Throwaway because my carpool reads Reddit on the toilet and I am not getting found out by a man who uses the Chrome dino game as a stress toy. A friend who posted about a warehouse guy’s gloves told me I had to post this one too, so blame him.
Some context. I’m a femboy, I run the mailroom for a medical device company in one of those Dublin office parks off Metro Place where every building is beige and named after a tree. He’s the shipping supervisor, same company, the building across the lot. I’m calling him D. Big guy, ex-lineman in college ball, still built like it, beard he trims on Sundays, drives a 2017 Accord with 140k on it that he maintains like it’s a racehorse.
We’ve carpooled for seven months. We both live in Hilliard, four streets apart. The second parking pass for my building is $90 a month and my Civic’s transmission is held together by prayers, so when he saw me waiting for the COTA 21 in February in a skirt and said “you’re in shipping’s mail, right? get in,” I got in.
Here’s the routine. He picks me up at 7:22. He has two large iced coffees from the Speedway on Cemetery Road in the cupholders already, mine with oat milk and two pumps of caramel, which I told him once, in February, and he never asked again. We talk about work until the 270 on-ramp. Then he puts on the same country station and we stop talking.
The office doesn’t open till 8. Badge readers turn green at 8:00 exactly; before that you can swipe till your arm falls off. He gets us there at 7:40 anyway because he hates traffic more than he hates wasting time. He parks in the back row of Lot C, the one nobody uses because there’s no shade and no cameras and the lines are painted wrong.
Twenty minutes. Seat back, iced coffee, radio low, windows fogging.
For about five months of those twenty minutes, I stared at his lap.
I’m not proud of it but I need you to understand it wasn’t a little crush. I had a whole relationship with his left hand. His right hand held the coffee. His left hand just sat on his thigh doing nothing, four inches above the knee, thumb relaxed, veins up the inside of his wrist. He wears jeans Monday through Thursday and the gray Dickies on Fridays when he has to go out on the dock, and on Fridays his thigh fills them out in a way that should be regulated.
I’d sit there with my legs crossed, then uncrossed, then crossed at the ankle. I’d take small sips so I’d have an excuse to keep my mouth busy. I wore leggings on his leather seats and more than once I got out of that car with a damp spot I prayed he didn’t see.
He always asked “you good?” around 7:50. Like a courtesy. Like a door he left open.
“Yeah. Tired,” I’d say.
Every day. Five months.
lot c · tuesday · 7:40 a.m.
The morning it happened was a Tuesday in September. Last September, a year ago now. It was already hot, the AC was on low, and he’d tipped his seat back and closed his eyes.
“You good?” he said, without opening them.
“Yeah.”
“You’re not.”
I looked at him. His eyes were still closed.
“What?”
“Your face is red,” he said. “Your coffee’s full. You haven’t touched it since Tuttle. And you’ve crossed your legs like nine times.” Then he opened his eyes and looked at me. “You’ve been trying to say something since, what. June?”
I wanted to die. I wanted to open the door and lie down on the hot asphalt of Lot C and let the landscaping guys mulch me.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yeah you do.”
The radio was playing Zach Bryan. I will never be able to hear that song again.
“If I say it,” I said, “you’ll start leaving at 7:30 so we don’t have the twenty minutes.”
“Maybe,” he said. Honest. That’s the thing about D. He doesn’t lie to make you feel better. “Say it anyway.”
So I said it to the dashboard.
“I want to suck your dick. Here. In the mornings. Before the badge readers. That’s it. That’s the whole thing, I don’t need it to be a thing.”
The silence after that was the longest silence of my life. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t look away. He looked out the windshield at Building C, at the beige, at the little sign that says VISITOR PARKING that nobody obeys, and I watched him do math.
I watched the whole equation. Coworkers. The Monday meeting. His ex who still texts him. The lot with no cameras. The fact that I’d been riding with him for seven months and he’d never once missed a pickup.
He rubbed his beard with his left hand. The nothing hand.
“I’ve never,” he said.
“I know.”
“Like. Not even close.”
“I know.”
“And you’d just.” He waved at his lap vaguely. “Every morning.”
