One of the houses I lived in during college had this neighbor, Paul. Sweet guy. The kind of man who shoveled our driveway before we even thought about it, dragged our trash cans to the curb when we forgot, and always had a friendly word when I came home sweaty from a run. I’d be on the porch, stretching, trying to keep my hamstrings from turning into stone, and he’d wave from his yard, asking me about school, life, whatever. He was married, but he seemed lonely in a way that settled into his shoulders, like an old coat he couldn’t take off.
Still, he was never weird about it. Never looked too long, never gave off that off feeling some older men do when you’re a young woman in tiny shorts. He was just nice.
One day, I mentioned needing an oil change and asked where I should take my car. He shrugged and said he did his own, it was cheaper that way. Then he offered, casual as anything, “I could do yours if you grab the oil. Or I could teach you if you wanna learn.”
The tomboy in me perked up at that. I liked knowing how to do things myself, liked the feeling of grease on my hands and the confidence of understanding a machine. So on that cool autumn weekend, I pulled my car up onto these little ramps in his garage, he closed the door and we got to work.
I’d thrown on my usual project clothes, old cargo pants, snug in the thighs, loose at the ankles, and a ribbed white tank that had seen one too many paint jobs. Stains speckled the fabric, proof of every wall I’d rolled, every canvas I dabbled on. Practical. comfortable. And, unintentionally, just enough cleavage.
We slid under the car, the cool concrete pressing into my back. He pointed to the oil pan, the bolt that needed loosening. “Go on, try it,” he said, handing me the wrench.
I braced myself, gripped it tight, and turned. Or tried to. The bolt didn’t budge. What did move, though, was me, sliding ungracefully across the concrete and straight into Paul.
For a second, we were just lying there, bodies close in the dim garage, smelling like motor oil and old dust.
“…Well,” he said after a beat, amused. “That’s one way to do it. But maybe I should give it a try”
“No, I’ll get it,” I said stubbornly. “Just… hold me so I don’t slide.”
Paul hesitated, then placed his hands on my back, steady but not too firm. Just enough to anchor me. I repositioned myself, gritted my teeth, and tried again. The bolt didn’t budge. But I did. Again, right against him.
A quiet chuckle vibrated in his chest. “Imagine if my wife saw us under here.”
I felt his breath, warm against my neck. The scent of motor oil, soap, and something unmistakably him curled around me.
I shifted, turning just enough to see his face. “I didn’t think she was home,” I said.
“She’s not.”
Silence. That thick, weighty kind that makes your pulse tick a little too fast. Our faces were inches apart, close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lips barely parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
I reached up, fingers ghosting along his cheek. A test. A warning. A question.
He didn’t pull away.
Slowly, I traced my thumb across his lower lip, the warmth of him humming against my skin.
The garage was quiet except for our breathing, ragged now, unsteady.
Paul didn’t move at first, but I could feel everything happening inside him, the hesitation, the guilt, the want. He wasn’t just nervous. He was struggling. But then, like surrendering to an undertow, his hand found my face, fingers rough and warm against my skin. He mirrored what I’d done to him, his thumb dragging over my lower lip, slower this time, like he was memorizing the feeling.
I caught it between my lips, sucked it gently into my mouth, my tongue flicking over the pad of his thumb. I watched him as I did it. Watched his chest rise, his mouth go slack, his pupils go wide.
His breath shuddered.
“Why are you doing this?” he whispered.
I let his thumb slide free, my lips brushing against the tip as I pulled back just enough to murmur, “Do you want me to stop?”
He didn’t answer with words. He just shook his head, barely, like he was afraid saying it out loud would make it real.
I moved closer, close enough that my lips hovered at his jaw. His breath stuttered as I kissed just beneath his ear, my voice low, dangerous.
“Let me please you.”
A muscle in his throat jumped. “We…”
I cut him off by pressing my lips to his, soft at first, just enough to feel the shape of his mouth against mine. Testing. Waiting.
Then his hands were on me, my waist, my back, fingers digging in like he needed to feel that I was real. Like he’d already lost the fight with himself. He kissed me back, and when I deepened it, when my teeth caught his bottom lip, he groaned like something inside him had snapped.
He pulled me into him more, the cold garage floor seeping through my shirt, but I didn’t care. His body was warm against mine, solid, heavy in a way that made my thighs press together.
“This is wrong,” he murmured against my skin.
I slid my hand down his stomach, and through his shirt, I could feel him tense under my touch.
“Then stop me,” I whispered.
He didn’t.
I popped the button of his jeans, dragged the zipper down slow enough to make him shiver. My fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding him. Hard, thick, pulsing with heat.
Paul sucked in a breath as I wrapped my hand around him, his eyes dark with something between want and disbelief.
I held his gaze, my lips curving into the slightest smirk.
“Cum in my mouth,” I whispered.
A choked sound escaped him, half a groan, half a curse.
I started to slide down his body, wiggling in the cramped space, the thrill of it winding tight in my stomach. He was so sweet, so good, and yet here he was, letting me ruin him.
And god, I wanted to.
I wrapped my lips around him, taking him in slow, savoring the weight of him on my tongue.
Paul let out a shaky breath, his fingers threading into my hair, tentative at first. But then, hesitation giving way to need, he guided me, pushing himself just a little deeper.
A soft groan escaped him, his hips rolling in gentle, controlled movements. Not rough, not forceful, just him losing himself, finding his pleasure.
I relaxed, letting him set the rhythm, letting him use me the way he needed. The way we both needed.
Then he tensed, every muscle in his body going rigid. A sharp inhale, a quiet groan… then release. Warm and strong.
I swallowed, taking everything he gave me, feeling each pulse against my tongue.
His body sagged after, spent, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.
I smiled and looked up at him, expecting to meet his eyes, to see something. Satisfaction, desire, even guilt. But he wasn’t looking at me.
His gaze was distant, unfocused, staring straight ahead like he was somewhere else entirely.
I watched him in the silence, my own heartbeat slowing, and wondered…
What is he thinking?
Without a word, he rolled out from under the car, zipped up his jeans, and stood.
I stayed where I was, lying on the cold concrete, staring up at the underbelly of my car.
My throat felt tight. My skin still burned from his touch, but the warmth was already fading.
I did it again.
Ruined another friendship.
