Dedicated to the awesome roxxihearts. Summer 2010 saw me going through some spectacularly painful shit and she was there to lend support and encouraging words.

As for this fic, apparently another author published one with the same name while I was in the middle of writing this. This fic is in no way meant to copy or imitate hers (I haven't read the of author's story), and the similarities in titles is purely coincidence. I was actually going to change this title, but decided to leave it since it works so well.

Warning: There is sleaze in this fic and crude language. If you don't like reading about dirty sex, stop right here. Don't complain to me later about it. You've been warned.

Beta: Blood Zephyr

Grease Monkey

I got the digits. Right here in my hand. Like, I'm looking at them right now. I wonder if I should call him, or if I should try to hang on to my freedom.

But all this is after. Allow me to tell you of my day yesterday. Ready? Okay. Without further ado, (and at the risk of sounding like the opening scene from a Michael Bay movie…)


It's one of those days. You know what I'm talking about. Those days when it's hot as fuck. You're sweaty as fuck, bored as fuck, and horny as all blue fuck. The air is still, everything in you is still, and it's like you're in suspended animation or some trippy sci-fi cryo sleep shit. Like you're waiting for something to happen, almost as if you know something is going to happen and you're just waiting for the bomb to drop.

Me? I work at a packing warehouse. They went and reduced the hours of anyone who wasn't recently let go in deference to the economy, which means I have the day off. It's the middle of August, so temps are boiling. Sensible (and broke) soul that I am, I don't have my a/c blowing. The window, only one for the entire one-room hole I call home, is shoved open as far as it will go. There's not even the whisper of a breeze. All there is, is hot air reeking of the dumpster that sits in the alley my window opens out on, and me nearly dead of boredom.

One of those days.

Anyway, I happen to be sprawled on my sprung pull-out mattress with a dick hard enough to hit home runs with. Slowly being roasted alive. Don't even know why I'm so horny. Then again, I'm usually horny and usually pounding the shit out of some guy's ass because of it.

God, I haven't fucked in ages. Like… at least three whole days. Which might explain my leaking dick. On the other hand, I did sort of just wake up from this dream…

I can't really remember it, but there was this… creature… in it, for want of a better term. The creature is pretty much beyond my ability to describe. I suppose, though, that if I were to try, I'd say something like: Caucasian male, 5'11", athletic build. Black hair, with a single blue streak highlighting one forelock. Left nipple ring. Silver hoop at the corner of his shapely right eyebrow. There was also this small tattoo between his shoulder blades, about the size of my palm. Some kind of red and white ice-cream cone, I think. And he was butch. Seriously butch.

But yeah, I don't remember any details of the dream so it can't be thoughts of it that has me halfway coming. Nor could it be the fact that this particular creature works a few miles away in an auto repair shop. Across the street from my packing warehouse to be exact, but who's noticing?


As long as I've been doing it, grabbing my own junk never gets old. I like to imagine my bed as an altar with dozens of spectators around it. They watch and pant as I cradle my sac and stretch it out as far as it will go. They lick their lips when I push my cock down between my legs, only to let it flop back toward my stomach with a meaty slapping sound. They draw closer when I reach for the bottle of lube that remains on my bed day in and day out. They sigh as its clear, oily consistency runs down the length of my tool. I can almost hear them swallowing excess saliva as they drool. They want me. They want to shove their own hard cocks (yeah, they're all men) in my various orifices, and fuck me till I'm a bleeding, broken mess. They all want to possess me, but never will. Their futile longing and impotence excites me. I can hear their moans of jealousy when I shove three fingers in my hole; I make sure to spread my cheeks wide for them, giving them a nice tempting view of my hairless pucker. The wet sounds my fingers make as I cup them and jerk them in and out of my ass has the crowd beating off in no time… just as I'm fisting my own cock as hard as I can. I arch, and undulate, and yell as loudly as possible, giving them the show of a lifetime, and when I come? It's like Vesuvius. I feel drops and streams of my jizz landing on my stomach and legs. The horde is begging to lick me clean, but I disappoint them by rubbing it all into my skin, mixing it with the sweat pouring off me. I taste this salty cocktail by sucking four fingers of my hand clean with a noisy slurp, then wiping whatever I don't catch along my face and neck.

