Chapter Ten #2
I looked over the engine, searching for something I could name. I was eager to impress him, which was its own fresh humiliation, but I could at least be correct. I stared into the tangled machinery, trying to focus past the haze spreading through my body.
“The battery,” I managed. My finger traced the black box, dirt smeared beneath my fingers and gathering beneath my nails.
Ghost hummed approvingly. “Good.”
His praise came with another reward.
His hand slipped lower, cupping the shape of my erection through my trousers. He did not stroke, content to hold me, feeling how hard I had become. Heat rushed into my face, and Ghost laughed softly against my shoulder.
“If you want more,” he said, “you’ll have to learn.”
Gods be merciful. I was willing to learn anything if it meant Ghost kept going.
I looked back into the engine bay. My hair was still trapped in his fist. My mouth still tasted of oil and metal.
Whatever this was—a punishment, a reward, a humiliation ritual—it was working.
I hated that.
Ghost’s fingers tightened a little, and my knees buckled; Ghost caught me before I hit the grass, hands locked around my hips, hauling me back against the hot engine bay like I was another loose part he intended to tighten into place.
He pressed me against the car with enough force to make the suspension shift. “Pay attention,” he muttered.
“I am paying attention,” I lied. I was not.
My attention had fractured into useless, glittering pieces.
One piece was trapped in the heat of the engine beneath my chest. Another on the taste of soot still bitter on my tongue.
Another on the grease staining my fingertips, worked deep under yesterday’s perfect French manicure.
Then his hands disappeared.
The sudden absence made me feel cold.
“Why did you stop?” I asked, before pride could intervene, even offering a tiny whine at the sound of the trunk opening and then closing at the far end of the car before Ghost returned at last, kneeling behind me and unzipping his bag of brand-new tools.
He reached in and withdrew a large wrench, its metal catching the last light of the setting sun, bright and heavy in his hand. He watched me as he dipped two fingers into a tub of mechanical grease and dragged them slowly along the handle.
I could have run.
“Ghost?”
The thought came and went.
I did not.
Of course I didn’t, not even as Ghost’s greased hands loosened my pants, dropping them to my ankles.
I was a fool, apparently, watching my own car prepare a toolbox like a butcher choosing knives.
Dumb decision, but I was craving something new, and a spirit with a metal wrench the length of my forearm and a tub of mechanical grease was definitely new.
“This,” Ghost said, “is a wrench.”
“I know what a wrench is.”
“You know the word.” He dragged the cold metal along the inside of my thigh, leaving a slick of grease behind. “You don’t know the weight. You don’t know the feel.”
I inhaled sharply.
The handle brushed higher.
My thighs parted without being told.
Ghost noticed, and his blue eyes brightened. The end of the handle pressed against me, and my entire body tightened.
“Is that a hint?” I hissed through my teeth. “You want me to test those on you—Ah!”
I covered my mouth as he pushed the cold handle of the tool into me, my body tensing around it.
How strange; Ghost always seemed to me to be an old cowboy, a conservative type. Then again, it was always the conservative types who were utter freaks when no one was watching.
Ghost’s smile turned predatory.
The metal pressed inward.
I gripped the edge of his frame, urging my body to relax as the spanner slid into me all the way to its head.
My muscles resisted at first, clamping hard around the unfamiliar shape.
I shifted awkwardly, my body adjusting to accommodate twelve inches of metal, the cold pressure slowly morphing into fullness.
The sensation remained unmistakably metallic.
Heavy. Cool. Unyielding.
I forced myself to breathe.
The pressure spread slowly through me, stretching from sharp discomfort into something denser and more consuming. The metal seemed to steal the heat from my body, warming inside of me, taking on my temperature until it felt less like a foreign object and more like part of Ghost.
My breath came unevenly.
Ghost withdrew it barely an inch. The drag of the metal made my stomach clench.
Then he pushed it back inside.
A moan escaped me, lower and more helpless than the first.
Ghost’s hand tightened over my hip. He worked the wrench deeper until the weight settled heavily inside me.
I could feel every small movement of his wrist. Each shift changed the pressure; he searched through me until the metal brushed somewhere, making my vision flash white. My body jerked, and Ghost stilled.
“There?”
I refused to answer.
He pressed the same place again.
My knees nearly buckled, and Ghost laughed. “There.”
