The next day, I couldn't stop thinking about Hank.
All through my shift, I kept replaying that moment—the way he'd stood in the doorway of the parts room, his hand groping that massive bulge through his pants, his eyes locked on my bouncing, spit-slick tits while Dax fucked them. The way he'd stayed and watched the whole thing, breathing heavy, never saying a word.
And then he'd just... walked away.
I didn't know what to make of it. Hank was fifty years old, married, wore his wedding ring every single day. He'd worked at Ray's for over a decade, always professional, always gruff and focused on the job. He wasn't like Dax or Shane or John—he'd never looked at me that way before.
Until yesterday.
Now I couldn't stop wondering what he was thinking. If he'd told anyone. If he was disgusted or turned on or both.
I got my answer during the late closing shift.
Ray had assigned me and Hank to work together—just the two of us in the empty shop, finishing up a brake job on an old blue Chevy Silverado that had been sitting in the bay all week. The rest of the crew had clocked out hours ago, and the shop was quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the occasional clang of metal tools.
It was hot as hell. The AC had broken again, and the air was thick and stifling, making sweat bead on my skin within minutes.
My chest felt extra swollen tonight. I'd hit the gym hard this morning—two hours of nothing but chest work, pushing myself until my pecs were pumped and sore and so full they felt like they might burst. The baby-smooth skin was stretched tight over the dense muscle and thick plush padding, and my puffy pink nipples were already stiff and sensitive, rubbing against the rough fabric of my coveralls every time I moved.
Hank was working on the other side of the shop, replacing a transmission on a Ford F-150. He hadn't said much since we'd started—just the usual gruff instructions about torque specs and part numbers. He was acting completely normal, like yesterday had never happened.
But I could feel his eyes on me.
Every time I bent over the Silverado's engine, every time I reached for a tool, I could feel his gaze burning into my chest. I'd glance up and catch him staring, his jaw tight, his hands gripping his wrench a little too hard. Then he'd look away quickly, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't.
It was driving me crazy.
I was bent over the front of the truck, reaching deep into the engine bay to loosen a stubborn bolt, when it happened.
The zipper on my coveralls—already halfway down—slipped all the way open.
I felt the fabric fall away, felt the cool air hit my bare chest, and before I could react, both of my massive, heavy pec tits bounced completely free.
They jiggled and settled high and proud on my chest, perfectly sculpted and obscenely large, the thick plush soft padding on top quivering while the firm dense muscle underneath flexed. My puffy pink nipples were hard and glistening with sweat, pointing slightly upward, and the deep valley of cleavage between my pecs was slick and shiny under the fluorescent lights.
I froze, my heart pounding, and slowly straightened up.
That's when I saw Hank.
He'd stopped working completely. His wrench was hanging loose in one hand, forgotten, and he was just... staring. His piercing hazel eyes were locked on my chest, his square jaw clenched tight, his broad shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then Hank set down his wrench with a loud clang that echoed through the empty shop.
He crossed the bay in four long strides, his boots crunching on the concrete, and stopped right in front of me. He was tall—at least six-two—and powerfully built, his barrel chest and huge veiny arms straining against his unzipped grey coveralls. His thick muscled chest was on full display, covered in a light dusting of silver hair that matched his trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.
He didn't say anything. He just reached out with one rough, callused hand and cupped my left pec.
I gasped.
His hand was huge—big enough to almost cover my entire tit—and his grip was firm and possessive. He squeezed, his thick fingers sinking into the soft outer layer of padding, molding it around his hand while the dense muscle underneath resisted. He lifted my pec slightly, testing its weight, and groaned low in his throat.
"Fuck," he muttered, his deep rumbling voice rough with need. "Look at these."
He brought his other hand up and cupped my right pec, squeezing both of them now, lifting and weighing them like he couldn't believe they were real. His thumbs brushed over my nipples, and I whimpered, my knees going weak.
"Hank—"
"Shut up." His voice was a growl. "Just... shut up and let me touch you."
He started playing with my tits in earnest now—bouncing them up and down in his palms, watching them jiggle and slap together, the soft padding rippling hypnotically. He pinched my nipples hard, rolling them between his fingers, and I cried out, my cock instantly hardening in my jockstrap.
