Agent Of S T A L K In New Orleans

Happy holidays to all. This story is my seasonal gift to the many fans of S.T.A.L.K. and those of Clive & Nova in particular. It is the third in a series and continues the relationships and situations introduced in AGENT OF S.T.A.L.K. IN PRAGUE and AGENT OF S.T.A.L.K. IN LOS ANGELES. To fully appreciate the nuances of NEW ORLEANS readers may want to check out the previous adventures related in PRAGUE and L.A. but that is a recommendation only and not a necessity. All three stories are complete, self-contained and designed to be independent of each other. I hope everyone enjoys Clive & Nova's yuletide escapades in the French Quarter---they will return for a fourth round of gratuitous sex and violence on Valentine's Day to run amok in Berlin. Until then 5/8 is keeping his fingers crossed for peace on Earth and goodwill to all.

~~~~~~~~~~

Alisa Dwyer wore sunglasses with white frames and nothing else. On the couch of a makeshift photographer's studio she sucked two well hung dudes.

Enrique knew from experience she had a smelly pussy, but could deep throat a fire hydrant. Alisa had posed naked for his camera exclusively for the last five days. Once he'd screwed her twenty times, Enrique's roving eye sought a new star for his lens and his bed. When the softcore photo session with Alisa and the two studs veered into hardcore territory, Enrique didn't give a shit. The moment she quit posing on the couch with dicks in her mouth and started sucking to keep them hard during the long shoot, he quickly became convinced Alisa would enjoy major success in porn if she made the leap from model to actress.

He set aside his Nikon temporarily to switch on his new Sony hi-def video camera mounted on a tripod, encouraging his subjects to 'go with the flow and let what happens happen.' The camera eye adored Alisa. She shone as the focal point of the video, alternately swallowing each cock to the base before urging the two men to mount her front and rear. She was a small girl with small tits and a tiny-mouthed pussy, which made her very tight. Enrique had no inkling little Miss Dwyer's petite frame could envelop such large objects or that she'd grind her buttocks back so enthusiastically to meet the athletic simultaneous intrusion of the tiny openings between her slim thighs. She did some concerted groaning.

This shit is art, Enrique thought, full of glee.

At first glance Alisa appeared sweet and innocent, but she looked incredible getting royally porked and loving every minute and every inch. He never dreamed she'd transform into an engine of fucking on video, she'd never thrown a fuck like that on him. She would be better served making movies, he mused; with second thoughts of ditching her prematurely. It was Christmastime after all, besides Enrique could get rich by just being her manager. He wouldn't have to take a stab in the dark either, as a photographer he had connections in the filmmaking industry, connections Enrique could barter into a manager's salary. First thing in the morning he'd get on the phone to Van Nuys. Not a single agent returned Alisa's calls in the time she crashed in his studio so he might be able to cut a piece of that action for himself too.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

They met at a rave club, the Skin & Blister, Enrique always trolling for new models. His hunting ground of nightclubs and universities teemed with slender nubile talent, the type he favored. Though thirty three, Enrique could still pass for a college senior, his usual tactic. Masquerading as a student, he'd allege some project or other to finish for class requiring a young female to disrobe.

He didn't have to concoct any fables get in Alisa Dwyer's panties, she gave him a good reason. She sucked him off in a gloryhole at the Blister before they met face to face. He let her know he wanted to see more of her and she said sure. Under the flashing dance lights Alisa resembled a lot of Goth girls with jet black or burgundy hair, pierced, skinny, wearing tons of eye shadow. Enrique immediately took to her waif-like quality and took her home from the club that night. She wore a spiked choker and wrist bands with shiny black vinyl high-heeled boots, halter top and miniskirt. An elaborate tattoo of a peacock dominated the left side of the small of her back. Alisa's belly button and delightful blunt nipples were pierced.

Back at his studio after the rave Enrique's hand explored under the vinyl miniskirt to determine if she had anything else pierced. He found Alisa's sheer panties unexpectedly slick with wetness but no piercings. She jumped like an electrical impulse hit her when he touched her clit and gurgled with appreciation as he fingered the inside of her pussy. Enrique had pushed her head into his lap and soon learned the full capabilities of Alisa's throat, hampered previously by the wall of the gloryhole. The scent of her arousal filled his studio every time he fucked her, a heady aroma of female tang empowering him to hump like a wild bull. On their first night (on the same couch she fucked on now) he incubated his dick in her for hours.

The next evening Alisa went out and returned from who knew where (ex-boyfriend or some other jilted prick) with her clothes and shacked with Enrique in the intervening days. For close to a week he'd been sitting on a gold mine of a slut who gave primo blowjobs even if her pussy did have a tendency to smell a little, intoxicating or not.

He got a strong whiff coming from the couch where the two studs labored to bring the proceedings to a conclusion. They drained their rods on Alisa's anxiously smiling face, their come dripping onto her pear-shaped breasts. Fantastic footage, and Enrique kept shooting stills throughout. He couldn't wait to replay the video, he'd market that puppy for damn sure. And Alisa. Then he'd get him a real studio and new equipment and, eventually, a new girl. He fucked seventy percent of the girls who modeled for him. With more cash flow he'd definitely improve his percentage.

At the end of the shoot Alisa talked quietly with the models while Enrique fussed with his Nikon. Watching her screw them stimulated him very much and he yearned to get her showered and into bed as soon as possible. To his consternation she did not bid the two studs goodnight and slip routinely between his sheets. She announced instead she'd be departing with them as soon as she packed her things. The male models nodded like a pair of robots with glazed, faraway eyes.

Alisa foiled Enrique's newly-laid plans when she meted out his comeuppance. Had she suspected he intended to dump her in the near future? Whatever, he couldn't let his goldmine girl go without putting up a fight. He gave no thought to the two dudes posing a physical threat to him, they seemed in a trance, docile as cattle on their way to the slaughterhouse.

Enrique got into a screaming argument with Alisa trying to change her mind. Her eyes glowed red when she approached him across the room. He stepped sideways when a wide smile on her face revealed exaggerated canine teeth. Enrique tried to run and got as far as the couch, frozen like a deer in headlights. She embraced him and her fangs punctured his neck, each of his heartbeats brought him one closer to death. His last fading thought was not of the movie but that Alisa had slept during the daytime. As blackness overtook him only the smell of her pussy remained.

