by Veronika | Filed Under Muse Fiction
Our first fiction offering, authored by our good friend Robin
You slid out of bed, leaving the shadow of your warmth behind, a space that smelled like you between the crisp linen sheets. I eased into that space, hugging your pillow to my breasts. Your feet whispered against the thick Aubason carpet, and peeking out — not wanting to risk both eyes yet, even to the dim illumination of this early hour — I watched you walk on tiptoe over to the curtains that screened off the dawn.
In New Orleans, the curtains are as dark and heavy as the night. Long and velvet, keeping the bayou air close. Air that smells like wet wood and oil and candle wax, like gumbo and fire-roasted peppers, like moss on trees and warm rain and sex. Yeah, night in New Orleans smells like sex. Like our sex…
You pulled back the curtains — a deep-shadowed green in our case — that covered the French doors leading to the balcony. Louisiana morning light streamed in; soft, because it was late February, but not as soft as the space between the sheets. I burrowed deeper.
“She’s out there,” you said.
Our neighbor across the way, you meant. Every day since we’d arrived here, she’d enjoyed a leisurely continental breakfast on her balcony, just after sunrise. Each morning she appeared clad, more or less (often less), in some gauzy silk number — a short peignoir usually — that fluttered open with the slightest movement as she leaned against the ornate wrought-iron railing, sipping her coffee. Sometimes she worn matching lingerie underneath. Sometimes she didn’t. It had been a week now, three days before Mardi Gras and three days after.
“What’s she wearing?” I asked from the cozy haven of our bed.
“Nothing.”
I poked my head free of the covers.
“But a pair of tap pants.” Your grin was wicked in the shadows. “I thought that would get your attention.” You turned back to the glass doors, your nude body silhouetted against the satiny gray light. “She has lovely nipples.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I think she shaves.”
I laughed. The streets are narrow in this part of the French Quarter — you could toss a ripe peach from our balcony to hers — but they’re not so narrow that you can discern that kind of detail.
“Wishful thinking,” I taunted. But under the comforter, I was squirming. My hands ran down over the curve of my stomach to the newly-shorn mound beneath — my own black curls had fallen victim to your razor the first night we got here. Yours had followed suite immediately thereafter.
“Come see for yourself,” you challenged.
Intrigued, I swung my legs out of bed and padded across the room to stand behind you. What made the spectacle so interesting (well, maybe spectacle is too strong a word, but in New Orleans, these things take on the aspect of performance art) was that it always seemed a palimpsest of the night before: underwear retrieved from the antique chair where it had landed, the robe (when she wore one) obviously pulled off the bed post and lazily put on, unbelted, so the that it hung open from the points of her creamy shoulders. The blond hair deliciously tangled from thrashing all night against satin sheets.
You had to wonder what precisely had been making her thrash, and who she had been thrashing with. Did she make noise? And in what language?
I leaned my chin on your shoulder and squinted. This morning, the peignoir was, as you said, absent and the tap pants had the aura of an afterthought. “Maybe she’s giving up clothes for Lent.”
“Now that is wishful thinking,” you said. We both laughed, but they take their religion seriously here in New Orleans. The passion of Mardi Gras is that passion, that old passion that the spiritually dead can never muster, never drum up, that heats the air and the mind so here. In New Orleans, a woman just might give up clothes for Lent; a woman grounded in grace, a muse…
The woman crossed her balcony, pulling her hair up and knotting it carelessly behind her neck. A loose end flipped over one shoulder and she twirled it absentmindedly about one finger. In this light, at such a distance, it was hard to tell, but I thought her eyes might be violet.
“She’s waiting for someone,” you said.
“You think so?”
“Uh huh. See, she hasn’t poured the coffee.”
You were right: the coffee pot sat on it’s tray on the little balcony table. There were two china cups by it, both empty. Two cups.
“Him or her?”
You shrugged.
“She does have lovely nipples.” And lovely breasts: soft ivory mounds sloping on top, full underneath — not the fashionable, fictional globe of men’s magazines. Her nipples were nearly as pale as the flesh, just a hint of color like the powdery bloom on a rose petal. My gaze slid down over her sculpted stomach, gift of a thousand sit-ups probably, to the pair of lilac tap pants that hid the secret you’d claimed to have discovered.
“I think you’re making it up.”
“About her shaving?”
“Yeah.”
You laughed, a soft sexy sound. “Wait ‘til she turns toward us.”
As if that was her cue, she did.
“See?” you whispered, hand reaching back and trailing fingernails along my flank. “If she wasn’t shaved, you’d see something through those. Something.”
“Unless she’s a pale blond.”
You shook your head, your short hair tickling my nose. “Uh-uh. She’s wheat-blond. They always have dark pubic hair.”
“Flaxen,” I corrected — what we’d named her that first morning: the Girl with the Flaxen Hair, after my favorite Debussy piece. “And you’re giving me goose bumps.”
You laughed again, nails running a thrill up my side. “Wheat, flaxen — all the same. She’d have dark pubic hair, if she had any.”
I ran my hand around your belly and down, down over the smooth plane to remind you that you had none. “Do you think she can see us?” This early, the light’s reflection off the glass in the doors might obscure the view from outside, but –
“Probably,” you said.
“You’re an awful person.”
“I know.” Your hand rounded my thigh, slid between us, and between my legs. “You’re wet.”
I pushed my pubis against your fingers. “Silly. Of course I’m wet.”
