The ITV mechanic left her more than just a phone number

Noa had put off the car inspection for weeks. The station’s notice had been stuck to the fridge with a magnet for a month, reminding her every morning that her fifteen-year-old Corsa was due for its check. It wasn’t that she minded the paperwork. It was that she hated waiting, and that place always had a line of cars idling under the sun.

That morning, though, she woke up in a good mood. She put on a light dress instead of her usual jeans, tied her hair up, and drove to the industrial estate with the window down. As she crept forward turtle-slow in the queue, she rested her elbow on the door and kept herself entertained by looking around.

She had always liked uniforms. Not office uniforms, not suits. She liked work overalls stained with grease, hands dirty with oil, the easy confidence of someone who made a living fixing things with his hands. She preferred the oil of an engine to the oil of a kitchen, though she never said that to anyone.

Behind the glass of the workshop there were three mechanics. Two were around fifty and moved with the calm of old hands at the trade. The third was younger, tall, his overalls tied around his waist and a gray T-shirt clinging to his back. Every time he bent over the hood of a car, Noa’s eyes went to him.

Let me get him. Please, let me get him.

And she did. Every now and then life deals the cards right.

—Good morning. Registration and inspection papers? —the guy asked, leaning into the window with an easy smile.

—Here you go —she replied, handing him the folder and taking the chance to look at him up close.

He had light eyes and a three-day beard that suited him well. He smelled of warmed metal and something else too, the clean sweat of someone who’d been working since eight. He explained the inspection route in the calm voice of someone who had repeated it a thousand times: lights, brakes, emissions, wheel play.

—Don’t worry, your car looks like it could last another fifteen years —he joked, patting the roof of the Corsa.

—It had better, because I’m not in the mood to replace it —she laughed.

The inspection didn’t take twenty minutes, but Noa used every one of them. While he went under the car and told her to press the brake, turn on the high beams, honk the horn, she watched him in the rearview mirror and through the window, studying every movement. When he finished, he rested both hands on the door frame and held her gaze a second too long.

—Everything’s in order. New sticker and you’re good to go.

—What a relief —she said, then, without thinking too much about it, blurted out—: hey, are you married, or do you have any single brothers around?

He burst out laughing, the kind of laugh you can’t fake.

—Married, I’m afraid. But I don’t have a brother, so I can’t help you much.

—What a shame. You’re so nice.

The guy bit his lip, glanced toward the workshop to make sure no one was watching, and pulled a pen from his overalls pocket.

—Look, I’ll write my number on the receipt. In case the car gives you any trouble these days —he said, scribbling a number beside the inspection stamp.

—In case the car gives me trouble —she repeated, holding his gaze—. Of course.

They both knew the car was the least of it.

***

Noa forgot about it. Or that’s what she told herself for three days, while the receipt with the number stayed folded in her bag, calling to her every time she went looking for her keys. On the fourth day, she got a message from an unknown number.

“How’s the Corsa doing? Still alive?”

Let’s call him Bruno. They started talking about nonsense, the kind of thing that helps you feel out the ground without committing yourself. Work, how hot it was, how boring the industrial estate was. Little by little, the conversation leaned toward where both of them wanted it to go.

Bruno was in his thirties, had a young son, and a wife he had barely touched in two years. He didn’t tell it with resentment, he told it with resignation, like someone describing a room he no longer went into. He said he was burning up all day, that he needed something his life wasn’t giving him, and that ever since she’d said that to him at the window he couldn’t get her out of his head.

—And you, what are you looking for? —he asked her one night, already late.

—The same as you, I guess —Noa wrote—. No mess. No promises. Just the urge.

—I can give you that.

—Be specific. Tell me what you’re going to do to me.

—I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name. Is that specific enough?

Noa stared at the screen with a dry mouth and her hand already between her thighs. She answered with a photo: dress hiked up, panties pushed aside, two fingers spreading her cunt so he could see how wet that shitty message had made her.

—Tomorrow —he replied ten seconds later—. I can’t wait until tomorrow, Noa.

They agreed to meet the next day. He suggested the entrance of an old clinic in the city center, one of those with offices that close in the afternoon and a stairwell nobody used. Discreet, quick, no witnesses. Neither of them said it out loud, but both knew they were going to fuck.

***

Noa got there first. She went up to the first landing, where a dirty skylight let through a yellowish light, and waited with her heart pounding in her chest as if she were twenty again. Under her dress she wasn’t wearing panties. She had taken them off in the car before going up and left them crumpled in the glove compartment. When she heard the door downstairs and footsteps taking the stairs two at a time, her mouth went dry and she felt her cunt tighten on its own, already anticipating it.

Bruno appeared around the bend in the stairs, still wearing his workshop T-shirt, and said nothing. He grabbed her by the waist, pressed her against the cold wall, and kissed her as if he’d been saving it up for weeks. And in fact he had. He pushed his tongue deep into her mouth, biting her lip, breathing into her, and she returned the kiss with the same hunger, tugging at the hair on the back of his neck.

