The Limo Driver and His Wife, Part 1

I'm back from vacation and I am revitalized. I've got the first few chapters of a brand new book 3 of In Too Deep drafted, but it's going to take time to get right.

I didn't want to leave you all without anything to read in the meantime, so I'm going to post a novella that I'd written (and revised heavily) a while back. It's a classic story about a couple with a celebrity sex list, and... well, you'll just have to read and learn more.

Chapter One: A New Client

The woman who slides into the back of my Lincoln Continental is sleek and sexy in that corporate way that makes me think about stockings, and bras that matched thongs, and heels too tall to be practical. Her white-blond hair is tied and twisted into a tight bun—the kind of bun that could look severe one moment and sexy the next as she shakes it out. Right now, she’s definitely on the severe side.

She fixes me with cool, blue eyes, her forehead furrowing just a fraction between her meticulously groomed brows. She says, “Who the fuck are you?”

I clear my throat, ready to ask her the same, but she’s already on her phone, pounding away with her thumbs.

“Nope,” she says to her phone. “You're definitely not Jerry Nguyen.”

Jerry is one of my drivers for the limo service I operate, and he’s the guy I’m filling in for since he’s sick, so this lady is at least in the right spot. Still, I’m lost, so I decide to play her game.

“And you’re definitely not Peter Mitchell…unless that’s a unisex name that I wasn’t aware of.”

“Who are you?”

I set my hands on the wheel of the car, refusing to give. “My contract says that I’m to pick up Peter Mitchell. Are you Peter?”

If this woman could kill with her eyes, I’d be in the ground.

But she gives first. “I’m his assistant, Veronica Larrson.” She smiles at me without warmth. “Now you.”

“Brendan Hume. I’m—”

“The owner of Hume Limousines,” she finishes, already tapping away on her phone. I watch her, wondering what is going on. Patience reigns, though. Always does. This is a service job, and I’ve always prided myself on customer satisfaction. She says, “Okay, you’ll do. But I need you to sign something.”

“What’s that now?”

She reaches into her bag and withdraws a tablet. Flicking it open, she taps a few things before passing it to me. “Just an NDA is all. Feel free to read it, but it basically just says that you won’t talk to the press—or anyone, for that matter—about my client and what you may see or hear while acting as his driver.”

“Oh...kay.” This is new. I take the tablet, glancing at all the legalese. In the back, Veronica is back on her phone, her red painted nails clicking across the glass. It is oddly sensual. “And this is for Peter Mitchell?”

She smirks without looking up, but doesn’t answer. So I skim through the document. Fine. Whatever. If some rich guy wants to go to this length for privacy, I’m fine with that. I’ve witnessed some pretty crazy shit in the back of a limo before without something like this and would never dream of telling anyone other than my wife. If Peter Mitchell needs this assurance, I don’t care.

“Done,” I say, passing the tablet back to her.

“Excellent. Now was that so hard?” She presses something on her phone, smiles tightly one last time, and gets back out.

“Let me get the door—” I start, but she’s already gone. I sigh and get out anyway, rounding the Escalade.

Veronica is a tall woman, although part of that is the tall heels. She slides on a pair of sunglasses, and with her red painted lips, looks more “femme fatale” than “sexy corp” now. I try to gauge her age, but it’s impossible to tell. Her smooth skin suggests a younger woman, while her confidence adds a maturity that I rarely see in people closer to my age of 50.

“So are we waiting for him?” I ask. She just nods toward the entrance to the hotel, where I notice the crowd for the first time, milling about, waiting. The cameras give them away for what they are—paparazzi.

“Your client’s name isn’t actually ‘Peter Mitchell’, is it?”

Veronica doesn’t need to answer. The doors to the hotel opened, and out he steps. Chase Morris. The Chase Morris. The country music rock star whose steely gray eyes, shaved head, and dark scruff-covered square jaw are literally on the cover of Rolling Stone this month. The man whose sex appeal transcends the country music scene. He is number two on my wife’s list of Celebrities That She’s Allowed to Sleep With, just between Idris Elba and Ryan Gosling. 

