I just needed Rocky to do one thing, and that was fix my car.
"Hey brother. It may take awhile to get to you, I've got a few vehicles that take precedence," he said.
I came into Virginia Beach for a five day getaway, taking off from work to dart down on a Wednesday morning from Philly, where I lived and worked. I barreled south via Route 13 through Pennsylvania, Delaware and Maryland, just to get down to Virginia through the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, and smell smoke from my rise. I got into town at 10 a.m., then rode around until I found what looked to be a decent auto shop. I pulled into the lot and would see a bearded hunk sweeping around the front entrance as if he owned the joint. I parked nearby and noticed him walking inside, then shortly after, raising the garage doors. I then walked into the lobby, and he met with a smile.
"Hi, welcome to Rocky's Motor Repairs. I'm Rocky, how can I help, brother," he asked.
I frantically explained what happened, and he chuckled, and asked me to pop the hood so he could take a look. He would immediately diagnose the problem.
"Blown gasket, brudda," he said in his scruffy, southern voice.
My 2008 Honda Accord, a vehicle I bought brand new, decided to shit the bed right as I began my vacation. Rocky broke down the issues, explaining in detail as he pointed at certain attributes before going back in to talk numbers.
"Expedited parts, labor? We're talking to the tune of $3,500," he said as my heart sank.
He reminded me that if I took it to a dealership, it would be more painful, but I would have to tap into my travel budget to cover the costs, and I didn't want to do so.
"Gotta pay to play," he said to me.
I advised him I could pay, and he responded by saying my car most likely would be fixed late that evening, or by midday the following day.
"I need wheels," I told him.
He smiled as I would pay half for the repairs up front, and he in turn gave me keys to his vehicle, a custom Ford Bronco.
"You seem trustworthy," he said. "If we don't get it done tonight, you keep the ride until tomorrow."
I admired Rocky for this, for this man didn't know me from a can of paint, yet showed southern hospitality to another level. I left the shop to check into my hotel room at the Oceanfront as it was a 10 minute ride. I received my keys, then stepped into my suite on the fifth floor facing the water. I first fell on the comfortable, king sized bed, then got up, and walked out on the balcony, taking in the scent of the sea spray, and the sounds of the waves. The sun glow was apparent in a semi fog, and I was just taking it all in, just happy to be away from the fracas of South Philadelphia. I stood and stared down at the handful of people walking or jogging, and seeing dogs running freely, playing with their owners in the surf. It was like a mini paradise on a gorgeous day, dampened only by me having to dig in my pockets to pay for inadvertent repairs. I ended up going back into the room, and would strip down to my underwear, and turn on the television only to fall asleep, and wake late into the afternoon. I turned to look at my phone to see eight missed calls, all from Rocky. I called him back.
"Hey man. I'm working on your ride with my partner, Chris," he said.
They had all the parts, and he claimed he would have it finished by midnight that evening, if not midday the next day. I hung up the phone and took a shower, then went downstairs to walk through the lobby to the boardwalk, doing the length of it twice, until I climbed into the borrowed ride in search for vittles. I cruised the strip, but didn't find anything appealing, so I left the area, as I remembered a cheesesteak eatery a few miles west on Virginia Beach Boulevard.
"Hey brother. Looks like we'll be finishing with your ride this evening," read a text from Rocky minutes later.
I was elated, for I really enjoyed my small car compared to Rocky's big, muscle SUV (I'm only five foot nine, 155 lbs.). While I drove to the sandwich spot, I realized I wasn't necessarily negligent on my ride, just not as observant as I should've been with her care. I made it to sandwich spot, and grabbed the closest thing to a cheesesteak in the Virginia area, and headed in the direction of the shop, where I planned to dine while waiting for them to finish. The sun was beginning to decline as I pulled in the parking lot of the shop. It looked closed, and so I messaged Rocky to see if they left for the day.
"Brother, we're still working, we just shut the door to the public at a certain time," Rocky messaged back.
I parked, shut the engine, and exited his vehicle with sandwich in hand, and soda in the other while heading towards the entrance to the lobby. He'd crack the door for me to enter the dark space, and I'd hear rock music playing loudly from the shop floor, with laughs and singing coming from two different voices. I walked to the shop area and would see my ride raised in the air, and Rocky, along with some other buff, bearded white guy, tinkering and singing. I watched them from where I stood, in awe of two such handsome bears getting greasy together as they tried to solve my vehicle's issue. I'd then witness the other guy, perhaps a little younger than Rocky, groping Rocky ass, with Rocky giggling.
"You're hard, bro," Rocky asked.
"Very hard," Chris answered. "We've gotta do something about it before we leave."
The other guy let go of Rocky, and turned, and I scooted back to the lobby, remaining out of sight while briskly trekking to sit down, acting as if I didn't see anything. I turned on the television, and began to bite into my sandwich when Chris walked in a couple minutes later.
"Hey brother. Are you Chaz," he asked. "That your pretty Honda out there?"
We bumped elbows, after I confirmed with a mouthful of sandwich.
"Its okay, brother, I'm Chris, Rocky's assistant. We're gonna get ya on your way in an hour or so, it won't take as long as we thought."
I was checking Chris out with his long, brown hair, and salt and pepper beard. He was toned like a college running back, slightly smaller than Rocky at maybe six foot one, 200 plus pounds. He carried a northern, perhaps a New Englander accent compared to Rocky's southern drawl, with strong diction as he broke down the nuances of my vehicle. I was more impressed by his voice than his aptitude of vehicles, and low key had goosebumps once I locked in on his brown eyes.
"If you have any questions, or need or want anything brother, don't hesitate," he said before he walked back into the shop.
I watched him as he walked away, zeroing in on that stout ass of his that showed in the thick, blue fabric. The music changed, and I'd hear the two of them rambling on loudly before I switched my focus back on the television. I finished off my sandwich before laying back in the chair, in a slight food coma. After a bit, I dozed off, but woke to look at my watch to see that a couple of hours passed since Chris came out. I also noticed I no longer heard music, or voices, and something told me stand up and walk to the shop to make sure they were still around. I walked into the shop, to see the overhead lights dimmed low as if the two left for the evening. I walked slow, heading towards my vehicle which was now on the ground, but still not immediately seeing either of them.
"Where the hell are they," I thought.
I then noticed a light coming from the rear of the shop, and headed towards it, only to find a sultry surprise: a naked Rocky on his knees blowing Chris.
"Holy fuck," I whispered to myself.
I peeped the Rocky blowing Chris' big, white cock while, moaning, slurping and breathing in and out of his nose. Rocky didn't come off as any type of bottom, but he was aggressive in pursuit of Chris' cum, with Chris occasionally slapping the side of Rocky's face, and talking down to him.
"Buck it slut," Chris said. "Show me how much you want it."
