Where There's A Will: Part 9

The third of this weeks triple Drop

Chapter Nine

Arnold’s pleasures in life were indulgent, unapologetically decadent. He had two great obsessions—collecting and controlling. He adored nothing more than lording over the lives of hunky, muscular men, toying with them like a cat would a cornered mouse, savoring every moment of their resistance before ultimately bending them to his will. But his other passion—the one thing that rivaled the thrill of dominance—was his collection of automobiles.

The underground garage was a stark contrast to the shambling, gothic excess of the mansion above. Where the estate was a labyrinth of dark wood, dusty chandeliers, and creeping ivy, the garage was surgical in its precision, a temple of sleek, industrial modernity. The air was thick with the scent of oil, rubber, and metal—a tangible musk of testosterone and machinery. Recessed lighting bathed the gleaming showroom floors in a soft, ethereal glow, casting long, dramatic reflections of chrome and polished lacquer. Dozens of rare, antique, and high-performance vehicles stood in immaculate rows, an altar to Arnold’s meticulous taste.

Not all of them were pristine. Some, still cloaked in rust and neglect, stood like forgotten relics waiting to be reborn. That was Julian’s job. Or rather, that was what Arnold told himself—Julian was the one who had the skills, the grease-stained hands, the patience to take something broken and bring it back to roaring, powerful life. And Arnold? Arnold was merely the benefactor, the master, the one who reaped the rewards of Julian’s sweat and struggle.

Julian had long since stopped romanticizing it.

He pushed through the door of the small office adjoining the cavernous garage, muttering under his breath. "Fucking gringos." His voice was low, rough, tinged with the weariness of a man who had seen too much, done too much, endured too much. "Totally loco. Every damn one of them."

The office was sparse but modern—an extension of the garage’s cold precision. A sleek glass desk stood in the center, its surface pristine except for one unexpected addition. The walls were lined with a row of steel lockers, their doors closed, their contents untouched. The large sliding glass doors that separated the office from the garage were fogged with a thin sheen of dust, save for the faint streaks where fingers had once trailed across them.

Julian’s eyes landed on the object sitting on the desk—a small, unassuming tape recorder.

His stomach clenched.

"Mierda."

He took a sharp breath and stepped forward. The device was positioned with eerie care, the tape inside already queued up, waiting. He hesitated only a moment before pressing play.

The voice that slithered from the speaker was unmistakable. Arnold’s refined, almost lilting accent curled around his name like a lover’s whisper.

"Julian, Julian, Julian…"

The way he said it sent an unpleasant shiver down Julian’s spine. It was the same way Arnold spoke when he was savoring something, drawing it out, relishing the taste. Like Julian wasn’t a person at all—just another possession, another restoration project.

"Your years of dedicated service to me have not gone unnoticed."

Julian felt his jaw tighten.

"You have proven your worth time and again, restoring my most treasured possessions. I cannot tell you how much this means to me… though I certainly hope I can show you."

A flicker of something dangerous—hope?—flared in Julian’s chest. He didn’t trust it.

And then, suddenly, all the lights in the garage flickered on at once.

The sudden flood of brightness made Julian’s breath hitch. The transition was unnervingly synchronized, a silent but calculated demonstration of Arnold’s unseen hand still gripping everything in his domain. Julian’s pulse quickened, a prickling sensation crawling over his skin. How the hell had that been timed with the tape?

"Your reward for your years of selfless dedication to my collection—and my needs—is as follows: You may choose one intact vehicle from my extensive collection and take it with you when you leave tomorrow morning. No strings attached."

Julian blinked. He stepped closer to the glass doors, his gaze sweeping over the vast array of cars spread out before him like a feast.

It wasn’t exactly riches beyond imagination, but it was something. And if there was one thing Julian had learned, it was that you didn’t turn your nose up at a gift when it came from men like Arnold. He had been compensated well for his time at the estate—better than most. And unlike others who had wandered into Arnold’s orbit, Julian had, to his knowledge, been spared the worst of his… indulgences.

But then the tape continued, and the momentary relief soured in his stomach.

"However… don’t get clever."

Julian’s lips pressed into a thin line.

