Hunting Pixies

Hunting Pixies, Part 5

My bathroom at the Brownwood is spacious and well appointed, the walk-in shower more than large enough for two, with both rainhead and handheld fixtures. Margaret drops the wet towel on the floor to join its mate from our earlier session. I shake my head with a little disbelief at the happy mess we've made together in only a few hours. Then look to the towel rack and realize the only two clean towels we have left are out in the room. "Back in a sec," I say, and move to retrieve them as Margaret leans in to start the water of both and get the temperature adjusted.

I come back in having retrieved our semi-used towels from the chairs where we'd left them and put them on the counter, picking up two washcloths in the process. Margaret has donned a shower cap, tucking her flowing auburn tresses away from sight. She is still gorgeous. She explains, "You don't want to have to wait on me getting all of this dry." I smile and nod.

Margaret pointedly looks at the growing pile of towels on the floor and giggles. "'That was some afternoon," she remarks, "you're setting the bar pretty high right out of the gate."

"Me? You're the one that seems to be teaching this old dog a lot of new tricks," I laugh. She gives me a playful punch and quick kiss.

"I think we're both discovering a lot of new things. I've only ever fantasized about most of what we've done."

"Same, and the fantasies don't hold a candle to the real thing," I sigh.

"No, they don't."

She pulls me in and holds me close, then tilts her head up as I tilt mine down, to share a deep, lingering kiss.

The room is now filling nicely with steam, and Margaret steps into the shower, testing the water with her foot and giving a contented sigh. "I hope you like it hot," she purrs, as she steps under the nozzle. I join her. The water is very hot, just at the upper level of comfort, but it immediately starts to soothe the aches from our sweet exertions before I realize they're there. We stand together under the rainhead, slowly turning so that we are sharing the spray of the nozzle on the wall from all angles, a slow dance with no music. The steam billows around us, and it occurs to me that all the years I have been with Beth, I can't say if we have ever shared a shower. I shake the thought away in the mist of the spray bouncing off of Margaret.

The heat is bringing a pink glow to Margaret's smooth skin. The water cascades over her soft curves. The diffuse light through the steam gives an otherworldly dimension to her beauty. If she's not a pixie in this moment, she's a water sprite, a nymph, a naiad of myth come to life. She smiles as she catches me staring, breaking my momentary trance.

I smile back as I remember we came in here to get clean. I damp the washcloths in the running water and pump a generous amount of body wash on each from the wall-mounted dispenser. It's some upscale private label brand of assorted botanicals with hints of this and essences of that. One that's supposed to be invigoratingly relaxing, or calmingly awakening, or some other oxymoronic combination of luxurious terms. In any event, it smells good, especially as I begin to lather Margaret with one cloth as I hand her the other.

We spend a long time soaping each other up, using the cloths and our hands to start, abandoning those at times to rub slickened body parts directly against one another. Her sudsy breasts on my lower back and belly were a highlight for me. My sudsy, and hard once again, dick sliding through the sudsy crack of her ass for her. Returning to the hands, we liberally explore and clean each other's every nook and cranny.

Margaret begins to repeat her successful assault on my prostate. I think she enjoyed that trick as much as I did. But I beg off, "Margaret, baby, I love what you're doing. But that well's gone dry for the moment. Give me a little longer?" She smiles in understanding, gives me a quick kiss, and then moves down to engulf my fully erect dick for just a stroke, squeezing my balls lightly until I groan.

"Just making sure I know I can prime the pump when I need to later," she teases. Then soaps everything back up so I'm squeaky clean.

She looks down between her legs as I gently wash her sex, exploring her folds. The soap, not the only thing lubricating my efforts, she moans. "I love the way your beard felt when you were going down on me," she sighs, "but I'm going to have to rub some cream on my inner thighs for the beard burn. Any idea where I might get some?" She gives my dick a gentle tug, and I playfully slap her hand away. She's relentless, and I don't mind one bit.

"Hmm, later for that cream, it's in limited supply. But I know where I can tap a seemingly endless flow of another kind of soothing liquid." With that, my up until now gentle cleansing of her sex gains purpose, and I move to quench her apparent need. She watches with a look of burning hunger as I soap both of my hands liberally, then meets my eyes and is caught by surprise as I move them to lift and massage her breasts. Palming them fully, squeezing gently, pushing my palms into the bullets of her nipples, then rolling them between fingers and thumbs, pulling a gasp from her as I pull them away.

