Tarotica Ch 02

The Magician

The Magician is experiencing the establishment of his own identity through his own creativity and capabilities. . . .The Magician signifies originality and creativity. (Stewart Kaplan, Tarot Classic)

You are able to master new situations, take positive action, and focus your attention to realize your potential. Making good use of available equipment. Problem-solving ability. (Anthony Louis, Tarot: Plain and Simple)

I was bored, sitting there in the damp warmth of the garage. I heaved a mighty sigh and twirled, frustrated, on the dusty bar stool that served as the only seat. I inhaled deeply – that was one thing I did like – the musty smell of gasoline and dirt, the dank, hot smell of summer-garage.

Charlie was still under the hood of the ’72 Impala. He was skinny, rather small, and the huge hood dwarfed him. Motor-illiterate, I had no idea what he was doing – I could hear the ping of tools against metal, the occasional soft curse. Charlie was wearing his usual outfit – tight-fitting blue jeans and a white t-shirt. Loverboy played, loud, from the boombox on the garage shelf.

“You know, Charlie,” I said, rather arrogantly – on my 18th birthday I had, after all, a right to arrogance – “That car is a dinosaur.” The car had been sitting in our yard for years. When Charlie expressed an interest, my father told him he could have it – free – if he could get it running and drive it away. “Although,” my dad noted skeptically, “I think you’d have to be a magician to fix it.” Now, here was Charlie, and here was I – the last two weekends had been spent in the hot, damp garage, with Charlie cursing and determined. I was bored as hell. Suddenly, Charlie was no longer as interested in other things – like the hot, damp sex we had in the back seat of his ’82 Oldsmobile – or in his attic – or in the cornfield – or at night, in empty parking lots – once, even, on the 50 yard line of the high school football field. We’d both been virgins when we started dating, and had learned sex together. We both loved it. Or at least, we used to.

“I know it’s old, Honey, but it’s a good car – these things last forever. There’s just a few more – small things – I need to do –“ Charlie glanced up from under the hood and smiled at me. Those brown eyes, those dimples – I could feel myself getting wet, just sitting under the shade of that smile. “And soon, sweetheart, we’ll be driving off into the sunset together.” Once again, he was under the hood. Ping. Click. “Dammit – almost there.” I wandered out of the garage, surveyed the driveway, the yard, the house, the dog lying in the shade of the large apple tree. Mom and Dad had gone on their usual Sunday drive. The sisters, the twins, were off somewhere – together, as usual. We were at my house, at the farm, and it was quiet as tombs, safe as houses. I smiled to myself, and returned to the garage.

I breathed in the smell again – the wonderful sex-dampness of wet dirt, gasoline, motor oil, and heavy, summer air. Charlie was still under the hood. I walked up behind him, admiring his small tight ass, the way his jeans fit. I knew – so well – what was in those jeans – a good, hard 9 inches of teenaged love. I stood in the garage door, half in, half out, watching that ass move and hearing the sound of the tools, his soft breath, his muttering. Such utter concentration. I moved closer, and put my arms around him. He jumped, startled, and I heard the clang of tools dropping.

“Hey – hey – what are you doing?” he was annoyed, but only vaguely so.

“Do you remember what we used to do on weekends?” I purred into his ear. I was still behind him, my arms around his waist, and I was not about to let go. “Do you remember? The way I used to do this?” I ran my hands down to his denimed cock. It hardened in my hands, and I could feel and hear him groan. “Oh – Kristen – oh, Good Lord – oh don’t do that.” “Why not?” I asked, and unzipped his fly. In the small garage, the noise rebounded off the walls, and I felt one small shiver of fear – what if Mom and Dad. . . ? But I didn’t stop. I took his cock out and began to rub it with both hands, alternating between squeezing and running my nails lightly along the shaft, up to the tip and down – back and forth. He groaned again and leaned heavily against the hood. I was still behind him, still attached there. I leaned close to his ear and whispered, “You know what I think, Charlie?” He grunted a reply, “What, Kristen?” “I think,” I answered, “That your blood is made of motor oil – and I think I want to taste it.” I bit his neck then, tasting the sweat, the wet of the day, his flesh, the tang of the garage-smell – oil, grease, gasoline, tools. I was crazy with it. I bit harder, teasing his flesh out, knowing I would give him a hickey, knowing and not caring. Charlie groaned again, then turned suddenly towards me.