"Once you’ve made your selection, the rest of the vehicles are off-limits. They will be donated to charity—or crushed in a scrapyard. I haven’t decided yet."

Julian’s grin faltered. Arnold had a habit of making statements that sat right on the knife’s edge between absurd and terrifying. This felt like one of those moments.

"Remember: Before I am laid to my final rest, side-by-side with my ancestors, I will be watching. These walls have eyes, Julian. Choose wisely. Act accordingly."

Julian exhaled slowly. He felt the weight of the mansion pressing down on him, the unseen surveillance, the ever-present ghost of Arnold’s influence.

"Of course, don’t let that get in the way of your selection."

The voice on the tape took on a mockery of warmth, a sinister playfulness that made Julian’s skin crawl.

"And above all, dearest Julian… I wish you a very happy motoring!"

The tape clicked off.

Julian stood in silence for a long moment, listening to the quiet rhythms of the garage. The low, steady hum of the ventilation system droned above him, mingling with the faint creak of metal settling in the cavernous space. His own breath sounded louder than it should have, a subtle reminder that he was, at last, alone. 

His lips curled into the shadow of a smirk. He knew exactly what he wanted.

Turning on his heel, he crossed the office with slow, deliberate steps, his boots tapping against the polished floor. At the back of the room, nestled beneath a bank of security monitors now flashing silent, ghostly images of the garage, stood a sleek glass cabinet. It was elegant yet clinical—just like Arnold. The old bastard had kept it locked tight, as if the keys inside were worth more than the cars they belonged to.

Julian reached for the handle. With a soft click, the magnetic lock disengaged, and a delicate white light flared inside, illuminating a pristine checkerboard of car keys.

His eyes flickered across the rows, moving past Bugattis, Ferraris, Rolls-Royces—exquisite, expensive machines that might have tempted any other man. But Julian wasn’t just any man. He knew exactly what he was looking for.

And there it was.

The brass keys gleamed under the soft glow, their familiar weight calling to him. The tag attached read simply: 1969 Boss 429 Mustang. Arnold’s Mustang.

Julian exhaled slowly, his smirk deepening. No. Not Arnold’s anymore. It was his now. His by right.

Of course, it still needed a little work—nothing major, just a few finishing touches. But that was hardly an obstacle. He had spent years under that car, wrench in hand, oil streaked across his arms and chest, every muscle in his body tightening as he wrestled with its stubborn bolts and connections. He knew it inside and out, every inch of its perfect, aggressive frame. Hell, he’d been obsessed with this car since childhood—ever since he first saw it in a glossy magazine spread while living in L.A., back when his dreams had been bigger than his means.

When one finally went up for auction, he had practically begged Arnold to bid on it. And Arnold, ever the indulgent puppet master, had agreed. For a price, of course.

There was always a price.

The Mustang had arrived in nearly mint condition—gorgeous, powerful, and ready to drive. But Arnold had refused to let Julian take the easy way out. No, he had insisted that Julian restore it from the ground up. Not for necessity. Not for the joy of craftsmanship. But for his entertainment.

And there had been conditions.

Julian had to work on it his way—which meant stripping down to nothing but a tight jockstrap, parading his sculpted, muscular body before Arnold like some damn showroom model. Julian had balked at first, naturally. But the opportunity was too good to pass up. How bad could it be? He’d flaunt his physique, endure the leering, put on a show while getting paid, and, in the end, he figured the Mustang would be his.

Except Arnold had played a longer game.

What should have been a three-month restoration stretched into years. Arnold had drawn it out deliberately, letting Julian work on the car only in his presence, and only when it suited him. Days, sometimes weeks would go by before Julian was allowed to return to his passion project, and even then, it was always under Arnold’s watchful eye. Every smirk, every quiet hum of approval, every slow sip of brandy as he lounged in the shadows watching Julian’s glistening body bend and strain beneath the car—it had all been a performance, a game Arnold refused to end.

And so, the Mustang had eventually been exiled to a lonely corner of the garage, its sleek body coated in dust, nose-to-nose with a rusting old Mack tow truck—one of Arnold’s stranger acquisitions. Why the hell the old man had insisted on restoring that relic was beyond Julian’s understanding.