Still working her breasts with my right hand, I move by left hand down to grip and part an ass cheek, holding it open with my palm. I then slide the left middle finger home in her ass in one smooth flow. She moans. My index finger joins it. She groans. I begin slowly pumping them in and out. She pants.

My left hand engaged, I pinch each nipple before bringing my right to cup her sex, squeezing all of her mound with it. "Oh fuck," she pants, "that's it baby, fuck me, so good..." I spread her labia with pointer and index finger, plunging the middle and ring finger into her core, immediately seeking the spot within, finding it, massaging it. My thumb starts bumping the hood of her clit. She's softly murmuring, babbling incoherent, dirty things, breathing raggedly as I bring her close.

"Come for me baby," I growled in her ear, tilting the balance and she explodes. Her wail crashing with the fall of the water from the shower, her fluids cascading down her tender thighs to join its flow. Her legs turn to jelly and I find myself holding her up by the fingers I have crooked in her ass and sex, and the palms cradling her. She wraps her arms around my neck to steady herself as she melts into me. I delicately extract my hands, soothing her as she comes back down.

"God what you do to me," Margaret groans, but she doesn't sound like she's complaining. "I would let you do that to me over and over, but I'm starving now. Come here, let me wash your hair." I bend slightly to make her reach easier, her hands rubbing and scratching my scalp feels heavenly. My short hair allows for a quick finish. I use a soapy washcloth to clean my hands again and gently give her "fun areas" another quick once over, behaving myself this time.

We rinse the last of the soap away, satisfied that we are clean enough to be decent in public. I exit the shower and grab a towel, handing her the other. "What time do you think it is," she asks?

"I don't know, has to be around seven?" I reply as I'm toweling dry.

"Okay. I won't take long to get ready, but you're probably much quicker. Why don't you go down to the lounge after you're ready and figure out where you want to feed me? I might want to check on the kids, too?"

"Yeah, that sounds good," I reply as I move to brush my teeth. That done, a quick comb through my hair, and a swipe of deodorant, and I'm good to go. Margaret rolls her eyes. "What?" I ask.

"Men," she shakes her head. "You have no idea how good you have it."

"Oh, I have some idea," I laugh.

Margaret gives me a quick kiss. She's just finished toweling off and brushing her teeth. "I can give you some privacy if you need to do anything else in here," she asks, cocking an eye meaningfully toward the toilet. Then adds, "because if you ever want me to rim or eat your ass, there are some things I should probably never watch you do." She smiles coyly, as my jaw hits the floor, and then she laughs hysterically as she shoos me out the door, closing it softly behind me. I think I hear her still giggling through it.

Full of surprises, this one, I think, as I move to my suitcase to select suitable clothing for a dinner date with a firecracker. I opt to go commando, something I only rarely do, but it feels particularly right at the moment. I pull on the pants I wore home last night. They're reasonably dressy, still clean, not overly wrinkled, and roomy enough to be comfortable enough to accommodate the inevitable erections I'll be having this evening. It's a little chillier than last night, so I pull on a tech teeshirt and my favorite well-broken-in green and blue flannel shirt. It's certainly dressy enough for anywhere in the Villages. I put on a pair of merino hiking socks, remembering that Margaret still has the pair I gave her last night. Then I opt for my roper boots. We won't be walking far, wherever we go.

I put on my watch and pick up my phone, checking the time. It is almost seven. That would explain why the light outside has all but faded to darkness. I grab my wallet and the hotel key card, pocket them, and head toward the door.

"Hey, Margaret, it's just before seven," I say to the closed bathroom door. I hear sounds of womanly preparation beyond.

"Okay, I won't be much longer, but I think I will try to call the kids before I come down. Will you be okay?"

"Absolutely, take your time."

"Oh, and if you can find somewhere with oysters, that would be great. And if you're very good, I'll take you for ice cream. I saw you looking disappointed when the place was closed last night. You need to fuel up for later, old man," she laughs and adds, "oh, and don't go getting picked up at the bar by any strange old ladies."

