Chapter 8: Public Training
The garage door of Riley’s shop, ‘Blackstone Auto,’ was a rusted slab of steel that rattled upward with a sound like breaking bones. Monday morning light, sharp and unforgiving, cut into the dim cavern of the workspace, illuminating floating dust and the lingering ghost of Saturday’s defiance. The scent was a familiar chorus of gasoline, rubber, and decayed grease.
Riley didn’t pause. She strode in, her heavy boots echoing on the stained concrete, flipping light switches. Fluorescents buzzed and flickered to life overhead, revealing the organized chaos: tool chests with drawers labeled in chipped paint, engines hanging from chains like mechanized carcasses, and the rusted pickup with the dented hood waiting patiently in its bay.
Joanna hovered at the threshold, the published version of herself feeling thin and performative here. This was Riley’s true cathedral. A twenty-something guy with a shaved head and a sleeve of tattoos looked up from a motorcycle engine, his eyes widening slightly as he saw Riley, then Joanna behind her. This was Leo, Riley had said. The other, Terrell, was still in the back office.
“‘Morning,” Riley said, her voice echoing slightly. She threw her jacket over a stool. “Leo, this is Joanna. She’s with me. Ignore any bullshit you hear.”
Leo wiped his hands on a rag, his gaze flickering with curiosity but not malice. “Hey. Coffee’s fresh in the office. Might be sludge.”
“Thanks,” Joanna said, finding her voice. It sounded too clean in the gritty space.
The day unfolded in a rhythm of wrench turns and low, shared laughter between Riley and her guys. Joanna fetched tools, handed over coffee, swept a section of floor just to keep her hands busy. The initial stiffness melted under the focused, unpretentious work. Terrell, a tall, quiet man with a deep voice, showed her how to organize a pegboard of sockets by size. “Riley’s system is a religion,” he said, a small smile on his face. “Mess it up, she’ll know.”
By mid-afternoon, a strange calm had settled in Joanna. The world outside, with its digital headlines, felt like a faint, irrelevant echo. Here, value was measured in torque specs and completed jobs. Riley moved with a capable grace, her hands speaking a language of pure competence. Joanna watched her, the way her forearms flexed as she loosened a stubborn bolt, a smear of black oil across her cheekbone.
Under the watchful eye of the guys, their touches were brief—a passing hand on the lower back, a tool handed over with lingered fingers. But the current between them hummed, amplified by the suppressed memory of the day before, by the defiance still coursing through their blood.
The turning point came with a delivery—a new transmission for the pickup, a hulking, heavy thing crated on a pallet. The delivery driver needed a signature. Riley was elbows-deep in an oil pan.
“Joanna, you mind?” Riley called out, nodding toward the clipboard. “Just scribble my name.”
Joanna took the clipboard, signed with a flourish. As the truck rumbled away, she looked at the massive crate sitting in the open bay doorway. Leo and Terrell were on lunch break, their voices fading as they walked toward the sub shop down the street.
Riley wiped her hands on a rag, walking over. “Help me wheel this bastard inside before it starts raining.”
They maneuvered the pallet jack, the heavy transmission looming between them. With a final grunting shove, they got it just inside the door. Riley straightened, breathing heavily, and kicked the release on the jack, lowering the crate with a solid thud.
Silence descended, broken only by the faint drip of a faucet and the distant sound of traffic. They were alone in the vast, shadowy garage. The flickering bulb over the pickup cast a jaundiced light.
Riley looked at her. The shop air was cool, but Joanna felt a heat rising from her core. Riley’s eyes held that same dark, possessive fire from the day before, but edged now with something new—a raw, territorial thrill. They were in her domain. Her rules.
“Come here,” Riley said, her voice low, not a request.
Joanna stepped around the crate, the concrete gritty under her shoes. Riley didn’t reach for her gently. She grabbed the front of Joanna’s shirt, pulling her in for a kiss that tasted of coffee and copper. It was harsh, demanding, a direct connection to the volatile energy crackling between them.
“You’ve been driving me crazy all day,” Riley breathed against her mouth, her hands dropping to Joanna’s hips. “Just watching you walk. Knowing what you feel like.”
One hand slid around to grip Joanna’s ass through her jeans, hard. “Turn around.”
A shiver, half fear, half pure desire, raced down Joanna’s spine. She turned, facing the workbench littered with calipers and wrenches. The metallic scent of oil and old gasoline filled her nostrils. Riley pressed against her from behind, her body a solid wall of heat.
Riley’s greasy fingers found the button of Joanna’s jeans, yanking them down along with her panties in one rough motion. The cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps. Riley’s palms, rough and stained with grime, smoothed over the bare curves of her ass.
“They’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Riley murmured, her lips at Joanna’s ear. Her voice was a dark promise.
Joanna braced her hands on the cluttered bench, a screwdriver digging into her palm. She didn’t care. The risk, the filth, the utter wrongness of it fused into an aphrodisiac more potent than any luxury. Riley spat onto her fingers, a crude, wet sound in the quiet garage. She didn’t tease. She pressed two slick, firm fingers against Joanna’s entrance, then pushed inside.