But when I open my eyes, I see that the crowd is gone and it's just that creature from my dreams watching me.

While lying there floating on the afterglow, it occurs to me that I've probably forgotten something at work. And that I'll need a car to get there, though I don't have a license. Maybe Kiba will lend me his ride. He owes me a favor; I lent him seventy-five cents to get a bag of chips out of the vending machine at work a month ago.

Auto repair shop. Pretty pretentious name if you ask me. What was wrong with calling such a place a garage? It's like how stewardesses are all called flight attendants now, or how secretaries are called office managers. Bullshit.

There's a space empty right next to a Nissan inside the place. Last empty spot, seeing as the seven other places are taken. I drive in and kill the engine. And there he is. The creature. There is a small office in the back, with grimy windows. He's in there on the phone, talking while looking at a computer screen. Topless, as always, filthy rag hanging from the back pocket of his coveralls. I thought all mechanics wore these one-piece jobs, like garbage men. Dark green, with their name stitched in red on the front. Not this guy. He wears coveralls or old Levi's with his steel-toe boots, and never any shirt. At least not in the summer.

A quick look shows the creature to be alone. There are a few other people who work in the shop. One I know is his brother, who goes around in cargo pants and nothing else but his ponytail and boots. Another is some long-haired spook with very pale eyes. The other is this beefy wrestler type with long, spiky brown hair. He, at least, usually has a tank top on. Bunch of half naked guys with dirty bodies, sweating in a garage. Oh yeah.

But today it's just this creature. It's early so maybe the others will come in later, don't know. Don't care. Creature's coming out the office with a welcoming expression. I get out and make my way towards him, shoving my hands down the back pockets of my jeans.

"Can I do you for?" he asks. He's wiping his hands on that rag he was wearing.

I should probably mention that I know absolutely nothing about cars or what goes on in auto repair shops. I can see half the cars hoisted into the air by some kind of machinery, presumably to allow a peek at the underside and all, but I have no clue what's done or what one says when they come to these places. I gesture at the one part of a car I do know. "Window's broken. Need it fixed."

The creature stares at me for a beat, then runs his eyes over the window in question. "Your windshield looks fine to me. Not even a chip."

Damn. Uhhh…

There's a metal cross-like thing sitting on the floor. I stoop, pick this up, and swing it at the window. A hundred cracks starburst outward from the point of impact, but the window holds. I swing again, shattering it. "There. Now it's broken."

The creature slowly lowers his arms. He'd thrown them up to protect his face from flying shards. He stares at the bits of safety glass still tinkling from the broken window- excuse me, windshield. He starts backing away, holding his hands up. "Look… just put the tire iron down, okay? I don't want any trouble."

What the hell? "I don't, either… I just-" The dude flinched when I hefted the 'tire iron' while speaking. Oh. He's afraid of me. "-just suck at pick-up lines," I finished sheepishly.

"Pick-up lines?" Scared and shocked.

"Yeah… I usually do this in an alley, and there's never any reason to talk. I just bang 'em hard and leave them unconscious."

Maybe I shouldn't have said that, and maybe I shouldn't have swung the tire iron like I was Willie Mays when I did.

The creature's eyes widened. "You're crazy. I'm calling the cops." He turned for his office.

But I'm not crazy. "So that's not you looking at me every time I pass here on my way to or from work?"

That stops the creature in his tracks. He pauses in the office doorway, his back to me. "You don't see me barging into the warehouse to find you, do you?"

Good point. "Okay, so maybe I overdid it a bit. Sue me. Or suck me."

The reason he's a creature is because no one this perfect could ever live on Earth, and if someone did they would never, ever be found in an ordinary industrial town like Konoha. He turned his head to give me a look over his bare shoulder, arching one of those black brows at me, and I know I've got him. He turns all the way around and just sort of leans against the doorway in invitation. Which I'm quick to accept.


There's a moment, when I walk up to him to fill the doorway with my body, where we both stiffen. Our chests are practically touching, and I'm staring down into his face; about five thrumming seconds pass where the battle for dominance is fought and won. He drops his eyes to my bulge in defeat and I'm happy. If there's one thing that will keep me hard for hours on end, it's topping a guy who's butch and top himself. He grunts as I reach around him and lift him high against me by one butt cheek.

