Garage Mechanic Claims His Sissy

The garage smelled of motor oil, metal, and the faint metallic tang of night air drifting through the open bay door. Sissy’s heels clicked across the concrete as she stepped out of her dead coupe, the short black mini-skirt clinging to the swell of her ass like it had been painted on. Her white blouse was unbuttoned just enough to show the lace edge of a push-up bra, and the garter belt beneath the skirt held up sheer black stockings that shimmered under the fluorescent lights. At twenty-two, she knew exactly what she looked like: a cock-hungry little slut who had broken down on purpose.

Jax wiped his hands on a greasy rag, muscles flexing under a tight gray tank top that left his thick arms and broad chest on full display. Thirty-five, bearded, and built like he bench-pressed engines for fun, he took one look at her and forgot how to breathe. The way her hips swayed, the glossy lips, the long lashes—she was all woman until she moved just right. Then the secret between her thighs made itself known.

“Car died about two miles back,” Sissy purred, leaning against the fender. “Think you can make her purr again, big guy?”

Jax’s gaze dropped. She turned, pretending to check the hood latch, and bent forward. The tiny skirt rode straight up. Black garter straps framed the perfect globes of her ass, the sheer nylon stretched tight over smooth skin. Between her thighs, the unmistakable bulge of her cock pressed against the front of delicate black panties, already half-hard and thickening.

Jax’s cock surged inside his work jeans so fast it hurt.

He cleared his throat. “Pop the hood. I’ll take a look.”

While he leaned over the engine, Sissy hopped onto the workbench beside him, crossing her long legs slowly. The silky rasp of nylon on nylon filled the garage. She uncrossed, then crossed again, letting the pointed toe of one stocking-clad foot drag lazily up the inside of his thigh. The touch was feather-light, but Jax’s knuckles went white on the wrench.

“Oops,” she whispered when her foot “slipped” and brushed the thick ridge now tenting his zipper. “Clumsy me.”