A Beachcomber in Spain

She usually comes to the beachfront bar during Sunday brunch. I first thought she was English like most of the other patrons, mostly retirees, aka pensioners as Euros say, but she always spoke to the bartenders in Spanish- usually Ignacio, or Eileen, an aspiring American writer/journalist like myself, working behind the counter.

Though the place always served a lavish English full breakfast and local tapas type finger food, she always orders the same: croissant, side of fruit, nuts or cheese, a bottle of white wine- half of which she pours into a wine sack before leaving. A pleasant looking woman in her mid-50s, ruddy red cheeks, smiling face framed by salt and pepper close-cut perky bangs, her greyish blue eyes under floppy hat behind round pop art deco sunglasses define a cute, charming broad shouldered woman, five foot eight or so, obviously overweight, yet not morbidly so.

"Ciao, Ig-gy."

"Adios, Amalie," replies Iggy.

As she fills her wine sack, fingering through paper bills to settle her tab, she glares at a group of three teenagers acting quite cruelly toward her. They seems to be sharing a booth with grandparents enjoying their stay on holiday. Rude stares, eye rolls, giggles.

Her eyes above the lowered sunglasses meet mine as the grandparents gasp, trying to hush the youngsters.

I crane my neck toward the corner of the bar, "Put her on my tab Iggy, por favor."

She ambles away from her bar seat, smiling slightly with a finger pressed aside her sunglasses, mumbling , "Muchas gracias, señor."

"How does someone like that think she looks in a bikini?"

"Harrumph! hush," says the embarrassed grandfather.

Starting back to my seaside flat, I now see her walking along the shore, behind the metal detector that doubles as a cane to assist her awkward stroll.

"Paralysis or something," Iggy surmised a few days ago, while Eileen suspected cerebral palsy.

"Her trouble speaking..."

I head down the sandy slope as she nears the overhanging dock pier, "Any luck?" pointing to her metal detector.

"No hablo," waving a hand abruptly .

"Ah... OK, Ama. Me llamo Jacob"

"Graci. Yak." speeding up her path to the dock pier.

I look on embarrassingly as she ambles off, turning away only to hear her shout, "Yakb! Mire!" as she bends over to snatch a shiny trinket from the sand. "Vamos." she cheerfully waves me

towards her underneath the pier.

A sweeping breeze under the cool shady pier upends her hat. She removes the unbuttoned collar shirt with military pockets holding her few personal items, then nudges me against a pillar before shoving the trinket in my shorts back pocket. She beckons me to sit on a sloped mound at the base of the pillar, unfastening her swimsuit top, circle motioning me to look away towards the water. She tosses a small lotion bottle next to me.

"Uh, ah!" she chides as I quickly turn and peek at her applying lotion to her nether regions, the sounds of hands slapping against her ample buttocks, "Uhh, ahh, ooohh."

Now she kneels beside me, lifting off my t-shirt. Naked except for a thin gold neck chain, and that shouldered wine sack, she squirts wine into my mouth, amply spilling some on my shorts as she laughingly helps pull them off.

I'd never been with a much older, rather aggressive women before, so the bulge of her belly, her bodacious veinously marbled bosom and thick thighs enveloped me in waves of strange excitement. Her thick thighs in particular seemingly displayed an acquired strength from so many beach strolls as she straddles my chest, guiding my lips up into her belly and down to her moist muff. With a hearty laugh she swings around, landing her jiggling lotion-scented butt cheeks around and over my mouth, tugging, then sucking my cock. I playfully, loudly two-hand slap her ass, kissing on it before entering from behind cumming fast, hot, hard once, and at least once more again.

We lift each other to our knees and kiss. She offers the rest of the wine sack as we dress. Her phone buzzes, she vigorously waves me away with a quick smile and sharp dismissive nod, immediately becoming engrossed in video chat with two young women, relatives perhaps.

Weeks later at the bar, asking around about Amalie, Eileen hands me an envelope, "She left you this the other day, haven't seen her since."

A theme park trolley token, now dangling from that thin gold chain. I should've checked my pockets!