The Workshop

The Workshop

"Fucking rich people," Leigh mumble to herself.

Sitting in her parked car, she stared down at her phone; specifically, at the curt, but very clear email she had just received from one of her clients. It explained the details of a new layout of cabinets the homeowner was now insisting was "absolutely necessary" for their new kitchen. Of course, the email made no reference to the fact that the whole set of pre-fab cabinets previously agreed upon, had already been purchased and were on the verge of being installed.

Jesus, she hated being under the thumb of these privileged assholes. It seemed at every turn they were second guessing her, making unnecessary changes, and it even felt at times, they would simply do whatever they could to make her life more complicated.

To that fact, these oh so important cabinets are custom. She can't get them from a warehouse. She has to drive out to some workshop out on the edge of town next to the apple groves. If that wasn't bad enough, it sounds like the homeowners, being the petulant children they are, have already tried to get the shop owner to make the cabinets, but now they say he's refusing. She can only imagine how that went down. And now they expect her to go out and smooth over the sheets they so blatantly ruffled.

Grudgingly, she clicked the link to the address of the workshop, turned the ignition, and set out for her 45-minute drive out of the valley and into the dense orchards.

The lengthy commute only gave her time to stew over her predicament. She was tired of being responsible for other people's problems. She can't remember a day of work that didn't include someone making a mess that only ended in her cleaning it up. She was a very capable designer and contractor. Leigh has made a good life for herself by simply being competent in getting shit done. And in the world of people with money, they are always willing to pay someone else to do things. This is where she was currently wedged. Making things happen for people who never have to learn the limits of want.

Her car crunched down the dirt road that terminated at a series of large, simple buildings, all with ample double doors. She was deep in the trees from the main road when she came to a stop before the largest structure, and the only one with a sign that plainly announced "Workshop." A fine a place as any to start.

In the left side of the front barn doors was embedded a regular sized door, through which she tentatively entered as she knocked.

"Hello?" Her voice echoed through open room, bouncing off numerous very specific looking machines.

While being generally clean, the shop definitely looked well-worn. Despite being chipped, dented, scraped, and colloquially, ridden hard, it was also apparent everything she could see was still very precise and intentioned. It was like finding beauty in a scar. Every mark had a story. She could see them from the middle of the shop, where she now stood.

"Can I help you?" His voice boomed across the floor and goosed her out of the silence.

She'd been increasingly on edge over the course of the drive. Now she was wound up so tightly that even this man's obvious presence has gotten her off center. She simply needs to get him to agree to make the cabinets and quickly. She can throw her client's money at him and she'll be back on schedule.

"Uh, yes," she said, finally having fully turned to face the man who had emerged from around the east corner of the shop. "Are you..." she recalled to the email from the homeowner, "...Owen Mackenzie?"

Now, getting a full look at him, he seemed to fit in seamlessly with the shop itself. He shared the same banged-up aesthetic of the tools he was working with. His skin had seen its share of sun and sawdust. Wiping his hands as he slowly sauntered towards her, she could see them calloused, presumably from years of raking them over lumber. From his beard, she could also make out the grey streaking it. Angry hairs that seemed to impose themselves on the rest of the mix of auburn facial hair. Clean him up a little and one might call him attractive. He was definitely older than her, though not by much. Through all of his time-worn exterior, his pale blue eyes were locked on her. If he was one of these machines anthropomorphized, his eyes were the blade. Steely and precise.

He slowed to a stop a few feet from her tossing the rag into a bin. He ran his eyes over her, for a little too long, if you'd asked Leigh. It was as if he was looking at a tree and deciding how much of that flesh he could carve up and use. And for a moment, she felt like that tree. Feet rooted to the ground, unable to avoid the woodsman's greedy axe.

"Mack," he said finally. "I hate the name Owen."

She snapped back into herself. Suddenly remembering why she is here in the first place.

"Mr. Mackenzie, yes, well, I believe you have been in contact with my clients, the Mitchells, about a series of custom cabinets they wanted made."

His eyes finally left her as he raised his head in an amused nod, recalling the conversation he'd had with the Mitchells only the day before.

"Yes. Indeed, I have spoken with them. Specifically, Mrs. Mitchell," he smirked.

Leigh didn't know what this guy found so amusing. She needed him to get on board quickly, and his cavalier attitude was starting to grind on her. He was starting to seem like just another obstacle she was going to have to surmount.

"Then you know they want their cabinets and insist they had an agreement with you, which they claim you are not fulfilling," she said somewhat forcefully.

