#working man

[hombresexual2]

Yummy

[minnie-cai]

༊*·˚ Working Man

pairing; mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

tags/warnings; infidelity, significant age-gap marriage (older husband x younger reader), emotional neglect, implied marital coercion, sexual themes, references to fertility pressure, implied manipulation and gaslighting, mild period-typical misogyny, mentions of abandonment and child neglect, smoking and alcohol

word count; 4.1k

summary; In late 1950s West Side New York, you’re a young housewife stuck in a marriage built on duty, not desire. When a trip to the garage introduces you to Riff—a grease-stained, sharp-eyed mechanic who sees you for who you really are—it sparks a slow, dangerous unraveling. What begins with a glance becomes a ritual. And then, a reckoning.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

The screen door creaks behind you as you step onto the sun-warmed porch, the hem of your yellow cotton dress brushing against your knees, a bit too modest for the way the July heat clings to your skin like syrup. The cicadas drone in the trees. Somewhere down the road, a radio blares a tinny tune, cheerful and out of place. You grip your woven basket in both hands like it’s a lifeline.

Your husband, Gene, had handed you two dollars that morning with a grunt and a half-mumbled list: tomatoes, string beans, new mason jar lids. And, as he’d said last night with a dry cough and that same tired glint in his eye—“We’ll try again tonight, alright sweetheart? You ain’t pregnant yet, and the Lord wants us fruitful.”

You hadn’t said much. Just nodded. You never said much around Gene.

The flea market’s only two blocks into town. You know the route by heart. Past the church with its peeling white paint, past the dry cleaners with the gossiping wives out front, past Joe’s Auto Repair, where the air always smells like hot rubber and gasoline.

That’s where you see him.

Leaning against the brick wall just under the “Goodyear Tires” sign, Riff is striking a match, cigarette pressed between his lips. His coveralls are unzipped to the waist, white tank undershirt clinging to sweat-dampened muscles like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, the kind of defiant wave no comb dares tame. Grease stains his hands, his forearms flex as he lights up, and for a moment, he squints toward the sun—and right at you.

You freeze like you’ve stepped barefoot on a snake.

His gaze lingers. Not in that polite, blink-and-gone way most men in town look at you. No, he sees you. His jaw ticks, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and you can’t look away even as your fingers tighten on the basket’s handle.

You walk past without a word, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

It’s three days later when Gene says he needs a belt picked up for the Ford. “Rattlin’ again,” he mutters, spitting into the sink after brushing his teeth. “Go down to Joe’s. I called ahead. They’ll have it.”

You know exactly who they is.

You take your time getting ready. Lipstick, just a little. Your best dress—powder blue, tight at the waist. When Gene leaves for work, you wait a full ten minutes before stepping out, basket empty this time, but your stomach full of nerves.

Joe’s is half-shadowed by the sun when you arrive. You walk through the open garage door and the air changes—warmer, louder, alive with the scent of oil, rust, and man. Tools clink. A radio plays slow blues from somewhere deep in the garage. You don’t see Joe.

But you see him.

He’s under the hood of a car, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with grit. Riff.

He notices you instantly. Straightens. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn’t smile, but recognition flickers behind his eyes.

“You lost, girlie-girl?” he drawls, voice rough as gravel and twice as dangerous.

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“No,” you say, forcing a smile. “My husband called ahead. For a… a fan belt.”

“Right,” he says, tossing the rag onto the workbench without looking away from you. “Gene Miller’s wife. I remember the voice.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to smell the smoke and sweat and something else—raw masculinity. You tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, your throat dry.

“You got a name?”

You hesitate.

“It’s alright,” he says low, a smirk tugging at his lip. “I’ll learn it eventually.”

You don’t remember breathing until you’re walking back out with the belt in your hand, your fingers still tingling from where he brushed them handing it to you.

The affair doesn’t start that day.

But it starts then.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You told yourself you wouldn’t go back.

Gene had the belt. The car ran fine. There was no reason—none—for you to return to that garage. But the days after felt longer. The silence at home heavier. You went through your routines like a ghost, vacuuming rooms already clean, peeling potatoes with slow, mechanical hands, your thoughts drifting to smoke curling from a cigarette and forearms streaked with grease.

You start walking to town more. At first, it’s just to the market. Then the bakery. Then nowhere in particular.

But each time, you find yourself walking past Joe’s.

And sometimes—sometimes—he’s there.

It becomes a quiet ritual. A glance. A flick of his eyes to yours. He never waves, never calls out. But you feel his stare like it’s a hand on your back, pressing. Daring.

Until one morning, two weeks later, you walk past and he says, “You always in such a hurry, darlin’?”

