honeyiknow

he waves you away, and you feel his eyes following you as you clump down the trailer steps into the yard. you don't even know where to begin, and the hysteria comes up your throat. your brother recommended this place to grab cheap parts for your car, but he made it sound like there'd be some kind of…system. organization. easy as pie to find a replacement seat for your dogshit car.

instead, you're unleashed to a huge area that looks like it'd be the site of a gunfight in a grand theft auto game or something. you wander more timidly than you want to, your boots schlucking around in mud until you start to make out…seats. you feel fucking stupid attempting to understand what it is you're even doing. you stand out next to a junk heap and google the passenger seat you need so you have some better idea of what the fuck to look for.

within the hour, you're embarrassed and creeping back up to the trailer.

"do i need to tell you if i'm leaving?" you ask softly through the opened door.

"are you stealin' or did you not find one?" his rocky voice plucks strings low in you, and your fingers tighten on the cracked doorframe.

"no luck today."

"make, model, and part?"

you answer quietly.

he heaves a big sigh and then suddenly he's coming around the counter and you scatter out of the way, stepping down into the mud and slipping slightly in your haste. there's no friendly customer service smile on his face, just a set of flat, heavy-lidded eyes flicking over you slowly before he strides out between the towering heaps.

the rain starts then, a soft spit that spatters your glasses and glistens on his tattooed forearms.

"didn't look back 'ere, did you?" he grunts minutes later when he's climbing up a pile, the strong material of his pants stretching over impossibly thick thighs. his arms flex and work in tandem as he lifts out the passenger seat replacement — you never would've spotted it — and then makes his way down the heap onto the muddied ground.

"oh," you say and hold out your arms like he might hand it on over to you.

he gives you a nasty look and you pull your arms back in. then you follow him silently back to the trailer. the rain drips down his buzzed skull into the collar of his dirty work shirt. he grunts when he sets it down on the inside of the door. you're grateful for the distance once he goes back behind the counter.

"how much?" you ask, sounding chipper now that this unsettling encounter is almost complete.

you are not expecting the number he throws at you. "oh…okay." better than what the dealership was quoting though. "debit, please."

a giant thumb jerks at a sign you did not see when you entered. "cash only. no debit. no credit."

"oh fuck. do you have an atm…?" and you look around you, already knowing the answer.

he stares blankly at you.

some quick math: you're at least a half hour from the nearest place that would have an atm. the yard closes in an hour and isn't open sundays. you already know he doesn't take e-transfers. you need this seat today.

but you try anyway. "can i come back next weekend?"

he shrugs flatly. "can't stop you."

"you'll hold it for me?" so fucking hopeful.

he laughs in a short bark that makes your neck flush with embarrassment and heat. "not that kinda junkyard, sweet'art." he sees your nose wrinkle in disgust at being called that. a smirk grows across his wide mouth.

"well…" you draw out, and wait for him to pick up the other end of what you're setting down: a nicety offered to a person in need. some kind of concession that he wouldn't normally offer, but you seem so nice and down on your luck, he'll make an exception just this one time.

"seems you're in a bad way 'ere. can 'ave it for free if you want." he's flicking through paperwork, half-turned from you.

"really?"

"sure." barely a shrug in that shirt pulled too snug around his big arms. a lifetime of lifting and pushing heavy things.

you turn and crouch to lift the passenger seat awkwardly. "thank you so—"

"what do you think 'for free' means, bird?"

"huh?"

"put that down."

and christ almighty, you listen. your body's temperature drops by a few degrees, your stomach pooling in that particular way, knowing what's coming.

"you want it, you gotta pay somethin'."

you clumsily let yourself out the door and march to your car. sit inside, furious and shaking and on the edge of something. the rain calmly slaps the roof of the car as you sit in silence, stewing. disgusted and desperate.

underneath, filthy, where you won't let yourself go — intrigued, aroused in a miswired way.

he's not at the counter when the door slams behind you, taking the wind of your sails immediately. you had a little speech planned, and him not being there to yell at right away has the ire draining away to confusion.

"hello." you call out bluntly.

then there's a sound in the back, behind a closed door. squeak of wheels or something. your boldness has you going as far as behind the counter and up to the door.

you want to be a bitch to him so badly. you want to catch him off guard. tell him he's a piece of shit with a small dick to be like this to women.

you regret it as soon as the door squeals open, catching on a spare bit of carpet sample. the man is sat in a different chair, a peeling office type one, scratching out some inventory or something, brow furrowed.

"'fore you get comfortable, flip the sign and lock the door." he says to his paperwork, eyes not even reaching you.

you're stuttering in your steps, circling back out to the main part of this 'office' and noticing the OPEN/CLOSED sign hanging on the outside of the door. you obediently flip it to CLOSED and then lock the three different sets on the door. your body is screaming the entire time, but somehow performing these little tasks like you're a trainee help you forget what you've come back for.

when you return to the doorway, he gestures you to sit on the cracked pleather couch. you sigh heavily, but at this point, it's theatre just for one: you've already come back.

