And here's an excerpt:
I don't move until he says,
"Pick 'em up."
I reach for the pliers.
He says, "Pinch."
I put the pincers around my nipple,
and squeeze the handle. This is how I cry for Charlie. The pinching hurts
terribly. The careless way the mechanic massages my other breast makes the pain
worse.
Tears course my cheeks. My hand
shakes as my body's need for release from the pain wars with my determination
to squeeze the pliers tighter. The shudder travels my body. I want to stop. I
want to scream and kick the mechanic in the balls. At least I want to close my
eyes and not see his unmoving face.
I squeeze until the hurt possesses
me entirely, a racking force I can't escape. The mechanic's deft hands travel
slowly from my legs to my ass. They bring no relief. He strokes for his
pleasure, not my comfort.
He says, "Okay."
I release my nipple. My trembling
hand places the pliers on the workbench. I hear myself sob and feel the cool
wetness of my tears.
His face stays impassive. When my
hand is steady enough, I unzip his mechanic's jumpsuit and run my nails over
his hairless and bony chest. His short legs keep his cock below the edge of the
bench.
I hold my breath to tighten my gut.
His hands travel my ass.
He says, "Shut'em.
I close my eyes and escape in
darkness, feeling his lips take my breast. His tongue wets my aching nipple. He
smells of old-fashioned hair oil and engine grease.
He presses my back to the bench. My
legs don't have room to spread. I need the constraint, the unforgiving surface
against my back, and the mechanic's thin body atop mine. He kisses my eyelids
and runs his hands through my hair. His tongue demands the parting of my lips.
His cock presses the petals of my cunt until my hands find his knob and show it
the way.