Great White Limo

"Oh shit," I said, jumping off Bea's bed, "Get up."

Steve rolled off after me, put his newly limp biscuit back in his boxers, and began to suit up, while I rearranged the bedding.

"Stay here," I directed, and made my way down the stairs where Bea was waiting for me.

Her arms were crossed.

"Well? Did you complete the jigsaw puzzle?" she asked, putting her purse on the stairs and her keys on the banister.

"Missed it by that much," I said, pinching my thumb and finger together, "thanks to you! What the hell are you doing back here?"

She avoided my question and headed to the kitchen. I followed.

"You were spying on us and you got turned on," I guessed, "And when we went upstairs out of range of the camera, you just couldn't stand it. Admit it!"

"Don't flatter yourself," she said, "But yeah, I watched; how could I not?" She shrugged. "Work was boring so I took the rest of the day off - thought we could have some fun with 'ol Mr. Smith before you two head out."

"One game?" She winked.

I hesitated.

"Come on friend," she said, elbowing me, "You two getting naked with me watching? He'll be out-of-breath desperate to get you under him. It'll magnify the main event - I promise."

"Alright Bea, one game," I said, jabbing my finger at her, "but at the end of the day, I better get laid."

I've never been able to say no to her.

I fumbled around in my purse and held out my open hand.

She raised her eyebrows.

"So, you're going to dose him with the Dixafailin after all."

"This is the fast acting soluble stuff," I said, "Mycoxafloppin."

And we burst into a muted teeheehee.

We walked back to the foyer and Bea yelled up the stairs.

"Come on down Steve!"

And after a pregnant pause, he appeared, then labored down the very narrow steps, clinging to the rail.

"We were just getting ready to leave," he said, "weren't we Shannon?"

"What's your hurry big fella?" Bea said, looping her arm through his and guiding him into the living room.

I guessed she was taking him the long way round to the kitchen to give me a chance to mortar-and-pestle the Cialis.

"Hey Shannon, grab us a cold one, eh?" she ordered, confirming my suspicion, then she began to introduce Steve to her very large family, frame by frame by frame.

"This is my grandfather and his seven brothers," I heard her say, "They were shoemakers in Germany, but back then, Canada was giving away free farmland in Ontario, so they-"

"I don't want anything to drink, Shannon!" Steve hollered from the living room, interrupting Bea's genealogy lesson, "We need to get going!"

But Bea still had him by the arm and was leading him into the kitchen.

"Have a seat," she said, pressing on his shoulders to coax him onto a barstool, and before he could protest any further, I placed the tainted brew in front of him. I poured two fresh ones and Bea and I clinked glasses.

"Cheers mate," she said, with a stealthy wink.

"Cheers," I replied.

Steve took a small sip of his corrupted craft beer, and Bea began to shuffle a deck of cards.

"So tell us Steve," she said, as she dealt us two face down, "what exactly did you have planned for the day?" She peeked at her cards and I did the same. Steve looked confused but followed our lead.

"Well," he said, "I've asked Lawrence to drive us around Niagara-on-the Lake and stop at some of the nicer wineries for a tasting and... you know... do some special stuff... some romantic stuff... along the way."

Steve blushed and averted his eyes, once again reviewing his cards.

"Been there done that, and recently too," Bea said, as she dealt the flop: 3 cards face up in the middle of the island. "We love Gretzky's place, don't we Shan?" she added and I nodded. "But when's the next time you're going to get a chance to play strip poker with two sexy sexagenarians?"

"Strip poker?!" Steve exclaimed, standing, "We need to go, Shannon. Lawrence has waited long enough."

"Lawrence isn't here," Bea said, her eyes bouncing between the hold in her hand and the flop on the island counter. "I told him to come back in an hour. Relax man, drink up; it's just one game."

Steve lowered onto the stool and stared blankly at me. I gave him an empathetic smile and patted his forearm. He was a sweetheart and simply no match for bossy Bea.

"Shouldn't we ante up?" he asked, unhappily yielding to the changed itinerary.

"We play Bea's rules," I said, "There's no betting; it's strip-or-dare," I hoisted my beer in his direction, encouraging him to ingest the bonerceutical.

"How do you win?" he asked.

"Winning is a subjective term," Bea said, wiping some foam from her chin. "The game's over when all the cards in the deck have been played, and whatever happens after that, well, happens."

Steve drew in his chin and furrowed his brow.

"It doesn't sound like there's any skill involved at all," he said.

