Flamingos Ch. 22

I spent most of the night holding her, comforting her when she would whimper in her sleep, and plotting an assassination. I was one of those "tweeners" when I did my trick for my country. Vietnam was in the past when I joined, and I didn't make the Grenada thing. Delta Force was something new but I did make the Rangers, 1st Battalion. 75th Regiment based at Hunter, in Georgia where we trained incessantly and I qualified on small arms from our Baretta M9 through the M4, M60, and Remington 700 in.308 where the qualification was done at 500 yards. I even fired one of those insane Baretts although that hog was WAY too much for me. We learned a dozen hand-to-hand techniques and I was still spending a couple of hours a night two nights a week until we went full-time in the travel trailer in a Shaolin do (the classic Chinese Kung Fu) dojo.

In other words, when I say I was plotting an assassination, I'm not bullshitting.

I could see it in my mind, easy as a walk in the park. These guys would do that to a woman? I figured I'd just walk into their group, my well-broken in Colt Defender in.45 ACP in hand, and start shooting. The first 8 would be easy, one shot each, center mass, drop the magazine and reload. Then I figured it would just be mop up. I imagined a few would get away, nothing to do about that, but I doubted they would do much but run. Then drop the pistol into a lake, regretfully, I really like that little gun, come back to the trailer, hook up, and be gone.

I could see it, and, honestly, I was enjoying it.

I was in full rage, you know? Adrenalin was flowing and I WANTED to do it.

She broke my fantasy (my reverie?) with a groan and said, softly, her voice breaking a little, "help me up, David, please. I need to pee."

So I rolled out of bed, helped her stand, steadied her when she stumbled, and went into the kitchen while she did her business. I got one of our travel cups with a straw, filled it with ice and water, shook a couple more of the Tramadol into my hand, and when she opened the door I handed them to her.

She smiled, took the pills, sucked at the straw, handed it back, and limped back into the bedroom.

I crawled in with her, brushed the hair back from her face, kissed her forehead, told her she was beautiful, and held her until I felt her go back to sleep.

I was too keyed up to sleep and when she started snoring, a dangerous-sounding snore deep in her throat. I watched for a few minutes to make sure she was okay.

Then I moved into the kitchen area, sat at the little table, broke the little Colt down, and cleaned it carefully.

I was still up when she limped into the front room.

She smiled a half smile through a puffy lip and a swollen eye.

"Put that away, David," she said, pointing at the gun on the table, "it's done so let's move on."

"Ashley," I started but she closed the distance between us, and touched my lips with her fingertip shushing me.

"Put that away, David," she said again, "let's head out. There's no good if you wind up in prison."

"I won't," I said, feeling confident.

"No, you won't," she said, brushing my forehead, "because there will be no reason. Now feed me something and hook us up and get us out of here."

So I did.

And we left the Texas/Oklahoma border behind us.

I just drove west for two hours and at the next town with "Camping" on one of the little blue roadside signs I pulled off, found the campground, something called, unimaginatively, Sleepy Hollow. They had a space so I gave them the credit card and spent a half hour getting everything set up.

"Put out the flamingos," she said.

When I didn't move she smiled, that crooked smile.

"Don't worry, David, I won't be riding off on any motorcycles again," she said, "but I need someone to show a real interest."

When I still didn't move she stepped to me, kissed me, and said, "go ahead now."

So I did.

I tuned up and started strumming and in a few minutes, she came out of the trailer in her, well, what I was thinking of as her "fuck me" outfit. She had on Daisy Duke cutoffs that left the bottom third of those big globes of her bubble butt on display, and a long-sleeved checked shirt, I think it's called Gingham, tied below her clearly bra-free breasts, making kind of a titsack. Her sandals had ankle straps. If it hadn't been for the bruises so dramatically on display, she would have looked very good. Well, she looked good anyway, but the bruises did detract from the image.

A couple of couples stopped by but when they looked more closely at her they walked on.

