Me and cars. It’s a love-hate thing. Mine, I hate. They keep fucking up and emptying my bank account. My friends’ are usually much nicer.
Me and men. It’s love-hate thing. Mine are usually fuck-ups who empty my bank account. My friends’ are… Hmmm. I try not to go there. Not too often, anyway.
I’d had the little hatchback for a couple of months. The first few weeks had been wonderful. After that, it began to fuck me around and empty my bank account. The latest problem: it had a temperature. It wouldn’t go anywhere without the gauge red-lining.
The garage was a run-down unit in a part of town I drive through regularly but didn’t know well. When the car started red-lining I pulled straight onto their forecourt, as though a space had been reserved for me. It was a couple of minutes before five in the afternoon.
When the mechanic appeared, I was awe-struck. He was a genuine Adonis, if one with oil streaks on his face.
You know how rare that is? Even with the oil streaks?
‘It’s overheating,’ I explained. If he as much as smiled at me, I thought, I might be close to red-lining myself.
He smiled at me.
‘Easy. Cars overheat for only a few simple reasons. The only thing that takes time is letting it cool down enough to work on.’
‘So how long do I have to wait?’
It took him a few seconds to get it. ‘You mean you want it done right now?’
‘Yeah, can you do me… it, now?’ Good recovery there, I thought. He hadn’t noticed my Freudian slip.
‘But we close at–’
I was standing just a few inches in front of him, fixed his depthless brown eyes with a full wide-eyed stare. ‘But it’s only you, and you can close when you like. And I’m sure you wouldn’t leave a damsel in distress in distress, if you get my meaning.’
He sighed, and I knew I’d won.
I pulled the knob under the dashboard, but the idea of pulling on a knob had a sudden and urgent resonance.
While he poked about under the bonnet I looked around the garage. At the back of it was a huge, old American car, the kind with jet fins at the back that looked like it needed a runway rather than a road.
His voice, coming from under the bonnet, had a slight metallic echo.
‘Viscous coupling!’ It sounded like a proposal.
‘This model, it has a viscous coupling to the fan. It idles until the engine gets hot, then the coupling kicks in and spins the fan properly. Or in this case, it doesn’t because it’s screwed.’
I tried and failed to suppress a giggle. ‘The viscous coupling’s screwed? That’s rude.’
He smiled. ‘Course it is. That’s standard for mechanics. Male plugs and female sockets, couplings, grease nipples, even master and slave units… We do it deliberately so we can talk dirty to attractive young women with car trouble.’
‘And the cost of fixing it is…?’
‘Well… you could buy a new one, or I can pull out the welder and fix the fan to the coupling. The fan will run all the time but then it wouldn’t ever overheat.’
He went to get the welder. I looked at the huge American car again.
‘It’s mine. It’s a rolling restoration. That’s a flash way of saying it works and I drive it, but it still needs work. Sit inside if you want.’
It was a beautiful car. Every piece of the engine had been polished to diamond brilliance. The walnut dashboard was pristine – it could have come straight from the showroom. The rear seats were almost the size of a double bed. They were covered in brown leather and even smelled like vintage luxury.
I sprawled out over the back seat and watched my mechanic at work. He wasn’t at all vintage, though he was classic: chiselled jaw, short black spiky hair, and underneath his overalls, a clearly defined fleshy coil pushing at the lowest buttons. I guessed he wasn’t wearing anything under the overalls. I guessed if he spent his days working up a sweat over hot engines and welding equipment he wouldn’t need to.
I’m not normally impulsive. But I was prepared to make an exception because, like my car a little while before, I was revved up and overheating.
‘Budge up.’ He’d done the job, come over to join me on the double-bed-sized back seat of his car.
I lifted my head enough for him to slide in – and put it down again, using his thigh as a pillow. He had a faint tang of hot of oil and metal that mixed with the leather of the seat. It was a heady blend.
The coil of flesh in his groin suddenly became more rod-like.
‘You know, this is the point when I normally make out an invoice…’ His voice trailed off. One hand went to rest on my thigh, the other toyed with my hair. It occurred to me that my lips were separated from his cock by a couple of millimetres and the thickness of his overalls. Then it was just the thickness of his overalls. I put my lips to them and blew.
You’ve done that, right? The material warms up with the breath and the skin underneath suddenly feels hot? He moaned impressively and his eyes bulged out of his head. Well, the moaning I could hear and the eyes I’m guessing about. They probably did: from the way the muscles clenched in his thigh they should have done, but I couldn’t see properly at that angle.
‘How come,’ I asked not-so-innocently, ‘you’ve got the piston from a truck engine under your overalls?’ Couldn’t help myself: I unbuttoned the overalls, allowed his compressed flesh to break free. But it wasn’t free for long because I put my mouth around it. He purred like a truck revving up.
I have no idea how I managed to cope with the length. It felt like he was driving down my throat to levels of anatomical impossibility. There’s no way the tip of it could have reached my stomach, right?
You know how, when you’re having a good time, your clothes just evaporate? No? Surely that doesn’t only happen to me?
Well, it happened. One minute I was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, then suddenly nothing at all; his mouth was on mine, his fingers playing with my nipples, and I was sitting astride him, thighs parted and offering my well-greased female part to his lubricated male one.
I had to laugh. If a guy knows his car is a girl-magnet, of course he keeps condoms in the door pockets.
And so we had our very own viscous coupling.
We tried several couplings to make sure we had the best fit. Me straddling his thighs; me lying back on the seat with him kneeling on the floor; and eventually, me bent forward over the front seats so he could enter me from behind… That’s the thing about American cars. More space inside to try different positions.
That’s it. More or less. Except I didn’t exactly go straight home. It’s very wet-making to be driven around the city, naked, in the back of a seven-litre V8 monster. And then later, we did some rigid shaft couplings. He claims they’re completely different to viscous couplings but it didn’t feel that way to me…
If you liked this story you should also look at ‘Making it Happen’, by Fulani, in the Xcite Books Six of the Best 2 collection
You’ll probably also like the upcoming short story ‘Nostalgia’ by Fulani in the January issue of Erotic Review Magazine, available soon.
And Fulani’s also written your 2011 Fetishscope, which is in the December 2010 Erotic Review Magazine issue 116.