THINK YOU'RE HOT STUFF
By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM
"God, would you look at this piece of shit!" Chris grumbled while he slid the new manifold into place. "He thinks he's hot stuff, don't he? God, if the UPS man comes in today with another Goddamned sparkly part to add to this car, I'm going to fucking shove it up his ass!" That cute Latino UPS man had an ass I wouldn't mind shoving something up, was my first thought, and watching Chris do so would be nearly as much fun.
Chris was a big sun-browned hulk in his mid-thirties, he filled out that big blue worksuit of his to near bursting in the arms and chest, and it clung about his crotch and legs in such a way when he sat down that it distracted me no end; Chris definitely didn't wear any underwear under that suit. I was more bashful, I wore briefs and a t-shirt under mine, so if I unzipped the suit on a hot day to get ventilation, people wouldn't see everything. Chris sometimes had his suit open so much (like today for example) that I could see the pubic hair below his navel and just a hint of that big, brown cock he was packing in there. I had never seen more than that hint, but with that loose suit and the way it moved when he sat down, I could tell it was a fat, juicy salami of a cock. While I couldn't see his package very well, I had an unobstructed view of his strong chest with almost pendulous breasts, then the series of bulges down his abdomen, all splattered with a nice fur of hair that concentrated in the middle. A real male animal of a guy, I would dream of that body pressing against mine, flesh to flesh, writhe in my sleep and wake up in a sweat, gasping in nocturnal passion and need; and have to whack off into the solitary darkness in order to sleep again. And now my imagining him with the UPS guy, those tight brown shorts tugged down to show off the brown buns and Chris plowing into it.... I shook my head to cut off this vagrant thought; I was getting a hard-on.
"Spellman's paying for it, we got the work, what more do you want?" I replied. I was installing a spoiler on the back of the same vehicle.
"I want to work on the three other cars we got here, which the customers are waiting for us to fix and which they need." Chris complained. "Jesus, George, if I had the money this guy is wasting on fixing up this old 'Vette of his...."
"You'd probably blow it on beer and poker." I interjected.
Chris, my partner in our automoble body-and-paint shop, guffawed. He reached an arm out with a wrench at the end of it and his muscles moved from globes to ovals to irised ellipses, all with a sheen of sweat and marred here and there by the streaks of grease or oil. "Yeah, I probably would. Honest, I like working on cars and this one is a beaut, I admit it, but it's like the guy is turning it into a fucking Christmas tree. You ever seen so much sparkly shit in your life?"
"Not on a car." I agreed.
"So we leave working stiffs with their cars unrepaired while we pretty up this thing."
"He's first in line, and he pays for it." I said. "We finish this, and he comes in with anything else, we can push his car back to the end of the job-line again."
We'd had this Corvette for over a month now, and had spent some time in working on it every day since. The first things had been all right and passed Chris' inspection, like getting the motor running well, souping it up, giving the car a paint-job (a special glitter-sparkly red paint, that should have alerted us to what was coming) and so on, welcome work for a little body-and-paint shop like ours. Chris called Spellman our "gold mine" back then.
But the last week or so had been pretty grotty. See, the owner, Peyton Spellman, that single and handsome young scion of the Cedar Hill Spellmans, had been basically out goody-shopping for this car; said goodies arriving via the cute Latino UPS man, always with a quick note from Spellman telling us to put this on the 'Vette, put that on the 'Vette, until we were sick of this one car. He came in to check on the car frequently, but he never told us the packages were coming; they just showed up and we were back at work on the 'Vette again.
Spellman had passed the bounds of good taste some time before and now it was just ostentatious and conspicuous spending. Like the manifold, done in glitter-metal chrome, and the spoiler, done with some more of the red sparkle paint. This thing sparkled so much, it looked more like something you'd hang from the ceiling of a discotheque rather than something you'd drive around town. But Peyton Spellman loved embarrassing his family like this; he had been booted out of his family home some three years ago (I didn't listen to gossip, but with a prominent family like that, you'd have to be blind and deaf not to be up on all their personal woes, the way some people like to gab about it) and was now living in town and throwing big, expensive parties and causing all sorts of outrageous incidents. Chris prophesied that he'd have trouble paying his bills before long; I maintained that with that much money, he was nothing like a credit risk.
