The Garage Door Is Down. Her Legs Are Up.

Near the Industrial Area, on Kenyatta Road, a motorcycle repair shop that closes at 8 PM. The owner leaves the keys with her – she's his niece. Inside, bikes in various states of undress, a floor jack, a tool chest, and a tyre changing machine.

She's leaning against a parked Suzuki, wearing mechanic's overalls with the top half unzipped. “I help customers during the day,” she says. “At night, I help myself.”

She pushes you onto a rolling mechanic's creeper. The wheels slide. She kneels, unzips you, and takes you in your mouth while a red light on a battery charger blinks.

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She climbs on top, straddles you on the creeper, and rides you across the oily floor. The board rolls. She laughs.

“The lift is empty,” she says, pointing to the hydraulic two‑post lift. “Want to go up?”

She helps you onto the lift pads, raises the bike lift just enough to make you tiptoe. She wraps her legs around you, guides you inside, and you fuck while hanging from a motorcycle hoist.

A chain sways. She clenches. A socket wrench clatters. She comes with a gasp that the air compressor answers. You follow, emptying into her as the lift creaks.

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She lowers the lift and hands you a shop rag. “Same garage tomorrow? I'll start the engine.”

👉 Discreet inquiry – Kenyatta Road

Choose your garage level:

• Quick oil change (20 min) – Fast, greasy, and back on the road. 

• Full engine rebuild (1 hour) – Rolling naughtiness on a creeper. 

• Overnight restoration – She stays until the first customer arrives.