Flamingos Ch. 18

"Okay," I said, feeling a little nonplussed.

I walked her back to the bedroom and said, "rest," while I dressed quickly.

"Are you sure you don't want me to get Steve and Ashley?" I asked.

She sort of whisper/yelled "GO!" while she started the deep breathing of another contraction.

I chuckled, twiddled my fingers in a wave, and headed out.

I punched "Walmart near me" into Google Maps, received a notification that the nearest one was 8.7 miles and 14 minutes away, and started following the blue line.

I got there in the 14 minutes Dr. Google predicted and started on my list. Back in the baby section, I found the diapers and pacifiers. I bought a couple of the biggest ones on a whim. Then it was to the pharmacy section where I found the extra strength Tylenol, the Aspercream, and after searching, the enema bag. There were four to choose from and I selected the four-quart size.

On a whim, I went to the grocery section. I found a jar of Vlasic dill pickles and then a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream.

I checked out and when I started the car I had a thought and quickly Googled "coffee enemas."

After reading I grinned to myself and did a search for "coffee shops near me."

A Starbucks was, of course, too much to hope for, but I did find "Mabel's Coffee" and set the GPS for that. It would only be another 12.7 miles out of my way, adding about 20 minutes to my excursion. So I went.

At the drive-up, I said, "I need a gallon of your strongest coffee."

The girl in the little window smiled.

"You know that will be a hundred dollars, right?" she asked.

"I do now," I said, and handed her my credit card.

It took another five minutes or so to fill the big styrofoam container and I was watching the clock nervously while googling how to deliver a baby and how to give an enema.

Finally, I got my gallon of coffee and headed back to the trailer.

When I walked in she was pacing around the front room.

Christ, she looked good. The air conditioner was turned down as low as it would go, and I felt like shivering. She was sweating. Her hair was matted with sweat. As I watched, she leaned over, braced herself on the table, and started doing that rapid-breathing thing we've all seen in a movie or on TV.

I watched, fascinated.

The contraction passed and I started emptying the bag onto the table. When she saw the jar of pickles she breathed out a soft, "bless you," and tried to open it. When she gave up and looked at me, for the first time the word "beseechingly" made sense to me. I chuckled, grabbed the snaffler, the soft rubber circle that helps with lids, and got it open. She picked out one of the pickles and started eating it like she hadn't had anything to eat in a week.

When I put the gallon of Rocky Road on the table she said "spoon" around a mouthful of pickle.

I laughed, opened the band around the top of the ice cream container, got the lid off, and handed her a spoon. She shoveled a spoonful of the ice cream around her mouthful of half-chewed pickle and breathed a contented sigh.

Her initial desperation passed and she started eating like a normal human being.

Well, like a normal human being who was starving to death.

She actually slapped my hand when I reached for the spoon sending me into paroxysms of nervous laughter.

I got over it, eventually, and when she was immobilized by the next contraction, about ten minutes later, I snatched the whole gallon and spoon and ran away, laughing. I scarfed a few bites and took it back, of course.

While she was eating I prepared the coffee enema. By then the coffee had cooled to a bearable temperature and I filled the red bag. I looked at the selection of syringes - there were two - and selected what I later learned was the douche syringe figuring its slightly bulbed end would make sure it didn't slip out if she was taken by a contraction while I was taking care of her.

I had done a quick study of the subject - yes, it's amazing what you can learn on the internet with a cellphone - while I waited for the coffee to be ready. I had a good idea of how I was going to do it.

When I went back into the kitchen she had slowed down.

"Ready for your," and I hesitated. Enema seemed like such a harsh word.

"For your cleanout," I finished, weakly.

She looked at me and burst out laughing.

Then she stopped as another contraction hit her. There was that odd, rapid, whistling breathing again.

"You mean my enema?" she asked around a mouthful of pickle.

"Yes," and I felt like an absolute idiot because I felt a blush spreading.

"In a few minutes," she said, taking another bite of the pickle and, surprising me by offering the gallon of Rocky Road. It was over half gone by then.

So I had a few spoonfuls of the ice cream while I watched her finish another pickle and then dig back into the ice cream.

She took a deep breath, smiled, and said, "thank you, baby, I think you saved my life."

I just laughed. God, she was still beautiful even with her lips smeared with chocolate ice cream.

She started the breathing thing again and I peeked at the clock.

"Eight minutes," I said.

She smiled and said, "still a ways to go but making progress."

Then she looked at me and said, "pretty much last chance, David. If you think you can't handle this, say so and I'll call Steve."

I said, "I'm okay, but it's up to you."

