Date: Sat, 28 Feb 2004 21:38:44 EST
From: Tommyhawk1@aol.com
Subject: "Think You're Hot Stuff"

			  THINK YOU'RE HOT STUFF
			   By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
		      WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM

     "God, would you look at this piece of shit!" Chris grumbled while he
slid the new manifold into place. "He thinks he's hot stuff, don't he? God,
if the UPS man comes in today with another Goddamned sparkly part to add to
this car, I'm going to fucking shove it up his ass!" That cute Latino UPS
man had an ass I wouldn't mind shoving something up, was my first thought,
and watching Chris do so would be nearly as much fun.
     Chris was a big sun-browned hulk in his mid-thirties, he filled out
that big blue worksuit of his to near bursting in the arms and chest, and
it clung about his crotch and legs in such a way when he sat down that it
distracted me no end; Chris definitely didn't wear any underwear under that
suit. I was more bashful, I wore briefs and a t-shirt under mine, so if I
unzipped the suit on a hot day to get ventilation, people wouldn't see
everything. Chris sometimes had his suit open so much (like today for
example) that I could see the pubic hair below his navel and just a hint of
that big, brown cock he was packing in there. I had never seen more than
that hint, but with that loose suit and the way it moved when he sat down,
I could tell it was a fat, juicy salami of a cock. While I couldn't see his
package very well, I had an unobstructed view of his strong chest with
almost pendulous breasts, then the series of bulges down his abdomen, all
splattered with a nice fur of hair that concentrated in the middle. A real
male animal of a guy, I would dream of that body pressing against mine,
flesh to flesh, writhe in my sleep and wake up in a sweat, gasping in
nocturnal passion and need; and have to whack off into the solitary
darkness in order to sleep again. And now my imagining him with the UPS
guy, those tight brown shorts tugged down to show off the brown buns and
Chris plowing into it.... I shook my head to cut off this vagrant thought;
I was getting a hard-on.
     "Spellman's paying for it, we got the work, what more do you want?" I
replied. I was installing a spoiler on the back of the same vehicle.
     "I want to work on the three other cars we got here, which the
customers are waiting for us to fix and which they need." Chris
complained. "Jesus, George, if I had the money this guy is wasting on
fixing up this old 'Vette of his...."
     "You'd probably blow it on beer and poker." I interjected.
     Chris, my partner in our automoble body-and-paint shop, guffawed. He
reached an arm out with a wrench at the end of it and his muscles moved
from globes to ovals to irised ellipses, all with a sheen of sweat and
marred here and there by the streaks of grease or oil. "Yeah, I probably
would. Honest, I like working on cars and this one is a beaut, I admit it,
but it's like the guy is turning it into a fucking Christmas tree. You ever
seen so much sparkly shit in your life?"
     "Not on a car." I agreed.
     "So we leave working stiffs with their cars unrepaired while we pretty
up this thing."
     "He's first in line, and he pays for it." I said. "We finish this, and
he comes in with anything else, we can push his car back to the end of the
job-line again."
     We'd had this Corvette for over a month now, and had spent some time
in working on it every day since. The first things had been all right and
passed Chris' inspection, like getting the motor running well, souping it
up, giving the car a paint-job (a special glitter-sparkly red paint, that
should have alerted us to what was coming) and so on, welcome work for a
little body-and-paint shop like ours. Chris called Spellman our "gold mine"
back then.
     But the last week or so had been pretty grotty. See, the owner, Peyton
Spellman, that single and handsome young scion of the Cedar Hill Spellmans,
had been basically out goody-shopping for this car; said goodies arriving
via the cute Latino UPS man, always with a quick note from Spellman telling
us to put this on the 'Vette, put that on the 'Vette, until we were sick of
this one car. He came in to check on the car frequently, but he never told
us the packages were coming; they just showed up and we were back at work
on the 'Vette again.
     Spellman had passed the bounds of good taste some time before and now
it was just ostentatious and conspicuous spending. Like the manifold, done
in glitter-metal chrome, and the spoiler, done with some more of the red
sparkle paint. This thing sparkled so much, it looked more like something
you'd hang from the ceiling of a discotheque rather than something you'd
drive around town. But Peyton Spellman loved embarrassing his family like
this; he had been booted out of his family home some three years ago (I
didn't listen to gossip, but with a prominent family like that, you'd have
to be blind and deaf not to be up on all their personal woes, the way some
people like to gab about it) and was now living in town and throwing big,
expensive parties and causing all sorts of outrageous incidents. Chris
prophesied that he'd have trouble paying his bills before long; I
maintained that with that much money, he was nothing like a credit risk.
