It's been quite a while since I posted my first story on this forum, but as people seemed to like it (and because there aren't many people contributing new material here) I've decided to write another. It's a long 'un, so for those of you who would prefer to skip the build-up and get straight on to the messy bits, that starts about a third of the way through...
THE IMPORTANCE OF LUBRICATION
I hate breaking down. I feel so helpless when it happens, but I don't know enough about cars to have any idea what might have caused it to stop. It's not so bad when I'm driving my new Mini, because it's new enough that reliability shouldn't be an issue. but today I'm driving my friend's old Escort because I've lent her my car. And of course it's broken down! Still, at least I'm off the road and out of the way. And when I phoned my breakdown service, they promised me help was on the way.
Eventually the breakdown truck arrives, and the mechanic gets out. I’m surprised but pleased to see it’s a woman. She looks thirty or thereabouts, with long dark hair tied loosely back in a ponytail and what I’m old enough to think of as John Lennon glasses, and she’s wearing black combat trousers and a tight black tee shirt. Her garage’s logo is embroidered on the front of her shirt. As she walks over to me I can see she isn’t wearing a bra.
“Hi,” she says brightly. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“I don’t know. The temperature gauge suddenly went off the scale, red lights came up on the dash and it started making a horrible noise. So I thought I’d better stop.”
“Okay, let’s take a look. If you could just pop the bonnet open for me...”
I open the passenger door and lean in to pull the bonnet release lever down in the footwell; I’m sure I can feel her looking at my bottom as I bend over. I wonder if she can tell I’m wearing stockings rather than tights, and whether my pantie line is showing. When I stand up again, though, the mechanic is innocently sliding her fingers under the front of the bonnet to release the catch. She opens the bonnet and rests it on the prop. There’s a wisp or two of steam. I stand by the front wheel, watching her at work but not having much idea what she’s actually doing.
She glances up at me with another smile. “Nice suit, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I’d fancied dressing up a bit today, partly because I know from visiting them before that today’s clients are quite a fashion-conscious bunch, and partly because one of the girls in the office - Josie - is extremely cute. So my skirt is a little shorter and tighter than I usually wear for work, my heels high enough to look elegant rather than low enough that I won’t suffer too much if I have to be on my feet, and I’m wearing my favourite cream silk blouse under my jacket.
“I take it you wear it for work," says the mechanic conversatonally. "What do you do?”
“Computer consultancy. I travel around to different companies and help them sort out problems with their networks and systems. It’s almost like being a computer mechanic - once you know how they work and what might stop them working, you’re half way to finding out what the trouble is. You start with the basics, and if that’s all okay you go deeper and deeper into the system until you find the problem.”
“And then you have to fix it,” the mechanic supplies. “That’s normally when the problems start. I’ve got a computer at the garage which I use to keep my database on, but I don’t have a clue how it actually works. I’m like one of those people who can drive, but don’t have a clue what goes on under the bonnet - oh, for god’s sake!” she says, exasperated. “It’s things like this that give women a reputation for being bad with cars.”
“What?”
“Look at this!” She waggles the dipstick accusingly.
“What about it?”
“Do you know what oil is?”
“Of course I do,” I retort, annoyed at being patronised.
“Unfortunately, your car doesn’t.”
“It’s not my car,” I protest. “I’m only borrowing it.”
“There still ought to be enough oil in it to reach the dipstick... I suppose there is water in the poor thing, is there?”
“I don’t know,” I say guiltily. “I just sort of assumed there was.”
“But if you knew this car was a bit dodgy, didn’t it occur to you to check it over before you set out? Just to make sure?”
“I’m sorry -”
“I suppose I shouldn’t really complain,” the mechanic interrupts wearily. She wipes the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving a black smear. “If it wasn’t for people abusing their cars, I wouldn’t get nearly so much work. But it’s just so disappointing when women do this sort of thing. I have to work twice as hard as any man in this business and know twice as much as they do for them to even begin to take the idea of a woman working with cars seriously, and each time some poor hapless girl blows up her Fiesta because she’s tried to drive it when there’s no oil or water in it, or she can’t understand why it won’t start and there’s a plug lead hanging off, it undoes everything I’ve worked so hard for. I get so... angry.”
She grasps my wrist.