You stop. The heat blooms across your chest like a sin exposed.

He’s sitting on the hood of a cherry-red Impala, legs apart, arms folded, like he owns the street and knows you’re about to fall to your knees on it.

“I—” you start. “I was just walking.”

His lip curls, not quite a smile. “Seems like you’re always just walking. But never stopping.”

You swallow. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The gold band on your finger glints in the sunlight. His eyes flick to it. Then back to your face.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, he hops off the car and turns his back to you.

You stand there, stupid and burning.

The next day, you don’t pass by. You walk into the shop.

He’s under another car when you come in, and your heart is hammering hard enough you feel it behind your eyes. You wait until he slides out from under the chassis, rag in one hand, hair damp with sweat.

“Well,” he says, looking you over slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you on purpose.”

You walk in further, past the signs that say “Employees Only,” past the point of decency.

“I was just… in the area,” you lie, voice barely more than a whisper.

He leans against the lift, folds his arms again. His eyes don’t leave yours. “That what you told your husband?”

You flush. Look down.

He chuckles. A rough sound. “Don’t be shy now, doll. You came all this way.”

Something in you snaps. Or frees itself.

You raise your chin. “I wanted to see you.”

That silences him. His gaze sharpens like a blade.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

But he nods toward the back. “Come on. Office is quieter.”

You follow him past stacks of tires and the smell of gasoline, your heels clicking on the concrete. The office is small, hot, and dim. A fan rattles on the desk. There’s a chair, a filing cabinet, and not much else.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click.

The sound is deafening.

“Alright,” he says, stepping closer. “Now what?”

You open your mouth. No words come out.

So he steps even closer, and now your back is to the filing cabinet and there’s nowhere to run.

“You got a name?” he murmurs again, slower this time, like he wants you to hear what it sounds like on his tongue.

You whisper it.

He repeats it, almost reverent.

And then he leans down, just enough so you can feel his breath on your neck.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks. “Once I touch you, sweetheart, you don’t get to pretend anymore.”

You nod.

Barely.

And then his lips are on yours.

Not gentle. Not soft. But hungry—like he’s been waiting for this moment since that first glance on the street, and he’s done pretending it’s anything but what it is.

His hands cup your face first, then slide down, rough and warm, smearing a faint line of grease across your cheek. He tastes like smoke and something wild. Your fingers curl into the front of his coveralls and pull.

You don’t care about the ring.

You don’t care about Gene.

You only care about this.

This heat.

This escape.

This man.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You’ve never floated home before.

The pavement barely exists beneath your feet. The houses blur past like half-painted scenery, the smell of motor oil clinging to your skin like perfume. Inside, your mouth still tingles. Every part of you feels rewired—sensitive, alive, flushed with the echo of Riff’s mouth and the pressure of his body against yours.

You touch your lips once before stepping through your front door.

Inside, the kitchen smells like stew. You’d left it bubbling low before you went to town—Gene likes it with potatoes and thick carrots, heavy on the salt. You pull your apron on, check the oven, and set the table, your hands moving on instinct while your mind spins somewhere else. Somewhere far from the sterile yellow wallpaper, from Gene’s heavy footsteps and the muted clink of his belt buckle tossed onto the nightstand.

You’re humming.

You never hum.

Gene notices.

He walks in around six, same as always, rubbing his back like he always does, frowning at his shoulder like it’s personally failed him.

But then he looks up.

And he stops.

“Huh,” he grunts, dropping his coat on the chair. “You look… different.”

You tilt your head. Smile a little. “Different how?”

He squints, like you’re a painting someone hung crooked.

“You’re glowin’ or somethin’. Been in the sun too long?”

You shake your head. “Just had a nice walk.”

Gene grumbles approval. “Maybe it helped clear your head. Been uptight lately.”

You serve him stew. He eats in big bites, loud, satisfied. You barely touch yours, too busy sipping the warmth of remembered heat off your tongue. Your thighs press together under the table. You think of grease-streaked fingers pressing into your hips. A voice rasping in your ear.

After dinner, you wash dishes in the sink. You feel Gene’s eyes on your back.

That quiet, calculating look.

Then his voice, low and hopeful. “Why don’t you get ready for bed early tonight?”

You pause, the dish slipping slightly in your hand.

“Sure,” you say.

You brush your hair longer than usual. You don’t bother with the long nightgown—just the slip. You crawl under the sheets, and when Gene joins you, the mattress sags the same way it always does.

But you are different.

He kisses your neck—clumsy, always too damp—and usually you lie still and wait for it to end. You let him climb over you, breathe heavy, grind and grunt like a tired machine hoping it’ll work if it just tries hard enough.

