Flamingos Ch 07

I woke first, for some reason I'm an early riser these days. The slight lightening through the window curtains told me it was around 6:00 in the morning, coming up on sunrise. Paula was snoring beside me, blowing little snot bubbles, a slight crust running from her nose to her cheek.

She looked beautiful.

I slowly eased out of bed, wanting to let her sleep. I peed, made some coffee, put Fox and Friends First on the television, and sat. I was mostly thinking. Oh hell, I was all thinking. I have no idea what Steve and Brian and Ashleigh had to say on the television.

I was asking myself the same question I had asked Paula last night - - "should we stop?"

I knew things had gotten out of hand last night but, then, when we were together alone again, it had been good. I smiled and said to myself, actually saying the words aloud, "hell no we shouldn't stop."

Satisfied with my answer, and feeling a stirring in my groin, I started making breakfast.

As I knew it would, the smell of bacon and coffee drew her from the bedroom.

She walked in, naked, rubbing her ass and her belly, walking in stiff little steps.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She smiled, closed the distance between us, threw her arms around my neck, kissed me, and said, "my ass is sore, my pussy is sore, my stomach feels like I threw up stuff from last week, and I had a cramp in my back when I woke up. I'm just ducky."

I laughed and kissed her again.

"Sit, baby," I said, "breakfast is almost done."

I put a cup of coffee, half-and-half, and sugar in front of her and turned to finish before the damn bacon burned.

She ate with gusto. Well, hardly surprising since she had burned a lot of energy last night.

Finally, done, she pushed her chair back, let out a nice ladylike belch, and said, "thank you."

"Let's go back," she said, "I'll take that damn baseball bat between his legs and you can have that mountain of fat."

The look on her face was challenging.

"Paula," I said, "you don't have to prove anything to me."

"I know," she said, "I want to prove it to ME! I freaked out last night, that's all."

"Baby," I said, covering her hands with mine, "are you sure?"

"Hell," she said, and her grin was not a smile of amusement, it was a grin of challenge, "after last night I have a MUCH better idea of what I can take up the ass."

"Slut," I said, grinning.

"Trying," she said, matching me tooth for tooth in the grin.

"Well then," I said, "you'd better shower. You're looking a little sketchy right now."

So I did the dishes as she showered.

When she came out she looked bright and cheerful and ready for anything. She was in bright primary colors, a very bright blue top tight enough that her irritated nipples showed up clearly and short silk shorts in a yellow so bright that if you stared at it things had a bit of a green halo around them when you looked away from her. She had her platform sandals on that tied around her ankles and big hoop earrings, a jangly bracelet, and her big gold dragonfly necklace. If you saw her on the street you'd assume she was a hooker.

Well, I suppose, given the way we were living these days, you'd be mostly right.

I showered quickly too, threw on a pair of cutoffs, a T-Shirt advertising a restaurant we had frequented for our few days on the Gulf Coast, flip flops, and I was ready to go.

And the fancy Class A was gone.

We stood there, surprised, looking foolish I suppose.

"They pulled out late last night," a man called. I looked over and saw him standing beside a travel trailer much like ours. A woman, his wife I supposed, was next to him and I wished I had seen a flamingo on display. She should have been modeling some "mature" products on television.

"Thanks," I said, with a wave.

So we made a tour of it. And again, I was surprised at how many flamingos we saw, either small ones like you see in front yards all over, bigger ones much more elaborate, and some subtle art, obviously the work of a talented airbrush artist.

We spotted the pool and spent a couple of hours splashing around. She was in a more modest two-piece this time but still looking god DAMN good.

And then back to the trailer where I let my fingers dry out while I took a nap in my hammock. Paula sat in her little rocker reading her latest chick-lit book.

I stretched and rolled out of the hammock and went inside to uncase the guitar.

The music had worked before we found the Flamingo Life, but now the makeup of the group was different. It was interesting to see how people interacted. As I worked my way through our repertoire, Paula and me singing, doing, for example, a pretty passable version of Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald's version of "Summertime," her doing most of the singing but me with my own favorites, mostly odd little bluesy pieces I had picked up, heavy on Tom Waits and Tom Petty and Kris Kristofferson.

