Tight Jeans

All rights reserved. All characters and events are fictional, the participants were all consenting adults, staunch churchgoers and members of the Rotaries. All appropriate safety precautions were observed at all times, social distancing was applied etc. Copyright will be enforced by the Guild of Assassins. This is a story of what almost happened.

The old truck started on the first swing of the starter, and Jim smiled. Old, but not dead yet. He eased the clutch, thinking of the day ahead. If all went well the whole project should come together today. All the components, each one built by overpaid ego-maniacs, but he, in his old truck, his worn boots and threadbare jeans, he would put it together, make it all work. Smiling, he clicked on the remote, and drove out the gate.

He must have heard the footsteps because he hit the brakes a moment before he saw her. Jogger. Blonde ponytail swinging, head down. Blue eyes searing into his. Perfectly angled legs, poised, swerving to miss the bumper, another step and angle back. Arms swinging freely from a sleeveless vest, giving a delightful glimpse of breast. She looked back, lips a hard, flat line. No need to mouth: 'Arsehole'.

Jim looked after the disappearing figure, seeing the long legs swinging freely under the tight shorts, the arms pumping. He sighed. No time for that now. The days that were. Still.

He eased the truck into gear and drove off.

For once everyone on site worked together. All the components had been brought here, and were being moved carefully into place on the platform. The girders creaked minutely. Locks clacked into place. Cables were plugged in. Panels flickered with lights. Jim smiled. The PhD's shook their heads. Never before had a project come together like this, a week ahead of schedule, and under budget.

Calibration went smoothly, but the platform was not steady enough. To be expected. They tried again, but there were infinitesimal movements. White coats clustered, and Jim looked on. After a while he intervened.

"Ok, people, we did what we had planned for today. Let's knock off and I will fix the problem. See you all tomorrow."

Dr Jones objected: "We have an hour in hand. We should keep on, maybe we can do the calibration when it gets cooler."

Jim shook his head. "Doc, you can keep on if you wish, but remember that calibration was scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Go and celebrate that everything went together well. I promise you, tomorrow morning I will have the platform stable as mother earth."

The construction supplies shop was practically empty, but an aggressive guy kept both girls busy, checking his invoices going back over the last six months. Jim mouthed over his head to one: "I only need six screw jacks."

She looked for help, then ducked into an office, and asked something.

A tall woman followed her out. The jogger.

Her eyes measured Jim up and down, and a husky voice asked: "You want...?"

For an insane moment he flashed back to his student days when he would have answered: "You." But too much time has passed, too many rejections and hurt.

"I need six screw jacks. Standard, one meter types would be perfect."

She walked out, her tight jeans outlining a perfect backside. Jim followed, his mouth dry. The long legs swivelled, angled. This was not walking, it was poetry in motion. He caught her scent: sweet, clean, a hint of musk.

Her hand waved an assistant closer, her eyes swivelling towards Jim.

"These would do?" Her blouse tightened, outlining, for a moment, a perfect breast. He swallowed, and looked at the stacked jacks.

"That's what I need. Six of them. And baseplates too, please."

The assistant gathered the jacks, and Jim pointed out his truck. She turned away. "The baseplates should be here. Have a look."

She bent down, and his control snapped. His left hand went, as if on its own, towards the perfect curve, touched the soft, yielding muscles under the tight jeans. She stopped moving, remaining immobile for a moment. He met her as she turned, his right hand slipping into her blouse, finding her breast. Her eyes were hard, shocked, then she moved against him, into him, her mouth softening as she tilted her head back.

Jim pulled back, his hands going behind his back. Shame flooded his mind. What was he thinking?

He managed: "I am sorry, I apologise..."

Her voice broke in on him, clear, husky. "Not here. Come."

Behind the stack of scaffold units an open space, the noise of the plant, the adjoining factory loud around them. She drew him against her, her lips soft and demanding.

He pushed her back against the steel tubes, thrusting his erection against her, opening her jeans-clad legs with his. Her one hand went behind his neck, drawing his mouth against her, the other hand against the small of his back, demanding.

His hand slipped over her taut belly, down her jeans, past the waistband she had loosened, feeling the soft panties, the roughness of her patch, the warm wetness. She ground herself against him, her tongue thrusting into his mouth.

Jim's head was spinning. His world contracted, excluding the sun on his back, the noise from the activities around them, the movement of the scaffold units behind her as he thrust against her. She pushed him away, finding the buckle of his belt, the zip of his jeans. Fire seemed to engulf his as she took him in her hand, stroking him, her mouth still tight against his but a soft moan issuing from her throat.

Then she broke away, and in one fluid movement stripped her jeans down to her knees. She turned away, arching her back, looking back at him, saying: "Now."

He entered her, thrusting as if to impale her, driving his strength and passion into her, penetrating her soft warmness. He felt her contracting around him, meeting every movement with one of her own, her breath coming in harsh gasps. She held on the scaffolding pipes, and she voiced: "Yes, oh, yes, come now!"

She spasmed around him, and that brought him to a climax, spurting into her, and again, and again.

For long seconds they stood there, trousers around their knees, the cool wind playing on their nakedness, the flames of their passion slowly cooling. Then she turned around, kissed him as she pulled up her pants. "Get decent. Here are your baseplates. Your invoice will be at the desk."

He took a moment to recover his breath, to get his brain back into gear. His buckle was strangely difficult to close, and he caught himself painfully in the zip. He threw the baseplates into the back of the truck beside the jacks, and walked back to the office, wondering what to say to her.

One of the two girls paused in her explanation to Mr Complaints to hand a printed page to him. She pointed: "Cashier. Thanks, come again."

Innuendo rolled in his head as he counted out notes, listening, seeking for her scent. Nothing.

The truck started on the first turn of the starter. Old, but not dead yet.