The Breakdown

CHAPTER 1: A Perfectly Awful Day

"The perfectly awful end to a perfectly awful day!" you say under your breath as you slump in the passenger seat. Despite your coat, half an hour waiting on a bank just off the hard shoulder in torrential rain has left you drenched. You glance in the wing mirror of the breakdown truck and can just make out a hi-vis jacket. An electric motor starts, and the truck jolts as the mechanic winches your stricken car up onto the flatbed.

Work was a nightmare from the very first moment today, just a series of disasters, none of which were of your making, but you seemed to be the only one expected to sort them out. You worked late to get on top of things, which meant you were late leaving to drive to your friend's for a long-overdue catch-up over a bottle of wine, and you drove straight onto a gridlocked motorway. For good measure, your car gave up the ghost, stranding you on the hard shoulder.

The door opens, the gale blowing in a gust of cold rain. The breakdown guy climbs in. He's around six foot tall, with greying hair that's almost white in places. You guess he's in his mid-50s. He manoeuvres to remove his heavy coat and looks to be in decent shape. Not really your type, though. Certainly not unattractive, but you prefer intelligence, not some bit of rough stuck in a dead-end job.

He pulls into the traffic. Progress is excruciatingly slow. You make small talk. You learn that the gale and torrential rain are the worst in a decade, and breakdown services are overwhelmed. You were lucky to be seen so quickly. He'll drop your car at a garage, then take you on to your friend's, but given the traffic, who knows when either will happen. You text your friend the news.

CHAPTER 2: Not Pornography, Erotica

Small talk continues. He claims to be a writer. Yeah right, that's why you drive a breakdown truck, you think. You probe him. He makes a comfortable living from his novellas, but he grew up in a car repair business, so he's a natural mechanic. Breakdowns are perfect, as it's regular money between royalty payments, and there's lots of waiting around between rescues to develop stories. You ask for his nom de plume. You pretend to text but search for him on Amazon. Wow, there he is. There's even his picture. You look at his bio. Ohhhhhh...

"Erotica for the discerning lady," you say out loud.

"That'll be me." He smiles, not taking his eyes off the road.

"So you wait around in your truck all day, making up pornographic stories..."

"Not pornography, erotica," he corrects you.

"Making up erotic stories," you say, indulging him.

"Yeah, that's pretty much it," he smiles again. He goes on to tell you that one of the other benefits is that he meets lots of people and hears their stories, which often inspire his own.

"You're not going to write anything about me, are you?" you ask.

"I don't know yet. Maybe," he answers. You're sure he's teasing you.

"I am not the sort of woman who fucks a mechanic in the cab of their breakdown truck," you say sternly.

"Are you sure?" he replies, with a quick glance and a cheeky wink.

You look away, offended, but he sees the slight smile on your lips reflected in the glass.

CHAPTER 3: Cross-Country

Eventually, he makes it off the motorway.

"We'll go cross-country, given the gridlock," he informs you. Soon he's driving along some unknown B road, splashing through the puddles. He begins to ask what you do. You gloss over the detail, but he seems genuinely interested. Makes a nice change, you think. The few men you've dated recently have only been interested in getting you into bed, where their main objective seems to be to leave you disappointed and unsatisfied.

Suddenly a much deeper puddle sends water up over the windscreen. He murmurs something about being caught out by the depth. A few minutes later, the engine seems to struggle, then stops. He knocks it into neutral and coasts along, pulling into a deserted lay-by. He puts his coat on and gets out. Now what? you think. He gets back in.

"Water in the sparks and electrics," he says. "We'll give it some time to see if the heat from the engine dries everything out, then call for rescue."

CHAPTER 4: Good for an Hour

You're bored. You text your friend with an update on the night's events. She's familiar with his work. Very familiar. She asks if you've fucked him yet, with a cheeky wink emoji. It would almost be worth considering just to get out of your damp clothes. You're still bored. On impulse, you go to Amazon, buy one of his books and download it to your phone. It's just to pass the time, you tell yourself.

The books are surprising. He's not a bad writer. You get to the naughtier parts and find them... arousing.

"Do you write from experience?" you eventually have to ask.

