Eep on Trucin'

On a Monday afternoon, the last day of a long weekend spent in our cabin near Big Ben Lake, reluctantly, we loaded the trunk of our new BMW Z4 two-seat roadster with two overnight bags and my wife's massive make-up kit. I put the car's black top down. The car, smelling as all new cars do, its blue metallic finish sparkling in the late afternoon sun, I turned the ignition key and the car came to life. Sheila, riding shotgun, dropped a 16-ounce plastic bottle of water in the car's cup holder and a black handbag resembling a saddle bag on the floor board in front of her, buckled the seatbelt, ready to go.

Rested, temporarily sated after this weekend, but always ready for more, she leaned over, kissed me; I tasted Altoids, the mints she sucked along with other things.

"Boys and their toys," she said.

Looking into those twinkling emerald green eyes, I remembered all our coupling as man and wife. My lust for her unabated, my love of her curving womanly terrain, the treats inside addicted me. I loved the way Sheila used her vanity to captivate me. Silently, reverentially, I thanked the generic gods or one Great God for our life together, but most of I gave thanks for this sexy, sensuous woman mirroring my love and lust.

I grinned, punched my foot down on the gas. Accelerating, the spinning back tires instantly gained traction kicked out a rooster tail of loose gravel and in a few blinks of Sheila's green eyes we were moving down the two-lane ribbon of macadam toward home.

My Sheila, petite, buxom, her olive complexion bringing to mind dark-eyed wenches in seraglios promising unrivaled salacious pleasures, tied a blue silk scarf over her wavy black hair and inserted a classical CD in its player. She wore a short blue skirt the same color as the scarf and a white halter-top showing a good slice of her firm round breasts. Sheila's sunglasses, expensive, perfect for her face were perched far forward on the bridge of her nose reminiscent of a 60s flower child; the wind buffeted her scarf but thank God not her hair; she closed her eyes as we cruised down the road. My thinning blond hair, not a source of vanity to me, the windy turbulence not bothering me, nevertheless, I always wore a ball cap driving the BMW. On that day, I wore a pinstriped New York Yankee cap with the distinctive interlocking "N" and "Y" above the bill.

Sheila slipped out of her blue canvas espadrilles shoes, leaned back in her seat, pushed one bare foot, toes painted blue, against the glove compartment door, her right foot dangling outside the car, rested in the angle made between the windshield and the top of the door. I loved her bare feet. My wife freely and fully sanctioned my foot fetish; encouraged my other fetish for high heels or maybe that fetish was merely an extension of the first. She went to great pains to present her naked feet in the best possible light. She knew how to flex her feet to entice me, she often wore shoes flattering to her, and she allowed me to play with her feet, to fit them into our sex life. At home in our closet, a six-shelf chromium shoe rack was filled with high heel pumps including a large quantity of cum fuck me pumps from Victoria's Secret and Frederick's of Hollywood. Coming to bed, she often wore a pair of pumps. Fucking her, I reached down, felt her instep above the boat of one particular shoe and for some inexplicable reason touching her bare skin there, feeling the hard ridge of the shoe, the spiked heel circled by my fingers made my cock swell more. Sometimes she reached down removed one stiletto-heeled shoe, stroked it across the helmet of my cock, ran it down my shaft, and plugged it into other sensitive places, slid it along my balls. Seeing her slender, sexy legs corded by high heel pumps in a veritable rainbow of colors, the clear plastic Lucite cum fuck me pumps she teetered in or the black satin stiletto ones had me pushing her dress up around her waist and taking her on the end of the bed from the front or the back.

Just when I thought she had fallen asleep, she turned her head, smiled at me. That smile prettier then any passing scenery made me happier then seeing the silver tray at a slot machine's base flood with coins or winning the lottery. After nearly 5 years of marriage, my second, her third, I loved this woman passionately, I always found myself anticipating our next session of lovemaking, our next bout of fucking. I loved to hear the passion in her voice palavering on politics, to hear her say, "You know what", and I loved it that she called me at work, said, "I love you", and hung up the telephone. I loved it when she came to bed, a naughty look in her eyes as she slipped from her sexy black nightgown and it piled on the floor around her delectable bare feet.

Me being a movie buff, I see Sheila as Maggie wearing a white slip in

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

. She is Mattie Walker in

Body Heat

, she sizzles the same. She is Mari Cooper in the Last Married Couple in America, the scene where she looks at her husband Jeff, in the middle of a conversation says, "Fuck me Jeff." In something low cut, my buxom wife puts Bobbie in

Carnal Knowledge

to shame.

We followed the highway hacked through a dense pelt of fir and spruce. Overhead a few scattered filaments of clouds float in a blue sky. Bizet's

Symphony Number One

plays, occasionally a car passes us, one time a Chevy Blazer, another time an Oldsmobile with a bumper sticker saying

"I miss Ike, hell I even miss Harry

" and one time, I fly around a chugging orange Karmen Ghia convertible.