—I’ve been hard since I left the workshop —he growled in her ear—. Touch it. Touch my cock now.

Noa didn’t need to hear it twice. She yanked his belt open, pulled his jeans and briefs down to mid-thigh, and took his cock in both hands. It was rock-hard, thick, hot, with a bead of fluid showing at the tip. She squeezed it, slid her hand slowly up and down, spreading that moisture over the head, and smiled when she heard him let out a rough moan.

—Fuck, you’ve got such a nice cock —she whispered, and spit on it to make her hand glide better.

—Shut up, for fuck’s sake, someone might hear us —he replied, but he grabbed her wrist so she wouldn’t stop.

Bruno jerked her dress up to her hip in one rough motion and found she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He stopped for a second, staring at her, breath coming fast.

—You filthy slut… —he muttered, and shoved two fingers into her at once.

Noa threw her head back against the wall and bit her fist to keep from shouting. She was so wet that Bruno’s fingers slid all the way in with the first thrust, and he started working them in a rough rhythm, curling them inside, searching for the spot that made her clench her teeth. With his other hand he grabbed a breast over the dress, pulled it free from the neckline, and bent down to suck it, biting her nipple until she was gasping.

—Put it in —she begged, rocking her hips against his hand—. Bruno, put it in already, please.

He turned her against the wall. He put a hand on her neck, gently pressing her face against the rough plaster, and with the other guided his cock to the entrance of her cunt. He drove into her in one single thrust, all the way to the hilt, and both of them let out a moan they had to stifle badly.

—We can’t take long here —he murmured against her neck.

—Then don’t take long —she answered, and pushed her ass back so he could get deeper.

He fucked her fast, keeping one eye on the landing in case anyone came down. He buried his cock in her to the hilt with every thrust, his hands gripping her hips to pull her onto him at the same time, and Noa could feel the dress sticking to her back with sweat. He bit her shoulder so he wouldn’t make noise, she dug her nails into his forearm. His belt buckle hung loose and slapped against her thigh every time he shoved in, and the wet sound of his cock going in and out of her cunt mixed with the echo of the stairwell.

—I’m about to come —he panted, gripping her harder.

—Not inside —Noa whispered—. Not inside, come on top of me.

He pulled out in one sharp motion, turned her, and she dropped to her knees just in time. Bruno finished himself with two quick jerks and sprayed thick spurts into her mouth, onto her chin, into her cleavage. Noa closed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and took the hot semen as if it were the most natural thing in the world, swallowing what landed inside and cleaning the rest off with two fingers she then sucked clean, looking up at him from below. Bruno had to brace himself against the wall so he wouldn’t fall.

It wasn’t elegant or long, but it was exactly what they both needed: the release of something that had been building for a while. When they were done, they fixed their clothes with nervous laughs and went down separately, a couple of minutes apart, like two petty criminals.

In the car, on the way home, Noa was still trembling a little. She ran her tongue along the corner of her mouth and tasted him still there. And already she was thinking about the next time.

***

The next time was different. Bruno texted her one Saturday morning suggesting somewhere with more space and less hurry: a concrete lot behind an abandoned warehouse at the end of the industrial estate, where nobody ever came on weekends. He said he’d come by motorbike.

And come by motorbike he did. Noa heard him before she saw him, the roar of the engine bouncing between the empty warehouse walls. Bruno parked beside her car, took off his helmet, and ran a hand through his flattened hair, and everything in her tightened. She had put on a short skirt on purpose and a thin shirt, and underneath, once again, nothing.

There wasn’t much conversation. He leaned against the motorcycle seat, unfastened his jeans, and pulled out his cock already half-hard, holding it by the base.

—Come here —he said—. On your knees. Suck me.

Noa knelt down in front of him without needing to say anything else. The hot concrete scraped her knees but she didn’t care. She took his cock in one hand, brought it to her lips, and licked it all the way from bottom to top, slowly, following the thick vein to the tip. She planted a wet kiss on the head, took it into her mouth, and felt it swell between her lips, getting rock hard in seconds.

—Fuck, Noa… like that, like that.

She sucked him with hunger. She took him in until he hit the back of her throat and then pulled him out slowly, leaving a strand of spit hanging, and swallowed him whole again. She licked his balls, wrapped them in her tongue, licked his shaft from base to tip like it was an ice cream. Bruno buried his fingers in her hair, not to force her, but to hold on to something, and looked down at her working his cock with that expression of enjoying it as much as he was.

—Look at me —Bruno asked—. Look at me while you suck me.

Noa lifted her eyes without taking him out of her mouth and he let out a curse through clenched teeth. He put both hands at the sides of her face and started moving her head at the pace he wanted, fucking her mouth slowly at first and then deeper, until she had to grip his thighs with her nails to breathe. Saliva ran down her chin, her mascara was smudging, and she was loving every filthy second of it.

