Silky Adventures 17

#17 Family party down in New Orleans

The trip down was wild, as I said in my last adventure. You really should read 1-16 to understand who we all are, because Jessica is my sister/lover and George is my father/uncle/lover and it's complicated.

We stayed at the Inn on Bourbon Street, right in the French Quarter. I love the party atmosphere there, like anything could happen. Our room was on the second floor with a balcony, so we could watch and be watched from the street. George likes to watch.

If you've never been there, the densely packed crowd on the street always wants strip shows. Anybody with tits, and even some without, will hear screams of "Show 'em! Show 'em!"

Usually it's drunken college girls who flash the audience, only to be mortified when they are untagging their pictures on Facebook. Jess and I don't drink (we're not legal, even if George would let us) but we like to dance and show off, so we were on the 'stage' with ginger ale that had maraschino cherries in it to look alcoholic. We waved, and wiggled, and incited while Mardi Gras Beads flew like bats in the dusk around us. Finally I 'accidentally' spilled my drink on my very white tee shirt, and silly me, I was wearing no bra!

The pack howled! Jess stepped behind me, Amazon that she is, and jerked my shirt up so that the masses got a good look. "Marry me!" washed over us. I turned to 'struggle' with her, and she jerked my elastic waist shorts-with-no-panties to my ankles. The roar was explosive! I retaliated, and soon we began a 'cat fight' with only one purpose; to have us both undressed.

When we were sufficiently disrobed, like, totally, the mob was frenzied. Then we turned to face each other and began to slowly suck each other's tongues, with long slow supple strokes. I swear some of those guys had their dicks in their hands. The beads were piling up like snowdrifts over our railing. We faced the throng, curtsied, and backed into our room, where George was waving his manhood in anticipation.

I always have to do the tit fucks. I've got more tit. So I bent over and wrapped his shaft with my melons.

"Silky, God, your skin is so soft!" He liked the sensation.

I held them together, and slowly slid up and down his tumescence, offering soft pouty lips to his head at the top of each stroke. My little tongue lapped against his glistening nugget with every move. He groaned his arousal and I purred in response. It was not my intention to soon alleviate his needs, but rather to torment him as long as possible.

Jessica brought out my birthday present, which was a strap-on for her to wear while she fucked me with it. It is double ended, so it slides up into her and she gets as much as she gives. Why exactly this is MY present is not clear to me, but it certainly could rub nice places. So while I was trying to focus on going slowly she was hammering away for her own nefarious pleasures.

We passed some delectable time in this activity; something less than a day, but more than the twinkling of a single eye, I'm sure. We all knew how it would end; only the order was not part of the rubric. In this case, Jess began her familiar cursing, somehow getting a few sacrilegious Russian phrases in as she clamped around her handle. George was the next to go, and I had the pleasure of his consolation and his effusion all to myself. I watched as his alabaster latte sprayed over my breasts. I would share the clean up with my beloved sister.

Then my own paroxysms caught me, and carried me away.

The game plan was for us to go to a costume party. I told you the Big Easy never gets dull. It happened that Betto Almeida, the famous Brazilian body painter, was visiting, so we were eager to be costumed in paint, and only paint.

I chose a peacock feather mask all in Mardi Gras colors (green, purple, and gold). It sticks out about a foot to either side, and I'm almost 6' tall with it on. It's really cool! Jess got one like it, only hers looks like flowers, in the same colors. Mine is mostly purple, hers is mostly green.

Mr. Almeida started by discussing my pussy. Why do I always have to have these conversations?

"Must be shavad. Can not put de paint on hair."

"Silky, you've gotta groom your grotto," Jessie smiled like she had won a prize. She loves to make me barber my bush!

"I don't see why I can't have a little hair mixed in. Why do I always have to be the one to give in? Someday you're going to have to let yours grow out for like a month!" I wrapped my arms across my chest and beetled my brows. "Damn, it's just not fair."

"Silk, if you dyed it, it wouldn't be red anymore. What's the point if any girl could have one just like yours?" Jessie can read me like a book. I caved, and shaved.