The crowd around him swarms, asking for autographs and taking photos. He tips his black cowboy hat at the group, signs a few glossy 8x10’s—and even one woman’s shirt—before waving and heading toward my vehicle.

Veronica nudges me with her elbow just before he arrives, snapping me out of my trance. I step to the side, open the door, and in slides the most famous person I’ve ever driven.

Veronica looks at me as she moves to follow, a cute smirk warming her chilly beauty. “No, his name’s not actually Peter Mitchell.”

I shut the door behind her and move around the car, still stunned.

“Man, I love New York City,” Chase says. He’s got a Nashville accent, friendly and accommodating, yet deeply resonant. Tossing his cowboy hat onto an empty seat, he throws his arms over the plush leather and looks up through the tinted moonroof. Veronica leans toward me and gives me an address—a television studio off Times Square—and off we go.

Chapter Two: The List

“You’ll never believe who I drove today.” It’s the first words out of my mouth as I walk through the door of our Midtown condo. “Chase Morris!”

Maggie looks up from where she sits at the kitchen table, the glare of her laptop reflecting off her glasses. “What’s that, dear?”

“Remember how I was covering for Jerry?”

My wife’s brows go up as she quickly puts it together. “So it wasn’t some rich business guy?”

“It was Chase Morris!”

“Are you sure? Maybe it just—”

“I drove him to and from NBC, where he did a set and an interview. We can watch it tonight.”

Maggie removes her glasses, setting them beside her computer. I love her studious, nerd-girl look, but I love seeing her rich, hazel eyes even more. She goes to say something, then stops.

“Go ahead,” I say. “ask.”

Her lips curl up and a dimple forms on her left cheek as she smiles. “So is he as hot in person?”

“If you like that rugged, shaved head-goatee look—”

“I do.”

“—then sure.” I laugh at her naked admiration. It’s not the first time she’s fawned over this man.

She hops up from her seat, giddy. Like Chase Morris came in with me. She brushes her warm, brown locks over her ear and fixes me with a serious stare. “Did he wear the cowboy hat?”

She laughs, and I laugh with her, infectious. “What is it with that hat? You know, I can buy a black cowboy hat, too…”

“Mmm,” Maggie shakes her head. “Let’s not go there. Takes a particular kind of man to pull off that hat.”

She’s joking, but I also know what she means. “Maybe if I grew a goatee…”

She comes close, touching my face. “I like you just the way you are.”

“But you’re lusting after my latest client.”

She lifts an eyebrow, that corner of her mouth rising with it. “That I am.” She spins away.

“I should be jealous,” I say, stealing a look at her ass. Maggie’s wearing a tight pair of dark jeans that hugs her small, round ass—not quite covered by her loose blouse.

“No, I should be jealous.” She moves to the fridge, pulls it open, then pauses, looking over her shoulder. “You got to meet Chase Morris!” 

“I get to drive him around.”

“I’d like to drive him around,” Maggie giggles. Seeing my face, she adds, “Oh, come on. If I was working with Scarlett Johansson, you wouldn’t be making all these same jokes.”

“No. I’d be making one about the two of you fooling around as I watched.”

Maggie snorts. “Okay, yeah, good point, my voyeur husband.” She pulls a couple beers from the fridge,

“So seriously, what’s he like?”

“Seems nice enough. Honestly, I spent more time with his assistant than Chase.”

“Ooo, first name basis with him. Look at you.” I roll my eyes at her. “Does he have any weird demands? Like he only drinks a particular brand of water or something?”

“Well, he did say I could only take left turns when he was in the car.”

“Shut up!”

“Just kidding.”

“Oh.” Maggie covers her mouth and giggles. She’s not normally so gullible.

“There was one thing, though. He made me sign an non-disclosure agreement.”

“An NDA? Really?”

“So technically, I’m not supposed to even be telling you about him. I’m just driving a business guy named ‘Peter Mitchell.’”