“Hey!” I say, but I can only trail after her as she marches back to her truck. I don’t have much choice - her grip is surprisingly strong. When we reach the open tailgate she releases me. There are black, oily fingerprints on my skin and - oh, no! on the cuff of my blouse.
“Now look here,” I protest, as she burrows in the back of her truck. I’m annoyed because she’s spoiled my blouse, she’s taking her frustration out on me (whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right’? And she’ll undoubtedly charge me a fortune, no matter how much of a right-on sister she claims to be). She emerges holding a full bottle of multigrade oil. I can tell it’s full, because the weight of it is making the muscles in her arm stand out rather attractively. I try to put from my mind how sexy she looks, and try to stay angry with her. “I know you’re trying to help me, but this was an expensive blouse...!”
“Hold out your hand,” she orders.
Something in her tone makes me obey. I feel like a naughty schoolgirl being told off by the teacher she has a secret crush on.
She tilts the bottle and a thin trickle of oil oozes out of the neck, golden like syrup as the light catches it. I hadn’t realised what an attractive colour new oil is; I had always assumed it went into engines the way it came out, like thick creosote. Oil drizzles over my fingers.
“Feel that?”
Can I feel it? I’m standing meekly while some deranged mechanic pours engine oil over my hand!What the hell am I doing?
“Feel how smooth that is,” says the mechanic, her voice softening. She’s stopped pouring now, and she’s looking intently at me.
I rub my thumb against my fingertips. They slither together rather, well, sexily.
“Very under-appreciated stuff, oil,” says the mechanic gently. “People don’t realise how beautiful it can be. And it’s such a good lubricant; that’s how it protects your car’s engine so well. That’s why it’s so important you make sure there’s enough in it.”
“Oh,” I say quietly, still sliding my thumb against my fingers.
“I’m sorry about your lovely blouse, I really am, but I’m just trying to help. I love to see a beautiful woman out driving, but it spoils the image for me if I think she doesn’t know how to care for her car properly.”
“Oh,” I say again. She’s flirting with me, I know she is. She’s looking into my eyes, her expression unreadable. I wonder if she can read mine. She must know how much she’s making me want her...
No, it’s always a bad move to fancy your rescuer. I used to worry about fairy tales where the handsome prince rescued the princess, imagining that the prince would ever after use her indebtedness to him as a bargaining tool - ‘You’ve got to do what I say! If it wasn’t for me you’d still be stuck in that castle surrounded by thorns..!’ I think instead of Josie; young, beautiful Josie with her endearingly messy hair and her slender, boyish figure. I think of how much I would love to hold her, kiss her, show her exactly how one woman can love another...
I’m deluding myself if I believe for a moment that she’d be interested in me. I’m nearly old enough to be her mother, for God’s sake! And she’s probably straight...
I realise the mechanic is still looking at me. “Can I have a cloth?” I ask.
“Here,” she says, tossing me her square of old towel. “I think I ought to give you a tow back to the garage,” she says. “I could just top your oil up for you and send you on your way, but I’d rather do a few checks first just to make sure you haven’t damaged anything by letting it run so low.”
“If you’re sure,” I say unhappily. “Will it cost much?”
“I won’t be any harder on you than I need to be,” she says, which doesn’t really answer my question but is probably as straight as her replies are going to get. Then I remember that because I’m a member of a breakdown organisation the tow will be free, and I feel a little happier.
She attaches a chunky bar to the back of her truck and clamps it to the front of the Escort, and we’re off. It isn’t far from the lay-by on the dual carriageway where I’d pulled over to the nearest slip road, and then we’re travelling through streets of well kept Victorian terraces. The yellow lights on the top of the truck are attracting far more attention than I’d like. I feel embarrassed for my car; people will think it’s let me down, whereas in reality it’s my fault it broke down. I know I’m a Silly Woman who should look after her car better, and it’s not a nice feeling.
We turn sharply into a cobbled back lane and arrive outside a neat little garage unit. The mechanic comes over to my car and leans down to talk to me with the smile of a nurse reassuring a nervous patient before important but routine surgery. “Let’s get your car inside, then I can take a proper look at it. Don’t worry, I don’t think you’ve done any lasting damage.
The mechanic guides me as I drive into the garage, tyres squealing on the painted concrete floor, and aim the front wheels onto a pair of low ramps. I’m very keen to do this absolutely right, to prove I’m not a complete incompetent with cars.
