It started with a flat tire.
I pulled into that old mechanic shop just outside of town, sweat sticking to my thighs and my tank top clinging to my tits. The sign said CASH ONLY, and the guy who came out to meet me? Mid-50s. Greasy hands. Grey in his beard. Built like a man who could throw me across the hood without asking twice.
“You need a hand, sweetheart?” he asked, wiping sweat from his neck with a rag.
I nodded. “Think I popped it on a pothole.”
He smirked. “You sure it wasn’t all that speed? You look like trouble.”
That made me laugh. But deep down, I knew he was right.
While he bent down to inspect the tire, I pretended not to stare at his arms. The oil on his skin. The slow, confident way he moved. Fuck — I was wet just watching him work.
“Mind if I hang out in the garage?” I asked.
He looked up, eyeing my ass in that tiny denim skirt.
“Suit yourself.”
I leaned against the tool bench, watching as he jacked the car up. I bent forward just enough to give him a full view of my panties.
He didn’t say anything. Not at first.
Then he stood, walked over, and grabbed me by the hips.
“You come in here acting like a little tease, dressed like that, and expect me to behave?”
I bit my lip. “Depends. You gonna punish me for being a bad girl?”
He didn’t answer. He just bent me over the bench, pushed my skirt up, and yanked my panties to the side. His fingers were rough — calloused and dirty — and when he slid them inside me, I cried out loud enough to echo off the metal walls.
“No one's gonna hear you in here,” he growled. “And no one’s gonna stop me.”
He took me right there, bent over in that filthy garage, my tits pressed to cold metal, motor oil smudging my thighs. I begged him to call me his good girl. His garage girl. His little whore.
And when he came inside me, groaning into my ear, I knew I’d be back. Every week. Every excuse.
He fixed my tire.
And broke me in.