Wednesday, February 19, 2014

The Windshield Incident Pt. 3 Sneak Peek

This is the closest thing to being finished, so here's a little more of the weird shit that keeps happening to Grant. It needs some work; this why I blog rough drafts.
I was stocking the cooler in the Vance Autobody waiting room when out of nowhere a hand reached in front of me. “Holy crap!” The can of soda in my hands dropped, clattering on the floor.

Ryder Vance popped the tab on the cola he had appropriated. “Just put that one in the back.”

Giving him an I-knew-that-already look, I grabbed the errant can. “What are you doing here so early?” I asked.

Ryder replied, “I’ve been full time since school ended,” strolling around the counter. "Restorations."

“Huh.” Still not great with small talk, I went back to my work. Two months remained until I could blow this joint and head down to Sedalia. Two years of community college, two or three more of real university, and I could pretend like I didn’t know this place even existed.

Ryder’s voice cut through my happy thoughts. “Do you ever fight back?”


I resisted the urge to touch the huge bruise on my cheek. “My dad? No.”

Those unblinking eyes stared at me over the computer. “Why not?”

Why are you suddenly interested? “Because it’s over faster,” I replied with a shrug. “Plus, I always read that kids who get hit usually grow up to do the same thing to their kids, so I kind of don’t want to learn how to fight just in case I have any, you know? I don't need any techniques.”

Ryder snorted.

“What?”

He shook his dark head. Why did he always look so smug? I heard the fights that he and his father got into. The way they went at it I'd be shocked if there was any furniture remaining in their house.

I folded my arms. “There are more ways of dealing with frustration than hitting someone.” At least
“Really? You might be the angriest person I’ve ever met.”

“Me?” I asked, incredulous. “Are you kidding? I never get mad.” I never even talked about being mad. What the hell did he know?

“It’s all bottled up inside,” Ryder replied cooly. “Like the Hulk.”

I made a face. “You’re the one with the temper.”

“I’m like those Little Dynamites,” he replied. “Short fuse, quick flash, loud bang, and then I’m done.”

“And someone is in the emergency room,” I pointed out.

Ryder shrugged. “Well, don’t light the fucking fuse.”

That was about as long as any of our conversations ever lasted, so it was a relief when Ryder exited the side door to start work in the garage. That made me wonder, though, if I was a part of Ryder’s alternative stress release. Like he thought, I have shouted as loud as I can and thrown all the nearby things, yet am still angry. Guess I’ll go pork Grant in the ass. That would explain a whole lot. Who would he have been boning if I hadn’t ended up working for his dad? Probably any of the girls at school who bragged about his sexual prowess, or Amber, but it was funnier to imagine him trying to fuck one of the other mechanics. Actually, I was probably ersatz Amber. Amber wasn't around enough to spend her workdays as a goddamn cum dump.

He wasn't always obviously angry, though. Last week Ryder had pulled me into a supply closet in the middle of my shift. Just a "Come here," and then my knees were on the ground and Ryder’s big dick was pummeling my throat. Right before he came he pulled out and held my head against his thigh, slapping my nose and mouth with his cock. So glad I closed my eyes, because there was cum all over my face. It was amazing how much the guy could shoot from his average-sized balls. Then Ryder left me there in the closet to clean up, as usual, without a word or a “Hey, thanks for letting me spooge all over your face. Now I won’t throw a chair through a window.”

Sucking dick was the kind of skill I never thought I could develop, just something I didn’t ever think I possibly could be good at. Maybe it’s like carrying four mugs of coffee at once or putting together a work schedule—I didn’t realize there was a trick to it until I had to do it a lot. Not that I was blowing Ryder in a closet all day, but every week and a half, it seemed, he’d catch me off guard and find a new way to leave me covered or filled with cum. Then we'd both pull our pants up and not talk for the rest of the day. The better I got at dick sucking, or the faster I could relax for Ye Olde Arse Reaminge, the faster Ryder would come and let me get back to my life.

Oh my god, this one time…I tried not to think about it, even more than I tried not to think about anything else. It was mid morning and all the mechanics were on deck, scrambling to get these four cars done before the weekend. I was back in the break room looking for extra sugar packets, and Ryder walked in. He shouldn't have even been there. Everyone had whined and moaned about how much work there was to do on the cars. They couldn't even stop for lunch. Granted, Ryder might have been grabbing any number of usefuls things, but he just shut the door and stood there, watching me.

"What?" I asked after a bit, still rummaging under the counter. Why, after all the times, did I not have a spidey sense for what was coming next? But no, I was only half paying attention to him, thinking that we were in the ignore-each-other part of the day. Even when he didn't respond I didn't turn around. "Do you know if there are any more of these brown packets somewhere? The good kind?"

"Stand up."

There it was. That low tone he used that made me nervous as heck, because even though I knew what was coming, and didn't know what it would look like. Was it a gimme-a-fucking-blowjob kind of tone, or get-on-your-back tone? I could have asked why. It would have been a reasonable question—why do you need me to be standing while I look for sugar packets?—but I didn't ask. I stood up, put the wire basket of powdered creamer packets on the counter, and turned around.

If he wants me to suck him off, I won't do it, I decided. This seemed like some sort of rich bad boy privilege, like he could fuck off and get a blowjob while everyone else sweats because his daddy owns the shop. I folded my arms.

