Work Text:
You worked in those orthodox crossroad filling stations. Those desolate ones set beside the dusty desert roads. Tumbleweed blowing as cars drove between urban and rural. This station marked the leaving of urban and into rural. Travelling red-faced men coming in to fill their tanks and buy some cigarettes. Trying a failing flirt before paying for their trucks gas. You heard the rumble start up and the fast getaway.
Honestly it was a humble job. Standing between the cash register and the spare tires for sale. The condoms beside these tacky shorts. The make-shift mechanic extension to the shop whirring on the odd days. A fan on full blast to combat the scorching heat. Still, your thighs sticking to each other despite your denim shorts. Your soles sliding in your sandals and a new wave of hot air every time a customer entered. You had this magnetic smile, persuading middle aged men to buy you an ice-cream, even though you got them for free anyways.
You leaned your sweating elbows on the counter, an acidic lollipop flavoursome on your tongue. It was late into your shift, the last two hours passing by like days. Everything became boring after a while, you tapped your acrylics on the wooden counter. It shook when you sat on it, a thin novel wedged underneath one of the legs to balance it.
Outside, a motorcycle revved, the engine spluttering like a toddler. Gazing through the window behind the counter, a motorcycle coming to an unorthodox stop. It broke down. Mild smoke billowing out through the back. The rider twisting his toned arms in attempt to rev it up again. He was big, looked bigger when he stepped off the red bike. A fuckable build and fuckable height. He took off his helmet, you’re wondering how he isn’t sweating everything off underneath it. Loose blond locks falling, waxy sun kissed skin like polished gold. You knew him, everyone did. Jean Kirstein.
You'd seen him around college, walking around with his dick in his hand and other people sucking it. He was cocky, popular, sexy, like a vicious rockstar. You never took the chance to speak to him, he had these groupies around him, fawning girls and boys he liked to call his friends. Frankly, you never got close enough to fall under his spell, but you knew him. And chances were he knew of you too. The corner-store girl, selling alcohol to her friends that were just underage. Yeah, he'll know you—probably try to do the same. You pushed off the window when he turned.
A few seconds passed before the shrill bell on the door rang, a new wave of hot air ravaging the shop when he entered. The heat, or him, otherwise. You lolled your head to the side, sizing him up, lollipop in your mouth. His hair sticking like strychnine to his forehead. He had this strong face, it demanded things from people. Attention like buzzing bees, you kept following it, following him. You waited for him to speak.
"Hey," he started. You did not miss his quick glance at your breasts. "my bikes broke down, you got anyone back there that could help me out?"
He had these honeyed eyes, the sunlight turning them into sanded bronze. He was overheating, a slight shine on his nose. A loose top, loose shorts, pretty mouth. He said 'hey' like hey. Like those frustrated farmers that took their anger out on dead grass. Southern with barley through their bastard teeth.
"You mean me?" You tilted your head. You knew things, sliding beside your boss whenever he was in, when he fixed things like this for a quick buck. Granted, knowledgable about basics, attaching and detaching, filling empty things up.
He smiled a bit. "You can work these things?"
You replied quick, "Can you?"
He chuckled at that, stepping back from the counter, one hand in the air, skin stretching into a smile. Handsome bastard. Cocky bitch. "I cannot."
He said your name, then. "Right?" he asked.
And of course he was right, rockstars always were. "That's it." You replied, nodding. His name just on the tip of your sugary tongue. You weren't there to stroke his ego, maybe other things, yes, but not his ego. But it seemed there was something gratifying about it, him knowing your name. To you and him both. Some accomplished acknowledgment that each other existed.
He leaned back on the counter, eyes down. He was so tall. "So, will you help me out?"
Yes. You leaned on the counter too, pretending to contemplate. "Name a price." You said around your lollipop, it was nearly finished, the sweet strawberry sticking to your lips, the fan loud. Your lips red.
He asked, "Are you in a hurry?"