God knows just what the handsome, young, blond Spellman had planned for this Corvette, but he was intent on making it the biggest, gaudiest thing on four wheels, and we got the income from all the hours we had put in making it so. We'd been fretting about that, but he'd paid us with a check of over ten thousand dollars some five days ago, which had been drawn on a New York City bank, and so I was feeling pretty kindly toward the guy. If he wanted to pay me to, I'd fasten gigantic fiberglass women's breasts onto the front fender for him. In sparkly-pink, of course. Or a fiberglass cock, for that matter; be more fun for me. "So tackle in and let's get this done. The guy will be here at closing time, you know." I settled for saying.
"Yeah, he always does." Chris agreed. "Right at the dot. Makes us stay late every fucking day." We closed at six-thirty p.m.
"We can spare ten minutes for a customer like him." I said. "Let's get this sparkly shit put on before the afternoon sun gets in here and we both go blind from a bad case of the twinkles. We can put a tarp over it."
"Yeah, and he takes up one of our work bays, keeping that thing protected. God knows why anyone would steal that thing."
"I'll see if he wants us to install a car alarm on it for him." I joked.
"Gahh!" Chris said and I chuckled.
We had finished with his car, tarped it, and were working on the next job when a call came in. Chris took it and came out with a strange look on his face I recognized from our years together. Bad news, really bad, so bad he didn't know how to tell me.
"What's wrong, Chris." I said.
"Spellman's check to us."
"Yes." I said. You had to coax it all out of Chris in this mood of his.
"Bank called me on it."
"It cleared?" I asked; actually, I begged him to tell me this was it. But I knew it wasn't.
Chris shook his head. "NSF."
"NSF?" I said, stunned. "Shit!" "NSF" stands for "Non-Sufficient Funds."
"Yep, our little gold mine was made out of fools' gold." Chris said. "And I wrote checks on my share of that money."
"Me, too." I groaned. Bouncy-bouncy-bounce. Enough to possibly put us into involuntary bankruptcy. We had phone calls to make, fast.
Then I remembered, looked at the clock. Five-ten. Too late to call anybody on it today. Our bank did this with bad checks, the last calls of the day were made to us poor creditors about their bad checks, and we were left with having to think about it overnight.
And Spellman would be in to check on his car in another hour and twenty minutes.
We had that long to work up a real mad at this guy. Rich guys don't really understand money, oh, they understand high finance, maybe, but not the day-to-day, pay-the-bills stuff. They don't understand that this one check they wrote meant the very life to Chris and me. He would be arrogant, tell us to resubmit the check or something. Meanwhile, our own checks would be returning to our own creditors marked the same way; NSF. It could ruin us, drive us out of business, and to him, it was a mere oversight of some kind.
So we were pretty much in a state of open hostility when Spellman pulled up in his little chartreuse Porsche (I knew it was chartreuse because I had been corrected when I had called it a "light green."). He stepped out wearing a white-with-red-trim T-shirt that didn't have an alligator on it but ought to have, and some dark silk pants. His workout-machine-honed body filled out those clothes, not to bursting like Chris with his jumpsuit, but tailored-fit, like he was born to them, like the models in the catalog. His face was regular and his hair was carefully styled, the quintessential young man of means. As he walked in, I pulled down the single still-open garage bay door, a standard tactic at this hour, but this time, I mostly wanted to avoid the brawl that was coming from being public. Chris took these sorts of things personally, and I was in no mood to play referee at the start.
"I've come for the car." he said without preamble. "I'll send someone back to pick up the Porsche in the morning."
"Now just a fucking minute." Chris snarled. "What about paying for it?"
"What do you mean?" Spellman said. "You can bill me for the balance, of course."
"What about the check you gave us last week?" I said. Oh, I was in a state myself, we both were. This was our livelihood, our future, kept afloat by a shoestring and being capsized by a scion's whimsy.