"What are you, like three hundred pounds?" he gasps. His feet dangle above the floor.

"Two-sixty." I heft him a little higher, dropping my face to his jaw as I expertly weigh him. "You're about one ninety-five, am I right?"

Which isn't light. It disturbs him to see my strength used on him like this, I can tell. I lift my face from sniffing his jaw and end up holding his gaze a few seconds. There's a kick and punch of raw desire that I don't usually feel with guys.

"Put me down, I'll get you all dirty," he whispers after a moment.

He is filthy. He smells of fresh sweat and is coated with it. Motor oil and grease are liberally smeared on his chest and abs, and along his forearms. His hands are relatively clean since he just wiped them on the rag, but he truly is one grimy stud.

Well, I'm none too clean and tell him so. Hell, there's cum crusted on me and the clothes I'm wearing were plucked right off the dirty pile of laundry in my bathroom.

"You negative?" he asks.

I nod. "You?"

"Yes. Condoms?"

"Back pocket."

The way he slides his thick hand down the pocket of my tight jeans has me licking my lips and grunting. He gets distracted by this and leans up to suck face. He's good. Really good. We don't even make it to the office; I turn and drop him on the hood of Kiba's Camry, while he rips my muscle shirt away with one hard tug.

His hands are everywhere. Hot. Rough. Smearing dirt and grease up my biceps as he runs his hands up to my hair. He holds me down, making sure I can't break the kiss, but I don't want to. He tastes like Polo mints, and the way I suck and moan into his mouth is nothing to how hungrily he's kissing me. Definitely the best kisser I've ever had.

He doesn't resist me when I lean forward, pressing him back against the hood of the car. He smiles lazily when I palm his boner through his jeans… right before he makes a strong grab for my own package. His hand clamps down on my rod and squeezes hard enough to have me gasping. "Easy," I hiss. "All in good time."

"No time like the present." He yanks my head back by the hair and licks boldly up my neck, over my Adam's apple, to sink his teeth into my chin.

The thing about topping a top? Even when they know you're in charge, they try to take control. Fuck, that is so hot.

I pull away to gesture at my jeans. He unbuttons them, sliding off the hood of the Camry to do so. When my pants are down, I bury a hand in his sweaty hair and mash his face to my groin. I can hear him inhaling deeply, feel his hands coming around my hips to hold my ass tightly. My jockstrap has got piss and cum stains all over it, so I'm sure he's getting a nose full. I press his face harder against my cock, shivering at the heat of his mouth. "You like it dirty, huh?"

"Yeahhh…" He's mouthing my prick, rubbing his face on the straining material covering it. "Let me suck it. Let me clean your cock," he breathes.

It's all I can do not to groan when he pulls down my jock. Junior springs free and the creature spends some seconds sniffing along the length, rubbing my weeping cockhead across his lips. He has sensual lips. The sight of my precum coating them makes me lean down and suck them clean, before he pushes me back up.

He takes me whole.

Just opens wide and swallows me to the hilt.

His undulating throat muscles have me stiffening my knees and steadying myself with the hand I have in his hair. But then he draws in air through his nose, fills his lungs, and lets it out in huge, vibrating roar on my cock. "JESUS!"

I nearly faint, but he's already swallowing. I stand there weakly, feeling his tongue swirl around my still-hard cock, feeling his mouth set up some truly spectacular suction as his blunt nails dig into my ass. I know he can feel me trembling in the aftermath. He is fierce with his blowjob, and I'm left to mutter greedily, "Another. Suck me till I shoot again, and this time I want to see it all over your face, you fucking slut."

His eyes never leave mine as he fists, and sucks, and bobs wetly. I alternately cup the back of his neck or stroke his hair. I've got goosebumps, but my load is still far away, a distant tingle in my sac.

I can see the street between the elevated cars. People walk past on the sidewalk, and right there I can see the corner of my warehouse, but no one looks inside the garage. The fact that they could, that all one had to do was turn their head to see two men guilty of indecent exposure, had my balls tightening and my climax closer. That and the fact that the creature just sank his index fingers into my ass and pulled in opposite directions.

