Tom and Harry, as their names turned out to be, courteously transported us to a garage, telling us about their wives and kids on the way. Harry, the one who had fucked Susan, had a daughter the same age as Susan, Never, before had I realized that policemen are people just like the rest of us.
Chapter Eight
Our van had developed burnt-out valves. It had to be towed in to be worked on, and on the way the idiot driving the truck ran over a pot-hole and bent one of the axles into a pretzel.
"Now, if it was just the valves," the mechanic told me, "we'd have you on your way in a day or so. But this axle… well, that's a different story entirely."
"Get to the point, mister," I snapped with exasperation, sensing I was being conned.
He stopped talking and looked at me as though I were an alien from another planet. Apparently garage mechanics aren't used to women talking back to them.
"Well?" I insisted.
He stopped looking at me like I was from outer space in favor of the kind of gaze one usually reserves for a fresh dog turd. "If you don't like it, lady," he bitingly chose his words, "find yourself another garage."
"But this is the only one in town," I protested.
"Then it looks like you'll just have to shut your trap and wait until we can get the parts for your car," he smirked with obvious pleasure.
"I see," I whispered.
"And the next time you start thinkin' you're so damn smart," he rubbed it in, "just remember one thing."
"Which is?"
"It's a man's world," he clucked triumphantly. "All this Women's Lib trash don't mean diddly-shit in real life. You'll know things have really changed when you run into a dame running a garage-and that'll happen about the same time hell freezes over and there's a lady Pope. Till that happens, just keep a zipper on your lip and do what you're fuckin' told."
I reeled under the impact of his brutal words. What bothered me the most was that there was no rational way to argue with him. He did hold all the cards.
What was worse, he'd started me thinking about the state of my life. What a fool I'd been to think that my daughter and I were free of the male influence.
I had to face it. Susan and I may not have had a man in the immediate family for over two years, but we were just as tied to the masculine will as we'd been when Ernie was supporting us.
We could run to the ends of the earth and the problem would still be there. When you're born without a dick between your legs, second best is automatically what you have to settle for.
In a very real way, this grimy garage mechanic was the king, and I was the slave. If I wanted my car repaired, I had to please him.
"Maybe there's something I could to hurry things up," I said.
"Hah!" he snorted contemptuously. "I've been a mechanic for twenty years. If there was one thing some broad could tell me about cars that I didn't know, I'd eat my wrenches."
"I'd never be so presumptuous," I replied as sincerely as I could. "I just meant… well, there are certain ways a woman can motivate a man."
"Such as?" he eyed me suspiciously.
"Oh," I obviously flirted, "a little favor here and there. You know, if I scratch your back, you'll scratch mine."
"Stop beatin' around the bush, lady," he snapped. "I'm a busy man. What're you gettin' at?"
"I'll let you decide," I cooed, provocatively undoing the top two buttons of my blouse.
By now even a guy this dumb could see what I was getting at. I wasn't wearing a bra, and he could see my bare tits by looking down the open flap of my blouse.
For the first time his dirty face lost its angry cast. Even though he was a man nearly as hard-bitten and tough as Duke Slaughter, the mechanic began to resemble a confused boy.
His response was my cue to unbutton the remainder of my blouse. Before his bulging eyes, my breasts bobbed completely into view. Through sheer willpower I had made the nipples as erect as miniature spikes.
"Want to fuck me? You can take me right here in the garage if you want to."
My hopes soared as he responded with incoherent stammering. Down below, the crotch of his filthy coveralls abruptly became taut with genital swelling.
"I'll bet you've got a big cock," I remarked on the obvious. "With my tight, wet pussy I could give you a fuck you'd never forget."
"I… I can get all the gash I want," he stammered, but he wasn't at all convincing. I was counting on the probability that his sex-life consisted of routinely plugging a beaten-down wife at home whose twat had dried up and grown flabby from having too many kids.
"You may have screwed a lot of women, but you've never fucked a pussy like mine. And if you turn me down, you'll always wonder."
He was back to stuttering again.
"Want to inspect the merchandise?" I poured it on. "I'll show you my cunt if you want me to."
Then, after a telling pause, I played the ace up my sleeve.
"But you have to beg me."
When he hesitated, I reached forward and stroked the throbbing bulge in his pants. Upon the initial touch it was easy to tell that his cock was as hard as a rock. If this guy didn't go ahead and agree to fuck me, his nuts would be sore for a week.
"Come on," I crooned, expertly rubbing his swollen crotch. "Tell me how much you want to see my pussy.
He was a tough one, though. I'd have to take his prick out of his pants to prove once and for all that I meant business.
It was a big one, and slick with funky masculine sweat. The instant I touched it, my fingertips became sticky.
"Feel good?" I asked him as I slowly jacked him off.
Like a puppet he nodded his head.
"Believe me, it would feel even better inside my tight pussy," I promised him. "Now are you ready for my cunt?"
"Yes… yes," he gasped.
"Beg me."
"P-please," he stammered. The word came hard for him. "Please show me your cunt."
"That's better," I savored my triumph. Then I let go of his hard-on, undid my skirt, and let it drop to the oil-stained floor.
The only barrier remaining between his eyes and my twat was my thin panties. Through sheer willpower I had made my pussy leak enough so that the fabric was clinging to my cunt. The wet triangle between my thighs was like an engraved invitation to fuck.
"Why don't you take them off?" I purred. "Roll my panties down my legs. I want to feel your rough fingers against my skin."
His fluttering fingers hooked beneath the elastic waistband and began excitedly tugging downward.
In his anxiousness he didn't know his own strength. The flimsy panty-coth immediately began to rip under the strain. By the time he had stripped me, the fabric was torn to shreds.
Once my pussy was out in the open, I began provocatively flexing it. Tipping my pelvis upward, I flared the labia and sent thick juice streaming down my thighs.
"Touch me," I commanded. "Touch me down there."
His thick fingers automatically plunged into my seeping crevice His touch was rough and greasy.
"Pull the lips apart," I instructed. "Make my clit pop out so you can play with it."
He did as he was told. Looking down, I saw the pink button of my clitoris surge into the open with turgid erectness. He began pressing it like a doorbell and I creamed all over his hand to the wrist.
While he was doing this, I began stroking his hard-on again. It was throbbing with desire, hungering to get inside me.
"I'm wet, aren't I?" I led him on. "Just think how it would feel to stick your cock in that goo all the way up to your balls."
Snorting like an enraged bull, he abandoned all restraint and pushed me backward. Fortunately I landed on a pile of oily rags or I might have broken my back on the cement floor.
"Fuck me," I reiterated from behind the V of my spread legs.
He grappled on top of me, handling his prick like one of his wrenches. Expertly he slipped it in.
Once contact was made, I no longer had to play-act. A woman's cunt was made by Nature to accept a stiff cock with no questions asked, and that's all there is to it.