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Corner Two Series Recap:

1. Angela’s Revenge (in Loving Wives). A May-October affair begins as Greg Carpenter rescues Angie Carrier from her abusive husband at a road-racing track.

2. No Place to Play (In Erotic Couplings). Angie divorces her nasty husband and encourages Greg to go racing himself, where he crashes hard at Corner Two.

3. Old Guy, Model, Ex-Wife (in Mature). The boss buys into the team after some suggestive persuasion from Angie, while Greg becomes suspicious about her.

Angela’s Special Friend

My boss and crew chief, Rod Grantham, was keeping watch outside our motel room in suburban Detroit. Later, my son Marty would relieve him before Sam, our engine guy took over until dawn. The enclosed ‘Grantham Graphics Trans-Am Camaro’ trailer would be under close guard all night, a deterrent to the more than occasional theft of valuable racing machines.

Inside the room, my love Angela and I were snuggled close in bed, ready to indulge in our now-traditional “Good Luck” send-off. Tomorrow we’d be racing at a nearby little road course in the Motor City suburbs. I’d spectated there many times with friends, but this was a first for our race team. I knew there were tricky bends on the circuit, so we’d need some luck.

“Shhh…. One of them will probably be sitting just outside our window,” Angie reminded me as I moved closer and clutched her half-naked body.

“Ha… wouldn’t this give Rod something to dream about if he heard!” I joked.

“That’s not funny. What if your son is out there?”

“Ok… that’s different. I’ll be quiet.”

“Good, or you can just forget about it for tonight.”

“What! And miss our good luck?”

I’d been sternly warned. Angie was always a hot number in bed, but she demanded discretion. Right now, she still wore her sexy underthings, and I was eager to remove them.

“Nice stuff you had underneath today,” I admired, pulling the sheet back.

“For you.” Then she whispered, “It always gets your old motor running,” a teasing reference to the more than twenty years between us.

“Hey, I’m always throbbing when you’re around, baby!”

“So… take me for a ride,” she grinned, cupping her hand around the bulge in my boxers. “Hmmm…. I’ve always preferred a stick shift.”

“And I like your gear box, Ang,” I jibed. “Let’s get you out of those sexy things.”

She leaned close to French me as I reached behind her to undo the clasp. Her probing kiss was accompanied by a tighter squeeze of my stiffening shaft. I gently rolled her over and quickly slipped the matching red panties down her thighs. The fabric was already damp, with the pleasant scent of her desire.

Soon our busy hands and mouths had us both eliciting appreciative sighs. Angie’s smooth, mounded skin was irresistible to me, and I began to devour it down from her neck to her succulent tits. Her nipples swelled into erect nubs as I coaxed them with my lips and tongue. She moaned with pleasure, arching her back and tossing her head back. At the same time, her long fingers methodically stroked my hard cock. I had to fuck this woman, and soon!

“Ready, babe?” I urged.

“Do it… but quietly.”

“My pleasure!”

“Mine too.”

I knelt between Angie’s spread thighs and slipped a fat pillow beneath to lift her pussy into perfect target range. I knew she liked being elevated like this- made her feel a bit slutty- and I was going to take it farther with something new. My rod found its mark and slowly plumbed her juicy depths. Her silken channel gripped tightly as her arms pulled me down to kiss again. Then our fevered bodies began to rock rhythmically against one another.

“Good luck tomorrow. Your first time,” I whispered between strokes.

“Same to you, honey.”

“There’s a first time for everything… like this.”

That said, I came up on my knees again, my cock still buried inside. Then I brought my hands under her thighs to lift her legs up. Angie understood and helped by raising them and spreading wide. My hands grasped her feet to hold them apart, and we fucked acrobatically for a while, me rolling deep into her with each thrust. At the same time, I gradually edged her legs backwards until they pointed to the ceiling. So far, so good.

Pressing back some more, I leaned into Angie until she was almost bent double, totally submissive to my deep penetration. A young, lithe woman like Ang could bend this way without breaking. But to rest her long legs a bit, she brought them onto my shoulders and wrapped them around my neck. Now I was her captive! Looking down, I could see the arousal on the beautiful face beneath me and hear her pleasured moans.

We picked up the pace.

“Fuck me!… Yes…. Yes…. Good!… Good!” she chanted urgently with each stroke, her eyes rivetted on mine so close above now.

