I wrote this a few years ago when I worked for my then brother-in-law Jeff, who ran a wheel-clamping business. It was part of something larger I wrote but thought this bit would do nicely for on here.
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Jeff has a contract with Andy McGraw who owns a tan centre chain, so anyone who parks up outside and doesn’t go inside for a tanning session is game for us. As Andy’s small empire expanded so did Jeff’s bank account. His firm now patrols all twenty of Andy’s premises, from Macclesfield down to Stoke. I’m on commission and do very well out of all the idiots who ignore the signs. They think they’ll be quick, in and out, no one will notice, but I can have a clamp fixed in the blink of an eye. Early evening is a great time to snare the unwary. If it’s after six p.m. they think they’ll be ok, think that we clock off at five. As if!
But even if she had wanted to spend fifteen minutes under a lamp she wouldn’t have been able to because they close at eight-thirty, and it was nearly nine p.m. when she pulled up.
She was a tall blonde, driving an Audi coupe, one of those women who walk around as if they a have broom handle jammed up their arse. Tonight she must have left the house in a hurry. She’d slipped her coat over silk pyjamas, and quickly bunched her hair in a knot. I watched her hurry cross the road and go inside the store before pouncing, quickly securing her vehicle with the clamp.
I’d only just got it in place when she came out of the shop clutching two carrier bags. Straight away she clocked me messing with her motor. She probably thought I was trying to steal the alloys. I could hear the clink of bottles as she picked up her pace, recklessly negotiating the late night traffic in her hurry to get back over to confront me. From the sound of her shopping, I guessed she’d felt a sudden need for alcohol and come down to the village high street to get something at the last minute.
You should have seen her face when she saw the clamp snugly in place. Priceless! I love that moment the best– their faces. Then it’s the usual diatribe, and hers wasn’t original:
“For fuck’s sake – I was only gone a minute.”
She’s tall. I’m looking directly into the storm of fury howling in her large almond eyes. She comes closer, really in my face, and I can smell the scent of her long day rising from her. At five-ten I don’t intimidate, but I can still bluff the hard man, which usually gets them to pay up there and then. Not this one though. She held my gaze, didn’t let her eyes drop from mine for a second.
I said, “The sign is quite clear.”
“What fucking sign?”
I point.
“How is anyone supposed to see that thing up there . . . in this light.”
“Not my problem.”
“I don’t have time for this.” She rummaged in her handbag and retrieved a purse and fixes me with her
eyes. “How much?”
“Two-hundred.”
Usually, the abuse I receive at this point ratchets up a notch but all this one says is, “I don’t have it on me.”
“A card?”
“You take plastic?” She is incredulous.
“No, but there’s a machine outside the shop.”
I can see in her eyes she wants to wallop me one, but she’s not stupid. “Watch these for me,” she says, putting her shopping down by my feet, and off she dashes. I stand and watch her as she sprints across the road and then tries to coax money out of the hole in the wall. Even from where I am standing I can tell she is having a problem.
When she returns she tells me, “It’s bloody-well out of cash.”
“I’ll have to take your car to the compound,” I say as I reach for my phone to call Jeff at the office to ask him to come out with the tow-truck.
“No! That can’t happen,” she says. “I’ve got to get back home. I have someone coming over and I still have stuff to do.”
“A bit late for guests,” I say.
“She looks me up and down “Listen, perhaps we could come to some arrangement?”
I’m slow and continue with my usual script, “If you can’t pay up, the car will have to be towed. You can pick it up from the compound at your leisure later, but the fee will be five-hundred pounds, with a fifty pound excess for each additional day we store it.”
“What about if I give you a blowjob?”
I look at her like the daft sod I am: “A what?”
“A blow job — quick one. I really do have to go.”
I look at her face: she’s about thirty I estimate, and wearing no makeup to hide behind. But her bone structure is special, her mouth wide and lips like over-ripe plums. And what’s best of all about her are her eyes: they show she is determined to do whatever it takes to get her away from here — and quickly.
I say, “Ok.”
Losing my commission on this job will not hurt. Besides, it’s only the cost of two hours with an escort.
But she’s no escort, she’s someone’s wife, I imagine. Sweet!
In the back of her car, she slips her coat from her shoulders and unbuttons her silk pyjama top. Her breasts are a sensation, not too large, still firm and nicely contoured. Her nipples are already hard, dark circles visible in the streetlight that seeps into her car. I reach out and allow both of my palms to rest on each plump mound. They are warm and soft, and I feel her nipples are pliant under my cupped palms.
I lean forward to kiss her: “No way!” she says.
But all the same, she is undoing my fly and I’m already hard when she takes it between her lips. The back of her mouth is hot against the head of my cock. I keep my hands on her breasts as she sucks me. Little by little I sense her pleasure growing. I move my hands up to her head, let lose her hair and allow if to flow through my fingers. Then my hands travel over her long expanse of back, and down to her pyjama bottoms, feeling the curve of her hips through the smooth material.
“You may as well fuck me,” she says as if she is doing me a favour, but I can tell by her breathless
gasps that she is on fire with a need that only my cock inside her will satisfy.
She wriggles out of her pyjama bottoms and leans back for me. She opens her legs slightly but for some reason covers her snatch with her right hand. I stare in wonder and pull my pants around my ankles and move onto her. I let her guide me into her. She is ready for me, moist and dilated, her cunt puffy with need, and I penetrate her easily. I fuck her for five minutes with long and determined, vicious thrusts. Her ever-so-long legs grip me, pull me tight to her, encouraging me deeper. When I do cum, I’m as deep inside her as can be, the head of my cock banging her cervix, my pubic bone rough against hers.
Spent, I collapse onto her and lie perfectly still. But she does not stroke my hair or whisper in my ear.
No, like a surly waitress waiting to clear the table, she says, “You done then?”
“Yes,” I grunt.
“I need to clean up,” she tells me. “Reach down and pass me my bag — there on the floor by your feet.”
I ease myself off her and reach down and pick up the bag, then pass it to her. She reaches inside and takes out tissues.
“We’re straight then?” She asks when she’s finished wiping herself.
I’m fastening my pants. “Yes,” I say, still hardly believing what has happened. It has been twenty minutes since I clamped her car.
Outside again, we are civilised adults. No one would guess we’d just fucked like animals. I release the clamp and she gets back into her car. I stand looking down at her through the open window and watch her turn the key in the ignition and hear the engine grumbles back to life. For a moment I remain by the driver’s window watching her sitting there as cool as frost, both hands on the wheel, impatient to be gone.
She looks up at me and says, “Fuck off, then!”
I do not move away. The paint works of the door skims my pants as I just watch her drive away. Her arm stretches from the driver’s window as she goes, one magenta tipped finger pointing at the sky.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/65o7k6/the_perks_of_wheelclamping_mf