     God knows just what the handsome, young, blond Spellman had planned
for this Corvette, but he was intent on making it the biggest, gaudiest
thing on four wheels, and we got the income from all the hours we had put
in making it so. We'd been fretting about that, but he'd paid us with a
check of over ten thousand dollars some five days ago, which had been drawn
on a New York City bank, and so I was feeling pretty kindly toward the
guy. If he wanted to pay me to, I'd fasten gigantic fiberglass women's
breasts onto the front fender for him. In sparkly-pink, of course. Or a
fiberglass cock, for that matter; be more fun for me. "So tackle in and
let's get this done. The guy will be here at closing time, you know." I
settled for saying.
     "Yeah, he always does." Chris agreed. "Right at the dot. Makes us stay
late every fucking day." We closed at six-thirty p.m.
     "We can spare ten minutes for a customer like him." I said. "Let's get
this sparkly shit put on before the afternoon sun gets in here and we both
go blind from a bad case of the twinkles. We can put a tarp over it."
     "Yeah, and he takes up one of our work bays, keeping that thing
protected. God knows why anyone would steal that thing."
     "I'll see if he wants us to install a car alarm on it for him." I
joked.
     "Gahh!" Chris said and I chuckled.
     We had finished with his car, tarped it, and were working on the next
job when a call came in. Chris took it and came out with a strange look on
his face I recognized from our years together. Bad news, really bad, so bad
he didn't know how to tell me.
     "What's wrong, Chris." I said.
     "Spellman's check to us."
     "Yes." I said. You had to coax it all out of Chris in this mood of
his.
     "Bank called me on it."
     "It cleared?" I asked; actually, I begged him to tell me this was
it. But I knew it wasn't.
     Chris shook his head. "NSF."
     "NSF?" I said, stunned. "Shit!" "NSF" stands for "Non-Sufficient
Funds."
     "Yep, our little gold mine was made out of fools' gold." Chris
said. "And I wrote checks on my share of that money."
     "Me, too." I groaned. Bouncy-bouncy-bounce. Enough to possibly put us
into involuntary bankruptcy. We had phone calls to make, fast.
     Then I remembered, looked at the clock. Five-ten. Too late to call
anybody on it today. Our bank did this with bad checks, the last calls of
the day were made to us poor creditors about their bad checks, and we were
left with having to think about it overnight.
     And Spellman would be in to check on his car in another hour and
twenty minutes.
     We had that long to work up a real mad at this guy. Rich guys don't
really understand money, oh, they understand high finance, maybe, but not
the day-to-day, pay-the-bills stuff. They don't understand that this one
check they wrote meant the very life to Chris and me. He would be arrogant,
tell us to resubmit the check or something. Meanwhile, our own checks would
be returning to our own creditors marked the same way; NSF. It could ruin
us, drive us out of business, and to him, it was a mere oversight of some
kind.
     So we were pretty much in a state of open hostility when Spellman
pulled up in his little chartreuse Porsche (I knew it was chartreuse
because I had been corrected when I had called it a "light green."). He
stepped out wearing a white-with-red-trim T-shirt that didn't have an
alligator on it but ought to have, and some dark silk pants. His
workout-machine-honed body filled out those clothes, not to bursting like
Chris with his jumpsuit, but tailored-fit, like he was born to them, like
the models in the catalog. His face was regular and his hair was carefully
styled, the quintessential young man of means. As he walked in, I pulled
down the single still-open garage bay door, a standard tactic at this hour,
but this time, I mostly wanted to avoid the brawl that was coming from
being public. Chris took these sorts of things personally, and I was in no
mood to play referee at the start.
     "I've come for the car." he said without preamble. "I'll send someone
back to pick up the Porsche in the morning."
     "Now just a fucking minute." Chris snarled. "What about paying for
it?"
     "What do you mean?" Spellman said. "You can bill me for the balance,
of course."