Before I could recover, another cold object touched me.
I looked down. Another tool gleamed in Ghost’s hand, already coated with grease.
“You cannot possibly–”
“This one is a socket wrench. We use it for…” He explained as my mind went blank and I found myself pushing back, grinding against another steel rod.
They weren’t small, cheap tools one might have in their utility closet; no, they were both at least two-fingers thick and heavy, too. I clenched, holding onto them.
“Are you listening?” Ghost asked, his lips caressing my thigh.
I nodded, holding my breath, far too focused on the steel inside me to remember how to exhale.
The initial stretch bordered on overwhelming. My body tightened around the wrench already inside me, making every attempt to take more feel impossible. Ghost slowed, working the metal in. His thumb rubbed small circles against my hip.
Metal clicked faintly against metal inside me.
The two handles filled me, one pressed deep and heavy, while the other moved with shorter, more precise strokes.
I pushed backward. I didn’t mean to, but my body followed the pressure, chasing each movement as Ghost moved both tools together.
My mouth fell open, but no sound emerged at first.
Then the pleasure broke through.
A helpless moan tore from my throat.
Ghost withdrew both tools slightly, and the loss of pressure made me panic.
“Please,” I blurted. “Don’t.”
His eyes gleamed. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t stop.”
He pushed them back inside as I cried out, hips jerking uncontrollably against his hand.
He reached into the bag again.
“And this is a breaker bar…”
I saw it in his hand and laughed once, breathless and disbelieving. It looked a little like the socket wrench, but it was obscenely long, longer than my forearm.
I felt my cock twitch as Ghost stroked grease over it.
“Absolutely not.”
Ghost’s eyes gleamed. “Afraid?”
“Of a tool?”
“Of needing leverage.”
I stared at him.
He smirked back.
The length of it was absurd. Heavy. Ribbed. Built for stubborn things that refused to move until sufficient force was applied.
I looked down at it, then at him. “You are enjoying this metaphor far too much.”
Ghost stood and pressed himself along my back, his chest solid against my shoulders. One arm wrapped around my waist while his other hand lowered the breaker bar between us.
“I like stubborn things,” he murmured.
His fingers spread fresh grease over me, preparing my body around the tools already filling it.
He could have overwhelmed me. Instead, he took his time, making me experience every cold touch, every gradual stretch, and each shift from discomfort into pleasure.
The breaker bar entered slowly.
I bit down on my lower lip.
The pressure became enormous as Ghost worked the third tool inside. My thighs shook.
“Ghost…”
“I’ve got you.”
His arm tightened around my middle, and the breaker bar moved deeper, pushing against my insides. Ghost’s finger circled the bump in my stomach.
Fullness gave way to an almost unbearable pressure, as though every empty space inside me had been occupied. The tools rested against one another, shifting with each desperate breath I took. Even the smallest movement made metal grind softly, and pressure swept through my body.
Ghost began moving them. Slowly at first, the regular wrench pressed deep as the socket wrench worked against that sensitive point he had discovered. The breaker bar stretched and filled, preventing me from escaping any sensation.
Cold metal. Warm grease. Pressure. Friction. Ghost’s hand supporting my stomach. His mouth against my shoulder, small fangs breaking my skin. I could no longer separate one feeling from another.
“Ghost…” I bit down on my lower lip, my knees buckling, but Ghost managed to hold me upright, one strong hand supporting my hip as he slowly pushed the tool deeper.
“Reach into me,” he commanded, his voice full of that authority one expected from a drill sergeant.
“Where?” I whispered.
“My engine. I want you to feel me. I want you to get your hands dirty.”
So this was a punishment after all; good thing I liked being punished. I was going to have my revenge eventually, but right now the brat in me was properly subdued. I studied the formerly perfect manicure on my hand, stark against the black innards of the Challenger.
At that point, fighting chaos was only wasting energy, and you know what?
I think the lust was clouding my judgment; I had to admire the curves of the pipes curling around the engine, the sound of its hungry growl, how it vibrated against my chest. I felt the heat of him as I stroked the air filter pan, my fingers tracing lines into soot coating the metal.
“Deeper,” Ghost demanded, pressing against me, his shadow solid and burning hot. His hand gripped all three tools, gently easing them in and out of my trembling body.