April's Tool

I hate April fool's day. It's simply licenced meanness. Granted, my intense dislike for the day springs from any number of high school pranks. I was that boy. That one that was always the good-natured victim of cruel peer pranks. Like the time that Lucy Kennet, my long-time crush asked me out on a date. Corsage and bouquet in place I arrived at the bowling alley as planned only to have my family and friends all shout 'surprise' and remind me it was my birthday that week. You know you are a sucker when your own parents sucker you.

So, this April first, like every other, I give my employees a day off and work alone. I schedule some of the simple tasks like servicing and tyres, so I can attend to those while the mechanic, his apprentice and my office lady enjoy a day with their families.

My only company this day is a radio that reminds me I'm getting old too. Seriously, when your small-town radio station starts sounding good you know it's cause they're still the playing the music you liked twenty years ago. I like the workshop when it's empty. Tools echo in the greasy space as you use them, and I can sing poorly without criticism.

And right now, as I fumble with the oily sump plug in the pit below the beige import imitation of a car, that's what I do. I sing what words I know from The White Buffalo's "I got you" and I hum the bits I don't remember. I think of April, wondering what she's doing while I warble and change oil.

She's the reason I'm not rich. I tell folk I used up all my good fortune finding her. I remember the day she bounced into the garage when my Dad owned it. Strawberry pigtails and freckles, a precocious smile and lighting wit, I loved her from the time her tiny fingers shook mine in introduction. That was twenty years ago now.

"Hello?" I startle and drop the sump plug which splashes into the catch bucket and sprays my face with oil. Wiping black muck from my eyes I wonder who owns this female voice and trespasses in my empty world.

Long white legs announce my visitor. She stands at the top of the stairs that lead down into the pit.

"Hello. Mr Fallon?"

"Hi." My mouth is slow to respond to my instructions to speak. My eyes are not so tardy to explore the form and length of the high heeled legs that disappear beneath a tiny attempt at a skirt.

"Hi, I'm Emily. Mrs Fallon said I'd find you here."

"Yup." She has a cheeky smile. The sort that self-assurred pretty twenty-something year old's flash at you when they know they have your attention. The smile sits on a pretty heart shaped face beneath blue eyes and blonde hair, just above impossibly perky breasts; braless under a too tight t-shirt.

"We are hanging some things in the studio and she'd like a hammer."

Now Mrs April Fallon doesn't share my aversion to pranks and fool's day fun and I'm wary of this temptation in a tutu whose knickers flash above me as she shifts from foot to foot. I'm probably frowning, I have no poker face, as I climb the stairs to fetch a hammer.

"Should be one just somewhere by." Emily doesn't move back enough as I crest the stairs, so I have to say, "Excuse me," and push beside her. Her eyes twinkle and her smirk widens at my awkwardness. I'm forty-three and don't for a second believe she is attracted to me, just a confident young woman who is aware of her sexuality and enjoys using it to distract and disarm.

She accepts the hammer I hold handle first toward her.

"That should do the trick." She stands too closely and tilts her face to look up at me.

"Mrs Fallon said to give you this." A slender hand moves to my hair and pulls my face down until our lips meet. Her tongue flicks along my mouth and my lips open of their own accord. She tastes of bubble-gum and heat.

She giggles as she releases me. "Well, she said on the cheek but whatever." As she walks away, even in my confused state I notice the grimy hand print on the back of her little skirt and hope that April doesn't.

April runs an art school, "Fallon academy of visual arts". She teaches photography primarily and digital arts secondarily. More than a few of the students are performance artists and models. Many like young Emily are not at all difficult for a pervy old man like myself to look at. April likes to tease me about only coming to the studio to visit the 'little' girls.

I lick the last of Emily off my lips and shaking my head, return to scrabble for the sump plug wrist deep in luke warm oil. "That's one for the wank bank." I smile to myself and get on with my day.

....

I love the feel of this stuff. And the smell, I guess. It's citrus scented and has little coarse granules in it that soothe sore hands as I massage the soapy stuff into my greasy hands. Garages hold many simple pleasures. This small ritual of handwashing before meals is one of them. I dry them on the rough cotton towel and can hear Mother's voice, "You leave more dirt on the towel than in the sink." She passed not long after Dad but they still haunt this place in little gestures and memories.