     "What about the check you gave us last week?" I said. Oh, I was in a
state myself, we both were. This was our livelihood, our future, kept
afloat by a shoestring and being capsized by a scion's whimsy.
     "What about it?"
     "It bounced." Chris said.
     "What?" Spellman said. "Oh, surely the bank made an error."
     "The only error here was you." Chris said. "Until you make that check
good, that fucking Christmas tree is staying right here."
     "Now, see here," Spellman said, getting upset. "I have no idea what
happened about the check, but I need that car tonight. You can keep the
Porsche until I straighten out the problem with the check."
     "Mechanic's liens don't work that way." I warned him. We had a legal
right to keep the car we had worked on, but weren't allowed to hold onto
another item. The mechanic has the right to hold onto his handiwork until
he is paid, no more...and no less.
     "Now this is an outrage." Spellman said, walking towards the
Corvette. "I have been a very good customer...."
     Chris walked up and shoved him backwards. "You've been shit to us." he
said. "One check so far, and it bounced."
     "But that was a bank error. I insist on having my property right away,
or I shall call the law in and have it taken away."
     "Think you're hot stuff, don't you?" Chris said. "All your family's
money and smooth talk, well, that don't mean shit any more. We've got your
number now, you're as broke as we are."
     "I am not!" Spellman huffed. He was angry himself, now. He put his
fists, and posed, looking wiry and distended, very much like a 1920's
lithograph of a pugilist, and about as threatening.
     Chris laughed, and, his face reddening in anger, Spellman lashed out
with one of his fists and got Chris right in the nose!
     I waded in at that point and I held onto Spellman while Chris got in a
few licks of his own, just a few slugs in his stomach, enough to take the
fight out of him without damaging him any, then gave Chris my "desist"
shake of the head. But it knocked the wind out of the young snot's sails,
when I let go, he sagged down onto his knees, huffing and blowing.
     "What the fuck are we going to do with this one, George?" Chris asked
me.
     "What do you want to do with him?" I asked.
     I was mostly trying to shake the little fuck up, and I think Chris was
doing the same when he did what he did, he grabbed Spellman's head and
rammed it into his crotch, held him there while he ground his basket into
Spellman's face. Spellman's nose went right into the pubic bush above
Chris' cock, where Chris had his jumpsuit zipped all the way down, I can
only imagine what that must have felt like, the wiry brush of Chris' pubic
hair, the metallic snarl of the zipper head, the oily worksuit cloth that
Chris didn't wash out enough. I'd gotten plenty of whiffs of Chris and I
knew that right now, at the end of a hot day, he stank of sweat and oil and
grease and grime, with an alcoholic slug of fresh car-paint thrown in. And
this fancy-pants Spellman was having his face shoved right into it.
     "Think you're so hot now?" Chris taunted him.
     Spellman was looking up, still panting heavily.
     "Want some more, Mr. Hot Shit?" Chris said. "You got ten thousand
dollars on you, I'll let you go. Until then, I'm taking some interest right
now!" And Chris grabbed and rubbed Spellman's face in his crotch again.
     You have to remember how mad we were right then. This guy had ruined
us, broken the shoestring we had been living on. Without the money from him
(we couldn't convert the Corvette into money any time soon), we were
spiraling down into bankruptcy. And it was all Spellman's fault! All his
fault!
     So I helped Chris with his need for this revenge, I grabbed the back
of Spellman's head and I ground it into Chris' crotch. Chris took advantage
of his free hands by fishing his cock out of the slight hold of cloth that
clung to it, and slapped his pud back and forth across Spellman's stunned
face. I finally got a look at his prick after all the many years I had
known Chris, it was a fine, long dong, uncut, dun-colored, arcing proudly
upwards just at the tip with the cockhead like the prow of an ancient
man-of-war galleon! I was entranced by it, at last, at last!
     And Spellman still just panted, then tiny grunts began to slip from
his lips, uh, uh, uh!
     "How much is ten thousand worth to you, huh?" Chris growled. "Well,
cocksucker, it's time you learned what ten thousand is worth to me!" And he
shoved his cockhead, that marvelous prow of manhood, into Spellman's
unresisting mouth.
     And Spellman took it. Like a man in a trance, like he couldn't believe
that this was happening to him, the man who everyone kow-towed to, the man
who could snap his fingers and get anything he wanted, he, himself, he was
being forced to take a car mechanic's cock into his mouth!
