Great White Limo, Pt. 01: The Attempt

I had been married for 33 years when Covid began to change lives, and ours was no exception. While my husband proceeded to deepen his relationship with alcohol, passing out in his lazyboy by 7 every evening, I found a new and arguably just as dangerous interest - chatting online. At first, I used it as a research tool - well, that's what I told myself; it made sense since I taught Psychology at a small community college in Florida. But soon I found myself making friends - good friends - friends with benefits.

There was a particular fellow, a Canadian, who I found to be a good match. He was intelligent, accomplished, and he had a great sense of humor; an attentive husband and father who, like myself, was missing the passion he had once enjoyed with his spouse. Steve lived in Richmond Hill, just a 2-hour drive from my hometown, a town I'd been unable to visit because of Covid.

A couple months into our tenuous relationship, we began to ask 'what-if?' What-if, after this pandemic, I returned to Ontario and we decided to meet? Would it be a friendly hug, then lunch and a few laughs? Maybe a kiss goodbye? Or would we cross that proverbial line? The virtual back and forth had been hot, and the way he whispered, the things he said he would do to me - things my husband didn't want to do. It was thrilling to think about a face-to-face being a real possibility, although I wasn't 100% sure I could go through with it.

The months ticked by, with every week or so punctuated by a late night text from him accompanied by a notably artful photograph: one delicate iridescent drop slipping from the slit in his soft pink tip, coaxed from the compression of his hand around his shaft. I never got tired of looking at it; I wanted to frame it.

And then, finally, the Canadian travel restrictions lifted, and in May of the following year, I was on my way back to Ontario, and to my familiar pattern: bunking with my childhood chum, my bestie Bea, in her lovingly restored early 1900's Four Square home on Lock Street, teaching summer session online.

And the 'what-if' became a 'now-how?'

"It's not a good idea, Shannon," Bea said, as we finished our morning coffee. "Not only are you both married, but this what's-his-name could be another Ted Bundy. You binge watch Forensic Files; haven't you learned anything?"

"I guarantee he's not a Ted Bundy," I said, rolling my eyes, "and his name is Steve Smith." I walked my coffee cup to the sink, rinsed it, and set it on the ledge under the window, "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Oh gee, Steve Smith, how could I forget?" She smirked and handed me her cup so I could clean it for her. "OK I'm off," she added, heading out the back door for work, leaving me to prepare for class. Then she spun around and came back.

"I almost forgot the-"

"Egg salad," I said, completing the sentence, passing her the sandwiches wrapped in an old fashioned brown paper lunch bag.

"Thanks friend," she said, "Wouldn't want to have to come back here in the middle of the day and surprise you, eh?"

She winked.

But it was she who would have been surprised.

Up until that year, my summer days at Bea's had been relatively uneventful. I'd work in the morning, then watch the clock in the late afternoon, anxious for her to get home so the fun could start: beer-infused golf mostly, followed by some bar hopping - there were three in town, including the Legion - and then dinner at home and late night TV in our separate bedrooms.

This year, however, I wasn't waiting for her; I was waiting, and breathlessly so, for him.

As soon as my 3-hour lecture on Abnormal Psych concluded, I'd lock both doors, then call Steve. We'd spend lunch time together with our pants down around our respective ankles, jacking and jilling off, and after the dust settled, arranging the tricky particulars of our impending rendezvous.

I was happy when he agreed a hotel room would be too risky and too high pressure.

There's a bed in there for God's sake!

And it couldn't be anywhere we might be recognized. So we decided to meet at a truck stop on a lonely highway northwest of Toronto. We'd have a beer and a bite to eat and see where it led - perhaps to the back of his king cab - perhaps not. But when I pitched the plan to my bestie, she shot it down, then recommended a far more creative alternative.

Bea was the accountant for the Great White Limo service headquartered in our tiny town. If I was damned and determined to go through with the meetup, she suggested I surprise Steve with a limo ride that she would arrange, and at a deep discount. No drinking and driving, and no prying eyes, and if we wanted to take it all the way to boomtown, which of course she advised against, there was plenty of room in there to get busy.

"Who's going to drive?" I asked, concerned, "Obviously, it can't be anyone who knows me, and everyone around here does."

"We got a new kid who commutes from St. Catherines," Bea said, "Remember our old chauffeur, Albert? It's his grandson. Lawrence doesn't know anyone here, and besides, it's none of his damn business what goes on in the limo. If he does ANYTHING unprofessional, I want to hear about it!"

