Great White Limo

Around our quaint little village of 5,500, 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 Phil 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 hungry for a connection and anxious to show his appreciation.

"Are they married?" I had asked. 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 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, 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, then straddling him reverse cowgirl, twerking it against his thighs as she swept her lubricated palms 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 and 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 until his urgency subsided. And then another dose of oil and another massage - 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.

"I'm going to cum, Bea! I'm going to CUM!" they would threaten.

"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."

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 . . . how do you . . . you know . . . 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 relived 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 buck their Viagra-powered piston into me until they run out of gas, then they press their sweaty cheek to my back and tell me they love me."

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 me, giving himself up inside of me - physically, mentally, emotionally . . . completely."

Great White Limo by BridgetDoone

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