The staff room is on the mezzanine floor above the office. I don't particularly like scones unless they're fresh from the oven, but I like being hungry much less still, so I butter the dry little lumps and put enough honey on them to make them palatable. I can see Dad's grubby cracked hands turn the tea pot first one way then the other and smile as I recognise my own hand mimicking his ritual. I like my tea black. Black with half a sugar and strong.

April has a feature in the newspaper this week and I read through some of the reviews and projects as reported. There is a striking photograph of her with some of the students. She still takes my breath away with her beauty. Why is it that as women age their beauty seems to fit them better, but we men become cartoon versions of ourselves? I can see young Emily in the photo and think of taking it to the bathroom to beat the erection I've half had since she kissed me into submission.

Click, clack, click, click... "For a quiet day, this has been quite busy." I muse wondering whose footsteps interrupt my morning tea.

"Hello. Up here. Be down in a second."

"Oh, hey Mr Fallon. Mrs Fallon wants a screwdriver."

"Hey Nigella." I recognise April's office girl. "Should be one over on the workbench. I'm just having morning tea. Would you like a cuppa?"

"Sure, white and one."

She joins me moments later with a screw driver in hand, "This is a Philips head, right?"

"Yup."

She sits down opposite me and inhales the steam from the cup of tea. "Oh, lovely Mr Fallon, thanks muchly. Mrs Fallon buys really cheap tea for the academy, this is really nice."

"Never was much able to educate April about tea, love. She's a coffee person I guess."

"Not me, I love my cup of tea. Have done since I was a little thing."

"How's David?" Her live-in boyfriend and I have been fishing once or twice.

"Gone to hell I hope."

"Pardon? What's he done?"

"Who's he done?"

"Oh dear."

"Probably for the best. Saves me wasting anymore time and energy on him."

"That's terrible. You deserve better. Plenty of fish in the you know, and all that. Pretty girl like you won't stay single unless you choose to."

"You're very sweet Mr Fallon but not everyone is a fan of the curves."

"I'm getting out of my depth here Nigella. I'm not much good for relationship conversations. I'm good at fixing cars and changing tyres but when it comes to women and..." I just sort of turn my hands palm up. "I'm really not a talker."

"That's ok. The cup of tea is all I really needed. And a bloke to talk to who reminds me that all men aren't shallow dicks that run off with beanpoles."

We sip tea and she reads the paper.

"Look, you aren't fat, Nigella. You're quite nicely put together. Just... Just look down there at the cars for a moment. See that little yellow one. That's a Lotus Elise. Fast as all get out and a hell of a lot of fun to drive. I wouldn't want to take it much further than a couple of laps around a track though. No creature comforts, rough as guts. And that one over there..."

"Are you calling me an old Ford, Mr Fallon?" She giggles at my furious blush, "You're supposed to be cheering me up not saying I'm old.

"That's not what I -- just stop teasing, I told you I'm no good at talking. I'm just saying if I had to choose one to keep or to take on a long trip, I'd take that Fairlane with its curves and its leather seats and it would be a lot more comfortable journey."

"You forgot to put in a euphemism about large air bags and big headlights." She slaps me playfully. "I'm just teasing now Mr Fallon. I get what you say. Maybe David just needs to take a few sports cars for a spin before he realises what a classic he's lost."

"That's it."

She's washing up her cup in the little sink while I look in the fridge for something more to eat. Hard work makes me hungry. A pair of arms trap me around the waste and I'm locked in a sweet comfy cuddle. Her head leans onto my chest and she soaks up some human contact.

"I have to get that screwdriver back. Thanks for being shit at cheering me up."

"Um. No problems." She's uncoiled herself from me and looks at me sideways a moment.

"Mrs Fallon said to give you that hug. She said you're good for cheering up."

"Anytime Nigella. I'll keep a spare in the parts room for you. You come by any time you need it. Press those headlights against this dirty old man any time you like." Ok, so that was a bit cheeky but she's a good kid and she brought up the headlights euphemism.