******

The big day finally arrived, and Lawrence was at the house 15 minutes early, standing soldier-like in his black and white uniform at the side of the long white limo, clearly determined to make a good impression.

"Hi Lawrence," I said, friendly, as I approached the vehicle.

"Ms. Grove," he said, tipping his hat, the bright white of his toothy grin magnified by the contrast of his rich dark chocolate skin. He opened the side door for me and I crawled inside.

"You have the address of the truck stop, right?" I asked.

Why is my voice shaking?

"Yes mam," he said, "We should be there in about an hour."

Lawrence maneuvered his long, lanky frame into the driver's seat, rolled up the blacked out window between us, and eased from the curb. And alone with the unexpected and unwelcome anxiety, I decided to focus my attention on the space, this place, where Steve and I would very likely do something we never would have considered if Covid hadn't come along.

The limo's interior was as expected: lots of black bench seating, a massive moon roof, and a bar back-lit in blue lights. It smelled cleanish, but not enough to overcome the stale cigarette smoke that lingered in the leather and in the cobalt blue carpet that ran the length of the space - an ash burn visible in the 'L' of the Great White Limo logo.

I'm about to have sex with someone other than my husband.

Suddenly, the prospect of a real carnal encounter sounded very scary and very wrong. The limo interior began to shrink towards me, compressing me. My breath shallowed out, and my heart began to beat in triple-time.

Bea had placed a cooler on the back seat and I moved next to it; I needed a drink. Buried in ice were two six-packs of various craft beer singles, plus two bottles of pricey champagne - a thoughtful selection, but neither strong enough nor fast enough to settle my nerves. Luckily, there was tequila in the small cabinet under the bar. I tossed one back, winced and waited for the burn to pass, then chased it with a second, and shortly thereafter, I began to unwind.

Still, something was missing: music. I paired my phone with the limo's Bluetooth system and The Chairman of the Board - 'Swoonatra' - wafted through the space in surround sound.

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread

And so I come to you, my love,

My heart above my head

Though I see the danger there

If there's a chance for me,

then I don't care

Those lyrics: so apropos. It reminded me of a remark my father-in-law had made many years previous before he had passed away.

"In the old days, all you had to do to get a girl in the mood was put on one of his albums; Frank did all the work."

And damned if he wasn't right.

Look, this was simple: I wanted to feel wanted again. I needed an infusion of passion - a thrill that only newness could inspire. Steve was the ideal man for the job, and this the ideal circumstance. And it wouldn't be an affair - no - it would just be this one time - that's all - just one incredible, unforgettable fuck.

And having justified myself, I stretched out on the seat and closed my eyes.

******

"Shannon?" Steve said, surprised, squinting and bending, as he walked towards the limo in the diner parking lot.

"Watch your head Mr. Smith," Lawrence said, bowing a little.

"Hey big fella," I said, reaching for Steve's hand and pulling him next to me onto the seat.

We hugged each other tight; it felt so good, I didn't want to let go, but when we finally did, I noticed an agitation in him.

First time jitters; he'll get over it - just like I did.

"Let's toast," I said, passing him the champagne, and after a bit of a struggle, he launched the cork into the moon roof. When foam exploded from the bottle and bubbled over his hand, I bent over his lap and placed my lips on the bottle, slurping as much into my mouth as I could, giggling, expecting my faux BJ gesture to lighten the mood.

It didn't.

His hand was shaking as he raised the champagne to his lips. I placed my palm on his gray goatee and ran my thumb across his mustache to clear some bubbly, then drew my lips close to his and shut my eyes.

I wanted him to kiss me.

He didn't.

So I wrapped my fingers around the back of his neck and pulled him to me. His eyes were open, conveying his discomfort, as I briefly brushed his mouth, tasting the Taittinger on it. When I parted his lips ever so slightly, he tentatively touched the tip of his tongue to mine.

"Mmmmmmm," I moaned, snaking my tongue deep into his mouth, attempting to engage him more fully, but I sensed his subtle retreat.

And then a mistake: I should have taken more time, but I rushed it and moved a hand to his zipper. He jumped, and then put his champagne down. His fingers gripped my shoulders, and he extended his arms, widening the space between us.

"Shannon," he said, softly, "I shouldn't have come. I thought I could go through with it, but I can't."

