Car Repair

I work for the Auto Club. Your car's broken down? They send for me to go and fix the problem. Change a tyre? No problems, assuming you have a spare and the spare isn't flat. Don't laugh. It happens. Run out of gas? No problems, I've a can in my truck that will give you enough to get to the next gas station. Sorry, it's only regular. I don't keep a range of gas types.

What puzzles me is why their breaking down seems to be my fault if I can't fix it. I had one guy complaining because his brand new car, new, not used, had stopped running for no reason. He was most incensed when I pointed out that the reason was simply because he ran out of gas. Flatly denied the possibility because the low gas light hadn't come on. I pointed out that that model car didn't have a low gas light and that promptly became my fault. How would I know why they didn't put one on a cheap, low-budget car?

Some calls are fun. Some women just can't resist flirting with the mechanic who's come to their aid. (Why not? It's safe. What's he going to do in the middle of a busy road? Enjoy the badinage, is all.)

Some calls are down-right scary. I answered one call to find a very pregnant lady sitting in the driver's seat hyperventilating. Her water had broken and she was in labor. Why the hell she called the Auto Club instead of an ambulance is beyond me. I parked her car and drove her to the hospital in somewhat of a hurry. (Her reasoning was that she'd already paid her dues to the Auto Club and she didn't want to pay for an expensive ambulance.)

Early morning calls of 'my car won't start' are usually caused by the customer leaving his lights on overnight. A jump start and away they go. Some are a little more complex.

"Sorry, mate, but your engine block is cracked. You need a new engine and that's not something I can fix."

He wanted to know why it was cracked so I did some more investigation. That's when I noticed a hole in his radiator. At first I thought he'd run dry, over-heated, and cracked the block, but he maintained he hadn't been driving. A closer investigation showed the hole went right through his radiator and through the grill. Someone had shot his car. I told him to report it to the police and he went all quiet and embarrassed.

Turned out he'd been playing with a new gun and accidentally hit the car. It's amazing how much power there is in a .45 bullet.

And so it goes, fun, fun, nightmare.

Mind you, some calls are intriguing. I had one recently where the customer claimed that the car had worked well the day before but the next day flatly refused to start. My immediate thought was flat battery and I pulled into her drive assuming that I'd have to give her a jump-start.

As soon as I pulled up this sweet young thing of about twenty popped out of the house, bouncing around in some agitation in her eagerness to get her car going. It was a hot day and she was dressed for it, and not with the intention of going to a stuffy office, either. She was wearing some sort of boob-tube, and she had plenty of boob to put in that tube. That made her bouncing around all the more interesting because, even when she stood still, certain things seemed to keep on bouncing. Her other major item of clothing, if you could call something that small major, was a pair of hot pants. If someone had told me that they'd been painted onto her I'd have been willing to believe it.

Her car was in the garage, wrong way round of course. I hoped she wasn't parked so close to the far wall that I couldn't get in front of the car but my fears were unfounded. There was plenty of room. I confidently checked the battery and said a rude word under my breath when I found it was fully charged. Now I'd have to do some real work.

It's hard to work when a cute little pixie is shadowing your every move. I was constantly waiting for her to get out of my way as I moved around. I finally determined that her starter motor was dead and due for burial but she was lucky as I had a couple of starter motors in the truck, one of them the same as her current one.

I explained the problem to her and told her I could resolve it straightaway but the cost of the motor was over and above her dues. She grumbled but whipped out a credit card from somewhere. Damned if I knew where she'd had it concealed. (Turned out she had a phone in a case wedged between her breasts, and kept the card in the case. Her breasts were generous enough to hide it.)

My problems started when I tried to actually change the starter motor. Denise, that was her name, leaned over the engine right next to me, getting in my way. I politely suggested she move aside and she shifted about half an inch. I pointedly explained she was in the way and she had to give me a bit of room. She moved over another half inch.

I was getting quite irritated and I finished up giving a mild spank to her bottom as I told her to shift it. (Did I mention that she had a very nice little bottom?) I know, I know. Assault, sexual assault, sexual harassment, committing violence upon a customer, etc, etc. What did she do? She fucking giggled and wiggled her bottom.