“That’s fine,” she calls as I hit the mark. “Handbrake on...”
I switch the engine off and get out of the car. “What do you think?”
“An oil and filter change and top off the coolant, and I think it will be fine. They’re quite tough engines, these old Fords, even though they always rattle a bit. What I would like to do, though,” she says, with another one of her lovely smiles, “is give you a quick crash course in maintenance while you’re here. It will save you having to call me out for something like this again.”
“I think that might be a good idea,” I say, thinking that if I did call her out again I’d really like it to be so that I could take her to dinner. She’s lovely.
I slip my jacket off and drape it across the back seat of the car. Then I reach in and release the bonnet again. This time I know the mechanic is looking at me as I bend over. She’s smiling at me as I straighten up and prop the bonnet open to prove how efficient I am.
I put my hands on my hips and smile at her, just to see what effect it has. “So what’s the first thing we’re going to do, then?”
She hands me a socket. “First I’d like you to pop underneath the car and whip the sump drain plug out.”
That wasn’t what I’d expected. I thought I would just watch while she worked and explained what she was doing. “But it will be all messy under there. I’ve got my best clothes on!”
“It’s up on ramps, so you’ll have plenty of room to move. At least I’m going to let you use my trolley rather than making you roll around on the floor.”
I see the way she’s looking at me, and I know she’s in control here. Defeated, I slide under the car on the trolley. Pride means I don’t want to pretend I don’t know where the drain plug is or what it looks like. I apply socket to drain plug, and try to undo it. Luckily it isn’t too difficult, and once I’ve loosened it the drain plug unscrews easily. But it’s unexpectedly heavy and slippery with oil, and I drop it. It bounces off my left shoulder and onto the floor, but there isn’t time to worry about the mark it’s left because suddenly warm oil is pouring out of the drain hole, running down my arm and all over my front, ruining my beautiful cream silk blouse far more comprehensively than mere fingerprints on the cuff. I try to roll the trolley out of the way, but it’s hard against one of the ramps and it takes me a moment or two to realise why it won’t move. I knew something like this would happen!That’s why I wanted to wear overalls.
The only way out from under the car is forward through the stream of oil. When at last I’m clear I sit up and glare at the mechanic as she stands there with her hands on her hips and an amused look on her face. “Look at me!”I fume. “I’m absolutely bloody covered in oil. I hope you’re satisfied!”
“Oh no,” she says, “not yet. You’re still far too clean.” She produces an object which looks like a water bottle that’s melted in the sun. “And you should have used this drip tray. Then you wouldn’t have got oil all over my floor.”
I get up off the trolley and pluck my blouse away from me, but it falls back against my skin under the weight of the oil. I make a half-hearted attempt to brush the oil off, but of course that just pushes it deeper into the weave of the fabric and makes my blouse cling to me even more. If only I hated the way it felt, I could bring myself to be properly angry with the mechanic. But I don’t hate it; in fact the dirty oil is warm and feels peculiarly sensual.
She’s standing very close to me. “You’ve got oil in your hair,” she says, gently brushing a slimy frond back off my forehead. “And it’s all over your beautiful blouse.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s all over my face as well.”
I look down and see that the oil has oozed down me that far. And it’s beginning to dribble off the hem of my skirt, down my legs and onto my feet. I look back up, and see that the mechanic is even closer to me now.
“There’s even oil on your stockings,” she says softly. “They are stockings, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Suddenly her hand is on my breast, her thumb ever so gently stroking my nipple through oily silk and lace. “You look wonderful like this,” she says. “You looked so sexy before, and now you’re all spoiled. And somehow that makes you look even sexier.” She gives me the briefest and lightest of kisses, her lips barely brushing mine, although the sudden hammering of my heart betrays the effect she’s having on me.
She leaves me and goes over to the roller door, and presses a button. The door slides back down, and I realise that any passers-by would have seen my legs in their stockings and smart shoes poking out from under my car, or me standing there covered in oil, or the mechanic with her hand on my breast as she kissed me. I almost hope somebody did see me.
I’m tingling. There’s no other word for it.
“Now you need to go back under the car and get the drain plug,”she says.
