The Mechanic Who Wanted to Make Us Both Submissive

The silence that followed the release in the office of «Talleres Casimiro» was not one of peace, but of sheer exhaustion. The air was so thick you could almost chew it: sweat, black tobacco, and that diesel scent the man seemed to have permanently grafted onto his skin, as if he wore it as cologne.

Casimiro hauled up the leg of his overalls with the calm of a man who has just changed a tire. He scratched his belly, taut and solid as a drum, and looked at them with a yellow-toothed smile.

—Well, girls, you’ve left me bone dry —he said—. The lad’s off to bed. My place is right behind here, attached to the workshop. The bed’s big, one of the old kind. If you fancy coming to sleep, the three of us can fit in, tight as anything. What do you say?

Raquel and Noelia exchanged a quick glance. Their bodies were bruised, their skin sticky, their minds in a whirl. The offer was tempting in its very brutality, but the reality of what they had just done hit them all over again.

—No… thank you —Raquel managed to say, her voice hoarse—. It’s too much for one day. We’d rather stay here, on the sofa.

—Suit yourselves, city girls are bloody weird —he laughed—. There are blankets in the cupboard. If you get cold, snuggle up to each other.

He opened the door, let in a blast of freezing air from the workshop, and disappeared into the darkness, whistling.

***

When a metal door slammed somewhere in the distance, Raquel let herself drop onto the cracked imitation leather sofa and pulled her phone from her bag. Hardly any battery left, but there was at least some signal. She looked up her mother’s number.

—Mum, it’s me. We’re not going to be able to make it this weekend —she said, with a naturalness that frightened her—. The car’s broken down in the middle of nowhere. We’re in a garage waiting for a quote, but it’ll take days. We’ll stay at a nearby hostel.

—Does Andrés know?

—Don’t tell Andrés anything. I’ll let him know when we get back. Don’t worry.

She hung up. Silence returned, broken only by the agonized hum of the fridge. There was no turning back now.

—Why did you say it’ll take days? —Noelia asked, looking up. Her eyes shone with a mix of fear and hope.

—Because I want to stay —Raquel confessed, and as she said it she felt a physical relief—. Here. With him.

Noelia sat down beside her mother. Casimiro’s smell was still soaked into the upholstery, and now it seemed as addictive to them as the air itself.

—Me too —the young woman admitted—. When he put me on the table I felt like a piece of meat. And I loved it.

—The therapist was right —Raquel said, stroking her hair—. What happened with Severino and Ramón wasn’t an accident. We’ve got something inside us, daughter: an addiction. Not to your father’s sex, but to this. To being ordered around without being asked. It’s rest. —She drew breath—. This is going to be our retreat. Nobody knows where we are.

They settled under a ragged blanket that smelled of dog, holding each other in the darkness of the workshop. There was no fear of the future and no remorse about the husband. Only a ravenous anticipation for dawn.

***

The morning did not bring birdsong, but the screech of distant shutters, the hoarse bark of a mastiff, and a grayish light seeping through the dirty skylights. They were awakened by a clatter of pans and cheerful blasphemies on the other side of the glass. Every muscle protested: that sofa had been a trap of springs and filth.

—Up you get, sleepyheads, the cock has crowed already! —Casimiro thundered, kicking the door open, carrying boxes and grinning from ear to ear—. Wake up, today we’ve got visitors!

Noelia sat up, covering her chest with her arms.

—Visitors? The police?

—No chance! It’s my cousin Lucio, from «El Émbolo» bar. He’s bringing me supplies. I told him I had a surprise: two new fillies in the pen he has to see to believe.

Raquel felt a shiver. Not fear: an electric shame mixed with excitement.

—We’re not dressed —she stammered, looking at their torn clothes in a corner.

—No need. But since Lucio’s a family man, put these on.

He tossed them two gray promotional T-shirts, cheap cotton, huge size. On the chest, beneath a crossed wrench and piston, it read: «TALLERES CASIMIRO — WE FIX IT OR WE BREAK IT FOR GOOD».

—That way everyone will know who you belong to —he said proudly—. And no panties. Let the air through.

The order was direct. The logic of the civilized woman tried to protest, but the other one won, the one who had moaned under that weight hours before. The T-shirts reached mid-thigh and, through the wide armholes, showed part of their sides. The rough cotton rubbed against their nipples, which hardened at once, betraying them.

***

He took them to the house, a stone-and-old-tile building with peeling plaster, the sort of place lived in by a man alone ever since he was widowed. It smelled of firewood, reheated coffee, and pipe tobacco trapped in the crocheted curtains. He pushed them toward the solid wood table just as an engine climbed the slope.

—Easy, Toro! —a hoarse voice called to the mastiff. Heavy footsteps on the porch, and the door swung open wide.