     Then the resistance turned into galvanized action, and Spellman
suddenly gave out a heartfelt groan and he suddenly was unresisting in my
hands, for his attentions were turned onto loving the prick in his mouth,
he was sucking on it lustily, frenetically, making little eager-pig grunts
of noise, this proud heir to untold millions now the grunt-slave of a
common laborer!
     Chris gave a chuckle, the satisfied sound of a man who had been proved
right inside his very soul. He looked down at the blond head servicing him,
then over at me.
     "Get a load of this, George." he said. "The little fucker is taking
it."
     "Yeah, I see that." I sighed out. Envy, but whether it was envy with
Chris receiving the suctioning lips of the blond stud, or envy of Spellman
for having that thick prong inside of him, I don't know.
     "Why don't you take hold of that ass of his. I've seen you staring at
it plenty of times." Chris said. "We'll plug this fucker from both ends
until we hammer some sense into him."
     Spellman's only response was to move up from his kneeling position,
still sucking Chris' pud lustily, he got onto his knees, then into a
squatting position, and then levered up, still holding his head on Chris'
prick.
     And that ass, which I had been staring at for certain, was bobbing my
way. I paused only to roll over our toolbox to shove it underneath
Spellman, give him something to brace against and hold him upright, and he
paused in his attentions on Chris only long enough to scoot the work mat we
had on top of it underneath him (I'll bet those metal ridges of the
rollaway top were damned cold on his belly) and then he returned to work.
     I got my hands onto his fly and gave it a tug, and that pitiful little
metal clasp they put on those kinds of pants slipped right off, and the
zipper gave no resistance either, it slipped down as I pulled the material
wide and then it was a loose bag over Spellman's lower body and I let it
drop toward the floor in a formless mass.
     Spellman's ass was just as beautiful as his pants had promised! Not a
single blemish adorned those twin orbs, pure milky white and smooth. Only
the crack between was a darker hue, and that was all that marred this white
perfection. I surrendered to my impulse, I knelt down and I shoved my
tongue right into that dark, warm crevice and found the gentle tucker of
soft skin that yielded to my probing jabs into him, and I tasted the
sweet-sour corona of his anus, while it exuded a rich texture of male
perfumes, like the quality of fine wines, the heady saltiness of caviar, it
was a unique, concentrated, multi-gloried assault on my nostrils.
     "Hey, come on, George, get it up him!" Chris complained. "I'm going to
bust my nuts soon. I want us to cream this jerk at the same time!"
     I gave one last, reluctantly furtive stab into his bowels with my
tongue, was rewarded by a trickle of sweaty hedonism that danced on my
tongue, and then I rose up and began to hawk my silken-enriched saliva from
my tongue down onto my palm, then rubbed it into my cock.
     "Gah, don't waste time with that!" Chris groaned. He was beginning to
hunch at Spellman's mouth, and the guy was flushed and sweaty. He was
right, if I didn't hurry, I'd left running a poor third on this little
mini-orgy of ours. I looked around, grabbed up the grease gun and awkwardly
pumped out a massive dollop of the yellow-white lard-like substance, and
then smeared that quickly over my cock and aimed it at Spellman's secret
treasure.
     He gave a "Mph!" when my cockhead impacted his little tucker, but made
no other protest, and I pressed it in steadily. I had my cock heavily lubed
with the thick grease meant for car engines, and it oiled his innards in a
way no mere love-creme ever could. I wasn't just pushing into him, I was
doing so with a heavy lather of greasy slather, it pressed his insides open
without a murmur and soon I had my cock inside of him to the very hilt, him
still only making little sounds of pain-love-oppression-desire.
     "Come on, fuck him hard." Chris urged me. And Chris showed me what he
meant, he began to pummel his hips into Spellman's mouth, and Spellman took
it all, enduring this, loving this, tolerating this, excited by this, he
was pinned between two horny grease-monkeys and he was himself smeared and
impacted with grease, stained with oil, dirtied beyond repair,
indoctrinated into our grimy world of basic male rut.