"You won't find it so funny if I pull these down and spank you," I groused at her, feeling immensely irritated, and indicating what I would pull down with another, somewhat firmer, swat.

"Ooo, big man," she said, still giggling and wiggling her bottom. "You wouldn't dare. I've nothing under them."

Yeah, she just had to tell me that, didn't she? We were standing in front of the car with the car blocking anyone in the street from seeing us. She was standing up at this point, facing me, with a big smirk on her face. I gave her a fulminating look, reached out and flicked open the button at the front of her shorts. I didn't worry about that causing them to fall down as they were too tight to come off by accident.

"You were saying?" I said in a most suggestive tone and she outright laughed.

"Like I said, you wouldn't dare," she scoffed.

I gave her another nasty look and hoicked those hot pants in a southerly direction. She gave a small squeal and her hands very quickly covered her groin, but she didn't stop giggling.

"Now bend over," I told her, speaking softly.

"What?" She sounded surprised.

"I promised a spanking, remember?"

"You wouldn't."

"I believe that's what you said about your shorts," I murmured, the smile now on my face.

She was blushing and looking around, suddenly seeming to realise that we weren't in the house but outside. OK, we were in her garage but the main door was wide open.

"Someone might come," she pointed out, which, while an objection, wasn't a refusal. I can recognise the word no and that wasn't it.

"Now why would anyone wander in off the street, pass by my truck, and come into your garage?" I asked. "Still, if you're nervous we can skip the spanking and go straight to the fucking. Do you want to skip the spanking?"

"Fucking?" she half shouted. "What fucking? I never said a word about fucking."

"I know. I did, but what do you expect. Spanking a pretty little thing on her bare bottom is going to get me all worked up and I'd just naturally have to do what comes naturally."

She made a series of um, ah, but, sounds but didn't seem to know what to say.

"You haven't answered the question. Do you want to skip the spanking and go straight to the fucking?"

"What? No. No way."

I suspected that she was saying no to both but that wasn't what she actually said.

"In that case you need to bend over," I pointed out. I waved an arm around the area. "It's not as though there's a chair I can sit on while I put you across my knee."

She gave me an incredulous look and now it was my turn to laugh.

"What? You just said you didn't want to miss the spanking," I pointed out, rather tongue in cheek.

If pushed as to which way she'd jump I'd stake my money on her bending over for a spanking. You know why? Because she hadn't bothered to pull up her shorts, leaving them down around her knees. On top of that her hands had drifted away from her groin, leaving everything on display. She was getting off on flashing me in what could be considered a public place.

She swallowed a little nervously and turned and leaned over the engine bay again, her bottom pushed out provocatively.

"A spanking doesn't mean sex," she told me, speaking quickly to ensure that I knew she was only agreeing to one, not the other.

"True," I conceded. "You're perfectly entitled to change your mind and decide you don't want the sex."

The look I got implied that she'd never agreed to sex in the first place, even if she was curious as to what a proper spanking would be like. Erotically arousing if I had anything to do with it.

My hand came round, landing firmly on her bottom. She made some sort of noise but didn't tell me to stop or try to move away. My hand came round again. I would like to point out at this stage that I was not fondling her bottom. I was giving her a proper spanking while lecturing her on how she shouldn't stop a hard-working man from doing his job. My hand might have lingered a little between spanks, but it wasn't as though I was beating on a drum. It was only fair to let her have a short break between each spank.

The other point I'd like to make was that when my aim slipped slightly and my hand slapped against her pudendum it was also fair and reasonable for me to rub her there to alleviate the sting of the misdirected spank. I'm quite sure Denise understood that as she didn't seem inclined to protest.

It was after the last little mishap that I decided enough was enough.

"It seems," I told her as I rubbed her mound, "that I have inadvertently brought you to a state of arousal. Don't worry. I'll do the right thing and take care of that for you."