—Lucio! Come in, for fuck’s sake, come into the kitchen!

If Casimiro was a bear, Lucio was a wild boar: shorter, stockier, with a belly threatening the buttons of his checked shirt and a shiny bald spot ringed with graying hair. He had a toothpick in his mouth and a crate of bottles and cured meats in his hands. He stopped dead when he saw them.

—Holy Virgin, Casimiro! —he exclaimed, setting the crate on the table—. You weren’t lying! They’re real!

Casimiro swelled like a peacock and put an arm around Raquel’s shoulders, her knees trembling at the weight of the man.

—Their car broke down at kilometer 14 and Ramón sent them here.

Lucio came closer, circling them, inspecting them like someone looking over a used car. There was no concealment in his gaze, only raw country lust.

—Mother of God! —he whistled, staring at Noelia’s naked legs—. Good paint job and bodywork, eh? A bit light around the ankle, but they look like good engine material.

Raquel burned. They were being appraised, discussed like an object right in front of them. And worst of all, what made her clench her thighs was that she wanted to pass the inspection. I want him to say I’ve got a good engine.

—From the capital, no less —Casimiro confirmed, giving her a loud slap on the ass—. Pure class. But they suck like calves and endure like pack mules. Last night they nearly threw my bearings out.

Lucio let out a greasy laugh. Raquel bowed her head pretending submission, but her eyes shone. She was no longer the executive, the bored wife. She was «the refined one who can endure like a mule». A title. A role.

—Less chatter and more lunch —Casimiro decreed—. Raquel, slice the cheese. Noelia, the wine. Quick, my cousin’s got a dry throat.

They stopped being statues and became servants. As Noelia served, she bent forward and the T-shirt pulled away from her chest. Lucio made no attempt to hide it: he looked blatantly through the armhole gap.

—Jesus Christ! —he cried, sliding his calloused hand under the hem of the shirt. It was not a caress: it was a grab. He felt up her thigh, up toward her hip, with fingers as rough as sandpaper—. Tight. Real tight.

Noelia gasped, but she didn’t pull away. If he touches you, it’s because you’re worth something, a voice inside her shouted.

—Hey, hey, fresh paint here —Casimiro interjected, mock-possessive—. Don’t scratch her.

Raquel, cutting the chorizo, felt absurd, corrosive jealousy. Her daughter was receiving the new male’s attention, and she, the mother, was being ignored. That sting confirmed her illness: she no longer cared about dignity, only about status in the pack. She moved closer to Lucio with a piece of bread and, instead of putting it in his hand, brought it to his mouth. The man bit it, brushing her fingers with lips stained by wine.

—Now that’s a woman who knows how to treat a man —he said—. Casimiro, you’re making me green with envy.

—It’s a gift, cousin —he replied, seating Raquel on his knee like a child—. But since today’s a day of celebration… maybe I’ll let you have a little “taste.”

Silence fell over the kitchen. The word floated in the air, heavy with filthy promises.

—Really? —Lucio asked, running his tongue over his lips—. You’ll let me try them?

—A try, I said. Don’t take her home with you. —He squeezed Raquel’s waist and looked her in the eyes. There was no love in that look: there was command—. Right, sluts?

—Yes… Casimiro —Raquel whispered. Her heart was pounding in her throat.

—And you, girl?

Noelia, her face red from the wine they’d made her drink on an empty stomach, nodded.

—Yes… I want your cousin to see us.

—Then let’s get on with it. But not here, the kitchen’s too small. Let’s go to the workshop.

***

The workshop was a cathedral of scrap and shadows. Stripped engines hung from chains, tires were stacked high, and iridescent oil puddles shimmered on the floor. In the center, beneath a flickering halogen light, a vintage car hood rested on two stands, cleared of tools.

—The operating table —Casimiro announced—. Lucio, make yourself comfortable.

The cousin leaned against a workbench, arms crossed, a bulge marking his corduroy trousers. He was the audience. The judge.

—I want you to show cousin how well-behaved you are. Up you go. And take off the T-shirts. Slowly. Let him see the goods before he buys.

Mother and daughter sat down on the cold metal. Noelia cried silently, not from sadness but from an intensity that overwhelmed her: undressing in a cold workshop, in front of a stranger who looked at her like meat, sent her libido soaring. Raquel was faster; the need to be the favorite drove her to rip off her T-shirt in one tug. There she stood, mature, soft-curved and white against the filth of the place, her heavy breasts rising and falling with her ragged breathing.

—Bravo! —Lucio applauded, giving a long whistle—. What luscious pieces, cousin, what luscious pieces!

Casimiro came over already naked from the waist down, his member swinging with every step, thick and veined. In the morning light, without the darkness or nervousness of the night, they took her breath away: what had seemed a threat yesterday was now revealed as a colossal presence.

