Great White Limo, Pt. 02

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“Hey Shannon! He’s here!”

I set my coffee cup down on the kitchen island, ran to the front door, and peered through the leaded glass. Lawrence was maneuvering the long white limo into parked position across the narrow street.

“You know Bea,” I said, “you should have been a detective instead of the accountant for Great White Limo.”

I studied myself in the large ornate full-length mirror beside the front hall closet, twisting my hips, watching the sheer fuchsia teddy lift and swing.

“It wasn’t difficult,” Bea said, “I remembered his name, Steve Smith, and yeah, there’s gotta be thousands of them in Ontario, but there can only be one who rents the same limo you did, and asks for the same driver, and who’s coming to our tiny town all the way from Richmond Hill.

Lawrence walked around to the side of the limo and opened the door, and out stepped my mister, his gray hair and goatee trimmed just so, his hefty hand strangling a colossal bouquet of mixed flowers.

“Is that him?” she asked.

“Yep,” I said, as we watched him wrestle some other items from the vehicle, then I turned to face her. “How do I look?”

Bea swept her eyes north and south over my 5-foot frame.

“Better than he deserves,” she said, flatly, “based on what you told me about his previous performance, or should I say, lack thereof.”

“Awww, he’s sweet.” I said, scrunching my short blonde curls and fanning my fake eyelashes with the tips of my middle fingers. “Obviously he wants a do-over. I think you’re jealous and you want in on it.”

“Is this your roundabout way of trying to get me in the sack?” Bea asked.

I stifled a grin.

“Oh come on, you know I’m joking,” I said, “All the summers I’ve lived in your house and not once have I ever tried anything. Stop pretending you think I’m gay.”

“What about the time you came into my bedroom in the middle of the night?” she said, hands on hips.

“You mean 30 years ago?! You were passed out blasting Seinfeld reruns! I went in there to shut off your TV!”

I turned and lifted the teddy, exposing my plump white derriere gift-wrapped in the matching cheeky lace hipsters.

“Well?” I said, wagging my tail at her.

“Lose that underwear,” she said, unimpressed.

“What? No! Why?” I asked. “They’re sexy.”


“Just a minute!” Bea yelled, and then dropped her voice to a whisper. “He’s an old married geezer, right?” she asked.

“He’s younger than we are!” I whispered-yelled back, annoyed at her description and the implication.

“Regardless, he doesn’t know that YOU know he’s coming, so you shouldn’t appear to be so ready. He won’t be expecting any of this.”

Bea waved her arms in front of me as if wiping down a large window with paper towels in both hands.

“And yeah, the teddy’s a good tease,” she continued, “but if you want to pump blood into that tired old teeter of his, you need to flip the surprise on him.”

I chuckled.

“Steve’s not going to have a problem getting hard for this.”

I pointed at myself with gun fingers in both hands and winked an exaggerated wink at her.

She crossed her arms.

“You know Shannon, you may have mastered the art of naughty online chat, but when it comes to actual gland-to-gland combat, you have no experience . . . well . . . outside of the bi-monthly missionary you get from your old man. Now do as I say and take them off.”

I was quite committed to those panties, but nonetheless, I considered her educated instruction.

Around our quaint little village of 5500, Bea played the celibate widow role. I was perhaps the only one who suspected she had a special someone, because every so often, she’d take the afternoon off work and go out of town. Whenever I asked her about it, she’d say she was “With a friend.” But one late night after four too many shots of tequila, she confessed.

Turns out, she had three moneyed seniors on the hook: Glenn from Hamilton, John from Newmarket, and Chris from Toronto. They were about the same age and in the same circumstance. In essence, they were interchangeable, and they all wanted the same thing from her: elevated conversation, a refined palate, and Bea’s undivided attention. She’d have them get a suite at the Hilton in Niagara Falls – said there was nothing like spending an afternoon sipping vintage Dom Perignon and taking in the magnificent view, an adoring gent at your side so hungry for a connection, and anxious to show his appreciation.

“Are they married?” I had asked. She declined to respond and rightly so. It was a stupid question because the answer was so obviously yes.

“What do they want you to do?” I pressed, not expecting her to give up much information, but that night she went into detail, and it was excruciatingly arousing.

Despite her sharp edge and overly assertive business-like manner, when Bea reveals that ice-white smile and her dark eyes engage you, there is a magnetism that draws you to her, compelling you to cooperate with whatever order she’s barking istanbul escort out. Obviously her suitors preferred an acutely alpha female, and she more than fit the bill.