The third couple showed a huge age gap. The man was, I guessed, 40 or so, very, well, "substantial" is the word for his appearance. He was very well groomed, with hair suggesting weekly trips to a barber or stylist, a firm body showing regular trips to the gym, carefully maintained tan showing a lot of work on it. Dark hair shot with grey and ridiculous, almost movie star, good looks.

If he was 40, the woman on his arm was pushing 80. She was tiny, wrinkled, cute rather than pretty, but cute nonetheless.

He ignored me and went to Ashley.

"Who did this to you?" he asked, brushing his fingers very carefully over her damaged face and scowling at me. I was pretty sure if she pointed at me I'd have a fight on my hands. But she didn't.

"I got in with a bad group the last town we were in," she said.

He looked at her, very carefully, very professionally I thought, and then looked at me.

I rolled up onto the balls of my feet, ready if I needed to defend myself, but he just offered his hand. "I'm Brett," he said, "and I'm a doctor. If you'll take care of my grandmother here I'll take her back to my trailer and make sure she's okay."

I laughed.

"You do know," I said, "that if I read this in a book I'd probably throw the damn thing across the room for having an unbelievable plot line. But sure," I added, "I'm Dave, this is Ashley, and I'll be happy to tend to your grandmother."

He chuckled and shook, a firm handshake, and then crooked his finger, beckoning the tiny woman over. She came, moving slowly in that way of truly old people and I raised my estimate of her age to 80-something.

"David, meet my grandmother MaryLou. Gramma, meet Dave," he said, very formally.

Up close I could see that this was a truly old woman. Her face was a mask of wrinkles. She had that wrinkled skin, what I've heard called "crepe skin" everywhere you could see. Her hair was obviously a wig, and not a particularly good one at that. Her glasses were thick, making her eyes big, and she had old-person-hair sprouting from her ears.

For all of that, she wasn't unattractive. She certainly wasn't pretty but she was kind of cute and certainly was interesting.

"I'm worried," Brett said to Ashley but loud enough that I could hear, "about this," and he touched her cheek below her eye where she was very swollen, "and this," and he touched the very black bruise on the small of her back on the left side. "So please let me check you over," he finished.

She smiled up at him, the first true smile I had seen since she got back from her misadventure.

"That would be nice," she said.

He bent and kissed his gramma on the forehead, took Ashley's hand, and they headed off.

"Well," MaryLou said, moving close and doing the two-hands-on-the-arm thing women seem to know on an instinctive level gets to men, "it's just you and me I guess."

Up close, she was even tinier than I thought. She was maybe 5 feet tall although I guessed more like 4'10" or 4'11" and certainly no more than 80 pounds or so. Her tight jeans set off how tiny she was and the sleeveless blouse she wore showed the arms of a stick figure.

Okay, and she was old. This would, without any doubt at all, be the oldest woman I had ever been with, including my girls from when I was a kid at mom's nursing home.

"MaryLou," I asked, smiling, "I have to ask. What is your age?"

She grinned then, and the even white teeth were obviously kept in a denture cup overnight.

"Guess, first," she said.

So I made a big show of making a very scientific estimate of her age. I brushed the soft skin of her cheek and then very lightly tickled those hairs in her ears with the tip of my fingers. I touched the soft wattle of crepe skin under her chin, tested the softness of her skinny arms, brushed at the wrinkles around her eyes, and lifted her chin with two fingers, bending to look at the skin exposed.

She was smiling at me, grinning actually.

"Well?" she asked.

"Mmmmmmm, forty," and I hesitated a bit, "three," I said, shooting for a number that I figured was about half her age.

She laughed then, and it was a pleasant sound. An old woman's laugh, age and smoking and whisky coarsened, and reached up, her movement quick, and grabbed my ears.

"For that," she said, and her eyes were bright with her smile, "I am going to fuck you raw."

Her laugh was infectious and I laughed with her.

"You are, are you?" I asked.

There was that grin again and those ridiculously white teeth and she pulled me down with hands that still held my ears and kissed me.

