Flamingos Ch. 03


I was awake, and Paula had drifted off so I got up, made some coffee, and decided to take a walk and see how many flamingos I could find.

It was a warm morning and a big campground. Inside the first fifteen minutes, I saw a half-dozen flamingos and exchanged waves with one couple I recognized from last night’s party. I pulled the names, Marie and Randy, from my memory.

Randy waved and walked over. He was about 50 and one of those guys who obviously spent a lot of time in the gym.

“Hey, Dave,” he said, “barbecue here this evening, bring your guitar.”

I grinned. “What time?” I asked.

“Come on by around 5 o’clock,” he said.

“It’s a date,” I said.

I exchanged “good mornings” with a half dozen people, making sure to greet their dogs too as I continued my tour, finding the laundry room, bathrooms, playground, and swimming pool. I dipped my toe into the hot tub beside the pool and found it satisfactorily hot and promised myself some hot tub time later.

I had reached the office and begun the return part of my tour when a striking strawberry blonde stopped me. I had noticed her last night and dug through my memory bank to come up with Estelle. In the sketchy light last night I had guessed her at 50 something. In the daylight, though, it was clear she was closer to my own 69 and I would not have been surprised to find out she had passed three-quarters of a century. But she was striking, nonetheless. She was matronly, about 5’7″, and thick. She had a pretty, round face, very jowly, with oddly smooth skin giving her eyes an interesting look. She was very busty and in her ankle-length dress – the word “beachwear” came to mind – and honest to God parasol, it was obvious she did wear a bra.

As I say, striking.

She came directly to me and did the two-hands-on-the-arm thing women do to stake their claim on a man. I was almost embarrassed for her husband, Stan (Sam?), as he stood aside, watching, but he was smiling.

“David,” she greeted me like we were old friends, “are you coming to Marie’s barbecue tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, flashing my best grin.

“Oh good, bring your guitar, I can’t wait to sing along with you,” she said.

Then she giggled and said, “I’ll be waiting, dear. I don’t want to lose out to Charlotte again.”

“It’s a date,” I said for the second time that morning and wasn’t really surprised when she kissed me, more than a goodbye peck.

A few sites up I stopped to watch as a 40-something was setting up a long travel trailer. He was going about it methodically, much as I did in fact, so he was doing it right. When he had everything set up he opened the back of his Yukon and surprised me by pulling out a wheelchair. He went around to the passenger side and lifted out a pretty woman, much younger, I assumed it was his daughter, and set her in the chair.

Her arms and hands worked, and she rolled around, looking at the site.

He did a walkaround, just as I always did, and then surprised me by opening the door, reaching inside, and putting a big plastic flamingo on the corner of his indoor/outdoor carpet.

He sketched me a good morning wave and then leaned over and said something to his daughter. She turned, smiled, and waved. I waved back and continued my tour.

In all, I spotted 23 flamingos on display during my morning constitutional. That made it about ten percent of all of the rigs I saw, surprising me at how many there were.

Back in the trailer I made a second cup of coffee, turned on the TV and found Fox and Friends, opened my little Google Chromebook, and went to work on a paper I was writing. I write papers for lazy college students. The few thousand dollars a year I make hardly qualify as a part-time job, it’s more a hobby. But it covers our lot rent most years. This morning I was putting the finishing touches on a paper about the economy of Guatemala. I know – YAWNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnnnnnn. The Fox News crew was delivering their morning dose of fluff and hard news.

It was a little past nine when Paula came out of the bedroom, yawning and scratching making me chuckle.

She is NOT a morning person.

“Mornin’ bright eyes,” I said, chuckling.

“Mmmmppfgahhh,” she replied.

She grabbed the remote, found the Roku channel, and put on her latest binge-watch choice – Grey’s Anatomy. I was barely aware as Grey and Yang and Izzy and George and Alex worked their way through the day’s drama. I was busy writing my conclusion.

Around 10 she stirred, two cups of coffee and a bagel inside of her. She bent, kissed me, theatrically lifted an arm and sniffed, went, “ewwwwwwwwwwww,” and headed for the little shower.

The shower in the travel trailer is not big enough for two, so I didn’t join her as much as I enjoy bathing her.

A half-hour later she came back into the front room, still naked but clean, made up, and hair fluffed nicely.

She sank to her knees before me, closed the laptop and set it aside, laced her fingers together, and laid her chin on them, her elbows on my knees.