"What about it?"
"It bounced." Chris said.
"What?" Spellman said. "Oh, surely the bank made an error."
"The only error here was you." Chris said. "Until you make that check good, that fucking Christmas tree is staying right here."
"Now, see here," Spellman said, getting upset. "I have no idea what happened about the check, but I need that car tonight. You can keep the Porsche until I straighten out the problem with the check."
"Mechanic's liens don't work that way." I warned him. We had a legal right to keep the car we had worked on, but weren't allowed to hold onto another item. The mechanic has the right to hold onto his handiwork until he is paid, no more...and no less.
"Now this is an outrage." Spellman said, walking towards the Corvette. "I have been a very good customer...."
Chris walked up and shoved him backwards. "You've been shit to us." he said. "One check so far, and it bounced."
"But that was a bank error. I insist on having my property right away, or I shall call the law in and have it taken away."
"Think you're hot stuff, don't you?" Chris said. "All your family's money and smooth talk, well, that don't mean shit any more. We've got your number now, you're as broke as we are."
"I am not!" Spellman huffed. He was angry himself, now. He put his fists, and posed, looking wiry and distended, very much like a 1920's lithograph of a pugilist, and about as threatening.
Chris laughed, and, his face reddening in anger, Spellman lashed out with one of his fists and got Chris right in the nose!
I waded in at that point and I held onto Spellman while Chris got in a few licks of his own, just a few slugs in his stomach, enough to take the fight out of him without damaging him any, then gave Chris my "desist" shake of the head. But it knocked the wind out of the young snot's sails, when I let go, he sagged down onto his knees, huffing and blowing.
"What the fuck are we going to do with this one, George?" Chris asked me.
"What do you want to do with him?" I asked.
I was mostly trying to shake the little fuck up, and I think Chris was doing the same when he did what he did, he grabbed Spellman's head and rammed it into his crotch, held him there while he ground his basket into Spellman's face. Spellman's nose went right into the pubic bush above Chris' cock, where Chris had his jumpsuit zipped all the way down, I can only imagine what that must have felt like, the wiry brush of Chris' pubic hair, the metallic snarl of the zipper head, the oily worksuit cloth that Chris didn't wash out enough. I'd gotten plenty of whiffs of Chris and I knew that right now, at the end of a hot day, he stank of sweat and oil and grease and grime, with an alcoholic slug of fresh car-paint thrown in. And this fancy-pants Spellman was having his face shoved right into it.
"Think you're so hot now?" Chris taunted him.
Spellman was looking up, still panting heavily.
"Want some more, Mr. Hot Shit?" Chris said. "You got ten thousand dollars on you, I'll let you go. Until then, I'm taking some interest right now!" And Chris grabbed and rubbed Spellman's face in his crotch again.
You have to remember how mad we were right then. This guy had ruined us, broken the shoestring we had been living on. Without the money from him (we couldn't convert the Corvette into money any time soon), we were spiraling down into bankruptcy. And it was all Spellman's fault! All his fault!
So I helped Chris with his need for this revenge, I grabbed the back of Spellman's head and I ground it into Chris' crotch. Chris took advantage of his free hands by fishing his cock out of the slight hold of cloth that clung to it, and slapped his pud back and forth across Spellman's stunned face. I finally got a look at his prick after all the many years I had known Chris, it was a fine, long dong, uncut, dun-colored, arcing proudly upwards just at the tip with the cockhead like the prow of an ancient man-of-war galleon! I was entranced by it, at last, at last!
And Spellman still just panted, then tiny grunts began to slip from his lips, uh, uh, uh!
"How much is ten thousand worth to you, huh?" Chris growled. "Well, cocksucker, it's time you learned what ten thousand is worth to me!" And he shoved his cockhead, that marvelous prow of manhood, into Spellman's unresisting mouth.
And Spellman took it. Like a man in a trance, like he couldn't believe that this was happening to him, the man who everyone kow-towed to, the man who could snap his fingers and get anything he wanted, he, himself, he was being forced to take a car mechanic's cock into his mouth!
