*Disclaimer: Any and all persons engaging in sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
*
Chapter 1
Oscar's old clunker was making a funny noise. Beyond topping off the gas tank, radiator and oil, Oscar was clueless about automobiles so he took it to George's Garage.
"Help you?" an attractive blonde asked him, dazzling him with her smile.
"Um, yeah, um it's making a funny sound, you know, when I accelerate," Oscar stammered.
Even with a girlfriend as drop dead gorgeous as Britney, Oscar was still quite nervous around attractive females.
Violet wasn't helping him; she kept smiling at him. Her shorts displayed a good bit of leg, and when she turned around, her cheeks hung out slightly. The black tee shirt did not conceal the fact that her quite large breasts were not restrained by any bra, and did not conceal the fact that both nipples were pierced. Right now, those nipples were also quite hard.
"Oh, no!" she teased. "A funny sound? Did you tell it to stop that?"
"Ha ha," he smiled, still quite nervous.
"Okay, let's have a look," she said, popping open the hood. "Start it up for me."
Oscar couldn't help but stare at her very nice rear end as he walked around to the driver's door. She smirked to herself as he managed to catch his knee on the front bumper of his car.
"Holy cow," she said to herself when he got into the car. "The size of that kid's feet, wonder if it's true what they say."
"Okay, rev it up for me," she called out and heard the 'funny sound' when Oscar did rev it a few times.
"Okay," she told him. "Sounds like you have one or two pistons that aren't firing; that's why it sounds 'off' or 'funny;' when have the last time you had this thing tuned up?" Violet asked Oscar.
"Um," he thought.
"Okay, that answers my question," she laughed and closed the hood of the car.
"Chrysler Newport, what, 19787 model?" She asked as she flipped through the desk reference that John Farmer kept on the backbench.
"Um, yes, yes ma'am," Oscar stammered, looking at her rear end.
"Ma'am?" Violet laughed. "Hey, stud, I ain't any older than you!"
"I'm um, I'm eighteen," Oscar offered.
"See?" Violet laughed as she wrote out an estimate. "I'm twenty three, no where near 'ma'am' age."
"Yes ma'am, sorry," Oscar stammered, trying to will his cock to go back down.
"Okay, full tune up, I'll throw in the oil change for thirty five; you also need to change all your filters, they're damned near rotted out, let me guess, you have no idea when the last time's they've been changed either, and I'll also go over your transmission, let's say, three hundred?" Violet said and handed Oscar the written estimate.
At first she and John had argued about providing their customers with written estimates. He won, of course, it was his garage.
"See, with a copy of it, they can't come back and say 'Well, you promised me a full A/C overhaul for two hundred,' when you and I know it's at least five hundred, " John pointed out. "Plus that, they feel more confident in us; we put it in writing."
"Yeah, but suppose it goes over, they're going to be all like 'Nuh uh! You said five hundred, not seven hundred,'" Violet argued.
"And it says right here at the bottom, 'All written estimates are just that, estimates, and are subject to change due to parts prices, labor additions and other unforeseen conditions," John said, pointing to the bottom of the paper.
"Uh huh, but you know some people just ain't going to buy that," Violet groused.
"Tell you what," John smiled, making her smile as well. "Do it, just do it for me, and I'll let you wear whatever you want to work in."
"Shorts?" Violet asked.
"Uh huh," John agreed. "Even shorts."
"Um, okay, I guess," Oscar, said, wishing his erection would go down, and wishing she would quit smiling at him, almost teasing him.
"Okay, I should have it ready by, how's Wednesday sound?" Violet asked.
"Um, okay," Oscar, agreed.
He turned to walk out of the garage; his house was only a couple of blocks over.
"Going to need a ride?" Violet asked.
"No, um, no ma'am, thank you," Oscar stammered, still nervous. "I live only a couple of blocks over."
"This is DeGarde," Violet smiled. "EVERYTHING'S just a couple of blocks over."
He smiled, accepting the good-natured jibe about how small his hometown is.
"Uh huh, and where do you live?" he asked.
"Couple of blocks over," she smiled and bent over to work on the Volkswagen Beetle that had been brought in last Saturday.
"Okay, see you Wednesday," Oscar said.
"Actually, I live right upstairs," Violet offered. "Want to, you can stop by sometime. It's just me up there."
She didn't know why she was practically throwing herself at the scrawny boy.
Yes she did. In high school, she'd been head over heels in love with Conner Barnwell, a scrawny nerd. His kisses were so timid the first few times, but once he saw that she wasn't going to push him away, he got a little bolder. She'd actually convinced herself she was in love with Conner. But he wound up getting another girl pregnant and married her. That ended that relationship.
The second reason Violet was throwing herself at the scrawny, goofy looking kid was that lump in his slacks. Looking at that lump, she could tell that the myth about the size of a man's feet was no myth. At least it wasn't when it came to this kid.
----
The police department noticed the car parked there and ran the license number. Immediately, Houston's Police Department popped up; the driver of the vehicle was suspected in one murder in Houston.
The New Mexico State Troopers mainline was the second to respond, and then the DeGarde Police Department logged on as well.
"Busy little girl," Officer Maxent said to his partner.
"Hell, going to fry, might as well make it worth it," Officer Calahan agreed.
They put a low-jack monitoring device on the car, but after three days it did not move, other than being stripped of any and all usable parts.
"Probably knew we would find it sooner or later," Officer Calahan observed and called a salvage yard to come get the stripped vehicle.
Juan Perez, a 'Yellow Jackets' gang member felt his new forty-five handgun. The weight of it, the feel of the handle, every thing about the gun appealed to him. He had seen the barrel glinting in the sunlight as he walked past that battered old Toyota. Smashing the widow had been almost too easy. And the bitch had stashed two hundred in the glove box too.