"want a drink?" he asks suddenly after awhile, still at his paperwork, leaving you feeling…bored. your nerves can only crank taut so much before the bands snap, deadened.

"sure."

he pushes his chair over to a mini fridge, leans down, and pulls out a few bottles of beer. you debate within yourself if it's stupider to drink to let this happen or stupider to do it sober. you drink the bottle within a few minutes, nervous and needing something to do, and then get him to crack open the second for you.

the anger rushes back in. "can you just get it over with, please?" you hate yourself for adding the 'please.' "i'm not just sitting around waiting for you to…do whatever, you know."

he leans back in his chair a little and his eyes almost smile. "nearly done. sit tight, love." he stands, looming over the entirety of this little room, and you hear the door locks unlocking. hear him clumping back down the steps and off to wherever.

you consider grabbing the seat and making a dash to your car, but you are not that brave. or stupid.

you instead stand up and walk around a little after a few minutes. on a small monitor, you can see some camera angles of the junkyard — he would've seen you wandering around helplessly for nearly an hour. you see some movement on one of the cameras, and then there he is, pulling the large gate shut, locking it behind him. some dog you didn't see today runs up to him and sticks its head under his palm for pats. the man rubs the dog's head, flapping its ears with the force of his palm and you think how his palm will feel over your skin, and he grabs something out from the dog's mouth — a ball? — and chucks it off the screen. the dog disappears and then the man does too, out of frame, until he reemerges near where your car's parked. you can see now that he must've grabbed the spare seat and hauled it down to your car. he tests your doors, which you must've left open, and then pops the trunk to set the seat inside.

is this a performance for your sake? does he suspect you'd watch him do this?

you go back to the couch and drink your second bottle, listening to the rain drum on the building's roof. the beer slushes your bloodstream a bit, blunting what you need it to for the time being. when he returns, you listen to him lock up and close what sounds like a till drawer then he stands in the doorway, looking down at you, and you feel humiliated for sticking around.

you could've just waited til next weekend. taken the chance. asked a friend to swing by midweek to pick it up for you. anything but this.

he collapses into his chair, grabs his two beer from the desk, and wheels himself around to right in front of you. plants his boots on either side of your primly pressed-together legs and reclines back just a skosh, resettling his hips so his crotch catches your eye without trying.

the wait is excruciating, your skin feeling flayed under his eyes. the less he does to you, the more you realize you had every single opportunity to walk out the door. get in your car and fuck right off. there was no sudden assault of the senses that forced you under his thumb to comply or acquiesce. he said the words; let you leave, stew, return, stew some more, and stay. you've stayed. you keep staying.

his knees knock against yours. he opens his bottle with his teeth, ugh, and spits the lid onto the couch cushion beside you. you turn your head and stare down at it.

"i'm not gonna suck your dick," you say suddenly, and it comes out almost petulant. it felt important to draw a line before things got started and it came out all crooked and instantly washed away.

stupid smile on his mouth. "never said you 'ad to."

"c'mon, that's what all men are gunning for in these…situations."

you watch his adam's apple bob up and down with a long drink, and he releases a wet exhale. "you want somethin' for free. what do you think the seat's worth?"

"jesus christ," you scoff, picking at your peeling beer label. "i didn't want it for free. i just didn't bring cash. you offered it 'for free.'"

"nobody made you come back."

you press your lips together angrily and move your knees further from his. he inches his in closer in reaction, smile playing at his lips. "don't like the rules but you're still playin' by 'em anyway."

you hope that your quarter zip fleece is hiding your thumping pulse at your neck and your shallower fast breathing.

"i get a kick out of birds like you. takes nowt but summat right simple to knock 'em off-centre. got such grand ideas of what you like. always got some secrets 'idin' 'way." he sits up slowly and then leans over his own thighs, covering one of your knees with his broad, dirty hand. the type of hand that can get washed with industrial-grade soap and still looks filthy. his fingers wrap around the plumped flesh of your calf at the hinge. thumb stroking over kneecap.

"how many times have you…offered something for free?" the words choke in your throat.

a lazy smile, reptilian. "not polite to talk about other girls." then his hand is sliding down mid-calf and grabbing it fully in his palm, spreading your leg apart from the other, drawing a quick gasp out of you at the smooth maneuver. you're wearing black sweatpants, ratty and disposable for a trip to the junkyard, and you know you should've opted for jeans.

your breathing is punctured now, obvious and loud in the office. scared.