“Interesting.” She twists the cap off the long-neck bottle and takes a swig. “I take it you’re driving for him until Monday?”

“How did you…?”

“His concert is Sunday at the Garden.” She moves on before I can tease her about being a fangirl at 43. “Wonder what you may see that you’re not supposed to talk about…”

“It’s probably just for privacy.”

Maggie’s not having it. She taps her finger to her lips, thinking through what this could mean. “Maybe he’s having a gay affair with his assistant,” she jokes.

“Maybe. Only two problems with that. A, he’s not married. And B, his assistant is a leggy blonde.”

“Oh, well that’s it then,” she says with confidence.

“What?”

She tilts her head to one side and her hair tumbles free, falling across her face. She brushes it back. “Come on, Brendan.”

“You think they’re fucking.”

She laughs. “I was going to say that they’re sleeping together, but yeah. Duh.”

“Well, they seemed pretty professional to me.”

Maggie hands me the beer as she returns to her computer, typing and scanning away at something. I wonder about that idea. It’s possible that Veronica Larrson is sleeping with the country music star, but she seemed all business to me. I take a sip of Maggie’s Bud Light. Maggie loves her cheap, American lagers, no matter how much I try to turn her on to some of the local microbrews.

“This her?” She swivels her laptop in my direction. There’s a photo of Chase Morris, in the cowboy hat, descending the stairs of his private jet. Just behind him, head in her phone, designer sunglasses shading her eyes, is his assistant, as corporate as ever in a white pants-suit that matched her white-blond hair.

“Yeah, that’s her.”

She turns the laptop back, narrowing her eyes as she scans this woman. “Yeah, she doesn’t look like his type.”

When I round the table and see what she’s looking at now, I laugh. It’s not more photos of Veronica. She’s gone back to looking at photos of Chase Morris—in particular, his photo shoot for Rolling Stone.

“So what kind of woman is his type?” I ask.

“Someone a little more down-to-earth.” She hovers over a photo of him standing on stage, guitar slung low, grinning as he stands before the mic. “Someone a little closer to his age.”

“Someone who drinks this stuff?” I hand her back her beer, and sit on the edge of the table.

“Someone who looks like she’d actually like his music.” She sips the beer, her attention hopping around at the photos on the page. There’s one of Chase leaning against a pickup truck, in blue jeans and his cowboy. He’s got gray in his goatee, but manages the look annoyingly well.

I cross my arms. “Someone who’s not afraid to get a little dirty?”

Maggie looks at me, like she sees me for the first time. Her face goes crimson, but she doesn’t back down. She takes another swig off the long neck and nods. “He seems like the kind of guy who’d like that, yeah.”

“You have anyone in mind?”

“No one in particular.” She puts the beer on the table and slides her hand up the inside of my leg. “But I’ve been told that I can get…” Her hand slides over my crotch, where she feels my erection. “...a little…” And she pinches my zipper. “...dirty.”

She pulls the zipper down and reaches inside. I jump as she gropes me.

“I don’t know, Maggie. He is a...big star…”

“Mmm, I do hope that he’s big.” My belt clanks as she opens it with her left hand, her eyes never leaving mine as she works.

She pulls my pants open and my boxers down, freeing my erection. Without another word, she bends down and wraps her lips around my cock. Her eyes are closed.

“That feels good…” I groan. It doesn’t really matter that she’s thinking of doing this with another man—not when the man was purely fantasy. Only he’s not just a fantasy. I met him today. Maggie could, too, one day.

My gut twists at the irrational jealousy—at how into my wife is about my new client and his larger than life persona. Despite all my success and all the years that Maggie and I have together, I can’t compete with a man like him and his celebrity.

I stroke her thick, dark hair as she bobs her head up and down my length, working me with her lips and tongue. Maggie’s always given great blowjobs—a skill that pre-dated me. She has no problem taking most of my erection, and what she doesn’t get with her mouth, she strokes with her hand.