Part experience, but a good imagination too, he tells you, removing his jumper, the cab becoming increasingly humid with all the damp clothing. You decide to remove your coat. Once it's off, you realise how damp the thin white material of your blouse is, and how transparent. Your favourite lacy black bra is clearly visible, showing off your fabulous (even if you do say so yourself) breasts. You're sure he's looking at you. Fuck it, you think, let him look.

You read further. Jeez, if this guy writes from experience... Your thoughts trail off into a daydream. The radio bleeps. Breakdown control have registered that he's stopped moving. He tells them he's got an issue in the truck he's trying to resolve. Control asks if he can resolve it on his own or needs assistance, but warns that if it's the latter, it'll be at least an hour. He looks at you. Your clothes are damp, but that's not the reason your panties are wet.

"Tell them we're good for an hour," you say.

CHAPTER 5: Fuller Figures

You follow him, squeezing between the two front seats, to the rear cabin. There's a flat bench the full width of the cabin, designed to seat four adults. He sits in the middle and pulls you to him. He pushes your skirt up your thighs and over your hips to sit around your waist. Ooh, straight for my pussy, you think, but he pulls your legs up either side of his thighs so you're straddling him. He pulls at the buttons of your blouse until it flaps open, then pushes it over your shoulders and down your arms. He then somehow wraps your wrists in it, tying your arms behind your back. Interesting...

He sits there gazing at your body, clad in nothing more than a lacy black bra and panties, your skirt gathered around your navel. You're helpless, and curious what he'll do next.

"I've always had a thing for women with... fuller figures. My publisher insists I rewrite a lot of my stories so they're about skinny nymphs, but what red-blooded man wants to have sex with a woman with the same figure as a teenage boy?" Oh, you like him. You like him a lot. You raise yourself up to bring your breasts closer to his face, then shake them slightly. He smiles, reaching between them to release the clasp. You feel them drop as the bra's support disappears. He slowly moves the cups aside and can now feast his eyes on your fabulous large breasts. He pushes the bra up over your shoulders, and it slides down to sit with the blouse around your wrists.

You feel exposed and vulnerable. Your tits, bare and hanging freely in front of his face, crave attention, but all you can feel is his breath on them.

"These are fabulous," he whispers. I know, you think, just get on and fucking touch them! They're sensitive and in need of some tender care. He cups each full, round breast in a large hand and gently caresses them. You sigh softly and smile. He moves his lips down and starts kissing them, all around the orbs. Your nipples crave their own attention. Soon you feel little kisses around each dark areola, then his tongue on your nipples. Finally he takes each nipple between his lips for a long, lingering suck.

The pleasure your breasts feel is immense and you don't want him to stop, but your pussy has needs too. You want to reach down and slip your fingers inside your panties, but your hands are tied (literally). On cue, he slips his fingers inside and gently starts circling them on your pubic mound, stimulating your hidden clit. You let out a long moan, loud and uninhibited, his hands feeling so good.

CHAPTER 6: Hands Tied

He swivels you around, and you find yourself on your back on the bench seat. Your arms are now completely trapped by your weight on the blouse behind your back. He hooks his thumbs in your panties and pulls them down your legs, removing them. He places his hands on your knees and slowly pushes them apart, and you let him willingly. His hands slide along the exposed skin of your thighs towards your bare pussy. You're relieved you waxed yesterday. The feel of his attentions on your sensitised, naked skin is going to be amazing. His thumbs ease your lips apart, and he runs his tongue repeatedly along them, dwelling at the top to rub the nub of your clit round and round.

Soon his tongue is working hard, licking, probing, teasing... You'd like to run your hands through his hair, guiding his head to where you most want his tongue, although you have to acknowledge he's doing a very good job on his own. You're left rolling your hips to increase your pleasure. It works. It works very well, and you're moaning softly. Encouraged, he inserts his first and middle fingers inside you, withdrawing and penetrating slightly deeper each time, stroking in time while working your clit with his tongue. If he goes much deeper, you think... Bingo! His fingertips start tracing little circular motions right on your g-spot. Your pelvis is a vibrant blaze of pleasure: fingers inside, tongue outside, hips rolling, all synched in perfect unison. Building, harder and faster, faster and harder. It's too much and you come, grinding your pussy on his fingers as he keeps licking and stroking, extending the orgasm on and on and on...

