Anne stepped off the C-Train, her heels clicking against the grease-streaked sidewalk outside the industrial strip. The metallic scent of oil and gasoline filled her lungs, grounding her in the moment. The mechanic shop loomed ahead, its garage doors wide open like the mouth of something hungry. Inside, the sound of power tools, rock music, and masculine laughter echoed like a low growl.

Her phone buzzed.

**"Back bay. Strip. Knees."

Her heart stuttered. The message was from Daddy.

"Am I really doing this?" she thought, shame mixing with a molten wave of arousal. Her panties were already damp. The thought of exposing herself in such a gritty, raw place made her thighs tremble.

She passed two men in coveralls smoking outside, who barely glanced at her as she slipped through the side entrance. They didn’t know. Or maybe they did.

Daddy had rented this place after hours. It was his domain now.

Inside the back bay, it smelled of rubber, sweat, and burnt metal. Fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across tool benches and tire stacks. The space was cluttered, industrial, and entirely unsexy—until Anne spotted the car lift. A rolling tool cart. An oil-stained leather creeper mat. Her mouth went dry.

And then she saw him.

Daddy stood by the hydraulic lift, arms crossed, eyes burning. He was wearing a sleeveless black shirt, grease smeared along his forearms. He looked like sin incarnate.

"You're late," he said. "Strip."

Anne obeyed. Her blouse and skirt hit the concrete, folding them neatly as instructed. Her lace panties and bra followed, leaving her exposed to the chill of the shop. Her nipples peaked. Her cunt glistened. She dropped to her knees on the cold, stained floor.

"Put your hands behind your back. Open your mouth."

She complied. Spit pooled at the corners of her lips.

Daddy retrieved a metal hook from the bench and attached it to a ring dangling from the ceiling. He clipped her collar to it, forcing her to arch slightly. She was positioned like a showroom doll—on her knees, gagged with nothing but the sound of pneumatic drills and distant laughter framing her vulnerability.

"You don’t speak. You don’t move. You're just a thing."

Her eyes fluttered. She was nothing. A fuckdoll. An obedient little object for Daddy's pleasure.

He walked around her, inspecting her body like he was evaluating parts for resale. He slapped her ass—once, twice—the crack echoing through the cavernous space.

"You're leaking," he said. "Such a needy cunt."

Anne moaned softly through parted lips. Her breath steamed in the cold air.

Daddy opened the garage door halfway. Her heart nearly stopped.

The two mechanics from earlier stepped into view. He waved them in.

"Evening, boys," Daddy said casually. "Say hello to my slut."

Anne’s face burned with shame. She tried to shrink, but the hook kept her upright, knees spread wide. Her pussy throbbed at the humiliation.

"Go ahead. Take a good look."

The men didn’t touch her. They didn’t have to. Their eyes devoured her. Their smirks were seared into her skin. She wanted to crawl into the floor—and she wanted more.

After they left, Daddy unhooked her. She sagged to the floor, body trembling.

He helped her up and guided her to the creeper mat, pushing her onto her back. He tied her wrists to the metal frame, spread her legs wide, and clamped them to the mat’s wheels.

"You're going to stay just like this while I work on the car," he said.

He rolled her under the lift, her bare body in full view, cunt open, nipples peaked.

For an hour, Daddy worked above her, grease and sweat dripping onto her. Every now and then, he'd lower the car lift just enough to bend down and spit in her mouth, to slap her cunt, to pinch her nipples with oil-stained fingers.

Anne floated in subspace—a used thing, a display, nothing but an object under Daddy's command.

Eventually, he pulled her out from under the car. Her skin was slick with oil, saliva, and arousal.

"Time for your real task, slut."

He handed her a dildo—cold, chrome, heavy.

"Perform. Let the cameras see."

Red lights blinked on. She was being watched.

He placed the black gag into her mouth, cinched it tight, then leaned in and whispered, "Show Daddy how a filthy object makes itself cum."

Anne obeyed, spreading her legs wide in the mechanic's chair, juices glistening down her thighs. The cold metal of the dildo sent shockwaves through her as she pressed it inside, slowly at first, then faster. She rode it hard, eyes rolling back, spit cascading down her chin.

Daddy sat back with a beer, watching her like she was live porn on a loop.

Her body bucked as she came, hard, loud, shameless—a gagged, oiled, whimpering display of humiliation and pleasure.

When it was done, she crawled to him, spit and sweat dripping from her.

She looked up.

"How did I do, Daddy?"