I was surprised, very pleasantly surprised, when the couple that had told us the Class A was gone showed up.

"Jenny," she said, hopping up to sit next to me. "Do you happen to know 'Saint Louis Blues'?" she asked.

"Now that's insulting," I said, and started into one of the most iconic riffs in blues guitar.

Her singing voice was gravelly and deep, much different than her soft speaking voice, and she did justice to the song in sort of a Janice Joplin way.

It turned out her husband was Rick and he and Paula got busy on the grill. The impromptu pot luck party included hamburgers, hot dogs, brauts, pork steak, beef steak, and, of all things, Halibut steak. There was a variety of chips, dips, pretzels, cookies, and brownies. The gummies were THC infused, the beer was cold, and someone had found our blender and was making margaritas as fast as he could pour in the makings.

It was an enjoyable evening.

It was about 8:30 when I noticed Paula head off with Rick. I had figured out, not being completely stupid, that when couples paired off they tended to go to the man's trailer.

By 9:00 the party broke up leaving Jenny and me with a mess. She was a good sport and helped me gather up paper plates and used paper towels and plastic cups and the rest of the detritus of a party well played.

It was fun, just the two of us, talking and necking. They had been in the Flamingo Life for over a decade, pretty much for the same reasons Paula and I had entered it. Sex was getting stale and they were exploring.

We drank another two beers and had a couple of more hits on a joint, and it was like we were in high school or something, flirting and hinting at things to come.

Finally, I took her hand and led her into the trailer.

We fit together very nicely. She was big enough to be substantial in my arms, but not what anyone would call fat. Pleasantly plump would cover it nicely.

And the woman could kiss. Jesus, it was like our mouths didn't just fit, they matched. And her tongue, warm and wet and long explored inside my mouth, making my breath catch.

It was natural to lift my arms when she started tugging on the hem of my T-shirt. She held my shirt in that position, and when her tongue ran down the inside of my upper arm to my armpit and when she sucked, leaving a hickey I was sure, I couldn't breathe. She traced up, her tongue a living thing, until it found my mouth. She held me in that position, her mouth giving me waves of pleasure. I managed, between gasps, to say something like, "you're very good at this," making her giggle before finding my nipple and nipping, making me yelp.

Finally, she pulled the T-shirt completely off and tossed it on the couch.

She was looking up at me and what she wanted was obvious so I did the same thing to her. First I pulled her T-shirt up, capturing her arms in that straight-up-over-her-head position. I liked her bra. It was a sexy thing, mostly lace with wide padded straps. She was heavy-chested and needed the padding. I reached around and undid the six hooks one-handed, holding her in that position.

Her breasts were gorgeous. I had known they were big and when I peeked at the tag on her bra I saw that she was a 42D. But it wasn't just the size. There were full and firm too. Oh, she would never pass the pencil test. I doubted if she had since the sixth grade. But they were full and round. Large areolas, pale and the size of a coffee cup tightened as I watched, love bumps growing and her nipples, small in comparison, hardened too, hard little projections on the top of bumpy cones.

I nuzzled her neck and did the tongue down the inside of her upper arm like she had, leaving a hickey in the center of her armpit.

Her gasp was pure pleasure when I latched onto her nipple, and the sudden wash of her womanscent filled the room.

I finished pulling the T-shirt free and let her arms relax.

She smiled as she reached down and undid the button of my shorts. Her fingers were light as she traced the line where the cutoffs were a bit too tight, leaving a red line around my waist. And still, there were those kisses, those excellent kisses.

Damn, she was good.

She unzipped me and pushed the cutoffs down, my boxers with them. Her fingers were gentle as she cupped my balls, squeezing just the right amount to feel good while wondering if she would give pain as well. She gave the glans a little pinch, smiling up at me.

Obviously, she thought it was my turn, so I reached down to the button of the madras shorts she wore. There was just a hint of a muffin top where the material was tight, but the button was easy to undo, as was the zipper.

I pushed them down and looked.

And stared.

I eased to my knees to get a better look.

She had no labia and no clitoral hood. The labia majora, the big, thick outer lips of a woman's vagina, just weren't there. She stood still as I looked, obviously waiting for my reaction.

