Corner Two Old Guy Model Ex Wife

This is the third chapter of a story series appearing in various Literotica categories:

"Corner Two- Angela's Revenge" debuted in Loving Wives. It introduces a May- October romance which begins when a mature motorsport fan is seduced by a neglected younger wife.

"Corner Two- No Place to Play" followed in Erotic Couplings. The woman divorces her nasty husband and sets her motorsport lover on a new course- as driver of a Vintage class machine.

You might enjoy these two stories, but this third installment integrates enough details to keep you up to speed. This episode refocuses and expands a withdrawn draft placed in the wrong category.

"Old Guy, Model, Ex-Wife" is a new read.

****

We dragged ourselves into my apartment, two bedraggled people exhausted after a very trying day. Suddenly she came alive, grabbed my hand, and pulled me behind her.

"Race you to the shower, Greg!"

Then we were naked under the hot, cascading rain, my older weather-beaten body pressed tight against her soft, mounded flesh. Her strong hands stroked soap the length of my instantly throbbing cock.

"Love that dick, baby! Let's get you ready," she laughed as she rinsed me, then dropped to her knees to gobble it into her open mouth.

"Mmmm... good!"

"Fuuuckkk, Angie!"

My eyes rolled back into my head as this gorgeous woman blew life back into my weary body. It had felt like this the first night we met, two years ago, her sucking mouth latched around the bursting crown of my tool, while her gripping hand moved rhythmically along my length and girth. Nobody did this better, but how much more could I take?

"Better stop."

"Liked that, eh?"

She came to her feet and threw her arms around my neck, hugging me close before French kissing my open lips. It tasted a bit soapy.

"All clean. Do me now."

Then she leaned back against the shower wall, spreading into a provocative stance, her pussy arched up toward the falling water.

"Soap, water, mouth," she directed, as if I needed instruction!

Angie's mid-thirties pussy tasted sweet to this old guy, her tangy cooze blended with the water richoceting off my head then streaming down her body. She moaned while my hands opened her wide so that my probing lips and tongue could explore her tender pink flesh. It was exquisite!

Then we were kissing again, locked together in the eager desperation of lovers.

"Take me hard, Greg!"

As if I needed to be told!

Angie slid down the wet wall a few more inches and tilted her pelvis upward to accommodate me. The muscles in her thighs strained to hold this position, while her arms grasped my shoulders for support, pulling me toward her. With an invitation like that, I wasted no time pushing into her moist, enveloping pussy.

"Gawwdd.... So tight!" I groaned, before joining in the sexy rocking motion of her slim hips.

"Oh baby," she breathed. "Fuck me! Just fuck me!"

The hot water beat against my back while her spread groin slammed into mine. Little rivers curled down her smooth skin from her stiff nipples, then flowed across her taut stomach before disappearing where our bodies met. Time stopped. There was nothing but this moment, and the need to give this sexy woman everything I had inside me.

"Ugh!... Ugh!... Ugh!... Ugh!" I heard myself chanting, my pumping more frenzied now as I climbed higher.

I wasn't going to last much longer tonight, and the guttural moans from deep in her throat didn't make it any easier for me to hold back. Angie's eyes were closed now, as if she was fully concentrated on the coming storm. Her breath came in short gasps, and I knew she was as close as me. All of a sudden lightning struck and thunder boomed. She clawed at my shoulders and bucked against me.

"Ooohh!... Yes!... Yes!... Yessss!...Ooohh.... Aaahhh.... Aaarrrraaaggghhh!...."

"Fuuucccckkk!!!" And I was there too, my spurting cock driving hard until I thought I would collapse for lack of strength.

Both of our bodies continued to heave involuntarily for a time, puppets to the intense release of energy from muscles drawn tight in arousal. Finally, we fell against one another, my bulk pressing Angie against the slippery wall. Then we both caught our breath, and she opened her dreamy eyes.

"Wonderful!... Amazing!... Now I need to wash my hair.... Then to bed."

"Yeah. Been a hard day."

"Yes, you were so hard," she laughed, taking my deflating cock in her hand before kissing my face.

"Be quick. Don't know if I can wait for you tonight," I mumbled.

I was asleep in minutes.

****

It had been a rough day at Corner Two. This is dangerous turn at our favourite racetrack, no place to play. In the last couple of years, a lot of important things have happened to me there, some good and some bad. This one was awful!

