Lube Job

"Wait!" I sprinted around the back of the car and—careful not to obstruct her path directly—stood between her and the door to the office. "Let me explain."

"There's not much to explain, sir."

"Bart. And you're right. No, there isn't. Look, I just misjudged. That joke—it was inappropriate, and I'm sorry, but I wasn't trying to, to...." Suddenly it all sounded so stupid to me and I couldn't think of another syllable that would help in any way. "Just," I finally said, "I'm really sorry."

"For which part? For the tasteless joke or for ogling my breasts while I'm in here trying to do you a favor."

"For the joke. Look, I meant what I said—it was inappropriate but—"

"Just the joke?! Not apologizing for the other?"

"Well, yes, that too. I mean... no. Well, not as much anyway. Can I help that I find you attractive? How can that part be offensive?"

"Have you been living under a rock? You mean in your whole life you've never heard of the concept that women don't want to be ogled?"

I was dumbstruck. The only answer that came to mind was an answer I could not possibly give: Quite frankly, I would have thought that "being ogled" became less desirable to a woman in proportion to how often it occurred and, furthermore, I would have thought that Sam, a muscled, non-make-up-wearing fat chick in greasy coveralls didn't get all that much ogling. I would have thought it would be a compliment for Sam to have someone look at her admiringly. Of course, I couldn't say any of this—I couldn't insult her by putting this into words. So I just sat there stupidly, guiltily quiet.

Worse, it was as though she read my mind anyway, saw what my rationale would have been for thinking it was okay to stare lustily at her tits. After a moment's pause she demanded: "Why is it that men see this big contradiction between wanting sex and not wanting to be ogled like a piece of meat? I'll never understand what part of that y'all don't get. See I know your type, Bart. You're one of these guys who likes fat chicks and thinks it's okay to just stare your ass off because nobody likes fat chicks and you're basically doing us a big favor by wanting to fuck us so we should be flattered when you stare instead of offended. Is that about right? What you're not getting is that the guys who won't look at us all 'cause we're somehow off limits, and the drooling perverts like you—"

"I'm not a pervert!"

"—are both doing the same thing wrong! You're both seeing meat! Those guys look at me and see bad meat and you look at me and see good meat but y'all don't see people. You're the same you and them."

I could think of no reply to this.

"I bet I know what you were like in high school," she continued. "I bet you were the skinny geek couldn't get with the skinny hot cheerleader girls 'cause they all wanted jocks or whatever, and so you went to the b-team which was ugly chicks and fat chicks and all these girls who were passed over in the musical chairs of life and damaged and taught to believe they weren't as good and that they had to settle, and so they actually responded to your bullshit and after a while you got used to it and now you expect it from all of us."

I looked down at a kidney shaped oil stain on the cement and thought about all this. Was she right? She was surprisingly on point in her surmises about my personal history. I was a shy kid—I didn't even lose my virginity until after high school. And it was true, I could always get more flirty banter out of a fat chick than anyone else. Was that why I found them attractive? Did I just condition myself to cultivate a taste for fat because fat is what I could get? I didn't think so—I thought I liked big curvy bodies back before I noticed that I found fat girls easier to talk to. But suddenly I couldn't be sure—and what an unsettling thought!

"Are you going to deny any of that? Go ahead if you want, but remember you're a shitty liar."

I continued staring the oil stain a moment longer before looking up and meeting her glare head-on. I held her gaze and began a measured, resigned reply. "Look," I finally said, "if what you're saying is true, then it's true on some subconscious level and how'm I even gonna know? All I know is I like what I like. Maybe I'm a bit self-congratulatory about it, like I'm better than those creepy guys who are so awful to f—to plus-sized women—"

"Fat chicks," she corrected. "Might as well say what we're talking about."

