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Message-ID: <35755asstr$1016269802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: max_wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 16 Mar 2002 02:30:19 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Big Wheel (MF, celeb) Silver Surfer #4
Date: Sat, 16 Mar 2002 04:10:02 -0500
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NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of
this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether
existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of
this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is
made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam

Star Search #4:
Big Wheel
By theGreatxIam

NOTE: They used to talk about Stagedoor Johnnies, the men who hung
around theaters with flowers and candy for the showgirls. Then women
and girls got liberated and got horny, and they called the starstruck
ones groupies.

But there are some of us who call ourselves by another name. We are
drawn to a special class of classy ladies, to those mature beauties
who appreciate a man who appreciates a vintage affair. We call
ourselves the silver surfers. And this is one of our stories.

Carl M., Dearborn, Mich.

I'd worked for the Ford 10 years before I got tired of layoffs. We
kept collecting our pay, but I'm the kind of guy who needs to know
he's doing something to earn his check.

The driving was something I'd been doing for years, anyway. Started
with filling in for a buddy when he wanted a break from his cab. Got
to know the whole area pretty well. (Around Detroit, that also means
knowing where you DON'T want to go.) Moved up to limos on airport runs
for hotels and conventions while I was still on the line.

I got some repeat customers who started asking for me by name and
wanted to know if I could drive 'em around town, too. So it wasn't too
much of a gamble when I quit the auto plant and used my savings to buy
my own stretch job.

Built up a pretty good business and an even better reputation. Started
to get known around town. Pretty soon I was moving upscale, big-shot
businessmen and your better class of stars -- ones who know what it
means to be a star, not these young punks that puke all over the car
and get upset because I wear a sport coat and not some stupid
brass-button uniform and a gold-braid hat.

I give the folks what they want, which is just a fast, smooth ride. I
show up on time. If they don't want to talk, I don't talk. If they
want, I can discuss anything from philosophy to spackling. It's not
that tough: You just nod and say "You're right" a lot:

"Sears has the best scrapers."

"You're right."

"Nietzsche completely ignored the influence of the non-Platonic
ideal."

"I hear you."

You get the idea.

So I got a full appointment book. But when I got the call that night,
I got another guy to pick up the exec I was supposed to meet at
Detroit Metro. Some things you don't pass up.

I got there just before the show ended. I pulled around to a hidden
exit like they told me. Sat there reading Albom's column in the Freep
until the exit door flies open and she comes strutting out with two of
her backup singers and a whole herd of security. They aren't happy
when she has me shut the car door after her and the girls get in, but
she rolls down the window and says they can follow behind.

I get behind the wheel and turn to her.

"Good evening, Miss Turner."

"Call me Tina. And let's get going."

"I'm just waiting for your people to get in their cars, Miss ...
Tina."

"Drive, sugar."

So I drove. One car full of bodyguards kept up with me all the way to
the expressway, but Tina told me to lose 'em and it wasn't too hard.
They called my cell and started blistering my ear before I could get
in a word. Tina tapped on the glass and I passed the phone back to
her. Man, she must have had her fill of taking orders when she was
younger, because she told off those guys so bad she even had me
feeling sorry for them. But she said this was her farewell concert
tour and maybe her last time in Motown and she was going to party.

That they did. I drove from club to club. The second place we went,
her people spun into the lot as Tina was getting out the door and I
had to get a little fancy to get rid of them. After that she told me
to pick the clubs 'cause they knew her favorites.

We'd run through all the legit places and had hit a couple of blind
pigs -- the all-night unlicensed joints -- when the back-up singers
started belting the blues about wanting to pack it in. Tina tried to
talk them out of it, but the girls were pooped. I rolled over to the
hotel and jumped out to open the door. The girls groaned as they
stumbled out. After a few seconds I stuck my head in the doorway to
see if Tina needed help. Ha! She was sitting up straight, eyes bright.
"The night is young," she said, "and so am I. You ready to show a girl
a good time?"