“Do you know, Kristen, that I think you’re just a nasty, horny bitch?” He kissed me then, his mouth filling mine, his tongue probing. His tongue moved from my mouth to my neck, down to my chest. He ripped my shirt – the way it’s done in movies, in books, and I had one more flash of panic – and then was lost in the wave of it, of us. Still kissing me, he walked me over to the garage bench. Uncaring, suddenly, of tools or car toys or supplies, he wiped the bench clean, urgently, violently. For a minute, reality – “Charlie, you’re going to have to put that back before Dad comes back.” “Shhhh,” he responded, his lips on my neck, trailing down my chest, “Don’t worry about it.” His hands – cracked, grease-covered, smelling of work – traced my breasts, my nipples. I groaned, by this time as wet as the humid, Midwestern day. His hand went to my crotch, and I humped his fingers urgently, wanting him, wanting cock, wanting to swallow the smell of him, the car, the garage, the heavy, heavy air. His cock was still out, hard, probing – he pressed it quickly against my cunt, then unzipped my jeans. Again, the sound rebounded, echoing, against the garage walls. He pushed the denim down, out of the way, and I could feel the rough material sliding down my ass, my ass hard against the bench. “Charlie,” I whispered, “Do you think we . .” He gave a low chuckle. “You started this, sweetheart, and you’re going to see it through.” He lifted me, then, and my bare ass was on the bench – I could feel the cold of the metal, the spray of the dirt underneath me. He pulled my jeans down further – they were at my ankles -- then rubbed his cock against my cunt. I moaned, feeling his length against me. He rubbed his smooth head against my clit, knowing it drove me crazy, knowing it would make me so wet he could easily enter, easily take me. I felt his cock push against me, and then inside me, almost tearing, almost hurting, and feeling so full and so fantastic – I groaned and spread my legs as far as I could, bound as they were by my jeans, pooled at my ankles. Charlie pounded inside me, and I lay back on the dirt of the bench, feeling the roughness of the metal beneath me, the wonderful roughness of Charlie, inside. When he came, I arched my back, wanting it all inside, wanting to absorb every drop of his cum – not wanting to lose a bit of flesh, or a moment. Charlie grunted, moaned, then backed away from me. He was red and grinning.

“God – what you do to me,” he muttered, then looked around, a little startled. “Wow – we – uh – we better clean this place up.” I leaned back and laughed, feeling it come from somewhere deep in my belly, perhaps from Charlie’s cum. “Yes, I guess we do.” I pulled my jeans up and, together, we picked up the tools, the nails, the screws, the coffee cans – the casualties of our abandon. “Hey Charlie?” I asked, as we returned the last of the detritus. “Yeah?” he asked. “Do you think this old beast will run yet?” Charlie looked at the car, his face a mixture of skepticism and fondness. “I don’t know – Could. Why?” “Well,” I smiled, “I think I should probably go and buy a new shirt before Mom and Dad come back.” He looked at me, at the way I was clutching my shirt, now sans several buttons and suffering a rather ragged and obvious tear. “Oh shit,” he said, “I’m sorry – I forgot about that . . .” I smiled, “Don’t worry about it – start the car.”

Charlie wiped his hands with a shop towel, still shaking his head. He opened the heavy metal door – it creaked, protesting its interrupted rest. He sat down in the dusty driver’s seat and turned the key. With a cough and a roar, the Impala came to life, kicking up some dust but running – actually, unbelievably, running. “Woooo hooooooooo,” Charlie yelled, “Hey Kristen – let’s take a ride!” I slid in next to him. He placed his jacket around my shoulders – it was warm, but it would disguise the buttons and the tear. I moved closer to him – the front seat was as big as a living room – and kissed his neck, his ear. “Hey, Charlie,” I whispered – I could smell sex and could feel the wonderful dampness between my legs, our juices mixed and leaking. “What, sweetheart?” he asked, and gave me that smile, those dimples, those eyes, “You really are a magician.” Charlie snorted, then, and laughed. We backed out of the garage and down the driveway, riding out, into the sunset.