"—and yeah, maybe I need to get over myself about that. But I never meant to disrespect you or anyone I've been attracted to. And if it offends you the way I look at you, all I can say is I didn't even know I was looking at you in any certain way. I guess I'm pretty transparent if it's that obvious to you how...." I trailed off for maybe four or five long seconds, eyes returning to the oil stain, then back to her, whose features—was it my imagination?—appeared to have softened somehow, before concluding: "... how hot I think you are." There. I had finally gotten the words out. I began to continue: "I just—"

But I was interrupted by her strong left hand clasping the back of my neck and pulling my face violently into hers. Without any warning the brim of her ball cap was smashed up over my brow and she was shoving her tobacco-sour tongue into my mouth while, with her left hand, she began hastily unfastening my belt. It took me a minute to recover my bearings and, when I finally started fumbling awkwardly with her zipper, I found that there was little more I could do with her coveralls, without her cooperation, than just unzip them. So unzip them I did, and began awkwardly bobbling her boobs through tank-tee and sports bra.

Meanwhile, my pants had fallen to my ankles and she had managed to snap down the band of my boxers. Her right hand, still slick with Vaseline, encircled my swelling member, and I felt a rush at that familiar warming sensation as she began to slide her hand up and down my shaft, assisted by the slippery substance. I leaned back against the rear quarter panel, my head fell back, and I moaned.

Suddenly, in a throaty whisper, she demanded: "You ain't got no diseases, do you?"

"No, but I could run next door—we sell condoms."

"No. 'Cause I want this and that'd just give me time to change my mind."

"Uh-okay."

"But you can't come inside my pussy 'cause I ain't on nothin'." Her southern accent seemed curiously stronger ("come insahd mah pussy") and her sudden shift into trashy bluntness really turned me on. My cock was rapidly swelling to full strength in the grip of her greasy palm.

"Okay," I nodded.

"In fact," she stepped back, slipped out of the sleeves of her coveralls and let them fall down to the point where her stance was wide enough that they could not fall further, about mid-thigh. Her body was breathtaking—her skin a soft yellowish pink, liberally freckled. She had a big round belly—bigger than it appeared through her dark uniform—that hung over the front of her plain white cotton hipsters. "I just want it in the ass."

"Wh-what?!" I was shocked.

"Just do it in the ass to be safe."

"Are you sure, because we can—"

"You're about to talk me out of it you don't shut up and fuck me."

At that I wasted no time. Stepping awkwardly away from the car (my pants, still around my ankles, made it difficult to maneuver), I pushed her belly-first up against the fender and yanked her panties down with a brisk snap. With one hand I pushed aside her ponderous left butt cheek and, with the other, guided the tip of my head to the center of her puckered, yellow-brown butthole.

I was still a little bewildered by what was happening here, but did not want to question it. I had simply never had anyone request anal sex before. I had read about or heard rumors about women who supposedly enjoyed it, but all the women I had ever personally spoken to on the subject said they would do it, if at all, only as a favor to their man. None of them claimed to prefer it to vaginal sex.

But from what she said, I didn't think Sam preferred it either. What she seemed to be saying, if I understood her, was that she had suddenly resolved to have spontaneous sex with a virtual stranger—something she rarely if ever did—and, having so decided, she was committed to go through with it but worried about disease and pregnancy. She was reassured about disease by my sincerity (I was, in her words, a shitty liar) but, not being very sexually active, she had apparently taken no precautions against pregnancy. She didn't want to await a condom for fear of losing the momentum, losing her resolve to go through with this uncharacteristic flight of passion, but she didn't want to take the risk of pregnancy that vaginal intercourse would necessarily entail. Her solution, bizarrely, was to have it in the butt.

I didn't have a lot of experience with anal sex, so I just tried to imagine what I would want if it were my ass. Over what seemed like several long minutes I would gingerly push a bit of my head past the outer ring, manually swirl it around a bit to transmit the Vaseline to her, and then very gingerly pull back out. I repeated this procedure several times, getting a bit deeper every time, until she finally said "That's good, push it in."

At her direction I sank slowly but deliberately into her warm, snug, slicked-up anus, and as I did so I could feel her sphincter contracting twitchily around my shaft till I was in up to the root. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah," she breathed.

I unsnapped my work smock and pulled up my undershirt, pinning it against my chest with my chin, and began pumping slowly, methodically, watching my greased cock disappear over and over into her oh-so-tight little hole, her big broad bottom slapping gently against my belly and upper thighs with a mild jiggle. So big, so white! The visual stimulation was overwhelming so I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, savoring the sweet sensation of sinking into that gripping rectum.

