Working Men Box Set

by J. M. Snyder

  Jimmy’s elbow flares out as he wrestles with the bolt, bumping into Terrence’s chest. “Sorry,” he says, throwing a quick look over his shoulder.

  When he sees how close they’ve become, Jimmy takes a step sideways. He stops fiddling around under the hood and stands—Terrence’s arm is draped around his hip, his fingers still entwined in Jimmy’s belt loop. One hand strays to pluck the ear buds from his ears, and when he drops them, they dangle from the MP3 player hidden in his pocket. His voice is barely there when he sighs, “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  Terrence keeps his voice soft, his tone low, and the word rumbles between them like thunder. Releasing the belt loop, he lets his hand drift to Jimmy’s hip, and before he can stop himself, his fingers brush over the damp skin at Jimmy’s waist. The touch is feathery, light. In the darkened garage, his black fingers look like shadows on Jimmy’s pale skin. Beneath his fingertips, he can feel Jimmy’s nerves dance.

  The sound of Jimmy clearing his throat is loud in the quiet garage, and it echoes off the corrugated metal walls. Terrence manages to raise his gaze from that smooth skin, like velvet beneath his fingers, to see the twinkle in Jimmy’s warm eyes. It encourages him, and his hand moves around to Jimmy’s stomach, which flutters at his touch.

  Coyly, the mechanic asks, “You do this often… pick up guys in service stations?”

  “No.” Terrence leans heavily against the side of the car and scoots a little closer. His head is ducked down, about level with Jimmy’s shoulder, and he stares at the pinked nipple pointing at him, begging to be licked. He wants to take that tender bud between his teeth, bite at it, tease it until it swells in his mouth. He wants Jimmy writhing beneath him, aching for him. “What about you? You often accept invitations from guys you meet at work?”

  “Is that what this is? An invitation?” Jimmy’s voice drops, seductive. “For what?”

  Terrence grins. As if he doesn’t know.

  When he doesn’t reply, Jimmy turns back to the car’s engine. Terrence watches his own hand skim across the pale expanse of skin, over Jimmy’s waist, to his back again. Jimmy ignores the touch, leaning beneath the hood of the car to tackle the bolt again.

  “You’re all talk, Mr. Jackson. Get a guy’s hopes up with your game and then call a time-out before things even started.” He sounds disappointed. “You should really be in the waiting area, you know. The garage is off-limits to customers.”

  Terrence still doesn’t answer. He leans against the car beside Jimmy, fascinated by the way his skin looks against the mechanic’s. On its own accord, his hand trails up Jimmy’s back, cutting a path through the sweat, over his shoulder blade and around his shoulder and down the curve of muscle above the crook in Jimmy’s arm. The mechanic doesn’t respond to the touch, or Terrence’s thumb swirling around the dry skin of his elbow, or the way his fingers tickle through the hair on his forearm.

  Still, nothing.

  Finally Terrence’s hand drops to the waistband of Jimmy’s jeans, then dips lower. Down over the denim-clad hip, down his thigh. He watches the mechanic’s stoic profile as he eases a hand around Jimmy, just below the swell of his buttocks, his fingers smoothing across the denim covering Jimmy’s inner thigh. The mechanic catches his breath but doesn’t say a word. Encouraged, Terrence lets his hand drift up a little, until the curve of Jimmy’s ass sits in his palm. His fingers splay between Jimmy’s legs along the seam of his jeans.

  Suddenly the bolt loosens in Jimmy’s grip and the wrench falls from his hands, clattering through the engine to fall to the floor of the garage.

  Terrence grins. Now that’s the response he wanted. Ever so slightly, he squeezes Jimmy’s ass.

  The mechanic gasps and arches his back, pressing into Terrence’s hand.

  “Do you want a piece of me?” Terrence murmurs.

  “Yes,” Jimmy gasps. He grips the sides of the car with both hands and moans as Terrence rubs between his legs, the denim as soft as suede down there. “God, yes, please.”

  Stepping around behind him, Terrence runs his hands up over Jimmy’s buttocks and around to the front of his jeans, where he fists the erection straining at his crotch. So he’s been hiding this from me, Terrence thinks, rubbing it against my car and hoping it’ll go away before I see it and want to take care of it. Through those jeans, Terrence cradles the hard cock in both hands and kneads gently, pulling Jimmy back against him. His shirt sticks to Jimmy’s skin, growing damp beneath the mechanic’s sweat, and his own erection rubs at the cleft of Jimmy’s buttocks, hard and eager. For him.