In response I pounded into Angie harder and faster. She lifted her pelvis up against me with every jab, slapping our groins together in sheer animal lust. This position rubbed her stiff clitoris along the bottom of my engorged almanbahis cock with every jab. Our breath was ragged, and she sensuously tossed that hungry pussy back at my greedy cock. I knew that this couldn’t last much longer.

Suddenly we both came hard, peaking almost simultaneously in a flurry of passion beyond control. Somebody might hear us, but at that moment we just didn’t care. The extreme heat of love and sex overcame us with this intense fucking that went on- and on- and on- until finally I heard:

“Enough! Enough! I can’t breathe!” Angela gasped. “You’ll break me in two!”

I stopped and pulled myself away.

“Sorry, baby…. It’s so good!”

“I know…. Amazing!”

“First time… like that.”

Then all was quiet before there was a tap at the door followed by a throaty “Harrumph.” It was Rod.

“Everything’s clear out here. OK in there?” he chuckled.

“Damn! I told you to be quiet!” Angie hissed, her finger to her lips.

“It’s all under control, Rod.”

“Lucky bastard,” I heard him mutter.

I had to agree.


My name is Greg Carpenter and Angela Carrier is my lady. I’m a 58-year-old graphic designer and she’s about 37, though it’s hard to get her pinned down on that. She’s a beautiful woman, lithe and shapely, a model for much of her adult life. I’m tall and fit and still have most of my hair. But I sometimes wonder how Mr. Average ended up with this lovely and intelligent gal about the same age as my son?

Angie still calls me her Knight in Shining Armour because more than two years ago I rescued her from her abusive husband Rocco. He’d smacked her hard across the mouth, splitting a lip- a lot of blood. So I rushed her to the hospital nearest the road racing circuit where we were. From there, I took her home to their penthouse in the nearby city.

Within hours of accidently meeting, we were going at it on her sofa- a heated rush like a pair of teenagers. A few months later she moved in with me when her husband threatened her as their divorce proceeded. Now we’re an established couple- nothing official, though we both wear a gold ring. Maybe one day we’ll take it farther?

We shared another passion- motor racing. Angie was awarded a 50/50 split in her divorce, plenty of money, and we used some of it to go racing. I got my competition licence and Angie used all her charms to rope my boss, Rod Grantham, into sponsoring our car, a vintage replica of Roger Penske’s 1968 Trans-Am Camaro. That’s what brought us to this road course in suburban Detroit.

Last night was different from what had become our traditional pre-race send-off. An amazing new love-making position yes, but this time it was a send-off for both of us. Angie had earned her novice competition licence and would be taking her turn piloting the Camaro in Michigan.

How did this development come about?

During the previous winter, Angela had fulfilled our agreement with Rod Grantham by promoting his expanding graphics business at automotive trade shows. She drew plenty of people to The Grantham Graphics booth, dressed in our team colours- sometimes wearing blue shorts, white logo T-shirt and cap.

Now that he was financially involved in our race team, Rod had developed a new product line. It was a vinyl wrap, an easy-to-apply, lightweight alternative to paint for custom jobs and racing machines.

It was a perfect fit for his company, and I was spending plenty of time getting up to speed on the computer design of these wraps. Rod decided to sell in Canada and across the border, where he intended to use Angie and our Camaro to promote his new venture. Hence this trip to the race facility in suburban Detroit.

During the fall and winter, Angie met many people from the automotive sector at trade shows. One of them, Valeria Granatas, a well-known fictitious female driver, engaged in extended conversation with her at Rod’s booth at the Detroit show. When she learned that the display vehicle belonged to Angie, the driver urged her to get a competition licence.

Valeria: “I like the vintage car behind you, a late-Sixties Penske Sunoco Trans-Am Camaro.”

Angela: “It’s actually just a replica. My partner chose it, but I’m the owner.”

“So, who drives?”

“He does. Why?”

“You should too. No reason that you need to be a cheerleader, a lovely face to pay the bills.”

“What! I’m more than that…”

“So, drive it then, like I do. Get a competition licence and go for it. Any woman can, especially in her own car!”

“Hmmm. It’s a thought.”

“Look. You two could co-drive. Driver changes in longer Endurance events. I bet you both would like that.”

“We probably would. Hey, I’ll think about it…”

“Let’s talk more about it over a coffee when you take your break. Maybe I could convince you?”