"A bit harder," she said.

I opened my eyes and looked at her soft white back, noticing for the first time that she was still wearing her ball cap. I reached up and cast it aside, and out spilled more hair than I would have thought possible, still bound in a shoulder length pony tail. Her hair had a reddish, strawberry tincture to it that I'd never noticed before. I gently secured a handful of pony tail and began thrusting deeper and harder, picking up the pace so that the fat of her bottom now slapped audibly against me with each stroke.

"Oh, oh, oh," she moaned, and then "ohgodhurry!"

"Huh?"

"Hurry. Come on! Come inside me!"

I let go of her pony tail and slid my hands down to her mighty bouncing buttocks, then up to her love handles and just under her swaying, pendulous boobs where I tried futilely to get a handful of nipple (the angle just wasn't right). She responded by raising her back, planting her palms flat on the trunk of the car. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth and, gripping her love handles, started pounding into her, deep, hard, fast, thrusting madly, feeling my head and shaft swelling even larger until—oh, god it felt so good!—the first big rope surged out of me with explosive suddenness, and five, six, seven productive contractions followed until my butt muscles finally clenched tight and lodged me deep in her anus, paralyzed now, until every last drop he drained out of me.

Still tremulous with after-shocks, I gently slid my softening cock out of her and dropped to my knees where, with some difficulty, I heaved the heavy curtain of her fat buttocks aside and placed my tongue against her freshly fucked asshole.

"What are you doing?!" she demanded.

"Shut up and give it back to me," I insisted and, forming a ring, began producing mild suction. She gave in to my demand and let my seed trickle back out of her and into my waiting mouth, the strange, zincy-metallic flavor of my load mingling unpalatably with petroleum jelly and perhaps a hint of feces. When she had finished I held the load on my tongue while I awkwardly rose, pulling my pants half-way up, and shuffled to the stainless steel shop sink to spit it out and rinse my mouth with handfuls of water.

When I finished she was standing beside me, holding out a shop towel. "Here," she said. "Clean up." She had already pulled her coveralls back on and tucked her hair back under her ball cap.

"Thanks," I said, wiping myself clean with the towel before pulling my pants back up. "Where do you want this?" She pointed to a nearby canvas hamper with the faded, stenciled logo of some commercial laundry service painted on the side. I tossed it in.

"Well," I said.

"Well," she replied, her eyes twinkling and her mouth twisted into a smirk. She nodded softly.

"Well. Nice way to start the morning."

"You look a lot calmer I must say," she told me, and I suddenly felt self-conscious.

"I'm not normally calm?"

"You're a bit high-strung." (There was that accent again: "hah-struh-ung".")

"Well, I—" I decided not to defend myself, instead saying: "Well you look more—more something. Bright-eyed."

"Well, you know what they say."

"Hm?"

"'Hit her in the shitter and make her eyes glitter'."

I winced. "Can't say's I've ever heard that expression before. It's kind of ... terrible."

"Yeah, I grew up with five brothers so I'm kind of immune."

I wasn't sure how to reply, or how to react generally to this new side of her I was seeing. "I, uh. I should be getting back to my store. Did you want to get that invoice?"

"This one's on the house."

"Well, now, wait—I don't know if I feel right about that."

"Wait, there's more. If I ever find out any of the guys on my crew over here so much as hears a rumor about this, I'm gonna come over there and take it out of—"

"Take it out of my ass?" I shot back with a smile. She smiled, nodding as though she had "really walked into that one," and let go a bemused little sigh. "Don't worry," I assured her. "I'm a vault."

"You'd better be."

"So, but... is that it? I mean, aren't you gonna let me make you come sometime? Only seems fair."

"We'll have to see. I'm not supposed to fraternize with the customers."

"Well, whatever happens, at least now maybe you can stop calling me 'sir'."

I pulled the car back around to its parking space in front of my building, fished the store keys out of my pocket and let myself in, taking the handwritten cardboard "Back in 5 minutes" sign off the door glass as I entered. It was not yet nine o'clock. I started a fresh pot of coffee brewing, sank into my padded stool, and picked up my newspaper where I had left off. But I was no longer able to concentrate.