I don't know how I ended up selling auto parts rather than fixing vehicles, which is what I really enjoy. Sure, the pay is good and working at a counter is easier on my body, but I prefer the challenge of troubleshooting mechanical contraptions. I digress.
As I was leaving the store at the end of a long day, a coworker, Kate intercepted me at the time clock.
"Would you do me a favor?" she asked.
Kate and I have known each other for about three years. For two-plus of those, I was the grease-monkey on the other side of the counter and she the salesperson. For the last six months, I've been working with Kate on her side of the counter.
The girl knows her auto parts. I am continually asking her for help with part numbers and suppliers. She's a great coworker and has taken me on as her training project. We're close in age; I'm twenty-two and she is a couple of years older.
"Sure!" I answered, not knowing what the favor was.
"Thanks. A high-school friend of mine is visiting and needs help. She is loath to ask for assistance, but I know you're the guy to help her."
Looking back, I should have been more suspicious, but when she asked I figured it had something to do with computers. When I'm not working on jacked-up Jeeps or selling auto parts, I'm tinkering with computers. Someday I hope to make a living working on computers. They are as interesting as troubleshooting vehicles, but they are cleaner and the pay is better. For now, my friends know that I'm available to fix their rides or computers.
"Does she own a PC or a Mac?" I asked. I'm much better with PCs, but I can hold my own with Macs.
Kate grinned and replied, "I'm not sure. Can you come over at about seven?" She scratched her address on one of the store's notepads.
"I'll pour you a shot, or two, of good whiskey and find a way to repay you."
Kate knew I liked whiskey from our rambling conversations between customers. As for the "repayment," I knew what I'd like, to slip into her little panties. I felt creepy letting that thought sneak into my head. Yuck, what a fucking
guy
thing to think. Kate and I don't have much in common and I don't want to screw up our relationship at work. The fantasy quickly passed.
I drove the 15 minutes or so home, took a shower (after being a mechanic I've fallen into the habit of always showering when I got home), and had a huge salad. Yeah, salad isn't exactly a macho-mechanic meal, but it's what I often crave when I get home. I was tempted to pour my usual three-fingers of whiskey, but remembering Kate's offer, I figured I'd want a clear head fixing her friend's computer.
I knocked on Kate's apartment door a few minutes after seven. She opened it, smiled, and gesturing toward the laptop satchel slung across my chest, said, "I don't think you'll be needing that."
(I was only mildly puzzled by her statement. You, obviously, understand her meaning based on where you are reading this. I was clueless.)
I saw what I assumed was Kate's high-school friend sitting on a tall, backless bar stool near the little kitchen counter. She did make my heart skip a beat or two (or three). A little hottie, she was petite with narrow, but not too boyish hips, full but not too out-of-proportion breasts, and short dark hair. Damn! I thought; I could do that! And then my reoccurring follow-up thought arrived: don't be a creep!
I slipped off my satchel and leaned it on the wall near the door as Kate picked up one of the three whiskey glasses on the counter and handed it to me. It was a fairly large pour with one of those huge, square ice cubes swirling in it. She topped off the girls' glasses as I took my first sip.
"I'm Steve," I said extending my hand to Kate's friend.
"Oh! Sorry!" said, Kate, "Steve, this is Amy. Amy this is Steve. Amy and I went to high school together. She's visiting for a week on her way back to college. She's going to be a big-shot lawyer."
"Hi," replied Amy, smiling and then looking down at her glass. Unlike extroverted Kate, she seemed a bit shy.
"Hi Amy," I said. "Kate said you need help with something?"
I saw Amy's face darken, but Kate solved the mystery before I could ponder the blushing.
"Amy needs to get fucked," Kate said matter-of-factly as she swirled the large cube in her glass.
Now it was me that blushed. My physical reaction included jerking my head back quickly. As I write this, I don't want to admit that I was ready to run, but the shock of Kate's words must have released a little fight-or-flight response. I guess it should have been, fuck-or-flight. I'd certainly choose the former, but my instinct was the latter.
Amy's reaction, however, was even more obvious. Her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide in disbelief as she spun to look at Kate. She didn't say anything, but her expression screamed, "What the fuck did you just say, Kate?"
Juxtaposed to Amy's nonverbal response, Kate's words had been matter-of-fact and said with authority. Kate's confidence implied her belief that she knew what Amy needed even if Amy didn't. And she pronounced "fucked" with a hard "f" that emphasized the verb and her conviction.
Amy continued to stare at Kate with wide eyes. She swallowed hard. Her face continued to darken.
I, being the guy I am sometimes ashamed of, felt swelling in my shorts.
After a few moments of hesitation, I found my voice. I wanted some of that.
"Is that true, Amy?" I asked.
It wasn't that I was feeling bold or confident. In fact, I am normally a little shy and usually require the girl to make the first move. In hindsight, I guess that's what was happening here, but Kate was the girl who was making the move on Amy's behalf.
Before explaining what happened next, I need to clarify that Kate and I never talked about sex and hadn't hung out together. We were friends, but only coworker friends. Nothing in our relationship or her asking me to come over tonight led to me anticipating this and I don't know why she was so sure I'd oblige.
Although I'm on the shy side of the introvert-extrovert scale, Kate's confidence emboldened me. Testosterone might have played a role, too.
"Is that true, Amy?" I asked again.
"That's what Kate thinks," Amy answered concisely. Her eyes dropped to her glass.
"But I'm not looking to get," she paused, "to 'get fucked' if that's what you're asking."
She looked up at me, and then at Kate, to gauge our reactions.
"And that, my dear friend," said Kate, "is my point."
"She isn't getting laid and hasn't been trying to," Kate continued. "She hasn't been fucked for at least a year, and I'm unsure she has ever gotten the pounding she deserves."
The swelling in my pants had increased. (I should probably use the word "hardened," as that is a better description of what was happening to my penis.)
I walked over to Amy who was still seated on the padded bar stool.
"Stand up," I said. Maybe it came across as an order. That wasn't my intent, but I was feeding off of Kate's confidence.
Amy stood.
"Do you need to get fucked?" I asked, lifting her chin with my fingers and looking directly into her eyes.
Amy looked up at me and shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know" was her avoiding answer.
I reached up and began unbuttoning her shirt. It was similar to a guy's dress shirt, although clearly a woman's.
After undoing the final button, I used both hands to lift it off her shoulders and pull it down to her elbows, exposing her bra and partially trapping her arms.
She was wearing a neutral-colored bra that matched her skin. I unhooked the fastener between her breasts, pulled the cups to the side, and pulled the straps off of her shoulders and down to her elbows.
Amy was looking at the floor. Her rapidly rising and falling breasts conveyed her excitement—or fear.
"Man, she's beautiful," I said to Kate, who flashed me a big smile in return.
I reached up and gently brushed the back of my hand against one of Amy's protruding nipples. She took a deep breath.
Using my thumbs and index fingers, I squeezed her nipples. I didn't squeeze the actual nipples, but the dark areas around them. I squeezed harder than I normally would in an attempt to gauge her reaction. Amy's response was immediate: a shiver of her body as an "uh" sound escaped her lips.
I have never moved so quickly, sexually. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I'd only had a handful of one-night stands. And I've never moved forward without a clear indication from my partner that she wanted to have sex.
"Do you want to get fucked, Amy?" I asked, this time phrasing the question with "want" rather than "need." It was a subtle difference.