I grab his hair in both hands and jerk him forward. He grunts, growls, gags, but stops sucking as I brutally fuck his face. All he can do is hold his mouth open. Saliva hits the cement between my feet, runs down my dick to drip off my balls. His face is beet red, eyes squeezed shut, but I only jerk harder, pumping my hips until I finally feel a prickle snap from my hole all the way up my spine, and I come. I come all over his gasping, coughing face, stabbing at his cheeks and coating them liberally. Then I yank him up by the hair and kiss him like that.

"Bet your ass is funky," I whisper against his panting face. "The way you sweat in here, how stinking filthy you are… I bet you only bathe once a week." I can already imagine how his dirty ass will taste, and I'm drooling at the thought. I flip him roughly so that he's leaning on the dented hood of the Camry, and yank his jeans over his hips. "No undies? My, my, my you are a dirty boy. Spread your cheeks for me."

The crack of his ass is slightly darker than the rest of his fair skin, but he's clean. A sniff reveals only sweat. His hole is wet with it, and lightly furred with wiry black hairs.

"Ohhhh, shit!" He growls loudly when I start sucking right away. He bangs the flat of his hand on the Camry. "Bite it. Bite me."

Yes ma'am! Biggest slut ever, with the way he shoves his ass at me, fucking himself on my tongue. His hands left dirty, greasy fingerprints on his ass cheeks, and this smell, coupled with his own sweaty musk, makes me growl myself and bite him hard. He actually screams between his teeth and goes up on his toes. His back humps up as his body shudders. The sound of him furiously jerking his crank makes me stand up and quickly pick up the condoms that sat on the Camry's hood.

He glances back at me. "I like it rough."

"I can tell."

"Don't prep me, just fuck me. You come when I say you can."

I stared until he hissed impatiently. Plus side? I'd already come twice, so a third time would probably take me a good hour or so. I spit heavily onto his ass several times, rubbing it around good. He sure does want it; when I spread his ass to line my cock up with his hole, he hangs his head and begins to pant in anticipation.

Fact: there's a great big nelly lurking in just about every butch fag. Except me, of course. My little creature takes my 10incher with a satisfied arch of his back and a guttural moan for more.

"Pull my hair," he commands. "And do me hard."

Buried to the hilt in the throbbing, scorching, tight fist of his ass, I lean down to his ear. "Thanks, Beautiful, but I got it from here." I do yank his head back by the hair, though. It's a position that keeps his back arched sharply, which keeps that ass pointed just the way I like it.

He's tight. Ridiculously so, which leads me to believe he's never bottomed before. Well, that explains the slutty behavior; once they fall, they fall hard. But that's enough thinking.

A few people do turn their heads to look in the garage finally at hearing all the grunting and cursing. One or two stop to stare at the sight of one man getting pounded by another, but I'm beyond caring.

Slam. Slam. Slam. I'm hurting, he's hurting, and pain always did spice sex up, I don't care who says different. The creature gives a tortured little hiccup each time I bulldoze forward. I have to steady him by his hair, even though he's already holding to the car hood as best he can. He sobs and gasps in pain and pleasure. "More," he begs. He reaches behind himself and pulls my hips in so that we're flush, skin to skin. "I want more." He's quaking.

Harder and harder, faster and faster, until I'm gritting my teeth and the Camry is seriously having its parking brakes tested. Jesus, the guy must be some sort of masochist. I'm pouring sweat all over his back, and each time a new drop hits his heated skin, he moans a little louder.

But hell, I'm no better.

"Fuck yeah, take it all! Take it all, bitch!"

That was me.

The dirt and grease on him, mucky with his perspiration, draws my hands so that I'm rubbing that filth into his skin, then reaching up to rub it into my own chest. I give my nipples a tweak as I keep ramming away at his ass hole. I'm high off the pleasure, nearly dizzy. Mindlessly plugging away, and completely uncaring of what state my cock will be in after this much abuse. The creature is just as mindless, swearing and licking at the hood of the car in his passion. His muscles strain to withstand my body, but he takes it like the man he is.