Mack raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "While it's true they wanted me to make them cabinets, there is no agreement. I told them how much and how long it'd take and they wanted it faster. I said no. I'm not interested in rushing. Time makes good work, not simply throwing more money at it." He turned his back to her as if he were discarding her.

Leigh was getting increasingly frustrated and tense. She had custom cabinets commissioned before and she knew this guy had plenty of time to make them. Clearly, since he wasn't asking for more money, he was just being difficult for the sake of it. She was tired of it.

"Look," she said through gritted teeth, "you know their timeline is reasonable. Turning this down is not a good idea." She was becoming more heated. "If you know the Mitchells, then you know what pull they have. Say no to them and your business will become toxic to them and everyone they know. You'll be lucky to sell a birdhouse after that."

By now, Mack had turned and was walking about the shop as if she wasn't there.

"You know I'm right. Now, I'm going to have to demand that you..."

"DEMAND?" The sudden burst of his word startled her and she instinctively clutched her arms to her chest, defensively.

His eyebrows furrowed at her. Once again, his eyes held her in place. She was scared to move as his stance was suddenly very aggressive.

"Well," she fumbled, "it's obvious how we can resolve this."

"I don't think you know what it means to demand," he growled. Now he was inching toward her. Over his shoulder Leigh could see the door from which she'd entered. It's only now that she is noticing it is the only door she can see in the open shop.

"To demand," he continued, "means one of two things has to happen." He was now directly in front of her. She hadn't really considered how big he was from across the room. Now, looming before her, his shadow was swallowing her up. Behind her, was a large, dusty bench. She had nowhere to go.

"Either one willingly gives in to your demands..." he paused, staring her down. She was definitely scared as to where this was going. He leaned in close to her cheek. "...or you just take what you want."

She needed to get out of there. Fuck the cabinets! Fuck the Mitchells! And fuck this guy!

"Look, if you...," she began.

"Turn around," he commanded.

Her heart quickened and pulsed in her ears.

"No, I'm not...," she whimpered.

At that, in one forceful motion, his powerful hands grabbed her and thrust her around. She yelped; quivering now. His chest was pressed against her back and his rough hands held tight, wrapped around each shoulder. She could feel his beard grazing the nape of her neck. As it tickled her, goose flesh erupted down her arms which were still clenched in front of her.

His gravel voice was in her ear, "Bend over." His breath was hot on her skin; faint with cigarette smoke.

"Oh my God," Leigh thought, realizing her fears were warranted. "Is this going to happen?" Her mind raced. She needed to scream, but who would hear her, she wondered. She saw no other sign of life after her car pierced the tree line. She could yell, but there's no way her protests would reach the main road.

Meekly, she implored him, "Don't...."

Again, before she could finish the thought, he bent her at the waist and pushed her to the workbench. Her arms finally left her chest to catch herself, but still went sprawling out in front of her. His right hand pressed on her back, pinning her. She tried to push herself back up, but was no match for man who hefted logs for a living. Her ragged breaths kicked up sawdust as she panted fearfully. Realizing the futility of it, she abated her struggles.

It was then that she felt it.

Pressed to her backside was his swollen erection, straining behind his sun worn jeans. She could feel the distinct outline of his turgid member against the soft flesh of her bottom. He was slowly rubbing across, back and forth. Occasionally, she could also feel it pulse fitfully behind its tethers. Like a caged animal, banging against the bars of the door, trying to get at its prey just on the other side.

Despite her current terror, her body betrayed her. Feeling him pressed to her, she actually felt herself plump between her closed legs. She knew the familiar, subtle surge of blood starting to engorge and tingle her trapped labia.

How could this be happening? She was terrified right now and her body is acting as if it's turned on? A natural, evolutionary response to an aggressive male taking a mate?

With his hand still on her back, she felt Mack grab the bottom of her light skirt and pull it up over her hips, exposing her thong and bare, quivering cheeks. She was regretting her underwear choice at the moment.

"You only take what you deserve. And I know what I deserve." She could feel a finger from his other hand tracing the inside of the waist band of her minimal underwear. "Spread your legs," he said plainly.

She knew what was going to happen. She could feel one of his feet positioned between hers, ready to force his way.

Reluctantly, she slowly spread her legs, just enough to comply. That's when she noticed that the meager cloth between her legs was soaked through. Now open to the air, she could feel just how wet she was.

The clinking of his belt gave her a shudder as she could feel him taking down his pants behind her. The scuffle of cloth and the contents of his pockets slumped to the floor. It was then she could feel the warmth radiating from his hot member.