I gave her a smile and walked around to the driver's side. As I got
behind the wheel there was a tap on the passenger window. I expected
to see her security. Instead, it was Tina. I popped the lock and she
climbed in next to me. "I hate talking to myself," she said.

For once, though, I did most of the talking. She asked me about the
job and what I used to do. I started out like always, playing it close
to the vest. But she was persistent and before I knew it I was telling
her stories about the Ford and the old neighborhood and all.

I shut up when we got to the place I'd picked out. It was a little
rough, but not too bad for a club open at 4 a.m. Still, I couldn't
guess what would happen when someone like Tina Turner walked in. She's
not their usual trade. I told her as much.

"So how 'bout if you walked in with me?"

I couldn't turn her down. I would never have forgiven myself if
anything happened to her.

It was a place without a name, unless you count "the den on 10," which
mostly the squares called it on account it was just off 10-Mile Road.
But it was no den. It was just an old paint store with cardboard over
the windows to keep the cops from seeing the light. Even that was only
window-dressing. Every cop in the county knew the joint. It wasn't the
paper on the windows kept them away; it was the paper on their palms
once a month.

We walked in and it was hardly any brighter inside than out. Just a
couple of bare bulbs painted red over the old counter, now the bar,
and a few flickering candles in the corners of the big room. The
cigarette smoke and leftover turpentine fumes made a sweet-sour stench
of a fog in which a few couples were groping each other on the dance
floor -- a space about six feet square carved out of the crowded card
tables and folding chairs. A trio jammed behind the bar was torturing
'50s R&B out of a guitar, a drum set and a keyboard. Every so often
they had to crank it up to jet-engine level to be heard over the roar
of the old paint-mixing machine, which had a second career as an
industrial cocktail shaker.

My suit and tie got more stares than Tina from the half-in-the-bag
clientele; in that light one old chick in leather looked pretty much
like another. But when we made it to the bar, the keyboard player
dropped a dime on her. She told 'em three songs was her limit and the
trio cracked open "Proud Mary" like they'd been waiting for her all
night.

Tina blew the barflies back against the wall with that one. Then she
pulled out a slow a capella "Private Dancer" that had the whole room
holding its breath like it was the solemn consecration at Our Lady of
High Gloss Latex.

Finally, she switched denominations to Holy Paint Rollers and the girl
from Nutbush wailed about her hometown and how you better keep an eye
for the police. By the end the crowd was stomping on the linoleum and
hollering like a revival. Somebody scratched enough paint off one of
the bulbs to make a 60-watt baby spotlight and Tina shook her
tailfeather, with her leather coat flapping around her like a flag.
Underneath she wore a spangly tube top and skintight leather pants;
you could see the sweat glistening on her chocolate flesh.

By the end of the song the whole crowd was on their feet. Tina punched
her fist in the air once, twice, three times as the drummer hammered
the beat. The keyboard player drove his hands down and the guitar man
twisted three notes over and around and tied them in a knot in a
crashing finish. Tina dropped to the floor in a split.

Right then and there I realized I'd turn down any pay for the night.
Just being able to see that covered all the charges.

I kept the crowd at bay while Tina got to a table. People lined up to
tell her how incredible she was and she sat back, basking in the
praise, huge smile on her face.

I stayed on my feet, off to one side, waiting for trouble. There's
always trouble.

Sure enough, some suburban cowboy, probably pissed because his date
was paying more attention to Tina than to him, started in on her being
a lousy singer. Which Tina ignored and so did the rest of the crowd.
So the guy pushed his way toward her, getting louder like they do. I
was already moving in to cut him off when the guy switches tracks and
starts in on Tina's history. "Maybe Ike didn't beat ENOUGH sense into
her," he said.

That got Tina's attention and she flashed the guy a look that could
cut steel. I could see she was about to say something, too. But then
she just turned away.

I was almost close enough to touch the guy then. When she turned her
back his eyes bulged. As I lunged forward I heard him say "Maybe I'll
have to finish the job."