I crouch down and feel around under the car for it. It has rolled right under the middle of the car, and I have to get to my hands and knees and stretch to reach it. The painted concrete floor is cold and hard. My sleeve dangles in the puddle of oil.
“Got it,” I say.
“Good. Bring it here.”
I stand up and walk over to the mechanic, the sound of my high heels echoing in the silent garage. She produces a copper washer from her pocket and slips it over the threaded part of the drain plug. “That will seal it when you tighten it up. But we need to lubricate the thread before you put it back. Go and get some grease from that pot over there.”
“How much?”
She shrugs. “Enough.”
I scoop a handful of grease from the pot. It feels like slightly textured butter on my hand. I show it to the mechanic. “This much?”
“That’s much too much,” she tells me. “Put it back.”
I try to scrape it off my fingers with my other hand, but of course it simply sticks itself to that hand. I wipe it back onto my first hand, realise that all I’m doing is spreading it around, and wipe my fingers on the side of the pot. They’re graphite grey and thick with grease. “It won’t come off!”
“Wipe it in your hair.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Wipe your fingers in your hair,” she repeats. “You’ve already got oil in it. A little bit of grease won’t hurt.”
“It’s not just a little bit. It’s loads.”
“It will get your fingers clean.”
I sigh at her, but I’m inwardly thrilled at the prospect of despoiling myself in such a way. I smooth the grease into my hair as if it’s styling mousse, slicking my hair back against my head.
“Come back here.”
I walk back over to her and hold my hands up. “I didn’t get any grease for you,” I say.
She slides a hand sensually across the back of my neck and eases my head forward. Then she wipes the thread of the drain plug in my hair and holds the object up to look at it with a satisfied smile.
“Perfect,” she says, and hands it back to me. “Now go and bolt it tightly back into the bottom of the engine. And this time you’re not to use the trolley.”
“But there’s oil all over the floor,” I protest. “I’ll get covered.”
“I know.”
I knew she would say that.
She hands me the socket. I sit on the floor in front of the car, lie back and slide myself under it, the socket in one hand and the drain plug in the other. It suddenly gets much easier to slide as I reach the pool of oil under the car. Oil squidges between the very solid floor and my shoulders and back; I can feel it soaking into my blouse and the back of my skirt. I put my head back to see what I’m doing as I work, knowing my hair too is soaking up oil.
When I’ve tightened the drain plug with the socket I slither back out from under the car and get to my feet. My ruined blouse is glued to my back, my hands slippery and glistening with oil. I wipe them on my bottom.
The mechanic is looking at me as if I’m her most private, outrageous fantasy made flesh, which I suppose I am. I wonder if she’s done anything like this before; it wouldn’t be easy to persuade smartly-dressed women to have used sump oil poured over them. If she’d asked me in advance I would, of course, have told her politely but firmly to get stuffed. But she flirted with me first, and oh god she’s so gorgeous, she must have guessed from my responses that I fancied her something terrible... That first trickle of oil on my fingers did feel lovely... And it’s only eminently replaceable high street clothes I’m spoiling... So now the point of no return has long been passed and I’m thoroughly filthy, and I can see why she would find the scenario so arousing because I do too and, to be honest, right now I would do anything for her, no matter how filthy. I think it’s the tomboy in me coming back to the surface; the little girl who loved climbing trees and making mud pies and jumping in puddles even if she wasn’t wearing her wellie boots. Especially if she wasn’t wearing her wellie boots. My mother always used to wonder why I got muckier when she sent me out to play in a pretty dress than when I was wearing trousers; the truth was that messy things were more fun in a dress because you were expected to keep clean and do girly things. And this is exactly the way I feel at the moment. Ruining my smart work clothes is so much more satisfying, and sexy, than getting messy in a spare pair of the mechanic’s overalls would have been.
“What do you want me to do next?” I ask.
For a moment she seems completely thrown, as if she simply hadn’t considered that things would go quite so according to her fantasies. The thought of how much all this must be turning her on turns me on. I wish she would kiss me again and for rather longer than last time, but I feel that’s down to her rather than me to initiate.
