**Author's note:**
Candi doesn't do subtle. She does PVC, pink stilettos, and a filthy mouth. "Candi's Tune-Up" is a backstreet romp soaked in sweat, oil, and attitude - the kind of encounter that leaves no part untouched and no tool unused.
If you've got a thing for rough hands, tighter-than-sin trousers, and women who take what they want with a wink and a spit-polished grin - this one might be for you. Just don't expect her to call you back.
If not, no problem. You'll find plenty else to keep you entertained.
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The garage looked like the kind of place that probably shouldn't still be open, lingering in a forgotten corner of the city - the kind of postcode people stopped mentioning years ago.
Tucked down an alleyway between a shuttered-off licence and a fried chicken shop, the place wore its grime like a badge of honour. The sign above the roller door read Mack's Motors, once a bold deep blue, now bleached and battered by sun and rain, barely visible against the dark steel.
Grease-stained shutters hung half-up. Tools, oil cans and discarded tyres littered the concrete. A battered radio on a shelf burbled something bass-heavy beneath layers of dust and rags. Oil slicks shimmered like dirty rainbows. The air was thick with petrol, hot rubber, and engine oil - sweat and honest labour baked into the walls.
It wasn't the kind of place Candi usually touched, but it came recommended. Ignore what it looks like, her mate had said. The work's solid, the price is right, and the guy who runs it? Looks like he should be a Chippendale.
That had been enough to convince Candi.
Her pink stilettos crunched gravel as she stepped out of the car, slow and deliberate - The kind of slow that made men forget their own names.
PVC trousers, jet black and skin-tight, clung to her thick thighs and that juicy, unapologetic arse like shrink-wrap. A blue-and-white off-the-shoulder crop top hugged her massive, natural tits like it was hanging on for dear life - no bra, of course. Just soft bounce and the occasional wink of her pierced nipple through the stretched fabric.
Her platinum-blonde hair fell in tousled waves, full of sass and volume. Her lips were cherry red and wet. Her skin was golden, curves full and proud - a mum bod made for trouble.
She was filth and glamour wrapped in five foot four of pure confidence. A woman who turned heads on purpose. A woman who enjoyed it.
The roller shutter was open just enough to duck under. Inside, the sound of drill guns and old-school hip-hop echoed against the walls. She ducked under the threshold like a storm looking for somewhere to break.
The mechanic looked up from under the bonnet of a battered BMW - and froze.
Tall. Black. Broad. His overalls were undone to the waist, sleeves tied around him. A white vest clung to him, dark with oil and sweat, stretched across a body that didn't belong in a place like this - thick chest, cut abs, arms like carved stone.
He straightened slowly, tossing his wrench onto the worktop without breaking his stare.
Her friend hadn't lied.
***
As he took a step towards her his gaze dropped: lips, tits, hips, heels. Then rose again - slow and deliberate, drinking her in.
Candi smiled. She knew that look. The one that said fuck me without needing words.
He wiped his hands on a rag, one brow raised, a grin at his mouth. "You here for a service?"
"Oh, I'm definitely here for the service," she purred, handing him the keys. "That one there. Engine's making a weird noise."
He moved past her toward the car, close enough that his shoulder brushed the swell of her breast.
He circled the vehicle with deliberate slowness, big hands gliding across the bonnet like he was feeling for something only he could sense. One smooth flick and the hood popped. He glanced back over his shoulder.
"Don't worry," he said, voice thick with bass and amusement, "it won't be making a funny noise after I'm done with it."
Candi leaned one hip against the workbench, arms crossed just beneath her tits - lifting them, letting her top strain and tug with every breath. "Is that a promise?"
He turned fully now, rag twisting slowly between his fingers, eyes locked on her with growing intent.
"Promise, guarantee, and money-back deal," he said. "If you're not fully satisfied with the job."
Candi's smile widened. "I like a man who's confident with his tools."
He smirked. "I'm confident with whatever tools the job calls for."
She tilted her head, hair swaying as she uncrossed her arms, letting him see the full shape of her tits beneath the top. "That's good to know. I've got a lot of...performance issues that need attention."
He stepped closer. Just a little, but close enough to smell the perfume on her skin - sweet, sultry, something with undertones of vanilla and sin in equal parts.
"Could be your spark plugs," he said, leaning in, voice dropping. "Could be your pistons aren't getting the pressure they need. Or maybe...." his eyes dipped again "...maybe it just needs a good hard run."
Candi bit her lip. "You always talk to your customers like this?"
"Only the ones that look like you." His eyes flicked down again, lingering at the waistband of her PVC trousers, then crawling back up slowly. "And only when they show up in outfits that should be illegal in a garage."