“Say Anadolu Yakası Escort it,” she said.

After 40 years I’m pretty good at reading her mind.

“I don’t hate you,” I said.

Her eyes were holding mine as she said, “David, it was different. It wasn’t better but it was different. And I loved it. But if you’re at all uncomfortable we can stop. But please don’t hate me.” She got that all out in what I was pretty sure was a little speech she had been composing all morning.

I smiled, reached over and put the laptop on the side table, patted my lap, and said, “come here.”

She climbed up onto the couch and laid her head in my lap, smiling up at me.

I stroked her hair, brushing a few strands away from her face.

“Did you do any talking last night?” I asked, “or was it mostly just sex?”

She giggled and said, “well, there wasn’t much talking. Hell, Todd’s not very bright actually. Just one of those ivy league kids who landed a Wall Street job and has been doing well while everything was going up. Personally, I figure he’ll be broke if he ever needs to do any actual thinking.”

I chuckled.

“But,” she added with a mischievous glint in her eye, “he DOES know his way around a woman’s body.”

“Slut,” I said, grinning.

“I knowwwwwwwwwwwwww,” she said, smiling, drawing the word out.

“Well,” I said, “the lovely and interesting Charlotte and I DID do some talking. Well, more like she talked and I listened.”

“Oh?” she said, all interest now.

I told her the things Charlotte had told me. The matriarchy thing. The one-time thing. I took my time, wanting to make sure that we were both, as they say, on the same page.

When I told her of Charlotte’s, well, her “summons” to Tommy and what he had done Paula was squirming a little.

“You SLUT!” I said, grinning at her as I slid my hand down and found her wet, “you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She giggled but didn’t say anything for a few moments, and I was done talking for now.

“Is that,” she said, at last, her eyes holding mine, “why you did what you did when I got home?”

I thought about that for a minute.

“That’s part of it,” I said, “but mostly I wanted, and want, you to know that I’m not jealous and that I don’t find what we’re doing to be, well, dirty.”

She giggled and said, “well, as we’ve always told each other, good sex is often messy but never dirty.”

I smiled and said, “with you, my darling, nothing is dirty. I am yours and none of that has changed.”

She smiled, her happy contented smile, and said, “and I am yours.

We sat like that for a while, enjoying the casual intimacy of her nudity contrasted with my being fully clothed. When my hand slipped down and found her still wet she made a soft humming sound, sort of “mmmmmmmmm,” deep in her throat and parted her legs a little.

I brought her along very slowly, taking my time. With my left hand, I would brush a stray hair away from her face, caress her cheek, trace the line of her lips, or brush her eyelids. With my right, I slowly, very slowly, brushed her labia or traced her clitoris, or caressed her thick thighs.

Paula is like a man in her arousal. We’ve all heard about a man’s “precum” lubricating the head of his erection to help ease penetration. Well, she has her own version of “precum.” When I felt the sudden tension in her body I covered her labia and felt the rush of warm, thick, lubricating honey. When she relaxed I lifted my hand, my fingers soaked, drawing a thick string, looking like my own semen as white and thick as it was, and smeared her round mons with it, drawing a soft moan.

I stopped then, short of a full orgasm for her.

“Honeyyyyyyyyyyy,” she sort of whined.

“Don’t be greedy, slut,” I said, chuckling, “we have a party to go to at 5:00 and the hot tub is calling.”

“Bastard,” she said, but she was giggling as she reached down and masturbated, very hard.

I LOVE watching her cumface. Her orgasm turned her face into a rictus of pain and pleasure chasing each other, her mouth wide open in a silent scream, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

I brushed her hair back, watching as she came, and came again before relaxing.

“Slut,” I said.

“Bastard,” she giggled.

I was erect by then, well, a building erection was struggling against my tight jeans.

“Okay,” I said, “I’m going hot tubbing. Join me?”

“Sure,” she said, her breathing back to normal, “give me one minute.”

She rolled off of the couch with that grace reminding me what a good athlete she had been once. I watched her big ass disappear into the bedroom before following her.

She was rummaging through her little closet as I reached into mine and got out my flamingo swim trunks, something I had bought before we knew of the Flamingo Life, kicked off my shoes, stripped off my jeans, and shorts, and put the swim trunks on.

She had selected her black bikini. Not a buttfloss thong, but a string bikini. Strings across her hips held the two triangles Kartal Escort of material in place. On top, two strings tied behind her neck, and two behind her back holding two more small triangles where they needed to be to keep her modest. She grabbed a robe and I grabbed a couple of towels, slipped on my flip flops, and we headed for the pool.