"Not a worry," I say, "I'm having too much fun with my strange young lady. Unless I run into Ethel, of course..." the last a bit under my breath, trailing off, laughing at my own private joke. I'm not sure Margaret would get it even if she heard it.

I'm almost out the door when I decide to pick up my waxed canvas jacket. I don't think I'll be cold enough to need it tonight, but Margaret might want it later.

I make my way to the lobby bar. On a Tuesday night with the free entertainment already underway on the nearby square, I don't anticipate a big crowd, and find this to be the case; a handful of couples and solos scattered here and there, except for one overly boisterous group of mostly men at the other side of the bar. I claim two open stools at the end of the bar, where I can keep an eye out for Margaret when she comes down, take one, and drape my jacket over the other. The bartender is attentive, and I put in an order for my usual tonic water, although I accept a menu to see what they have passing for mocktails, or if they have anything else interesting that's non-alcoholic. Most places don't.

I realize I haven't checked in with Beth, and see that she hasn't messaged me either. I scroll through and clean up my other messages, all junk, close out notifications, and get back up to speed with the world outside my hotel room. Those four hours with Margaret felt like four days or four minutes in some ways. I want to touch base with Beth, and know that a call would be best, but I'm afraid of what my voice might reveal at the moment. This is all with her permission, at least in theory, but it's without precedent, and neither of us is probably sure of what the protocols and expectations should be. We have our "rules" but we've never put them to use. How many details are too much, how much is not enough?

The bartender has returned with my drink, and I wave him off from ordering anything else, but keep the still unopened menu. I shoot Beth a text. "Hey, just checking in, got Mom's well cover installed, she was very happy with it. Will go back tomorrow to pick her up and head that way. Probably get there by mid-afternoon? Getting ready to get some dinner here. Everything good there?"

Beth's returned response is predictably fast at this time in the evening, I'm sure she's already in bed with the dog, watching something on her phone. "Hey, I'm falling asleep here with Nibs, lol. I'm glad she liked the well thing, I know you worked hard on it, it looked really good...Everything is good here, I have my list and will stop at Publix on my way over to the house tomorrow, will probably get there around the same time as you?...Everyone should be in by late afternoon, so maybe the grown-ups can all go out downtown tomorrow night?...So don't stay out too late tonight, old man, you'll probably have to be the DD."

"Sounds good, I won't. Love you, good night."

"Love you, good night, see you tomorrow."

Well that was painless. Don't overthink it.

"Excuse me, I see you're holding this seat for someone. Is this other one taken?" A soft, feminine voice interrupts my thoughts before I even have a chance to overthink the text.

I look up to see a very attractive woman standing behind the empty stool next to the one with my jacket over it, and note there are many other open seats at the bar. I also note that she already has an almost finished drink in her hand. "Yes, someone should be joining me shortly, but absolutely, have a seat," I motion to the stool she is standing behind.

She hesitates a moment and blushes a bit before asking, "Actually, would you mind if I sit on the stool next to you until your friend arrives? There are just some very...persistent 'gentlemen' at the other side of the bar I've been trying to get away from. I saw you come in and thought I could use you as an excuse to extract myself? I'm sorry, I don't mean to put you in an awkward situation."

"Please, not awkward for me at all. You aren't the one who should have to feel sorry if you're being put in an uncomfortable situation. I'll be happy to help," I respond, moving my jacket as I pull the stool back, then hanging it on the back of my stool. "Please, have a seat." Her smile is genuine as she does so.

I look to the other side of the bar and note that the previously boisterous group when I came in is more subdued now. It consists of three forty-something-year-old guys who have apparently not-so-recently returned from the golf course, and are multiple drinks into their version of a good time. The woman I thought I spotted with them earlier is apparently the one now sitting next to me. They are clearly watching our interaction, and seem very disappointed with the recent change in their fortunes. One of them takes the stool that was most likely just vacated by my new companion.

I glance over and take in my new seat mate who is ordering a fresh drink. She smiles at me, "Can I get you anything?"

I shake my half-full glass of tonic, "No thanks, I'm good."