Periodically, I reached over and stroked her leg.

"Honey, finger fuck me," she says lifting her ass, slipping out of her pale blue lace panties Bizet finishes and Rossini's

Funeral Overture

from The Barber of Seville begins. "I love it when you finger fuck me."

Taking my right hand off the steering wheel, I inserted my index finger inside her, moved it around. Her gushing warm moisture across my fingertip felt similar to my finger sticking in a stream of water flowing from a water tap.

Glancing in the rear view mirror, I could see a truck approaching behind us. Slightly lifting my foot on the accelerator, I slowed down, my finger continued to speed around Sheila's pussy. Leaning back against the headrest, she turned her head to the right.

She twisted on my finger, pushed her hips forward and up to meet me.

The truck, a deuce and a half army vehicle, its active duty green color covered in civilian putrid yellow paint, the windshield grimy, caked in mud save for two fan shaped areas cleared by the wipers, tailgated us. The driver, a burley man in a denim shirt looked down on me fingering my wife.

Off to the right mountains, the highest ridges covered in snow. To our left are placid lakes, pastures with grazing cattle, a few houses, some barns. Tall timber soared into the sky all around us. The scent of pine filled the air.

My wife licked her lips, moaned; my fingers continued to pleasure her.

Sheila took her left hand and maneuvered me around inside her. "That's the spot. Oh, that feels so good."

The truck driver in the seat of his rig sees all my manipulations, the movement of my fingers in my wife's womb.

He backed off some but not too far to risk losing a clear view of the two of us frolicking in front of him.

"Can he see us?" asked Sheila, releasing my hand, letting me do the grunt work.

"Oh, yes," I said, my right hand curled down, the palm up, my index finger the solitary soldier marching around inside her wet box.

"You are going to make me come. Keep doing that."

"Honey, you better come quickly or that truck is going to come all over us."

Sheila pulled her right leg inside the car, raised her face toward the cerulean blue sky and squealed as I spelled S H E I L A, across the nub of her clit.

She caught her breath, opened the bottle of water and chugged half its contents. "Honey, your fingers could make my dead Grandma come."

"I aim to please," I said as I goosed the car to lose the truck in our wake.

Unfortunately, or fortunately as things turned out, my burst of speed, my lead foot, a cop hiding in the trees, his radar gun pointed my way synchronized events to please my wife at least.

Police officers, regardless of my history, impressed me emerging from their cruisers. Of course, the accoutrements of their profession-starched uniform, the invariable sunglasses, spit shined oxford shoes, a holstered pistol on a belt worthy of Batman with all the accessories from brass shells to handcuffs, flashlight to speed loaders, radio, and chemical spray— were impressive. Truly though the gear, the grimacing expressions and the glaring attitudes did not impress me half as much as their gravity, sternness and capability did. On a daily basis, through a life long career police officers and fire fighters risked their lives, gambled their futures by trusting in such immutable values as confidence, courage and competence. That is what they seared into me every time I interacted with a police officer.

With much respect, a certain amount of fear, my heart beating faster, I kept both hands on the steering wheel, planned to answer his questions in monosyllables, look him in the eye and move ever so cautiously when asked for my driver's license and registration.

My mate, equally respectful of cops and valuing their efforts to protect and serve, had a different agenda.

My Sheila, beautiful, blessed with perfect boobs, a tiny waist, flaring hips, legs rivaling Mary Hart's, loved showing her body, exposing its alluring features to all.

At the beach, Sheila's thong, no thicker then twine and strung through the crack of her firm ass, mesmerized men and women sunbathing on the sand. The top, nothing but several fabric medallions over her nipples, had males turning over on their stomachs, pushing their hard cocks into the hot sand.

To my knowledge, Sheila remained faithful to me and I trusted her without reservation. However, she did enjoy being an exhibitionist, a sexual exhibitionist on occasion. Wearing the thong at the beach was a more tepid expression of this nature and finger fucking her in the car a more graphic example of it. At other times, we would stop in a shoe store. Not truly interested in buying anything, but my wife wishing to show someone beside me her body would sit down give the clerk a thrill by showing him her pudenda in all its glory. Several times, she went down on me as I pulled up to the Whataburger drive thru window to pick up an order. At other times, we fucked in the park near a jogging path. She had gone down on me in an elevator, a relatively busy elevator.

We had posted 798 photographs at an MSN Group site named Sexy mature women. Her face concealed, artfully posed, well-lit, classy images of her naked, her bare feet angled in a way that appealed to me, or wearing pumps and corsets bending over showing her cleavage, her back to the camera, legs rising out of high high heels, looking back over her shoulder. In other photos, she wore the most diminutive of bras and panties or she sat on her knees, red lipstick promising the pleasure of her mouth. In some, she fucked herself with a flesh-toned dildo or masturbated with her hand. In others, she went down on me, her cheeks puckered sucking me, and in others, we fucked. In those photos, we hid her face in the shadows. She loved the idea that men in cyber world beat off looking at her beautiful naked body as she gratified it or she was gratified. Her most explosive orgasms came when she believed someone other then the two of us saw our copulation.