"Jesus Christ," Hank breathed, his eyes glued to my chest. "I've been thinking about these all fucking day. Ever since I saw Dax fucking them yesterday."
My face burned. "Hank, I—"
"I said shut up." He slapped the underside of my left tit, and it bounced heavily, the flesh jiggling. "I don't want to hear excuses. I just want to play with these perfect fucking tits."
He lifted both of my pecs and dropped them, watching them bounce and settle, then did it again. And again. He was completely obsessed, unable to stop touching, squeezing, mauling. His breathing was getting heavier, his pupils blown wide, and I could see the massive bulge tenting the front of his coveralls—thick and long, straining against the fabric.
"Hank, please—" I was already slipping into that headspace, that gooning state where nothing existed except sensation and need. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need, boy?" He leaned in close, his beard brushing against my cheek, his breath hot against my ear. "Tell me what you need."
"Fuck me," I whimpered. "Please, Hank, fuck me. Use my big tits. I need it so bad—"
Hank groaned, a sound of pure animal need, and suddenly his mouth was on mine. He kissed me hard and brutal, his tongue forcing its way past my lips, claiming me. His hands never stopped mauling my chest, squeezing and kneading and pinching until I was moaning into his mouth.
When he pulled back, his eyes were wild.
"Get on the hood," he ordered, jerking his head toward the Silverado. "Now."
I didn't hesitate. I climbed onto the front of the truck, the cold metal hood pressing against my bare back as I lay down. Hank grabbed my ankles and spread my legs wide, positioning himself between my thick thighs. He shoved my coveralls down roughly, yanking them off completely along with my jockstrap, leaving me naked and exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights.
My eight-inch cock was already rock hard, leaking pre-cum onto my abs, but Hank didn't touch it. He was too focused on my chest.
He leaned down and spat—a thick, heavy rope of saliva that landed right in the center of my cleavage with a wet splat. Then he did it again, and again, coating my pecs in his spit until they were shiny and slick.
"Fuck, that's hot," he muttered, rubbing his spit into my skin with his rough palms. "Love seeing you all wet and messy."
He pinched both of my nipples hard, twisting them, and I arched off the hood with a scream.
"That's it," Hank growled. "Let me hear you. Nobody's here but us."
He leaned down and sucked one of my nipples into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, and I thought I was going to lose my mind. He moved to the other nipple, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the puffy flesh, and I was writhing beneath him, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick metal hood.
"Please," I begged. "Please, Hank, I need your cock—"
"You'll get it." He straightened up and unzipped his coveralls, shoving them down to his thighs.
His cock sprang free, and I gasped.
It was massive—at least twelve inches long and thick as my wrist, covered in prominent veins that pulsed with his heartbeat. The fat mushroom head was already dripping with pre-cum, and his heavy balls hung low and full beneath the shaft.
"Holy fuck," I breathed.
Hank stroked himself slowly, his fist barely able to wrap around the girth. "You want this, boy? Want this big cock inside you?"
"Yes! God, yes, please—"
He grabbed my hips and yanked me closer to the edge of the hood, positioning the head of his cock at my hole. I felt the blunt pressure, felt him start to push in, and then—
He slammed inside me in one brutal thrust.
I screamed, my whole body convulsing at the sudden stretch. He was so fucking big, filling me completely, stretching me wider than I'd ever been stretched before. I couldn't stop the high-pitched whimpers spilling from my mouth.
"Fuck, you're tight," Hank groaned, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. "So fucking tight and hot inside."
He didn't give me time to adjust. He just started fucking me—hard, deep, brutal strokes that made the entire truck rock on its suspension. My massive pecs bounced wildly with each thrust, slapping together wetly, the soft padding jiggling and rippling like water.
Hank's eyes were locked on my chest, watching every bounce, every jiggle, completely mesmerized.
"Look at those tits," he panted, his voice rough. "Fuck, look at them bounce. So fucking perfect."
He leaned down and grabbed both of my pecs, squeezing them together, creating a deep valley of cleavage. Then he spat again, right into the valley, and watched his saliva drip down between my tits.
"Better than any pussy I've ever had," he growled. "Better than my wife, better than anyone. These big slutty tits are fucking perfect."
I was completely gone now, my eyes rolling back, my mouth hanging open, drool sliding down my chin. I was gooning hard, lost in the sensation of his massive cock pounding into me, his rough hands mauling my chest, the obscene wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh.
