The Maintenance Plan
A check engine light, a bad estimate, and a blue-collar fix she can feel.
⚠️ Content warning: Explicit sexual content (including oral sex and analingus), adult language, semi-public setting, and consensual power/teasing dynamics. 18+ only.
The check engine light winks to life a mile from the shop.
Gloria sighs.
Not today. Not again.
She coasts into the first bay with the kind of careful pride you use on a thing that used to belong to someone who didn’t take care of you.
Black Charger. Divorce prize.
Her ex handled “car stuff.”
Today she handles it.
The air inside the shop tastes like rubber and cold coffee.
A radio murmurs. Tools clack.
The man at the counter looks at the car, then at her, and you can feel him sorting the information in the wrong order.
He scans the code reader, smug as a secret.
“That’s a whole lot of car for such a pretty woman,” he says, the smile a little too practiced.
Gloria blinks.
“Is that what the light says?”
He chuckles. “Catalytic converter. Needs replacing. Not cheap.”
The word drops like a wrench. Converter. Replace. Expensive. She nods slowly, doing the math she didn’t plan to do today.
Under her breath, to herself: “Not today, not this damn week.”
Across the floor, Donovan looks up from a lift.
He spots her first—
brown skin in the soft afternoon,
a white crop top holding its own,
black shorts hugging a dancer’s balance,
curls that don’t ask permission,
and that look on her face—equal parts heat and I’m-not-in-the-mood.
She doesn’t see him yet.
He sees everything.
From here the Charger is all posture and mouth. Hood scoop like a dare.
He likes a car that announces itself.
He likes a woman who doesn’t apologize for driving it.
At idle, he hears a faint stumble—more lazy O₂ sensor or loose gas cap than a dying cat. He files it away.
The counter guy keeps going. “We can order the part, get you in the queue. You wanna go ahead?”
Gloria hesitates, pen hovering over the estimate, and that’s when she finally lifts her eyes.
They find Donovan’s.
He gives the smallest shake of his head.
No.
A secret passed between two people who haven’t been introduced.
Gloria turns back to the counter, lids lowered.
“Actually… I need to think about it,” she says, folding the pen into her palm like it might bite.
The man presses. “Ma’am, if we wait, it could—”
“I’ll think about it.”
She smiles, sets the estimate down, and moves away with a patience that means she’s decided.
When the counter guy disappears to answer the phone, Gloria drifts into Bay Two.
Donovan’s wiping his hands, pretending to be busy, the way you do when you’re making room for something better.
Up close, he’s tall without trying.
Dark skin warmed by the shop lights.
Jawline neat.
Coveralls smudged and honest.
Forearms roped and glossy with a little sweat.
Eyes kind in a way that says he’s seen everything and didn’t flinch.
He smells like motor oil and citrus soap.
A blue-collar snack, plated and ready.
She leans on the fender like it’s her barstool.
“So,” she says, voice low, almost a purr. “What is he not telling me?”
Donovan checks the aisle. Empty.
He drops his voice to match hers.
“You don’t need a new converter,” he says. “Not from that code. Not today.” He taps the scan tool. “That ‘catalyst efficiency’ flag can pop when an O2 sensor gets lazy or the mix runs a little rich or lean. Happens. Try the cheap fix first.”
She lets out a breath she’d been holding for a month.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
A beat.
“I’ll tell you exactly what you need… if I can get your number.”
Her smile breaks like sunlight through shop dust.
“Oh, we bargaining now?” she teases. “If you can save me money on that cat-a-litic thing, I’ll give you more than my number.”
He grins, palms up. “Deal.”
She shifts closer, curiosity bright on her tongue.
“Okay, Papi. What do I do?”
“Go to the parts store,” he says. “Grab a High-Mileage fuel treatment. Black bottle. Long neck. Use that first, then fill up, and give it a steady fifteen, twenty minutes on the highway to let it burn clean.”
She arches a brow. “How do I use it?”
He holds her gaze, heat simmering.
“Well,” he says, slow enough to make it land, “I’m sure you can figure it out. It’s long and black… and designed to go into a hole.”
Her laugh spills out, warm and wicked.
“You’re terrible.”
“I’m helpful,” he counters. “Add it, fill up, take a good drive. If the light cuts out, you’re good—keep doing it every month. If it pops back on, bring it to me and I’ll check the O2 sensors and sniff for an exhaust leak. But when it does go out…” He lets the sentence dangle, like a key just out of reach. “Come back and give me more than your number.”
She bites her lip. “You’re confident.”
“I’m a mechanic,” he says. “Confidence is cheaper than parts.”
They trade phones—numbers, names, a photo that somehow flatters both of them—and she leaves with a promise tucked in her pocket.