~~~~~~~~~~

André Delaflote knew what he wanted most for Christmas. Deirdre Beauchamp and what nestled at the top of her thighs. She got him horny as hell. As an affable but overweight man of twenty two, he was accustomed to the constant state of being horny. He didn't get enough physical attention from the opposite sex. A friendly, outgoing guy like him got attention; Delaflote was every girl's buddy except he didn't want buddies, he wanted fuck buddies. Deirdre redefined the word horny to him, escalating his hormonal appetite to new levels, she made him just think he used to be horny in the past.

Her braless tits bounced sweetly under her T-shirt as she danced on top of the D.J. booth along with several other girls. Standing directly under her on the dance floor, Delaflote spent half an hour looking up her skirt, mesmerized by the tiny white thong that failed to completely contain Deirdre's plump private parts. When the D.J. had turned on flashing lights mounted in the booth, the beams aimed at the ceiling illuminated the girls from below, making it easy for Delaflote to watch her panties get progressively wetter as she danced song after song. What started as a narrow and vertical line of dampness grew into a Rorschach blotch. The girls shaking their asses on top of the booth knew exactly what they were doing. Guys on the dance floor could see everything under their skirts and, for the thrill, many of the girls got up there not wearing panties. Although Deirdre hadn't gone commando she drove Delaflote insane with lust, he feared his erection would poke a hole in his cargo shorts. Somehow, some way, he had to have her!

He thought how his friend Enrique would handle a similar scenario and acted accordingly. Although he didn't have Enrique's good looks, Delaflote was a photographer with a business card to prove it. When Deirdre tired of teasing the spectators he held out a hand to help her down. On purpose he slid a hand up the cheek of Deirdre's ass while assisting her clamber off the booth. With an embarrassed smile he introduced himself by giving her one of his cards.

"Call me Andy."

"Deirdre Beauchamp."

He paused before saying, "Ever done any modeling before?"

"Never, I think I'm fat."

"That's crazy thinking, you've got what it takes."

"I do?" Deirdre asked, obviously flattered. Her doe eyes were blurry, she'd probably taken some Ecstasy earlier. He knew Ecstasy made girls unusually horny, if he could get her alone he could surely hit a home run with her.

"That's a great outfit you have on, skirt and T-shirt with the little Santa Clauses, photogenic as hell. You should consider modeling it for me. Twenty five bucks an hour."

