Women in Uniform IV
The air in the hangar smells like burnt hydraulic fluid, and it clings to the back of my throat. I wipe a smear of grease across my forehead with the back of a gloved hand, leaving a dark streak on my skin. The coveralls are heavy, stiff canvas, tight against the sweat prickling on my neck. It's hot work, being a Defence Force mechanic, especially when the air conditioning is fighting a losing battle against the heat radiating off the Abrams parked in Bay 4.
"Freya-Kate! Get your arse over here. Number 3's playing up again."
Sarge's voice cuts through the clang of spanners and the hiss of pneumatic drills. I turn to see him leaning against the tank's tread, arms crossed over his chest. The uniform fits him snugly—neat across the shoulders, the fabric straining slightly at the biceps. He's got that look on his face, the one that says he's bored and looking for trouble. He's a smart arse, always has been, pushing the boundaries of protocol just to see what snaps.
"On my way, Sarge," I call back, grabbing my torque wrench.
He watches me walk over, his eyes tracking the movement of my hips under the baggy green jumpsuit. I know that look. I've seen it a dozen times in the mess hall, usually when he's had a few too many beers. But here, in the middle of a shift, it's different. Sharper.
"Gearbox is slipping," he says, jerking his thumb toward the rear of the tank. "I need you to crawl inside and check the linkage. It's a tight fit, but you're small enough."
I roll my eyes, climbing up the metal tread steps. "You just want me to do it so you don't have to rip your uniform off."
"Perks of rank, sweetie. Now get in there."
I pop the hatch and swing my legs into the dark void of the engine compartment. It's an oven inside, the smell of oil and old rubber suffocating. I shimmy down, manoeuvring between the hot metal walls and the bulky transmission housing. It's cramped. My shoulders brush against the pipes on either side, and I have to crouch awkwardly to reach the gearbox assembly.
"Can you reach it?" Sarge's voice booms from above, distorted by the metal acoustics.
"Barely," I grunt, stretching my arm. My fingers brush the linkage.
"Yeah, I got it. Pass me a flashlight."
Instead of a light, a heavy boot lands on the tread above me, and then another. Sarge is climbing in.
"What the fuck, Sarge?" I twist around, but there's nowhere to go. I'm pinned between the gearbox and the wall of the compartment.
"There's no room for two in here."
"Make room," he grunts, dropping down behind me.
The space instantly shrinks. I can feel the heat of his body pressing against my back, the solid wall of his chest trapping me. He's close—too close. I can smell him now, beneath the grease and the uniform detergent. It's a raw, male scent, musk and sweat. My heart hammers against my ribs, not from exertion, but from the sudden, startling proximity.
"Sarge, I can't work like this," I protest, but my voice comes out breathy, thin.
"Shut up and check the box, Freya," he murmurs, his voice low right against my ear.
His hands land on my hips, gripping hard through thefabric of the coveralls. I freeze. The air in the tank seems to thicken, heavy and oppressive. I should push him away. I should report him. But my body betrays me. A flush of heat spreads through my belly, pooling low and heavy between my thighs. The adrenaline of the risk mixes with the sheer physical presence of him.
"You wanted me to check the gearbox?" I whisper, leaning back slightly into him.
"Fuck the gearbox," he growls, " Let's check some real equipment."
His hands move to the zipper of my jumpsuit. The sound of the teeth unzipping is deafening in the confined space—a harsh, metallic rasp. He yanks it down to my waist, the air hitting my sweat-slicked skin for a split second before his rough palms slide underneath.
He's not gentle. But I never appreciate gentleness.
His fingers find the waistband of my sports bra and tug it down, exposing my tits. I gasp, my head falling back against his shoulder. He palms them, squeezing hard, his thumbs scraping over my nipples until they peak into tight, aching buds.
"Jesus, Sarge," I moan, the sound echoing in the steel chamber.
"Quiet," he orders, but his breath is ragged. "You want the whole depot to hear?"
He shifts behind me, and I hear the distinct sound of his own fly coming down. The buckle jingles, a sharp contrast to the heavy breathing filling the tank. Then, I feel it. Hard, hot, and insistent, pressing against the small of my back.
Eight inches. I know the rumours, the jokes in the barracks about the Sarge's arsenal, but feeling it is different. It's heavy, thick as a fucking tank barrel, and throbbing with a pulse that matches my own.
"Is this the box you wanted me to check?" I pant, reaching back to wrap my fingers around the shaft. It's velvety steel, burning hot in my grip. I can't even get my hand all the way around it.
"Yeah," he grunts, bucking his hips into my hand. "That's the one. Inspect it, mechanic."