You answered, "Are you?"
He poked his cheek with his tongue. "No, I'm not. Are you?"
You handed him your lollipop, which he actually took. Gestured for him to step back and you hopped over the counter. It was a neat trick, made you feel cool, made customers feel alive. Shook the counter. When you took your lollipop back you replied, "Neither am I."
There were tools in the back, special oil for refills, a small sink for anything else. And in the room there was a dusty couch, brown and soft. Bookshelf beside it filled with clutter and utter shit. He could fuck you good on it if you let him. He could could fuck you good on it if he felt like it.
Really it was around an hour till your shift ended, and around this time nobody stopped by. It didn’t take long to think about. You told him to come with you. He wasn’t like he could go anywhere without you. You'd be damned if you held the tools and fixed his bike, you were no bitch.
"Come with." You said, gesturing towards the back door. He spluttered for a second before following you. His presence loomed behind you, a heavy shadow swallowing. It turned you on to think that no one could probably see you from behind him. You never initiated conversation, it seemed he liked his small talk.
"You here alone?" he asked when the back door creaked open.
"Does it matter?" You replied, shutting the door behind the both of you. The room was slightly dark, the sunset approaching slow. You liked fast things.
The room was cluttered, sheer curtains that blocked nothing out, watering cans and screws in the corner. It smelled of dirt, and grime, and oil and heat. You kicked some sheets to the side. Shuffled through the bookshelf. You turned to hand him a heavy toolbox. His large hand covering the handle while you used two. Kicking the brief fantasy of his hand splayed across your stomach out of your head.
"No." he said, holding it effortlessly. He really did train. Ice-hockey player in this hot ass country, like some odd paradox. You'd went to one of the schools games once. Too many fights breaking out within the first half hour. Those boys liked it aggressive, Jean included.
When you said nothing, he spoke again. "I mean, I've seen you around before. Heard of you before."
"Yeah? What did you hear?"
"Nothing much," he adjusted the tool box in his hand. His body radiated heat. "There's nothing attached to your name like that."
You bent over to pick up some oil and a cloth. "Good. What about yours?"
You turned to him. He asked, "What about mine?"
Then you said, "What about yours?"
He tilted his head. You were amusing, pulled out and too distant for him to grasp. "It's Jean."
You spat the remaining stick into the small bin in the corner. Leading the way out. "Yeah. I know."
Outside was cooler than inside. A cooling breeze froze the sweat off both your foreheads.
You began your work. Knees scrapping the ground, some old reminiscent of childhood. Scrapped knees broke riding bicycles, nothing else.
He stood around you, watched your nimble fingers work their poor magic. Your nails getting dirty. Today you were stealing all tips. He listened when you asked for tools, handed them real quick, brushed his fingers against yours. Your reaction was loud. You were no good as a liar.
Hearding him like sheep. Having him standing behind while you screwed things, handing him the clothe like he was some bitchboy. You wondered how far you could go, already dropping tools at his feet, him picking them up after a second. He was pretty submissive, like paper.
"Jean,"you called, honeyed, "could you tie my lace?"
He looked down, truly your laces were loose. He looked at you, a whole dying question of: Are you serious?
The tilt of your head gave him his answer, all he needed right now. His bike was broke, the bill to get it towed was akin to burning money. Either way into the city or the town took around 15 minutes by car each way. He squinted at you, not the sun. But he did it, relentless. Knelt a knee on the ground with no ring. He looked up at you again, brown eyes sorta wide, sex-giving. Sex-insinuating.
"Double loop?" You asked him in a breath, his collarbones flexing, eyes down. You thought about him humping your shoe, rabid.
"Bunny ears." He heaved, standing up. "I like little bunnies."
You could hop.
"I like big animals, enormous ones."
"Only animals?" You'd let him cut you up like one.
"Other things too."
He nodded, once. "Good to know."