Joanna gasped, her knuckles whitening on the bench. The stretch was immediate, a burning fullness. Riley’s fingers were thick, calloused, moving with a ruthless efficiency that spoke of intimate knowledge. She worked them in and out, her other hand splayed on Joanna’s lower back, holding her down.
“That’s it,” Riley growled, her breath hot on Joanna’s neck. “Take it. Greasy and dirty, just like you wanted.”
She added a third finger, the stretch becoming an ache that blossomed into deep, shocking pleasure. Joanna’s forehead dropped to the cool metal of the bench. The world narrowed to the sound of Riley’s ragged breathing, the wet, rhythmic sound of her fingers pumping, the coarse denim of Riley’s own jeans rubbing against her bare thighs.
“You gonna come like this?” Riley taunted, her pace intensifying. “With my filthy hands in you? With Leo and Terrell probably already walking back?”
The thought tipped Joanna over the edge. A orgasm, sharp and sudden, racked her body, clamping hard around Riley’s invading fingers. She bit down on her own arm to stifle the cry, the taste of her own skin and the shop’s grime in her mouth.
Riley didn’t stop. As Joanna shuddered through the waves, Riley pulled her fingers out. Joanna heard the rasp of a zipper, the rustle of clothing. Then Riley’s hands were on her hips again, yanking her back. The blunt, wet head of Riley’s cock pressed against her, not where she expected, but lower, tighter.
Riley spat again, the fluid landing directly on Joanna’s puckered hole. Before Joanna could even process the intention, Riley was pushing forward, breaching her with a single, brutal, unforgiving thrust.
The air left Joanna’s lungs in a punched-out gasp. The pain was a bright, white-hot spike, instantly melting into a fullness so profound it bordered on agony. Riley bottomed out, buried to the hilt, her body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Fuck,” Riley hissed, her voice strangled. “You’re so fucking tight.”
She began to move, slow, deep drags that forced helpless, choked sounds from Joanna’s throat. Each withdrawal was a reluctant surrender, each thrust a searing reclaiming. The shame was nowhere to be found. In its place was a terrifying surrender, a vulnerability so complete it felt like power. Riley owned her, here in this grimy temple, and Joanna gave herself freely.
Riley’s grip on her hips tightened, her rhythm becoming faster, less controlled. Her grunts were primal things, lost in the cavernous space. One hand snaked around Joanna’s body, fingers finding her sensitive clit, rough and demanding.
“Come again,” Riley commanded, her thrusts turning jagged, desperate. “I want to feel you come on my cock. I want you to remember this bench, this smell, every time you sit down.”
The command, the filth of the words, the overwhelming invasion—it built a second peak, higher and more terrifying than the first. Joanna came with a silent, screaming convulsion, her body clenching violently around Riley’s length. The sensation tore a ragged shout from Riley, who slammed into her one last time, her own release pumping deep inside Joanna in hot, pulsing jets.
They collapsed forward over the workbench, tools clattering to the floor. Riley’s weight was heavy, comforting. Their sweat mingled, smelling of sex, grease, and salt. In the silence, Joanna could hear the drip of the faucet again, the sound of a world resuming.
Riley softened inside her, slipping out. She rested her forehead between Joanna’s shoulder blades, her breathing gradually slowing.
A phone buzzed, loud on the metal bench. Terrell’s name flashed on the screen. A text: Got your food. Back in 5.
Riley lifted her head. She gently helped Joanna stand, her touch incongruously tender after such violence. They dressed quickly, wordlessly, in the dim light. Joanna’s legs felt unsteady, her body thrumming with a deep, sore ache.
Riley handed her a cleanish rag from a shelf. “For your hands,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Joanna wiped the grease and sweat from her palms. As she did, Riley watched her, her expression unreadable in the shadows. Then, she stepped close, her thumb rubbing a smudge of oil from Joanna’s cheekbone. The gesture was so unexpectedly soft it made Joanna’s throat tighten.
Outside, the rumble of Leo’s car pulling into the lot echoed.
“You okay?” Riley asked, the question simple, heavy.
Joanna looked around the garage—at the bench they’d just defiled, the shadows that had witnessed them, the woman standing before her with knuckle tattoos and gentle hands. She didn’t feel okay. She felt unraveled and rewoven into something stronger, stranger.
“Yes,” she said.
Riley nodded, just once. “Good.”
She turned as the side door opened, Leo and Terrell’s laughter preceding them into the room, bringing with them the smell of fried food and the mundane reality of the afternoon. Joanna leaned back against the workbench, the metal cool through her shirt, and watched Riley greet her crew, her voice easy and normal. The secret throbbed between Joanna’s legs, a slick, hidden truth. She took the paper bag of food Terrell offered her, her fingers brushing his, and felt, for the first time, like she belonged exactly where she was.