Along the way we stopped to chat with a couple from last night, Greg and Jeanette, making sure they knew of tonight’s barbecue.

At the pool we watched as a few kids cavorted, jumping and splashing and laughing, under the watchful eyes of two moms. Then it was to the hot tub. I found the dial and set the Jacuzzi bubbles to going. When I turned back I saw Todd very theatrically “sneaking up” on Paula, taking exaggeratedly high steps, looking side to side. The image of a B-grade villain in one of the movie serials from my childhood ran through my mind.

“Mornin’, Gorgeous,” he said, embracing Paula from behind and nuzzling her neck.

She yelled and jerked free.

He was grinning, doing a reasonable Cheshire Cat imitation.

When he reached for her again she stepped back.

“Todd,” she said, and I heard the flash of anger in her voice, “kids.”

“So?” he asked, closing the distance between them.

I watched.

“So STOP!” she snapped.

I knew it was coming but didn’t intervene.

He reached for her again and she slapped him, hard, across the cheek. It was a slap straight out of a movie.

When he drew back his arm I DID intervene.

“Todd,” I said, moving between them, “I am 69 years old. But believe me when I tell you that if you touch her without an invitation I’m going to break your arm,” I reached out and touched his arm between the shoulder and elbow, right where the humerus bone runs, “right there.”

His eyes flashed and I saw tension.

“I know how,” I said, still calm although I had shifted my weight a little. All of those hours in a karate dojo hadn’t been wasted.

He held my eyes for a second and then I saw the tension leave him and knew I had won.

“There’s a time and a place for everything,” I said, patting his shoulder, “and this is neither the time nor place for fucking around like this.”

He turned without another word and stalked off. I wondered where his well-enhanced wife was but didn’t waste much effort on the thought.

Her bikini looked good as she shed her robe and I liked the looks she drew from the moms watching kids.

We relaxed, in companionable silence, as the jets of water and the heat offered gentle massages.

About 15 minutes was plenty and we got out and took another casual walk around the RV park. In her bikini top with the towel draped like a skirt, I thought she looked absolutely wonderful. We exchanged waves with folks we had met, and dogs that met us. We oohed and aahed over the high-end Class A we saw, smiling at each other when we noticed the flamingo beautifully airbrushed across the side of the slide-out room.

We had a light lunch, and then I took her to bed.

We laughed together as we told each other about the previous night. When I described Charlotte’s large, saggy breasts Paula giggled and played with her own tiny titties.

“I can get them made bigger if that’s what you want,” she said, a conversation we’d had before.

“I like them now,” I said, matching deed to word and latching on to her breast like a hungry baby.

She hummed softly as my hands started running over her body. She’s SO smooth, I love just caressing her. All those places where you expect to find SOME hair, forearms, for example, are just as smooth. I brought her to orgasm with my fingers and then moved around until I was on my knees between hers, and did it again with my mouth.

She found me hard.

“Come on,” she said.

I grinned.

“Are you sure you don’t want to save yourself for someone else,” I said.

She giggled and wrapped her legs around me.

“I’ll beg if you want me to,” she said.

“Hmmmmmmm,” I said, grinning my best wolfish grin.

“Please,” she said.

“Please what?” I said, liking that we had stumbled into something new.

“Please,” she said again, “pleeeeaaassseeee,” and I thought the growing desperation in her voice wasn’t faked.

“Are you sure you don’t want to save it for Todd?” I asked, smiling.

Her eyes got big and suddenly she rolled away, escaping from me before I catch her.

She stood beside the bed, looking down at me, her grin wasn’t a happy smile. It was more predatory.

“Now that you mention it,” she said and left the room.

I chuckled and rolled out of bed.

She was naked in the kitchen area of the travel trailer, making sandwiches. Her ass, as always, looked great.

“Lunch and a nap before tonight?” she asked, grinning.

“Sure,” I said.

So we ate and then slept in each other’s arms. It was sensual without being sexual, and when I said, “I love you,” before drifting off, I meant it.

I woke to the sound of the shower, rolled out Maltepe Escort of bed, and found Fox News on the TV.

I sat, sipping coffee when she came out toweling her hair.

I grinned. “You look hot, gonna get laid?” I said.

“I hope so,” she said and kissed me.