  “I want you, Jimmy,” he sighs.

  Jimmy’s head leans back to rest on Terrence’s shoulder, his body limp and weightless in Terrence’s arms. His hands cover the strong fists at the front of his jeans. “Please,” he says again.

  With open lips, Terrence kisses Jimmy’s sweaty shoulders, licking and sucking each time his mouth touches the mechanic’s skin, wanting more. He tastes of summer and salt and a tangy cologne Terrence smells only when he presses his nose into Jimmy’s pale flesh. Behind his ear, Terrence licks the hot metal of the back of an earring and his hands slide up the sheen of Jimmy’s stomach, searching for his nipples. He rubs the nubs between his fingers until they harden like stones beneath his touch. “I want to take you home and wrap you up and never let you go. Will you let me do that, Jimmy? Do you want me to do that?”

  “Yes,” he sighs. He moves against Terrence, the heat of his body igniting the fires in their bodies. “Yes, please, yes. God, yes.”

  He turns to catch Terrence’s mouth with his. His mouth tastes sweet, like peppermints and lollipops and cotton candy. His lips are incredibly soft, rose petals and velvet—the crush is infuriating. Terrence wants more. He needs more, right here, right now. His whole body throbs for this guy in his arms, and he doesn’t care if they’re seen. His nerves trill for release, his blood pounds in his ears, his world threatens to drown in the rush of lust which has overcome him. Vaguely, he recalls his phone conversation earlier with Gary… what did he say? Only one mechanic on duty?

  Must be my lucky day.

  Terrence fumbles with the button of Jimmy’s jeans. The zipper glides down from the pressure of his erection alone. With hasty hands Terrence shucks off the jeans, pushing them down to Jimmy’s knees in a fluid movement. His boxers follow. Jimmy turns, presenting himself to Terrence, who falls to his knees as if to worship the thick cock jutting out at him. A thin trail of sandy hair starting at Jimmy’s navel tapers down until it splashes into dun-colored curls kinked around his dick and balls. The pale skin of his narrow hips gathers into a ruddy shaft, tipped with a plum-shaped cockhead the same shade as his lips.

  Almost reverently, Terrence wraps his fingers around that thick length. With a moan, Jimmy thrusts into Terrence’s hand. He tugs Jimmy’s cock toward him in one long, gentle stroke, and when his fingers bump against the flared tip, he purses his lips and kisses the blind eye before him.

  A musky scent wafts up at him from Jimmy’s crotch, a warm smell, primal, which brings Terrence to the brink of desire. As his mouth opens and he takes the tip of Jimmy’s dick in, his tongue licking down around the slit beneath his cockhead, Terrence’s other hand fumbles at his own crotch, hurriedly unzipping the silk slacks to free the beast roaring at his groin.

  Greasy hands fist in Terrence’s short-cropped hair. “Oh God,” Jimmy moans as his cock disappears inch by inch into Terrence’s hungry mouth. “Oh yes, oh please.”

  Suddenly Terrence is wearing too many clothes. As he stands, he leaves his slacks puddled around his ankles. His large cock is twice as thick as Jimmy’s, and the sight of it makes the mechanic’s eyes widen. “I want that,” he says, his hands drifting to stroke Terrence’s length. “In me. Now.”

  With a grin, Terrence starts, “Once you go black…”

  But Jimmy turns to present his firm buttocks to Terrence. “Jesus, man. Just fuck me, please?”

  Terrence likes the way he asks so sweetly. With his hands on
Jimmy’s hips, he positions the guy in front of him. Jimmy grips the side of the car with whitening knuckles as Terrence leans down over him, kissing his back. Those kisses find their way down his spine, over the hump of his buttocks; Terrence squats behind Jimmy, mouth pressed to white skin trembling beneath it. Then his lips are on the skin Jimmy’s kept hidden, kissing between the smooth buttocks, his tongue licking secret flesh which aches for his touch.

