"Hey Shannon! He's here!"
I set my coffee cup down on the kitchen island, ran to the front door, and peered through the leaded glass. Lawrence was maneuvering the long white limo into parked position across the narrow street.
"You know Bea," I said, "you should have been a detective instead of the accountant for Great White Limo."
I studied myself in the large ornate full-length mirror beside the front hall closet, twisting my hips, watching the sheer fuchsia teddy lift and swing.
"It wasn't difficult," Bea said, "I remembered his name, Steve Smith, and yeah, there's gotta be thousands of them in Ontario, but there can only be one who rents the same limo you did, and asks for the same driver, and who's coming to our tiny town all the way from Richmond Hill.
Lawrence walked around to the side of the limo and opened the door, and out stepped my mister, his gray hair and goatee trimmed just so, his hefty hand strangling a colossal bouquet of mixed flowers.
"Is that him?" she asked.
"Yep," I said, as we watched him wrestle some other items from the vehicle, then I turned to face her. "How do I look?"
Bea swept her eyes north and south over my 5-foot frame.
"Better than he deserves," she said, flatly, "based on what you told me about his previous performance, or should I say, lack thereof."
"Awww, he's sweet." I said, scrunching my short blonde curls and fanning my fake eyelashes with the tips of my middle fingers. "Obviously he wants a do-over. I think you're jealous and you want in on it."
"Is this your roundabout way of trying to get me in the sack?" Bea asked.
I stifled a grin.
"Oh come on, you know I'm joking," I said, "All the summers I've lived in your house and not once have I ever tried anything. Stop pretending you think I'm gay."
"What about the time you came into my bedroom in the middle of the night?" she said, hands on hips.
"You mean 30 years ago?! You were passed out blasting Seinfeld reruns! I went in there to shut off your TV!"
I turned and lifted the teddy, exposing my plump white derriere gift-wrapped in the matching cheeky lace hipsters.
"Well?" I said, wagging my tail at her.
"Lose that underwear," she said, unimpressed.
"What? No! Why?" I asked. "They're sexy."
DING DONG!
"Just a minute!" Bea yelled, and then dropped her voice to a whisper. "He's an old married geezer, right?" she asked.
"He's younger than we are!" I whispered-yelled back, annoyed at her description and the implication.
"Regardless, he doesn't know that YOU know he's coming, so you shouldn't appear to be so ready. He won't be expecting any of this."
Bea waved her arms in front of me as if wiping down a large window with paper towels in both hands.
"And yeah, the teddy's a good tease," she continued, "but if you want to pump blood into that tired old teeter of his, you need to flip the surprise on him."
I chuckled.
"Steve's not going to have a problem getting hard for this."
I pointed at myself with gun fingers in both hands and winked an exaggerated wink at her.
She crossed her arms.
"You know Shannon, you may have mastered the art of naughty online chat, but when it comes to actual gland-to-gland combat, you have no experience . . . well . . . outside of the bi-monthly missionary you get from your old man. Now do as I say and take them off."
I was quite committed to those panties, but nonetheless, I considered her educated instruction.
Around our quaint little village of 5500, Bea played the celibate widow role. I was perhaps the only one who suspected she had a special someone, because every so often, she'd take the afternoon off work and go out of town. Whenever I asked her about it, she'd say she was "With a friend." But one late night after four too many shots of tequila, she confessed.
Turns out, she had three moneyed seniors on the hook: Glenn from Hamilton, John from Newmarket, and Chris from Toronto. They were about the same age and in the same circumstance. In essence, they were interchangeable, and they all wanted the same thing from her: elevated conversation, a refined palate, and Bea's undivided attention. She'd have them get a suite at the Hilton in Niagara Falls - said there was nothing like spending an afternoon sipping vintage Dom Perignon and taking in the magnificent view, an adoring gent at your side so hungry for a connection, and anxious to show his appreciation.
"Are they married?" I had asked. She declined to respond and rightly so. It was a stupid question because the answer was so obviously yes.
"What do they want you to do?" I pressed, not expecting her to give up much information, but that night she went into detail, and it was excruciatingly arousing.
Despite her sharp edge and overly assertive business-like manner, when Bea reveals that ice-white smile and her dark eyes engage you, there is a magnetism that draws you to her, compelling you to cooperate with whatever order she's barking out. Obviously her suitors preferred an acutely alpha female, and she more than fit the bill.
She was tallish, with a newly fashioned silver bob - quite a departure from the shoulder-length auburn hair she'd had all her life, and with the addition of the oversized glasses, the effect was to reinforce her authoritarian reputation.
As far as her figure went, it was a study in contrasts when compared to my own. Her tiny titties and very narrow waist gave her an athletic air, but it was her rear view that gripped a man's consideration - they loved to watch her walk away. And so I wasn't surprised to hear she used it to her advantage when afternooning with one of her misters. I was, however, surprised to hear HOW she used it - oiling it up as she danced naked in front of him, then straddling him reverse cowgirl, twerking it against his thighs as she swept her oiled palms and fingers from low below his balls upwards to his tip, until the veins along his shaft were pulsing with hot blood. Then she'd lean back against his bare body, slither against him in some seated form of tantric massage, back-and-forthing his boner with that big buttery booty, but denying him penetration. It was her opening number, she said, before she slipped off of him and onto her knees, deep-throating his lavender-lubed shaft until she tasted the foreshadow of his eruption, then squeezing him off at the base until his urgency subsided, then another dose of oil and a gentle massage from the chest down to the pelvis, then deeper into the muscle of the upper thighs, her thumbs making their way behind his balls, pressing into that sacred spot until he burned with a fever to release, then a light touch of the fingers back up around to his stomach and a trace to his nipples before diving down on him again with a committed suck and the accompanying sound effects.
"I'm going to cum, Bea! I'm going to CUM!" they would threaten, but that only made her want to extend their anguish.
"Don't you dare!" she'd say, throttling them back.
I imagined it was an agonizingly glorious repetition for them. It sure as hell was torture for me listening to her describe it.
She said they loved to use the c-word, but they knew enough to ask her permission to use it.