Who wouldn’t be wet, in this place, at this time? The streets down here run with the smell of estrus at Mardi Gras. Women tear off their clothes, men kiss each other, and I saw a beautiful blond boy go down on his lover’s cock in the garish illumination of a flashing red stop light. On Bourbon Street, a voluptuous woman with the curling auburn hair knelt on her third-floor balcony and, hiking yards of crinoline up around her waist, dipped fake gold doubloons into her pussy — one after the other — and tossed them smiling into the crowd beneath her feet. They were only stamped plastic, but you could have gotten a $100 for each one…
“Is it me?” Your chin tilted up, and you looked at me sideways. “Or are you getting off on her?” Your expression told me you were — it was hot. Lazy-hot.
I put my hand between your legs, prying up and in, testing. You felt like a ripe persimmon, getting riper. “I’ll never tell.”
“Bitch,” you murmured, tilting your hips out so I could slide another finger into you. Your fingers were doing a rumba in my wet crevice, getting the inside of my thighs all sticky.
“Lady, you better put jam in your pockets if you’re gonna talk to me like that.”
You moaned, pushing down on my fingers. “Why? ‘Cuz you’ll spread me and eat me?”
“‘Cuz you’re gonna be toast.” I pinched your right nipple hard — I’ve never met anyone who likes their nipples pinched as hard as you do; who likes their breasts mauled that way. You gasped and I could feel the contraction in your cunt.
It’s the joy down here that does it to you; the joy and the rut and the sheer carnality. It burns right through you, lighting crazy fires in your mind, in your pussy. At home, we might have danced bare-breasted in the street in defiance of something, but never in joy. And never would I have come with your mouth fastened lamprey tight on my nipple, sucking to the rhythm of a trio of drummers who beat their long drums and cried out and shook my womb. I came to their drumming, to your fierce nursing, to the thousand eyes watching us, my shoulders shaking and my hands holding you tight, tight, tight…
If you’d asked, if you’d whispered, I would have gone down on you — right there, in the street, in the gutter, amid the broken champagne bottles and the glitter and the spike heels — but you didn’t. You pulled me into a dark doorway, and there, with my face awash in the dark sea of your hair, kissing your eyelids, tongue seeking the tender space behind your ear, you pulled up your skirt and straddled my thigh and rode it hard. Rode it hard and I pushed you hard into the ornate scrollwork of someone else’s door frame until you shivered and moaned and I felt the wet come through the crotch of your panties and soak into my jeans. Mardi Gras in New Orleans is like that…
You pulled your hand out from between my thighs; began sucking your fingers. The show — that’s what it was and you knew it — of you fucking your mouth with your own fingers, still slick with my juice, made me shake. “Now, I’m sure she can see us,” you said, and sounded smug.
“See you, you mean.” I kneaded your whole breast ruthlessly, just the way you like it, while my fingers coasted in and out of you.
“For now –”
“You think you’re getting away?”
“Ummmm…” You bit down on your lip. “Deeper.” I sunk my fingers in past the knuckles, reaching for your cervix, making wet sucking sounds as I probed. But the angle was wrong; my wrist cramped, refusing to let me any deeper, and then you squirmed part way around and opened up to me. “Ahhhh –” Now my fingers pressed hard into you — rooting, stroking.
“You want her to see us, don’t you?”
Your voice was breathless, coming in little panting sobs. “Maybe. Maybe I do. I want her to see you.”
My mouth was in your hair, biting the rich dark strands. “Maybe later.”
“I want to go down on you in front of her –”
“Right here? Or on the balcony?”
“I want her to know how beautiful your slick, shaved pussy is –”
“You’ll get us arrested –”
“If she was here –” You paused for a shudder, a little quake, to pass though you. “– here right now, what would you do to her?”
“Fuck her –”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“How many fingers?”
“As many as she’d take — three, four…”
“A fist?”
“Yeah, a fist. My fist up her honey sweet cunt…”
“You’d do that in front of me?”
“Right in front of you. Tie you up and make you watch — tie you up with legs spread wide so she could see your pussy cream while I fuck her… fuck her ‘til she cums — screams and cums … right in front of you.”
You began to shudder then, the rhythm in your muscles building as you bucked against the pressure on your breast, the need in your cunt. You pushed your shoulders in to me and bore down on my hand, your whole weight coming down on my hand and arm, and your skin flashed all over as you moaned and cried and came in my arms.
The woman across the street was pouring her coffee. Bending, she displayed her body with the unconscious grace of a nude Aphrodite. Sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor of our room, I rocked you in my arms. My cunt throbbed, my breasts felt full and hot. You’d cool that fire for me, wash it away with your magic tongue — in a little while. I knew you had to rest first.
You smiled and murmured — almost cooing, although you’d deny it if I ever called it that — holding my arms about you, my palm snug against the slick yawn of your vulva, “What do you think her name is?”
I shook my head. I’d look up the names of the muses when we got home. You laughed, almost silently, and settled deeper into my arms. I raised my hand from between your legs, placed five moistened fingers on a glass pane, anointing it as with a sacred oil. The light streamed through, splintering off the mellifluent liquid into a rainbow blessing.
The muse, leaning against her balcony railing, raised her steaming coffee cup in our direction, and smiled.
Comments
Lovely, lovely, lovely! N’Awlin’s often plays centre in many many fantasies and this story feeds those fantasies.
Next chapter, please!