It was a good kiss. Hell, it was a great kiss. Her lips were soft and her tongue was warm and wet and busy.

I had to bend over, well, I was forced to bend over by her hands on my ears, and I wrapped my arms around her. She WAS a stick figure. I could feel ribs and vertebrae and when I ran my hands down her arms I felt the elbows as the biggest things on her arms.

And the kiss lingered.

She did the strangest thing. She released my ear and used her finger and thumb to pinch my nose closed while holding the kiss. When I breathed out she breathed in and when I breathed in she exhaled into my lungs. We were sharing a breath and it was the strangest intimacy I could imagine.

I was getting a little lightheaded as the oxygen in our shared breath was depleted before she finally broke the kiss.

Her eyes were shiny as she looked up at me.

"We can start now if you'd like," she said.

I smiled and said, "as much as I'd like to, I'm starved. Come on, let's get something to eat and then we'll see who makes who raw."

Her smile was very good as she said, "I could eat."

We loaded into the truck and headed into town.

"That's ours," she said as we passed a big 5th-wheel travel trailer with a big red Dodge Ram 2500 pickup in front of it.

I wondered, briefly, How Ashley was doing under Brett's ministrations.

We found a diner, well, a bar and grill, on the outskirts of the town, and ordered the house special, something called a Slopper which turned out to be a double hamburger/Italian sausage sandwich, served open faced with about a quart of thick green chili sauce accompanied by the biggest onion rings I had ever seen and a pitcher of beer served, they advertised, at "precisely 34 degrees."

I was fascinated as I watched her match me, bite for bite.

"How," I said, holding her eyes, with my best "serious face" on, "in the fuck do you do it?"

"What?" she asked around a big mouthful of burger and sauce.

"Eat as much as I do and weigh nuthin'?" I asked.

She laughed that pleasant laugh of hers, and said, "I'm one of the lucky women, honey. I didn't start packing on weight when menopause hit, I lost every fat cell I ever had and they seem to stay away."

She grinned at me and deliberately stuffed an oversized double bit of the sloppy sandwich and started chewing, her mouth opening with each chew.

"Raw, huh?" I said.

She looked at me, speculatively for a second, and then stood and walked away. I watched, chuckling, as she deliberately twitched her skinny ass.

I lost sight of her in the crowd and went back to my dinner.

I was chewing and watching a particularly fetching barfly dancing with some cowboy. She was good too, doing that almost boneless dance as her hips moved, snakelike, and I kept wondering if her tits would actually fall out of the halter top she barely wore.

My concentration was broken when MaryLou waved her bra and panties in front of her face.

"Raw, baby," she whispered into my ear before sitting down and attacking her Slopper again.

I laughed and took the bra and panties and stuck them in my pocket.

We finished the sandwiches and then danced a few dances. I was amazed at how she moved and, more to the point I guess, at the stamina she showed. Hell, I was breathing harder than she was when we finished a passable Jive after the band finished up Great Balls of Fire.

It was still pretty early, about ten, when I paid the check and led her out to the truck.

I opened the door, as I always do, and watched as she giggled, unbuttoned her tight jeans, unzipped, and pushed them down and off.

"Denim irritates," she said, giggling.

Jesus, there was nothing to her. Her thighs, even at the top, weren't much bigger than my arms and she was right, she was obviously irritated. Her labia, with just a sprinkling of very coarse hairs, heavy enough that I wondered if they would conduct electricity, dangled and was red in the dim light. She had no ass to speak of, her skinny gluteus maximumus muscles barely visible.

She giggled, reached up and grabbed my neck, pulled me down for a kiss, and climbed up into the truck.

I suppose I have been more aware of being with a half-naked woman, but I can't remember when. I kept glancing over, her swollen, irritated labia on display fascinated me.

She sang along with my Pandora blues station and her slightly hoarse voice sounded good. I looked forward to playing for her.

Back at the trailer I ran around the truck and opened the door for her catching an interesting view of 80-something-year-old pussy as she stepped out onto the running board and then the ground. She seemed completely uninhibited about being naked from the waist down.

