The career pickpocket man didn’t mean to get caught.
The gym was upscale—marble floors, chrome machines, and bodies like Greek statues. He didn’t belong there, not really. But the wallets were fat, and the locker room was full of opportunity. Just one quick lift, he told himself. One watch, one card, and he’d be out.
But fate had other plans.
The man who caught him was built like a linebacker and dressed like a Wall Street shark. Jet-black hair, lawyer-perfect posture, and eyes like a hawk. One strong hand on his wrist was all it took to end his little career.
“You know I could have you arrested,” the man said, calm but commanding.
The thief gulped. “Please… anything else.”
The lawyer paused, then smiled—slow, calculating.
“Alright. You want another option? You’ll come to my place every week. Wash my car. You’ll wear what I tell you to. And you’ll do it like you mean it.”
He didn’t even ask what he’d have to wear. He just nodded.
That’s how he found himself on all fours atop a black Jeep Rubicon every Saturday evening, the sun sinking into golden clouds behind him. His only uniform: a tight black jockstrap and, sometimes, a cowboy hat. Soap ran down his bare back, over the curve of his glutes, across tense, trembling thighs.
The lawyer watched from the porch, always silent at first, sipping whiskey, sunglasses hiding his gaze—but he knew where it lingered.
Every brush of the sponge was exaggerated. Every pose—intentional. He scrubbed slowly, deliberately, feeling the man’s eyes crawl over him like fire. It was humiliating. It was thrilling.
It was the highlight of his week.
And when he finished, dripping with suds and sweat, the lawyer would finally rise from his chair. He never said a word. Just walked over, circled him like prey, fingertips tracing soap-slick muscles.
“You missed a spot,” he’d whisper.
But he never meant the car.
Then came the hand—flat on the middle of his back. Not rough. But firm.
“You’re not done,” the man said, leaning down, his breath hot against the boy’s neck. “And neither am I.”
What happened next wasn’t loud.
Just the soft patter of rain hitting metal, each drop echoing across the Jeep’s broad hood like a ticking clock. The sky had darkened fully now, the orange glow of dusk swallowed by clouds. The trees stood still, listening.
The man’s hand lingered on his back — not heavy, but there, grounding him. Warm despite the chill in the air. His thumb dragged slowly down the boy’s spine, following the curve of muscle and bone slick with water and soap.
The boy swallowed hard and adjusted his grip on the Rubicon lettering stamped into the hood, the red paint now smeared with bubbles and streaks of sweat. His palms slid slightly, but he held on, fingers tensing.
The pressure behind him grew — a knee nudging between his legs, a hand sliding to his waist. Still no words. Just breath. Closer now. Steady. Controlled.
The man's cock enters him.
A low sound escaped the boy’s throat.
The Jeep creaked under their weight as the man leaned in.
The boy stayed in place, skin flushed and rain-chilled, the jockstrap clinging to him like a second skin. He could feel the man’s breath on his shoulder now, slow and measured, as if he was the one enjoying the anticipation.
The sponge was still on the ground.
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