Crowd Pleaser -- #Exhibitionist #NewOrleans #FreeReadingFest #Prizes

Image by Lisa Moore from Pixabay

 

"I love New Orleans!" she sighed, stretching back luxuriously in the chaise on their Rue Royale balcony. Her partner did not reply; his mouth was delightfully busy between her thighs, lapping at the pungent juices that coated her folds and sending electric thrills up her spine.

At twilight, Rue Royale was not as busy as Bourbon Street, a block away. She could hear, faintly, the wail of a saxophone and the intermittent roar of a crowd. Some girl taking off her top, she thought with a satisfied smile, then moaned as her companion probed new depths with his tongue. Here there was no crowd. Still, sightseers and revelers strolled by in twos and threes a few feet below them. Any one of them could look up and see her summer dress bunched around her waist, her diligent husband kneeling between her naked legs.

The exposure thrilled her; she knew that it had the same effect on him. "Eat me, baby," she murmured. "Make me come, right here where anyone could see."

He needed no additional encouragement. He grabbed her butt cheeks and opened her like ripe fruit, sucking hard at her wet, salty flesh. She writhed in his grasp, little gasps escaping her lips each time he raked his teeth over her engorged clit. "Oh, baby, yes, you know what I like, baby!"

Pausing briefly, he buried his nose in her curly muff. The scent drove him wild. "Let's see you, all of you," he said softly. In one motion, he stripped her dress over her head and let it fall. It floated through the curlicues of the ornamented railing, pale in the falling dusk, and onto the street below. If anyone had been passing, the wisp of clothing would have perhaps entangled itself on his head, leading him inexorably to look up. But at that moment, the road was empty.

Now she lay bare before him, her pert breasts, smooth belly, and creamy thighs framing that delicious dark cavern between them. He could not resist suckling the almond nipples that beckoned stiffly. His tongue traced down the hollow between her breasts, across her taut abdomen, and back to her sex, where he dabbled for a while, teasing her. He heard voices below them, the melodious accents of the French language. The French tongue, he thought with a grin, sweeping his from the back of her sex forward and ending with a flick to her center. She sighed and pressed her pelvis toward him.

Suddenly, he wanted more. "Get on your knees, babe," he whispered. "I can't stand it, I've got to fuck you."

Eagerly she obeyed, turning over on the chaise and raising her ass in the air. The yellow gas lights flickered on her skin. Drops of her own moisture glistened on her parted thighs. She reached back between them, stroking herself with two fingers. "I'm so hot, so wet, I can barely hold on," she moaned.

He ripped open his zipper. His cock sprang out, ready for action. Clearly she needed no preparation; he could see her dripping, smell her heat. He plunged himself to the hilt into her exquisitely constricted cunt. She humped herself against his hardness, moaning in time with his thrusts, twisting her hips as she tried to take him deeper.

It didn't take long. She wasn't the most beautiful or most voluptuous woman he had known, but her lascivious joy at being exposed to the world aroused him in a unique way. He wanted everyone to see his abandoned, horny wife, her ass cheeks trembling with each thrust, crying out in animal lust as he plowed her.

The seed rose in his stalk, and he let it come. Though she had both hands on the chaise now, to balance his force, he knew she didn't need any manual stimulation. Dimly, he heard voices and laughter below. He skewered her one last time, as deeply as he could, and let himself explode. As he did, he managed to whisper in her ear: "They're watching us, babe..."

Her climax took her like a whirlwind. She felt his cock inside her, still like stone, the single point upon which her universe turned. She swelled and burst, expanding beyond the confines of her flesh, floating in the mellow evening light. She felt the eyes feasting upon her nakedness, their shock and their desire. She felt embarrassed and aroused and gloriously free.

With the money they were spending on this trip, they could have bought both a new refrigerator and a dishwasher. Never mind. It was their fifth wedding anniversary, and they planned to celebrate in their own way. The tickets to the Super Bowl alone had cost over two hundred dollars apiece. "Money well spent, you'll see," he assured her with a grin as they savored their crawfish etouffée later that evening. They had showered and changed, but when he released his foot from his sandal and began exploring, his toes found damp nakedness between her legs.

The next day they sat quietly in their seats, pretending to watch the game. Neither of them was much of a sports fan. She didn't even know which teams were competing. Every now and again, her husband would get a bit excited as some burly, broad-shouldered guy moved the ball close to the crossed sticks at one end of the field or the other. She would bring his attention back to where it belonged, firmly squeezing the erect cock hidden under the program in his lap. Her own sex was swollen and aching. God, let half-time come soon, she prayed, closing her eyes and squeezing her thighs together.

There was supposed to be a concert at half-time, the Irish band U2. She wondered briefly what twisted media genius had arranged this strange marriage between professional football and rock and roll. She had heard that the Super Bowl was the single largest event in the history of television. Millions of people were watching, all over America, probably all over the world. She licked her lips.

