My Married Mechanic's Filthy Backroom Craving

I’d been bringing my piece-of-shit Civic to Jake’s garage every three weeks for months. The check engine light was basically a homing beacon, and I’d stopped pretending it was an accident. At twenty-eight I made my living writing filthy stories for a living, yet nothing I typed ever felt as raw as the way Jake looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

He was forty-two, thick through the chest and arms from years of wrestling engines, with a dark beard shot through with silver and hands so calloused they rasped when he dragged them over his coveralls. The gold wedding band on his left ring finger never came off, not even when he was wrist-deep in my engine bay. That ring should have been a warning. Instead it made my pulse thud low in my gut every single time.

“You again,” he’d say, wiping grease from his forehead with the back of his wrist. His eyes would flick down to the way my jeans hugged my ass when I bent to grab my laptop from the passenger seat. “Tight parts keep needing attention, huh?”

The double entendre was never subtle. He’d smirk, beard twitching, and I’d laugh like it was just shop talk. We both knew it wasn’t.

Last Thursday the Civic died in his lot at 7:15 p.m., well after the bay doors had rolled down and the neon sign flicked off. I was still behind the wheel, cursing, when Jake rapped his knuckles on the roof.

“Won’t start?” His voice was gravel and smoke.

“Dead as disco.”

He considered me for a long second, then jerked his chin toward the back of the shop. “Come inside. I’ll call the tow, but it’ll be an hour. Least I can do is give you a beer while you wait.”

The backroom office was cramped, cluttered with parts catalogs, invoices, and a sagging leather couch that had seen better decades. A mini-fridge hummed in the corner. Jake pulled out two cans of cheap lager, popped them, and handed me one. His wedding ring clinked against the aluminum.

We drank in silence at first. Then a second round. On the third, Jake leaned back against the desk, thighs spread, and the outline of his cock was unmistakable—thick, heavy, straining against the greasy fabric of his coveralls.

“I gotta tell you something,” he said, voice low. “I’ve been jerking off thinking about you for months. Every time you bend over that hood… fuck, man. I watch your ass and imagine what it would feel like to split it open.”

My mouth went dry. I set the beer down before I dropped it.

“I want that,” I said, the confession rushing out before I could overthink it. “I want you to use me. However you need to.”

Jake’s eyes darkened. He stood, crossed the small room in two strides, and flipped the deadbolt on the office door with a metallic click that sounded louder than a gunshot.

“My wife hasn’t let me get rough in ten years,” he growled, already reaching for his zipper. “You’re gonna take everything she won’t.”

He spun me around and bent me over the cluttered workbench. Wrenches and sockets clattered to the concrete floor. Jake yanked my jeans and briefs down in one rough motion, exposing me to the cool air. I heard him drop to his knees. Then his beard scraped the backs of my thighs, and his hot, wet tongue dragged straight up the cleft of my ass in one long, greedy stroke.

“Fuck,” I hissed, gripping the edge of the bench.

He ate me like a starving man—broad, sloppy licks, then pointed jabs of his tongue right against my hole. He spit on me, worked it in with his thumb, and went back to devouring. The wet, obscene sounds filled the tiny office. My cock throbbed untouched against the cold metal.

When he stood, I heard the wet slap of his thick cock against his palm. He didn’t ask. He simply lined up the fat, bare head and pushed.

The stretch burned in the best way. Jake was massive—veiny, heavy, married cock sliding raw into my ass until his balls pressed tight against me. He gave me three seconds to adjust, then started pounding.

Each thrust rocked the entire workbench. His calloused hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise. One slid up, wrapped around my throat from behind, and squeezed just enough to make my head swim while he railed me with deep, powerful strokes.

“You’re tighter than she ever was,” he grunted. “Gonna ruin this hole for anybody else.”

He pulled out suddenly, flipped me onto my back like I weighed nothing, and shoved my knees up to my chest. The new angle let him sink even deeper. His dark eyes locked on mine as he fucked me—brutal, relentless, unblinking. The wedding ring on the hand braced beside my head caught the fluorescent light every time he drove in.

Sweat dripped from his beard onto my chest. The slap of skin on skin echoed off concrete walls. I was moaning like a whore, cock leaking steadily across my stomach.

Jake’s rhythm faltered. He pulled out, climbed up onto the bench, and straddled my chest. His huge cock hovered over my face, slick with my ass, veins pulsing.

“Open.”

I did. He stroked himself twice and exploded. Thick, heavy ropes of married cum painted my tongue, my lips, my cheeks. He kept pumping until every drop was on me, growling the whole time.

“Take it. That’s it… my dirty little secret.”

When he was spent he dragged his thumb through the mess on my chin and pushed it between my lips. I sucked it clean without being told.

Jake exhaled, slow and shaky, then helped me sit up. He grabbed a clean rag—surprisingly gentle now—and wiped the rest of his load off my face. His voice dropped, almost shy.

“This won’t be the last time I need to service your car after hours.”

I left the garage with a sore, well-fucked ass, his number saved under “Mechanic,” and the taste of a married man still coating my throat. I was already mentally planning which wire to disconnect next week to guarantee another breakdown.

Only later, when I was halfway home, did the last piece click into place.

I’d never actually disconnected anything. Jake had been sabotaging my car for months just to keep me coming back.