With the same finger, it hooked on to the center cloth that ran down her ass and over her, now, very swollen pussy. Gingerly, he pulled aside her underwear, exposing her glistening lips.

His finger must have been soaked, she thought. He already has the wrong idea and this is not helping.

That's when she felt the swollen head of his penis ever so slightly part her labia. Another surge and tingle. But he didn't enter her.

"What do you deserve?" he implored.

Surprisingly, he slowly removed his hand from her back. He was no longer holding her in place. All she could feel was the looming presence of his cock at her throbbing mound.

"Take it," he whispered.

Now able to pull away from the workbench, she could feel her erect nipples grazing the dusty surface through the thin fabric of her tank top and bra.

Fuck, she didn't want to think anymore. Who was she kidding? She was exhausted with being in control of everything. Was she ever in control?

"You know what you deserve. Take it."

At that, hands now planted on the bench, eyes closed, she felt herself slowly backing herself into his waiting cock.

With that acquiescence, the world started melting away, replace by the singular sensation of Mack's dick slowly filling her up. Quivers ran over every part of her skin as she enveloped him, until she felt his hips and he was fully inside her.

His hands landed on the bench on either side of her. As he leaned forward, she could feel the soft tickle of his belly hair on her flesh, he said, "Fuck my cock. You know I don't ask twice."

In a burst of relief at the demand, Leigh began thrusting herself on him with increasing abandon. Clawing at the table, she pressed back at him, repeatedly, savoring each stroke as he filled her up.

Time lost meaning. She couldn't hear the rhythmic scraping of wood on concrete, as together they jostled the workbench about. She didn't care about the sawdust on her face and in her hair. No longer did she notice the thick, sweet smell of polyurethane that permeated everything. There was only the sensation of Mack fucking her.

Taking a handful of her hair, he pulled, arching her back as they pounded each other. His other hand tugged at her tank top and bra until he had dislodged one of her breasts. His rough fingers pinched and tweaked at her hard nipples. Squeezing her tender flesh.

Wordlessly, Mack pulled out and spun Leigh around. He quickly hoisted her on to the bench, facing him. One hand still clenching her hair, the other swatted the skirt out of the way and roughly slid her thong off, tossing it to the floor. With nothing in the way, he was back inside her.

Now, face to face, Mack went after her ample tits. Clawing her shirt and bra down, he had released them both and immediately started feasting on them as Leigh was fervently grinding on his dick. Now with her clit against him, it was not long before she was going to burst.

His hand slid from the breast he was fondling and up to her neck. He stopped thrusting, leaving himself just barely in her.

"Beg me to make you cum," he said.

Sweating and panting, she couldn't think. In that moment, all she could think about was cumming.

Grabbing at his hips, trying to pull him to her, she was desperate.

"Oh, God, yes. Make me cum. Please," she said breathlessly.

He thrust into her once, hard. She moaned loudly.

"Again,"

She clawed hungrily at his chest hair. "I want to cum. Make me cum," she pleaded again.

Slowly, Mack thrust into her, his pace initially slow, but increasing in rhythm as Leigh, eyes clenched, quietly repeated her demand, "Make me cum. Make me cum. Make me cum."

Shudders began rattling through Leigh as her orgasm gripped her. Everything else ceased to exist as the waves of pleasure washed over her. Her hips bucked involuntarily as Mack pounded her. Time stopped and Leigh hung in a limbo of bliss as the wave of her orgasm finished washing over her.

Consumed by her pleasure, Mack was reaching his pinnacle. Grabbing her hair once again, he pulled her from the bench to the workshop floor in front of him. Without a word, he thrust his cock, sticky and wet from her pussy, into her mouth.

She could feel the contours of his dick as stroked it in and out of her mouth. Feeling his quickening rhythm, Leigh instinctively reached underneath and began messaging Mack's swaying balls.

Proving to be too much, Mack's hips slowed to almost nothing; holding back the impending load. A low growl rumbled out of Mack's chest while he, now, had two handfuls of Leigh's hair.

Seconds passed before Mack screamed and Leigh felt his cock pulse mightily. Hot cum filled her mouth and ran out, over her tongue, onto the sawdust covered floor. Splashing in a puff on the concrete. Mack shuddered with each pulse until he had exhausted his load.

Both spent, they slowly reassembled themselves. Leigh was now starting to come back to the real world and realizing that, as fun as that was, her situation hadn't improved, it had only been complicated.

"I'll make the cabinets," Mack said finishing his belt.

Leigh was confused, slightly ashamed.

Through a wry smile, he added "As long as the next time I see you, I can take what I want."