I stroke him, feeling the veins ridged along the length, the sticky pre-cum leaking from the tip and slicking my palm. He groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my back. He pushes my coveralls down further, along with my panties, baring my arse.
"Spread your legs," he commands.
I try to obey, bracing my hands against the gearbox casing. It's slippery with oil, but I hold on. He kicks my boots apart, widening my stance. The position is awkward, cramped, my knees bent, my body folded over the machinery. But when he notches the head of that massive cock against my girly canal, the discomfort vanishes.
He pushes in.
"Ahh—fuck!" I cry out, the stretch sudden and intense. He's big, bigger than anything I've taken, and he doesn't wait for me to adjust. He sinks deep, burying himself to the hilt in one ruthless thrust.
He's a piston and operating on a high gear.
"Oohh! Fuck! That's heavenly fast! Oohh! Oohh!"
I gasp, my inner walls clamping down around him, spasming at the sudden intrusion. He fills me completely, stretching me until I'm sure I'll tear. It's a mix of pain and pleasure so sharp it blurs my vision.
"Tight little hussy," he hisses, gripping my hips.
"Fucking soaking wet, aren't you?"
"Move it," I beg, my fingers scrabbling against the metal. "Just fucking keep moving it."
He draws back, almost pulling out, then slams back in.
The impact jars my whole body, my hips smacking against the gearbox with a dull clang. The metal walls amplify the sound of our flesh meeting—the wet slap of his balls against my arse, the squelch of my pussy as he drives into me.
"Take it," he growls, setting a punishing rhythm. "You wanted a new experience? Here it is. Squat over my cock bitch!"
Squat. Squash. Hunch. Huddle. Somehow I manage.
It's like fricking lance entering me.
"Holy Mother of Mary! Fuck! Fuck! Oohh! Aahh!"
Okay, Catholic upbringing. The rest army brat tart whore.
I rise up and slink down. I rise and fall off his cock. Pure girl motion, riding a stiff pole. Rise and fall. Delicious spreading. Rise and fall. Blissful filling. Rise and fall. Joyful, joyous stretching. Tug and haul. Haul and tug my pussy up and down his shaft.
Panting. Grunting. Panting. Grunting. The exquisite combination.
Until I let him fuck me like he's angry, like he's trying to split me open on his cock. The tank is an oven now, sweat pouring down my face, dripping onto the machinery. I can hear the wet sounds of his piston-like thrusts, the slap-slappy-sloppy, echoing in my ears.
The smell of sex—musk and deep girl juice—overpowers the smell of oil.
"Harder, Sarge!" I scream, not caring who hears anymore.
"Pound my fucking cunt! Ughh! Ughh!"
He obliges, jagging into me. Every thrust hits that spot deep inside, the one that ignites my bead. I can feel the pressure building, a coil of white-hot tension winding tight in my belly. The friction is incredible, his thick cock dragging against my sensitive walls, rubbing my clit with every powerful upward grinding thrust.
I met each thrust. I join each thrust. I live each thrust.
I memorise each goddamn pure fuckin' moment of flesh-filled definition.
I'm filled. I'm drilled. My mind thrilled.
"Gonna cum," he grits out, his rhythm faltering. "Where do you want it?"
"Inside," I gasp, my mind holding only filling stiffness.
"Fill me up. Totally, Sarge!"
With a guttural roar, he buries himself balls-deep and explodes.
The bastard fires heavy artillery shells into my soft, enveloping shape. I feel the hot spurts of cum painting my insides, coating my cervix. The sensation triggers my own release. My body locks up, my pussy convulsing around his spurting dick.
"Oh god—yes, yes, yes!" I shriek, my orgasm tearing through me like a shell blast.
My juices gush around him, squirting out to soak his uniform and drip onto the tank floor. I'm shaking, trembling, lost in the overwhelming rush of pleasure.
Our heavy breathing the only sound in the tank.
His cock softens inside me, but he doesn't pull out yet. The intimacy of the aftermath is more shocking than the act itself—the heat, the sweat, the sticky mess of us.
"Fuck," he mutters, finally pulling back. A flood of cum follows, trickling down my thigh.
He zips up with a practiced motion, the sound harsh in the quiet.
I lean against the gearbox, my legs trembling, trying to catch my breath. I pull my coveralls up, the fabric sticking to my sweat-slicked skin.
"Gearbox looks fine to me," Sarge says, his voice back to its usual bored drawl, though I can hear the smirk in it.
"Good work, Freya-Kate."
He climbs out, leaving me alone in the dark, oily heat. I touch the metal wall, still vibrating with the memory of our collision.
They say to join the military for new experiences. I wipe the sweat from my lip, tasting salt and metal. I definitely got mine.