CHAPTER 7: Clear Windscreen

Catching your breath, you realise he's still fully dressed. You finally get your hands free of the constraints of your blouse and manage to sit up.

"You have far too many clothes on," you observe.

He stands and lets you begin pulling at them, pushing the T-shirt up over his head, then unfastening the buttons and pulling his trousers and boxers down. Soon he's standing in front of you, his cock big, thick and very, very hard. You half stand and make a token effort at kissing his chest and torso, but then you look down as his cock brushes between your breasts. You run your hands behind his thighs and take his cock in your mouth. He groans loudly. You begin working your tongue around the head while your fingertips gently pull the skin up and down. You think about making him come, but your pussy wants him inside you.

You stand up, pull his head towards you and kiss him full on the mouth, hungrily. He breaks the kiss and spins you around so you're facing the windscreen. You feel his cock brush your arse, so you grab the headrests of the driver's and passenger seats either side. His cock brushes between your legs, and his hand lifts one knee up, opening your pussy. You feel his other hand on the back of your neck, and the tip of his cock touches your pussy lips. You roll your hips to present your opening to him.

"Guide me in," he whispers. Obediently, you reach between your legs and guide him inside you. Slowly, very slowly, he slides into you.

"Fuck!" you whisper hoarsely. You realise you're at his mercy, but you're way past caring. All that matters is enjoying having him inside you. You feel sure you've never had a man this hard inside you, and never been this turned on by anyone. He begins fucking you, after each withdrawal penetrating a little deeper, entering you more and more, inch by inch, until his full hard length is completely enveloped in your hot, wet pussy.

He steadily builds a rhythm, and you begin to rotate your hips and push back slightly to meet each thrust, maximising penetration and pleasure. You notice that although the side windows are steamed up, completely blocking the view of the outside world, the windscreen is completely clear. Anyone pulling into the lay-by ahead and looking back will see you, between the two front seats, braced against the headrests, tits swinging, being exactly the sort of woman who fucks a mechanic in the cab of their breakdown truck.

You don't care. You can't believe how good it feels, so let the world watch. You feel another orgasm rising and sense his thrusts becoming more urgent. You worry he might come too soon and leave you unsatisfied. Between pants, you plead, "Don't stop! Please, don't stop!!!" He holds his rhythm.

"Ohhhh, FUCK!!" you scream, and with one final push back onto him you come, and with his final thrust you feel his cock spasm, spraying his cum deep inside you.

CHAPTER 8: Diesels Have No Sparks

You both get dressed again, an experience less pleasant for you since your clothes are still damp. You don't even bother with the panties and just rest them on top of your handbag in the footwell.

"Do you think the electrics or sparks or whatever will have dried out by now?" you enquire.

"Let's try it," he says as he slides into the driver's seat.

He turns the key and the engine fires up first time. You look at him suspiciously.

"The thing about diesels..." he smiles, putting on his seat belt, "... is that they have neither electrics nor sparks to get wet."

"WHAT?" you shout incredulously.

"I faked the whole truck breakdown thing," he answers.

"Why?" you demand.

"I was sure, despite your protests, that you absolutely would be the sort of woman who would fuck a mechanic in the cab of their breakdown truck!"

CHAPTER 9: The Dedication

A long day at work, but you get home to find an Amazon delivery on your doormat. It's the new release from an author you discovered a few months ago. You've read everything in his back catalogue, but this is his new collection of stories.

You rush to the kitchen and tear open the box. You open the book and flick to the contents.

"Chapter 1: The Breakdown"

You scan it. The 'heroine' isn't you in terms of body type (damn his publisher) but hair colour and everything else, every single detail and nuance, is exactly you and your experience.

"Cheeky bastard!" you say out loud, and then smile.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your friend. She's had the same delivery and asks if you've read the dedication.

You flick to it. It's your name, then:

If you'd like your panties back, I found them in the footwell of my breakdown truck. Contact me if you'd like me to return them...