The Midnight Mechanic

The overpass loomed above like a concrete beast, its shadow swallowing the narrow street where the garage sat, half-hidden behind a chain-link fence. I’d heard about this place through a friend of a friend—a mechanic who didn’t just fix cars but crafted LaTeX gear for those who lived on the edge. The invite had been a text, blunt and to the point: Midnight. Garage under 5th St overpass. Bring cash, no questions. It was 11:58 PM on May 21, 2025, and I stood outside the rusted gate, the neon sign above flickering Open in jagged pink letters, my heart pounding louder than the distant hum of the city.

A buzzer sounded, and the gate creaked open. Inside, the garage was a chaotic symphony of metal and light—fluorescent tubes buzzing overhead, casting stark glows across oil-stained floors and shelves cluttered with tools. A sleek black motorcycle rested on a lift, its chrome glinting, and the air smelled of gasoline, steel, and something sharper—rubber. Then I saw him, the mechanic, leaning against a workbench, wiping his hands on a rag. He was broad-shouldered, his faded flannel shirt rolled up to reveal tattooed forearms, and his LaTeX gloves shone glossy black under the lights. His face was rugged, a faint scar cutting through one eyebrow, and his dark eyes sized me up with a mix of curiosity and challenge.

“You the one here for the suit?” he asked, his voice a low growl, rough from years of shouting over engines.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice smaller than I’d meant it to be. I held up the wad of cash, and he nodded, tossing the rag aside.

“Over here.” He led me to a corner where a folding chair sat next to a rack holding a single LaTeX racing suit—glossy black, its surface shimmering like liquid under the fluorescents. “Strip down. Can’t fit it over clothes.”

I hesitated, the cold air biting my skin as I shed my jacket, shirt, and jeans, leaving me in my underwear. His gaze didn’t waver, professional but intense, and I felt a flush creep up my neck. He handed me the suit, its weight heavier than I’d expected, and I stepped into it, the LaTeX cool and slick against my legs. It stretched as I pulled it up, clinging to my thighs, my hips, my chest, sealing me in a tight, glossy embrace. He stepped closer, his gloved hands smoothing the material, adjusting it with a precision that sent shivers through me. The suit creaked with every tug, amplifying my every breath, every heartbeat, and his fingers lingered at my waist, my collar, the small of my back.

“Turn,” he said, his tone gruff but laced with something hotter. I did, and his hands followed, pressing the LaTeX tighter, the slick friction igniting sparks under my skin. The suit was a perfect fit, outlining every curve, every vulnerability, its glossy surface reflecting the neon in waves of pink and blue. I caught my reflection in a cracked mirror propped against the wall—someone bolder, someone new, the LaTeX making me feel both exposed and untouchable.

“Move in it,” he said, stepping back, his arms crossed. I took a few steps, the suit creaking with each stride, its tight grip both restrictive and exhilarating. My skin flushed beneath it, the material teasing my senses, and I noticed his jaw tighten, his eyes darkening. “Good,” he grunted, but his voice was rougher now, strained. “You feel it, don’t you?”
I nodded, breathless. “It’s… intense.”

He closed the distance in two strides, his gloved hands gripping my shoulders. “It’s supposed to be.” His breath was hot against my ear, smelling faintly of coffee and motor oil. “You want more?”
“Yes,” I whispered, and that was all he needed.

His lips crashed into mine, rough and demanding, tasting of salt and grit. The LaTeX creaked as I pressed against him, the slick surface sliding against his flannel shirt, igniting a fire where we touched. His hands roamed, one sliding down my back, the other teasing the glossy suit at my chest, his gloves amplifying every touch. He backed me against the workbench, tools clattering to the floor, and the cold metal bit through the LaTeX as he lifted me onto it, my legs wrapping around his waist.

His fingers found a hidden zipper at my chest, peeling it open with a slow, deliberate tug, the cool air a shock against my flushed skin. I gasped, and he growled, his mouth trailing down my neck, kissing and biting where the LaTeX met skin. The suit clung tighter as I arched, its grip amplifying every sensation—his stubble against my collarbone, his gloved hands teasing my nipples through the open seam. My moans echoed in the garage, mixing with the buzz of the lights, the hum of the city above.

“Hold still,” he muttered, his voice thick with want, and his hands slid lower, unzipping another seam between my thighs. The LaTeX stretched, creaking with my movement, and I trembled as his fingers explored, the glossy gloves slick against my heat. He knelt, his breath hot through the suit, and his tongue followed, teasing through the slit, the sensation overwhelming with the LaTeX’s tight embrace. I gripped the workbench, my nails digging into the wood, the creak of rubber a desperate rhythm as he worked me higher, relentless.

I pulled him up, frantic, my hands fumbling at his shirt, tearing it open to reveal a broad chest dusted with dark hair. His LaTeX gloves stayed on, but he shed his jeans, revealing his own heat, and I reached for him, the slick suit amplifying every touch. He pinned my wrists above my head, the workbench creaking beneath us, and thrust—slow at first, then harder, the LaTeX creaking with every move, the friction of our bodies unbearable. His groans mixed with mine, the garage a blur of neon and steel as the suit pushed me to the edge, its glossy grip intensifying every thrust, every pulse. I came with a cry, sharp and raw, and he followed, his grip bruising through the LaTeX, his breath ragged against my neck.

We stayed there, panting, the LaTeX slick with sweat, still clinging like a possessive lover. He pulled back, adjusting his gloves with a smirk that was half-satisfied, half-challenging. “Suit’s yours,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Come back if you want another ride.”

I slid off the workbench, the LaTeX creaking as I stood, my legs shaky but my mind already racing with the thought of returning—to this garage, to him, to the suit that had undone me.