I started rubbing a little harder while at the same time unzipping and pushing my trousers out of the way. Moving closer to Denise my erection pressed against her bottom, letting her know just how far I was willing to go to help her. Was she appreciative of me being willing to take this extra step?

Damned if I could tell. The look on her face when she turned her head to look at me was enigmatic.

"You're going to do the right thing and fuck me because you think I have a little problem?"

I nodded cheerfully.

"Certainly. Nothing is too much trouble in our efforts to satisfy our customers," I assured her.

"I've heard plenty of reasons why men think they should get my panties off," she muttered, "but this is the first time I've heard it described as a moral responsibility."

I hadn't quite phrased it like that but I suppose the meaning was there. I just continued rubbing while at the same time moving my erection into place. She wouldn't be able to say I took her by surprise as I made sure she could feel my cock dragging against her as I moved it down into position.

She was breathing so hard when I spread her lips for the big plunge that I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd started panting. The big problem when it's your first time is that you don't know whether to take it slow or fast. Getting it wrong can irritate the ladies. I decided I'd just take a nice steady approach.

The best plans fall apart as soon as you strike unexpected opposition to that plan. I'd barely got myself engaged when I found Denise taking the decision out of my hands and pushing urgently against me, causing my cock to positively ram its way into her while she gave a short scream.

"Wow, you might have taken it a bit easier," she reprimanded me. "I'm quite small, you know, and you're rather a big man."

Typical. She skewers herself and it's my fault.

"Sorry," I said. "Maybe this will help."

I started banging in hard, at the same time reaching around and pulling her boob-tube down. By a stroke of luck I caught her phone as it fell free and placed it on top of the carby, where she could see it. (Ever noticed how snarky girls can get when they think they've lost their phone.)

I latched onto her breasts and watched in some surprise (only some) as she latched onto the phone.

I started massaging her breasts to the same rhythm that my cock was conducting and she started typing a message. I couldn't believe it. Here I was doing my best to screw her brains out and she was sending a message. I wondered if she knew that I could see what she was typing.

'Delayed 30. Being raped. Tell you later.'

As far as I was concerned that was incentive enough to fuck her even harder and I was putting some real effort into it. I'll give her some credit. She put the phone back down and started paying serious attention to what I was doing. She even ignored the beep of an incoming message.

She was a sensitive little thing, reacting positively, eagerly, and very quickly picking up a full head of steam. Her bottom was bouncing about very nicely and she was spilling appreciative little sounds in no time flat.

I didn't bother holding anything back. The way she was responding I figured she'd probably climax before I was ready to so why not just go for broke?

The reason why not was because she lasted a damn sight longer than I expected her to. That'll teach me to make assumptions. By the time she was ready to go I was sweating and wondering how to put a brake on things before I exploded and left her high and dry. I was exceedingly grateful when she suddenly squealed "YES," and climaxed very noisily. Not screaming, but noisy anyway, with me letting loose at the same time with a sigh of relief.

She slumped against the car, breathing hard, and reaching for her blasted phone. I just slumped against her, not yet willing to disengage completely. Instead I just relaxed and read her phone messages over her shoulder.

'COPS?' Was the reply to her original text.

'No. Y U think it cops again?' What the hell did 'again' mean?

'I mean you need cops?'

'No. I can handle'

"K. Tell me later'

"Off," she said, pushing at me. "I have to get changed."

I moved back and she scampered out of the garage. She'd pulled her shorts up but her breasts were bouncing happily as she ran into the house. I finished tidying my own clothes and got to work, changing the starter motor with no problems now that there were no distractions.

I tried starting and the engine kicked over without a problem. I turned it off again and waited for Denise to return so she could sign-off the worksheet. She was out in a surprisingly short space of time, different color boob-tube and hot-pants, and ready to go. She started the engine, smiled, signed the worksheet, and indicated she wanted to leave and my truck was in the way.

Before I left I just had to ask.

"What did you mean, cops again?" I asked her.

She blushed.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she told me, "but I will admit that cops tend not to give me tickets."

I left it at that. I'm sure our fine upstanding custodians of the law knew what was appropriate. (I wonder if they spanked her.)