She grinned then, stood, and said, "Okay, doc, let's get me cleaned out and get this party going in earnest."

The way our travel trailer is laid out, the bedroom is right at the front where the body is rounded. Right behind the bedroom is a sort of hall into the front room and, separated from the bedroom by a sliding door, the bathroom makes a kind of a suite.

I had taken the fluffy bath mat, flamingo patterned, of course, that normally laid on the floor in front of the shower so wet feet didn't hit cold floor, folded it into thirds making a pad. It was on the floor at the foot of the bed.

"Knees here," I said, pointing.

She smiled and said, "you've done this before."

"Nope," I said, "internet study."

She giggled but got to her knees where the rug made a pad.

"Elbows here," I said, pointing at the foot of the mattress.

She put her elbows where I had pointed, laid her palms flat on the bedspread, and sighed.

I dipped the end of the syringe into the Vaseline jar I had prepositioned on the sink and then used my thumb and forefinger to spread her cheeks. The smooth circle around the puckered little portal was stained pretty dark. I thought it was kind of sexy as I gently inserted the syringe. I watched as the muscles tightened and the last inch or so of the syringe settled in.

"Okay," I said, lightly rubbing her back, "ready."

"Unhhhh," she said, and started the breathing thing again.

I glanced at the clock. 10 minutes. I wondered if that was normal. I had always thought the process was very linear.

The breathing stopped, she took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, sweetcheeks, flush me out."

The heavy-duty bag I had bought had a clip that offered adjustments. I opened it to the first click, wanting to fill her slowly, giving plenty of time for the strong coffee to work deeper into her bowels and get her fully stimulated. That's one of the things about a coffee enema. Besides caffeine being a stimulant, it was also a laxative.

I rubbed her back and brushed hair off of her face while the bag slowly filled her.

"Oh, wait a bit," she said and started the breathing thing again.

Eight minutes again.

So I closed the flow with the little clip while she breathed and made fists with her hands.

When she relaxed I opened the clip again and let the bag finish draining. When it was empty I closed the clip, slipped the syringe out, said, "hold that position," and washed the thing before carefully coiling it and putting it away.

"Doing okay?" I asked and she laughed softly.

"Ummmmm, I'm in fucking labor, how do you think I'm doing?" she asked and then went into that rapid breathing thing.

I laughed and rubbed her big ass.

When her contraction passed, and I noted it had come 6 minutes after the last one, and she was breathing normally I said, "Okay, come on, sit."

She sat, sighed, and I heard the coffee start to flow.

If you're not familiar with how travel trailer systems work, the toilet doesn't dump right into a sewer. There's a fairly shallow toilet that holds what you put into it until you operate a lever on the side. That opens a flap at the bottom, dumps the pee or poop, and starts a flow of water. It dumps straight into a tank and, with two people, every third day I would go out and operate manual valves to dump the tank through a big hose into the park's sewer system.

The active word in all of that is "shallow." As she started expelling her coffee I reached over and pulled the little lever, letting everything fall straight into the holding tank. It was interesting that about the only smell was coffee as she sat and expelled what I had put in her.

She paused as a contraction hit and then finished.

"Back to your spot," I said, "and I'll clean you up," after she assured me she was done.

She resumed that position, knees on the pad, elbows on the bed, and I got one of our older bath towels and carefully cleaned her up.

She giggled, reached back, spread her cheeks, and said, "if you want it you can have it."

I patted her ass and said, "I'm okay, now let's get those babies out of you."

I helped her stand.

She wanted to walk so she paced while I grabbed a couple of our beach towels and fashioned some padding for the little laundry baskets.

Then she schooled me on what I would need to do.

It seemed so simple. Baby comes out. Use the little snot sucker. Tie off the umbilical cord using the fishing line I bought earlier. Tie a second time. Cut, BETWEEN the two tied-off places. Put the cord in one of the big Ziploc bags and then in the freezer. Clean the baby up. Tell mom she's doing good. Wait for number two.

Easy, right?

Actually, it was in the event.

She got down to every minute and I started getting nervous, wondering if I had made a mistake.

About the fifth time I asked if she wanted me to call Steve and Ashley she grabbed me by the front of my T-shirt, looking like something out of a gangster movie, and said, "if you ask me that once more I'm going to kick you in the balls."

She wasn't smiling.

I didn't ask again.

We were a little over eight hours into her labor when she said, "that's it, I NEED to push."

The contractions were right on top of each other by then.

She pushed. Her face turned red. She grunted. She strained. And the baby stayed in.

That went on for an eternity, or maybe about 15 minutes, and I was getting seriously worried. It was bordering on scared.

"Okay," she said, panting, "help me stand."

