encircled my swelling member, and I felt a rush at that familiar warming sensation as she began to slide her hand up and down my shaft, assisted by the slippery substance. I leaned back against the rear quarter panel, my head fell back, and I moaned. Suddenly, in a throaty whisper, she demanded: "You ain't got no diseases, do you?" "No, but I could run next door—we sell condoms." "No. 'Cause I want this and that'd just give me time to change my mind." "Uh-okay." "But you can't come inside my pussy 'cause I ain't on nothin'." Her southern accent seemed curiously stronger ("come insahd mah pussy") and her sudden shift into trashy bluntness really turned me on. My cock was rapidly swelling to full strength in the grip of her greasy palm. "Okay," I nodded. "In fact," she stepped back, slipped out of the sleeves of her coveralls and let them fall down to the point where her stance was wide enough that they could not fall further, about mid-thigh. Her body was breathtaking—her skin a soft yellowish pink, liberally freckled. She had a big round belly—bigger than it appeared through her dark uniform—that hung over the front of her plain white cotton hipsters. "I just want it in the ass." "Wh-what?!" I was shocked. "Just do it in the ass to be safe." "Are you sure, because we can—" "You're about to talk me out of it you don't shut up and fuck me." At that I wasted no time. Stepping awkwardly away from the car (my pants, still around my ankles, made it difficult to maneuver), I pushed her belly-first up against the fender and yanked her panties down with a brisk snap. With one hand I pushed aside her ponderous left butt cheek and, with the other, guided the tip of my head to the center of her puckered, yellow-brown butthole. I was still a little bewildered by what was happening here, but did not want to question it. I had simply never had anyone request anal sex before. I had read about or heard rumors about women who supposedly enjoyed it, but all the women I had ever personally spoken to on the subject said they would do it, if at all, only as a favor to their man. None of them claimed to prefer it to vaginal sex. But from what she said, I didn't think Sam preferred it either. What she seemed to be saying, if I understood her, was that she had suddenly resolved to have spontaneous sex with a virtual stranger—something she rarely if ever did—and, having so decided, she was committed to go through with it but worried about disease and pregnancy. She was reassured about disease by my sincerity (I was, in her words, a shitty liar) but, not being very sexually active, she had apparently taken no precautions against pregnancy. She didn't want to await a condom for fear of losing the momentum, losing her resolve to go through with this uncharacteristic flight of passion, but she didn't want to take the risk of pregnancy that vaginal intercourse would necessarily entail. Her solution, bizarrely, was to have it in the butt. I didn't have a lot of experience with anal sex, so I just tried to imagine what I would want if it were my ass. Over what seemed like several long minutes I would gingerly push a bit of my head past the outer ring, manually swirl it around a bit to transmit the Vaseline to her, and then very gingerly pull back out. I repeated this procedure several times, getting a bit deeper every time, until she finally said "That's good, push it in." At her direction I sank slowly but deliberately into her warm, snug, slicked-up anus, and as I did so I could feel her sphincter contracting twitchily around my shaft till I was in up to the root. "Is that okay?" "Yeah," she breathed. I unsnapped my work smock and pulled up my undershirt, pinning it against my chest with my chin, and began pumping slowly, methodically, watching my greased cock disappear over and over into her oh-so-tight little hole, her big broad bottom slapping gently against my belly and upper thighs with a mild jiggle. So big, so white! The visual stimulation was overwhelming so I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, savoring the sweet sensation of sinking into that gripping rectum. "A bit harder," she said. I opened my eyes and looked at her soft white back, noticing for the first time that she was still wearing her ball cap. I reached up and cast it aside, and out spilled more hair than I would have thought possible, still bound in a shoulder length pony tail. Her hair had a reddish, strawberry tincture to it that I'd never noticed before. I gently secured a handful of pony tail and began thrusting deeper and harder, picking up the pace so that the fat of her bottom now slapped audibly against me with each stroke. "Oh, oh, oh," she moaned, and then "ohgodhurry!" "Huh?" "Hurry. Come on! Come inside me!" I let go of her pony tail and slid my hands down to her mighty bouncing buttocks, then up to her love handles and just under her swaying, pendulous boobs where I tried futilely to get a handful of nipple (the angle just wasn't right). She responded by raising her back, planting her palms flat on the trunk of the car. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth and, gripping her love handles, started pounding into her, deep, hard, fast, thrusting madly, feeling my head and shaft swelling even larger until—oh, god it felt so good!—the first big rope surged out of me with explosive suddenness, and five, six, seven productive contractions followed until my butt muscles finally clenched tight and lodged me deep in her anus, paralyzed now, until every last drop he drained out of me. Still tremulous with after-shocks, I gently slid my softening cock out of her and dropped to my knees where, with some difficulty, I heaved the heavy curtain of her fat buttocks aside and placed my tongue against her freshly fucked asshole. "What are you doing?!" she demanded. "Shut up and give it back to me," I insisted and, forming a ring, began producing mild suction. She gave in to my demand and let my seed trickle back out of her and into my waiting mouth, the strange, zincy-metallic flavor of my load mingling unpalatably with petroleum jelly and perhaps a hint of feces. When she had finished I held the load on my tongue while I awkwardly rose, pulling my pants half-way up, and shuffled to the stainless steel shop sink to spit it out and rinse my mouth with handfuls of water. When I finished she was standing beside me, holding out a shop towel. "Here," she said. "Clean up." She had already pulled her coveralls back on and tucked her hair back under her ball cap. "Thanks," I said, wiping myself clean with the towel before pulling my pants back up. "Where do you want this?" She pointed to a nearby canvas hamper with the faded, stenciled logo of some commercial laundry service painted on the side. I tossed it in. "Well," I said. "Well," she replied, her eyes twinkling and her mouth twisted into a smirk. She nodded softly. "Well. Nice way to start the morning." "You look a lot calmer I must say," she told me, and I suddenly felt self-conscious. "I'm not normally calm?" "You're a bit high-strung." (There was that accent again: "hah-struh-ung".") "Well, I—" I decided not to defend myself, instead saying: "Well you look more—more something. Bright-eyed." "Well, you know what they say." "Hm?" "'Hit her in the shitter and make her eyes glitter'." I winced. "Can't say's I've ever heard that expression before. It's kind of ... terrible." "Yeah, I grew up with five brothers so I'm kind of immune." I wasn't sure how to reply, or how to react generally to this new side of her I was seeing. "I, uh. I should be getting back to my store. Did you want to get that invoice?" "This one's on the house." "Well, now, wait—I don't know if I feel right about that." "Wait, there's more. If I ever find out any of the guys on my crew over here so much as hears a rumor about this, I'm gonna come over there and take it out of—" "Take it out of my ass?" I shot back with a smile. She smiled, nodding as though she had "really walked into that one," and let go a bemused little sigh. "Don't worry," I assured her. "I'm a vault." "You'd better be." "So, but... is that it? I mean, aren't you gonna let me make you come sometime? Only seems fair." "We'll have to see. I'm not supposed to fraternize with the customers." "Well, whatever happens, at least now maybe you can stop calling me 'sir'." I pulled the car back around to its parking space in front of my building, fished the store keys out of my pocket and let myself in, taking the handwritten cardboard "Back in 5 minutes" sign off the door glass as I entered. It was not yet nine o'clock. I started a fresh pot of coffee brewing, sank into my padded stool, and picked up my newspaper where I had left off. But I was no longer able to concentrate.