The Mustang, once the dream of his youth, had become a symbol of his captivity.

But Arnold was dead now.

Julian exhaled, his smirk slipping into something darker, something almost reverent. The car was his now. He could finish it. It was so damn close, too—just a few connections in the engine, a couple of spark plugs, and a final polish. Easy work. A few hours and the beast would roar to life.

Then, like a whisper at the back of his mind, Arnold’s voice slithered back.

"One intact vehicle, Julian."

His fingers hesitated, hovering over the brass keys. 

His brows knit together. Technically, the Mustang wasn’t intact yet. But did a few spark plugs really count? Could Arnold—a fucking corpse—somehow reach beyond the grave to enforce his twisted little rules?

Julian clenched his jaw. I’m thinking crazy thoughts. Just like the others upstairs.

He forced himself to breathe, to exhale the paranoia along with the stale air of the garage. There was no one here. No one to stop him. This was his moment.

His fingers tightened around the keys. In a swift, decisive movement, he tossed them onto the desk with a metallic clatter. That was it—decision made. No more hesitations. No more second-guessing. 

His hands moved instinctively to his belt, and in one smooth motion, he yanked it free. His polo shirt followed, peeled away from his sweat-slicked skin and discarded without a second thought. He kicked off his boots, shoved down his jeans, stripping with the ease of a man who had done this a thousand times before.

He reached for the coveralls draped over the chair, the navy fabric soft and well-worn beneath his fingers. He had never particularly liked working in full coveralls. But there was a certain comfort in the way they hung loose over his frame, allowing him to move with ease, to stretch, to breathe.

He slid into them, the material whispering over his skin as he pulled the pant legs up and shrugged his arms through. But even in the baggy fabric, there was no concealing the muscular latino’s form. The broad planes of his chest remained fully exposed, the deep cut of his abs stark beneath the open face of the suit. His pecs, thick and weighty, rose and fell with each slow breath, the heat of the garage ensuring that a fine sheen of sweat continued to gather in the hard crevices of his musculature.

And lower…

Even without the restriction of tight pants, his heavy endowment hung thick and loose, outlined against the fabric, falling heavily down the left pant leg. The coveralls might have been forgiving, but the way the material draped left little to the imagination. With the zipper left undone, it was dangerously close to revealing far more than he intended, with his tastefully trimmed black pubic hair on full display, the root of his thick cock just below the clasp of the open zipper. 

Julian considered zipping up, just enough to keep things decent—but when he glanced at the thermostat mounted on the wall, his lip curled in frustration.

The garage was a stifling eighty-five degrees.

He punched the button to lower the temperature, but the digital display only flashed back at him with an obnoxious, ACCESS DENIED.

Julian clenched his jaw. "Mierda."

It was just like Arnold to play one last little trick, to keep the heat up, to ensure that even in death he had some hand in Julian’s discomfort. He could almost hear the old man’s smug voice:

"Such a magnificent body, Julian. Why hide it? Why not sweat a little for me?"

He scowled, resisting the urge to slam his fist against the screen. Fine. If the old bastard wanted him to sweat, then so be it. Julian rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and turned his gaze back to the Mustang, gleaming beneath the garage’s unforgiving lights. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Time to finish what he started.

It wasn’t long before Julian was lost in the rhythm of his work.

Loud Latin music pulsed through the built-in speakers, filling the cavernous garage with a sultry, hypnotic beat. The heavy bass vibrated through the polished concrete floor, the quick, syncopated percussion setting his body in motion. At 5’11” and 225 pounds of sculpted muscle, Julian was a force to be reckoned with—compact, powerful, but with a fluidity and grace that set him apart from the lumbering brutes Arnold had collected over the years.

He moved to the music naturally, hips swaying, shoulders rolling, his body in sync with the seductive pulse of the song. Even as he worked, his motions carried an effortless sensuality, each turn of the wrench, each shift of his stance, imbued with the rhythm that had been in his blood since birth.