That evening, she follows directions to the letter.
Treatment first. Gas next.
She drives the long way home, windows down, desert heat slipping through the cabin.
The light blinks. Stays steady.
Then fades like a lie.
She laughs, loud and alone, hand on the wheel, body light.
The next day she rolls back into the shop like she owns the lot.
Donovan’s under a car, boots sticking out, but he knows the sound of her engine already.
He slides out, grease streak on his wrist, and meets her at the hood.
“So?” he asks, like he doesn’t know.
“Out,” she says. “Just like you said.”
He nods once, satisfied.
She lets the silence stretch, playful as pulled taffy.
“When do you get off?” she asks.
He checks the clock, wipes his hands. “Six.”
“Perfect.”
She taps her nail against the roof. “I’ll pick you up.”
Night hums like a secret.
She pulls up at six sharp, Charger idling low, the sky still holding a smear of heat; long shadows pool across the lot, the windshield gone gold, cicadas starting up in the trees.
Donovan slides into the passenger seat and the cabin tightens by a few degrees.
They don’t talk much. They don’t need to.
She points the car toward the highway, the kind that runs out of city lights and into dark, where the air tastes new and the rules get soft.
A rest stop waits ahead.
Empty enough.
Quiet enough.
The Charger purrs into a space, nose to the privacy of a stand of trees.
Gloria kills the engine.
The world comes forward.
She turns to him, mouth curved, eyes daring.
“About that maintenance plan,” she whispers.
The words hang in the humid air of the car, a direct challenge wrapped in velvet. The Charger’s interior feels charged, the leather seats holding the day’s heat, releasing it now under their weight.
Donovan doesn’t smile. He just looks at her. Dark, steady. Absorbing the dare. His gaze is a physical touch. “What did you have in mind?”
In answer, Gloria leans across the center console, her curls brushing his cheek, and finds his mouth with hers. It’s not a soft, testing kiss. It’s a payment to a debt owed. Her tongue slips past his lips, tasting the faint citrus from his soap, the deeper, musky flavor of a long day’s work. His hand comes up, fingers tangling in her hair, holding her there, not guiding, just accepting the full weight of her intention.
When she pulls back, her breathing is uneven. The windows are already beginning to fog. “I think I require a thorough inspection,” she says, her voice husky.
“I’m a thorough man.” His thumb strokes her jawline. “You sure about this location?”
“I like an audience that doesn’t exist.” Her grin is pure mischief. “Now, get in the back before someone who does exist shows up.”
They clamber over the seats, a tangle of limbs and soft laughter, the car rocking gently with their movement. The backseat is a tight fit, intimate and close. Donovan shrugs out of his coveralls, leaving him in a thin, dark t-shirt and jeans. Gloria watches the play of muscle in his arms, the solid strength of him folded into her space.
He leans over her, bracing a hand on the window frame behind her head. “Where do you want me to start, Gloria?”
“Everywhere.” The word is a sigh.
He kisses her again, deeper this time, a slow, exploring kiss that makes her toes curl in her sneakers. His free hand slides under the hem of her crop top, palm skimming the warm, smooth skin of her stomach. He finds the clasp of her bra with an easy expertise, flicking it open without breaking the kiss. His hands slide around to cup her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, making them peak into hard, sensitive points against his calloused palms.
“Perfect,” he murmurs against her neck, his breath hot on her skin. “So fucking perfect.”
She arches into his touch, a soft sound escaping her. “The shorts,” she manages to say. “Get them off me.”
He obliges, unbuttoning her denim shorts and peeling them down her legs, along with her underwear. The cool night air sneaks in from the cracked window and hits her wetness, a shocking, delicious contrast. He settles between her thighs, his broad shoulders nudging her knees apart. The leather hushes beneath them.
He looks up at her, his eyes serious. “I want to taste you, Gloria. All of you.”
A thrill, sharp and electric, goes through her. All of you. She knows what he means. She’d been hoping for it. “Yes,” she breathes out, her voice barely a whisper. “God, yes. Please.”
He doesn’t dive in. He takes his time. First, his mouth finds the inside of her thigh, kissing, nipping lightly, his stubble a rough tease against her soft skin. He works his way inward with a maddening slowness, until his breath is warm against her soaked cunt. His tongue finally, finally parts her folds, a long, slow, flat lick that makes her jolt and gasp.
“Donovan…”
“Right here,” he says, his voice thick. Then he gets to work. His tongue is an artist, painting her with broad strokes before zeroing in on her clit, circling it, flicking it with a precision that has her hips lifting off the seat. He sucks gently, and her head falls back against the door, a moan tearing from her throat. One of his hands slides under her ass, lifting her slightly, giving him better access, holding her open for his mouth. The other hand teases lower, a single finger tracing her entrance, gathering her wetness.
