Wife Of A Close Friend
He was balls deep in her pussy; her wet and eager pussy. Her Juliet Prowse legs wrapped around his waist; ankles digging into his ass. Urging him on. Her screaming, Carley Simon sounds blasting in the background, vibrating the walls; framed pictures falling down onto the floor.
... Wife of a close friend,
Wife of a close friend.
They, Sven and Bo, had been friends for almost twenty years, had play little league together. Both starters on the local high school football squad. Double dated twin sisters, all those years ago.
You're so vain,
I bet you think this song is about you ...
They were confirmed bachelors, men about town: Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis/St. Paul. One an engineer, set up FM radio stations, TV stations; the other a top end flight instructor.
Then: he, Sven, was gone for nine weeks, teaching the pilots of a Bahraini oil sheik how to fly a new Bombardier Global 6000 luxury aircraft. Job finished, he emailed his sister. ...
Headed home. Send a crew to have the abode livable.
A reply came back. ...
Windows washed. Clean sheets on the bed. Wine cabinet restocked. Food in the frig. ... And, get ready for this -- Bo, back from Melbourne -- last job, brought home a wife. Haven't met her yet.
'Oh, shit!'
Sven said out loud, startling the next seat passenger; them somewhere over north Africa, still nine hours out from O'Hare.
"Sorry," he said; moved his left hand off the woman's knee. " ... Bo got married; son of a bitch got married! -- Didn't even tell me."
"Go back to sleep," she said; caught his hand, moved it back onto her leg: a bit higher up.
He didn't go back to sleep. Instead, he texted Bo ...
You dog! Meet me at the airport. -- 23:45 hours Zulu.
But Bo wasn't there. Shiraz was there.
"He sent me to pick you up. ... Sorting out problems at the station; they seem to have lost the network link. Gonna meet us at Gibson's." Then, " ... name's Shiraz,' she said; reaching out a hand to him.
Sven raised an eyebrow. She laughed, " ... like the wine. Family has a vineyard in the Barossa Valley."
She gave him a look. "Said to tell you that you're picking up the tab; said you would understand." She walked out ahead of him, ass moving under the fabric of her skirt.
'Woman's got legs,'
he thought.
'God, has she got legs!'
They threw his bag into the back of the Alpha Ramiro. She did a Danica Patrick move, exiting a pit stop, screamed out into traffic.
"That's not the first time you've done that," Sven said.
The Australian girl gave him quick look, all the while weaving in and out of traffic. Grinned. " ... traffic's not as bad down home."
She had been, he learned, 'weather girl' at a Melbourne TV station. Bo appeared on the scene, set up their connections to London, Washington -- the rest of the world. He told her mother she herself should have been in films, he had sampled the family vineyard's red wine, declared it world class: had swept the daughter off her feet. Lied to her, or at the very least .. exaggerated.
"Get you on camera in Chicago," he had said. "Maybe move on to LA station, or even New York, in a year or so."
The wedding was outdoors. A gazebo, on a hilltop, surrounded by acres and acres of vines; loaded with purple grapes.
Bo was there, waiting. Was already tasting a first glass of wine. Stood, watched them walk across the semi-crowded room; grinned.
Sven grabbed him up in a bear hug asked, " ... you couldn't wait until I got here?"
"Her daddy was gonna put me on a Peruvian steamer," Bo said ... " if I didn't marry her on the spot."
"He does go on so," the girl said. " ... I'm going to the dunny. -- Start without me."
Eyes followed her working her way between the tables. Watched her ass move beneath the summer fabric.
Bo poured more wine; they raised, clicked, glasses.
" I think you've found yourself a keeper," Sven said.
The story was told, Bo's version: him explaining the new system, the new equipment to the 'on-air' crew. The weather girl lingered after the others left; had some inane questions.
Then: " ... I know a small, quiet place;" she told Bo. "... has really good red wine."
Bo didn't, he told his friend, fuck her that night -- but the did the next night. "Best I ever had," he said.
Sven laughed. "And, I've know you to have had some really fine women." Raised his glass.
Bo looked past him, across the room. "Oh, shit!" he said, quietly.
"What?" Sven asked; looking over his shoulder.
"She's got that look in her eye."
He stood, they both stood. Shiraz waited for her chair to be pulled back, sat. She opened her hand, dropped a pair of tiny black panties onto Bo's plate; ran her tongue, quick like, across her upper lip.
**~**
The full grown woman underneath Sven, her legs spread, draped over his shoulders, moaned softly. Her mouth open, eyes closed.
She, a trophy wife, had followed her mid-level diplomat husband across the globe; had been fucked in more places than most folk had ever been. She had, by her mid-40's, become a legend-in-her-own-time; her sexual adventures, within the confines of her circle of close friends, were told with a healthy dose of envy: jealousy, even.
The stories, epic in their own right, were often exaggerated:
... The hot young formula one driver from Brazil took her around the track at Monza, pushing 200 mph -- midnight -- then fucked her on the hood of the car. Dress pushed up underneath her arms
.