"Take it out," Ryder ordered.

Again, why? I knew what he meant, but, just—come on. This was weird, even for him.

"Shouldn't you be working?"

Ryder locked the door. "Take it out."

Why. The word wouldn't leave my lips; it got stuck to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter while my hands fumbled at my zipper. This was stupid. I was standing in a break room, fishing my cock out of my underwear because some jackass standing across the room told me to. What the hell was my deal? Was it because his dick was bigger than mine?

Before I could say tada, Ryder said, "Get it hard."

The hell?  He actually leaned back and shoved his hands in his coverall pockets.

"I don't want to." Those words actually came out of my mouth, for real. One of Ryder's eyebrows lifted slightly. "I…can't with y—someone watching." I finally amended, because it was a little bit true.

"Then shut your eyes."

If I could pull off dropping some line that sent shivers down someone's spine, well, I'd probably get as much pussy as Ryder did. With as much nonchalance as I could muster, which wasn't much, I shut my eyes and started stroking my dick. It was hot in that room; it was hot everywhere except for the offices. Before I was even fully hard I was sweating, and I'd lose my erection a little every time I heard voices close to the door.

"You should be out there," I finally said after failing to get it all the way up. This was just embarrassing.

"I don't want to," Ryder replied, and I opened my eyes to see him leaning with his legs crossed and arms folded, like classic bad boy rebel stance. Okay, so was he quoting me to point out how stupid I sounded? Yes. The simple answer was yes, but then he was staring at me yanking at my shaft, and…I was one fucked-up kid for not zipping my pants up and shoving past him out the door.

"Well, it's not working." I meant to sound like I was blaming Ryder for it. Fail. I didn't sound this whiny around anybody else. Was it because of he was fucking me? If I was the one shoving my cock up his ass, would Ryder Vance turn into a bratty kid? It was a futile thought. I would never, ever, ever have looked at him and thought, I want my dick in that. Not even with his shirt off.

"Show me."

Ryder came forward to sit in a chair. There were so many sarcastic quips that I could have used. "Where's your sketch pad?" "I guess you didn't know—I also have a penis." "Do you see any crabs hanging out down there?" "When you Instagram my dick, use the Lo-Fi filter." None of that came out of my mouth, though. I just stood there with my hands at my sides, waiting for Ryder to say something more; to give me some kind if clue as to what was going on in his brain.

It was so weird—so weird!—to just stand there, my cock pulsing occasionally like a bobbing cobra. The snake charmer looked, and then he looked at my face, and I waited. What now? Shove it in your pants and leave, my brain said. But then, to my total horror, it got harder. Totally hard. I looked to the ceiling. Could I rewind time and make some better choices? Just, every time Ryder was around me, I'd choose to keep my pants on. Like, every single time, and then maybe I wouldn't waste so much energy on wishing for the earth to open up and swallow me.

"Finish it," Ryder said then, and I kind of laughed, not because of anything but thinking of pro wrestling. Finish him! Still, Ryder stood and closed in on me. He repeated, "Finish it."

"Fuck off," I replied like I had brass balls, but my hand was on my cock. My eyes shut of their own accord; the pressure behind my eyelids was too intense. I could feel Ryder's cigarettes-and-mint breath on my face, but maybe that's because I was a lot closer to coming now that I had been thirty seconds ago. It was weird, and there wasn't enough…something, but I could feel the beginnings of that familiar tingle. Any second now my toes would start going a little numb.

My breathing was audible now; I couldn't help it. My arm was doing that thing where you're pulling your pud so hard that your muscles burn, but you just can't stop. Mouth open, gut clenching, all that other I'm-gonna-come stuff, but I couldn't get over that edge. It was just too weird to be standing there, jacking off because some scary asshole told me to, while the shop bustled ten feet away on the other side of the door. Then I felt fingers on my balls.

Ryder touched me like it was no big deal, like he did this all the time. I mean, I did it to him, but never when we were on eye level. Rough, insistent fingertips stroked the underside of my balls, heading toward the delicate hairless skin that my jeans still hid. What the hell was going through his brain? Maybe he was getting impatient and decided to help me out. To my shame it was working. If I could forget for just a second that it was Ryder…impossible. The heat from his body was fusing with that white hot pre-orgasm flame, and the scent of grease and mechanical oil filled my lungs with each stiff inhale. I couldn't open my eyes because I was afraid I'd see him looking back at me.

"Finish it," Ryder said a third time, and I don't know if it was just his proximity that made it sound like a whisper, but it worked. My head fell forward to be caught by the muscle of his shoulder, and I came. Like, some of my brain was still going, this is weird; what the hell are you doing; why is your head on his body? The rest of my brain went, Yay, an orgasm! That part was so loud that my toes curled in my shoes.

"Oh, god," I said on the other side of my release. I hated the clarity that always followed an orgasm. What the hell, self? Why do I keep doing this stuff? It's not like I still owed Ryder money. Nor was I afraid he'd beat me to death. Not entirely to death, at least.

Ryder didn't say anything more, not when I lifted my head, and not when he walked out with whitish specks all over his coverall. I tucked my dick back into my underwear, zipped up, and washed my hands.


I'm screwed, I thought.

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