"Not much," she said, "But look at it this way: the only thing standing between you and your naked mistress is that flimsy teddy. All you need to do is win one hand, and you can ogle those grand tetons while you and I play out."

I elbowed Steve and giggled, then ran my hand up his thigh and squeezed next to his package. He squirmed.

"Your go, Shannon," she said.

"I fold," I replied, placing my two cards face down and leaning back against the barstool.

"You can fold?" Steve asked, surprised. He turned to Bea. "So, why don't I just fold every hand and watch you two strip?"

"That would make you an asshole," Bea said, "Are you an asshole, Steve?"

And right then I witnessed a slow sweep of determination darkening Steve's eyes and his demeanor. Those eyes now laser focused on the two cards in his hand and the three in front of him.

"I'm in," he said, quietly, raising his gaze to Bea's.

"I'm in as well," she said, and dealt the final two cards. "Three cowboys," she added, displaying her hold.

Steve stared at the cards, perplexed.

"Oh shit," Bea said, "Did I forget to mention that deuces are wild?"

She snuck a wink my way.

"Is there anything else I should know about Bea's rules?" Steve asked, slapping down his cards face up. "Pair of Aces."

Bea cleared the played cards from the island then steepled her fingers as she considered her demand. I knew she wouldn't go after me; she wanted to mess with my mister.

"I'll go easy on ya, Steve, since I didn't tell you about that wild card thing," she said, "Take off your shirt."

Steve was expressionless as he unbuttoned his shirt for the second time that afternoon. He got up and draped it over the back of the barstool.

"Holy shit," Bea said, smirking, as she shuffled the remaining deck, "Just how drunk were you?"

"It's his spirit animal," I said, smiling and rubbing his chest, pretending to pet the beaver's head.

She laughed.

"Just when you think you know someone, eh Shan?"

Steve frowned at Bea and took his seat, raised his glass to his lips, and drank it down to half. I was happy to see no trace of the Cialis in the form of sediment in the bottom, and clearly it had not affected the taste. He was deep in concentration as he considered his two new cards and the three Bea was flipping up in front of us.

"I'm in," I said, looking at the pair of Queens in my hand.

"I'm in too," Steve said.

"Me three," Bea said, then she played the final two cards - another Queen among them.

"Three of a kind," I said, rubbing my hands together gleefully.

Steve frowned and threw his cards face up.

"Two pair," he said.

"Pair of 9s," said Bea, clearing the counter, "What's your pleasure Shannon?"

I raised and lowered my eyebrows at Steve.

"Get naked, lover," I said, and Bea smiled wide and turned her attention to her beer and to my mister.

"What? No," Steve said, "It's just socks this time, then pants next time, and then boxers."

"We play Bea's rules, remember? I can demand whatever I want," I said. "You can take the dare, though, if you feel like beating off in front of us."

Bea attempted, unsuccessfully, to stifle a snort.

Steve stood up in a huff and unzipped, and his pants eased to the floor. He turned and worked his boxers down, then made his way back onto the barstool, his palms providing privacy for his peter and pauls.

I bent over and looked under the island counter at his feet.

"I'm sure you won't mind if I leave my socks on," he said, curtly, "It's cold in here." Then he reached for a nearby tea towel and placed it over his lap.

Bea was having a hard time suppressing her delight as she dealt the next hold and the flop.

I signaled my willingness to continue and Steve did the same, and Bea dealt two more face up.

"I got nothin'," I said, tossing my useless hand into the pile of played cards.

"Three Jacks," Bea said, flipping up her hold to display a Jack and a 4.

"Where's the third Jack?" Steve demanded.

"Four's are wild," Bea answered, "remember?"

"You said deuces are wild."

"Twos were wild the first hand, threes were wild last hand, and now it's fours," Bea said, "I thought I explained all that. Sheesh!"

There was a long pause as Steve sucked down the rest of his beer and considered the cards again in the context of this new rule that Bea had just played against him.

"Inside straight," he said, and he displayed the pair of 4s in his hand.

"HAHAHAHA! - great job Steve!" I said, stretching to kiss his cheek. Then I stood and lifted the hem of the teddy. "Bet you want me to take this off nice and slow baby, don't you," I added, grazing his thigh with my bare bottom.

Steve smiled at me kindly-like, then turned his attention to Bea.

"Call Lawrence and tell him to get back here. Shannon and I are leaving," he said.

"You can't make that demand," said Bea, sipping her beer.

"Shannon just said I could demand whatever I want," he said, frustration reddening him.