“Oil filter,” she says, recovering. “You need a new oil filter. I’ll just go and get one.” She walks across the workshop and disappears through a doorway into a store room full of racks of shelving without a backward glance, her DMs squeaking on the floor, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to have a customer dripping with oil and grease standing in the middle of her workshop. I ache to touch myself but I won’t allow myself to do it; despite everything that’s happened so far, I don’t want the mechanic to see me masturbating. I don’t want her to realise how aroused I am, in the hope that she’ll arouse me still further and perhaps even make me come. Without touching me..! I try and squeeze my thighs together, enjoying the tension in my groin. My knickers are soaking.
She comes back into the workshop with an oil filter and a smile. “I’ll do this,” she says. “You can watch. Don’t get too close, you’re filthy.”
I look over her shoulder as she removes the old oil filter with what looks like a length of bicycle chain attached to a metal handle, which she tells me is a chain wrench. In my current dangerously kinky frame of mind I can think of a few other things we could do with it. She hands the old oil filter to me; oil is dripping from the mesh-covered holes in its base. I hold it against my cleavage and let the drips soak into my blouse. She screws the new oil filter into place, tightens it with the wrench and then straightens up.
“My hands are dirty,” she says.
“So they are,”I say. Nowhere near as dirty as mine, of course, but now at least she knows what it feels like.
“I need something to clean them with.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”I tilt my hips at her to imply that she might like to use the hem of my skirt to wipe her hands on.
“I know the very thing,”she says. “Take your knickers off,”
Oh, I think. That isn’t quite what I meant. But what the hell...
Thrilled at an idea I hadn’t thought of, delighted that things are going this far but still surprised at myself that I so readily acquiesce, I hitch my skirt up. I don’t need to hitch it right the way up to my waist to get my knickers off but I do so, because I want her to see me. I wonder if she’ll be able to tell how turned on I really am. I wonder if she’s going to touch me, or whether she’ll just look. I hope she will touch me.
I slide my soiled knickers down and step out of them, balancing carefully on each high-heeled foot. I want to look dignified and elegant as I do it. My knickers were pristine white lace when I put them on this morning, utterly unaware of what was going to happen to me today; now they’re stained dirty black at the back and unmistakably soggy at the crotch. I pass them to her. My skirt is beginning to fall back down, but as yet it barely conceals me.
She holds my knickers apart with her fingers, looking appraisingly at their shape and the pattern of staining. I watch her wipe her hands carefully on them, wishing she was wiping her fingers in my crotch instead. Then she stuffs the knickers into her pocket.
I realise that the throbbing ache in my groin isn’t just arousal, but also related to the second large coffee I had during a leisurely afternoon break. Now I’ve noticed how full my bladder is I can’t ignore it; the uncomfortable sensation nags at me.
“Now,” she says, “let’s -”
“Actually,” I say, “before we do anything else I have to pee. Can I use your loo?”
“You can use the bucket in the corner,” she says.
“I can’t go in front of other people.”
“Why not?”
“Because... I just don’t do that sort of thing, that’s why!”
“You can face the wall if you’re shy.”
The bucket is a newish-looking black one containing a few inches of unidentifiable liquid with the slight rainbow effect of an oily puddle on a rainy day on the surface.
Hitching my skirt back up, I squat over the bucket with my knees wide apart and my back to the mechanic, staring at the white-painted bricks in the wall as I squeeze my bladder. It’s warm in the garage, but the main reason for the flush burning across my cheeks is the sheer self-consciousness I feel at being made to go to the toilet in a bucket in front of a stranger. And yet the idea is oddly arousing and very much in keeping with the benign and almost self-inflicted humiliation the mechanic is putting me through. Silly women who let their cars run out of oil probably deserve to have their clothes ruined and their dignity taken and to be sexually teased by an empowered, confident young woman and to be made to wee in a bucket.
I feel the urge rising in me. Here it comes...
The trickling flow begins, sounding obscenely loud as it pours into the bucket. I emit an almost sexual gasp of relief and look down at myself, hardly able to believe what I’m doing. Between my white thighs with their tan stockings I can see ripples spreading across the dark liquid.
I know I’m nearly done, though, and after a couple of final brief squirts and a few little dribbles I have finished. I feel disappointed. It had been such a wonderfully uninhibited thing to do.
“Is there any more?” the mechanic asks.
“That’s it,” I say, standing up.
“Pull your skirt straight,” she says.
I tug it back down, arranging myself to look as respectable as possible.
“Then empty the bucket.”
“Where?”