  He finds a sensitive spot just behind Jimmy’s balls and this time when the mechanic tries to speak, words fail him. All that comes out is a string of syllables which might be Terrence’s name and might be something akin to pure pleasure. His legs slide further apart, his knees buckle slightly, and his hand strays to his dick, damp with Terrence’s spit. Working one finger into Jimmy’s clenched hole, Terrence spreads him gently, his other hand stroking his own swollen cock.

  Jimmy leans down under the hood of the car, standing on tiptoes to present as much of himself as he can to Terrence. There’s an old condom in Terrence’s wallet, the color beginning to fleck off the foil packet, but it’s heavily lubricated and doesn’t tear as Terrence slips it on. “Please,” Jimmy’s saying, over and over again as he humps against the side of Terrence’s Mercedes. “Fuck me, please, please.”

  Standing, Terrence guides himself into Jimmy. The mechanic makes a low, guttural sound which enflames Terrence’s senses and boils his blood. It’s animalistic and raw and lusty, and purely sexual. As his hands trail around Jimmy’s waist, finding his thick cock, the mechanic grabs onto the side of the car and moves with a dancer’s rhythm. He’s tight and warm and unbelievably real, and each thrust sends an ocean of desire washing through Terrence. His teeth sink into Jimmy’s shoulder, eliciting another moan.

  Their coupling is quick and hot and sweaty. Jimmy locks his arms against the car, his legs firmly planted, his body taking the brunt of Terrence’s thrusts. “Yes,” he gasps, “yes, harder, yes.” He leans back against Terrence, his hips moving with their heated rhythm. “Yes. Yes.”

  There is nothing else for Terrence but the guy before him, the taut body against his, the long hair tickling his nose when he buries his face into it, the pale skin reddening beneath his ministrations. Terrence likes the way his skin looks against Jimmy’s, yin and yang, night and day, his black fingers gripping the white dick tight, his dark cock pumping between buttocks like the pale flesh of an unripe peach.

  Suddenly Jimmy pushes back, away from the car, impaling himself completely onto Terrence’s shaft. In Terrence’s hand, the mechanic’s cock spasms; Terrence strokes Jimmy, harder, faster, teasing his orgasm from him. Ropy strands of white cum arc into the air to splatter the oily innards of the Mercedes’ engine.

  The sight rouses Terrence to the brink of release. One final thrust and he comes, too, driving deep into the mechanic as he feels the hot rush of his semen stymied by the condom. Without pulling free, he hugs Jimmy close, holding him tightly.

  “Yes,” Jimmy sighs, his voice weak now, shuddering and spent. He lets himself be folded into Terrence’s embrace, his face turning towards Terrence’s, hungry for another taste. As their lips meet in a tender kiss, Jimmy whispers, “God, yes.”

  * * * *

  About an hour later the engine’s idling, unbearably loud in the garage, but the knocking has stopped and the motor purrs like a kitten. Jimmy’s hands and chest are streaked with grease, and his unbuttoned jeans are the only reminder of their mid-morning tryst. “That should about do it,” Jimmy says, leaning into the open window of the Mercedes. “Nothing a new set of spark plugs couldn’t fix.”

  Terrence sits back in the driver’s seat so he can look up at the mechanic. There’s a sparkle in Jimmy’s eyes he put there. Such a sexy guy. In a place like this… who would’ve thought?

  Lifting one large, dark hand off the steering wheel, Jimmy raises it to his lips and kisses it. His fingers curl around Terrence’s with a possessive air. “I hope I don’t have to wait for another problem with your car before I see you again.”

  Running a hand along the damp skin of Jimmy’s neck, Terrence pulls him down to claim a kiss. “You have my address and number.”

  Jimmy’s lips are soft and tender, his breath hot against Terrence’s mouth. “I’ll call you when I get off.”

  “You already got off once.” The pink flush rising into Jimmy’s cheeks is so damn cute, Terrence has to kiss him again. “You promise to call?”

  “Shit,” Jimmy drawls. “How can I not?”

  The way he says it makes Terrence’s heart swell and skip a beat. He thinks it just might burst into a million shards like a shattered windshield, and he feels twenty years younger. Hell, thirty. He hasn’t felt this giddy over someone since college.

  On the passenger seat beside him, his cell phone rings. The sound is shrill in the emptiness around them. It’s Melissa, Terrence knows—he has a two o’clock conference call he’s going to miss if he doesn’t leave now. He rolls his eyes and Jimmy snickers. “I’ve got to go. Call me.”