Then the resistance turned into galvanized action, and Spellman suddenly gave out a heartfelt groan and he suddenly was unresisting in my hands, for his attentions were turned onto loving the prick in his mouth, he was sucking on it lustily, frenetically, making little eager-pig grunts of noise, this proud heir to untold millions now the grunt-slave of a common laborer!
Chris gave a chuckle, the satisfied sound of a man who had been proved right inside his very soul. He looked down at the blond head servicing him, then over at me.
"Get a load of this, George." he said. "The little fucker is taking it."
"Yeah, I see that." I sighed out. Envy, but whether it was envy with Chris receiving the suctioning lips of the blond stud, or envy of Spellman for having that thick prong inside of him, I don't know.
"Why don't you take hold of that ass of his. I've seen you staring at it plenty of times." Chris said. "We'll plug this fucker from both ends until we hammer some sense into him."
Spellman's only response was to move up from his kneeling position, still sucking Chris' pud lustily, he got onto his knees, then into a squatting position, and then levered up, still holding his head on Chris' prick.
And that ass, which I had been staring at for certain, was bobbing my way. I paused only to roll over our toolbox to shove it underneath Spellman, give him something to brace against and hold him upright, and he paused in his attentions on Chris only long enough to scoot the work mat we had on top of it underneath him (I'll bet those metal ridges of the rollaway top were damned cold on his belly) and then he returned to work.
I got my hands onto his fly and gave it a tug, and that pitiful little metal clasp they put on those kinds of pants slipped right off, and the zipper gave no resistance either, it slipped down as I pulled the material wide and then it was a loose bag over Spellman's lower body and I let it drop toward the floor in a formless mass.
Spellman's ass was just as beautiful as his pants had promised! Not a single blemish adorned those twin orbs, pure milky white and smooth. Only the crack between was a darker hue, and that was all that marred this white perfection. I surrendered to my impulse, I knelt down and I shoved my tongue right into that dark, warm crevice and found the gentle tucker of soft skin that yielded to my probing jabs into him, and I tasted the sweet-sour corona of his anus, while it exuded a rich texture of male perfumes, like the quality of fine wines, the heady saltiness of caviar, it was a unique, concentrated, multi-gloried assault on my nostrils.
"Hey, come on, George, get it up him!" Chris complained. "I'm going to bust my nuts soon. I want us to cream this jerk at the same time!"
I gave one last, reluctantly furtive stab into his bowels with my tongue, was rewarded by a trickle of sweaty hedonism that danced on my tongue, and then I rose up and began to hawk my silken-enriched saliva from my tongue down onto my palm, then rubbed it into my cock.
"Gah, don't waste time with that!" Chris groaned. He was beginning to hunch at Spellman's mouth, and the guy was flushed and sweaty. He was right, if I didn't hurry, I'd left running a poor third on this little mini-orgy of ours. I looked around, grabbed up the grease gun and awkwardly pumped out a massive dollop of the yellow-white lard-like substance, and then smeared that quickly over my cock and aimed it at Spellman's secret treasure.
He gave a "Mph!" when my cockhead impacted his little tucker, but made no other protest, and I pressed it in steadily. I had my cock heavily lubed with the thick grease meant for car engines, and it oiled his innards in a way no mere love-creme ever could. I wasn't just pushing into him, I was doing so with a heavy lather of greasy slather, it pressed his insides open without a murmur and soon I had my cock inside of him to the very hilt, him still only making little sounds of pain-love-oppression-desire.
"Come on, fuck him hard." Chris urged me. And Chris showed me what he meant, he began to pummel his hips into Spellman's mouth, and Spellman took it all, enduring this, loving this, tolerating this, excited by this, he was pinned between two horny grease-monkeys and he was himself smeared and impacted with grease, stained with oil, dirtied beyond repair, indoctrinated into our grimy world of basic male rut.