The rest was this; you filling up a tank. Detaching things, removing things, adding them again. A fucked up game of solitaire, or Tetris. The heat increasing, blazing your back like iron-metal. The heat coming from Jean, ten-fold, twenty-folds even. All encompassing. Avoiding looking up, knowing you'd collapse on your knees, do something you desperately wanted to do. The sandy roads whispering, Jean whistling some throwback tune. Stopping to talk sometimes. You'd make a sexy mechanic. Tapping his foot behind you. Your knees scrapping the ground. I'm sexy anyways. Your mouth feeling empty. You're never wrong.
You stood up, taking the clothe from his hands, rubbing the tar off your tacky fingers. He smelled like grass and lime. "I’m Done." You looked to the sky, the sun telling the time. Half-hour left of your shift.
"You're a wizard." He dropped the tools. Climbing on his motorcycle, chest taut. Turning it on, it revved loudly, smoke clouding you, you waved it away. It sounded right, fixed, workable. At least until seeing a professional or something, they'd have a degree. He wolf-whistled. "Sounds good, baby." He shut it off, shifting your way on his bike.
He locked on your eyes, "What do I owe you?"
You stretched your fingers. Your mind hitting many jackpots. You met his eyes, told him this: "Offer me something nice. I'll take it. Be generous."
Jean looked into the distance, turned to squint at you, not at the sun. He grinned, wide and knowing, receptive of your innuendos, one liners. Telekinesis in body language. His hand brushed yours. "One orgasm."
You licked your teeth. "Deal."
20 minutes.
You'd left the tool box stranded outside. He threw you over his shoulder, light, like a bunny. He knew his way through, memorised it, contextual cues. You looked up at the camera while he smacked your ass. You'd delete the footage later, remember that.
You were dropped on the couch, dust flailing into the slips of sunlight around you. You stared up at him, lust on high, your drive fucking running. You didn't know how he liked it. You'd take it however on this couch, at this point. With his large muscled body hovering over you, his eyes ready to devour like a pillager. Taking and taking and taking.
You'd give him anything he wanted. Lust skewed all your senses, made his palm against your cheek feel like a fucking taser, buzzy and electric. Made his scent compare to home cooked caramel. If ever you'd thought about him like this, the comparative were a null. His gaze trapped you in a box, constant stimulation.
He dug his large fingers into the flesh of your cheek. "What do you want from me, baby?"
You pushed yourself against the back of the couch. Stretching your legs, sandals scratching your sweaty feet. You were ready for a favour. "For you to keep your deal."
Jean wrapped his whole hand around your bony ankle. You were toffee popcorn, he'd chew you up. "That's easy."
Hooking your other foot around his waist, dragging him in, you catechised; "Are you saying I'm easy?"
His crotch against your thigh, grinding."No. Though, you make me hard."
You could feel it against you, growing. You stuck out your tongue. Shit joke. You let him unbutton your shorts though. "So does your ice-hockey." You attacked.
He grinned, wide, predatory. "That too." A delirious ego distributed like eggs. His whole team had dozens.
Had you panting like a bitch in heat, between his heat and the suns: boiling. Open-mouthed and slutty kisses along your neck, trailing up. You squirmed, feeling your cunt wet. Slick for him. He shuffled your bottoms off. Fingers rubbing between your legs, other hand pushing your leg back.
A noise stopped at the base of your throat. Desperate actions only called when you were desperate. He pushed your underwear to the side. A breeze of nothing hitting your cunt. He slapped it too, twice, before spitting, then rubbing, then mouthing.
You mewled. Your head pushing against the brown couch. Something initiated within you, neutrons and pathways frantically passing between each other. He reached a hand up to your tit. A bit slow at first, handfuls of. Pinching and pulling your nipples, dragging your upper-body with it. Your eyes squeezing shut. Your not sure if you whined or not. Jean continued his assault.
He pulled off. You took a deep breath in. "Stay still, you're so....shaky, sensitive"
You needed to retaliate, he had you splayed like a roasted pig. "Almost like my clit is j-just ner—" A particularly devious lick. "Just nerves."