—Now kiss each other. The dirty kind. Warm up the cousin’s engine.

Raquel grabbed her daughter. There were no taboos anymore: it was just another rung on the ladder of surrender. She kissed her hungrily, seeking in her mouth the taste of her own despair. Noelia responded, and their tongues entwined while hands roamed over breasts, bellies, and thighs.

—See, cousin? —Casimiro said—. They’re vixens. They just needed a real man. That husband of theirs probably asks permission just to touch them. Here nobody asks permission: here we take.

He moved between Raquel’s open legs, grabbed her thighs, and pulled them apart as wide as they would go.

—Come closer, Lucio. Check the level.

The cousin bent down, his face inches from her sex. She felt his hot breath reeking of wine. When he pushed in two thick, callused fingers, Raquel screamed: they were rough, they scraped, but they filled her.

—Fuck, she’s soaked! —he exclaimed—. This slides like nothing else!

—Told you. She’s a machine —Casimiro laughed. Then he turned Noelia’s face toward his cousin—. And you, little bird, attend to the man. Lucio, take it out.

Lucio freed his sex with complete naturalness. It wasn’t as big as Casimiro’s, but it had healthy vigor. He pushed his pelvis toward Noelia’s face, and she opened her mouth, guided by an unstoppable inertia. The smell was different: sharper, more acidic. But it was still the smell of a man, of dominance. She started awkwardly and quickly found her rhythm.

—Jesus, fuck! —Lucio groaned, grabbing her head—. What a mouth the girl’s got!

—Now me —Casimiro growled. He entered Raquel standing up, all at once, dry and hard. The hood creaked under the impact.

The rhythm turned frantic. Casimiro thrust with a violence that shook the whole car on its stands; his cousin accelerated against Noelia’s mouth. The workshop filled with obscene sounds: the slap of flesh, high cries, rough grunts, the screech of metal.

—Look at you… —Casimiro panted, squeezing her thighs until they left marks—. You’re enjoying being used like any old whore, aren’t you? You like a country man putting you in your place.

—Yes… give me mine… —she babbled through spasms—. Use me. Look at my daughter. Show us what a real man is.

Spurred on by those words, he redoubled his thrusts. While he shook her like a rag doll, Raquel watched her daughter choking, tears running down her cheeks as she sucked with devotion. And in that moment she knew the darkest truth of all: she was proud. Proud that her daughter served so well, that neither of them judged the other.

—Fuck, cousin, I’m about to blow! —Casimiro warned, his face congested, the veins in his neck about to burst.

—Me too, holy Virgin, me too!

It ended chaotically. Casimiro pulled out just in time and shot his load over Raquel’s belly and breasts, painting her with hot white. Lucio, less controlled, gave no warning: he came into Noelia’s mouth in violent spasms, holding her head, forcing her to swallow between coughs.

***

When they were done, silence returned to the workshop, broken only by a chorus of ragged breathing. Casimiro took tobacco from the pocket of his overalls and offered his cousin a cigarette.

—So, Lucio? Worth the trip?

The cousin took a drag and looked at the two women, lying like beautiful castoffs on the cold metal.

—You’re the fucking king. These two are pure gold. How long are they staying?

Casimiro looked at Raquel. She, naked and covered in his semen, looked back from atop the hood. There was no plea for freedom: there was a plea to stay.

—The car’s got a bad fault —the mechanic said, scratching his beard—. We’ve got to order parts. It’s going to take… weeks.

Raquel sighed with relief. Weeks. Weeks of being the workshop woman.

—Even better —Lucio said, patting his cousin on the back—. That way I can bring you breakfast more often. And listen, I’ve got a friend, Honorio, the one from the slaughterhouse, and he’s very lonely too. He might like to take a look at the car.

Casimiro laughed out loud.

—One thing at a time, cousin. These two have a lot of love to give. —He came over to Raquel and gave her a fond pat on the cheek—. Come on, stay like that for a bit so the varnish dries.

Just before following his cousin out, he stopped. He searched for Noelia’s gaze and, with a grimace that for a second softened the harshness of his face, gave her a wink. A quick gesture, almost conspiratorial, as if to say the brute act was only part of the role.

The two men walked off toward the exit, laughing, talking about horsepower and harvests. Raquel slowly sat up. Everything hurt, but she felt light, floating on a cloud of endorphins. She looked at her daughter, who was running her tongue over her lips with a strange smile.

—Mum… did you hear? Weeks.

—Yes, daughter —Raquel replied, scooping a drop from her belly with her finger and taking it into her mouth—. Weeks.

And as they began to clean the hood, obeying their new master’s orders, both knew they would never be the same again. And, what was more frightening and more exciting: they didn’t want to be.