"pull 'em down."

they fall down to your ankles. he steps his boot right down on the middle, crushing your underwear and sweatpants beneath his tread, essentially pinning you in place. "christ, you're fit." he kneels in place, his cartilage crunching slightly, and spreads you open in front of him. your cheeks are fever-hot and you are horrified to watch him take you in, but what else is there to do? you kept staying.

his fingers spread your lips open, almost inspecting, and the look in his eyes is crocodilian-dark. heavy lids and flat expression that unlocks something deep and ugly inside you. when he presses his mouth to your cunt, there's no foreplay, no lead-up or tease. it's straight to business, economical and exacting in a way that has your head blowing back against the pleather a few minutes in, your hips lifting to gather more. and the better it feels, the worse you feel about it; you needed this to be sloppy and gross and dirty that you felt disgusting about later, berated yourself so deeply that you would be forced to make life choices. but this feels like a reward for bad, stupid, dangerous behaviour.

he doesn't watch you. eyes don't lift; don't even open. there's no smirk on his face to be angry at. it's somehow the least and most erotic sight all at once, and the dichotomy has your stomach twisting and your legs spreading wider under his mouth. then you have to stop looking altogether, but close your own eyes and let his mouth and tongue drag you under, in this shitty stinky office in the middle of a junkyard in the middle of nowhere.

you don't even know his name and that realization has your orgasm pulsing out of you, knees slamming around his shoulders, gasp ripping out of your throat, your hands finally coming down to touch him. he tries to stay latched on but it's too sensitive and you clap over his ears to stop him.

his face lifts. wet, messy, hungrier than before.

you're panting and staring. you're now operating in a completely different reality than you started your day in and you've got no fucking compass for what comes next. he doesn't wipe his face.

"sit up." he pushes himself out of his kneeled position, cartilage protesting, and gets back in the chair. wheels it right up against the couch.

you listen. sitting at the edge of the couch now, you can see his cock straining against the thick fabric of his pants. he takes your hand in his, and a jolt runs through you at the touch, and then he sets your palm over his lap, manipulating your hand over his erection as you recognize the width and length of it, hidden away like this. you can't stop the hitched breath from escaping.

"wanna see what you're doin' to me?"

you nod without thinking.

"mm," he releases a gravelly groan. "good girl. take me out then."

you have to start with the belt. he helps, barely, shifting when he needs to. undoing his belt for me is intimate in a way that settles deep and dark, somewhere you'll call upon later when you've got a vibrator wedged up in your cunt and fingers on your clit. zipper next. then shifting the fabric down.

he's hairy in a way you didn't expect. thighs covered in golden to dark brown hair, sparser up by his hips. stomach fat and muscle mostly hidden by his work shirt, but the hair there is plentiful and works its way down to above his cock. and his cock is…thick. big. imposing just like him. not pleasant and not inviting.

you can't help your eyes darting up to his, renegotiating in silence.

flat, dark eyes meet yours. "let's feel that soft hand of yours then."

relief spreads hot and wild, tumbling free through you, which sends the hysteria loose: you're grateful that you don't have to suck this man's dick. you're grateful that all you need to do is touch it.

you remember how he went straight to it with you. so you reach out and wrap your fist around him in one fell swoop, testing the heft of him. he lets out a rippled, hitched groan of his own in response and something shifts in you.

"gimme your hand." when you hold it out to him, he hawks a loogie into it that has you grimacing. you rub the spit over the darkened head of his cock, pushing the foreskin away as you manipulate the spit down to cover him.

a handjob is a handjob: there might be some preferences in speed or grip tightness, but they don't vary much across men. and as you flow your hand down from head to his balls, you find yourself dropping into the same-old rhythm and routine.

"eyes on me" interrupts you from your concentration; you'd only been staring at his cock while you worked it, ignoring the rest of him.

and it changes everything: your eyes locked on his for once as your hand glides back and forth — comes back up for more spit, then returns to its job — gripping and loosening and pulling slow, then fast and hard. his eyes are still deadened, heavy like he's closer to sleep than wakefulness, but they pin you like a insect to a board. something moving beyond the dark that you can't understand, can't read.

his hands come down and rest on your knees, although rest isn't accurate here — they grip tight, almost bruising, as you work him. fingers digging down into your soft flesh and your grasp on his cock tightens in response, binding you both in a loop.

"gonna cum." guttural and torn, sending shudders through you.

and you somehow didn't think of this part — the where of it. and with your eyes locked on his and your hand fucking his cock rhythmically and his mouth letting out strangled noises, you let him cum and it lands over your bared knees and thighs, up to your cunt in hot milky strands.

you're grateful that you came first; it gives you the wherewithal to stand, maneuvering out from his big legs, and put yourself to rights. you don't know what to say, so you say nothing. you unlock the bolts on the front door shakily and escape to the rain outside, cool and brisk.

it's unfortunate that you forget all about the locked gate.

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