The Mechanic

Hot Mechanic Turns Me Gay in 20 Minutes

It felt like I was standing in hell, which sounds dramatic but honestly it wasn’t far off. The air was so thick it pressed against me, like it was trying to suffocate me. I leaned back against this filthy shelving unit stacked with car parts, rusted bolts and bits of plastic I couldn’t name, not even caring what it was doing to my white shirt because at that point I’d given up on dignity for the day.

All I wanted was to be home. I kept thinking about the Sancerre waiting in my fridge, how cold it would be, how that first sip always feels like a reward for my overworked nervous system. I imagined the aircon humming away like a loyal servant, the smooth jazz I put on when I want to pretend I’m a calm, well-adjusted adult, the type who doesn’t end up trapped in a garage on a Friday evening.

Instead, I was here.

Watching Ben.

The slowest mechanic I’d ever met in my life, which felt cruel to think but also… accurate.

He was still under the Carrera, his legs sticking out from beneath the silver chassis, and I tried not to stare but failed. His legs were bare, thick, dusted with dark hair that had collected grease and grit from the shop floor, like he was part of the garage. Those navy work shorts were hanging on for dear life, frayed at the edges, stretched across thighs that honestly looked like they could snap someone in half if you asked him one more time how much longer he was going to be.

I forced myself to look away, over to the street where everyone else was escaping their offices, already mentally halfway into their weekend. Friday traffic, that specific end-of-week madness where everyone drives like they’re escaping hell.

My attention returned to Ben again as metal hit metal and echoed in that large space. I assumed his colleagues had worked faster and fled on time.

I’ve been married to Sarah for twelve years and did not stare at men’s legs. I play squash on Tuesdays.

I don’t check out mechanics named Ben.

Each time I looked away, the distraction wouldn’t last. Within seconds my eyes were right back where they’d started.

With Ben under my car, I was trapped. Literally trapped, unable to go home unless I got an Uber.

“Almost there, Roger. Don’t blow a gasket,” his voice floated out from under the car, thick with a southern drawl that made it sound like he had all the time in the world.

“It’s after six, Ben,” I said, trying to sound important, like I had somewhere better to be, like I wasn’t secretly melting into a puddle. My voice betrayed me though, as I unbuttoned my shirt halfway down my chest because I couldn’t breathe properly anymore. The fabric stuck to my ribs, damp and uncomfortable. “I just want to get out of this heat.”

The only response was the steady clank of a wrench.

Then the creeper rolled out.

He lay there on the creeper, looking up at me. Not a quick glance, but a steady, heavy appraisal that started at my polished shoes and ended on my damp, exposed throat. I felt like a specimen under a microscope.

“You’re wilting, sir,” Ben murmured.

When he sat up, he grabbed a plastic bottle of water from the floor, cracked the cap, and poured half of it over his head. I stood there, paralyzed, watching it sluice down his face, drip from his chin, run in rivulets through the grease on his chest. It carved clean paths through the grime, revealing pale, rugged skin beneath.

I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. It was like watching an ad for Coca-Cola.

One drop traveled over the deep groove of his abdominal muscles before disappearing into the waistband of those frayed shorts. I followed it the whole way down. My pulse thudded in my ears, a dull rhythm that drowned out the traffic behind me.

I hated that I was looking and that I knew exactly how those shorts stretched over his lap.

“I’m fine,” I managed, my voice a notch lower than usual. I shifted my weight, pretending to look at my watch, but my eyes slid right back to the way his biceps bunched as he capped the bottle.

Ben stood then. He was taller than he looked on the ground, moving with a fluid, animal grace. He walked over to the workbench, stopping inches from where I leaned, loudly throwing things around. The heat coming off him was intense, a living radiator. He picked up a heavy metal part and the veins in his forearms bulged thick beneath his skin.

He didn’t speak for a long minute. He just worked, cleaning the part with a rag, his hands steady and powerful. I watched his shoulders roll, the pull of his deltoids, the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin with every scrub. It was hypnotic.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. 6:12 p.m. I should have been furious. I should have been calling a cab and giving up, but I needed my car. So I stayed, breathing in that metallic, salt, and oil and something heavy and masculine that coated the back of my throat.

Ben turned slightly. He caught me staring and didn’t look away. He kept scrubbing, slow and deliberate, watching me, a cheeky grin creeping across his face like he knew things.

Our eyes locked for a few seconds. His eyes stayed on mine, blue and unblinking, like he already had me figured out.

“What’s that look for?” he asked. His voice was low, not the edge of a subordinate, but the tone of a man who knew exactly what I was looking at.

I cleared my throat. “Just wondering if you’re ever going to finish,” I said, looking back across the street, wondering why I suddenly felt uncomfortable.

I realized something peculiar. I didn’t want him to finish. I wanted to stay in this sweltering box and watch the sweat trail down his spine until the sun went down.