But tonight…

Tonight you close your eyes.

And picture Riff.

You pretend it’s his mouth on your collarbone.

His weight pressing you down.

His voice whispering filth.

You arch without thinking. Your hips move with rhythm. Your mouth falls open and lets out a soft, startled moan.

Gene freezes.

“…You alright?”

You moan again—louder this time—and grip his shoulders. You’re not even looking at him. Your eyes are locked on the dark ceiling, vision painted with the image of Riff’s face between your thighs.

Gene pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

You’ve never looked like this. Not once.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks, almost suspicious. “You drunk?”

You shake your head, panting. “Don’t stop.”

Your voice is breathy. Needful. Almost pleading.

Gene hesitates.

Then he picks up the pace—clumsy, encouraged—and you turn your head away, biting your knuckles as you come with a soft gasp, thinking only of the man who kissed you like you were made of fire and sin.

When it’s over, Gene collapses next to you, panting.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then: “You ain’t never sounded like that before.”

You don’t answer.

He glances over at you.

You’re smiling.

Just a little.

And that unsettles him more than your moans ever could.

You don’t knock this time.

You walk into the garage like you belong there, the morning sun casting long shadows across the concrete floor. It’s early. Earlier than any decent housewife should be out without a reason. But you didn’t want decent today. You wanted him.

Riff’s got his head under the hood again, sleeves pushed up, tank top stained, a smudge of oil across his jaw. You just stand there for a second, watching him.

He looks like a man who moves. A man who works for what he has. Sweat down his neck. Grease under his nails. No gold watch. No sagging belly, no sagging expectations. Just muscle, movement, and heat.

And he’s your age. Your actual age.

When he hears your footsteps, he straightens—glances over, then grins.

“Well, look who came crawling back.”

You lean against the nearest workbench, crossing your arms under your chest. “You knew I would.”

He chuckles, tossing his wrench onto the tray. “Yeah. But I figured it might take longer.”

You try to act casual. You really do.

But then he’s walking toward you, wiping his hands, and your heart starts doing that desperate little dance again. He gets close enough that the heat rolls off him in waves.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and real.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You got that look again. Same one you had when you walked in the first time. All quiet, like you’re tryin’ not to scream.”

You smile faintly. “I feel better now.”

“Yeah?” He steps in, closer. “Tell me why.”

You don’t hesitate. “Because I kissed someone my age yesterday. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m just a hole for babies and hot dinner.”

He stiffens—just a little. Eyes narrowing.

You go on. “Gene’s twice my age. You know that?”

“I figured.” He crosses his arms, watching you now like a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands. “He treat you like a kid, too?”

“He treats me like a recipe. Do this. Be that. Bake it right and it turns into a son.”

Riff’s jaw ticks.

You look up at him. “You—you don’t look at me like that. You don’t talk down to me. You look at me like I’m… I don’t know. A woman. One you actually want.”

He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. “That’s because you are one.”

You close your eyes for a second, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, metal, Marlboros.

“And you’re the first man I’ve kissed,” you whisper, “who didn’t taste like medicine and stale whiskey.”

That gets him.

He groans low in his throat, hands going to your waist, pulling you to him with that same casual control that makes your knees weak. His lips are on yours again, but this time it’s slower—surer. Like he’s claiming the moment, not just stealing it.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You know how good it feels,” he mutters, “to be wanted by someone who sees you?”

You nod. You know exactly.

You look down at your fingers on his chest. “I dreamed about you last night.”

He smirks. “Yeah? You think about me while you’re lying next to that old bastard?”

You nod again.

“Did he touch you?”

Another nod.

“Did you moan for him?”

You bite your lip.

“Or was it for me?”

Your breath shudders. “For you.”

He laughs once, dark and pleased.

“Good girl.”

And the thing is—it doesn’t feel demeaning. Not like it would coming from Gene.

It feels earned. Shared. Desired.

You don’t feel small. You feel dangerous.

Because for the first time, you’re not just somebody’s wife.

You’re his.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It’s a slow afternoon at the garage.

Clouds hover like a threat overhead, thick and swollen with late-summer rain. The air smells like hot pavement and ozone, and inside the garage, it’s quiet except for the distant hum of the fan.

Riff’s stretched out on the creeper, legs splayed, one boot tapping a lazy rhythm on the concrete. You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate, sipping a soda he pulled from the machine out back, glass bottle sweating in your hand.

Neither of you’s in a rush today.

“You always this quiet?” he asks suddenly, voice drifting from beneath the Buick he’s half-tucked under.