The stifling heat of the garage had done its job, as expected. Sweat beaded on his bronzed skin, tracing rivulets down the deep valley of his chiseled abs, pooling at the curve of his lower back before disappearing into the waistband of his coveralls. The garment had been stripped from his upper body long ago, the heavy sleeves tied low around his waist, clinging to his hips like a makeshift belt.

He was a vision—an untamed masterpiece of masculinity, every inch of his physique honed to perfection. Thick, striated pectorals jutted above the brutal cut of his stomach, his cobblestone abs flexing with each shift of movement. His delts were boulders, his arms massive, veins snaking over the peaks of his biceps as he tightened and twisted bolts into place. The mixture of sweat and grease streaked across his golden skin only served to accentuate every carved line, every taut muscle, every perfect curve of his form.

Mechanic by trade, yes. But had he chosen another path, he could have easily been a fitness model—gracing the covers of magazines, selling the fantasy of a man sculpted from pure discipline and desire.

But this—this was his true passion.

The hood of the Mustang was propped open, a fluorescent work light casting a warm glow over the pristine engine. The keys rested in his pocket, ready for the moment when he would finally bring the beast to life. But maneuvering around the car wasn’t as easy as it should have been. Arnold, in his infinite eccentricity, had insisted on keeping the Mustang parked far too close that old, rusted-out Mack tow truck.

Julian grimaced as he glanced at it.

Even now, with Arnold rotting in his coffin upstairs, the truck made him uneasy.

It was one of the old man’s more bizarre obsessions—a passion project that never made sense. The Mustang? That, Julian understood. It was sleek, powerful, a masterpiece of American muscle. But the tow truck? It was a hulking, rusted-out monstrosity, its front grille and engine cover stripped away, exposing the aggressive bulk of its mechanical heart. The enormous fans at the front gleamed under the fluorescent light, their sharpened edges giving them an almost predatory look. 

Julian had spent way too much time on that damn truck—more than he ever wanted to. But he had long since learned to ignore the feeling of unease it gave him.

Now, his only focus was the Mustang.

He let the music guide him, moving fluidly as he worked, the heat no longer a concern. His hands were steady, precise, working with an almost unconscious expertise. And then—

"And there… we… go!"

He grinned as he snapped the final spark plug into place, satisfaction thrumming through him. The engine was done.

Bent forward over the open hood, he reached in, adjusting the cover plate, securing it into position. He barely noticed the shadow that moved behind him.

The music pounded in his ears, the bass deep and consuming.

The first sign that something was wrong was the whoosh of air.

Then—

SLAM.

The hood of the Mustang crashed down onto his lower back, driving him forward with brutal force. His face smashed against the cold, unyielding metal of the engine block. The impact rattled his skull, pain exploding across his forehead and jaw.

"The FUCK?!"

His roar of rage echoed through the garage, but the music swallowed it almost immediately. Dazed, his mind scrambled to make sense of what just happened. Had it fallen on its own? No—impossible. The prop rod had been in place. Hoods didn’t just drop like that.

Someone had slammed it down. His hands shot to the underside of the hood, muscles straining as he tried to push it open, but it refused to budge. The weight pressing down on his back was deliberate—too heavy, too controlled to be an accident.

Someone was holding it down. "Who’s there?!" he bellowed, fury and adrenaline surging through him. "Let me out or I’ll fucking kill you!"

His fingers scrambled for leverage inside the cramped engine bay, searching for anything he could use to pry himself free. If he could just shift his weight, just angle his body enough—

Then he felt it. His breath hitched, his body tensing instantly. A touch. Not on his back. Not on his arms. Lower. His coveralls, already loose around his waist, were being pulled down. 

A rush of horror clawed up his spine as realization dawned. The hood of the Mustang pinned him in place, forcing him forward, his arms trapped inside the engine. He was exposed.

And whoever was behind him—whoever had crept up unnoticed, hidden beneath the pounding beat of the music—was taking advantage of it. Julian thrashed, twisting violently, but the weight pressing down on him was immovable. "You motherfucker!" he snarled, his voice thick with rage and panic.

He felt the fabric of his coveralls slipping further down, the waistband dragging against the sweat-dampened skin of his hips.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body coiling like a spring. Then, with every ounce of his strength, he exploded upward, his arms forcing against the cramped engine bay, muscles screaming as he fought to break free.