I caught his right fist as he pulled it back and I swung him around.
He jabbed at my jaw with his left. I ignored that and pumped a few
rat-a-tats into his gut. He got off one or two more punches but he
started to double over. One clean uppercut put him down. By then the
joint's bouncers had arrived and they hauled the guy out the front
while Tina and me got herded to the back.

We were in the limo and peeling out of the lot as fast as that
super-stock Detroit engine could take us. Dawn was still just a thin
pink line on the edge of the horizon and I wanted as many miles
between us and that joint as possible before the cops finished their
morning doughnuts.

Tina had started talking as we rushed for the car and hadn't stopped
since, but I had tuned her out. On the line at the Ford you learned to
shut off all your senses and just do the job; it was the only way to
get through the day -- for some of us, anyway. My brain had gone on
autopilot when the clown took off on Tina and it stayed there until we
pulled up at a light miles away.

That's when Tina poked me in the side -- she was riding shotgun again.
"What the hell were you thinking? Hello? Is anybody home?"

I shot her a glance and then kept my eyes on the road. "I thought I
was doing you a favor."

"A favor? Did I ask you to punch someone out?"

I stared a hole into the asphalt. "He was going after you. You think I
went looking for a fight?"

"I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, I'm sure. What were you gonna do, high-kick him?"

"Maybe I could have talked him out of it. You ever try using your
mouth instead of your fist?"

"He didn't look like he wanted to debate. Or maybe you just wanted him
to take a swing at you. For old times' sake."

I regretted it the second I said it. And I should know better. My
sister hooked up with a guy used to slap her around. I know the hell
she had.

But I was all pumped from the fight and not thinking straight. Tina
shut up and twisted around in the seat to look out the side window. I
just shut up and drove.

The limo sailed through the half-light past boarded-up storefronts and
sleeping neon. Traffic was scarce and cops scarcer. At some point I
hit the radio to cut the silence; Tina snapped it off.

I stayed off the expressway. At first it was to punish her for
complaining. Then it was to buy time to work out my apology.

We were closing in on the hotel when Tina finally spoke, a terse order
to pull over. I bumped over the pockmarked parking lot of an empty
factory. "Go around back," Tina said, and I nuzzled the big car up to
a loading dock sheltered from the street.

The cylinders sighed. We sat looking out the windshield at busted
windows and rusty doors for a minute. We both started to speak at
once, our words bouncing off the glass. We tried again; same deal. I
threw a sideways glance at her and saw her doing the same to me.

"I'm sorry," we said in unison. It was too much like every romance
movie Meg Ryan ever made. We both broke into huge smiles as we turned
to each other.

Tina had curled up against the door; she looked fragile, like a
blown-glass ornament. Seeing her almost cowering there, so tiny, I
felt like a gorilla. My smile faded.

She reached out a hand, fingers splayed. It hovered a foot away from
my face. "What's wrong?"

I started to answer, but I didn't have a clue. I just shook my head
abruptly. "I better be getting you back to the hotel. They'll be
worrying about you."

Tina reached into her coat and pulled out a cellphone smaller than my
Aunt Ida's earrings. She flipped it open and held it up so I could
read the goblin-green glowing screen: six messages. "They've been
calling every 20 minutes," she said, and she laid down a trilling
laugh. Even as she did, I heard a whirring like angry wasps trapped in
a wall. Tina tossed the vibrating phone into the cavernous back seat.
"Let 'em worry. I'm having a good time."

She slid a little closer to me on the bench seat and slipped her coat
off. "Ain't we having a good time?" Her eyes were pointed at me, but
they were focused a million miles away. "This is my last tour and I am
officially enjoying it. Didn't you read that? It was in all the
papers. 'Dancing to the End of the Road.' That's what this is, the end
of going on the road." Her voice was a whisper like the wind through a
graveyard. "The end of the traveling. End of hotel rooms and dressing
rooms. End of crowds. End of the applause. End of the road."

She blinked twice and re-entered the atmosphere. She hit the Earth
with a splash, staring me in the face and seeing me this time.

"I'm just a crazy old lady, ain't I?" Her neck arched like a giraffe
as she looked to heaven, or as much of it as she could see through the
roof's black velveteen lining. "Just a crazy old lady who's over the
hill."