“Well… OK. I’ll tell Rod I’m going now.”

Valeria Granatas was living in Detroit and filling in as a driving instructor at the same track we’d come to this weekend. She is a strong personality and in a half hour almanbahis giriş convinced Angie that she should sign up for the program. Val would personally assist with her on-track training, and since Ang was from out-of-town, she’d even arrange dining and accommodation for the weekend.

My partner was very pleased with all the support, though I had a niggling feeling. Why was this racing driver taking such a personal interest in my lady?

With this professional help, Angela breezed through all the necessary knowledge and track components. Her quick thinking and reflexes worked to her advantage, leading to an SCCA- Sports Car Club of America- novice licence.

By May, she was ready to go racing, and her instructor suggested the same track where she had already practiced. It was only a few hours from our home, and not as high-speed as our tough international circuit north of the border. Angie liked that Valeria would come to coach her too.

Not long after we arrived in the pits, Val pulled up in her shiny black Porsche. She made a beeline for Angela and hugged her tightly with a kiss on the cheek before Ang did the introductions to everyone else.

Sam follows racing almost as closely as I do, and he recognized her immediately. He shot me a look that asked, “What the Hell is SHE doing here with us?”

Val is an attractive brunette with olive skin and a broad smile. In her black driver’s suit, she looked every inch a racer, solid and athletic, muscular but still feminine. She projected an air of confidence, no doubt built on her many achievements during fifteen years on the track.

Angie praised her to the crew.

“This is my driving instructor, Valeria Granatas. Some of you might know her from television or motorsport news. I was so lucky to have her as my coach! She’s the best, the one who convinced me to do it”

“I’m not her instructor anymore. She’s going to be a good one. I wanted to be here for her first race.”

“You want to see your little chick fly,” I joked in reference to a fledgling bird’s first flight.

Val grinned and playfully looped her arm around Angie’s waist.

“Angie as my chick has a nice ring to it.”

We all laughed a bit uncomfortably at my bad joke and her suggestive reply. I could see that there might be some chemistry between them, and I wasn’t the only one. A bit later, Marty commented to me about it.

“What’s with Angie and her instructor? They seem very friendly….” He left the last word hanging.

I knew what he was suggesting and although it had occurred to me too, I covered for her.

“They spent four intensive days together when Ang was getting her licence. You know she’s friendly with everybody, so I’m not surprised Val wanted to come to see her drive. Apparently she doesn’t live very far from here.”

Novice drivers are encouraged to walk a new circuit with a seasoned racer before putting a wheel to it. Val volunteered to walk us around, pointing out the best lines through difficult corners. Every track has a Corner Two, but this one is basically a broad, flat right- hander at the end of a short Start-Finish straight. The arc is consistent and there’s plenty of run-off area if a driver gets it wrong. Nothing like dangerous Corner Two at our own track, where I’d already tangled and lost.

Corner Four looked to be the difficult one here, though there is room to slide off without hitting any big obstacle. Like dreaded Corner Two in Canada, this one is an uphill run with a blind spot at the top before plunging down the slope on the other side. The bend is right in the middle of the turn. Drivers basically take it without seeing what’s ahead.

Valeria advised a wide apex on the approach, with a move to the inside on the way down. She told us to watch cars well ahead to help guess whether or not one could have spun on the other side of the crest.

Angela was eager to try her skills in competition and Val had her buoyed up. Ready to race, my woman was already a pit lane winner. Her blue and yellow Team Grantham driver’s suit fit her perfectly, accentuating her tall, lean body and subtle curves. Her long hair flowed behind her before the helmet went on, and she wore lipstick. But I knew she had a competitive nature and was not to be taken lightly behind the wheel.

Since the track is almost surrounded by newer residential areas, racing is limited to 10:00 AM until 6:00. There’d be time for each of us to drive solo, morning and afternoon. We had also entered the event-closing endurance race, an hour-long competition between a variety of full-fendered cars, with a mandatory driver change sometime between the twenty- and forty- minute mark.

This was a regular club meet so the entry list had only a few competitors with cars as large and muscular as our Camaro. The only other Grand Touring One- GT1- entry was an older Corvette. Fifteen coupes and sedans would race together in Group 4, and there’d be first-place trophies awarded to the winner in the four classes within the group.