She pouts a little, "The girls need cheering up sometimes too Mr Fallon and I know you like to check them out when you think I don't know." She takes my hands from beside me and places them on her breasts. "Don't send them away without some attention now."

The breath catches in my throat as she presses my palms against her chest. I can feel her nipples harden beneath her bra and she squeezes my hands to mash her firm round boobs together. My mouth has just about closed when she steps back and smiles.

"You're the best Mr Fallon." Then she dashes down the stairs.

"Nigella." I call behind her.

"Yes?"

"The screwdriver..." I drop it down to her and she catches it.

What a fucking balmy day. I look at my hands in disbelief.

...

It's around three in the afternoon by the time I've finished the maintenance tasks I'd logged. A project beckons from the rear of the garage. On the bench I've laid out both heads from the Jaguar XJS coupe I bought for April. Adjusting valve clearance on the v12 motors is a lot simpler if you can take the heads off and work on a bench instead of in the vehicle. Each shim change requires the camshaft is removed and that can amount to a lot of bending over when doing twenty-four valves.

The radio reminds me of the first time I saw one these Jags in 1986. It was the sleekest, most primal looking vehicle I'd set my eyes on in this small town. It was as exotic as the creature I was standing with that day, Georgia Reynolds. I saw them with the same passion and knew them both to be a long way out of my reach.

At eleven years old I was allowed to pump gas out the front of Dad's garage and Georgia Reynolds was the wife of the local preacher. She was kind and generous to a freckled kid and always tipped me well. She was also scandalously attractive for a preacher's wife with too red lips and too long hair and too long legs poking out from a too short dress. Dad called her a shortcut to damntion. The first time he worked on her Jaguar he called it a whole lot of other things weren't in the dictionary.

I can conjure a picture of both now as I use feeler gauges to check clearances and note them in white chalk on the wall. These are the moments that I enjoy in the garage. Tinkering without a timeframe and letting my mind wander on my memories forgotten sideroads.

I'm somewhere down a beach road with April back in 1995, we're talking excitedly with the whole world before us fresh for exploration and she is about to tell me she's pregnant when I hear the office buzzer.

"One second!" I call from the bench and take a cloth to wipe clean oil from my hands.

"Hello Mr Fallon." Her accent suggests British, but her skin and features suggest Indian.

"Hi, how can I help?"

"I'm Priya." She offers me her hand

"Hi Priya." She watches my hand as I shake hers.

"Emily said you have good hands. Very large and strong."

"Oh, Emily from-"

"Yes, Mrs Fallon sent me on an errand too. I am to return with a tool."

"What does my lovely wife need this time Priya?"

Priya sets smouldering brown eyes from 'kill and eat' to 'stun' and lets them walk from my face to my feet and back before smiling and continuing in a voice that drips with loaded sexuality, "I do not think she needs for much at all Mr Fallon, but she would like some pliers please."

I swallow a hard lump of lust from my throat. "Rightio. Down the back here." I just about trip over my feet in my hurry to get away from the sizzling presence of this young woman. I'm reminded of tigers when I look in her eyes and can almost hear her crunching on my bones.

I'm leaning over a set of drawers looking for some spare pliers when I feel her hand on my jeans pocket. She squeezes and mewls, "Mmmm, Mrs Fallon said to give you a playful slap on the bum. It would make you feel naughty and young."

"Well, um... here's the pliers."

"Thankyou. Mrs Fallon wants pliers. I do not." She puts them in her hand bag.

"Well. There you go Priya and thanks for the er... slap." This brown skinned beauty barely rises to my shoulders, but I am trapped against this bench by her sheer presence. Her fingers trail down my chest and pop buttons on my shirt as they travel.

"Mmm... You have a very strong body Mr Fallon. I did not want to touch your backside. I much prefer the front side." Her hand travels over my buckle and rests cupping my growing erection. "Oh, this is for me? I am very honoured. I don't think you need to be made feel young and naughty. I think you are already naughty and not so far from young." She kneads my trapped member and I grab ragged breaths through flushed cheeks and hold the bench for support.

Her other hand reaches for mine and leads it slowly toward her, "Would you like to feel how naughty your hard body makes me feel?"