Sitting on the side of the road, both of us turned our heads slightly, looked at the police car through the rear view mirror. Red lights on the black and white flashed off and on, painted the surrounding trees with a light show.

I looked at Sheila. Sheila looked at me, smiled her familiar naughty smile.

"Honey, not a good idea," I said.

"Maybe, he will go easy on the ticket if I give him a little show," Sheila said.

"Or hammer the hell out of me and arrest you for lewd conduct," I said.

"He looks cool sweetie," Sheila said." "Maybe he will take us to the station and I can do the Sharon Stone scene where she showed all the cops her pussy."

"You already did that once," I said.

"Yes, and that was so hot. Remember our sex when we got home. I have never seen so many hard cocks in one room and it was little ole me that did."

I did have to admit that I got a charge out of Sheila getting all those cops so hot and bothered and me the lucky bastard fortunate enough to fuck her. I did not have Michael Douglas's looks but Sheila put Sharon to shame.

The police officer, military creases down the front of his shirt, a smoky the bear hat square on his head, no spare tire on his gut from eating too many donuts, smelled of Aqua Velva, approached the car on the passenger side.

"Sir, I clocked you going 78 and the speed limit on this stretch of road is 50," the police officer said. On the piece of plastic above the flap of his right breast pocket, I could see the name KELLY. He carried a citation book.

Officer Kelly could see straight down my wife's halter-top not to mention having an unobstructed view of Sheila's right hand frolicking unabashedly under her blue linen skirt

Watching her play with herself reminded me of our early courtship. One particular night we planned meeting for dinner in her apartment. I arrived precisely at eight p.m., knocked on the door, waited. I knocked again, waited.

"Come in sweetheart", she said, her voice muffled through the heavy door.

I opened the door, entered her exquisitely decorated apartment. Furnished in accordance with her good taste, her own lucrative income and her father's monthly stipend, the apartment's subdued pastel décor, the artful use of space, the arrangement of expensive bric-a-brac pleased the eye, provided a stylish yet comfortable domicile and presented Sheila's personality in all its glory.

"Sheila, where are you at?" I yelled.

"In here," she answered, her melodic voice coming from her bedroom, a room big enough not to appear small with her immense bed in it.

I opened the bedroom door, entered the brightly lit room. In the queen-sized bed made of polished mahogany, covered by a rolling canopy chiseled along its edges with the figures of cherubs and surrounded by filmy gauze, once owned by a madam, Sheila flat on her back, not wearing a stitch masturbated on top of the cream-colored duvet.

"I did not think you where ever going to show," said Sheila. "I have enjoyed myself though."

Through the filter of white gauze enveloping the bed, her Mediterranean color seemed to glow. Somewhere in the room, a fan blew separately the curtains, the effect concentrating my attention on her erect nipples, the splendid curve of her full breasts, the way her feet curved down, the moisture pooled on her thighs.

Holding on to one of the bedposts, looking at her glazed over eyes, watching her fingers at work, I said, "What if I had been the maintenance man?"

"That might have been a thrill too. My fingers are tired though, why not strip out of those clothes and fuck me. I need a good, hard fucking."

Filing that memory away, I watched Sheila continue to masturbate while Officer Kelly watched, the tent in the front of his trousers making it difficult for him to remain professional. His gripped on the citation book dislodged several pink sheets and they fluttered to the ground.

"Officer Kelly, it is Officer Kelly isn't it do you have any spare batteries? Jerry there, she pointed at me, he forgot to bring batteries for my vibrator and I need my vibrator when we are on a road trip." She removed her glistening right hand from her interior, reached down to her handbag and removed a silver cartridge shaped vibrator she called "the little guy" from the depths of the bag.

"No, I don't ma'am." Based on his degree of poise, his good-looking visage, I imagined he had encountered this situation before.

"Damn," Sheila said.

"Folks, you should find a motel," Officer Kelly said.

"You aren't going to give us a nasty old ticket are you?" Sheila said. Her voice sounded similar to a child's, its cadence sultry, its tone full of promise, a relatively good imitation of Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield talking to a bowled over suitor. If Officer Kelly recognized her as one of the most prominent defense attorneys in the land, me the man she successfully represented when the state accused me of murdering my wife, he would probably have pulled his 9 mm automatic from its holster and plugged us both.

"No, I won't give you a ticket today. Consider this a warning. Have a nice day." He turned and as he walked away, he turned back and looked at me. "Sir, you are one incredibly lucky man."

"Son, you have no idea how lucky I am." I started the car; we drove off, stopped at Bumpie's grocery half way down the mountain and then went on home.