     I slammed my cock into him with no preliminaries, for Chris was
panting heavily, and so was Spellman, I gave it all I had, wanting to come
when they did, hurry up, hurry up! I made my body savor every last dreg of
the stimulation, the friction of the ass, the smooth sliding of my cock
into this lubed-up butt, the warmth inside and the relatively-cool outside,
the way my balls slapped at that beautifully round ass, and yes, the way
Chris' body was joined with me through this deadbeat debtor, I was sharing
with Chris in a sexual way, even if by proxy, this made us brothers beyond
our long friendship and business partnership. And that thought heightened
my senses, inflamed my desire, and I felt my balls boiling with the
response.
     And Chris was now fucking Spellman's mouth unmercifully, shoving that
prong into his mouth and I could hear the loud slurping sounds as the prick
rammed in and was yanked back out again, punctuated by Spellman's own
still-tiny grunts.
     I reached under and grabbed Spellman by the balls and I gripped them
tight and as I expected, he groaned loudly, and that turned Chris on, he
yelled, "Come on, squeeze those nuts, break them wide open, yeah, yeah!"
and Chris suddenly turned wide-eyed, he grunt-snarled in a rage of passion,
his sounds of climax were akin to sounds of fury, and with a loud, "Oh, oh,
oh, argh, arrr! ARRRR-HNNNFFF-RRRR!" he was filling the air with the cloudy
rank of hot jism, that pummled my senses and thumped on my brain, and I
felt Spellman choking beneath me, gagging on Chris' load of come and then I
heard a metallic splattering as he pumped his jizz onto the toolbox and his
ass clamped on me hard. I fucked him rapidly like that, unable to be jarred
loose from this tight grip, and then I felt my ejaculation grip me, I
tossed my head back, staring at the tin-roof ceiling we had, the bare
black-iron rafters and silvery tin, and it took on an eerie beauty of its
own and it was my world, black-and-silver, and I was lost within it as I
blasted my wad into Spellman's ass.
     Done, a silence fell over our sweat-drenched and hormone-drained
trio. I staggered back and leaned against our wooden work bench, Chris
clutched the wheel of the car we had been working on at closing time,
Spellman was slumped where he was over the toolbox, bare ass revealing his
too-human nature to anyone who would look.
     Then he rose up, hoisted up his trousers in an awkward fashion, got
them back around his waist, and with his hair askew and his face stained
with black oily smudges from Chris' hands and mine, he walked out the door
and back out to his car, and his Porsche roared out angrily and stormed off
from our little business.
     I figured we had really screwed up. Sure, the prick had deserved it,
shafting us like that, but we had no call to jump his bones like
that. Chris was more relaxed about it, when I mentioned my fears to him, he
sneered, "Ah, the little shit loved it. He won't do anything. Besides, he
still owes us for this damned twinkly car."
     So after a time, we left to go home, and I waited for the policeman's
knock, ready to tell all upon request. But the knock never came.
     I was back at work the next day--what else could I do?--when the UPS
man came in. "Delivery." he said.
     "Ah, shit!" Chris said, recognizing the box as from one of the
luxury-car-parts places that Peyton Spellman had been patronizing. "Not
another one! We're through with that shit!"
     I went ahead and signed for it, and decided that the least I could do
for Spellman, after treating him so rough, was to go ahead and put the part
on the car. Chris kept his head inside the hood of the little Honda Civic
that needed a full gasket job and rebuilding, but which the owner could
only afford to have us tinker it into running condition again.
     I opened the card and read, "Put this on the 'Vette." Hmph, I decided,
Spellman had ordered it before last night. I opened the box and stared.
     "Hey, Chris!" I said.
     "What is it?"
     "Come over here!"
     He did and his eyes popped out at the contents of the
box. Money. Cash.
     "I'll bet there's exactly ten thousand dollars here." I said.
     "I'll be damned." Chris said. "The fucker had the dough after all."
     "So we owe him an apology." I said.
     Chris pulled out a note inside with the money, he had spotted it where
I hadn't, too dazzled by the green-and-black bills. He read it, chuckled
and handed it to me.
     I read it. "I'm paying you in cash so you can pretend you never got
it. I'll be back tonight to try to pick up the car again." It was unsigned
and had no letterhead, just the paper and those words, nothing else. But I
recognized Spellman's handwriting.
     Chris leaned back against the wooden worktable and folded his arms and
that made his jumpsuit bag out at the crotch, showing just the top of his
cock again. Then he asked me, "What do you think we owe him now?"

				  THE END
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