I slammed my cock into him with no preliminaries, for Chris was panting heavily, and so was Spellman, I gave it all I had, wanting to come when they did, hurry up, hurry up! I made my body savor every last dreg of the stimulation, the friction of the ass, the smooth sliding of my cock into this lubed-up butt, the warmth inside and the relatively-cool outside, the way my balls slapped at that beautifully round ass, and yes, the way Chris' body was joined with me through this deadbeat debtor, I was sharing with Chris in a sexual way, even if by proxy, this made us brothers beyond our long friendship and business partnership. And that thought heightened my senses, inflamed my desire, and I felt my balls boiling with the response.
And Chris was now fucking Spellman's mouth unmercifully, shoving that prong into his mouth and I could hear the loud slurping sounds as the prick rammed in and was yanked back out again, punctuated by Spellman's own still-tiny grunts.
I reached under and grabbed Spellman by the balls and I gripped them tight and as I expected, he groaned loudly, and that turned Chris on, he yelled, "Come on, squeeze those nuts, break them wide open, yeah, yeah!" and Chris suddenly turned wide-eyed, he grunt-snarled in a rage of passion, his sounds of climax were akin to sounds of fury, and with a loud, "Oh, oh, oh, argh, arrr! ARRRR-HNNNFFF-RRRR!" he was filling the air with the cloudy rank of hot jism, that pummled my senses and thumped on my brain, and I felt Spellman choking beneath me, gagging on Chris' load of come and then I heard a metallic splattering as he pumped his jizz onto the toolbox and his ass clamped on me hard. I fucked him rapidly like that, unable to be jarred loose from this tight grip, and then I felt my ejaculation grip me, I tossed my head back, staring at the tin-roof ceiling we had, the bare black-iron rafters and silvery tin, and it took on an eerie beauty of its own and it was my world, black-and-silver, and I was lost within it as I blasted my wad into Spellman's ass.
Done, a silence fell over our sweat-drenched and hormone-drained trio. I staggered back and leaned against our wooden work bench, Chris clutched the wheel of the car we had been working on at closing time, Spellman was slumped where he was over the toolbox, bare ass revealing his too-human nature to anyone who would look.
Then he rose up, hoisted up his trousers in an awkward fashion, got them back around his waist, and with his hair askew and his face stained with black oily smudges from Chris' hands and mine, he walked out the door and back out to his car, and his Porsche roared out angrily and stormed off from our little business.
I figured we had really screwed up. Sure, the prick had deserved it, shafting us like that, but we had no call to jump his bones like that. Chris was more relaxed about it, when I mentioned my fears to him, he sneered, "Ah, the little shit loved it. He won't do anything. Besides, he still owes us for this damned twinkly car."
So after a time, we left to go home, and I waited for the policeman's knock, ready to tell all upon request. But the knock never came.
I was back at work the next day--what else could I do?--when the UPS man came in. "Delivery." he said.
"Ah, shit!" Chris said, recognizing the box as from one of the luxury-car-parts places that Peyton Spellman had been patronizing. "Not another one! We're through with that shit!"
I went ahead and signed for it, and decided that the least I could do for Spellman, after treating him so rough, was to go ahead and put the part on the car. Chris kept his head inside the hood of the little Honda Civic that needed a full gasket job and rebuilding, but which the owner could only afford to have us tinker it into running condition again.
I opened the card and read, "Put this on the 'Vette." Hmph, I decided, Spellman had ordered it before last night. I opened the box and stared.
"Hey, Chris!" I said.
"What is it?"
"Come over here!"
He did and his eyes popped out at the contents of the box. Money. Cash.
"I'll bet there's exactly ten thousand dollars here." I said.
"I'll be damned." Chris said. "The fucker had the dough after all."
"So we owe him an apology." I said.
Chris pulled out a note inside with the money, he had spotted it where I hadn't, too dazzled by the green-and-black bills. He read it, chuckled and handed it to me.
I read it. "I'm paying you in cash so you can pretend you never got it. I'll be back tonight to try to pick up the car again." It was unsigned and had no letterhead, just the paper and those words, nothing else. But I recognized Spellman's handwriting.
Chris leaned back against the wooden worktable and folded his arms and that made his jumpsuit bag out at the crotch, showing just the top of his cock again. Then he asked me, "What do you think we owe him now?"
THE END
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