"Hank!" I squealed. "Oh god, Hank, fuck me harder—"
"Yeah? You want it harder?" He slammed into me so hard the truck rocked, and I saw stars. "You want me to wreck this tight little hole?"
"Yes! Yes, wreck me, please—"
He picked up the pace, his hips snapping faster, and my tits were bouncing so hard they were almost hitting my chin. The soft padding was rippling with every impact, and my nipples were swollen and red from all the pinching and sucking.
Hank leaned down and dragged his tongue up the valley of my cleavage, licking up his own spit, then sucked one of my nipples into his mouth while still fucking me. The dual sensation was too much—I felt my cock throb, felt my balls tighten, and then I was cumming.
I screamed, my whole body convulsing, and thick ropes of cum shot out, coating my abs and chest. But Hank didn't stop. He just kept fucking me through my orgasm, his cock hitting that spot inside me over and over until I was sobbing with overstimulation.
"That's one," he growled against my chest. "Let's see how many more I can get out of you."
He straightened up and grabbed my pecs again, using them as leverage, squeezing and lifting and dropping them so they bounced hypnotically. His eyes were wild, feral, completely lost in his obsession with my chest.
"Fucking love these tits," he panted. "Love how soft they are. Love how they jiggle. Love how you moan when I play with them."
He slapped my left tit hard, and it bounced heavily, the flesh rippling. Then he slapped the right one, watching it jiggle.
"You're such a slut," he growled. "Walking around the shop with these big tits on display, teasing everyone. You love it, don't you? Love making us all hard."
"Yes!" I sobbed. "Yes, I love it—"
"Say it louder."
"I love teasing you with my big tits! I love being a slut!"
"Good boy." He leaned down and spat on my chest again, then rubbed it in roughly, making everything shiny and slick.
He roared and started pounding into me with abandon, his massive cock stretching me impossibly wide, his hands never leaving my chest. He was mauling my tits, squeezing and slapping and pinching, and I was cumming again—untouched, just from the sensation of being used, being claimed.
My second orgasm hit me like a freight train, and I screamed, my cock shooting more cum across my already-soaked abs. Hank groaned at the sight, his eyes locked on my bouncing, cum-covered tits.
"That's two," he panted.
He kept going, fucking me through my second orgasm, and I was completely wrecked now—sobbing, drooling, begging incoherently. My tits were red and swollen from all the attention, my nipples puffy and glistening, and the deep valley of my cleavage was overflowing with spit and pre-cum.
"One more," Hank growled. "Give me one more, boy. Cum for Daddy one more time."
He reached down and pinched both of my nipples hard, twisting them, and that was all it took. I came for the third time, my whole body shaking, my cock spurting weakly across my chest. I was completely empty, completely spent, and I couldn't stop the broken sobs spilling from my mouth.
"Fuck, yes," Hank groaned, watching me fall apart beneath him. "That's it. That's my good boy."
His thrusts were getting sloppy now, his breathing ragged, and I knew he was close. He leaned down and buried his face in my chest, motorboating my tits, his beard scratching against my sensitive skin. Then he bit down on my left nipple, and I screamed.
"Gonna cum," he panted against my chest. "Gonna fill you up, boy. Gonna breed this tight little hole—"
"Yes! Please, breed me—"
Hank roared, his whole body tensing, and I felt his cock throb inside me. Then he was cumming, flooding me with hot, thick cum, pulse after pulse filling me up until I could feel it leaking out around his shaft.
He collapsed on top of me, his heavy body pressing me into the cold metal hood, and we both lay there gasping for breath. His face was still buried in my chest, and I could feel his beard scratching against my skin, his hot breath fanning over my nipples.
After a long moment, he pushed himself up and pulled out slowly. I whimpered at the loss, feeling his cum drip out of me and onto the hood of the Silverado.
Hank stood there for a moment, looking down at me—wrecked and covered in cum, my chest red and swollen, my hole leaking his load. His expression was unreadable.
Then he tucked his cock back into his coveralls and zipped up, his movements casual, like nothing had just happened.
"Finish the brake job," he said gruffly, his deep voice back to its normal professional tone. "Silverado needs to be ready by morning."
And then he just... walked away.