He hummed. "Almost."
He licked a hot stripe against you. Contorting your back, releasing any tension in your vertebrae. Your leg muscle stretched, had you thinking it'd rip like velcro beneath him. Your mouth fell open, your tongue hanging, breathing loudly. You hitched every time he moved. Felt something crawling it's way up.
"Where'd you learn?" You breathed. Babbling, speaking, distracting yourself, grounding. Not getting too carried away with him.
He hummed against your cunt. You breathed even louder.
His fingers danced around your hole. "Pornhub."
Transcendent and a new scent to remember. In that moment you thanked his mother, father, and whatever pornstars he fucked his fist to. This sensation passed through you like those rogue waves, sudden and crashing, crashing, crashing. The effects imperative thereafter, it added to the experience. Your fingers shook reaching for his hair. Distantly, you heard him laugh, you think. Affectionate and free, delirious maybe.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He raised to hover over you. Breath ghosting over your lips. A heaviness befalling your limbs. Your eyes fluttered open.
"D'you get a good payment?" Sarcasm gets him nowhere.
"Uh-huh." Laziness stopped you speaking, you basked in serene. He was gentle. He kissed you. Your lips were gummy, half-dried saliva mixed with artificial flavouring. You bit on his. He moaned. Jean keened from the pain, he was no good as a masochist. His mouth grew hot on you. Feverish by nurture, horny by nature.
You felt him wrap his arms around you, pulling you up. It didn't occur for you to wonder why, you were being moved. He had you straddled over him suddenly. Fabric separating your cunt from him. Didn't realise the manoeuvre, didn't stop you from rubbing against him either.
"You're real sexy for a corner-store gal," he said, pushing your hair back. Grunting in between. "They got you on minimum wage, or?" There, the rumoured Jean revealed himself. Mean rockstar. Forever standing, talking and kissing with a mean mouth.
You took it as neither compliment nor condemnation. Voice sounding weak against all your previous shit-talk. "M'not."
Weakly hitting his chest, tough against you palm. Like pushing a pull door. He talked to distract you from everything else. Mean. "You're supposed to be doing me a favour."
"I know I'm just—just using you."
And you thought; that's alright. Being raggdolled against his clothed dick while you were bare. The fabric catching on your clit had you twitching, heaving, whimpering badly. Gripping your waist as a guide, moving you against him as he smoothly thrusted up.
The grip on your waist tighter. "Fuck— you just a f-free use? Let people come in and use you?"
Jeez, you keened badly. Him implying you were a slut. You were not. Some things said otherwise, like your teeth in his shoulder, your tongue diving between bite marks. You, wetter.
5 minutes, maybe?
His moan came from his gut while you whimpered like one of his bunnies. "Pretty girl,—you got it." Praise, praise, praise. Oh, he was all there. "Uh-huh—yes— she's got it."
He breathed harder. Bucking up into you harder. "This is for you, okay? Just for you, all for yo—"
He came. Thank you, thank you, thank you—Clustered, impulsive moan bright and impatient. You found yourself moving for him, riding him out too. Carrying him through his euphoric act. A damp spot seeping through his trousers with his mouth hanging open. A new bliss aware on his face. Something you did. Pecking his neck along with him, sucking your mark on him too.
His golden hair matted against his forehead. You whispered; "We sell shorts here too."
3.
He tossed blue shorts on the counter. Asked for vodka and American spirit cigarettes. You smiled at the marks on his neck, smiled at his disheveled look, smiled at the cum in his pants. He grinned back harder.
You set cigarettes on the counter, smiling at him. "Want to buy me an ice-cream?"
The fan on extreme, the blue light behind the fridge blinking. He took his chances. "Only if you let me bring you home."
Your co-worker pulled up late. 2 minutes. You were free.
You slid the alcohol beside everything. He paid. You didn't ask for identification.