Afterwards, when we're sprawled on the floor in front of the Camry, watching his cum drip off the grill, I'm thinking longingly of a nice cold dip in the river. A swim sounds like just the thing.

He rolls over, and leans up on an elbow. "You're good."

I grin.

"I want another round."

My grin freezes.

"And this time, I want to see your face while you're fucking me. And I want it slow."

"What the f-"

He puts a finger to my lips. "Just kiss me."

Well, okay.

No, not okay. Him and his damned succulent mouth. The way he stretches out full length on me and essentially fucks me with his mouth is too hot and intimate for my peace of mind. And I don't even think I can get it up a fourth time. Already this interlude has gone on three times as long as all my other fucks.

On the other hand, I do dream about him at night, and have been doing so for longer than I care to admit.

I keep my eyes open. So does he. The sound of our mouths is all there is to hear, along with the nearly inaudible rasp of our wet skin against each other. My knee comes up between his legs, and his grinds his ass on my thigh, mashing his sac against my quadricep. His breathing comes faster, his eyes close, and a soft moan issues out through his nose. I get an arm up behind him and cup his head, before I roll with him.

He catches my face in his hands when I start to head toward his cock. "No."


"I don't want you to just fuck me this time. I want you to make love to me."

I hold his serious gaze. "Are you insane? What do you think this is, some gay love story?"

He doesn't answer. I see his demands as a challenge. So he doesn't think I'm capable of real intimacy? We'll see about that.


I have to think a moment. I usually pick guys up behind the club or bar and screw them right there. I don't like that whole 'couples scene' everyone's into. I like my freedom, and being unattainable.

Still, I know a few things. And when I graze my teeth along the prominent cord in his neck, I can tell he won't be complaining.

Slow, he says. Make love. If that's what he wants, that's what he'll get.

It wasn't the way he sighed when I left a necklace of kisses around his throat, or the way he squirmed when I sucked his fingers one by one. It wasn't the way I nibbled his ears, or rubbed his arms, or kneaded his shoulders. Heck, it wasn't even the way I nuzzled his stomach, flipped him, and nuzzled the entire filthy expanse of his back. Nor was it how he cried out passionately at having his sac sucked for thirty whole minutes.

It was his eyes.

The way he looked at me while I was doing all that was what told me I was fucked good and proper. Something in my chest screamed and tried to run, but his eyes just sucked me right in.

And then it was how he responded to my touch. I can be honest and say I've never touched anyone like this. I was learning as I went, exploring his body and 'making love', but I was also doing what I always swore not to do: I was losing myself, getting emotional about it. I was Letting Someone In and I wasn't sure I liked it.

But… it's so lonely sometimes. And even if he's in me, I can always kick him out again, right? Like kicking a squatter out of your place.

He likes when I suck his navel. And he likes when I bite his legs, the only clean place on him. He tastes salty and like the acrid grease and whatever other dirt is in his pores from this garage, but underneath all that, he just tastes good. So warm and good.

"Now?" I ask, when I've covered every inch of his body several times over.

"Yes, please."

I fit another condom on, but this time I also take the bottle of lube I brought with me and soak us both with it. "Lift your knees."

He lifts and holds them, and I settle into position. I watch his face as I sink in, watch how his mouth opens, how his eyes turn glassy when they glaze over. I press forward, giving him every aching inch of me and just hold there. He takes a breath, releases his knees to link his hands loosely behind my neck. I stare into his eyes until he nods, then keep staring when I strike up a slow, but steady rhythm.

There's something to be said for taking it slow, I'll give him that. And when I kiss him again, it's not because he asks me to. I lift one of his legs, giving myself more room as I continue to kiss him deeply and fuck him slowly.

Doesn't a person have to be in love to make love? Fuck, this is why I avoid emotional entanglements like the plague. I'm not in love, but this sure isn't just fucking.

And I can't stop. I can't stop myself from wrapping my arms around him, or kissing him harder, or pressing a little deeper, then just a little deeper still with each thrust. His legs lock around my waist, squeezing hard enough to cut off my breath, and still I'm kissing him, and holding him, and he's holding me just as close. Just as hard.

I want him.

No! No I don't, I don't want anything but to get the Christing fuck out of here.