She is lost in the sensation, in the wet, hot suction of his mouth, the faint sounds he makes, the way his body is completely focused on hers. The world shrinks to the fogged-up windows of her Charger, the smell of their mingled scent, the incredible, building pressure between her legs.
Just as she feels herself starting to tighten, beginning that familiar climb, he pulls back. His finger is still tracing circles lower down, past her entrance, toward the tight, forbidden knot of her ass.
“And this, Gloria?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through her entire body. “A good mechanic always checks everything.”
Her heart hammers against her ribs. It’s new. It’s a lot. The question, asked so directly, so respectfully, makes the desire burn even hotter. “Yes,” she says, the word tumbling out. “I want… I want to feel your tongue there.”
He shifts lower, his hands spreading her cheeks. She feels the cool air again, then the shocking, intimate warmth of his breath. He doesn’t go straight for it. He kisses the sensitive skin there first, nuzzling, making her squirm. Then his tongue presses flat against her, a broad, wet stroke that makes her cry out. He circles the tight furl slowly, again and again, until her muscles relax under the relentless, wet attention.
And then his tongue pushes in. Her heel squeaks against the window; her calf tightens.
The sensation is explosive. A sharp, completely novel shock of pleasure that radiates outwards, making her cunt clench around nothing. She lets out a strangled gasp, her fingers finding his hair, not pushing him away but holding on for dear life. He works his tongue inside her, a shallow, insistent fucking that sends waves of raw sensation crashing through her. The filthy, wet sound of it fills the car, and the sheer nastiness of the act, his complete surrender to her pleasure, pushes her higher than she’s ever been.
“Donovan, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” she warns him, her voice ragged.
He pulls back instantly, his face glistening. “Not yet.” He moves back up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her mouth, letting her taste herself on his lips. He fumbles with his jeans, freeing his cock. It’s thick and hard in his hand. He reaches into his discarded coveralls, pulling out a condom. The rustle of the foil is loud in the stillness.
She watches him roll it on, her own hands sliding down to stroke his length through the latex. “I need you inside me now,” she demands, her need a physical ache.
“Where, Gloria?” he asks, pausing, his eyes locked on hers. “Tell me where you want my dick.”
“In my pussy,” she says, the vulgar word a turn-on in itself. “Fuck me with it. Right now.”
He positions himself at her entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against her soaked folds. He pushes in slowly, a breathtaking, full stretch that makes her eyes roll back. The car seems to shrink around them. He seats himself fully, letting her adjust to the feel of him, his forehead dropping to hers.
“You’re… God,” he grunts. “So damn tight.”
Then he begins to move. A slow, deep rhythm at first, each thrust measured and perfect. Her legs wrap around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper. The pace builds naturally, fueled by their mutual hunger. The car rocks with their motion, a steady, rhythmic creak that harmonizes with their ragged breaths and the soft, wet sounds of their bodies meeting.
She meets every thrust, her hips rising to meet his, taking control of the rhythm, driving him deeper. “Right there,” she moans. “Don’t stop, fuck me right there.”
He obeys, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, each one hitting that perfect spot inside her until the coil in her belly winds to a breaking point. The pleasure doesn’t crest; it detonates. Her climax rips through her without warning, a silent, seizing shock that locks her muscles and steals her voice before a long, keening wail finally breaks free. Her cunt clenches around his cock in pulsing waves, milking him, pulling him over the edge with her.
He groans, deep and guttural, his body tensing above her. “Oh, shit—tell me to cum.”
“Cum, Papi,” she gasps, still riding the aftershocks. “Come for me.”
His thrusts become desperate, losing their rhythm, and then he stills, buried deep inside her as his own release takes him. She feels the frantic pulse of him through the latex, watches the intense pleasure contort his handsome face.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of their heavy breathing and the soft tick of the Charger’s cooling engine. He folds down beside her and pulls her in. He hits the window switch, lowering it to let the heat and sex out. He finds a half-empty water bottle in the holder, takes a sip, and offers it to her.
She drinks, the water cool and perfect on her parched throat. There’s a clean set of napkins in the back fold of the passenger seat that he uses to dab at the cream between her legs, his touch tender and practical. She slides the condom off and knots it, neat as a secret. Mutual. Tidy. Romantic in its way.
She smiles up at him, spent and utterly content. “So. Regular service keeps the beast purring, huh?”
He laughs, a warm, rich sound that fills the car. He leans down, kissing her softly. “You’re gonna need a lot of regular service, Gloria.”
“Promise?” she whispers, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
Outside, the engine ticks as it cools; the brake lights wash them red for a heartbeat, then surrender to the dark.
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Wow 🤯 that was intense