So we began the dressing. First an assistant used an airbrush all over. My first color was green. The airbrush was cold going on. Funny on your arms, exciting on your nipples, downright weird on your nether regions! They spray up to your collarbone. Then he came back with a gold spray and did me in a variegated pattern. Pretty soon I looked like a harlequin.

Then the strange part, as the master used an artist's brush (duh!) and painted feathers all over me in shades of purple. The sensation of a tiny wet spot stroking a half-inch at a time all across your breasts and down your abdomen differs from anything else I've felt. When he got to placing down in the place where I should have had pubic hair, I became very embarrassed and very wet. He must be used to this, as he ignored it.

He decorated my thighs with images of sweeping plumage, with every tiny fiber drawn in. I thought I would come in his face! Holding still has never been harder! And of course I had to stand with my legs apart for an hour to make sure it was all dry. The paint got dry faster than I did.

Then he started on my face. It was like having George 'draw' on me with his finger-tip. Oh, God, erotic! The base paint is pretty much make-up, but then the little tear-drops and parallelograms under my lips and cheeks. Wet all over again, and afraid it would make my paint run! The ultimate step was spraying me (eyes closed) with quick drying glue, and then with glitter, especially my eyelids and lashes. I sparkled!

Finally, finally he finished, and then I did my hair and put on my mask. The paint matched exactly, and even I couldn't tell the place where the mask ended and the paint began. I transformed into a magnificent multi-chromatic fowl in a woman's form, with a tightly feathered crotch and boobs, and a spread of wings elsewhere.

Since there was one artist and two of us, I had to stand around wasting time and not getting messed up while he created a garden with Jessica as his canvas. In spite of it all, I was impressed; sis's display was almost as cool as mine. We looked pretty damn good!

Walking with a big head dress on requires balance; one of the only places where being shorter than J is an advantage. We went through crowds like whirlwinds; everybody stood back open mouthed, staring. But the only clothes we wore were our masks and our shoes! To quote Pope (according to Jessie) "[we] moved goddesses and... looked queens"

George beamed with pride. We certainly gleamed as little jewels for him! We danced for hours, and even the Tango doesn't smear the paint once it's dried, which is good, because I'd hate to have to choose between paint or Tango. We became his daughters Gracchi that night. We wanted to just orbit around him, but as always, busy, busy man. He sat and talked to dull people for ages while we whirled. He danced with a woman who was fatter than Sister Cabrini who used to whip me at Immaculate Mother School. We were so animated we were giddy when we finally had him alone, and walked down the street, showing everyone how important our daddy was.

If you've never been to New Orleans, you've missed going to the Café du Monde in the wee hours. The three of us sat down, costumes and all, at 2 am. Beignets covered with powdered sugar and coffee or milk tastes better than ambrosia after a long party. The seats are cold on a naked ass, by the way. But the most blasé group on earth lives there. No one batted an eye or spared a glance our way.

When we got back to our room, George had one request. He really wanted each of us, one at the time, in full array. When will he ever get to fuck a feathered crotch again? We even kept our masks on. I became a bird of paradise as I wrapped downy serpents around him, and flapped my wings.

I became a white dove as I screamed "Ooh, baby, ooh, baby, ooh."

I sang out my petite mort as I faded away, and then, as a miracle, I warbled as a purple phoenix, rising from my own ashes as George led me to the Promised Land again! OMG what a night!

It had been a long and tiring evening for all of us, and apparently George had outdone himself, as he hesitated before entering Jessica's Garden of Delights. She bent to use her magic mouth, but even that seemed to fail, when I had an idea! My present was in the drawer. Quick as a wink I had it internalized and cinched, and lubed from cusp to nib.

George is not one who routinely goes for back door entry, but this was, after all, a special night. I slid between his cheeks and he realized my intentions. As soon as I began to drill, the derrick rose, and I led the operation, forcing both to my patterns and speed. After tilling the flower bed, he geysered milk, a milk more desired than any sweet light crude. His moment led to hers, and I proudly watched my family come together as he was sandwiched between the flowers of the earth and the birds of the air.

The train left at 6 am, so all we could do was scrub, scrape, wash, and rinse. We managed to get there with shorts and tee shirts and not much else, and slept the sleep of angels all the way home.