She was tallish, with a newly fashioned silver bob – quite a departure from the shoulder-length auburn hair she’d had all her life, and with the addition of the oversized glasses, the effect was to reinforce her authoritarian reputation.

As far as her figure went, it was a study in contrasts when compared to my own. Her tiny titties and very narrow waist gave her an athletic air, but it was her rear view that gripped a man’s consideration – they loved to watch her walk away. And so I wasn’t surprised to hear she used it to her advantage when afternooning with one of her misters. I was, however, surprised to hear HOW she used it – oiling it up as she danced naked in front of him, then straddling him reverse cowgirl, twerking it against his thighs as she swept her oiled palms and fingers from low below his balls upwards to his tip, until the veins along his shaft were pulsing with hot blood. Then she’d lean back against his bare body, slither against him in some seated form of tantric massage, back-and-forthing his boner with that big buttery booty, but denying him penetration. It was her opening number, she said, before she slipped off of him and onto her knees, deep-throating his lavender-lubed shaft until she tasted the foreshadow of his eruption, then squeezing him off at the base until his urgency subsided, then another dose of oil and a gentle massage from the chest down to the pelvis, then deeper into the muscle of the upper thighs, her thumbs making their way behind his balls, pressing into that sacred spot until he burned with a fever to release, then a light touch of the fingers back up around to his stomach and a trace to his nipples before diving down on him again with a committed suck and the accompanying sound effects.

“I’m going to cum, Bea! I’m going to CUM!” they would threaten, but that only made her want to extend their anguish.

“Don’t you dare!” she’d say, throttling them back.

I imagined it was an agonizingly glorious repetition for them. It sure as hell was torture for me listening to her describe it.

She said they loved to use the c-word, but they knew enough to ask her permission to use it.

“Permission granted!” Bea would shout, like Admiral Halsey, or some such other authority, and the dirty dialogue would commence.

“I’m going to fuck your cunt, Bea . . . oh you want it . . . you want it bad . . . tell me you do . . . tell me you want my hard cock deep in that cunt and I’ll fuck you good.”

Bea threw her head back and laughed at her impersonation of whoever it was, then slapped the table with both hands, launching the now empty shot glasses into the air. I jumped in response, but managed to stammer out another probing question.

“So ah . . . ummmm . . . how do you . . . you know . . . ah . . . typically finish?”

And all of a sudden she went wistful, answering as if narrating a dream.

“Standing spread-eagled with my palms against the wall of glass, watching the white-capped water race over the precipice and dive into the Niagara River. ‘Oh Bea, OH BABY, OH GOD BABY!'” she groaned, thrashing on the kitchen stool as she re-lived her lover’s experience.

She looked at me and smiled, but her head was beginning to bob and her eyelids were fighting to stay open. I knew if I didn’t get the rest of the story right then, I never would, and I was jonesing for it, so I rolled my hand towards her to encourage her to continue.

“When I know itsssstime,” she slurred, “I cry out, ‘FUCK ME BIG DADDY!’ or some other crazy shit like that.”

She hiccuped then chuckled.

“Doesn’t matter who it is,” she added, “they reach around with their right hand and two-finger my clit and knead my nipple with their left, and buck their Viagra-powered piston into me until they run out of gas.”

Bea smiled again, weaker this time, then she stretched her arms forward on the kitchen island.

“It’s always an epic climax,” she sighed, “Sandwiched between those two equally compelling forces of nature: the roar of the rushing water as it gives itself over to the rocks 200 feet below, and a man fused against my bare back, giving himself up inside of me – physically, mentally, emotionally . . . completely.”

Bea rested her head on her forearms.

“So that’s,” her voice trailed off, “how I typically finish.”

And spent from her alcohol-induced revelation, she closed her eyes and nodded off.

As you might expect, Bea’s eloquent, albeit tipsy, description of her afternoon delights had turned me on. But more than that, it had turned me green with envy – of her or of those three very lucky men – I wasn’t sure who. But if ever I was predisposed to slip my tongue past any woman’s lips, it would have been her ruby red ones, and it would have been that night.


“I said JUST A MINUTE!!!” Bea yelled escort istanbul at the door again, and then to me. “What the hell are you waiting for, Shannon? Take them off!”