When he turned to the car and bent over, the sweat patch that ran down and pooled at the center of his ass was impossible not to notice. I barely registered the mess on the back of his shirt coupled with sweat.

As if he knew, he turned again, winked, then lay back on the creeper and disappeared under the car, his bulge sticking out under the license plate. And I was back to staring at his bulge, where I could see where he’d scratched at it with greasy hands.

“Whatcha got planned tonight, Roge?”

I felt my fists clench.

“It’s Roger,” I said, my voice tight and unrelenting.

“Okay, Roge. So, what you got goin’ on tonight? Sit around with a bunch of uptight bankers and jack off to your portfolios?”

I pushed off the shelving unit and stepped outside, which was no cooler. I clenched and unclenched my fists, forced my teeth to stop grinding and breathed.

As I counted back from ten, I heard him call out.

I walked back to the other side of the car, where I stared at the space between his legs.

“Pardon me?”

“I said, your car will be ready in a few minutes. I’m finished. Could have been ready twenty minutes ago but you seemed to be enjoying watching my legs a lot.”

“I beg your pardon! I was not! I was merely…” And that’s when I saw the cameras and the monitors. It wasn’t sneaky, but designed to sit at floor level, so mechanics under the cars could watch the workshop while they worked.

I glared at the camera and quickly looked away.

“Aw. Come on Roge, was kind of enjoying giving you a show. Was almost gonna put my hands in my shorts and adjust.”

Which he did anyway. His hand slid down his stomach and to the tip of his shorts, then under. When his hand grabbed the bulge, it was bigger.

I looked away, then at the camera, then back across the road.

When I looked back, his hand was still there, slowly moving, teasing me.

“If I can just get my car, I’d like to leave now,” I said, a catch in my voice I disguised by quickly coughing.

“Sure thing,” Ben said. His hand disappeared and seconds later, he rolled out, but lay there, hands holding the spanner as he began to tap it into his palm.

“But, as you’re driving off, I’ll be in the office there. Got to do something before I get home to the girlfriend. You know, in case you wanna watch or something,” he said in that heavy southern accent, probably Louisiana.

I swallowed, but the dry heat had made that as difficult as looking away from Ben.

“What do you mean?”

He got up, walked to the wall of tools and put the spanner away, then bent over, giving me a clear view once more of his ass. When he stood, he had a rag in his hand, and some kind of cleaning fluid. He carefully rubbed it over his hands while he stared.

Then his eyes dropped to my crotch, and when his eyes returned to mine, he grinned.

“I think you know what I mean. You don’t spend twenty minutes watching someone’s legs like that unless you don’t know what they mean.”

He turned, grabbed my keys and walked toward me, then threw them.

I hated the way I scrambled to catch the keys. I’d never been good at catching things.

He walked to the office, taking his shirt off as he walked. He used the shirt to wipe his head, face, and body, before throwing it to the counter.

“I’ll be in here, just in case I’m right, and you’re curious. If not, have a great weekend. See you the next time you spend too much time throttling your accelerator while in neutral.”

I stared after him, aware he was probably watching me from yet another monitor.

What an asshole! I wanted to retort and yell something back, but I had nothing to say. I walked to the driver’s side and opened the door.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” I said, realizing someone had vacuumed my car. There was a clean smell that hadn’t been there that morning.

“Okay,” he sounded breathless, like he was working on something. “I’ll be in here for just a few more minutes in case you change your mind.”

I wanted to yell. Doing that?

My mind got into the car, but my legs walked around the front, along the back wall. I felt something rush up from deep inside, whether it was anger, frustration or simply a need to give him a piece of my mind, I had no idea.

I stood in the office doorway and opened my mouth.

He sat in an oversized leather chair, legs spread with his shorts bunched around his ankles. The shirt was gone and he watched me with a grin as he jerked off.

“The only question I have is, ass or cock?”

I stared.

He scanned me, head to toe, back to my eyes, my crotch and then my eyes again.

“Well? Ass or cock?”

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me? Sorry, what did you say?”

He stood slowly, analyzing me. He pulled his feet out of his shorts one by one. He cast his eyes to the monitors, then back at me. He moved his hands, and I stared at his erect cock, uncut, large and dirty.

Then he turned, all the way around and bent over.

His ass was hairy, very muscular and rounded. He spread his legs, bent over even further and I could tell he resumed jerking off.

“I said, you want my ass or my cock? If I were a betting man, which funny enough I can be, I’d say you’d wanna rail my ass.”

I tried to swallow, but it was stuck. I choked on whatever words had begun to formulate in my throat.

This is insane. I needed to leave immediately. Call the cops or something. What the fuck was I doing standing there?

He turned, but only halfway, showing me both sides.

“If I was to bend over this chair, close my eyes and think about the state of our country, I’d bet money you’d slip it in my ass. Saw the way you watched it on the monitors. Saw the way you licked your lips.”