"Because of all the shopping I've done I'm really broke so I could use the money. Could we do it tomorrow in the afternoon maybe?"

He needed some of what her panties barely concealed right now, not tomorrow. "You're dressed already. It's still early; why not duck out of here for an hour or so to pose for some test shots? I've got a bottle in my apart, uh, studio. We keep our buzz on, shoot a roll of film and we're back."

That's the way Enrique engineered deals like these for himself.

Much to his surprise she volunteered to leave the club with him. At his place this hot, stoned chick would need little convincing to take off her clothes and help exercise his bone. By a miracle Delaflote was in there.

Deirdre was a nineteen year old student with pale blonde hair and nice big tits and ass. She seemed disappointed upon seeing his car and then his apartment, but his camera and array of lenses impressed her. He filled two glasses from a refrigerator box of wine gone sour weeks ago; neither of them had a second sip after the first bitter swill. Deirdre she struck a few poses in front of a white wall he used as a backdrop. After a few shots he suggested she drape herself on and around the couch and look sexy. He coached her through half a roll of film before asking her to bend at the waist supporting herself with her hands flat on the cushion. In that position her panties peeked out from under her skirt. Nice, but not nice enough yet. He'd fix that.

"Look over your shoulder at me, good, straighten your legs, much better."

Much better indeed, now he viewed the wet splotch discoloring her panties in its entirety. Deirdre's asshole was visible on either side of the thong between her buttocks. That was a Christmas present he'd have to unwrap early! He thought he'd come in his pants.

Time for the big question. Delaflote cleared his throat and asked casually, "How would you feel about doing some nudes?"

"Like this?" she said, pulling aside her thong to display the chubby lips of her pussy.

Delaflote busily snapped away. After loading another roll of film he stepped close to Deirdre, hooked a finger in the wet crotchpiece of her panties and drew them to her knees. Her pussy wasn't as fragrant as Enrique's new girlfriend's; one night Delaflote visited the studio after he'd fucked Alisa and could smell her as he walked through the door; that perfumed garden of hers served as an aphrodisiac to be sure, but a bit extreme for even his taste.

He cautiously spread Deirdre's buttocks, the socket of her asshole looked like a spent piece of pink bubble gum stuck in the center of the valley of her bottom. The fleshy lips of her pussy parted like butterfly wings. Unable to resist being so near Deirdre's goodies, his tongue flicked out of his mouth to taste her. At first she groaned, but then squeezed her buttocks together in emphatic negative body language and hobbled away from him tugging her panties back into place.

"I don't mind showing my body to the camera, Andy, but I agreed to let you shoot photos of me, not fuck me."

"But it felt good, I know it did."

"Doesn't matter. How about paying me for the time I've spent?"

"But it's just five after eleven, we haven't been here for an hour yet, only thirty or forty minutes.

"That should be about fifteen bucks."

"Okay, fine," sputtered a crushed Delaflote, so close and yet so far. "Let me write you a check."

"You planned to pay me with a check?"

"That's how businesses do things."

She spied the canister containing the roll of film he'd shot of her. "And this is how I do things," Deirdre said, marching over to his coffee table to seize the canister and stuff it in her purse. She shrugged into her long rabbit-fur coat and muttered, "I'm outta here."

"What about my film?"

"What about my money?"

"Hold your horses and I'll write a check right now."

"Give me cash next time you see me at the club. You can get your dirty pictures back then."

He protested but she turned a deaf ear on his intellectual property rights. She stormed across the room.

"Don't you want a ride back?"

"It's close enough to walk," she said at the door. It shut with a slam and he never saw Deirdre or his film again.

Damn it! How had it all gone to shit so quickly? The bitch was dying for some dick. What now? Rosy Palm and her five daughters. No way in hell! That would be a last resort and faint relief at best, he needed something wet and warm and squirming. There might be some chicks hanging out at Enrique's studio, he'd go over there and try to hustle one of his extras, he wouldn't mind. Enrique was his friend. He had excess pussy swarming around him.