... She now knew, she realized, why he was referred to as The Silver Tonged Devil. Impossibly handsome, and a bit older, Italian singer of songs from the Great American Songbook. Between sets, backstage, at the L'Olympia; watching herself, in the wall-to-wall mirrors, him doing his magic between her legs. His tongue tying her clit into knots; cum running down and over the corners of his mouth, down onto round firm female flesh. Grasping, pulling, hands full of his hair.
... Her begging for mercy: the stamina, the endurance of the leather colored, almond colored Moroccan marathoner having his way with her body. Legs collapsed, quivering; tits bouncing with each of his thrust into her. Her small town south Mississippi voice, accent, urging him, " ... cum in me! Oh, shit -- hurry, hurry!"
She had learned that Sven was returning from Bahrain; headed back to Chicago, on to New Glarus, Wisconsin. She begged a ride, hitchhiked: so to speak. "I can get home from there," she told him. "Visit with mama for a while."
He suggested that she not be in a hurry going " ... to see mama." She eagerly accepted.
"Been a while since I did Chicago," she said; brushed the hair back from her eyes.
Later: the mid-level diplomat's wife, leaned back against the headboard; smoking a cigarette. The globes on her chest rising and falling rhythmically from the just finished frantic activities; fingers between her legs, smearing their combined secretions into her skin.
"You were somewhere else," she said; blew a smoke ring. " ... thinking 'bout some other woman. In your mind, doing it with some other woman."
Sven, caught by surprise, looked at her; laughed. "How did you know?"
"A woman can tell," she said.
She reached, grasped his semi-erect cock; strocked it slowly up and down. To show she wasn't pissed. She took him in her mouth.
"Now, I'm gonna fuck you," she told him. "This time pay some attention to me."
She straddled him, spread open her cunt; lowered herself onto him. Leaned her tits down to his mouth. He was not the 'longest' she had ever had; but, god!, the girth. He filled her. She moaned softly.
"I may take you home with me," she said. "Show you off to mama."
She moved on him.
**~**
Then: ... Exiting an early season Bears game, there they were, Bo and Shariz; headed to the parking lot.
"Join us at Joe's On Weed Street," Bo said. "I'm buying. ,,, Ride with us. Parking is gonna be a bitch -- I know the valet; he's saving us a spot."
He moved around the car -- '69 Chevy Cameo -- to unlock the door.
"Sit in the front," Shiraz told Sven, touched his elbow. "I'll ride in the back."
Sven held the door for her, watched her turn sideways, sort of 'back' onto the back seat. Her eyes watching him all the time.
"Sweet mother-of-Jesus," Sven mouthed the words; watching her. Fading rays of setting sun directly up between her open thighs; skirt riding high up her legs.
She laughed, looking into his eyes, touched the corner of her mouth with her tongue.
The crowd was exuberant; the Bears had won. Local folk, fans, could sense a stellar season coming on; maybe a run at the Super Bowl. They, the three of them, sat, backs to the mirrored wall; a table saved for them by two burly guys: maybe players from recent teams.
Bo looked, one beer later, around for a waitress; someone to bring them new drinks. There were none available.
"I'll get us one," he said; " ... it'll be quicker."
He wove his way through the crowd. Shariz watched him make his way toward the bar. Shifted her eyes back to Sven.
He, focused on her eyes, retrieved an ice cube from his glass; reached across, touched her throat. Cold dripped from his fingers, down onto her cleavage, ran down between her breast.
She sucked in a room full of air, shock from the sudden sensation on her exposed skin. The woman looked up at him; back down to her chest, the opening in her shirt. They both watched the almost freezing liquid trickle down into the valley between her tits.
She looked back at Sven, his eyes. "You are planning to fuck me, aren't you," she said. It was a statement, not really a question.
"I been studying on it," he said; " ... fucking you." Brought the ice back, reached out with his tongue, pursed his lips, took it into his mouth.
A wide-receiver and a DB came through the door, singing at the top of their voices:
Bear down, Chicago Bears,
let them know why you're wearing the crown
You're the pride of Illinois!
Chicago Bears, bear down!
Bedlam broke loose in the place.
Sven watched the excitement in her eyes. Watched her nipples react, push out against the thin cotton fabric of her orange and black tee shirt. She saw him watching, reached and put her hand on his wrist.
Bo came back with a round of drinks. Set the down on the table, shouted above the din, " ... drink up and let's get the hell out of here. It's gonna get rowdy and loud."
**~**
Winter is Chicago is a bitch. ... Cold and snow; wind whipping through the concrete canyons. The problem with football season is that winter is coming, can't be far behind. The Bears had Detroit, at Soldier Field, in the season finale.
Sunday morning: Sven's phone rang at 8:05. He checked the screen, " ... Bo," he mouthed the name.
"I'm picking you up at 10: 00."
Not, "Good morning ... Hello ... Kiss-my-ass," ... Just, "I'm picking you up at 10: 00. We're going to the Bear's game."
Sven looked out the window. "Do you know how fuckin' cold it is out there?! ... Blowin' snow! ,,, Anyway, I got somebody here.
"Bring her along. Shariz might enjoy the female company." Bo said. He didn't even ask if the 'somebody' was a woman. He knew his friend well, the two of them had been tight for at least a couple of decades.
