French Quarter by Lacey Alexander (small books to read .TXT) 📕

He held the toy up for her to see—a small, thin, gold vibrator, slick and smooth. “It’s made just for your tight little ass.”

“It felt…wet.”

“I oiled it up, wanted to make sure it didn’t hurt.”

“I…didn’t feel any vibrations.”

He grinned. “We’ll work up to that. This first time, I figured just fucking you there with it was enough.”

She nodded, knowing he was right. “It was more than enough.” Almost more stimulation than her body could handle. And yet, at the same time, she still wanted…”Will you fuck me now? Please.” She didn’t smile, hoping her expression told him how much she needed his cock inside her.

His eyes went dark behind the mask, and his voice came low. “Yeah, chere, I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you so good, so long, so hot, better than ever before.”

Reaching down, he parted her legs and again studied her bare pussy. Then he parted the pink lips and bent down to blow on it. A little shiver snaked through her and then his cock was there, pushing inside her, filling her like nothing else could. It was like reclaiming a lost treasure and she wrapped her legs around his back to pull him in deep.

The following hour was filled with tumultuous fucking, just as he’d promised. He fucked her on the bed; he fucked her standing up, bracing her hands on his dresser; he fucked her face-to-face on the kitchen table; he fucked her on the couch, where she could ride him to orgasm. He pressed her up against a balcony window so that if anyone happened to glance up at the second floor, they’d see a naked woman bedecked in mask and beads being fucked from behind. Liz pressed her palms flat against the glass, her breasts, too—as his strong, powerful cock drove into her again and again with hard, hot strokes that made her cry out with pleasure.

And just when Liz thought perhaps their private little Bacchanal would draw to a close, her lover surprised her one last time. Withdrawing his erection, he walked to an easy chair across the room, picked up the wide ottoman in front of it, and carried it out onto the balcony.

Although the street below was not abuzz with crowds like the red light end of Bourbon, it was Saturday night in the Quarter and a few people were strolling the sidewalks beneath them. Liz stood watching her masked, naked lover standing unabashedly out on the balcony, his dark eyes beckoning to her, his hand motioning her to join him.

Somehow this was different than the other times they’d fucked on the balcony, even more hedonistic-feeling than when she’d ridden him in the Pussycat’s Claw, where they might have been seen, but likely were not. Even so, she walked slowly toward her Mardi Gras king, who said in a deep, low voice, “This is your float. Your parade. This is where the revelers get to watch me fuck your pretty pink pussy.”

There was a part of her that actually thought of protesting—the knowledge that they would certainly be seen, perhaps were already being noticed in their masks and beads and nudity—seemed to go a step too far into her fantasy. Even so, her pussy pulsed with maddening intensity, wanting still more of the sweet, hot fucking he’d been delivering to her so well. And indeed, as she glanced to the street below and realized at least one couple and a trio of guys were pausing to look up at the balcony, nothing as petty as propriety mattered any longer—nothing mattered but being fucked by her king while the crowd watched.

Biting her lip, she gave Jack a come-hither look, then climbed onto the ottoman, positioning herself on hands and knees, just like in her fantasy.

Jack approached behind her, placing his palms on her hips, sliding his enormous hard-on smoothly into her welcoming cunt. “Oooh, God, yes, baby,” she purred at the filling entry.

His strokes came hard and deep and fast and pummeling, and Liz let herself cry out at each brutal thrust. She wanted the people on the street to hear—wanted more of them to stop and watch, to see her lover sliding his slick cock in and out of her while she screamed her bliss.

“So fuckin’ wet, baby,” Jack murmured as he continued driving his dick into her pussy. “So fuckin’ incredible.”

Liz kept her eyes open, focusing on the intricate wrought iron railing directly in front of her, the old brick of the building across the narrow street. Eventually, though, she dared to glance down and take in the scene below them—where she found a small crowd of at least fifteen people peering up at their show. Some looked shocked, others aroused. One man let out a deep throaty cheer of, “Oooh, baby! Yeah!”

In that moment of forbidden fucking, Liz became the strippers at Club Venus and the woman in ponytails she’d seen fucked at the Pussycat’s Claw. She became Felicia, and Lynda, and every other woman who drank in the pure joys of unabashed sex without fear or hesitation. She became the woman in her parade fantasy, a sexual being who lived only for pleasure. She became Jack’s Mardi Gras Queen.

The beads around her neck clicked and clanked against each other with each rough stroke Jack delivered. Another guy, somewhere below, let out a wolfish howl while another whistled. Jack’s cock pounded her into oblivion, making her thighs weak, her entire body basking in a nearly overwhelming pleasure.

“They’re watching us,” she panted over her shoulder to her lover. “They’re watching you fuck me.”

“That’s right, darlin’—they’re watchin’ you take my big cock, watchin’ your pussy take it all the way in, watchin’ me fuck you so hard.”

And just as she’d imagined in her fantasy, the mask gave her just enough anonymity to make her feel safe in her glorious hedonism.

Even without stimulation to her clit, she felt so ready, so close to orgasm, that she could barely fathom it. So when Jack reached around to