Just saying "yes" wasn't going to work this time, but she didn't look
ready to believe anything I said about her not being over the hill, no
matter if it was true. And, lord, it was true. The cold fingers of a
Detroit dawn showed every wrinkle on her face but she was still the
queen.

 I did the only thing I could, the only thing that could prove I was
sincere. I leaned toward her, took her in my arms, and kissed her.

It lasted only a second or two. But when I pulled back and opened my
eyes, she hadn't shied away.

"Well," she said in that husky voice, "that was nice. Nice thing to do
for an old ..."

I cut her short with another kiss. This time she kissed me back. Her
fingers splayed across my cheeks, holding us together. My arms slipped
around her tiny waist. After a minute we came up for air, but then our
lips locked again. Her tongue slid into my mouth like an electric eel,
setting off sparks of sensuality. Our mouths open, we kissed hungrily.

My hands began to roam her curves. When the left traced a smooth arc
and I realized I was holding Tina's ample breast, I pulled back
quickly, afraid I had offended her. But she reached down and took my
trembling hand in her warm one, and lifted it back to her breast.

It was firm beneath the thin tube top, and when I rolled my thumb
around I could feel the rubbery bump of her erect nipple.

Her breasts weren't very large. My hands could palm a basketball and
her tit fit inside easily. But I was surprised that there was so
little sag when I pulled the tube top up, exposing her mocha mounds.

Tina gently pulled my head down. I got the idea, opening wide and
sucking her tits into my mouth. I went back and forth, squeezing one
with a hand while the other was suckled, then switching off. "You've
got a good touch," Tina said. "I guess you've done this before?"

I smiled, pinned her nipple between my teeth and tugged softly. She
sighed and leaned back against the window, drawing me with her.

I am not a rough man but this was not some tender scene. I can't tell
you what all was going on in Tina's head, but mine wasn't making any
distinctions about age or any allowances for our different lots in
life. You put a beautiful half-naked woman in with me and I'm not
gonna sit there with my thumb up my ass.

You want to call it animal, well, all right. All I know is we were all
over each other no holds barred. I never have found two of the buttons
off my shirt. My cock was already stiff as a tire rod before I could
get my pants off, and Tina didn't waste any time peeling off her
pants. Maybe she ripped off her red satin panties, maybe I did. It got
kind of confusing there.

We were mostly naked and groping each other like two kids at a
drive-in movie before I finally thought to suggest the back seat. I
folded down the front seat and we crawled through to the back,
laughing at the tight squeeze.

The back of the stretch was like one of those '60s "conversation pit"
living rooms cross-bred with a Vegas nightclub. Soft black leather
seats on three sides; a bar and entertainment center along the outer
wall of the passenger side, where the rear door was too. Black shag
carpet on the floor, chrome and ebony everywhere else, with pull-out
black Formica tables alongside the seats that reflected the tiny
lightbulbs outlining the bar and running along the seams of the
ceiling. I could have flicked a couple switches to fill the space with
soft jazz from the SurroundSound and set the lights twinkling, but we
were too impatient.

I pulled off my shoes and socks and threw them into a corner with
Tina's pantyhose. She grabbed some plush throw pillows from the seats
and stretched out on the floor.

I suppose she looked even better in younger days, but damn if she
didn't look mighty fine right then. Of course, the smoked glass
windows didn't let in much light and the feeble glow of the little
bulbs helped to hide any minor imperfections. But there were a lot of
major perfections. Her legs were still among the Seven Wonders of the
World, cocoa curves sinuous as a panther. Her body retained its
youthful trim. And her face -- all edges and planes glowing like
well-polished mahogany -- it was like a goddess had come down to
Earth.

I didn't waste much time on worshipful awe, though. This woman exuded
sex from every pore and there was a spark of wanton lust in her eye.

I crawled up beside her and we immediately started pawing each other.
Before long her long fingers were curled around my cock, milking it
like a cow's teat. I squirted out some precum and Tina smeared it all
over my rod. When that wasn't lubricant enough she held a palm up to
my mouth; I licked it liberally and she used that.