Two years back, I was watching the season-opening regional road-racing event at the corner when I saw Angela for the first time. She looked gorgeous in tight leather and denim, drawing every male eye on the hill as she obediently tagged along behind her uncaring husband. Hours later, Angie and I were passionately loving on her penthouse sofa, the first of many intense sessions with this beautiful woman, about the same age as my own son.

Half a year later, she'd left her abusive man and we were a couple. At the last race of the season, we stood near Rocco along the fence at Corner Two. Angie seethed as she heaped scorn upon him, berating her husband for his selfishness during their failed ten-year marriage. I saw a side of my passionate lover that I hoped wouldn't be turned on me some day.

Today I felt that blistering anger directed at me, but as relief, not invective. Young, adventuresome Angie had urged me to take up racing while I still could. During a sudden cloudburst, I'd crashed our shiny new Penske Camaro replica Trans-Am machine hard into the tire wall at that tricky bend. The accident left me unscathed but with a battered ego and race car. Angie rushed to the scene as I jumped from the wreck.

"Are you alright? Omygod, Greg, are you hurt!" she screamed.

"I'm fine. I'm OK, but the car...."

"To Hell with the goddam car!" my intense lover blasted, but I understood that she was far more concerned about my survival than the costly crash.

"Fuck, Angie! We're done racing. Maybe forever? This mess will cost a small fortune to fix," I lamented.

"Damn it, Greg! It doesn't matter! You're OK," she yelled, then clambered down the metre-high concrete wall and flew into my arms, embracing me in the pelting rain.

It did matter, but not quite so much now.

"We'll get it fixed. Maybe in time for the October race. You'll see," she assured me as the rain-soaked crowd at Corner Two craned their necks to watch the tender scene unfolding beside our smashed Camaro. This is not a common sight during a race.

It didn't take long for a flatbed truck to arrive on the scene, and while everybody watched, the driver lowered the long ramp and attached a heavy chain to the car frame. Sharp grinding sounds issued from the front end of the Camaro as the powerful winch slowly dragged our resisting knock-kneed vehicle up the steel ramp. He locked it in place, then mechanically tilted the platform up and brought it forward, flat against his cab.

Angie and I piled in beside the heavy, bearded driver. It was my first face-to-face meeting with the guy everybody nicknamed 'Grizzly Adams', a long-time track worker who looked like a mountain man. His old plaid shirt was sweat-stained, and he reeked for need of a shower. Angie was tight against him in the crowded cab, and I could see her nose wrinkle up as his strong aroma engulfed our crowded space.

"Hell of an accident, eh!" he growled. "Seen worse. Cars on top of the tires. Turned over. Guys half dead! Fuck of a place to crash! Real deadly, Corner Two."

"I guess that's why people like to watch here," Angie replied, and when he turned to give her a big gap-toothed grin, his pungent breath took ours away.

"Oh yeah. They like crashes- sick bastards. But yours wasn't so bad. Seen a lot worse. Fires. Blood and guts. Not my favourite place, scrapin' up what's left after a crash. No, you're OK. Could've been a lot fuckin' worse," Grizzly reassured us for the third time.

The driver's crude description wasn't making me feel much better. But Angie's hand wrapped tightly around my leather glove was more helpful. They were both right. I wasn't hurt, nor was the car a smoldering hulk. Maybe there would be another day, more racing in the future? It was just a matter of how soon the Camaro could be repaired- and how much it would cost.

Back in the pits, we all looked like drowned rats from the sudden deluge that caused the accident. Our little group gathered around the broken steed, examining the damage.

The steering linkage was broken and there'd likely be further suspension problems from the heavy impact. The right front wheel was bent and both tires on that side blown out. The passenger side bodywork was crumpled from the front corner back beyond the door, and the hood was arched up. It was a mess!

Marty and my engine-builder Sam both shook their heads in dismay. But Angie was more upbeat, trying hard to revive our sagging spirits.

"Let's get it onto the trailer and go home. You can take a better look at it inside the garage behind Rod's building."

Roderick Grantham was my boss, owner of Grantham Graphics, a minor sponsor of our car. He lusted after Angie, and when she turned on the charm, he had agreed to pay our race weekend entry fees and buy team gear, in addition to letting us use part of his spacious, well lit storage building. In exchange, Angie agreed to help promote his business at a few trade shows each year.

