After hours at the auto shop, $name1 learns the three mechanics who fixed her car expect a filthy thank-you that leaves her dripping on the concrete.
$name1 locked the office door behind her and walked into the bay with her hips already aching. The garage smelled of oil and rubber. Three men waited by the lifted hatchback that had stranded her that morning. Marco wiped his hands on a rag. Dean leaned on a tool chest. Chris, the youngest, had his coveralls unzipped to the waist.
“You said you’d settle up tonight,” Marco said. His eyes dragged over her tight jeans and the red blouse that strained across her tits. “$name1, right? Cash, card, or something wetter.”
She should have left. Instead she stepped closer until she could smell sweat under the grease. “I’m broke until payday. So what do you want?”
Dean laughed low. “Bend over the hood and find out.”
$name1’s cunt clenched. She was twenty-eight, married to a man who fucked her like a chore, and these three looked ready to ruin her. She unbuttoned the blouse, peeled it off, and dropped her bra. Her brown nipples tightened in the cool air. Chris swore under his breath. She shoved her jeans and soaked panties down her thighs, kicked them aside, and bent over the warm hood with her ass out and her thick Latina hips spread.
Marco spit on his fingers and shoved two into her pussy without warning. She gasped as he knuckled deep, curling against her g-spot until her juices ran down her thighs. “Fuck, she’s soaked. Begging for it.”
“Then give it to her,” Dean said. He freed a thick cock from his coveralls and slapped it against her cheek. “$name1, open.”
She opened. Dean fed his cock over her tongue until her nose smashed into his pubes. She choked, spit spilling down her chin, and he held her there while Marco lined up behind her. The blunt head of Marco’s cock stretched her cunt open in one hard thrust. She moaned around Dean’s shaft as Marco started fucking her like he hated the car.
Chris climbed onto the bumper and offered his cock to her free hand. She stroked him while Dean fucked her throat and Marco pounded her pussy, the wet slap of skin echoing off the concrete. Her tits dragged on the cool metal. Every thrust shoved her forward onto Dean until she was drooling, mascara smeared, taking it like a whore who had asked for it.
Marco yanked out. “Ass. Now.”
$name1 whimpered but pushed back. He pressed his spit-slick tip to her tight hole and pushed. The burn ripped a cry from her throat as Dean popped free. “Fuck—slow—” Marco ignored her. He buried inch after inch in her ass until his balls kissed her cunt lips. She shook, empty pussy clenching air, stuffed full of cock in the one place her husband never touched.
“Look at that Latina ass swallow it,” Chris groaned. He dropped to his knees behind Marco’s angle and licked her clit while Marco reamed her. $name1 came hard, squirt spraying Chris’s tongue and the hood, her scream bouncing off the bay doors.
They rotated her like a tool. Dean took her ass next, longer strokes that made her eyes water. Marco fed his filthy cock into her mouth so she could taste her own ass while Chris slid into her dripping cunt. Three holes, three men, no mercy. She lost count of the orgasms. Her legs gave out; they held her up between them, spit-roasting her until spit ropes hung from her chin and her pussy juice glazed Chris’s thighs.
“On your knees,” Marco ordered.
$name1 dropped to the concrete, palms down, mouth open. They jerked off over her face and tits. Marco came first, thick ropes across her tongue and cheeks. Dean painted her tits, rubbing the mess into her nipples with his cockhead. Chris last, aiming for her open mouth until she coughed and swallowed what she could, the rest dripping onto her cleavage.
They were not done. Marco hauled her up, bent her over the tool chest, and fucked her cunt again while her face stayed glazed. Dean plugged her ass with two fingers. Chris made her suck him clean. She came again with a broken sob, cunt clamping, ass gripping Dean’s knuckles, filthy and loud and shameless.
When they finally pulled out, $name1 slid to the floor in a heap of come, spit, and garage dust. Her hole fluttered. Her throat ached. Marco tossed her the crumpled panties.
“Car’s ready,” he said. “Same rate next oil change.”
She laughed, hoarse, and wiped come from under her eye with a shaky finger. $name1 dressed slowly, sticky jeans clinging to her thighs, blouse buttoned wrong. She caught her reflection in the dark shop window on the way out: come-streaked cheeks, swollen lips, blouse gaping where a button had been ripped. $name1 touched the bruise on her hip where the tool chest edge had bitten and smiled. Tomorrow her husband would ask about the oil change. She would say it cost more than she expected, and mean every filthy dollar of it.
She drove home smelling like three mechanics and still throbbing, already counting the miles until the next service.