I noticed almanbahis yeni giriş tha there were a couple of Mini-Coopers entered. These little buzz-saws from a lower class within Group 4 could turn on a dime. We’d have our hands full with them here at this tight little circuit.


Race day was bright and cool, no prospect of rain. Angela decided she preferred to race in the morning instead of being nervous for half the day waiting her turn. Val and I would watch from up at Corner Four where there is a good view out over much of the track.

Yellow stripes of tape were applied to signify that the driver was a novice, a warning to others to pass with care. While the guys did this, Val and her student huddled together for some final advice and encouragement before she faced Group 4.

As the starter lined the cars up in the mock grid, I was surprised to see our Camaro directed to the last row. I guess he didn’t want Angie up front where GT1s and other fast cars might force novice mistakes by pressing from behind. Instead, she’d have opportunities to gradually pick her way forward through slower cars as confidence grew.

By the time the pace car began to lead the field on their warm-up laps, Valeria and I were along the outside fence at Corner Four. I found her easy company, full of enthusiasm and racing anecdotes. But we stopped chatting when the green flag waved, and the angry racket of racing engines shattered the morning quiet.

Angie was driving carefully, holding position to avoid mistakes. I’d never seen our car at speed before and it looked damn impressive thundering up the hill before diving downhill. As the cars roared off into the distance we could talk again.

“Your wife is a quick study. She followed a perfect apex through there, outside on entry then inside on exit.”

“Oh, she’s not my wife. We’re together a couple of years now.”

“But you both wear gold rings so I thought…”

“Maybe some day. How about you? Married?” I ventured.

“Yes,” she replied without much enthusiasm. “He’s in real estate and not much interested in racing. George travels a lot on business and I follow my own schedule during racing season.”

“The opposite of Angela and me. We met at the track. Love racing!”

The cars were approaching again. We noticed that our Camaro had pulled away from a couple of smaller sedans gridded near the back. Angie seemed to blast through Corner Four even faster than last time. I wondered how many more cars she’d blow by in the next lap. Then they were gone.

“You say you met at the track. Where? Up in Canada?”

I told her the name and then asked, “Ever raced there?”

“Quite a few times. In the old American LeMans series and more recently the Pirelli Challenge. It’s fast and difficult but I like it. A real challenge.”

“What’s the hardest section for you?”

“Corner Two. That blind downhill plunge off-camber is not forgiving. The tire wall comes at you fast if you get it wrong!”

“I crashed there last year myself. And that’s the corner where Angie and I first met”

We both laughed at the irony of it.

They were around again, and Angie had moved up a few more places, getting around an old Volvo and a fairly stock Miata hardtop. Val nodded her head in acknowledgement because we didn’t want to distract her by waving. Anyway, Angie had her game face on, totally focused on her driving.

“She’s moving up and takes the same line through the corner every time. Very consistent!” Val remarked.

“I wondered if she’d be able to manage the Camaro, because it’s a heavy brute. A real handful to drive.”

“Angela’s very capable. Don’t underestimate what she can do.”

“I’m sure you must have surprised some guys out there.”

“I did, and I think that Angie is going to surprise you some day. Maybe in a lot of ways,” she added, and I thought I saw her look sideways at me and smirk.

“What do you mean?” I asked, but she didn’t reply.

Only later that day did I feel the full impact of her words.

The cars were close again. Angie had moved up to mid-pack, although the diverse group was spread half-way around the track by now. A powerful old Corvette led the race, followed by the Mini-Coopers and a hot Subaru WRX. Most drivers had settled into a rhythm and barring some mishap the race would probably end much like the order now.

“She’s good, Greg. I’m so proud of her.”

“Me too. You’ve been timing her. How’s she doing?”

“Very steady. Just three or four seconds a lap slower than the lead Corvette. And it’s just her first race!”

“I guess you taught her well, Val.”

“Angela has real potential. I’m going to keep coaching her. You’re going to see more of me in future.”

” I know she’d like that.”

“And you?”

“You give her confidence, so sure, I’m glad you’ll be helping.”

“That’s so good to hear!” she said with more enthusiasm than I might have expected.

The laps wound down with Angie holding her own in the middle of Group 4. Val suggested we head back to the pits to meet her when she finished the race. When the checkered flag flew, the Corvette crossed the finish line a short distance ahead of the snarling Mini Coopers. Counting cars, we realized that Angie had come in seventh, a solid outing for a rookie.

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