"WHAT?!?!" I asked.

She managed a smile.

"Help me stand, David," she grunted, "and we'll do this injun style."

"Huh?" I said, offering her my hand.

"We'll let gravity help," she said, getting to her knees and then standing.

She was standing in the middle of the bed then, squatting, her head almost touching the ceiling. Travel trailers do NOT have high ceilings.

"Okay," she said between harsh little panting breaths, "get ready to catch."

"Oh, God," I said softly, but moved so I could get my hands under her.

The sound she made was exactly what Charlie Brown did when Lucy pulled away the football.

She grunted and the sound moved to "AAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

It kept going. I couldn't believe she could hold that much air.

And the baby started out.

She gasped and deep breath and did it again.

And I fucked up the catch.

If you've never handled a newborn, and I mean NEWborn, fresh out, it's a slick little thing. It didn't help that I was so goddam nervous at that point I was afraid I'd wet myself. The baby started out, head first, and with the second push a shoulder emerged, and then it was like the baby, it was a girl if it matters, squirted right out. I had her head and shoulder in my hand but she just slipped through and hit the towel pad with a gentle thump.

I got the snot sucker, the packaging called it a "nasal aspirator," and stuck it in her mouth, worked it a couple of times, then each nostril. Then I slapped her ass and she cried and I cried and LuAnn cried as she settled back onto the bed, breathing hard.

I did the tie thing with the fishing line, cut the cord, dried the baby off with a towel, and handed her to LuAnn. And I cried again when I saw the tiny thing latch on to that big tit.

I tied and cut the other end of the cord, put it into the Ziploc bag, and then into the freezer.

Then I went back to check.

The contractions were still wracking her body, almost continuously but she was smiling, oddly enough, and humming a little lullaby when she could catch a breath.

"Okay," she said, "get ready, and don't drop this one, okay?" she added with a giggle before going into that weird breathing again.

Again, it was either forever or maybe a half hour. I was an emotional wreck by then, happy and scared and excited and who knows what else.

The second twin was almost anticlimactic. She pushed and the head appeared. Another push and this time I didn't drop it.

I did the suction thing, got it crying, did the cord thing, dried and cleaned, and then handed her the second baby who promptly latched onto her vacant tit.

Christ, I was crying like a fucking baby myself.

And my dick got hard.

She looked absolutely female right at that instant.

Her legs were parted and she was gaping open. As I watched she grunted and the mess of the afterbirth appeared.

That scared me again. I had read what to expect but it looked like she was fucking bleeding to death.

But I got myself under control, realizing what I was seeing, and went into the bathroom, wet another small towel with warm water, and went back to clean her up.

I don't know that I have ever seen a more beautiful female form. The huge roundness of her belly was gone but she still had the baby weight making soft rolls down her torso. There was a baby on each tit. And she was gaping open.

"One more chore," she said, her voice still thick but her breathing under control.

"What's that?" I asked, smiling.

"I'm still all cramped up," she said, "and it hurts. I need you to massage it please."

"What?" I said. Okay, it wasn't my best performance.

Her face contorted.

"I'm cramping, David, reach in there and massage please," she said.

There was very little resistance as I did as she asked. My hand went in easily, I mean, hell, a baby had just come out, hadn't it? I found her uterus, almost wooden it was cramped so badly, and began massaging it with my thumb and fingers.

It was too hard, and too slick, though, I couldn't get a good grip.

"Deep breath," I said, and started working my other hand in.

"Jesus," she moaned, and took a deep breath.

With two hands I could hold her in place while my thumbs pressed. I massaged for almost a minute like that when suddenly the cramp relaxed.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she sighed.

She groaned as I pulled my hands out.

"Aspercreme," she sighed, her voice low.

I got the bottle of Aspercreme and started working it in where she had to be sore.

As the analgesic took effect she sighed again, this one a long, low sigh of relief.

"Fuck me, David," she said.

"Huh?" I said, again showing I'm not always the sharpest knife in the drawer.

"Fuck me, please," she said, "show me I'm still desirable."

Well, I WAS hard and she did ask.

It was terrible sex actually.

She was SO stretched there was no friction at all.

"You're beautiful," I said and kissed her, a sweat salt and snot slick kiss after all the work she had been doing, "you're sexy," another kiss, "all men want you," another kiss, "you are Gaia, Earth Mother," another kiss."

I don't really know how long I kept that up. She was so loose I was having trouble finishing myself.

And about all she could manage as a response was a smile.

But I finally came, and she said, "thank you, David."

I went into the front room to relax in my recliner and maybe get some sleep.

I don't think she heard me go. She was already snoring.