When I looked more closely, I could see very faint lines of scars. The phrase "genital mutilation" ran through my mind, but this was clearly careful and professional work.

Between her legs, there was no hint of the fullness you expect to see. Her labia minora, the delicate inner lips, so much like a rose you could understand why people compared a woman's inner-self to a rose, were exposed. There was no clitoral hood and her little vestigial penis, her clitoris, was pink and hard and beautiful.

There was no hint of hair. It was perfect too. There had been no razor or wax involved. This had to be the result of lasers and chemicals delivered over several appointments.

As I watched, a thick clear drop grew from where her lips hung, dangled if we're being crude about it. It grew and then slowly hung, a clear, silvery string that thinned to a thread before dropping with an audible "plop" to the floor between her feet.

"I had trouble," she said, her voice very soft and low, "achieving orgasm. It wasn't a big deal until we retired and entered this Life," and the way she said it reinforced the capitalization.

"So I went to my gynecologist," she went on, "to find out if there was anything I could do. You don't know what it's like, David, to not be able to finish no matter how hard you try."

I didn't say anything. This was her story.

She giggled softly.

"He ran about a zillion tests," she went on, "God, I felt like a goddam pincushion down there."

She giggled and said, "David, can we sit, and do you have a beer in that refrigerator?"

I offered her a seat on one of the matching recliners, got her a beer, got to my knees in front of her, took her hands, and said, "go on."

"He concluded," she said, "that my labia were too big, too full, that they offered too much padding," she giggled and added, "and here I had always thought my pussy was pretty good looking the way it was."

She drew a deep breath, took a drink from her beer, and went on.

"So he finally concluded that what I needed was plastic surgery. He contacted a colleague, someone who specialized in what he called 'labiaplasty,'" she went on, "who knew there WAS such a thing?"

She giggled then, I thought maybe a bit hysterically.

"The first time he, well, he 'trimmed' a bit away," she said, "but it wasn't enough. Oh, I could cum, finally, but it was a struggle. It took seven surgeries to get me to this point," and she lifted her hips, offering me a better view, "and David, I'd have more removed if I could."

Those thick, beautiful inner lips were running now, her thick mucus flowing in a silvery rope, her womanscent strong. Her clitoris was swollen, distended in her excitement. I guessed that talking about it made her excited.

I bent and kissed her pleasure bud, gently, and her entire body shuddered.

"That's nice, baby," she said softly as I kissed where she was wet and shiny.

Those delicate lips were beckoning and I kissed again, this time a lingering kiss.

She sort of moaned as I covered her with my mouth and began sucking very gently, pulling her deeper into my mouth, enjoying the way she swelled, the way she smelled, the way she tasted.

"Don't stop," she said softly and I chuckled. I had absolutely no intention of stopping.

"It's easy for me now," she said, a giggle in her throat, "but fair warning, it's messy too."

It felt odd, with no full outer lips offering resistance.

It felt wonderful, with no full outer lips offering resistance.

She came, almost instantly, filling my mouth suddenly with her thick, salty womanhoney. And I sucked gently, almost nursing, wanting to keep it going for her but also, on a deep level, wanting to drink her pleasure until I was full. I sucked and drank and enjoyed the way her hips rocked and her breath caught.

"Oh Jesus," she hissed, "nice."

I looked up, feeling warm honey run down my chin, and met her eyes.

"Do I please you?" I asked.

She smiled, a beautiful smile, a satisfied smile, and said, "keep trying."

As I bent forward and took her in my mouth again, those beautiful, wrinkled, full lips wet and warm and delicious, her fingers entwined in my hair and pulled me down, holding me against where she wanted me.

And I sucked, wanting to satisfy her, pulling more of her lips deep into my mouth, feeling the shudder run through her body as the consistency of what I was drinking changed suddenly. It was hot and wet and watery as she squirted into my mouth. Her fingers were twisting, painfully, in my hair, as she was whistling a high-pitched "eeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" sound.

When she pulled me away, fingers twisting painfully, making me cry out, I watched as a few final little pumps of her release flooded down the crack of her ass, oddly visible where her labia had been removed.

Her inner lips, swollen from what I had been doing, hung now as she sat back, relaxed, panting.

"God, it's beautiful," I said.