Bea rolled her eyes.

"Obviously, it has to be sexual in nature," she said, "otherwise I could ask you for that 300 dollars you have in your wallet."

"How do you know I have 300 dollars in my wallet?" he asked.

"You're an old married geezer on a hot date with your mistress - you all have 300 dollars in your wallet."

Bea and I thought that quite comical but Steve got the last laugh.

"OK fine," he said, "Take off your dress." Then he leaned back against the stool and crossed his arms.

"But now's your chance to get Shannon naked!" she said, obviously unprepared for Steve's abrupt coup attempt.

"I said take off your dress," he repeated.

Bea was wearing her uniform: a navy polo dress with Great White Limo embroidered on the pocket in white. I did the laundry, so I knew what was under it, and what wasn't.

Her eyes narrowed as she locked them with Steve's.

"I'll take the dare," she responded.

Steve glanced over at me and then back at Bea.

"All right then, I dare you to French kiss Shannon, and make it good."

I leaned over the counter towards Bea and traced my pink-stained lips with the tip of my tongue in an exaggerated tease.

She jumped to standing.

"Oh HELL no!" she said, before boosting the dress over her head and flinging it on the counter next to the sink.

Steve's eyes went wide as he drank in what had been camouflaged by Bea's conservative attire: the barely-A-cup titties with the distended chestnut brown nipples pointing skyward, the cinch to her slender waist and the abrupt flare and curve of her fleshy fanny outlined with her Canadian-inspired g-string: white with red trim and with the flag over her mound. Except for what was hiding under that maple leaf, she was naked.

Steve shifted in his seat then slipped his hand under the tea towel and rearranged himself. His chest was rising and falling with anxiety, or desire - I couldn't tell which.

"What are you looking at?!" Bea challenged, catching his glare, and he averted his gaze.

And I knew then that Steve had become captivated by her, and that wasn't surprising, but watching her lose control over a situation she herself had instigated - now that I'd rarely seen. I imagined Steve really turning the tables on her, forcing her to her knees on her beloved hardwood floors, and putting the screws to her. It made me flush red hot.

"What's wrong with YOU?!" she asked me, slapping down the next deal.

I cleared my throat and picked up my two cards.

"Nothing," I said, taking a sip of the brew.

We all three stayed in on the round, which I lost with an Ace high.

"Full house!" Bea said, pointing the two deuces in her hand at the three 8s on the table.

"Four of a kind," Steve said, flicking an 8 into the play, and Bea pursed her lips and frowned.

"Hey, I think I'm getting the hang of this!" Steve said, finally smiling.

He reached over and squeezed my forearm, and I readied once again to disrobe, but once again I wasn't asked to. Instead, he turned to Bea.

"Take off your panties and give them to me," he said, with a smirk.

And she recoiled with a huff.

"You can't ask for a strip and a dare," she said, "That's two different requests."

"OK then," Steve said, "Take the panties off."

Bea slapped the counter hard and exhaled sharply, then she rose from her seat and bent over and slipped the g-string from her ankles. And then she stood, and there it was: thick, shiny, tangled threads of silver pube.

I'd never seen gray pussy before, and by the look on Steve's face, he hadn't either, and he was absolutely mesmerized by it. When Bea sling-shotted the g-string behind her and it landed in the sink on the edge of the spaghetti pot, Steve got up and retrieved it. He sat down and put it up to his face and breathed it in through both orifices, then he snaked his tongue around the tiny V of fabric that had been resting against her entrance.

"Give me that!" she said, as she yanked it from his fingers, and Steve had a big belly laugh. My response was somewhat less enthusiastic.

There were only eight cards left in the deck but Bea was damned and determined to get revenge on Steve, and insisted we could play the final round with just one card in the hold. And as luck would have it, I won the hand, in fact, I won the whole game. After all, both Steve and Bea were naked. The only remaining question was the content of the final request and to whom I would direct it.

"Let's go into the living room," I said, as I became settled in my decision.

Bea flopped onto the brown leather loveseat under the front window, then dragged the edge of a blanket she had crocheted over her lap. She opened a small metal cigarette case with a big 'B' on it, and plucked out a doobie. Steve's eyes were fixated on her, his DNA rifle pointed in her direction, the tea towel draped neatly over it, as if on a kitchen rod. I punched his shoulder and knocked him off kilter, and he snapped out of his salacious stupor. I gestured to the couch, which was perpendicular to the loveseat, and he sat in the middle of it, tenting the tea towel over his totem pole.

