Irvin Mayfield’s Jazz Playhouse
Royal Sonesta Hotel
New Orleans, Louisiana
I was sitting at the Jazz Bar on Bourbon Street. After, I had already downed two Cosmos, and working on my third. I was feeling the mood, the atmosphere, the southern dialect heard in the distance background sounded as if I crossed an entire continent to hear such southern blended dialects.
Several moments later, I decided to sip the last remains of my drink. I decided to rise and check out several more Jazz Bars establishments on the stroll. However, before, I rose from my bar stool. A handsome man of Italian lineage slid beside me. He leaned against the bar and tapped on the Oakwood surface to get the bartender’s attention
Umm, the man smelled so good.
I turned my head the other way, pretending the coy act.
“Whatcha having,” the bartender asked this gentleman.
“Rum no ice.” He looked over at me. “And give the lady another round of whatever she’s sipping on.”
The bartender nodded his head at the man’s request.
Darn, then that mean I would have to twist my head around and face the chivalry in his deep baritone voice. I told myself, I am here for rest from ER patient caseloads, training for a marathon, just to be me, which involves no kinky one-night stand.
I pivoted my head.
Damn, I swear, I couldn’t get my mouth moving, let alone get the words out to properly thank this handsome Adonis.
Keep your head, was the only words that rang out in the far corners of my mind.
The bartender placed a napkin down in front of our presence. He then placed our respective drinks in front of us. The bartender gave me just enough time for my brain to register a response if spoken to once again.
His midnight-colored eyes gently caressed my skin.
“I’m hoping so.”
He lifted his drink and took a small swig.
Umm, his lips, succulent, a good indicator he knew how to use them along with his mouth.
I was too frighten to lift me drink, my hands were shaking,
I took a deep breath.
“Are you enjoying yourself gorgeous.”
“I am now.”
The man nodded his head at my affirmation.
My mind has always fast forward, his tongue bathing within the pools of my pussy juices; sapping the essence of me as his head twisted from side to side as he enjoyed his feast of famine.
What was wrong with me, I made a pack with myself, before I boarded the plane from Philadelphia to pretend to be a virgin to this world. Somehow, that plan was being mentally challenged.
I swear this handsome one looked like, Nick Lashey, from his aquiline facial features to his build concealed behind his double-breasted two-piece navy blue suit.
“Have you eaten. If not, I know this nice restaurant not too far from here. This place serves the best mouthwatering steaks.”
“Ooh, I’m sorry, I’m a vegetarian.”
Good, maybe he would finish his drink in silence, and allow me to sneak out of here, alone.
The stranger palmed down has smooth shaven cheeks.
“This is New Orleans, the seafood is exquisite to eat, much like the eye candy in front of me.”
“The hard candy erected in front of me, could use a good sucking as well.”
Why does the erotic side of my nature always seep through, this man must have thought me to be easy.
He looked down following my words and then hooked my smokey-colored eyes
“Are you up for the job?”
“Tell me gorgeous, is the pussy clean, and does it smell like heaven.”
This was no southern gentleman.
I looked around the bar and then faced his presence. I spaced my thighs, inserted a finger inside my pussy, withdrew it, and then smeared my finger under his nostrils
“You tell me.”
He took a complementary whiff.
This handsome one lifted that same finger placed it up to his mouth. He held my eyes as he homed my finger inside his mouth.
This handsome one read the questions in my eyes
“It smells like heaven, I wanted to see what an Angel really taste like.”
I almost climaxed, words floating out that generous mouth, facial features already had me mentally stoned.
He allowed by hand to fall astray.
I nervously lifted my drink, took a sip; I shakily repositioned my glass on my napkin.
He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Why don’t we get out of here.”
“I’m sorry, I do not leave with strangers.”
He stuck the tip of his tongue inside my ear canal. “I’ll stick something much bigger and better, in other tighter holes.”
His minty breath was hot on my ear.
Would you just say something? Educated and cannot form a simple reply. My own rules of being in charge caught me off guard. I had no defense, the man was guilty of tipping me off balance, in the most poetic way.
He kissed the bottom of my earlobe and inched his face back. He cupped my chin and slowly turned my face to meet his eyes.
Please tell me I packed those extended condoms, I racked my brain in a matter of minutes, dammit.
He must have sensed my hesitancy.
“Tell me sexy, I do not make you nervous, we have all night to get better acquainted.”
“I have a stocked bar in my hotel room.”
I was flirting with danger, but to spend a night of consensual passion in a man’s arm who looked the splitting image of Nick Lashey was on this French Creole woman’s nightly agenda.
“This is nice.”
He lifted my diamond Ankh and leaned his head down to closely inspect it. His hair was glossed, slicked back, and tapered to a V shape faded cut. He slowly replaced my piece of jewelry against my bare chest. The back of his hand took the extra time to caress over my sun kissed skin.
“Very nice.” His eyes never wavered from mine. “The necklace too.”
I blushed those pearly white enamels.
The man lifted his drink and took a healthy swig. He looked down at my drink.
“I also have a stocked bar in my hotel suite.”
“Lead the way handsome.”
Hyatt House New Orleans/Downtown
New Orleans, Louisiana
One Hour Later
We walked into the hotel lobby of the Hyatt House.
“Can you excuse me,”
He strolled away from me, confident in his stride. Thank goodness he had the taxicab driver to pull over at one of those convenient food markets. I felt my purse for the box of assurance if this night progresses as I’m hoping.
I pivoted my head. Marco, that’s his name, was conversing with another handsome looking gentleman.
New Orleans from what I could remember was not this stocked with men who looked like models when I blazed through here years ago.
Marco walked toward me.
Damn, the man looked good, I’m sure to get my pussy caressed throughout the night; I’m halfway there, no panties or thong are gracing this Brazilian waxed pussy.
“You are a very gorgeous woman, are you American.”
“No, I was born in Santo Domingo, reared by my Grand-mère in France, and spent my adolescent years in Haiti with my grann until I went to college in America.”