She giggled a little and said, "Come here baby, try me out."

I was hard, what I had been doing had got to me and the sheer uniqueness of what I was seeing was getting to me.

"Come on, sugar," she said, her fingertips pulling her lips open, that clear honey running freely.

When I hesitated, not unwilling but mostly looking, she rolled over quickly and got up on all fours, back arched, those excellent tits hanging free, swaying a little, and her beautiful, thick, nether lips showing, her missing outer lips making those delicate inner lips even more obvious.

"Come on, sugar," she said again, wiggling that big ass, "or do you prefer dealer's choice?" Then she reached around with her left hand, now supported on a tripod of knees and right hand, and pulled her cheeks apart.

"I won't say 'no,'" she said, doing that boneless thing with her hips that no one with a Y chromosome can ever pull off.

I moved up and took her from behind then. As I slipped in, she was slick and ready, and I went in all the way. It was a different sensation as I went in in that position, the way her swollen inner lips seemed to engulf my balls and lay against my pubis.

I liked it.

And then she squeezed and it felt like she was pulling me deeper.

I couldn't stop the little moan when she squeezed and pulled again.

"You like that, do you?" she said, smiling at me over her shoulder.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah," I said, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips.

"Well check this out, baby," she said. She started squeezing and relaxing and squeezing and relaxing quickly, almost masturbating me with her educated vaginal muscles.

"Oh Jesus," I said, again unable to stop myself.

She giggled, a sound of pure joy.

"I can finish you if you'd like," she said, "but I'd rather show you more tricks from this old mare."

I laughed myself, then, the spell broken pulled out, and slapped that big ass.

"Whatcha got," I said, crawling up to lay beside her.

"Welllllll," she said, smiling, "there's always these."

She lifted her breast and began working her nipple, hard enough I could see the skin reddening. I watched, fascinated, as she worked your nipple and areola and a thick drop, very white emerged and ran down the bumpy skin of her areola.

"Go on," she said, smiling, lifting, offering that heavy breast.

I was oddly reluctant when it came to it. I moved closer as she lifted and jiggled her breast, another drop flowing.

Nature, as they say, took its course. I latched on like a hungry baby. It was natural to take more of that soft, warm tissue into my mouth and then begin to massage her nipple and areola against the roof of my mouth with my tongue. I could feel the love bumps of her areola against my tongue. Feel her breath catch as I sucked, gently. Feel her milk begin to flow. It was thick and warm and sweet.

Her voice was husky as she stroked my hair.

"Every boy wants mommy's milk," she said, "and every mommy wants to feed."

I was harder than I had ever been as I nursed, being fed from her body. I shuddered when she touched me, brushing where I was hard and throbbing.

"Easy, baby," she said, using a finger to break my latch on her breast and offering me the other one.

I latched on like a vampire this time, desperate for more, wanting my belly full.

We lay like that, me nursing, vaguely aware of making soft little mewing sounds while she brushed my cock very gently. I could feel my balls swelling, an ache deep in my belly as my prostate was swelling, soreness from the way my swollen cock was engorged as never before.

"Rest a moment," she said, covering my face with kisses and then rolling off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

I was so hard and ready that I was tempted to masturbate, but I figured this was her game.

The change was subtle, but very effective when she came back. The carefully applied makeup was gone and her face showed her age now. Carefully hidden lines around eyes were on display, jowls that had been carefully camouflaged were now noticeable, even the hair, damp and straighter, made a difference. Mostly, though, it was her mouth. She had obviously left her teeth in the bathroom.

"Well," she said, striking a pose, her missing labia leaving those beautiful full inner lips on display, her breasts still full and dripping, "at least you didn't run screaming from the sight of me without the warpaint."

She giggled and crawled up next to me, kissing as she moved, until her mouth found mine. Her tongue probed my mouth and when mine searched hers the bare gums, no teeth in the way, brought me even harder, something I would not have thought possible.

She pulled back then and grinned, her lips pulling back and putting that toothless mouth on display.

"Do you know the poem, David?" she asked, and giggled.

"Ummmmmmmm, There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold. The northern trails have heard strange tales that would make your blood run cold," I replied, with the opening lines from Robert Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee," the only poem I ever memorized.