You glance over at him. “Only when I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You pause. Then answer honestly.

“That I’ve never had a moment like this before. Just… sitting. Talking. Not waiting for someone to need something from me.”

Riff slides out from under the car and props himself on one elbow, looking at you with an expression that’s more curious than flirtatious for once.

“No one ever talks to you?”

“They talk at me. Gene does. The women at church do. But it’s always about dinner or babies or what makes a good wife.” You swirl the soda in the bottle. “Nobody really asks what I like.”

Riff wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it aside. “Alright then. What do you like?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m askin’. What you like. Not your husband. Not your preacher. You.”

You bite your lip. “I like walking alone when it’s not too hot. I like when songs on the radio end soft, like they’re afraid to leave. I like the smell of cigarette smoke—but only on you.”

He chuckles, low and surprised. “That last one’s dangerous, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

He sits up, resting his arms on his knees, eyes never leaving you now. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know. Stuck.”

“All the time.”

“What’s the dream, then?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It used to be getting married. That’s what girls are told to want. A house, a man, a family. But now…” You shake your head. “Now I just want a place where I can sit with someone and not feel like I’m playing a part.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then: “That’s not a dream. That’s just being free.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe that’s the new dream, then.”

Riff leans back against the wall. “You could have that, you know.”

“I could have it with you?”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away either.

“I think you already do.”

You let the silence settle between you, not heavy—just full. Full of what hasn’t been said yet. What might never be.

But for now, it’s enough.

You sip your soda and let him work, and he lets you sit close, and for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t feel like you’re in someone else’s story.

You feel like you’ve started your own.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It rains harder than it has all summer.

Thick drops pound the roof of the garage, echoing like war drums, rattling the roll-up door. The sky is dark, wind slashing through the trees out back. The kind of storm that keeps everyone home. Everyone but you.

You showed up soaked to the knees, breathless from running the last few blocks, cardigan clinging to your shoulders. You didn’t even knock. You just walked in, giggling like the place belonged to you now.

Riff didn’t say a word—just grabbed a faded shop towel and started drying your arms, slow and careful, like you were something breakable. He came close. His cigarette was barely hanging off his lips and his brows were furrowed while he mumbled something about how you’re going to get sick. Your head tilted to watch his face with a soft smile before you playfully started pressing small kisses around his face, making him break into a reluctant grin.

Now you’re both sitting in the garage office, the cot folded down, the air heavy with petrichor and engine oil. You’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, hair still damp, and he’s sitting at the edge of the cot, nursing a cigarette between two fingers.

Neither of you’s in a rush to speak.

Eventually, you do.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” you ask, voice soft under the noise of the storm.

Riff exhales smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling.

“All the time.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He glances over at you, one brow raised. “Maybe for the same reason you haven’t.”

You look away.

“Where would you go?” you ask instead.

“Out west,” he says without hesitation. “Arizona. Maybe New Mexico. Somewhere hot and dry where the air don’t stick to your skin. I’d open my own shop. One I could name after something that’s mine.”

You smile a little. “What would you call it?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe after a girl.”

You go still.

He looks over again, something warmer in his eyes now.

“Not sayin’ who. Just… maybe.”

The rain softens outside, just a little, turning to that gentler rhythm you could fall asleep to if you let yourself.

“You ever miss your family?” you ask after a pause.

He goes quiet at that.

“I don’t know if you can miss what never really felt like yours,” he says eventually. “Old man drank himself into a pine box before I hit ten. Ma packed up and left a year later. I learned early not to expect anyone to stay.”

You reach over and take the cigarette from his fingers, press it to your lips. It’s still warm. Tastes like him. You hand it back.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“For now,” he replies.

There’s no accusation in it. No bitterness. Just truth.

You scoot closer. Press your side against his. The blanket shifts with you, and he lets you lean into him, lets you rest your head on his shoulder like you belong there.

“You know the worst part?” you whisper.

“What?”

“I never used to think I deserved more than what I had. Not until you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“You always deserved more. You just needed someone to remind you how to want it.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, you hold that warmth like a secret between your ribs.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t have to.

He just puts his arm around your shoulder, keeps you close, and for once, neither of you needs anything else.

Not yet.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The next time you see Riff, the sky is overcast, thick with the smell of rain and exhaust.

You don’t bring a list. You don’t need a reason.

He knows that now.

You step into the garage and he doesn’t ask why. He just looks up from under the hood of a pickup and wipes his hands, like he’s been waiting for you since the moment you walked away last time.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” you say softly.

“That’s enough.”

It is.

