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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