"What?" I said, popping to the edge of the seat, "Please tell me you're joking."

He wasn't.

And despite the attempt to convince him otherwise, Steve was steadfast in his resolve not to participate in even one round of chesterfield rugby. But still not ready to give up completely on the limo fantasy, I suggested something just this side of the real thing.

"What if we do everything but?" I asked, "It wouldn't be intercourse, so it wouldn't really be sex."

And Steve responded without a hint of humor or sarcasm.

"Well, I guess that depends on what your definition of is, is."

Does he not realize, that's still funny?

I swallowed the last of my champagne and reached across him to place my glass next to his. As I did, my twin peaks swept against his chest and my flaxen curls tickled the tip of his nose.

"Achoo!" he sneezed into his elbow.

"Gesundheit," I responded, sliding towards him to kiss his cheek, but he slid a good two feet away in response, shook his head, and waved his hands about.

"We're right on top of each other in here, Shannon! Could you give me some breathing room?!"

It was frustrating - maddening even - but it didn't deter me; it emboldened me, and I became hardened in my determination to change his mind.

"I understand, Steve, I do," I said, moving to the seat across from him, "but we've invested so much time and effort in each other and in this meetup."

I bit my bottom lip, looked across at him with sad dog eyes, and slowly began to unbutton my blouse.

"What if you just watch me?" I asked.

Hesitation.

"I won't touch you," I added, "I promise."

Steve took a deep cleansing breath.

"Ummmmmm OK," he said, resigned, "I guess that's the least I can do."

Bingo.

And no longer under pressure to perform in any capacity, Steve relaxed. He pulled a Canuck Pale Ale from the cooler, crossed one leg over his knee, and sunk back into the seat. Frank was still charming the airwaves, and I turned up the volume to amp the romantic mood . . . and my chances.

Show time.

The air blew cool against my skin, as I slipped the canary yellow shirt from my shoulders. I shivered and felt my nipples contract and push against the soft cotton of my tight white camisole.

"It's cold in here," I said, shaking my shoulders. It set my breasts, braless beneath the shelf bra, in motion, swinging and slapping against each other.

"Yes, it is a little," Steve said, twitching, his eyes laser-locked on the gun barrels of my heavy artillery. Then I inched my elastic skirt to my upper thighs, swaying to Sinatra's hypnotic harmony, and Steve lowered his gaze.

You can't deny,

don't try to fight the rising sea

Don't fight the moon, the stars above,

don't fight me

"You're always so nice and tan, Shannon," he said, clearing his throat, resting his arm on the back of the seat, then he changed his mind and moved his hand to his knee.

I bent towards him and lowered my baby blue lace panties to my ankles.

"Florida," I smiled, "Endless summer."

I kicked the panties from the toe of my platform stiletto, and they landed in Steve's lap. I expected him to bring them to his nose and inhale them - that's what he always said he would do if given the opportunity.

But he didn't.

I reached into my purse for my cocoa butter then shifted my hips forward and fanned out, allowing room for the fingers of my left hand to grease a trail to my center, now blooming with expectancy.

"Damn Shannon," Steve said, gulping, and he unfastened the top two buttons on his shirt and pulled the collar away from his neck. His breathing accelerated, and I became hopeful he would join in.

But he didn't.

So I wrestled my big soft titties out of the top of the cami, and held them up for his consideration. My nipples were already puckered and stiff, but I brushed my French-manicured fingertips across them anyway, provoking that quiver in my quim, that ache, that swell, that rain.

"I know what you're thinking, Steve," I said, "They're like pillows - pillows you can suck."

"So beautiful," Steve exhaled, and slowly lowered his foot to the floor. His right hand skated up his jeans from his knee to his groin, and his thumb began a slow rhythmic rub against the zipper.

It's a real good bet; the best is yet to come.

Lawrence was taking us through some pretty countryside: farmland, bales of hay, barns with hip roofs painted red. But I wasn't really watching anything with interest other than Steve's hand; I wanted him to strangle his goose's neck in it. But clearly he needed a little sompin' sompin' to coax it from its confinement.

Luckily, I have just the thing.

I pulled a glass butt plug from my purse and raised my eyebrows.

"What do you think?" I asked.

Steve's mouth sagged and his head bobbed a yes. Then his left hand found his right, and began to compete with it for a caress of his cock.