“If you wanted.”
He looked at the dashboard clock. 7:44. Sixteen minutes.
Then he reached down, pulled the lever, and slid his seat back all the way to the stop. Spread his knees. Put his left hand on the back of my headrest.
That was it. That was his yes. No speech. He just made room.
“Okay,” he said. His voice was rough. “Okay. C’mere.”
the accord · 7:44 a.m.
I took my seatbelt off. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped the buckle and it smacked the window.
I leaned over the center console. That console is a war crime, by the way, the cupholders dig right into your ribs. I put my hand on his thigh and felt his whole leg go tight under the denim. I undid his belt. His button. His zipper was the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.
He lifted his hips so I could pull his jeans and his boxers down to his thighs, and there it was.
I’d imagined it for five months and I’d still undersold it. He was half hard and getting harder while I watched, thick and cut, heavy enough that it lay against his thigh before it lifted. The head was fat and flushed dark, and there was a vein on the underside that I wanted to trace with my tongue before I even touched him. He smelled like his body wash, something with cedar in it, and underneath that like warm skin and the car. Neat trimmed hair. Balls hanging heavy in the heat.
“Jesus,” I said.
He laughed once, nervous. “Is that good or bad.”
“Shut up,” I said, and put my mouth on him.
He made a sound like I’d wrecked him. His hand landed on the back of my head, not pushing, just holding on. I went slow at first, tasting him, feeling him get hard and thick in my mouth, the angle over the console brutal, bent like a question mark. When he hit the back of my throat I gagged and my eyes flooded and he groaned. I came up for air with mascara running, and he pulled me back down without asking. I went down and this time there was no gentleness—he held me there and let his hips move, and I felt the moment he stopped holding back.
I went back down and this time I let him help. He didn’t shove. He just held, and when I sank down he pressed a little, and when I needed air he let up, and pretty soon we had a rhythm and he was breathing through his teeth and his hips were lifting off the seat to meet me.
“Your mouth,” he kept saying. “God. Your mouth.”
“Tell me,” I said, when I came up.
“Tell you what.”
“If it’s good.”
“It’s so good. You’re so good at this. Don’t stop.”
I didn’t stop. I worked him with my mouth and hand and felt him stop apologizing for how much he wanted this. His whole body tensed.
At 7:56 his phone buzzed in the cupholder. Warehouse. He looked at it. I looked up at him with his cock in my mouth.
He let it ring.
At 7:58 his fingers tightened in my hair and his stomach went hard.
“I’m gonna. Babe, I’m gonna—”
He’d never called me babe before. I sank down and stayed there.
He came in my mouth, hard, his hips lifting off the seat, his hand holding me down for three long pulses that I felt kick against my tongue, hot and thick, and a fourth that made him groan like he was dying. I swallowed. I kept my mouth on him until he flinched and pushed at my shoulder, laughing breathlessly.
I sat up. Wiped my chin with the back of my hand. Buckled my seatbelt like a psychopath.
He sat there with his jeans around his thighs, head back on the headrest, staring at the roof.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay?”
He zipped up. Looked at the clock. 8:00. Across the lot, the little light on the Building C reader turned green.
“See you at five,” he said.
The routine: He picks me up at 7:22. The coffees are already there. When he pulls into Lot C and slides the seat back, I know what that means. Some mornings I don’t move, and he just puts the radio on and it’s fine. Some mornings he takes warehouse calls while I’m working him, voice steady, only his hand telling the story.
lot c · blizzard · february · 7:48 a.m.
February changed everything.
We got that ice storm, you remember, the one where the Kroger on Cemetery ran out of bread. The company sent an email at 7:31 while we were already on 270: DUE TO WEATHER, ALL DUBLIN CAMPUS BUILDINGS WILL OPEN AT 10:00 A.M.
He read it at a red light. Handed me his phone. Didn’t say anything.
We got to Lot C at 7:48. The lot was empty. Completely white. The Accord was the only car and the snow was coming down so thick you couldn’t see Building C at all. The windows fogged in about a minute.
He turned off the radio.