"Come on, youngster," she said, taking my hand and pulling me, "at my age, I don't waste time."

I laughed and swept her off her feet, my left forearm under her knees, and my right under her shoulders. She laughed and wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Gonna carry me across the threshold?" she asked.

"I am," I said.

And I did.

I stood her on the floor, just inside the door and she turned and smiled up at me.

"Finish undressing me," she said, "and then give me a minute."

The undressing consisted of merely untying the shirt tails and slipping it off of her.

"Now pee and get in bed, sweety," she said, "I need a minute to get ready."

And so, again, I simply did as she asked. I peed and brushed my teeth, as she watched, took off my clothes under her watchful eyes, turned down the bed, and crawled in.

I was surprised a little when she shut the doors to the bedroom, but I just waited. By now I was curious as much as anything.

I heard water run and the toilet flush. Some more time passed and I wondered what she was doing but figured whatever it was it would be fun.

The door from the bathroom slid open and she walked in. She left the bathroom light on so I could see clearly.

If there had been any doubt about her age before, it was gone now. Her wig was gone leaving her nearly bald head on display, a scant few hairs laying against her scalp, still matted, presumably from the wig. Her teeth were gone too, leaving her with that sunken-lipped mouth of the toothless. Her face was scrubbed clean of any makeup.

She looked like exactly what she was, in other words, an octogenarian with an attitude.

She crawled up onto the bed and sat back on her knees. I wondered for a second about arthritis but didn't care anymore when her fingers tickled my erection, starting at the base, right at my scrotum, and slowly brushing up until she just touched the tiny opening of my urethra.

"Well," she said, her voice a little distorted without her teeth in, "at least you didn't run screaming from the room."

"It's your show," I said.

She grinned then, showing the empty mouth, and swung her leg over me to straddle me.

"Now, baby," she said, using her hand to point my erection up and starting to lower herself onto it, "MaryLou keeps her promises."

She was dry and the skin of her vagina was oddly tough, almost leathery, as she slowly lowered herself onto me. When I reached for her breasts, barely flaps of skin with oversize nipples showing dark and hard in the diffuse light, she slapped my hand.

"As you said, youngster," she said in that oddly distorted voice, "my show."

She started moving her hips in that boneless way only a woman can ever achieve. It was an odd sensation, a cross between vaginal sex and masturbation. And she was very good.

Those few hairs she had were so coarse they were almost scratchy. And her control was superb. She would squeeze and relax as she moved, making it feel even more like masturbation.

"You like my worn-out old snatch?" she asked and the use of crude term broke my concentration.

"I like all of you," I managed, starting to wince and trying to adjust my position. She had promised to fuck me raw, and I was getting sore.

She started her rhythm again, bringing me along.

"Do I please you?" she asked, and again, the conversation broke my concentration. I had been getting close to my release but now I was back to, well, not quite square one but maybe square two or three.

"You do," I said, grunting now as she squeezed and rocked her hips again.

She got me close again, right to that point where I was starting to throb, and this time she said, "now seriously, youngster, how old do you think I am?"

I groaned as I felt the immediacy leave again. My balls were aching and I swear I could feel my prostate swelling. Besides that, the shaft of my erection was getting very sore.

"Are you going to torture me all night?" I asked by way of response.

She smiled her toothless smile and said, "if you avoid answering."

"Oh God," I groaned and then groaned again when she squeezed where I was sore,

"Okay, okay," I said, holding my hands up in surrender, "I think you're about 85."

She giggled then and cried out, "DING DING DING WE HAVE A WINNER!!! The actual number is 86." and her hips started up again.

This time she used that educated pussy and finished me.

I came with a groan, my back arching, and she bent forward and was covering my mouth with hers.

As my body spasmed she bit, well, she gummed, my lower lip hard enough to make me yell.

"That's right, youngster," she hissed into my ear, gumming my earlobe and drawing another little yelp, "fill me up."