I showered and put on my cutoff jeans, Hawaiian print shirt, and flip-flops.

“Ready for the barbecue?” I asked.

She had on Daisy Dukes again, a halter top, and Roman-style sandals, the kind that lace up her calves. Jesus, she looked GREAT!

I grabbed my old Yamaha guitar, and the canvas folding chairs (mine didn’t have arms, better for playing that way) and we walked, hand in hand, down to Randy and Marie’s big 5th wheel camper.

Estelle was sitting in one of those canvas bag chairs. Hers had a sort of footrest built-in and she was looking very relaxed in those short pants I think of as pedal pushers, and a crop top showing a pretty big expanse of belly.

“Over here,” she said, smiling and waving, so I kissed Paula lightly and said, “I’m being summoned.”

She giggled and said, “so am I,” and I saw Tommy, Charlotte’s husband, waving at her.

So I joined Estelle at the site she had staked out.

“Okay, toots,” I said, “what songs do you know?”

It turned out, she knew a lot of songs from the 1960s, especially the folk-rock of that era. So we did “Leavin’ on a Jet Plane,” “500 Miles,” “Sound of Silence,” and a dozen others. She had one of those Ella Fitzgerald voices, crystal clear. It contrasted with my gravelly baritone making for a nice harmony.

Randy turned out to be a good hand with the barbecue grill. He fed us well. Our contribution was the gallon of Rocky Road we had bought in town. It was a good dinner.

When the witching hour of 9 o’clock rolled around we did the polite thing and packed it in.

Estelle and I walked hand in hand back to the travel trailer, like high school kids coming home from a date.

Honestly, I was glad it was a one-night thing in the Flamingo Life, and that’s how I was starting to think of it. She was over the top with her cute and bubbly teenager routine. There’s only so much of that you can take.

Inside she wrapped her arms around me and started kissing, like a lovestruck, and hormonal, teenager.

“Sit, baby,” she said, breathing hard, very theatrically, as she reached around to untie her halter top.

As the top dropped to the floor I saw the most obviously fake boobs I ever saw. They were fully a D cup and had absolutely no sag. They stood STRAIGHT out in the way NO woman’s breasts have ever stood out. Her nipples were large and long. They DID sag a bit under their own weight.

“Do I look young?” she said.

“Hell, if I was a bartender I’d demand an ID before giving you a beer,” I said, laughing, while thinking, “you look fucking ridiculous.”

But she was a woman and they were tits no matter how ridiculous they looked. The head above my shoulders wasn’t involved in this at all. The head of Wilbur, my one-eyed friend between my legs was in charge now. And Wilbur was very interested no matter how ridiculous she looked.

She was dancing now, making it a combination of strip and belly dance. And it was obvious she had practiced.

“Hold still a second,” I said and found the remote for the stereo in the little console on the couch’s armrest.

I flipped through the settings, finding the soft-jazz station Paula and I used as “mood music” sometimes. Something soft and slow was playing. Lots of saxophone in it.

I moved past her, smiled, kissed her quickly, and got a beer out of the refrigerator before going back and sitting on the couch.

“Dance for me, Estelle,” I said, my best throaty, sex-filled voice, “show me how a woman dances.”

She smiled showing too-even, too-white teeth, and started moving again.

She was actually a very good dancer. The way she moved in that oddly boneless way bespoke serious practice time, making me think she put in a lot of practice after her belly dance aerobics class or however she had learned her technique. But she had learned it well.

I smiled, thinking of the joke I used to tell when my daughter was in gymnastics – that those girls had to have their spines surgically removed before they got to Level 9. Estelle moved in that same fluid way as those girls had.

It was fun watching.

When it came to getting out of those short, tight pants, though, the image broke. They were too tight to be just dropped and kicked away, and as she moved to get them off her age showed. She looked young, hell, she looked ridiculously young, but her balance, and her muscles, were still those of the septuagenarian she was. She stumbled and had to catch herself a couple of times before she managed to get the pants off.

But then there was that youngness (if it isn’t a word, it should be) again, as she stood in only a pair of high cut bikini panties, no thong for her, and those moderately high-heeled sandals that were doing good things for her legs.

She danced for me, long enough to tire. She was sweating when she moved to straddle me on the couch, her knees beside my hips, her breathing a little ragged, her body shiny with her sweat, and she kissed me.

The kiss felt a little odd. Her lips were full but too hard. “Botox,” I thought.

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