“Over yourself.”
I’m astonished. “In here?”
“Of course not, you’ll get it all over the floor! Go out into the lane and do it.”
Oh my god. She means it, too. I can tell by the tone of her voice that she does.
“What else is in here?”
“I can’t remember,” she says. I don’t believe her.
Oh my god.
I pick the bucket up and carry it slowly over to the small door. I look back at the mechanic.
“Go on,” she says. “And don’t think you can get away with just pouring it away, either. I want you to come back in here soaking.”
Oh my god.
I open the door and step outside. I slink past the truck and stand behind it, hoping that will hide me from any casual onlookers. Who knows? Maybe they’re used to this sort of spectacle around here. But I doubt it; I could hear the slight tremble in the mechanic’s voice as she ordered me outside. I don’t think she’s any more used to this than I am.
That she’s singling me out for this treatment is strangely flattering.
I’m taking too long - I really ought to just get it over with. The longer I hesitate, the more likely it is that somebody will see me. God knows what I’ll do if some horrible child comes along and asks me what I’m doing, or a perfectly legitimate customer arrives at the garage and sees this wreck of a woman pouring a slop bucket over herself.
I lift the bucket. Oh well, here goes...
I tilt it and slowly pour the liquid over myself, starting at my right shoulder and moving it across my breasts to my left. It feels cold as it trickles down me, despite the undoubted warmth of my urine in there, and my nipples protrude through my poor abused blouse. I wonder what exactly is in the bucket - whether there is something nasty in it that she didn’t tell me about. Yet I decide I will get myself thoroughly soaked, because I think she doesn’t believe I will. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and upend the bucket over my head.
I’m deluged in cold, filthy, stinking dregs. It didn’t really smell in the garage, but now it’s been stirred up a thick stink fills my nostrils. A few dollops of sludge spatter heavily onto my hair and down my front as I lower the bucket. I stand there for a moment spitting the liquid away from my mouth. It tastes nearly as bad as it smells. I wipe my lips on my cuff, leaving a smear of lipstick which reminds me of how much care I took over my appearance this morning. I don’t think anyone has seen me and I scurry back to the sanctuary of the garage, careful not to turn an ankle on the cobbles in my high heels. The dregs from the slop bucket are running down my face and my blouse is soaked to transparency. If my hair hasn’t flopped into my eyes, it’s only because of the grease clamping it in place.
“Good girl,” says the mechanic when she sees me. She looks for a moment as if she’s going to say something more, and then appears to change her mind. “Let’s put some new oil in your car,” she says instead.
She fetches a big plastic funnel and drops it into the top of the engine. She hands me a five litre container of oil, and I pour it down the funnel into the grateful engine of my car. And at the same time I feel something that feels very much like oil being poured over me. Starting from the top of my head, I feel it making its insidious way beneath the collar of my blouse and oozing down my back. She pulls the waistband of my skirt out at the back and pours more of the runny whatever-it-is down the gap so I can feel it crawling over and between my knickerless buttocks. It’s making my bum feel deliciously squelchy.
She pours more oil down the back of my legs. I feel like the girly stooge in a very rude remake of a Mack Sennett slapstick film, obliged to stay still and take my punishment for the amusement of spectators. And, like them, I’m thoroughly enjoying it. I know it will probably be a nightmare to get it all off me, but I don’t care. When my oil container is empty I turn and look into the mechanic’s smiling eyes.
“I always wanted to pour dirty oil all over a beautiful girl,” she says softly. She’s holding her bottle upside down, and the last of yet another deluge of old black oil dribbles out over my breasts.
“I’m not a girl,” I say. “I’m forty-two. And I’m sure I’m not beautiful, the state I’m in.”
“You’re a very beautiful girl,” the mechanic says, “and you look amazing.” She strokes my cheek and gazes into my eyes; I’m convinced she’s going to kiss me, but she doesn’t. Instead she turns and picks up another bottle from the work bench.
“What’s that?” I breathe.
“This,” she says, holding it up for me to read the label. It’s chocolate milk. She takes a long swig, and then tips the rest of it over my head. Then she gives me a quick kiss.
“Let’s get your car finished,” she says.
