Three J s and an S Go To Mardi Gras
- 2 years ago
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That Mardi Gras Spirit free porn video
It had taken all of Cindy's expertise with wet hungry mouth and slim probing fingers to bring my sluggish cock to full attention, and then an agonizing period of squirming adjustment, giggling, snorting, and shushing each other, before I was finally on top of her, socketed home between her long thighs, in the saddle and riding comfortably, as they say.
The old double bed in that cheap New Orleans hotel room was a lumpy, squeaking disgrace, too loud to risk it with Bart and Rayeanne snoring away in its twin right next to us, even with the shouts and laughter and the snapping of firecrackers drifting in through the open window. So we had slid off the edge down into the narrow space between bed and wall, me with my back against the flat worn carpet. It was pitch dark and dusty and claustrophobic down there, reminding me of long-ago games of hide and seek when I would push to the back of a closet behind the tight layers of clothes. Cindy had sprawled herself awkwardly over me, her long hair tickling my thighs, and focused her loving, determined attentions on my groin.
Eventually it had worked, as if Cindy would ever be denied, and as quickly as possible, before the precarious castle collapsed back into a heap of sand, we had gotten ourselves parallel, pointed in the same direction, and deliciously connected.
But now Cindy was slowing down, working against me instead of with me, bringing me to a quivering stop.
"What's the matter?" I whispered, breathing heavily in her ear.
"Shhh. I've got a feeling someone's listening - don't you feel it?"
Before I could tell her she was being silly, the bed on the other side of the room creaked and rustled, and Rayeanne said "Excuse me ... I hate to bother you guys ... it's just that I really have to pee."
"By all means," said Cindy, after a short pause.
"You don't want to be holding it in all night, you could damage your bladder," I added.
We heard Rayeanne get up and pad across the room. The bathroom light lit up the room for just a moment before she shut the door, and Cindy made a face of comic surprise.
Back in the total darkness, I hissed "You're not leaving me like this!"
Her body was shaking gently under mine, and I realized she was laughing. She whispered "Remember how we agreed we were going to make Rayeanne feel comfortable this weekend? Welcome to the family, and all that? Well, this is a little too comfortable, I think."
"I'm sure she'll go right back to sleep. Probably won't even remember in the morning."
Yeah, right. I wondered how we managed to get ourselves into this situation. The answer was all too obvious, really. Did any activity arranged by Bart DeBonnet ever not end up a wild, disorganized mess?
The waiter set down a plastic container of pure evil in the middle of the small table. "Another pitcher of Cajun margaritas," he announced, in a voice full of bonhomie.
We all looked up at him in befuddled surprise. Smiling cheerfully, the waiter picked up our second pitcher of Cajun margaritas, which was at half-full and holding steady, and emptied it into our glasses, topping up all four with the reddish orange liquid.
"Did we order this?" asked Cindy finally.
The waiter smiled at my wife, in the admiring way that waiters often do, and said "I was told that this table needed another pitcher. Did y'all want me to take it back?"
I opened my mouth to jump on this blessed opportunity, but I was too slow.
"Hell no, we don't want to send it back!" My buddy Bart glared at the waiter as if his manhood had been questioned, and the chastened server shrugged and disappeared back into the crowded restaurant. Bart's wife Rayeanne let out a little moan of despair, then turned to Cindy and gave her an apologetic shrug. It didn't look like married life was slowing down ole Bart too much.
Cindy gave me a look that said "I can't believe you guys still feel the need to get shitfaced whenever you get together."
I gave her a shrug that said "It's not me, it's him, and besides, he's your cousin."
"Here's to the good old days," said Bart out loud, lifting his glass. "Goddamn it's good to see you again, Deej! And you too, Cin."
"Great to see you too, Bart," I said. "But it's only been four months. Barely enough time for my liver to recover from the wedding." I took a sip of my drink. Tabasco sauce, lime juice, triple sec, and tequila - specialty of the house.
"I've been telling you guys we should do Mardi Gras for years," said Bart. "It's a blast. People drinking, flashing, dancing, having a wild time -what's not to like? And besides, it's right between Chicago and Miami, perfect place to meet."
"Leave it to you to pick the world's largest fraternity party for a vacation spot," said Cindy.
Bart and I had been college roommates at Cornell. Back then we were inseparable - hard-drinking, skirt-chasing wild men who were the life of every party. We still saw each other once or twice a year - after all, we were family now. And we still had a good time. But we weren't as close as we had been. I was a different person now than I had been at twenty, and, to put it bluntly, Bart wasn't.
