TWIN TURBOS FOR MY WIFE
A camping trip, with my wife, to the twenty-four hour motorsport festival - what could possibly go wrong? Even with half a rugby team next door?
Chapter One: Out Lap
A soft moan escaped from my wife's lips as I banged her against the wall of the shower cubicle. Her hand went to her mouth, her eyes wide, as we listened to the sounds of the woman only a few cubicles away, who was now clearly about to be given an orgasm by her husband. At least we had assumed he was her husband.
My hands were under Julie's ass as she sat on the tiny shelf where you are supposed to put your toiletries. Water cascaded over us both, washing away the soap we had used on each other. I gazed down at those big beautiful bouncing boobies that I had come to know and love, and at the deep red hickies covering her breasts and neck, that I knew had not been put there by me.
And I came. Oh boy did I cum, a deep gushing, relentless cum.
I knew I had been quick, and had not given her satisfaction. But you see, I was so, so worked up.
No, this wasn't some sort of swinging holiday we were on, but a twenty four hour motor racing festival near Barcelona.
I'd been to plenty of these around Europe over the years, Le Mans, Spa, Nurburgring, that sort of thing, and always came home gushing with enthusiasm and excitement. Julie had mentioned a few times that she thought she would like to come too. But I had always tried to put her off, telling her that it was pretty wild, and it was mostly full of men, who were mostly drunk, most of the time. I'd spotted a few wives and girlfriends at some of the events, and they always attracted very close attention by all the males around them. I remembered one mother and daughter who used to sunbathe on their airbeds at the campsite, had a constant queue of men stopping to talk to them, get them drinks, and ask them if they wanted to come to a party in the next campsite. I'd seen another woman sprayed completely head to toe in several bottles of champagne, turning her clothes transparent. And another wife who had literally been picked off her feet by a crowd of men, and passed overhead from person to person before she disappeared. He husband seemed to think it was hysterical. I never found out what happened to her.
"But you said women go too, Tony," she had said to me.
"Yes, but they are proper party animals who know how to drink, flirt and flash their tits," I would reply, painting a very honest picture of the crazed madness.
"You never told me about the tit flashing!"
"I didn't want to worry you."
"Should I be worried?"
I smiled, and kissed her. "No, Julie Jones. I love you very much."
"I can be a party animal too, you know, Mr Jones?"
That might have been true, several years ago, I thought. But now we were both in our mid fifties, and a wild night out for us was opening a second bottle of wine.
Julie was partly right about the party animal thing, though. Let me tell you about her, as I'm sure you're wanting to know.
I met Julie at University. She was the kind of busty, long-legged girl that you'd go for. At five feet seven she was exactly my height, which meant that she would tease me by putting on high heels! Her hair in those days was short and auburn, and she wore large glasses that she couldn't see a thing without. Think of Linda Cardellini playing
Velma
in
Scooby Doo
, and you'll see what I mean.
She was seeing (or rather, being fucked by) an older married man, who was a mechanic. He had fixed Julie's friend's car, and somehow got her number. He saw her most weekends after work, until his wife found out. And then it all came out that he was a serial bigamist having had children to three different women.
Julie was lucky to escape, married me, and had two babies. Me and Mrs Jones had a thing going on. She had still partied occasionally after we were married, and had spent many a Friday night in a nightclub with her girl friends. She would come home telling me stories about how she had been chatted up, groped, fondled and occasionally kissed. One time she told me that a guy had literally picked her up and carried her into the gents restroom before she could stop him. Another time a guy had picked up her left hand and asked her "Does that wedding ring really matter?"
All these stories would really get my motor running, and we would have fantastic and prolonged sex. I was never sure exactly how accurate these stories were, as they were often fuelled by alcohol. But I had no real reason to doubt her, and although I did wonder if it had gone any further in the gents restroom that time, I knew that she loved me and that fidelity had been important to us both.
Now, aged fifty five, Julie was a middle manager for a national charity. She had filled out a little after having two children, with a lovely belly, wide Jo-Lo hips, and a well stacked rack. She had gone from a 30DD to a 32F bra, which always looked good under the white blouses she wore to work. Her hair had grown much longer, halfway down her back, which she often wore up in a bun. This, coupled with a wide black-rimmed spectacles gave her a 'sexy secretary' look.
But most of the time, she was a conservative middle-aged mother, who wore leggings and a T-shirt to dig the garden, and long-sleeved floral print dresses that were perfect for church outings, Grannies tea party, or the parent teacher association annual charity biscuit baking competition.
With our two kids now dependent, we could start to take holidays abroad ourselves. We'd both done alright financially, and had bought a white Mercedes SL convertible, with a huge gas guzzling V8 engine, and retractable metal hard top.
Despite my slight concern about taking her to the 24 hours of Barcelona, I had agreed, we'd packed, hit the ferry, and had now arrived on campsite.
Chapter Two: Free Practice
"Here looks a good spot," she said, and turned the wheel of the Merc into a space between a massive Motorhome to the left, and a huge family-sized tent to the right. It looked a little tight for space, but I figured we could squeeze our tent in, and the view of the track in front was amazing. We could literally open our tent and watch the cars flying by, as the track was only thirty meters beyond the chain link fence in front of us.
Julie was tiered, having done most of the driving from the ferry. So I put out a small deck chair we had, and left her sitting in the sun, drinking wine and texting the kids and her mother to let them know we had arrived safely, and to remind them of the jobs she had instructed them to do while we were away.
Meanwhile, I went to check-in with our tour operator. It took me about fifteen minutes to locate their hospitality tent, pick up the various camping and parking permits, paddock and grandstand passes, and complementary hamper of food. The hospitality tent had complimentary beer and champagne for us, so I helped myself.
Our camping gear and two suitcases had been transported by the tour operator in their van, an option that I had selected as there wasn't enough room in the Merc. They asked me to come back in half an hour, when everything was unpacked, so I trudged back to Julie.
I found her sitting under an awning drinking beer with our neighbours. The group of five guys had brought this huge Motorhome along with a superb Lexus RC coupe in bright red with tan leather interior. The Motorhome was parked nose-up to the chain-link fence at the edge of the campsite. They had set up a huge awning between the Motorhome and a big tent with three separate sleeping compartments. They had electric hookup with fridge, separate beer fridge, and colour TV. Amazing. They even had a huge barbecue, and had invited Julie to join them.
"I've been adopted!" she smiled, raising a bottle of beer.