She's probably five to ten years younger than me. Long blond hair pulled back in a flattering bun. Pretty face with well-applied, polished makeup that suits her. Slightly shorter than me, very toned body. Full, firm breasts in a tailored blouse and jacket. Long legs in a conservative skirt designed to enhance them, expensive-looking flats, I'm guessing a very nice ass. She is not your typical villager. She catches me sizing her up just as I catch her doing the same. We smile. "I'm Lisa," she says as she extends her hand.

"Steve," I reply as I give her the same light handshake I would any female business colleague. Firm enough to not be insulting, soft enough to not assert dominance. She seems to appreciate it. "So you're not with the boys over there?" I nod to the group, who has now lost interest in us.

"Hardly," she laughs, "I was just finishing my dinner and trying to enjoy a little peaceful drink before I go back up to my room." The bartender arrives with her fresh drink. "Cheers," she salutes and takes a small sip. "Then the short bus must have pulled up out front and dropped those gems off." We share a laugh.

She continues. "I should be used to it, as much as I travel, but I seem to attract them like flies when I'm by myself. Sometimes they just don't get the message that I have ZERO interest. You looked like a safe escape since you're obviously waiting for someone, so thank you."

"You're welcome." I try to remember how to do small talk. I've never been good at it, at all. I try to think of something that won't come off like a line, "I'm guessing you're here for work?" I offer. Seems a bit like a line, but what can you do?

We settle into a casual "getting to know you" conversation, Lisa sharing more than I, although I make a point to mention that I'm waiting for my 'girlfriend,' Margaret. I don't mention my wife at home. Something like that flies only once, right? Lisa is a pharmaceutical sales manager. The hotel is the perfect spot for her when she's here to check on her local reps given its central location to a number of reps in the area covering the vast geriatric medicinal needs of central Florida. She's 54, divorced twice, no kids, lives in Atlanta but swings down this way at least quarterly. She covers a territory that includes Georgia, Alabama, and north Florida. I'm detecting...a degree of interest from her. She's very attractive. It's an enjoyable conversation, and we are enjoying ourselves.

If I had not met Margaret last night, I would certainly want to see where this meeting might lead tonight. But I did, so I'm also wondering how long we've been talking, and what might be keeping Margaret, and whether I should order another drink as I've finished mine, and Lisa is nearly finished with hers as well.

It's then that I notice the guys across the bar grow a little quieter and start paying attention to us again. I can feel daggers searing into the back of my head as I look up to the mirror above the bar and see Margaret closing in hot. "Well there you are, sweetheart," I hear her say, the words dripping with entirely too much sweetness, "and who is this?" The guys across the bar are snickering.

I rise to meet her before Margaret reaches us and am stunned at the sight. "My god, you're radiant," the unfiltered thought comes out of my smiling mouth much louder than the private compliment I intended to give. But she is radiant. Her brushed auburn hair is pulled back in a loose tail, her face is touched with just the faintest of color highlighting her simmering hazel eyes, and accenting her full lips. She is glowing with vitality. Her breasts are pushed up against a form-fitting cashmere sweater, the vee of the neckline dipping low enough to show a tantalizing hint of her well-defined cleavage, taut nipples clearly outlined even through her bra. It is fitted to her flat, toned stomach. The flare of her hips gives exquisite shape to her almost painted-on jeans, her thigh gap is pronounced, her well-defined legs clad in the soft leather zip-up boots from last night. She is a vision. She exudes an aura of casual, confident, sex appeal.

The honesty of my reaction disarms her. She meets my eyes and returns my smile, a little color rising in her cheeks. "Why thank you, baby, it's only because I'm a woman who has been well and truly fucked all afternoon." Her words are loud enough to carry. A lot of color rises in my cheeks, full of surprises this one is. She pulls me in for a quick, but clearly possessive kiss. I don't need to look at the guys across the bar to know that they have heard everything and are now engrossed in the show. She turns to Lisa with a smile and says, "I'm Margaret, and you are?"

To her credit, after her initial look of surprise at Margaret's statement about being well fucked, Lisa does not skip a beat, although she does give me another appraising glance and smile. She rises, introduces herself, situates Margaret in the middle stool, explains the situation, and insists on getting us a round of drinks, all in the time it would have taken me to sputter and stutter through some less than coherent or satisfactory response.