I swallow in reply, it's all the voice I have. She places my hand under her dress and over her sex. The heat of her arousal warms my palm and her fingers insist against mine pushing them at the plump folds of her, against the wet fabric of her underwear.

Her phone rings. I reclaim my hand as she scrambles in her bag.

"Yes Mrs Fallon."

"Yes, I have pliers."

"Haha, yes he feels very naughty and young."

"Ok."

Then without a single word she simply smiles and leaves. As I watch her depart, silhouetted in the garage door I smell my fingers and she lingers there. If I shake my head in wonder any more today I'm sure to develop a migraine.

...

Five o'clock comes without fanfare or fuss, quietly sneaking dark fingers into the garage like little rivers of night. A scent of early autumn clings to a cool breeze that curls low around my ankles. I take down signs, wheel in displays, push stacks of tyres into storage and put money in the safe. I'm locking it when I hear the office door.

"Hey darlin." I greet my wife.

"Hey yourself, have a good day?"

"Strange but good. Those girls from your academy are a cheeky bunch."

There is mischief in my April's eyes and a twisted smirk on her pretty lips. She passes me a piece of paper and I turn it to see a picture of Emily smiling and me with a horrified look on my face.

"The security camera's needed testing lover." She laughs at my baffled face. "April fool, is the expression I believe."

I'm not sure if I feel snooped on, violated, cranky or confused but the way that April pounces on me it seems she's feeling something a little more clearly.

"And I needed some things, I needed hammering." Her voice is raspy and she nips at my neck before passing me a photograph of my hands on Nigella's breasts.

"I needed screwing." She sucks on my tongue as we kiss then hands me one last picture of Priya holding my junk. "And I needed holding tightly."

April has removed her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse and now she kneels before me fumbling at my fly, "So I sent those little girls to bring me a hammer, a screwdriver and some pliers. It was fun but what I really need is this."

She pulls my hard cock from my underpants. My trousers fall unceremoniously around my ankles and she inhales my penis. Her small white hands grip my shaft tightly and I swell in her mouth. April pulls me out to breathe and licks and kisses my shaft.

If I could frame a single moment to keep in case I never saw my wife again, the many times I have seen this same picture would be the one I'd choose. My pretty bride's lips pouting around the tip of my cock. Her green eyes teasing mine.

"I let those little girls play a bit. I had to ring Priya, she looked positively predatory. I hope you had fun but just remember this. You are April's fool, and this is April's tool."

There was probably something smart or witty that a movie star would say about then, but I just volunteered a groan of sorts as she sucked me into her mouth and circled her tongue on my glans. April takes her hands from my cock to shimmy her skirt over her thighs and down around her ankles then stands to kiss me. She backs still lip-locked, to the table where she lies back and pulls her knees up, offering me her spread pussy.

Bending to taste her, she grabs my hair and pulls my face to her mouth. "Enough, just fuck me idiot."

I've never needed much encouragement. Nudging her lips with my knob I find her more than wet. "I've been watching little girls flirt with you all day, it's hot as fuck. Just get in me." Then she bucks upwards. Our pelvises meet with a clap and I'm hilted deeply inside her. I try small circles and pressing into her, but she urges more insistently, so I simply thrust as hard and deep and quickly as I can. The table slides across the floor with each thrust until it bangs on the wall in time with my grunts and her cries of 'yes'.

My balls tighten, and I slide out of her just in time to blow thin ropes of creamy thanks across her belly and breasts then, still hard for now, I slip back inside her and her fingers join me. She rubs furiously at her clit while I pump and finally her nails dig into my back to hold me still. Grinding herself upon my pubic bone she milks every last shuddering moment from her orgasm then slumps breathless to the table. I fall atop her and she kisses me.

"Haha, how'd you like that my silly man?"

I've told you I'm not much of a talker, so I just kiss her back and hold on until we're both come back down.

....

Driving home my phone beeps.

"Answer it." April insists from the driver's seat.

I have one new message from [SEC Cam 4].

I open the attachment and watch as April and I fuck in the office.

"I think I like the new security system." I tell her.

"I knew you would you dirty old perve."