Their tickets included field passes for the concert. As soon as the second quarter ended, they grabbed their blanket and made their way down to the field.

The crowd streamed toward the stage that was being rolled into center field. Nobody noticed the couple establishing themselves at one end, just under the goal posts. He spread the blanket ceremoniously. She knelt down on it, in front of him, and began unfastening his pants.

Of course he was hard; she had kept him that way through the first half of the game, but even if that had not been true, being exposed this way would have brought him fully erect in seconds. Her lips gently encircled his cock, even as she pushed his pants down to bare his ass. He surged in her mouth, and she backed off a bit, licking and nibbling, allowing him to regain control.

He kicked off his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt while as she sucked him. He wore no undergarments. Leaning over her, he unzipped the back of her dress. Her mouth released him just long enough for him to pull it over her head and toss it onto the blanket. Like him, she was bare beneath.

He let her suck him for a while longer, fondling her sweet breasts, listening to the music and the applause. Finally, he couldn't stand any more. "My turn," he said, pushing her onto her back on the blanket and raising her thighs up over her head. Now her whole nether region was exposed, her swollen, damply pouting labia and the crinkled knot of her rear entrance. Delicately, he brushed the tip of one finger over the taut bead of flesh protruding from her folds. Her whole body convulsed in response.

His own rear in the air, he kneeled and began to lick her in long, sensuous strokes. His tongue would begin at her rigid clit and end with a swirl around her anus. Again and again he took this path, delighting in her writhing and her moans. "You look so nasty," he said. He had to speak loudly to be heard above the concert sounds. "Your cunt is sopping, and your asshole twitches every time I touch it. Everyone can see, baby, everybody." The noise from the crowd swelled, as if in response to his words. "I'll bet you'd like me to screw you there, my cock deep in your butt, wouldn't you, here on prime time television?" As if to emphasize his words, he wet his finger in her cunt and then slid it smoothly into her anus.

Her only answer was a moan. She gripped her thighs hard, holding them open for him. Her nails bit into her tender flesh, but she didn't notice. His finger worked her rear passage, that invasion simultaneously painful and thrilling. His tongue flicked rapidly over her clit, bringing her to right to the edge. For a moment she knew nothing but the sensations. She even forgot where they were, forgot her own name, and his.

Then she heard the band, the song, one of her favorites. "She moves in mysterious ways," they sang, and she remembered it all. "Baby, I want to be on top," she cried. "Let me ride you!"

He flipped over and she mounted him, his cock finding no resistance as it slipped into her drenched sex. He seemed larger and harder than he had ever been, and now she was in control. "If you want to touch the sky, better learn how to kneel," the song continued. She rode him fiercely, knowing that in taking her own pleasure she was giving him his.

Her thighs straddled him as she rocked back and forth. He filled and completed her. Her back arched, her honey-brown hair cascading down to her waist. Her fingers found her nipples and twisted hard. She wanted more, more sensation, deeper penetration. They had found their rhythm now, and their bodies rose and fell in unison, their grunts and wails echoing across the field.

Echoing? Simultaneously, they realized that the music had stopped. The crowd was silent. They felt hot lights on their skin, heard the roar of a helicopter coming from afar. The audience had finally noticed the other half-time show going on at the end of the field.

It was all they needed. "Come now, baby," she wailed, as she ground herself down on him. Her insides were flooded with his searing fluids. A climax as hot as the spotlights burned through her body. Together they shook as though rocked by a Gulf hurricane.

They lay panting together on the ground, but only for a moment. All hell had broken loose, whistles and sirens, yelling and stomping feet. He scooped up their clothes, grabbed the blanket and threw it around her shoulders. "Time to split, babe." They raced toward the staff exit that she had found two days before when they first explored the possibilities.

In the utility closet, they clung to each other, laughing and trembling. He kissed her naked, sweaty shoulder, caressed her breasts, cupped her furred mound in his palm. She could feel him hardening once more against her thigh. "Happy Anniversary, baby," she sighed, as his fingers found their way into her sex.

On the plane home the next day, they were a bit subdued. They held hands while they read the newspapers together. "Terrorists!" one columnist screamed. "Immoral spawn of Satan," accused another. They looked at each other, slightly chagrined.

When they switched planes in Chicago, though, they caught a grainy video of themselves being broadcast on CNN. She was hardly recognizable, that slender woman with her hair tangled around her, ferociously slamming her body down on that of her lover. Still, the images ignited them again. His hand surreptitiously groped her ass; she pressed herself back against the bulge in his groin.

The urbane commentator did not seem nearly as upset as the newspapers had been. In fact there was a distinct gleam in his eye. "This was definitely a Super Bowl to remember," he noted dryly. "A real crowd pleaser."

They looked at each other and burst into laughter. Then suddenly a worried expression crossed her face. "What's the matter, hon?" he asked, stroking her hair affectionately.

"Well, I was just thinking," she replied. "Whatever are we going to do for our tenth anniversary?"

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