As he launched into another trip down memory lane, one that would end up with the two of us nearly getting expelled for breaking into a sorority house, I took a closer look at Bart DeBonnet. He was a little beefier than he had been back then, with the makings of a double chin, but with his linebacker shoulders he carried the weight well. He still had a full head of unruly blond hair, and his wide face was unblemished and unwrinkled. He still had the devilish smile that made women melt and their boyfriends uneasy. He and Cindy don't look anything alike - Cindy is a slender brunette with a narrow face and refined features - but she and Bart both radiate the DeBonnet charisma.
Cindy was laughing at Bart's story, not a polite laugh but a full-throated face-squinching explosion of humor, and I decided that maybe Bart acted like a kid because he was so damn good at it.
Raye said "Bart, honey, I don't want to hear any more stories about what a bad boy you were before I met you." Rayeanne DeBonnet was an attractive, big-boned girl with long, curly blond hair and a round freckled face. She was six years younger than Bart and I, and a couple years younger than Cindy, and I could understand how all the reminiscing might make her nervous. She and Bart had known each other for less than a year.
"Can't say I blame you," said Bart agreeably. "After all, between the two of us me and Deej must've screwed more than half-"
"So tell me more about your writing, DG," interrupted Raye. "Cindy tells me you're really into it."
"Well, it's just a hobby. But yeah, I enjoy it."
"I'll have to read some of your stories. Are they all about sex?"
"Well ... pretty much."
"I keep telling him to try writing about something else," said Cindy.
"But nobody would read it," I said.
Bart scootched his chair over closer to his wife and said "I read some of your stuff - pretty damn good if you ask me. I liked the one where you got that hooker to call you up at home for some dirty talk, and you and Cin ended up getting it on for her instead of the other way around." He put his arm around Raye and gave her rear end a husbandly squeeze.
"Thanks," I said modestly. "I don't think she was a hooker, actually - I think she just did phone sex."
"Wow," said Raye. "Did that really happen?"
I glanced at Cindy, who was blushing prettily. "More or less," she said.
"So your stories are true?" asked Raye. She seemed pretty interested. Or maybe she was just happy to have the conversation off the good old days.
I said "No, no, most of them aren't. But sometimes I base them on my experiences."
"You gonna write some stories about our days at Cornell?" asked Bart. "Hell, you could do a whole multivolume series on that."
I grinned at him. "Maybe I should. I could call it 'Education of a Sex Fiend' and base it on you, maybe."
"Sure, that sounds pretty good. What do you think, Raye?"
Raye gave her husband a kiss and said "As long as he doesn't use your real name." I was glad to see that Raye was taking this well. I guess if she didn't have a sense of humor about this sort of thing, she and Bart wouldn't have made it past the first date.
Bart looked at his watch and said "Hey, it's time to hit the streets. Drink up, everybody."
"Right, we wouldn't want any of this magical elixir to go to waste," said Cindy. She drained her drink, made a face, and set her glass in middle of the table with an air of finality. "That's it for me - a girl has to know when to say when. I'm going to go powder my nose."
"I'll join you," said Raye.
When the womenfolk were gone, Bart refilled our glasses and said "So what do you think of Raye?"
"I like her. I told you that at the wedding. I think you two are great together."
He flashed a grin. "She's good at putting up with my shit, you mean."
"Right. So how's the whole monogamy thing going?" Bart and I had a long talk before the wedding about the terrifying prospect of becoming a one-woman man.
"So far so good. Not a problem yet. Raye's a real tiger in bed, I got my hands full just with her. Found out some things about her that surprised me a little."
"Good." I leaned over the table, bringing our heads close together. We must have looked like a couple of spies. Drunk spies. "Um ... what sorts of things?"
He chuckled. "Oh, let's just say that I might not have to be monogamous after all."
"Jeez Bart, are you trying to talk her into swinging all ready? You're still paying off the honeymoon."
"Who says she has to be talked into it? Maybe she's trying to talk me into it."
"Right."
Cindy and Raye came sashaying back to the table, giggling and talking, and I could see heads turning all over the restaurant. I found myself staring at Raye, thinking about what Bart had just said. When I stood up, the room seemed to sway, and I realized with a dull twinge of surprise that I was absolutely hammered.
As we opened the door, the heavy, muggy air hit us like a wet blanket, filling our lungs and making our clothes stick to our bodies. If this was New Orleans in March, I would hate to visit in the summer when it was hot. It was fully dark out now, but the streets were well lit and rapidly filling up with people. I put my arm around Cindy to keep us from getting separated.
