Chapter 18: The Garage Office
The office door clicked shut, sealing them in a bubble of stale coffee and gasoline. Izzy’s back met the edge of the heavy wooden desk, the photo of them in its frame rattling. Dom’s hands were already on her, rough and sure, pushing the loose fabric of her sundress up over her hips.
“See?” he muttered, his voice a low rumble against her ear as he bent her forward. “Still wet. Still mine.”
Her cheek pressed against the cool, gritty surface of the desk. She could feel it, a slow, warm seep between her thighs, the evidence of his earlier claim. He spread her ass cheeks with both hands, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. The cool air of the office hit her exposed cunt, followed by the heat of his gaze.
“Fuck, Izzy. Look at that.” A glob of spit landed directly on her hole, a wet, shocking slap. He didn’t wait, using the moisture and her own slick leavings to guide the thick, purple head of his cock back inside her. The entry was a brutal, stretching fullness. She gasped, her fingers curling against the wood.
He seated himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating push. A grunt escaped him, a sound of pure, animal satisfaction. Her channel, already sensitized and used, clenched around the renewed invasion.
“Told you,” he growled, his hands clamping on her hips, his thumbs pressing into the dimples of her lower back. He began to move, a slow, deep withdrawal followed by a punishing, piston-hard thrust. The desk jolted, scraping against the concrete floor with a screech that was swallowed by the grind of an impact wrench somewhere in the bay. “Gonna fill you up so full you’ll be tasting me for a week.”
His rhythm was relentless, a mechanical fucking that had nothing to do with tenderness and everything to do with possession. Each drive buried him deep, the slap of his balls against her soaked folds a wet, rhythmic counterpoint to their ragged breathing. Izzy moaned, the sound muffled against the desk. Pleasure, sharp and electric, coiled in her core, fed by the sheer indecency of it—bent over his desk, in his office, with the world just a filthy window pane away.
One of his hands slid from her hip, around the curve of her belly, questing downward. His calloused fingers found her clit, swollen and needy. He didn’t tease. He pressed the rough pad of his thumb against the sensitive nub and began rubbing tight, insistent circles, perfectly timed with the slam of his cock into her depths.
“That’s it,” he snarled, his breath hot on her neck. “Squeeze me. Milk your daddy’s cock. Take every fucking drop.”
The dual assault was too much. The pressure built, a screaming tension in her loins, amplified by the crude, filthy words in her ear. Her orgasm ripped through her without warning, a silent, seizing wave that locked her muscles and stole her breath before a broken scream tore itself from her throat. Her pussy convulsed around him, a violent, fluttering grip.
The feeling of her tight channel milking him pushed Dom over the edge. With a roar he stifled against her shoulder, he plunged deep and held, his body shuddering against hers. She felt the hot, liquid pulse of his cum flooding her, jet after jet, mixing with everything already there. He ground his hips, ensuring not a drop was wasted, until he was spent, panting against her back.
For a long moment, they stayed fused, his weight heavy and comforting on top of her. His softening cock was a plug, holding his latest deposit inside. Slowly, he pulled her upright, his arm wrapped around her stomach, keeping her back against his chest. He was still inside her. A possessive afterthought.
He nuzzled into her hair, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Now get dressed. We got customers. But this,” he gave a slight, intentional thrust, making her gasp as more fluid leaked out, “stays in you until I say otherwise.”
He withdrew finally, and she felt the immediate, warm trickle down her inner thigh. He handed her a rag from a stack on a shelf—it was clean but smelled faintly of solvent. She caught his eye as she took it. He shook his head, a slight, imperceptible motion. Understanding, she simply wiped the excess from her skin, leaving the deeper, filled feeling untouched. She smoothed her dress down.
Dom was already adjusting himself, zipping his jeans, his face transforming back into that of the focused mechanic. He unlocked the door. The sounds of the garage flooded in—the rumble of an engine, a radio playing classic rock, the metallic ping of a tool.
“Izzy, grab me the three-eighths torque wrench from the red cart, will ya?” he called, his voice now normal, casual, as he walked out into the bay, nodding at old man Connelly, who was peering under the hood of his vintage Mustang.
“Yeah, coming,” she said, her own voice surprisingly steady. She felt the cool air on her legs, the subtle, secret ache, the persistent leak that was a constant reminder. As she walked into the bright, noisy garage, the smell of oil and exhaust overwhelming the scent of sex on her skin, she caught Dom’s eye across the hood of the car. He winked, a quick, stolen gesture. The world outside their bubble continued, blind and unknowing. And inside her, his claim simmered, a potent, living thing.