He seems not to mind when I speed up, hunting for and finding my climax. It's far off. I'll need another thirty, forty minutes at least. Simply getting up and leaving him high and dry is out of the question. Word of that would spread and I'd be made into a laughingstock.

"Calm down," he says quietly. He reaches up to comb my sweaty hair from my brow. "Take it easy, you're hyperventilating."

"This… I shouldn't have come here…"

"Shhh." The bastard actually smiles. "Stop panicking. Just love me."

Shortened version of 'make love to me', but the words have me hunching my shoulders anyway. He holds my face, holds my gaze, and everything in me screams bloody murder while I thrust, and thrust, and thrust. Nothing to do but tough it out.

"You have beautiful eyes," he says.

I came hard enough to black out for a few minutes.

There's blessed silence between us as I jerk my clothes on. Well my jeans, anyway. The shirt's nothing but an orange rag now. I stomp my feet into my own steel-toed boots as I hear him come up behind me. His arms wrap around my torso and I feel his cheek on my back. He's very warm, and still sweaty.

"That was incredible. Would you like to-?"

I turn around and shove his arms away. "Yeah, I know I was the best fuck of your life," I interrupt in a bored voice. "Try not to jump off a building when I don't come back."

It's my standard line whenever some fuck starts getting clingy, but seeing the look of surprise and bewilderment on his face made me regret it as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

Except… I never regret my words.

I don't have time to consider that, since he's backing away from me, nodding slowly. "I guess I misjudged you, then. I apologize. Try the repair shop across town if you ever need further service." He turned and began walking stiffly to his office.

Shit. I knew I was fucked, and the inexplicable wrench from the screaming thing in my chest just proved it. "Wait." Fuck!

He stops in his doorway, and it's like we've come full circle. "I'm sorry, that was my Tourette's Syndrome acting up."

A few seconds go by. "And what did you mean to say?"

You shall know the truth... "Look, this was great and all, but… I'm not exactly relationship material."

He turned and crossed his arms. "I can tell. But was this just another fuck for you?"

And the truth shall make you free… yeah, right. Apparently, the screaming thing in me didn't want freedom anymore. "No…"

He waited.

"I just don't want you thinking this means we're going steady or something." Why am I coming off sounding like the bastard here?

"Fine." He shrugged one shoulder. "Just wanted to know if you'd like to get coffee sometime after your shift at work, but it's cool." He turned and disappeared into his office, clearly not amused in the slightest.

I continue to stand there for the next twenty minutes, watching him pretend to look through a ledger. He finally sighs, drops the thing on his desk, and strolls back out. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and walks right up to me. He doesn't speak, just stares me dead in the eye.

"What's your name?" I finally ask.


"Sasuke. Can I call you sometimes?"

"Wouldn't that be relationship territory? Something I sense you avoid like the plague?"

Okay, he got me. But… "I dream about you at night," I confess.

That had his tight expression unclenching. "Is that right." His tone says it all. It's a little less formal, a lot more interested.

I nod. "And I whack off to thoughts about you in the day."

"I'm flattered." His voice is definitely smiling, even if his face isn't yet. His eyes search mine. "You don't have Tourette's Syndrome, do you?"

I throw the towel in and yank him forward by the fly of his jeans. His chest hits mine and I keep him there, squeezing hard. "Nope. Just your classic case of idiot."

"Thought so." He rubbed his nose against mine briefly, brushed his lips along mine. "You have good taste in men, though."

"I do, don't I? And now that I've claimed your virgin ass, I'm kind of not okay with someone else maybe fucking what's mine."

He's staring at my mouth, breathing in my breath. "I don't bottom," he admitted. "But maybe you can convince me to do it again… in a non-relationship sort of way, of course," he amended with mock severity.

"Of course," I say just as seriously.

He dug into his pocket and came up with a business card.

And that was my day yesterday. Well, we did fuck again a few times. In his office and then on the Camry. Kiba shat bricks when he saw the ass-shaped dent on his car and the missing windshield.

There's a greasy fingerprint on the card, right over the name. Uchiha Sasuke, mechanic. Smiling broadly, I punch the number into my cell and flop backwards on my bed.