"Having a good time?" she asked.
"Actually I am," I said. "How about you?"
"Yep. I feel like I'm on a college road trip. No agenda, no goals other than drinking and having fun."
"And everyone crashes in the same hotel room," I added. Bart had been in charge of the reservations, and two adjoining rooms in one of New Orleans' fine old hotels had somehow turned into one room in a rickety Victorian establishment called the Red Owl Inn. We had checked in and dropped off our luggage earlier, and the place had left us underwhelmed.
"Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that," said Cindy with a laugh. "That's going to be interesting."
"Are you and Raye getting along OK?" I asked.
"Yep. She's very sweet. But not naive. She knows what Bart is like. I think they're going to do pretty well."
A few fat raindrops started splatting into the ground. For a minute or so it was a playful, intermittent drumbeat, and a satisfied murmur went through the crowd as everyone lifted their faces up and enjoyed the refreshing dollops of moisture. Then, without warning, the sky opened up. Sheets of rain pelted down in a suffocating deluge, the drops bouncing back up off the pavement in a hissing roar. Before we could even think of taking shelter, we were soaked to the skin. "What should we do?" shouted Rayeanne. Her white t-shirt was glued to her ample breasts, and I could see the darker outline of her nipples. Bart looked dazed and confused, like a dog who accidentally fell into a pond.
"We need to get inside before we drown," said Cindy.
"Might as well head back to the hotel," I said.
By the time we made it back to our third floor hotel room, we were shivering but in high spirits. The room was stuffy and smelled of mildew, and Raye threw open the French doors that led to the small balcony. The rain was coming straight down, not as hard as before, and people were laughing and dancing in the little courtyard below us. The air that came wafting in was scrubbed clean and teeming with ions.
"I say we hang out up here until the rain stops," said Raye. "We can watch the college kids get crazy and catch pneumonia, and then hit the streets again later."
We all agreed it sounded like a plan. Bart and I were sent to get a bucket of ice and some sodas while the women changed into dry clothes.
We padded though the old hotel in our bare feet, chuckling and shivering. I was still drunk, but feeling more awake now. Bart had a dangerous gleam in his eyes that brought back memories of when we were the Dynamic Duo, prowling the campus like a pair of young lions.
"Sound like this place is gearing up to party," he said. It was true - behind the closed doors young voices were shouting and laughing.
We finally located the ice machine hidden away in a corner of the basement. A girl with a damp blond ponytail and a sorority t-shirt was slamming the button with the heel of her hand and swearing a blue streak.
We watched for a few seconds, and then I ventured "Empty?"
The girl stopped pounding and rubbed her hand. "Beginning to look that way."
"Lemme try," said Bart. "I got a way with ice machines. I speak their language."
He put our bucket underneath the chute and went to the side of the machine and tilted it up a few inches, grunting with effort, and then let it drop back down with a crunching thud. He repeated this subtle maneuver on the other side, and then he made a show of gently pressing the button with his forefinger. Ice clattered down the chute and filled our bucket.
"Now it's empty," he said.
"That's my ice," said the girl irritably. "I was here first."
"I don't think so," said Bart and I simultaneously.
"Tell you what," said Bart. "We'll split it with you."
"Cool." She held out her bucket.
"If you flash us your tits."
She wrinkled her nose, giving us that look of withering disdain that attractive twenty-year-old girls have all mastered, and said "You're disgusting."
She turned and walked away. We followed her, since there was only one way out of the basement. When she got to the door to the stairwell, she turned around and gave us a resigned look.
"Half the ice?"
"Scout's honor," said Bart.
She lifted up her t-shirt, giving us a nice long peek. Her breasts were small and nicely shaped, with tiny pink nipples.
"Thank you, darlin'," said Bart cheerfully. "That's the Mardi Gras spirit." He poured half the ice into her bucket, and she disappeared up the stairs at a run, her face red.
"In a way it's comforting that you haven't changed," I said.
"You know how it is, ole buddy - I try to keep that Mardi Gras spirit going year round."
Back at our door, I knocked and waited a few seconds before entering. As it turned out, this bit of chivalry was somewhat misplaced. Cindy was sitting on the bed, laughing hysterically. She was wearing the tiny black bikini top she normally reserved for our back yard and the quiet beaches of our favorite resort in Mexico. Rayeanne was out on the balcony, and she wasn't wearing much of anything, except cheap plastic beads.
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