You’re in the back of the shop again, this time not quite naked, but close enough—his hands up your skirt, your mouth on his throat, the ache in you too loud to ignore. Every breath is a betrayal, and yet it’s the most honest thing you’ve done in years.

When it’s over, you lie there in the quiet, legs tangled in his, your head on his shoulder. The fan hums. The radio crackles something low and moody from the next room.

“I thought about leaving,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just runs a hand through your hair, fingers slow and thoughtful.

“Thought about what I’d pack. Where we’d go.”

Still nothing.

Then finally—carefully—he says, “But you didn’t.”

You shake your head against his chest. “Not yet.”

He exhales through his nose. A short, humorless sound.

“Still waiting for the right moment?” he asks.

“I don’t know if there is a right moment.”

He shifts beneath you, not angry, just aware—that edge creeping back into his voice.

“Or maybe you’re just waitin’ for someone to decide for you.”

That stings.

Because he might be right.

But you sit up slowly, smoothing your dress, and look at him with eyes that have seen two lives now—the one you were assigned, and the one he lets you steal piece by piece.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already don’t have me,” he says, soft but sharp. “Not really.”

You lean down, kiss him slow—less like a goodbye, more like a promise.

“I have this,” you murmur. “And I’m not done with it.”

He grabs your wrist before you pull away. Not to stop you. Just to feel you. Like he doesn’t trust you’ll come back, even though you always do.

“You come when you need to,” he says. “But don’t expect me to wait forever.”

You nod. “I know.”

You slip out the door, heart tight in your throat, and walk home under the drizzle with your stockings damp and your lips tingling from his kiss.

Gene is in the living room, snoring in his chair.

You step over his feet, hang your coat like nothing happened, and start peeling potatoes for dinner.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance.

Inside, your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

There’s no decision yet.

Just want.

And the quiet, steady promise that you’ll find your way back to Riff again.

Because you always do.

[stomdomjock]

Dylan had joined the crew at the start of summer, a wiry, thin teenager that the much older guys liked to tease. One of the biggest guys named Derek never let Dylan touch his tools. He'd joke, "These tools are for a man, and you're just a boy!" One day when Derek had a day off, the foreman came around and told everyone they needed to finish framing that day. He looked at Dylan and said, "You -- I need you to do Derek's job today -- time to man up and do some real work, got it?"

Shyly, Dylan picked up one of the drills. It was heavier than he expected as he lifted it towards one of the screws on the frame. Suddenly, the drill started whirring and Dylan felt his whole body start to vibrate and shake. He couldn't let go as the drill went faster and faster. When it finally stopped, Dylan looked down and saw that his shirt had vanished. His once thin, boyish body was replaced by the massive, muscular, hairy body of someone much older. His pecs, biceps and forearms were bursting with veins and he felt taller and heavier. It felt like his body was on autopilot as he worked through the day, knowing exactly what to do.

When Derek came back later in the week, they worked as partners, sharing tools and outworking most of the crew. The foreman smiled, "Glad to see you guys finally working together! My dream team!"

[horny-athletes]

It is the duty of workers to train for more attractive bodies, and it is their most important right and the basis of work ethics to seek each other's bodies and share sexual pleasure.

[celebrategayculture]

Who needs a naked yard boy

[hotafrikanerboertjies]

HOT MUSCULAR AFRIKANER FARMER !

[fortunaestalta]

[shirtlessworking]

A little shirtless, I'm sure he'll take the tank top off as the afternoon sun blazes

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Watermelon seller, Harlem, 1940.

Photo: Aaron Siskind via the Howard Greenberg Gallery

[seabreeze-sweetdreams]

i cried at work and so i’m treating myself to spending half my wage on ethel cain posters and probably robux to make myself feel better

[dylanisdazed]

Annnd if yall can’t tell im bored at work.

[bearnakedbaker]

He works HARD for the Money

[beastcznsfw]

Trucker's Routine What’s a virile muscle bear to do when he’s horny on the road? (Which is all the time nowadays.)

At least the work schedules now account for the necessary down time for ‘recreational activities’. A lot of the enhanced truckers will now visit a truck stop, open up their shirt and let the wind spread their potent pheromonal musk around the area. Soon, some compatible bottoms will go into heat from the arousing scent and find the daddy trucker to breed with.

Truckers get to relieve their rapidly filled balls, and bottoms get to go home blissed out and with strong babies in their womb. Win-win!

[celebrategayculture]

Erik forklift operator, Des Moines, Iowa

[hotafrikanerboertjies]

HOT MUSCULAR AFRIKANER FARMER !

Muscular, well manared, good looking and hard working. This is your Afrikaner male.