  With a grin, Jimmy kisses him again. It seems now they’ve started, they can’t stop. One kiss leads to another, and another. Between them, Jimmy promises, “I will. As soon as my shift is over, I swear. Maybe we can do something tonight.”

  “Maybe.” Terrence gives him a saucy wink, a promise in itself.

  Jimmy steals another kiss. “I’ll clock out at six. Gimme twenty minutes to go home and clean up—”

  “Don’t bother with all that.” Terrence puts the car in reverse and slowly starts to back out of the garage. Jimmy walks beside the car as if he’s afraid to let him leave. “Just come over. You can clean up at my place. I got a shower. It’s big enough for two.”

  “Now that sounds like a plan,” Jimmy says with a laugh. As the car exits the bay door, he steps back. “See you then!”

  Terrence gives him a small wave, then answers his cell. Before his secretary can say anything, he tells her, “I know, Melissa. Conference call in thirty minutes. I’m on my way.”

  She laughs in his ear. “I was getting worried about you, Mr. Jackson. Don’t tell me you’ve been at Gary’s this whole time?”

  He doesn’t think he was there long enough. But Jimmy’s promised him tonight, and there’s tomorrow morning if he’s lucky, and who knows how much longer after that?

  THE END

  Closing Time

  It was a little after ten o’clock in the evening when the last of the bar’s patrons staggered out to their cars. A light dusting of snow fell, silent on the sleeping city streets. Just another Thursday night, cold and blustery—nothing special, bartender Mitchell Nolan thought as he swept the floor. He pushed the broom along with a steady rhythm, brushing up the sawdust and peanut shells scattered across the hardwood floor. Around him the room was empty and dark, the only light from the recessed bulbs above the gleaming length of the bar. They cast long, warm shadows from the chairs stacked on top of the bar.

  Mitchell had considered closing early, letting everyone take a few extra hours off, but in the end he decided business was going too well and it was only Christmas Eve, not really a holiday. He would’ve forgotten about it completely if one of the college girls he employed to wash dishes hadn’t brought in an armful of long stemmed, ruby red roses and handed them out to her co-workers as presents.

  She even gave Mitchell one, which he’d stuck in a vase on the bar and vowed not to take home. He’d let it wilt there, just dry up and crumble away, then toss it out. He didn’t need it sitting on his coffee table at home to remind him he didn’t have anyone to give it to later. There was nothing special about the holiday for him, not any more.

  Dancing the broom along the underside of the barstools, Mitchell swept out gum wrappers and pretzels, and tried not to think back to the last time Christmas had meant something to him. How long had it been now? Three years, maybe, since he’d last seen Jamal.

  If he closed his eyes he could still see the pain in his ex-lover’s dark eyes, soft and compassionate and sad, and he cou
ld hear the words fall from his lips as if Jamal were here in the bar, speaking them all over again. It’s not you….

  Didn’t they all say that? It wasn’t him, it was never him. A sigh, a gentle kiss, maybe a clap on the back, and then goodbye. It’s not you….

  If it’s not me, Mitchell thought, angrily pushing the broom across the floor, then why am I the one who’s alone?

  If only someone could answer him that, maybe it would take some of the sting out of the holiday. Dear Santa, how’s that for a Christmas wish? Tell me what I’m doing wrong. Maybe you can tuck it in a box and stick it under the tree? Give me something to open tomorrow morning, that’d be nice.

  Most days being alone didn’t bother him—or rather, he wouldn’t let it bother him. He didn’t need the hassle of a relationship, he told himself; he was happier alone. Jamal had been the right one at the time but he wasn’t the one. It hadn’t been love with a capital “L”—Mitchell knew that. But was it too bad to want someone to talk to, someone to laugh with, someone more than just a friend?

  Mitchell didn’t think so, not when he knew he was going to be lonely and all he wanted was someone holding him, strong arms and comforting kisses that would make the time pass when he swore the darkness would stretch on forever. Was that too much to ask?

  Someone to love him, like the country songs that played on the jukebox in the corner, four for a dollar. He wanted someone like that, a love worth singing about, worth fighting for, worth locking up early and going home for…maybe he’d never find something like that. He’d been looking for so long now it wasn’t worth the effort anymore. He’d given up.