Chapter 5: Discussion Between Friends II
The air in the machine shop was thick with the smells of cutting fluid, hot metal, and old grease. A fine, gray dust coated every surface, dancing in the sunbeams that cut through the grimy windows. The rhythmic, screeching whine of the lathe filled the space, a sound so constant it became a kind of silence. Cliff wiped his hands on an already-stained rag, his eyes on the digital readout as he finished a pass on a custom motorcycle axle.
Mac worked opposite him, assembling a set of hydraulic lines, his movements efficient and practiced. The physical labor was a relief, a way to lose himself in the simple logic of mechanics where every problem had a solution. It kept the other, more tangled thoughts at bay.
The lathe whirred to a stop. In the sudden quiet, Cliff pulled his phone from his pocket, checking the screen with a soft, knowing grunt.
“Jenny’s out with Liz,” he said, his voice casual, cutting through the industrial hum. He set the phone down on the workbench with a definitive click. “Brunch.”
Mac’s hands stilled. The copper fitting he was about to crimp slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the steel bench, the sound unnaturally loud. The guilt, which Liz had so thoroughly fucked out of him just hours before, came roaring back, a cold, heavy stone settling in the center of his chest. He could suddenly smell Liz’s skin, feel the ghost of her mouth on his, and the memory was now tainted with a sharp, acidic shame.
“Oh,” was all he could manage. He kept his eyes fixed on the hydraulic line, a complex tangle of braided steel and fittings that now seemed incomprehensible.
Cliff watched him, his dark eyes missing nothing. He leaned back against the bench, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “That a problem?”
“No. No, of course not.” Mac’s denial was too quick, too thin. He finally looked up, meeting his friend’s gaze. The intensity there was like a physical pressure. “It’s just… I don’t know what they’re saying. What Liz is thinking.”
“I know what they’re saying,” Cliff said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. “They’re talking about you. They’re talking about how you fucked my submissive. How you buried your cock in Jenny’s throat while I watched. How you pinned her against my desk and made her come so hard she screamed.”
Each word was a deliberate, precise strike. Mac felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the shop’s temperature. His cock stirred, traitorous and thick, in his jeans. The vividness of the memory, framed by Cliff’s filthy narration, was overwhelming.
“Jesus, Cliff,” he breathed, his knuckles white where he gripped the bench.
“What? It’s the truth.” Cliff pushed off the bench and took a step closer, invading Mac’s space. The scent of him—sweat, metal, and pure dominance—filled Mac’s lungs. “You think Liz is over there scolding her? She’s probably getting wet just talking about it. She’s probably imagining the way Jenny’s tits shook when you were pounding her. She’s thinking about the taste of her on your skin.”
Mac’s breath hitched. He could see it, the two women in a sunlit cafe, their heads close together, speaking in low, intimate tones about the weight of him, the feel of him, the sounds he made. The idea should have horrified him. It did horrify him. But beneath the horror was a dark, pulsing thread of pure, undiluted arousal.
“She… she was okay with it. Last night. She was more than okay,” Mac said, the words feeling weak and defensive.
“I know she was,” Cliff said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rumble. “Because she knows what it does to you. She knows it unlocks this part of you that society tells you to keep locked away. The part that sees something beautiful and wants to take it. To use it. To claim it.” He was close enough now that Mac could feel the heat radiating from his body. “That’s what you did to Jenny, wasn’t it? You claimed her.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. A branding.
Mac’s control snapped. The confusion, the guilt, the raw, fucking need—it all coalesced into a single, blinding impulse. He grabbed the front of Cliff’s shirt, fisting the grease-stained cotton, and slammed him back against the heavy steel shelving unit. Tools rattled on their hooks.
“Yes,” Mac growled, his face inches from Cliff’s. “I fucking claimed her. I made her mine.”
Cliff’s eyes flashed with triumph, not anger. This was what he wanted. What he’d been pushing for. “Prove it.”
The shift was instantaneous and brutal. Mac’s mouth crashed down on Cliff’s, not a kiss of affection but an act of violence and dominance. It was all teeth and bruising force, a clash of stubble and desperate, tangled tongues. Cliff met him with equal ferocity, his hands coming up to grip Mac’s shoulders, holding him there.
Mac tore his mouth away, breathing ragged. He spun Cliff around to face the shelving, pinning him with his body. With one hand, he yanked Cliff’s jeans and boxers down to his thighs, exposing the tight, muscular curve of his ass. The air in the shop was cool on their heated skin.
“You want to see what I did to her?” Mac snarled, spitting into his palm before slicking his own hard, aching cock. He didn’t wait for an answer. He notched the head against Cliff’s entrance and drove forward in one brutal, unyielding thrust.
Cliff grunted, a sharp, punched-out sound as his body was forced open. His fingers scrabbled against the metal shelves, knocking a box of screws to the concrete floor where they scattered like tiny, metallic raindrops. It was tight, impossibly tight, and dry, a raw, burning friction.
“Fuck… Mac…” Cliff gasped, his head dropping forward.
“You wanted this,” Mac rasped, his voice thick with a fury that was also a release. He pulled back and slammed home again, deeper this time, his hips meeting Cliff’s ass with a sharp smack of skin on skin. “You fucking asked for this.”
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a physical manifestation of the turmoil inside him. This was the shame, the confusion, the social programming he was trying to tear out of his own psyche. This was the animal he was told not to be, fucking its way to the surface. The shop echoed with the sounds of it: their ragged breaths, the wet, slapping noise of their bodies joining, the creak of the shelving unit under the assault.
Cliff took it all, his body shuddering with each impact. “Yes… god, yes…,” he moaned, pushing back against Mac, meeting his force with a desperate need of his own. “This is it. This is what you keep locked away. Let it out. Fucking use me.”
Mac’s hands gripped Cliff’s hips, his fingers leaving pale then red marks on the skin. He leaned over, his chest pressed against Cliff’s back, his mouth near his ear. “She was so wet for me,” he panted, the words a hot, filthy whisper. “Her pretty little cunt was dripping all over your desk. She came on my cock like a fucking slut.”
“She’s my slut,” Cliff groaned, the words vibrating through both of them. “And you marked her. Now mark me.”
The command unleashed something final in Mac. His thrusts became erratic, frantic, losing all rhythm in the pursuit of his own climax. He was a machine coming apart, every piston firing at once. With a guttural, broken roar that seemed to tear from the deepest part of him, he came, pouring his release deep inside Cliff in hot, pulsing waves. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the aftershock.
For a long moment, the only sound was their harsh, synchronized breathing, fogging in the cool air. The scent of sex and sweat now mingled with the oil and metal.
Slowly, Mac pulled out, his body feeling hollowed out and strangely, profoundly calm. He staggered back a step, fastening his jeans with clumsy fingers.
Cliff turned around, leaning against the shelves for support. His face was flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes dark with a satisfied, primal light. He looked at Mac, really looked at him, seeing the man laid bare, all his defenses gone.
He reached out, not with violence, but with a startling tenderness, and cupped the back of Mac’s neck, pulling their foreheads together. The gesture was more intimate than the sex had been.
“There he is,” Cliff whispered, his voice rough but gentle. “There’s the man I know. The man your wife loves.”
The stone in Mac’s chest was gone. In its place was a quiet, steady hum. He closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar, complicated scent of his best friend, and for the first time since he’d walked out of Cliff’s office yesterday, he felt no guilt at all.o