I whisked the fuchsia panties, now dampened from the erotic reverie, to my ankles, and kicked them into the front hall closet. They landed on Bea’s sneakers. She picked them up with the tips of her fingernails and flung them out of sight.

Then she turned to face me, her eyes lit with an idea.

“Hey! You still got that Cialis you pinched from your husband?”

“Yeah I do,” I said, “But Steve doesn’t need pills.”

Bea harrumphed.

“Just because he can hold firm in his fist for a couple three minutes, doesn’t mean he can stay hard long enough to get you over the fence. That’s the problem with these golden-agers.”

“For God’s sake Bea, we’re 60 not 80!” I snorted.

“All the same, I’d find a way to slip ol’ Mr. Smith a Mickey,” Bea said, jerking her thumb towards the door.

Steve had wedged himself between the outer screen door and the heavy inner wooden one and was pressing his nose against the beveled glass, attempting to get a look-see.

“Ready?” she asked, arching an eyebrow and putting her hand on the doorknob. I raised a finger to stall her just a few seconds while I ran up the few steps to the staircase landing and struck a pose.

I nodded and she pulled the door open.

“May I help you?” she asked him.

Steve’s face reddened then fell, surprised by the attractive gray-bobbed minx with the suspicious sable eyes staring at him through the oval red-rimmed glasses. Then he noticed me standing on the stairs with my hand on the railing, as if I was just on my way down to see who had come a callin’.

“Shannon?” he said, looking past Bea, and flexing his wrist in a little wave.

“Steve?! Oh my God! Is that you?!” I said, covering my open mouth with my palms, in feigned surprise.

Bea turned to face me and rolled her eyes.

“Bea Bishop,” I said, “this is Stephen Smith.” And I gestured to him.

Steve set a large red reusable grocery bag on the porch deck, then stuck out his nervous hand. Bea took it and shook it, unenthusiastically.

“Off to work,” she said, “You kids have fun,” and she grabbed her keys from atop the banister and walked down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door.

“What are you doing here, Steve?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

“I . . . I . . .” he stuttered, “Oh my God, Shannon, I’m sorry. You told me your friend went to work very early every morning. I thought you’d be alone. I wanted to keep it on the down-low.”

“Really? So you pull up in a limo with a big bouquet of flowers in your hand.” I said.

He shrugged. “I didn’t realize it was such a small town.”

“And you hired Lawrence again,” I said, pulling Steve into the foyer by his arm, and shutting the heavy inner door behind him. “The driver who waxed on and waxed off while he listened in on our ah . . . what would you call that, Steve?”

I tapped his nose with my index finger. He grabbed it and pulled my hand to his heart and squeezed.

“I’d call it a missed opportunity,” he sighed, “That’s why I planned this do-over.”

Steve grinned and looked down at the shiny black walnut hardwood, then peered up at me coyly through his eyelashes.

“A do-over eh?” I said, nodding like I was considering it.

“Come on, Shannon, I know I disappointed you . . . and wow!” he said, as he finally took the time to gawk me up and down, and his eyes settled on my nipples pointing up at him through the sheer fuchsia lace of the teddy’s bodice, “You look yummy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were expecting me.”

Steve offered me the fistful of flowers he’d had a grip on, and I took them from him.

“What’s in the bag?” I asked, pointing to it.

“Barnraiser from the Oast brewery. I remember you said you liked it. There’s more in the limo.”

“Perfect,” I said, imagining the crushed up Cialis getting lost in the intensity of the hearty microbrew.

“Take off your shoes,” I ordered, grasping the bag in my other hand, “Bea just did these floors,” then I turned and walked down the hallway to the kitchen so I could put the beer in the fridge and the thirsty perennials in some water.

“What about the limo?!” he yelled, but nonetheless he began to untie.

“Lawrence can wait,” I said, as I walked back towards him, “Besides, by now the whole town knows you’re here.”

“I’ve missed you so much,” he said, as he advanced down the hall towards me, but he slipped and skated in his socked feet on the polished hardwood. He opened his arms and toppled into me, and in the tussle to right ourselves, I caught the wireless camera out of the corner of my eye. It was blinking.

Bea typically left the doors unlocked and the security system off during the day, but despite her seeming indifference to Steve and his mission, she apparently wanted to watch and listen, and she was activating istanbul escort bayan the camera remotely.

“I’ve missed you too,” I said, determined to make a good show of it for her. I wrapped my arms around Steve’s neck and tilted my head back and he bent to brush his lips lightly across mine.