Meanwhile I had a hand skating down to her wiry bush, and further. I
could already feel the heat rising from her as my palm covered her
slit. I squeezed gently until her legs were thrashing around and then
slowly brought my middle finger to her pussy lips. It slithered around
and over them until I could feel her fluids beginning to leak out.

I entered her in stages, like sneaking up on a deer. First riding
along the opening, then pushing in, just enough to spread the lips
slightly. Pause. Stroke up and down, not quite in and not quite out.
Push a little more. Hold there, roll thumb over her clit. Wait until
she stops squealing and advance. You do it right. It will take 10, 20
minutes and reduce the woman to a puddle of goo.

This time, though, i wanted action. The third time Tina begged me I
stuck my finger all the way in and started rocking it back and forth.
I got her going so good she dropped my cock and just lay back.

She clawed at her crotch as she jerked and twitched more than a trophy
muskie. I managed to get two fingers inside her and picked up the
pace, bam-bam-bam. Turned out Tina moans and hollers in key, too.

Just when she seemed to be on the verge I pulled my hand away. Tina
propped herself up on her elbows to watch as I crawled between her
widespread legs. With my cock dangling just above her cunt, I bent my
head down to suck on her tits.

"None of that shit," she growled. "I want it in me now."

Tina grabbed hold of my rod and stuffed it into her hole. I obliged by
shoving it in the rest of the way. She moaned her appreciation -- a
middle C, I think.

I read some stuff that makes sex sound like Emily Dickinson's poetry.
Screw that. This was Delta blues.

I fucked Tina Turner and she fucked me back. It doesn't get any more
basic than that.

She was so pumped from my finger-fucking that she came just a couple
minutes into our humping, with a screech like the brakes on a runaway
train. Her legs scissored around me and her fingernails raked my back.
The song was true: Tina didn't do anything nice and easy.

I rode out the storm and then recommenced laying pipe. It was the
wildest sex of my life. What she lacked in tightness she more than
made up for in motion. At one point my dick slipped out of her and I
was half afraid it would crack in two as she frantically slammed her
hips into me before I could poke it back in.

After about 15 more minutes of rutting my balls tightened, my cock
thickened, and a molten shot of jism blasted into Tina's cunt. I
buried my dick deep as it pulsed a few more times. We kissed for a
minute before I rolled onto my side, exhausted and drenched in sweat.

Tina was soaking wet too, but there was a gleam in her eye as she
leaned her head to mine. "Not bad, Mr. Man. What do you do for an
encore?" Her hand reached for my cock again.

I groaned as she made contact. The knob was super-sensitive; her touch
was like electro-shock treatment. Tina laughed and grabbed again,
forcing me to flinch away. I was half-drowsy from the sex and weak,
not ready for a wrestling match. I wrapped her in my arms and kissed
her to get her mind -- and hand -- off my cock.

It was a kiss to build a dream on, with her body plastered to mine,
our tongues entwined. My hands slowly slid from her shoulders, down
her back, following her curves.

By the time I reached the squeezably soft orbs of her ass, my cock was
coming back to life. As I sank my fingers into her yielding flesh, I
drew Tina's body to me and my growing erection poked her in the
stomach.

She let out a growl that would do a grizzly proud. "Now, that's more
like it," she said, putting a hand between us and stroking my dick. "I
like a man who comes back for more."

Tina rolled me onto my back, still rubbing my rod. When she'd gotten
it good and hard she climbed on top and pointed my pecker at her juicy
slit.

This time we took it slow. Tina evidently wanted it to last as long as
possible. I wasn't about to argue.