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!” He yelled again, but it was no use, his cries for help were swallowed by the cavernous garage, unheard by anyone who might save him. The intruder had already begun to strip him of his defenses. The coveralls, once a protective layer, were now a hindrance, pulled down to his ankles with deliberate slowness. Julian’s thick, muscular glutes and stallion-sculpted legs were exposed, glistening under the harsh fluorescent light. The intruder’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, taking in the sight of Julian’s powerful physique.

The figure grabbed a bottle of engine oil, the cap twisting off with a satisfying click. The thick, viscous fluid poured out, drizzling down Julian’s ass-crack in a slow, tantalizing stream of amber. Julian tried to kick, to fight back, but the angle of his entrapment made it nearly impossible. The intruder’s hand was now pressed firmly against his hairless hole. 

The intruder's fingers, slick with oil, began to probe, exploring the soft, yielding cavity with a mix of cruelty and curiosity. Julian, despite the terror that gripped his heart, couldn't suppress the involuntary groan that escaped his lips. His body, a traitor to his mind, responded to the forbidden touch. The thick oil had pooled and dripped down onto the backside of the hunk’s heavy nuts, which swung low between his legs, and started to slip in thick rivulets down his hanging endowment. In front, his hefty cock slapped up against the horse logo on the front grille of the car. The slight friction and pressure caused it to swell, betraying his body's response to the violation. Julian raged inside the compartment, trapped and helpless, his mind screaming for release while his body reacted in ways he couldn't control.

And then, there was something more at his hole. A sudden, intense pressure that made him yell out in a mix of pain and shock. Warm, thick, and impossibly long, the intruder's cock began to penetrate him. Julian’s body tensed, every muscle straining against the invasion. The figure behind him grunted, a low, animalistic sound that sent a shiver down Julian's spine. The insertion was relentless and brutal, a no-nonsense thrust driving deep into his helpless body. Julian’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as he gripped the sides of the engine compartment, trying to find some semblance of control in this nightmare.

The intruder's cock, a thick, relentless piston, drove into Julian with a force that left him breathless. Each thrust sent shockwaves through his body, the hood of the Mustang digging into his flesh, amplifying the sensation of being utterly at the mercy of his attacker. Julian's rage boiled over, his veins pulsing with a mix of fury and something far more primal. "You sick fuck!" he spat, his voice a guttural growl, but the words were lost in the music pulsing through the garage. 

Despite his mind's protest, Julian's body began to respond in ways he couldn't control. His cock, already semi-hard from the earlier stimulation, swelled to its full 11-inch length, the head glistening with pre-cum as it slapped against the metal grille. The intruder's cock, impossibly large and hard, slammed into Julian's prostate with each thrust, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through his veins. Julian's huge muscles tensed and released, his body betraying him as he found himself pushing back against the brutal pounding, his glutes clenching and relaxing with each impact.

"Fuck you!" Julian grunted, but the words lacked conviction, his body's reactions speaking louder than his anger. His hands, still gripping the sides of the engine compartment, tightened until his knuckles ached. The pre-cum leaked from his cock in steady streams, coating the metal bumper beneath

Julian's muscular body shuddered as the relentless pounding against his prostate sent bolts of unwanted pleasure surging through him. He gritted his teeth, a litany of enraged grunts and groans escaping his lips with each brutal thrust. "Fuck... you... you fucking bastard!" he snarled, but his hips moved in tandem with the intruder's, his ass pushing back to meet the devastating assault.

The garage filled with the obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, Julian's heavy balls swinging and slapping against the backside of his dick as the intruder's cock drove into him with animalistic fervor. Julian's thick shaft throbbed and jerked, the head flaring and leaking a steady stream of pre-cum that dripped down onto the floor.

Julian's mind screamed for this to stop, but his body betrayed him, muscles clenching and rippling, his asshole gripping the intruder's pistoning cock like a velvet vice. The pleasure built, his orgasm approaching with the inevitability of a runaway train. Julian's world narrowed to the point of contact, the relentless pounding, the burning pleasure-pain, his own treacherous cock pulsing and leaking, bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

The intruder's cock, a relentless machine of pleasure and pain, pounded into Julian with renewed fury, the wet sounds of their bodies slapping together echoing through the garage like a twisted symphony. Julian's breath came in ragged gasps, his body tensing as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak.

