Confessions

Brandi knew engines better than most men knew their wives. Hips swaying under grease-streaked coveralls, she could lose whole afternoons under a hood, hands buried in pistons and oil. Her boss, the only flaw in the perfect day, was a liar and a cheat. He kept Aidra waiting while he dipped his wick across town. Today Aidra walked in looking for answers, and Brandi wasn't covering for him anymore. She wiped her palms on a rag, locked the bay door, and leveled with her. Aidra’s fiancé had just left with another woman. Brandi said it plain, then admitted the rest: that watching Aidra smile in the doorway had kept her wet under her overalls for months. She stepped close enough for Aidra to smell hot metal and female sweat, and waited. Aidra’s breath caught. Then her fingers tugged the zipper of Brandi’s coveralls, peeling the cotton back from sweat-slick breasts, nipples already tight. Brandi hissed, arched, and let Aidra suck one into her mouth while her own hand slipped under the waistband of Aidra’s skirt and found silk already soaked through. Clothes hit the floor in greasy heaps. Brandi lifted Aidra onto the polished hood of the waiting Porsche; the metal was cool, Aidra’s thighs hot. Brandi spread her open, licked the length of her in one slow stroke, then sealed her lips around the swollen clit and sucked until Aidra’s heels drummed against the quarter-panel. Aidra begged, bucked, came hard enough to smear the paint job. They traded places. Brandi bent over the engine bay, palms braced on the valve cover, while Aidra dropped to her knees and feasted. Two fingers curled inside her, scissoring, stretching, curling against the spot that made her curse. When Brandi came, it was loud and sudden—thighs shaking, cunt pulsing around Aidra’s tongue. Later they lay tangled on a shop blanket, skin tacky with oil and sweat, hearts still hammering like the pistons above them. Brandi kissed the corner of Aidra’s mouth and grinned. “Same time tomorrow?”