I carefully backed the Camaro onto our open trailer, dragging its forlorn, broken front end screeching across the ramp. All our sodden gear was tossed inside and by mid-afternoon we were on our way home. The traffic along the big highway was already building as families streamed back from weekends out of the city. They gawked and pointed at our battered machine, pulled behind Sam's truck. My mood was sullen.

"Don't worry, honey. We'll get through this and move on, with or without the car. Greg, you weren't hurt, the only thing that really matters to me," she repeated.

It had been a terrible day at Corner Two. Now we were going home to lick our wounds. The crash had scared me, and I kept replaying it over and over in my mind. So many questions:

Should I have come in for rain tires before the cloudburst?

Would I be able to face that corner again or had I lost my nerve?

Was this whole racing thing just a stupid mid-life crisis on my part?

****

My name is Greg Carpenter. I'm a tall, fit 57-year-old graphic designer living in Canada. Angie is my live-in girlfriend, more than twenty years younger than me. My wife and I had drifted apart as our son Marty grew older, until we mutually agreed to divorce about a dozen years ago.

When I met Angie two years back, I lived alone, working out at the gym a lot to stave off old age. My friends and I travelled to watch racing events across eastern North America in my old camper. Life was somehow incomplete, but I hate the bar scene, choking on smoke while shouting inane pickup lines.

Angela Carrier breathed new life into my empty routines. She's a strikingly beautiful woman, tall and slender, way out of my league in the looks department. Angie was a fading fashion model, once queen of the runway in her twenties, but now at 35, catalogue modelling as a mother or aunt. Her husband managed her career, but had taken more interest in younger clients, neglecting and sometimes mistreating his wife. Now she was divorced from Rocco and with me.

Angie wanted love- physical and emotional- and that meant intensifying my gym workouts just to keep up with her. We're a generation apart and she demands energetic, rampant sex. So I added more running to my routine, to build stamina and lower my heartrate. It pays off in high-pressure situations in the bedroom and behind the wheel of a fast machine.

Speaking of our racing car, the court awarded Angie half of the marital possessions and investments when she divorced, leaving her with a stack of big, contemporary paintings and a nice pile of cash. She wanted me to go racing, and spent some of it on our late-Sixties Penske Camaro vintage replica. The big V8 engine pumps out a ton of horsepower, but it's a handful on a slippery track, as I recently discovered.

Meanwhile, Angie was right. We were back for the last race weekend on the regional schedule. It was a scramble to put it together in a month, but with long, late nights in Rod's storage building, and some unexpected help from my adult son Marty, the paint shop had it ready just in time.

We were entered for the Autumn Colours event with high hopes and empty wallets. All the work we had to send out to shops cost several thousand dollars, including new parts and bodywork, paint, realignment and so on! The only way that we could make such a commitment to more racing came through my boss- and his attraction to Angela.

"I'm sure we could persuade Rod to invest more into our racing team, Greg," she stated flatly a few days after we hauled the wreck back from the track.

"I'm sure you could talk him into just about anything, depending on what you wore that day," I commented sarcastically.

"Probably. I was thinking about that today."

"OK, tell me. You're working on an idea. I can see it on your pretty face."

"Well, you know how Rod is so distracted by me, right? I think he needs to see more of me."

"What, in clothes like you modelled on that tropical shoot last winter? Sure he'd like that but...."

"No, I mean more of me connected to his business. He did mention promotion at industry trade shows. Probably working a booth or something, handing out information and chatting up customers."

"He did, but nothing firm on that. You want us to talk to him about it?"

"Yes, get him committed. And some other ideas too. Like seeing me in his advertising material, in team gear of course, but maybe with tight shorts and heels. He might want to have a pin-up type calendar?"

"Sexist, don't you think, Angie? I won't have you degrading yourself to get me racing again."

"Just tossing out ideas. I'm sure he'd like to see Grantham Graphics displayed prominently on the car. Like the entire hood or the front fenders. Then there are those 'hero cards' that some teams pass out at their pits. Full colour, with the car on one side, the driver, crew, and sponsors on the back. This would be good promotion at the track and trade shows."

"So, how would all of this get us money to fix the car for next month?"

"We could convince him that this makes business sense if he paid some up front. He could expense it for this tax year."

"Great. I'll set something up for this week and you'll seal the deal."