I hadn’t licked my lips, not that I recalled, but I did then.

He smiled. A smile I bet had got him many women. And men. He turned, still grinning and bent over.

“Lube’s on that table, right next to you. Let’s see if we can’t kick this weekend off with a bang for both of us,” he said, voice very low, with a roughness to it.

I adjusted the cuffs on my shirt sleeve, looking around me, wondering why I hadn’t already left.

I already knew my cock had not just stirred, but begun screaming to be released from my far too tight briefs.

His ass was the fittest I’d ever seen, not that I’d seen that many. I’d never touched a man. Fantasized it a bunch, but never done it.

Was I really going to put my cock in his ass? I cleared my throat, looked around me again.

I picked up the lube. Apparently I was.

My cock begged, no screamed, to be let out. I looked behind me, but realized Ben was looking at the monitors, keeping an eye out.

My heart pounded as I stepped closer, unbuttoning my overpriced pants and struggling with the zipper. The weight of my keys, wallet pulled them down for me, so I reached down and pulled my cock out. I could feel the part of me that still made good choices giving up.

Ben turned then, as if what he’d seen on the monitor needed closer inspection.

“Damn! You sure are full of surprises!” he said, staring at my cock.

My hands shook, but I managed to pop the lube open and get some on my cock.

His ass hairs were wet and coiled around his ass, but I inched closer and felt the precum drip from the head and along the shaft.

I put the lube on the table behind me and stepped closer, my cock inches away from his ass. The debate about whether I could do this was still raging in my mind as my cock inched forward and touched his asshole.

After that, it was no longer a question.

I angled myself, watching the muscles in his back and how firm his ass cheeks were.

“Go easy, been a while, hoss,” he said.

His ass was surprisingly clean, that pink center waited for me. My cock had plenty of lube, and there was still some on my hands, so my fingers went to his hole and massaged the excess in before my cock did.

His hand came around, grabbed mine and gently helped massage his ass.

“That’s it, warm me up. Really has been a while, not often good-looking executive types come in here like you, staring at my cock and my ass, making me wonder which one you wanted.”

I put my cock back against his hole and applied pressure. It was tight. I felt him tense, then breathe in, then exhale. He nodded, as if to signal he was ready, so I pushed it in.

“Jesus!” he yelled, as the tip went in a little further and too quickly.

“Sorry,” I said, wondering if I should pull out, but his hand shot back and grabbed me, holding me in place.

“Slow and steady, okay?”

I nodded, and waited a few seconds, then slowly inched it in a bit more.

The lube was doing its job, my cock slid in easier the more of it went in. The inside of his hole was hot! I could feel him clenching, like he was adjusting.

He’d said it had been a while, and I believed him.

With my hands resting on his ass, I pushed my cock the remainder of the way in. He didn’t complain, just breathed in and out. With my hips pressing against his hot skin, and my cock throbbing deep inside his ass, my hands caressed his ass.

He shifted a little, bent over the chair, and I could tell he was jerking off.

“That’s it, hoss. We’re good, fuck me.”

I did.

I pulled out, then pushed it in and felt it hit that deep center, hearing him moan and gasp as I thrust, building a little momentum.

“You like that?” he asked me.

“U-huh,” I said, the feeling of it beginning to emanate through my entire body. The sweat was steadily pouring down my back, along my temples and some of it pooled under my balls. When I fucked him, and my balls slapped his balls, the extra sweat made that smack echo in that office.

“Yeah! You got it perfect, keep going!” he muttered.

My hips were on autopilot, fucking him with a rhythm that felt instinctive.

We fucked like that for what felt like an eternity. Long enough that my shirt was drenched with sweat and rivers of sweat ran down my whole body. My cock was slippery, more from the sweat than the lube.

I fucked him harder as that familiar feeling overwhelmed me.

“Oh yeah! Do it! Cum! I’m cumming!”

He said, too loudly, but there was still no one on the monitors in the workshop.

“Argh!” I grunted as I felt my load suddenly shoot through my balls and then through my shaft. As it filled him, he grunted and began to shoot too, all over the black leather.

“Fuck!” he yelled, my thrusts building as I fucked all of my load into him.

“Yeah! Yeah!” he yelled, as though he was watching sports.

The rest of my jizz filled him, and I slowed down. I leaned forward, and tried to regain my breath.

“Jesus! You know how to fuck!” he said.

I pulled my cock out, and he pointed to some rags on the counter, which looked clean. I grabbed one and quickly wiped my cock, then passed it to him, which he accepted.

“Um… thanks,” I said, really needing to get out of there.

“Thanks hoss. Any Friday you feel like stoppin’ by to choose cock or ass, I’ll be waitin’.”

I raced to my car, got in and joined the traffic on the main road.

In my mind, I began to berate myself. Why had I done that?

Cheeky asshole! Asking me whether it would be cock or ass!

I already knew the answer to that.