"Ride him cowgirl, Shannon," Bea said, lifting her chin in Steve's direction. She wet the joint in her mouth, lit the end of it with an old BIC, and drew in long, slow, and deep. "This is what you've been waiting for," she added, choking out the words in the turbulent exhale.

"No," I said, thoughtfully, "I don't think so."

And a wash of confusion swept their faces.

"Well, what are you going to do then?" Bea asked, pinching a piece of leaf off her red-stained lips and passing me the half-smoked blunt.

I sucked the smoke into my mouth then drew it up through my nostrils and held it in my lungs.

"It's not what I'm going to do," I squeaked out before exhaling, "It's what you're going to do."

Bea squinted and drew her chin in like a turtle.

"You're going to do the same thing to Steve that you do to your misters," I said, offering what was left of the joint to Steve. He shook me off with an anxious twitch, obviously distressed at his uncertain, but certainly naked, near future. Regardless, he was still as hard as a woodpecker's beak under that tea towel.

Yeah, I know; she was right about that too.

Bea put forth a good argument against my demand: this was my big opportunity; it's what I'd been waiting for, and Steve was likely at an all-time record rigidity. She had a delicious buzz going and would be happy to watch - was pretty sure it would amp the experience, but if I wanted to get him alone, so be it.

But I couldn't help flashing back to that night she confessed. After she had passed out, I'd climbed into bed on my knees and worked myself into a lather. It was zero to shatter in 90 seconds, and when the orgasm was just about on top of me, I bent my chest to the mattress, closed my eyes and imagined it was her lips I was tasting instead of the polyester pillowcase. So as much as I ached for my mister's loving touch, it could wait, because I ached even more to watch my best friend drive him wild.

"Shannon, can we just go upstairs?" Steve asked, bringing me back into the moment, "Let me make love to you."

"This was your idea, Bea," I said, turning towards her and ignoring Steve's plea, "And these are your rules."

"All right, Shannon," she said, expressionless, "You asked for it," and she rose from her seated position and strode past us into the kitchen. Steve's nervous gaze scanned her as she walked by, and I gave his knee a reassuring pat.

"She's just going to warm you up for me darlin'," I said, "Trust me; you're going to love it."

I took Bea's place on the nearby loveseat, and she returned to the living room with an exotic looking purple bottle. She tossed it on the couch next to Steve, and he picked it up and showed me the label.

"It's lavender oil," he said, shrugging, "What's that for?" he asked her, but she didn't respond. She stood, hands on hips, looking down at him, radiating her domination his way.

"Alexa!" she directed, "Play spa music," and a low resonant humming sound accompanied by wind chimes began to waft through the space.

"Tell me, Mr. Smith," Bea said, as she stepped between his legs and widened her stance, pressing his knees apart, "have you heard of tantric massage?"

Then she plucked the tea towel from his lap, and Steve's hands jerked to his groin in a futile attempt to provide cover.

I'd seen Steve's Sergeant Stiffy countless times, but there appeared to be a higher ranking officer in its position, a decidedly more robust interpretation of what I was used to seeing: bulging blue veins and red arteries pulsing with each thumpity-thump-thump of his heart, banging beneath a transparent veil of white skin, stretched so taut, it looked painful.

"I've... ah... heard the term," he gulped, "but not sure what it is," then looked over at me for reassurance.

I gave him a thumbs up.

"Just relax," she said, squirting some lavender oil on her fingers and rubbing it vigorously between her hands to warm it. Then she placed her palms on Steve's shoulders and leaned into him, pressing him back into the brown leather and massaging his chest.

"Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth - that's all you have to remember... oh and ah... don't cum."

Steve tilted his head back and breathed in deep as instructed, then on the out-breath, his arms floated up towards those tiny titties and his fingers opened slowly like flowers blooming in a timelapse video.

Bea slapped his hands and wagged her finger at him.

"Don't touch me, Steve," she said, sternly. "This isn't a fuck; it's a massage."

"Okay," he squeaked, and rested his hands, once more, on his groin. Then he touched himself in a sort of a mechanical, exploratory manner, as if attempting to determine the unexplained percent increase in his length and girth, without the aid of a measuring tape or a calculator.

Bea drizzled the fragrant oil in between her breasts. It dripped and traced a path over her flat stomach to her dense patch of pewter pelt where it clung and sparkled. Then she began to sway to the meditative music as she worked the oil over her body and up between her thighs. She turned her back to Steve and smoothed it along her fleshy bottom and into her crack.