She checks the coolant level and the battery, tops up the screen washer bottle with some sort of blue additive which I’m almost surprised she doesn’t tip over me, places a protective cover carefully over the driver’s seat and starts my car. It sounds sweet and eager; just like it used to. She blips the throttle a few times. “There,” she calls, “That sounds much healthier. You see how important it is to be properly lubricated?”
I nod, feeling very well lubricated myself.
“Good.” She switches the engine off and gets out. “I hope you learned something today.”
“Oh yes,” I say. And I have. I’ve learned something very surprising about myself, and I have a feeling my life will never be quite the same again.
“Come with me, then.”
She takes my hand in hers and leads me across the workshop. We go through the little office with its desk and chair and filing cabinet and computer and resolutely non-garage calendar (a moodily lit stone circle rather than the usual pneumatic blonde draping her breasts over a torque wrench) into a tiny bathroom. There’s a toilet and a wash basin with a big mirror over it, a shelf of little bottles with Body Shop labels on them, a painted wooden chair, and a neat shower cubicle with ceramic tiles up to the ceiling. A squeezy bottle of pink gel is hanging from the shower’s temperature control. It all looks wonderfully girly compared to the unavoidably masculine workshop. The effect is only a little bit muted by the industrial skin-cleanser dispenser next to the cubicle.
The mechanic takes her glasses off and extracts the elasticated scrunchy from her hair. “I always like to go home clean,” she explains. “When I lock that door at night I like to leave everything behind, including all the grime.” She ruffles her long hair forward over her face, parts it like a pair of curtains, and tosses it back behind her shoulders.
She sits on the chair. She loosens the laces of her DMs, takes them off and hauls off a pair of chunky socks. Then she stands up, unfastens her trousers and slides them down. She steps out of them and drapes them neatly over a hanger on the back of the bathroom door. Now I can see what she’s wearing underneath them. Plain cotton tangas, it turns out - navy blue ones, functional but oh so sexy. She pulls them down as naturally as if she’s on her own and flicks them up with her foot to catch them. Her pubic hair is dense and very dark, and there’s quite a lot of it.
Finally she pulls her tight tee shirt off over her head, and she’s naked. She’s a goddess; a beautiful Greek statue come to life. She’s all curves. The fashion industry would probably consider her smaller of bust and bigger of hips than the ideal, but to me she’s perfect. Her legs are shaven smooth, but there are wisps of dark hair at her armpits.
She comes up to me with a smile and kisses me, lingering but still gentle. Part of me loves the softness of her kisses; part of me wants fierce, passionate snogging, all tongues and saliva and eventually having to stop because you’re both running out of air. I try to put my arms around her, but she fends me off by raising her arms. “No touching me until you’re clean, you filthy woman,” she says.
“Are you ever going to let me get clean?”
“Oh yes. That’s what’s going to happen to you now. We’re going to clean you up.”
She squirts a generous dollop of industrial skin cleanser into her hand and splatters it right on my chest. She massages it in with strong fingers; there are tiny grains of something in it as a mild exfoliant. I can see the oil being loosened from my skin to form swirly black patterns where the mechanic’s hands have been. I wobble a little on my high heels at the curious but very sexy feeling of slimy, oil-lagged silk being smoothed against my skin. She massages more of it into my back and my hair, fingers it with infinite care around my face, and finally kneels before me to massage it into my skirt and my stockinged legs. Her hands slide under my skirt, up my thighs, onto the bare skin above my stockings... higher... higher... please... and then back down without quite touching me where I most want to be touched. The massage is very sensual without being overtly sexual. Maybe she’s going to save that until all the oil is off me.
She takes a step back and looks appraisingly at me, her hands on her hips. Then she reaches into the shower cubicle and turns the water on. It hisses vigorously out of the shower head, spraying out from her hand as she tests the temperature. When she’s satisfied it’s warm enough she ushers me into the cubicle, and I stand under the water.
I rinse myself off, marvelling at the filthy black water sluicing off me. My blouse is nearly cream again, my skin its natural colour, my stockings glossy... Aware of the mechanic’s adoring gaze I massage myself, squeezing and fondling my breasts, caressing my abdomen, rubbing my crotch through my skirt. I love the way my wet clothes cling and hang off me, and I’d love even more for the mechanic to join me.