"FUCK... FUCK... I'M... I'M GONNA..." Julian's words were cut off by a guttural groan as the intruder's cock slammed into his prostate one last time, sending him careening over the edge. 

Julian's body convulsed, his muscles locking up as his orgasm exploded through him. His cock, a thick 11 inches of throbbing flesh, erupted in a torrent of cum. Rope after rope of thick, white jizz sprayed from his cock, coating the floor of the garage in a slick, glistening mess. His balls, drawn tight and high, pulsed and emptied their load, the force of his orgasm leaving him shaking and gasping for breath. The bumper and grille of the Mustang was coated with his cum, the metal slick with his release.

"Fuck... fuck... fuck..." Julian panted, his body still shuddering with the force of his orgasm. His cock continued to pulse, spurting out the last of his load, leaving him utterly spent and utterly humiliated. His body was slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

That’s when he heard the driver’s door of the mustang open and close, the vehicle shifting as weight climbed into it. The creak of the driver’s side door opening sent a fresh wave of panic racing down Julian’s spine. 

His heart slammed against his ribs as a cold realization settled in—

It wasn’t just one intruder. 

The pounding beat of his pulse filled his ears, and his breaths came ragged, uneven, adrenaline burning through his veins like a white-hot flame. He felt his rapist’s hard cock withdraw from his hole, which clenched at the sudden emptiness. 

"LET ME THE FUCK OUT!" His voice was raw, hoarse from exertion and desperation, but his demand rang through the vast space, his fury hardly breaking through the latin beats. 

“YOU SICK BASTARDS HAVE HAD YOUR FUN! LET ME GO!" His words, spat with anger, hung unanswered in the air. He strained his ears, expecting movement, a breath, a shifting of weight—anything—but the only response was the sudden, deafening roar of the Mustang’s engine coming to life.

The deep, guttural rumble shook through the frame of the car, the powerful vibrations coursing up through the metal and into Julian’s trapped body. He could feel it, a living thing beneath him, growling in warning. His skin, already slick with sweat, grew hotter as the heat from the running engine began to radiate outwards, seeping into his muscles, his bones. The compartment he was crammed into became a furnace, every breath thick and stifling.

Then, the real horror began.

The car shifted. 

A sudden, sharp lurch sent him backward, his stomach twisting as gravity betrayed him. The wooden blocks that had been holding the Mustang in place were gone—kicked away or removed by unseen hands—and now the car was moving, rolling forward inch by inch. Julian twisted, panic gripping him as he tried to steady himself. His powerful arms braced against the frame, muscles bulging as he fought against the slow, insidious momentum. The Mustang was pushing him, its weight an implacable force, shoving him toward the looming hulk of the Mack truck behind him.

Then, without warning, the hood released.

The sudden freedom nearly sent him sprawling. He let out a sharp grunt, his instincts kicking in as he heaved his heavy frame out of the engine bay. He barely had a moment to pivot, to twist his body around and face the Mack truck before the Mustang took one last, sickening lurch forward—

And slammed him against the other vehicle’s bumper.

A strangled yell tore from Julian’s throat as the impact knocked the breath from his lungs. His legs, his hips—trapped. The steel pressed hard against his thighs, pinning him in place. His arms flailed for balance, his hands gripping the edges of the Mustang’s hood as he struggled, but the realization hit him like a gut punch: he couldn’t move.

His breathing was sharp, panicked, coming in short, ragged bursts as he turned his head, trying to see his attackers. His dark eyes darted wildly around the garage, searching for movement—for someone—but there was no sign of his tormentors. Only the stillness of the vast room, the rows of gleaming cars, and the cold, clinical glow of the overhead lights.

Then, the music stopped.

The thumping Latin beats that had pulsed through the space moments ago were snuffed out in an instant, leaving behind a jarring, deafening silence, only filled with the thrum of the Mustang’s engine.