"No, Greg. That's your job. I'll be there as window dressing to back you up. It worked last time when Rod agreed to pay your entry fees and buy shirts and hats. This will just take it to a higher level."

Two days later, I stepped in for another appointment with Rod, accompanied by Angie. It was a cool day, so she wore a long coat, but strangely, no stockings. She also wore a silly grin, one that said, "I've got a secret." She soon revealed it- and herself. Once we were inside Rod's office, off came the coat, leaving her clad in the Grantham team T-shirt, and tight little shorts. She quickly put on her team hat and big heels.

"Do you like the look, Rod?" Angie cooed as she struck a confident fashion pose in front of his desk. "I think it would really help promote your business. I'd like to get you even more involved in Team Grantham."

"Well, I know how I'd LIKE to be more involved...." he joked.

"No, Rod," she interjected. "But this playful look on Grantham advertising, even on a sexy calendar, and at trade shows could sell plenty of graphics, don't you think?"

From there the negotiations were easy. Rod accepted our proposal- most of Angie's ideas. Besides her long legs, he wanted the company name displayed on the hood and fenders of the car. And he already had identified three shows where he wanted to display Angela with the car. We left with a sizeable cheque, enough to get back on track.

The day of the photo shoot, Angie invited Rod and me to the studio. The two of us went together, Angela arriving separately an hour before for professional makeup and hair styling. I'd attended one of her fashion sessions before, so I knew that my boss would be starry-eyed when he saw her in model mode.

"Oh my god!... You lucky bastard!... No wonder you're distracted at work. Man, you probably don't sleep much, do you?"

"It can be a problem," I gloated.

"Let me share your problem, my friend!"

"Now look Rod. Let's be professional about this. The photographer will need you to help her with the kinds of shots you want for your advertising material, pin-up calendar, or whatever you have in mind."

"You KNOW what I have in mind, Greg," he joked.

"And that's as far as it will ever go, Rod. Angie is mine! Anyway, you have a wife, and she's no slouch."

"I know. I know. But a guy can dream, can't he? I've said it before: how does an old bugger like you get a young fox like her into your den?"

"I told you. I'm her Knight in Shining Armour, a friend when she needed one. And that's all I'm going to say about it."

I remembered that almost a year ago I had waded into a pile of pain with Angie by telling Rod that her husband had been abusive and neglectful. Anyway, the photographer was ready to start and beckoned Rod over to help choose shots.

Angie looked hot and sexy, even though she was dressed very simply in a Team Grantham T-shirt and blue shorts. Everything was molded to her tall, shapely body, and the strappy little heels added a provocative touch. The stylist had worked her silky ash-blonde hair into cascading curls that seemed to burst out from under the blue team cap. No wonder Rod liked what he saw!

Now the photographer was at work with Angie posing against a white background.

"Give us a big smile, Angie.... That's it, lock eyes with the camera, and hold it.... Sideways on the stool now for some profile shots.... Arch your back some more.... Look this way.... Perfect."

"Now hook your heels on the bottom rungs and tilt your knees toward me.... One hand in your hair.... Chest out.... I'll come from the side now.... Turn my way.... Sexy look.... Pucker a bit.... Good."

"Stand up now.... Rod, move the stool away.... Angela, strike some poses with first one hand on a hip, then both.... That's it.... Confident look like you're the one in charge of the team...."

"Didn't anybody tell you that I am?" Angie grinned.

"Some cheesecake now.... Legs together and straight.... Lean forward a bit from the waist and look coy.... That's good.... Lick your lips.... Now sultry.... Oh, that's smokin' hot!... A few more with your bum off to one side.... Great!"

"Some close-ups of your lovely face. OK.... You know what to do.... Yes.... Nice.... Yes... some more.... Beautiful... just 'wow'!... You have the look, girl!... Pucker up and wink a few times.... And done."

It was exciting to see my woman at work, right 'in the zone' with her photographer. I glanced over at Rod, and he was literally salivating, his eyes locked onto my lovely partner's every move. She did look fabulous and so natural in front of the camera. I felt a stirring in my groin and I'm sure Rod did too. Then the photographer broke the spell.

"Hey Rod.... Rod! Any particular shots you want for that calendar you mentioned?"

"Uhh... right. I brought a Grantham Graphics sign for her to hold. It might look good for promotions, like trade shows too. Maybe with her sitting on the stool? She did look mighty fine up there."