Maggie pulls back now, looking up at me with mischief in her eyes. She says, “I bet you see some slut do this to him in the backseat.”

She runs her tongue up the underside of my cock and swirls it in a ring when she reaches the mushroom cap. She fans her lashes up at me and adds, “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve seen that…”

That’s true. Back before I owned my own limo business and drove for someone else, I used to have a lot more of these stories. The bachelor and bachelorette parties of the young and rich almost always got wild. Maggie loved hearing those after I got back. She’d stay up, no matter how late it was when my shift was over, just to hear the sexy details.

It’s funny, thinking back on those days—back when we were more eager to get into each other's pants than to browse Facebook or Instagram or whatever. Back before the stress of owning a business. Back when everything was more carefree.

“I need you,” I say, pulling her up to me. Our kiss is wet, her lips warmed by the blowjob. I can just taste the brininess of my precum there. It reminds me of those younger years.

We undress in a hurry, Maggie shimmying out of her tight jeans and loose blouse as I quickly lose my pants. Her bra and panties are “built for comfort rather than speed,” as she says, but can’t hide the lean, athletic body she’s worked so hard to maintain. 

I push a hand inside of her panties as we kiss again. She’s wet, and has to break the kiss as I push two fingers into her, gasping. Her eyes are closed, though. She’s thinking about Chase doing this to her, and I don’t hate the idea of it. I kiss her neck as I finger her, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips.

“Uh… uh God!” she groans, shuddering as I work her. I pop open her bra, freeing her perky tits, and I immediately shift my attention to her nipples. She laces her fingers into my hair, holding me close.

We shift, and I get her leaning back against the kitchen table. My dick is so hard, swinging between her silky thighs. It’s Maggie who pushes her panties down and reaches for me. “Give me this,” she says, tugging me close.

My cock brushes along her trimmed mound, so wet and ready to take it. Dick in place, I sink into her, and together we moan. “That’s… so good,” she cries.

I fuck her on the edge of the kitchen table, glancing at the open laptop there and the gallery of Chase Morris photos. Then I look at Maggie. Her eyes are closed, her head tipped back. Her skin has already picked up a glossy sheen.

She is thinking about sex with Chase Morris, and now I can’t stop, either. I hold a leg against me as I pull her to the edge of the table and start to fuck her harder. I close my eyes and there they are, Chase and my wife, going to town. He wears his cowboy hat and nothing else. She has on a tight, Chase Morris baby tee that’s pushed up to expose her tits, and they are fucking backstage in his wardrobe.

I don’t last long. Neither of us do. It’s been too long since we last had sex. I wonder why we didn’t do this more often—that’s where we were in life now. Weeks sometimes stretched between sessions.

Maggie shuts her eyes again as her climax takes her. She rocks her head back, shouting, “Come! Come! Oh, baby, please come!”

I press my body to her, pushing with my toes as I thrust into her. I’m cresting. I’m coming. I squeeze my own eyes shut and see Chase Morris coming, too, taking her in his dressing room like a groupie. The image hits me like a blast of pure adrenaline. It surges through me like lightning, tingling in my balls and crackling up my spine. I love the illicit thought. I love this wild idea of my wife-turned-groupie.

I pump into her, filling her with my heat, with my unspoken excitement. She launches into her own second orgasm as I bury my face into her neck. When I glance at her, I swear that she’s looking at the computer again, at all those Chase Morris thumbnails.

First thing she says to me when I pull back is, “If I tuck my hair into one of those chauffeur hats and wear one of your suits, you think he’ll notice if I take your place?”

I snort a laugh. Thinking of Veronica, I say,  “If he doesn’t, then his assistant certainly will. Nothing gets by the one.”

“That’s a shame.”

“You’re hopeless,” I say, scooping her up in my arms. “Come on, let me see if I can take your mind off of country music for a bit.”

We head into the bedroom. Maggie insists on playing Chase’s latest album, and I only half think that it’s a joke.

Part 2 will post on Friday.