A crackling noise filled the speakers, a slow build of static like a distant radio tuning in. And then— 

"Tsk, tsk, Julian, Julian, Julian…" The voice was unmistakable, a silky, sing-song drawl that sent ice through his veins.

Arnold.

Julian’s blood turned molten with rage.

"WHO THE FUCK IS DOING THIS?" His roar echoed through the garage as he yanked at his legs, trying to free himself, but the pressure was relentless, the Mustang’s weight merciless against him. His broad chest heaved, his muscles straining as he tried to push the vehicle back—tried to shift its position—but it was like trying to shove a mountain.

"Alas, you couldn’t help yourself, could you?" Arnold’s voice cooed, rich with mockery. "I specifically asked that you only choose an intact car from my collection."

Julian’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He could almost see Arnold’s smug expression in his mind’s eye, the way his lips would curl at the edges when he was enjoying a particularly cruel joke.

"I had such high hopes for you, Julian. Out of my entire collection, I felt you were the one who had the most potential to be restored."

A cold sweat broke over Julian’s skin. His struggles only grew more frantic.

"But you simply had to have it, didn’t you? This thing. This stupid, ugly little motorcar you insisted I buy for you."

Arnold’s voice took on a wistful quality, as if lamenting an ungrateful lover. "Yes, yes, I’m sure you tried to convince yourself that I bought it for me, but we both know that you coveted it. You wanted it."

There was a dramatic sigh, full of exaggerated disappointment. "And unfortunately, this is the price that must be paid for anyone who covets something that rightfully belongs to me!"

The sudden shift from condescension to fury was like a whip crack. Julian flinched as if the words themselves had struck him.

"Mierda!" He spat, cursing in Spanish as he wrenched his arms against the hood of the Mustang, trying to shove it backward, but it refused to budge. His breaths were sharp, ragged, chest rising and falling with exertion.

The static crackled, and then—

The music returned.

A blaring, high-energy Latin beat exploded through the speakers, an absurd contrast to the nightmarish reality Julian found himself in. The ridiculousness of it almost made him laugh—a fucking dance song blasting at ear-splitting volume as he struggled, trapped, helpless.

"I-- I'll give it back!" He shouted, desperation thick in his voice. "Please! I'll—I'll get another car! Just let me go free!" But even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was useless.

Then, a new sound cut through the music. A deep, mechanical rumble.

Julian froze.

The Mack truck’s engine coughed to life with a guttural, thunderous growl. The entire garage shuddered with the force of it, the vibrations rattling through the floor, through the very frame of the Mustang pinning him in place. The thick, rusted fan blades at the front began to whirr, slowly at first, before picking up speed, their edges glinting dangerously in the overhead light.

Hot air blasted into Julian’s face, the scorching heat rolling over his skin as the machinery behind the fans came to life. He twisted his head, trying to see into the cab, but the glare of the fluorescents made it impossible.

The truck wasn’t just idling. It was being prepped. The engine revved, the monstrous roar filling the garage like a beast ready to pounce. Julian felt the tremors beneath him, his stomach clenching in horror as his eyes flicked downward. The bolts securing the truck’s engine in place on the chassis—heavy, rusted things—were straining.

Julian’s breath caught in his throat.

It wasn’t just starting. It was hungry. And it was about to be set loose.

A deep, primal terror clawed up his throat.

"NO—WAIT! WAIT! DON'T—"

He screamed.

The Mack truck’s engine roared like a caged beast straining against its chains, the deep, guttural thunder rattling through the garage like an earthquake. Julian’s body vibrated with it, the sheer force of the machine making his bones feel like they were rattling inside his skin. His arms pushed with everything he had, muscles flexing, veins bulging, but the Mustang wouldn’t budge. He bellowed with the effort, his massive semi-hard cock swinging wildly as he tried to free his trapped thighs.

Then he heard it. A metallic groan. 

The rusted bolts holding the engine to the chassis gave a sickening screech as they twisted against the pressure. For a split second, Julian thought—no, prayed—that they might hold. That this nightmare would remain just that.

But then—

SNAP!

The first bolt sheared clean through, sending a sharp ping through the air as it ricocheted across the garage.

