Snow In New Orleans

Snow in New Orleans. It figured. The first time in ages I had a conference somewhere interesting and the weather had to crap out. OK, it was February. But this was New Orleans. It wasn't supposed to snow here. Not that the residents seemed to notice. The street carnival atmosphere prevailed despite the cold, with a lot of skin exposed in a way that gave the proverbial finger to the skies. It had just gotten to the point where dusk congealed into real night. The crowds thickened, rowdier as the evening's drinking progressed, generating a heat that kept a walk in the French Quarter from becoming unpleasantly chilly. The balconies filled, the souvenir shops lit up like some unholy Christmas, and the musicians were out in fingerless gloves, playing the fiddle, going electric, or just singing their hearts out. It was New Orleans. The weather didn't matter.

I'd ditched my conference buddies and gone for a walk on my own. I loved the French Quarter best without cautious academic company. In leggings and soft-soled boots and a reasonably warm coat and scarf, my hair blowing in the breeze, I was happy to blend into the group watching the jugglers, and then the small crowd at the old-fashioned hotel bar, then the circle calling encouragement to the acrobats. The fire sizzled in a couple of the torches set up around the performers, expelling snowflakes as tiny puffs of steam. It was all vivid and heady and exciting, and I first noticed you out of the corner of my eye -- taller than most of the watchers. Quieter. The long black leather coat suggesting some other period in history that it was difficult to pin down. I liked the coat -- the dramatic flair of it. And the long dark hair. And I was looking too intently or for too long, because you turned to meet my eyes and I had to redirect my gaze probably-not-quite-quickly-enough. Damn. Though really, who could blame me? Time to warm up in the bar of one of the French Quarter hotels, perhaps with a new fantastically decadent drink. Maybe I was being a bit of a coward, but being caught looking had me a bit disconcerted. Easier to cede the field altogether.

I wandered through the foyer of the slightly seedy but wonderfully period hotel, peeling off my coat as I went, and folding it over the back of the bar stool. Who knows, maybe I was looking for liquid courage. It was still quiet here -- the tourists hadn't discovered the place yet.

What do you have that tastes wonderful?" I asked the fat, friendly bartender.

I remembered him from a few years ago. Glad he and the bar were still here.

"What do you have that tastes like dessert?"

Before he could answer me I felt you come up behind me with the barest swish of that long, black coat -- felt it like a shiver all the way up my spine. You said something to the bartender in French that made his eyes widen -- clearly the name of some exotic drink -- but he turned from us to prepare it, shaking his head just the slightest bit. I looked up.

"Trust me, cher," and you smiled down at me with a look so warm and enveloping that I actually swayed, and had to catch a hold of the bar to keep from falling.

That was when your arm came around me and the desire hit me so powerfully that I needed to lean on you to remain upright. What was this? I was almost frightened. This feeling wasn't normal at all, something in the back of my mind yelled in a panic. But when the drink came I took it with a fairly steady hand. Red. It was a deep and vivid red. Like rubies. Cinammon? Rasberries? Pomegranate? I couldn't tell, but it was wonderful. Heady and sharp and refreshing. I loved it. Half the contents of the goblet (why had it come in a goblet? I wondered briefly, and then forgot) were gone when I looked down, and all my fear had gone with them.

Your arm was still around my waist and I could feel your fingers through my thin shirt. The bartender gave me a look. I had no idea what the hell it meant. I was perched on the stool, balanced with one leg on the floor, while you stood beside me, stroking my side very slightly, encouraging me to lean against you. It didn't take much encouragement. I was just dazzled, breathless. When I realized that it was your erection I felt against my thigh it was all I could do not to moan with longing.

Jesus. What the hell was wrong with me?

I picked up the goblet, a good deal less steadily than the first time, and finished it off in one swallow. Your hand was now beneath my shirt at my waist, chilling my bare skin, giving me goosebumps, setting my cunt on fire. I slipped down off the stool, purposely sliding down in such a way as to rub my thigh and then my hip along that magnificent erection. I knew I was lost. I imagined that you knew it too.

I didn't have to say anything at all. And if someone paid for my drink I never noticed. You smiled again and we left that bar in a way that I imagine made it absolutedly unmistakeable what we were going to do.

Your hand had slipped down from my waist to the cheek of my ass, cupping it through the short skirt, almost as a public gesture of possession -- letting everyone know that you were going to be fucking me soon. I could feel myself getting wet when you pushed me up against the wall and ran your hand up over my breast, your thigh between my legs, your mouth swallowing the moan of desire that was forced from between my lips.

Were you going to fuck me here? I think I might have done anything then, such was my state of need. But your arm was back around me again (your hand beneath the waistline of my skirt and leggings, your finger resting against the crack of my ass in a way that was driving me wild) and propelled me into to foyer, down a dimly lit hallway, and then up a set of ancient polished stairs. The noises from outside hushed. There was a strong scent of cinammon and cloves (from popourri? I couldn't tell), a carpeted hallway, and then we were in a room from another century.

I only had a chance to notice that there were candles, lighted candles, that the high bed had a canopy with heavy red damask hangings. Before I could see anything else, you'd pushed me face down over the side of the bed and yanked my skirt and leggings to my knees. I arched my back, willing you to like what you saw. Willing you to fuck me. I wiggled a little, impatient. I was so wet, so aroused that your cock pentrated in a single thrust that lifted me off my feet and drove my face into the bed. You were impossibly hard, impossibly big. It felt as if you'd go right through me.

I yowled and pushed myself back onto you, begging for more, begging for you to impale me, straining up on my toes and screaming as you growled, pumped me so full of come that it sprayed out over my legs and my clothes and half the bed.

Your cock still inside me, my leggings and skirt still around my ankles, I yanked my shirt over my head and looked over my shoulder. Your eyes gleamed. They didn't look entirely human. I felt your cock thicken, harden, lengthen, filling me up again. Your finger traced the tattoo on my lower back and moved back down to the crack of my ass. My muscles contracted reflexively and you smiled.

"You like that, cher?"

I squirmed. You leaned down and helped me step out of the rest of my clothes, keeping your cock, now so big and hard it felt like something resembling a baseball bat, exactly where it was. And jamming your thumb up my ass as you spun me around 180 degrees and I found myself impaled on your cock and sitting on your lap in one of the armless french chairs, my feet dangling in the air to either side of you, my cunt so full of cock that I thought I'd burst. You sank your thumb deeper.

"Tell me what you like, cher," you whispered against the side of my neck, just before you bit me.