The studio was two blocks away, Delaflote decided to ride his ten speed to save gas. As he pedaled up the sidewalk he saw two dudes and a hot babe with wavy red hair getting into a white Firebird parked outside Enrique's place. He started to cry out, the chick had to be a model, but the car rumbled away down the street in the other direction. Delaflote chained his bike to a pecan tree and climbed the stairs to the studio. His brisk knock caused the door to swing ajar. He called out and received no response so he shuffled inside with his hands in his pockets, bobbing his head unconsciously. A lingering odor of recent sex hung in the air the same as the night he met Alisa. Where were she and Enrique, and who were those two musclemen the redhead got into the Firebird with? Still calling his friend's name he walked toward the pair of bookcases forming a partition to block off the studio from the door. The source of the unmistakable smell of Alisa's pussy got steadily stronger, at least she must be nearby.

Enrique's name died on Delaflote's lips when he saw him slumped on the couch. He knew he was dead and not passed out before seeing the pair of holes leaking bright red blood from his neck. No sign of Alisa, but she wasn't long gone. What the fuck? Delaflote started to call the cops, but not from his own phone. He'd call from Enrique's cell anonymously and haul ass before the cops arrived except he'd be leaving his fingerprints at a murder scene. Enrique's cell was probably in his pants pocket anyway and Delaflote wasn't going to touch a dead body either, in shock but not enough to do anything stupid. Fuck it! He'd call from a payphone if he had any change, leave the front door wide open, one of Enrique's models would find the body soon enough and report it to the police. He hated to be callous, but desired no further encounters with cops, not after that bullshit last fall. If he reported the death they might jail him as a material witness for days, knowing how his luck ran. No, someone else could clue the cops in, he would beat feet; let someone else spend Christmas locked down.

He only got a few steps when his eyes came to rest on the photo gear strewn all over the studio. If he left the door open somebody might rip off all this shit. Burglary rates peaked this time of year. Delaflote figured if anyone took anything from here it might as well be him: it didn't disturb the murder scene; and Enrique wouldn't miss it. Of course if the police ever came to interview him about Enrique it wouldn't be prudent to have his recognizable Nikon lying around his apartment, but the Sony hi-def video camera he knew to be a recent acquisition, not linked as easily to Enrique as his mainstay camera. The cops would be in the know on that score; Enrique had had more trouble with them than Delaflote.

When he folded the tripod legs he discovered the videocam still running, filming everything. It may have captured Enrique's death, evidence the cops definitely would want. He almost abandoned it but for one damned good reason; he'd stepped into the frame inadvertently when he'd gone to the couch. No telling which way the parish lawmen would jump when they got a load of that. For his own safety Delaflote had to steal the videocam now. He could've merely taken the tape, but that presented the problem with fingerprints too; might as well take the whole rig and get some use out of it. Rattled, he hustled out of the studio with the camera on the collapsed tripod without thinking about grabbing the charger for the Sony until wheeling his bike inside his apartment. Judging from the timer, fifty five minutes elapsed since the beginning of the video on a two hour battery. Delaflote pressed rewind and rooted around for a cable to allow him to watch the replay on his television. Discovering Enrique's corpse banished all thoughts of horniness from his mind---until the tape began to show Alisa on the studio couch doing the wild thing with the two Firebird dudes!

She boinked like a champ and after a few minutes Delaflote found himself so engrossed in the footage he stroked his cock in his fist without remembering unzipping. He'd pleasured himself twice by the time the two guys in the video came on her face. After a minute the men and Alisa stepped out of the frame and the videocam held a long static shot of the couch with quiet voices in the background and the metallic sound of Enrique fiddling with his Nikon. Then Enrique began to shout at Alisa, suddenly they entered the frame, she had him by the neck. Watching the vampire kiss of death startled Delaflote no more than a death in a Dracula movie, except he knew Enrique's true fate. He wasn't back in a dressing room now reading over his next lines in the script.

On the tape Alisa rose from Enrique's body licking at her bloody lips. She began shaking her hair, moaning as her body spasmed and her limbs jerked. Before Delaflote's eyes Alisa's features started to change, her straight black hair became wavy and red. The complete bone structure of her face transformed into one of a different girl, her breasts increased in size and she grew taller, grew into the same girl who got in the car outside. Still hot, but not Alisa, not after what he'd just seen. The new girl rubbed at her arms and stared down at her new body. Apparently satisfied she said aloud to herself, "It's good to be Stephanie Mercer again." She talked with a different accent too, British. Then she stepped out of the frame, her exit leaving Enrique sprawled in death to dominate the shot. Delaflote fast forwarded to where he stepped into the picture.