And inside her, his claim simmered, a potent, living thing.
It leaked slowly, a persistent warmth tracing a path down her thigh as she fetched the wrench. The coarse shop rag in her back pocket was a pointless formality. Each step was a reminder of the fullness, a sloshing weight that belonged only to him and their singular project. She handed Dom the tool, their fingers brushing, a static charge in the grease-thick air.
“Thanks, kid,” he said, his voice impersonal for the benefit of old man Connelly. His eyes, however, dropped to the hem of her sundress. He saw the damp, dark spot blooming on the thin cotton, a small, secret map of their earlier violence. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
The afternoon stretched, an agony of normalcy. She wiped down tools, answered the phone with a clipped politeness, and felt every minute as a theft. The biological clock in her womb felt deafening, a ticking entirely separate from the wall clock over the office door. Each cramp, each fresh trickle of his combined fluids, was a hour lost.
Finally, the Mustang rumbled out, a cloud of exhaust hanging in the late day sun. The other mechanics clocked out, their trucks peeling away from the lot. Silence descended, heavy and expectant. Dom was locking the main bay doors, his back to her, a monument of focused energy.
She couldn’t wait.
Izzy turned and walked straight back into the office, the room still smelling of sex and sweat under the oil. He followed a moment later, filling the doorway. He was already pulling his sweat-dampened t-shirt over his head, revealing the familiar terrain of his torso.
“Daddy,” she said, the word not a pet name but a demand. She leaned against the cleared desk, the very spot he’d ravaged her. “When are we going home?”
He paused, tossing the shirt onto a chair. “When the work’s done.”
“The work is here.” She placed a hand low on her stomach. “We have something to do. And we wanted to be naked the entire week so we can fuck and get me pregnant.”
The statement hung there, crude and magnificent in its simplicity. It stripped away all pretense of garages and customers and normal life. It was their only truth.
He crossed the room in three strides. His hand covered hers on her belly, pressing down, as if he could feel the potential beneath. “You think I forgot?” His other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back. “You think I’m not counting every goddamn hour?”
“It feels like waiting,” she breathed, her hips pressing against the desk’s edge.
“It is waiting.” He unzipped his jeans, freeing his cock, which was already thick and heavy with intent. He pushed her dress up again, his fingers sliding through the slick mess between her legs. He brought them to her lips, painting them with their mingled spend. “Taste it. That’s the job. Keeping you ready. Keeping you full.”
She sucked his fingers clean, her eyes locked on his. He didn’t bend her over this time. He lifted her, her back against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist. There was no finesse, no seeking alignment. He just drove upward, impaling her on his length in one brutal, upward thrust that knocked the air from her lungs.
“This is how we go home,” he grunted, his forearms braced against the wall, his entire body a piston hammering her onto him. Each impact jarred her teeth, the friction a blinding, beautiful fire. “I’m gonna carry you out of here just like this, with my dick buried in your cunt. You understand?”
She could only nod, her nails scoring his shoulders. The angle was deep, punishing, each stroke a direct assault on her cervix, a battering ram at the door of her womb. The filthy, rhythmic slap of their bodies filled the small office.
“You wanna be naked?” he growled, his mouth on her throat, biting, sucking. “You will be. You’ll be naked on my couch, on the kitchen floor, in your own bed screaming while I pump this seed so deep into you it’ll have no choice but to take.” His pace became frantic, animalistic. “I’m gonna plant it in you, Izzy. I’m gonna see your belly swell with me.”
His words tipped her over. Her orgasm was a silent, seismic convulsion, her channel gripping him in rhythmic, milking spasms that pulled his own release from him. He shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound, as he ejaculated, another hot, urgent flood joining the reservoir he’d been building inside her all day. He held her there, pinned, pumping until he was utterly spent.
Slowly, he lowered her. Her legs trembled, barely holding her. He stayed inside her, softening, a tender plug. He rested his forehead against hers, their breath mingling.
“Now we go home,” he said, his voice ragged with certainty. He zipped his jeans, her dress falling back into place, concealing the utterly lewd connection. “You walk out to the car. I’ll be right behind you.” He withdrew, and a gush of their combined fluids soaked her inner thighs, the silk of her underwear offering no barrier. “Don’t clean up. Not one drop.”