"Mmmmmmm," I moaned, as I gave the plug a heroic licking and sucking, prompting Steve to point to his parcel, now swollen, and drumming against the denim holding it prisoner.

"Look what you've done now, Shannon," he said, with an uneasy chuckle. "I almost got carried away."

He wagged his finger at me, then rested his palms on the seat on either side of himself, took a deep breath, and held it.

Yeah, like THAT'S going to work.

And just as I suspected, when I placed my bare feet on the edge of the seat, and lifted to press the glass plug gently past my wet seal, it flipped a switch in Steve. His eyes went round as quarters, and he fumbled frantically to unzip. He finally got his pants down around his upper thighs, and there it was: that pleasingly plump pink pistol. And when he took it in his fist and began to fascinate it, my desire for him to get a shot off inside me jumped through the roof.

"God YES Steve," I said, and turned my back to him, knelt on the seat and arched, taunting him with that creamy goodness and the crystal handle of the anal plug. I expected him to stumble to his feet and take me from behind.

But he didn't.

So I looked over my shoulder to see what the hell the problem was. His chest was heaving, and his eyelids were fluttering, as he took himself to task.

"Ahhhhh . . . ohhhhhh God . . . yes, yesssss . . . mmmmmmm . . . ohhhhh."

But his words were out of sync with his mouth - it sounded unreal, stereophonic, almost 3D. And then it hit me: Lawrence had pulled the limo into an abandoned parking lot. He'd been listening in and JOINING in - his guttural gasps getting muddled up with Frank's melody and Steve's uneven exclamations.

And no, I'm not going to tell on him.

At this point, I knew Steve was going to cum, but unfortunately, he wasn't going to come to me. If I wanted his arms around me, his lips on mine, and his cock balls deep, I had to make a move. I stood and backed up towards him, hiked my skirt to my waist, and bent over - my bare ass helicoptered above him, threatening to land on his lap.

"Oh baby," he moaned, as he two-fisted his twinkie with enough enthusiasm to leave a mark, "I want you so badly, it hurts."

"You can have me, Steve," I said, sliding my fingers between my thighs to entertain myself, "just take me," I added, straightening and squatting, just missing his tip, torturing him with temptation, but determined not to break my no-touch guarantee.

Then I felt his tug on that glass butt plug, and slowly he twisted it and began to tease it out. I readied for him to put his hands on my hips, pull me down onto his lap, and fill me.

He didn't.

Instead, he went after himself with more gusto than I'd ever seen him muster, and soon after, he became unable to manage his pleasure, and it got away from him.

"Oh Shannon. You're so fucking hot! Oh my GOD! OH BABY!!"

And I turned just in time to see his eyes squint shut, his face flush crimson, and his head fall back. He came hard, howling as his hot jizz striped my bare ass - it almost burned my skin.

I flopped in the seat across from him and licked his liquid silk from my fingertips.

Yummy consolation prize.

There was a prolonged sigh of satisfaction as Steve coerced the last of his lifeblood from the head of his hammer. He exhaled through pursed lips, wiped the sweat from his brow, and broke into a broad smile. And having successfully unloaded without physical engagement, he was once more at ease, now ready for me to show him what he had only seen on camera, but this time, accompanied by the sweet smell of our sex and Lawrence's Tourette-like outbursts.

"Cum for me baby," Steve said, quiet but with intense concentration.

I wanted to respond, "Make me," but I didn't, because the rules were well established.

Lawrence must have thought Steve's directive was for him; his release came loud and clear through the speaker.

"Ah Ah AH! OH SHIT!! OH YEAH!!!"

"My turn," I said, my thumb entertaining my clit, the index and middle fingers deep inside my hungry cave, and that glass butt plug tickling the neighboring nerve endings with every grind against the black leather bench.

I was right there, right there.

"I want to see you," Steve said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

I slid my ass off the edge of the seat until I was almost flat on my back. The skirt and the cami were strangling my waist, my heavy breasts, achingly full, rolled to each side of my body. I V'd my legs wide, wholly exposing myself, welcoming Steve's scrutiny.

"Watch me," I panted, as I worked myself to just this side of the point of no return. "Watch me cum."

Then I pulled a nipple away from my body and rolled it in my fingers and pinched it hard enough to precipitate an excruciatingly acute double spasm - pussy and ass in concert. And when that triumphant tremor consumed me, Steve's face reflected the agonizing ecstasy I experienced, and in that moment, and despite being four feet apart, we were one.