“Another first kiss,” he said, breathing the words into me, “but this time, it’s just the beginning of what I promise will be an unforgettable afternoon.”

But unforgettable would turn out to be a wildly inadequate understatement.

Steve flattened me tighter to him and opened his mouth to invite my tongue. When I pressed it deep and hungry into him, he felt my urgency and dragged his fingers up the back of my thighs and squeezed.

“Oh my GOD!” he choked, “No underwear!” and I felt him twitch and swell against my stomach.

Damn, is she always right?

“You bad boy,” I said, as I flipped around towards the camera and trained my ass against his tallywacker, “I thought you were long gone. Didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again.”

“Damn, Shannon, you’re so beautiful,” he said, his hands skating up my torso to cup my heavy breasts, his lips vampiring the back of my neck, inducing a shudder.

I looked up at the camera and winked at Bea.

“I can’t believe I chickened out in that limo,” he continued, the vibration from the sound of his voice tickling my ear, “Getting inside you – it’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

Steve lowered his right hand from my swollen breast and slid his middle finger over my feathery fawn mound to tickle my clit, before driving it up deep inside me, bending backwards and lifting me to my toes.

“I should be mad at you,” I groaned, slapping his thigh, and he lowered my petite frame. “I thought you’d be at my disposal all summer, but you dropped me like a hot coal.”

I reached behind me and worked his zipper down, then watched in the mirror as he instinctively began to flex against my palm.

“Oh God, baby, I know,” he moaned, as his semi grew mineral hard against my lower back, “but I’ve been in Vancouver. I took Tina out there for this specialty medical care. I’m just back here to sell the house and . . . and . . . and . . . oh my God.”

While Steve had been explaining the tedious particulars of his absence, I had stretched and spread my way to the hallmark of yoga poses – the downward dog, presenting Steve with an upside down wet hot view of my kitty, meowing silently for his milk.

“Oh BABY!” he exclaimed, and fell to his knees. They knocked hard on the wood and I heard him suck in some air in response. But he got over the eye-opening jolt quickly enough, and when his tongue found its target and swept me south to north, I arched and looked once more into the eyes of the camera.

“Oh Steve, baby yes, do that again,” I purred, and he did. But as much as I was enjoying his valiant effort to bring me off, and the added benefit of broadcasting it Bea’s way, I guessed by now his knees were killing him, and my wrists were starting to ache. I considered flipping on my back and letting him take me on the hardwood, but that level of carnal commitment is for those far younger, and as I have previously implied, Bea is particular about her floors.

“Hey sweetie,” I said, standing then helping him to his feet. “Let’s go upstairs,” and the old wooden staircase complained loudly under our combined weight, as I led him up and out of camera range.


“Beautiful, isn’t it,” I said, diving onto the luxury bedding that wrapped the California King. I mounted one of the many useless ornamental pillows, and playfully ground against it. Then I remembered I was sans panties, and Bea would very likely pick up my scent. Boy would she be pissed if she knew we were in her room, mattress dancing.

“Yes it is,” Steve said, slowly spinning around to take in the newly upstyled master, and when he’d come full circle, I was reclined in front of him, dragging my middle finger from deep in my mouth and butterflying my knees. He stood at the end of the bed in trance-like surveillance.

“Take off your shirt,” I said, and Steve blinked himself back to consciousness, then unbuttoned and let his shirt drape to the floor, and I realized I had only ever seen him naked from the waist down.

An 8-inch tattoo was engraved in living color on his upper chest. I squinted as I attempted to make out the detail in the dim light.

It was an angry brown beaver wearing a Canadian crown, his fists shaking high and wide, his buck teeth bared beneath a scowl, a CANADA banner below his webbed feet.

“Jesus, Steve,” I said, “Were you in the Royal Navy or something?”

He chuckled.

“No, silly; it’s my spirit animal.”

He smiled and worked his pants and boxers down.

“It’s all yours, baby” he said, as he took his half-erect O’Henry in his palm and began to tap into his own potential.

I can binge-watch a guy beat his meat all day. Fuck Netflix.

“Come to mamma big boy,” I said, and he crawled to his knees on the end of the bed, then fell forward between my thighs. He pressed me wider with his warm palms and leaned into his mission.

“Beautiful,” he exhaled against me, and I swelled and melted against his dexterous tongue. I closed my eyes, savoring this moment I had anticipated for so many months.

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