Fully polished
Aunt Janey's BMW has been repaired.
She'll be out of my hair once I take her to collect it.
Fuck! My cute but rusty Toyota is kaput!
I board a frickin bus for the slow trip to the garage.
The bus stop is three blocks away.
I check my phone—5:47.
Crap! They shut in fifteen minutes.
My denim skirt riding high, my nipples pebbling with exertion, I rush.
The garage is down a lane between a closed-down retail and a nail salon, two bays open, hydraulic lifts holding nothing, the whole place smelling of motor oil and spray paint.
Two dudes in overalls, both mid-fifties.
"You lost pet?" one calls out, wiping his hands on a rag that was probably white last decade.
"I'm here for the BMW," I say. "Janey's car. She called ahead."
They exchange a look.
The old codger one, we weren't born yesterday, sista.
"BMW, huh? Stealin' it?"
"Guys! What the hell do I look like?"
"Trouble," the taller says, "Little flirt in a big girl's car. You got ID?"
I reach into my back pocket, denim pulling tight across my ass as I bend slightly, intentional or not—I feel their eyes roving.
My license comes out smooth. I hold it up, don't hand it over.
Ellie Marchetti. Nineteen. Organ donor.
The photo is terrible, taken at eighteen, my hair longer then, my expression already bored with whatever the DMV photographer is saying.
The shorter dude takes it anyway, thumb brushing my knuckle as he tugs.
He studies it like he's verifying authenticity, turning it to catch the light; the whole performance is unnecessary and therefore interesting.
"Nineteen," the taller says. "Legal."
"Marchetti, on the paperwork," the shorter adds," Okay, kitten, follow us."
He's already walking toward the office, a converted shipping container with a window AC unit rattling on the side.
"Car's out back. You wanna test drive? Make sure she purrs?"
I follow them through the garage, past tool chests and hydraulic equipment, the smell of oil growing thicker, more intimate.
The BMW sits in the back lot, silver, immaculate, completely wrong for this environment. Janey's midlife crisis in automotive form.
"I'd rather you make me purr," I say.
The words don't hang long.
Unlike younger guys who are blockheads with sexual innuendo, older guys are already unzipping their pants.
I'm escorted, one dude on each arm, to the bonnet of the BMW.
I'd rather be on the back seat leather of Janey's car.
Too late.
I'm manhandled.
"You want the full-service purr," says the shorter guy.
I nod.
No idea what I've just agreed to.
The taller guy sheds his overalls. I notice the tattered pocket name, Dean.
The shorter guy, Murray. His name tag faded by endless washing or sunshine.
"Open," Dean says, and I do, knees spreading, denim shorts pulling tight across my camel-toe.
Murray is there, between my legs, his blue eyes level with my spread thighs.
Tosses my slip-ons. Eases off my denim and panties in a fluid tug.
"Lubed already," says Dean, sliding a finger through my slick folds.
I'm kissing two guys. Tongue lost in tongue.
Yeah, I'm holding two stiff peckers at the same time.
God, there's a finger in my slash and one in my tush!
No hole without a filling.
"Want both?" Dean asks against my lips.
A nod is consent.
My mouth was rather busy.
I'm at the side of the BMW.
I catch the lewdness in the side mirror.
A fat schlong slapping my pussy flapettes.
A thick sausage rimming my balloon knot.
Generous portions of spit as lube.
I'm the standing sandwich.
They burrow like two wombats' intent in meeting in the middle.
"Oof! Oof! Fuck! Uhh! Ahh! Ahhh! Aahh!"
The oofs!
I'm a girl. I care about my sensitive partition.
I want it to remain intacto.
Two pressure jolts create a fuzzy mental buzz.
A double immediate injection of pleasure with a dose of wincing smarting.
It is better to give than to receive.
That's debatable when you receive two peckers at once.
Mother of Mary, I was all holes filled.
The pricks exchanged fingers and tongues in my muffled mouth.
Airtight, I heard the term.
"Oohh! Aahh!"
I couldn't decide if my pussy or arsehole was happier.
Dead heat.
Nicely stretched.
Bullshit!
This was over-extension.
Flesh pushed to evolutionary design limits.
Geez, they pummelled me.
My arsehole was flogged.
My pussy systematically raided.
"Orrghh! Ughh!"
There is no rest in a double penetration.
I purred like a perfectly-tuned street racer.
Then the skilled mature pricks launched a double assault on my clit.
One sliding finger around my nub.
Then pressing pincers.
The other sod, pressing and circling my erect sweet pea until my mind and thighs were lost in giddy bliss.
"Orrggghh!"
As I floated in a mother-fucker gasm, they overfilled me, front and rear.
Mixed emissions pooled into oil stains on the workshop floor.
"Service complete," said Murray, wiping his cock on my thigh.
"I get her the keys," I heard Dean say.
Older dudes, they don't look for praise. Or stupid lying feedback like college jocks.
They have cock savvy.
And so, they bloody well should: all that practice on wives, girlfriends, mistresses, hookers and inquisitive, experimenting college slutettes.
In the BMW, I start the engine, roll down all four windows, and turn the radio to maximum volume on the freeway.
Classic, head-banging rock, nothing else suits my tender arse and seeping pussy, something about highway stars, guitars distorted to the point of abstraction.
Yet heady riffs like two cocks pulling and tugging the encircling tight skin of my girly canal and rilled back passage.
I drive toward Aunt Janey's house.
The suburbs roll past.
And suddenly it twigs!
Holy crap!
The burbs aren't boring; they are full of lurking, ever-ready, potent sexual encounters.
And I was girl-prepared to dive all holes available into smutty opportunity; Mariana Trench deep.