Then another.

And another.

Julian barely had time to suck in a breath before the entire Mack truck lurched forward, the heavy chassis crushing his thighs further, the bones cracking under the pressure. He cried out in agony.

The force was sudden, violent. The frame of the beast surged like it had been unleashed, metal groaning as the weight and ferocity of the unstable, revved up truck engine sent it slamming, careening toward him.

He had nowhere to go. 

The fan blades, enormous, spinning razors, gleamed under the overhead lights as they screamed toward him. The massive industrial blades struck him with a force that was beyond comprehension, cutting into his exposed upper body like a buzzsaw through meat.

Pain—unimaginable, white-hot, searing pain—erupted through his torso as the first blade bit deep. Julian let out a choked, gurgling scream as his entire body convulsed, his powerful frame thrashing against the crushing metal pressing him into the Mustang.

The blade tore through the ridged cobblestones of his abs, ripping through muscle, tendon, and sinew, his flesh shredding under the relentless, mechanical hunger of the spinning fan. Blood erupted in thick, arterial sprays, painting the Mustang’s hood and windshield in violent, crimson streaks. His huge latino cock whipped upwards by the hungering metal, before being brutally pulverized and shredded by the blades, ribbons of it flying off into the room.

His hands clawed wildly, trying to push himself up, to escape, but there was no escaping this. The relentless engine drove forward, the unstoppable rotation of the fan chewing deeper into his core, sawing through his thick torso inch by inch.

The wet, sickening shlick-shlick-shlick of torn tissue and pulverized muscle filled the air, his innards caught in the merciless, grinding rotation of the fan’s teeth. Guts spinning outwards as they were caught and violently eviscerated by the engine. His head tilted back, mouth open in a soundless cry of agony, his broad chest heaving as blood gushed from the jagged wounds, spilling down his thighs, pooling at his feet in a warm, viscous flood.

The Mustang’s pristine, glistening chrome was now painted with the brutal evidence of his suffering, gore splatter dripping in thick, syrupy trails down the vehicle he had worked so hard to restore. His massive pecs, once so proud and imposing, trembled as he struggled for air that no longer mattered. And above it all, through the deafening roar of the engine, the splatter of his own gore, and the hellish, mechanical screech of the spinning fan, the garage’s speakers still blared that goddamn Latin music.

Lively.

Cheerful.

Mocking.

As if the world was laughing in his face.

Arnold’s voice returned one final time, barely audible over the blood-curdling whirrrrrrrr of the fan continuing its grisly feast.

"Happy motoring, dear Julian!"

And with a final, wet splurch, the Mack truck surged forward again, the fan chewing clean through his midsection and splitting him in half. His impeccably formed upper body and 11-inch stud cock turned into ropes and chunks of bloody beef, splattered across the Mustang. The fan blades lurched forward as the engine finally heaved itself up and into the hood of the car, slicing through his handsome face and pulverizing his skull, until all that was left of his magnificent beauty was embedded in the blade fans like so-much carrion embedded in a lion’s teeth.

His legs, still impossibly strong, still alive, flexed and jerked in reflex as the engine crashed onto the hood, the heavy weight of it crumpling the Mustang’s front end, the blades whirring to an end as they lost connection to the cab, and the taut cables snapped and broke.

What remained of Julian’s intestines and organs spilled out of the gaping, mangled mound of his torso, slapping wetly against the engine block before sliding to the floor in a steaming, glistening heap. 

His legs, severed at the waist, remained pinned against the Mustang’s bumper for a brief moment—twitching.

Then, as the weight of the truck shifted, the Mack pulled backwards, as if satisfied with its cruel feast. In kind, the Mustang’s choked motor, still thrumming under the crumpled hood, was turned off.

With both vehicles in retreat, Julian’s severed legs were freed from the metal bumpers that had pinned them. They instantly collapsed, the meaty thighs and calves falling into a pile of gore and mangled meat.

The music continued for a brief moment, before an unknown presence stopped it. Then, unceremoniously, the overhead lights blinked off. And the garage once more returned to  darkness and silence, save for the faint dripping of blood from chrome onto the floor.