She rode me at a slow canter, barely rising and falling. I grabbed her
bouncing tits and played with them while we slow-fucked. Every once in
a while she'd slide almost all the way off and stop, my cock just
caressing her pussy lips, then press down until I was completely
buried. And a few times she showed me what a dancer's body could do,
even at her age. Take the time she started bending backward. At first
she was just arching her back, her breasts jutting out while her hair
streamed down behind her. Then she kept going back, slowly, bending
like a swan. She kept my cock inside her as she went, lower and lower.
Her hair brushed over my knees. She kept bending. She kept me inside
her hot cunt. At last she was flat, her back resting on my
outstretched legs, her legs bent all the way back at the knees. I
could look down my chest and see my cock disappearing into Tina
Turner's slit.

Just as slowly she rose, her hands never touching down, her taut
stomach muscles rippling.

With a sheen of sweat making her skin slippery as a seal, she resumed
humping me while I tried to keep a grip on her hips. My dick wouldn't
quit. It stood tall as Tina rocked and rolled, sliding it in and out
in slow motion.

"Oh, lover, that's just how I like my men," she said. "Stay hard for
me, baby. I want to ride this stallion all day long."

I was happy to comply. I'd been around the block a few times by then,
but I'd never had sex like that. She made the hair on my arms stand on
end. She made my toes curl. Her cunt clamped on my cock, stimulating
nerve endings I didn't even know I had.

By then the whole limo reeked of our funk and my crotch was wet and
sticky from the fluids pumping out of her cunt. Still she slid up and
down my pole in waltz time. At times the pleasure was so intense I had
to grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut.

Even so, I was a long ways from orgasm when Tina warned me she was
getting close. I slid my thumb onto her clit. It was like pushing the
button in a nuclear silo. Her body exploded, great hiccuping jolts
alternating with stiff-as-a-board paralysis. She hit higher notes than
an opera singer as droplets of sweat sprayed out from her flailing
hair.

Tina collapsed on top of me, chest heaving, for the last dying embers.
"Whew, boy," she whispered in my ear. "You about wore me out."

"Almost," I said. "But not quite yet."

I rolled over on top of her and let my hard cock slip out. It was a
bit of a tight fit in the limo, but I managed to pick her up and carry
her over to the bench seat along the side. I put her down on her back
and took hold of a leg in each hand, lifting them high in the air,
just grazing the ceiling, as I knelt between them, hunched over to
keep from hitting my head.

She was so slick inside by then that I wouldn't have gotten any
friction at all if I'd entered her the usual way. But when I lifted
her legs and crossed her ankles I made her slit tight enough to send
shivers through me as I plunged into her cunt one more time.

My hands roving her long, silky legs, I pounded away at her pussy. She
was grunting, I was groaning and our fucking was making a squashy
noise all its own.

"Fuck me, honey!" Tina shouted.

"Take it all, baby," I replied.

"I'm taking it. Come on, harder! Harder! I'm going out in style,
honey. Fill my cunt!"

"You want it, you got it."

I had one of those orgasms that sneaks up on you like a freight train.
It rumbled and throbbed deep within my balls for a full minute before
it finally released with a mind-ripping roar as the hot cum gushed out
of me and into Tina's greedy cunt.

I lifted my face to the ceiling and bellowed like a bull moose. It was
that good.

After the last few spurts escaped I pulled out and rolled off the seat
onto the floor. I watched as Tina put her own hands on her pussy,
rubbing and poking until her body rippled uncontrollably. Her head
fell back as the convulsions rocked her, wave after wave.

At last her body calmed. Her hands fell away from her cunt, one
dropping off the seat and dangling inches from my face.

I kissed her fingertips, tasting the mingled fluids on them. My lips
went up her arm, around her neck, until I pressed them to Tina's own
full lips.

As I kissed her, my hands, quivering with exhaustion and awe,
fluttered over her nakedness one last time, memorizing her slopes.

That's about where the story ends. Maybe we could have talked some
more, but after we got dressed and climbed back into the front seat
she almost immediately fell asleep on my shoulder. She was out so
completely that I had to carry her into the hotel. One of her guards
spotted me and Tina was lifted away from me. That was the last I saw
of her.

But, sometimes, especially late at night, a song comes on the radio.
Whoever I'm driving, they might complain. But I don't care. I crank it
up.

That's right, Tina. I hear you.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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