At last she does. Smiling, she steps into the cubicle with me and swings its glass door shut behind her. We’re very close together. She unbuttons my blouse and peels it off. It gets pulled inside out as it clings to my arms, and she has to tug it free of the waistband of my skirt. It falls with a splat to the floor of the cubicle. There’s a hollow noise as water hammers flat the balloon of air trapped beneath it.
My bra is a dirty grey. She unclips it and draws it down my arms, and drops it onto the blouse. I want her to touch my freed breasts. I want to be kissed and fondled and stroked by this beautiful girl. I want her to suckle at my nipples. I want to feel her lips and tongue and teeth on my clitoris.
I step out of my shoes. She kneels before me, the water flattening her dark hair against her head, and turns me round. I feel the zip of my skirt being pulled down, and the little metal clasp at the waistband released. My skirt slithers wetly down my legs and I step out of it, pushing it with my foot into a corner of the cubicle with my other discarded clothes. I feel her press her face into my bottom, her nose between my buttocks. Then she turns me round again and works the elasticated tops of my hold-up stockings down my legs. They come off like the shed skin of a snake. It feels odd now to be naked rather than fully clothed under the shower.
“Am I clean enough to touch you yet?” I ask.
“Let’s see.” The mechanic leans forward and kisses me, snaking an arm around me to caress my back and gently stroking my breasts. It feels magical, and it’s all I can do not to respond. “Not yet,” she says. “You’re still a bit grubby here and there.”
So I stay in the shower with her as she washes all the oil and grease and mess away until I’m perfectly clean. She lovingly shampoos my hair, applies more of the exfoliating cleanser here and there and finally gives me a wonderful, slithery, soapy all-over massage with the pink shower gel whose delightful strawberry scent nearly overcomes the lingering smell of oil. She washes me everywhere, and it all feels so beautiful I wish she would never stop.
And I must be clean enough to touch her now because suddenly she’s holding my face in her hands and she’s kissing me and I’m responding and kissing her back and my arms are tight around her and she’s letting me do that and she’s kissing my mouth and my nose and nibbling my earlobes and kissing my face and kissing my lips again and now her tongue is in my mouth seeking my tongue and I’m clutching her to me and her hands are gliding wonderfully over my wet skin and I’m stroking her wet hair as she kisses my throat and nibbles my collarbones and kisses my armpits and nips and sucks my nipples and kisses her way down my body and tongues my navel and kisses my abdomen and my pubes and now she’s clutching my buttocks and kneading them and her tongue is in my sex and penetrating me and I’m tilting my pelvis so she can reach me better and she’s licking my clitoris and parting my labia with her tongue again and using her finger to rub my perineum just the way I love it and I wonder how she knows how much I love having that done to me and I can hear her slurping at me as well as feeling her lips and tongue and fingers working away and that’s such an erotic thing and I’m so wet and I know I’m going to come soon if she carries on doing that and oh god this is so much more fun than tracing system errors and there’s her tongue again and oh that’s ever so naughty what she’s doing now and I don’t mind a bit in fact I love it and and and...
And I come as waves of pleasure and abandonment and the sheer unexpected joy of what’s happened to me today overwhelm me. I gasp softly and then more and more loudly, and what was just a little tremble becomes a whole-body shudder, and I have to lean against the ceramic tiled wall of the cubicle because my legs have gone wobbly...
After our shower we towel each other dry, and then make love again in her office until she comes too, sitting in her office chair as I kneel under her desk with my face buried in her beautiful sex. Afterwards I drive home in a spare pair of the mechanic's overalls and nothing else at all, my ruined clothes in a black bin bag in the boot and the mechanic's home phone number drawn in mirror writing across my belly with a permanent maker pen. I can't wait to see her again. Oh, the fun I'm going to have planning a suitably filthy return fixture for our next date...
The Importance of Lubrication
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The Importance of Lubrication
by captain sensible » 09 Oct 2007, 17:57
"I didn't know we had a king. I thought we were an autonomous collective."
- captain sensible
- Posts: 77 [ View ]
- Joined: 19 Jun 2007, 16:24
- Location: Plymouth, UK
by Richard » 11 Oct 2007, 14:02
Beautiful! A very good idea greatly enhanced by the quality of the writing, I loved the paragraph-long sentence near the end which perfectly conveyed the approaching orgasm and its fulfilment.
Richard.
Richard.
Bottoms Up!
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