He didn’t slide his seat back. He put it all the way down. Flat.
“Two hours,” he said.
I looked at him. He was looking at me in a way he never does in the mornings. Not the half-asleep look. Awake.
“Come here,” he said. “Not over the console. Here.”
I climbed over. It was a disaster. My knee hit the horn and the Accord honked at an empty parking lot and I screamed and he laughed so hard he had to hold my hips to keep me from falling into the footwell. My other knee landed on the seatbelt buckle. I was straddling him in the driver’s seat of a Honda with my head bent against the roof and my skirt up around my waist.
“You okay?” he said, still laughing.
“Your car is not designed for this.”
“Nobody’s car is designed for this.”
Then he stopped laughing. He put his hands on my thighs and slid them up under my skirt, over my tights, until his thumbs pressed into the crease of my hips. Then one thumb moved, just slightly, and pressed against my cock through the nylon, where I was so hard it was embarrassing.
He’d never touched me there. A year of mornings and it had always been about him. I held my breath.
He looked at it, looked at me, and hooked his fingers in my tights and pulled them down. I sprang out against his stomach and he wrapped his hand around me and stroked once, slow, and I made a sound that echoed in the car.
“There,” he said, quietly. Like he’d found something he dropped.
I’d had lube in my bag since September. Yes, I know. Don’t. I fished it out with one hand while he stroked me and I got his jeans open and he was already rock hard, and I slicked him up and myself up, and I held him steady and sank down.
It burned. God, it burned. He’s thick and I hadn’t been fucked since the summer before and I had to stop halfway with my forehead against his and just breathe.
“Slow,” he said. “Hey. Slow. I’ve got you.”
His hands were on my waist. Not pulling. Holding.
I breathed out and sank the rest of the way, and when I was sitting on him completely I felt so full I couldn’t talk. He was pressing up into places that made my eyes roll. The windows were solid white. The snow was ticking on the roof.
“Fuck,” he said, reverent. “Oh, fuck, you feel—”
“Tell me.”
“So tight. So hot. You feel so good on me, babe. Move. Please.”
He’d never said please before either. I started riding him.
I couldn’t sit up straight because of the roof so I was bent over him with my hands on the headrest and my face in his neck, rolling my hips, and he was holding my ass in both hands and lifting me and pulling me down, and every time he bottomed out I whimpered into his beard. The Accord rocked. The suspension creaked. Somewhere out there a plow went by and I didn’t care if it saw us.
“Whose is this,” he said, and slapped my ass once, not hard.
It shocked me so much I laughed and clenched on him.
“Yours.”
“Every morning.”
“Every morning.”
He grabbed my cock again and stroked me in time and I lost it. I came all over his work shirt. His good blue work shirt with the company logo on the pocket, which he had a meeting in at 10:30. I came so hard my whole body locked around him.
He grunted when I squeezed. His hands went tight on my hips. He held me down on him and started fucking up into me, short and hard and fast, the car bouncing, the horn going off again when my elbow hit it and neither of us stopping this time.
“Babe. Babe, I’m—”
“In me. Do it.”
He drove up into me once more and held, and I felt him swell and pulse, deep, over and over, hot, filling me, his whole body shaking under mine, and he groaned into my shoulder so loud it fogged the last clear corner of the windshield.
We stayed there. Snow on the roof. His heart hammering under my hand.
office park · 10:01 a.m.
He wiped my face with the gray hoodie from the back seat. I wore it into the building at 10:01 because of the shirt situation. His shirt situation. He went into his meeting in a company quarter-zip from the lost and found and told his boss he spilled coffee.
The hoodie’s in my closet now. He’s never asked for it back.
It’s September again. The badge readers still turn green at 8:00. He still has my coffee in the cupholder at 7:22 and he still slides his seat back in Lot C and I still unbuckle.
I never bought the $90 parking pass. I get a reminder email from facilities every month. I don’t delete it. I just like seeing it.
Edit: to everyone asking “so are you dating”: he came to my cousin’s wedding in June as my plus-one and told my aunt he’s “the ride.” So. Your guess is as good as mine.