"You think this outfit's a health and safety risk?" she asked innocently.
"I think that outfit's a fucking hazard," he muttered, his throat thick and eyes dark.
He stepped in closer now - not quite touching her, but enough that she could smell the engine oil.
"You always come dressed like this for a car check?" he asked, eyes flicking down her body again. "Or am I just a lucky bastard today?"
Candi let out a low, playful breath. "I don't dress for the car. I dress for the reaction."
"Well, fuck," he said, running a hand across his jaw. "Mission accomplished."
"You're not the first man I've flustered in a garage," she said, swaying a little on her heels, the PVC of her trousers creaking just enough to be noticed. "But you might be the best looking."
His grin widened, lazy and wolfish now. "Careful. You keep talking like that and I might start thinking you're not just here about a dodgy engine."
Candi's voice dipped. "I was...but, I'm adaptable. What if I'm not now?"
He exhaled through his nose, slow. "Then I'd say we're about to have a very productive afternoon."
She shifted her weight, leaned forward slightly - not enough to make it obvious, just enough to make her tits bounce beneath the fabric.
***
"You know," she said, tone honeyed and casual, "you've not told me your name yet."
He smirked. "Does it matter?"
She licked her lips. "Probably not."
He glanced toward the roller door. Still half open. Then back at her, letting the silence stretch.
"Tell you what," he finally said, "how about I knock 25% off the service...if you show me those tits."
Candi cocked an eyebrow. "You trying to barter with my boobs now?"
"Not bartering," he said, folding his arms and leaning back against the car. "Appreciating. And offering a professional discount in exchange for a little...motivation."
She laughed. "You're cheeky."
"And you're killing me in those trousers," he said, eyes trailing down to her thighs. "So how about it?"
Candi tilted her head, lips curling into a smile.
"Twenty-five percent, huh?" she said, fingers toying with the hem of her top. "You drive a hard bargain."
The mechanic didn't speak. He was transfixed - eyes locked on the soft jiggle of her tits beneath the thin fabric, the faint press of that pierced nipple against the cotton.
She stepped in closer, closing the distance to little more than a breath.
"You sure you can handle 'em?" she purred. "Big girls like these come with a health warning."
He grinned. "I've worked with heavy loads before."
Candi smirked, then slowly and deliberately slipped her hands under the fabric.
She didn't rush.
First, she teased the top upward, inch by inch, exposing the soft underside of her breasts. Then the curve. Then more - until the whole glorious weight of them dropped free.
Huge, natural, and mouthwatering.
Her pierced nipple glinted - a silver bar through the right one, catching the light like a secret weapon.
He didn't move at first. Just stood there, staring, lips parted like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
Candi tilted her head, letting them sway just enough. "Cat got your tongue, big guy?"
That snapped him out of it, and he let out a low, reverent "fuck."
"Like what you see?" she asked, giving them a little bounce for effect.
"Jesus, woman," he murmured. "They're... fuckin' spectacular."
"Flatterer," she said, turning slightly to give him the side profile - tits heavy, hanging perfectly, swaying just a little with the motion. "Is this where I get my discount code?"
He was already fishing his phone out of his back pocket. "I gotta get a photo of this. Just for my memory."
Candi arched a brow. "And what's that worth?"
"Another 25% off. Easy."
She played mock-thoughtful, then pushed her tits out further. "You better shoot from the good side."
He did - snapping a few quick shots of her standing tall, topless in her PVC trousers and pink heels, then some of her turned, bent forward slightly over the bonnet of the car, her arse perfectly shaped and her tits hanging low and heavy beneath her.
When he finished, he looked a little dazed.
"Fucking hell," he said quietly.
Candi turned to face him again, arms folded under her breasts, pushing them up just enough to keep him hypnotised.
"Now," she said, voice dropping a gear. "How much for a feel?"
He blinked. "A feel?"
She stepped forward again, right up against him, her tits grazing his vest. "Yeah. One touch. Full palms. No squeezing. Yet."
He swallowed. "I think I'm giving you this service for free."
She grinned. "Thought so."
He stepped forward, the grease rag slipping from his fingers. His hands hovered for a second, like he couldn't quite believe this was happening, then slowly he brought them to her chest.
Candi didn't flinch.
She arched her back slightly, pushing those glorious tits into his waiting palms.
"Go on then," she murmured. "Let's see how your hands handle proper fucking horsepower."
His fingers spread wide, cupping the full weight of them. Her nipple rolled against his thumb, already stiff. His hands were big, rough, callused from years on tools and engine blocks - the kind of touch that made her body tingle.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "These are... fuck."