It wasn’t that she was his magazine-cover type, and they both knew it. She was a woman with generous curves, sweet features, but there was something about that mix of outdoor boldness and slutty enthusiasm when she went down on him that drove him crazy.

—I’m going to come —he warned her, his breathing ragged.

She didn’t pull away. She took him all the way to the hilt, tightened her lips around him, and waited. Bruno came with a long groan, dumping semen into her mouth in spurts, and Noa swallowed it all without taking her eyes off him. She kept sucking a little longer, slowly, getting every last drop out of him, until he had to gently pull her away because he couldn’t stand the friction anymore.

—Come here —Bruno said, tugging her up to her feet.

But Noa wanted more. She turned around, hoisted her skirt to her waist, braced both hands on the hot leather seat of the motorcycle, and arched her back, offering him her bare ass and cunt under the sun.

—Get it hard again —she told him over her shoulder—. Because I’m not leaving without you fucking me.

Bruno crouched behind her and ate her pussy in one go, burying his tongue from behind, sucking her lips, finding her clit with the tip and flicking it fast. He shoved two fingers into her while he kept licking, and Noa grabbed the handlebars of the bike so she wouldn’t fall. His tongue moved higher, circled her asshole slowly, and she let out a long moan that got lost among the empty warehouses.

—There too, bastard —she panted—. Don’t stop.

By the time he stood up, Bruno had her just as hard as at the start. He spat into his hand, slicked his cock with the spit, and pushed it slowly into her cunt, holding her by the hips. He started moving with a rocking motion that sent shivers all the way up Noa’s spine. The sun beat down hard on the concrete, there wasn’t a single patch of shade to hide in, and that feeling of being completely out in the open, with her cunt spread and a cock inside her in broad daylight, made everything more intense.

Bruno fucked her harder and harder. He slapped her ass, grabbed her hair, pulled it to lift her head and see her with half-closed eyes and her mouth open. She begged for more, begged him to go harder, told him filthy things over her shoulder that made him thrust even deeper.

—Deeper, fuck, all the way in, like that… like that, don’t stop, Bruno, don’t stop…

—You like being fucked in the middle of the street like a whore?

—I love it, keep going, keep going, don’t stop.

On one of the thrusts, he pulled his cock out of her cunt, dripping with wetness, and pressed it a little higher, against her asshole. Noa bit her lip, took a deep breath, and arched her back even more. She asked for it without words.

—You sure? —he asked, running his thumb over her ass.

—Put it in. Slowly.

Bruno pushed the tip in and waited for her to open. It went in a centimeter, then another, then enough to make her let out a tight moan through clenched teeth. He stayed still for a second, letting her get used to it, then started moving, very slowly at first, in and out with care. With two fingers of his other hand he found her clit and rubbed it in the same rhythm, and Noa felt her whole body opening up, the pain turning into a dull, dirty pleasure growing inside her.

—Faster —she panted—. It’s in, it’s in, faster.

He did as she asked. He started fucking her ass at a rhythm that threw both of them off balance, holding her tight so she wouldn’t slip away, whispering things in her ear that the wind carried off: that she was his, that she was a slut, that he’d never seen an ass this tight in his life. His fingers kept working her clit, going in and out of her cunt, and Noa came with a muffled scream that echoed off the warehouse walls, squeezing around Bruno’s cock until he couldn’t hold back anymore either.

—I’m going to come inside —he growled.

—Inside, yes, come inside.

And he spilled again, this time without warning, completely beaten, emptying himself in a place he had never been before.

They stayed like that for a moment, joined together, catching their breath on the bike still warm from the ride. When he pulled out slowly, Noa felt the semen run down the inside of her thigh, and she didn’t bother cleaning it up until she was getting dressed in the car. They dressed without rushing and looked at each other with that half-smile of people who have just done something they shouldn’t and don’t plan to regret.

—This is going to cause problems —he said, fastening his helmet.

—Probably —Noa replied—. But what good problems.

***

After that came more messages, more calls at odd hours, more stolen meetups carved out of routine. Each of their lives kept following its own track: him with his wife and son, her with her own things, both of them pretending none of it meant anything. But neither of them intended to stop.

They sent each other photos in the middle of the afternoon —a hard cock in the workshop bathroom, a cunt spread open by two fingers in bed—, videos in the middle of the night while the other side of the bed was asleep, messages that began with “are you awake?” and ended with the urge to repeat it in whatever discreet corner they could think of. One day it would be the entrance of another clinic, another day a wasteland, another day the back room of some place, another the back seat of the Corsa with the windows fogged up.

Noa doesn’t know whether this will last a month or a year. She doesn’t ask herself too much either. She only knows that every time she passes in front of the inspection station, she smiles to herself inside the car, and that of all the things that can happen at an ITV, hers was, without a doubt, the one that passed inspection best.