Hotel Heiress: New Orleans

"I can't bare my breasts in public," I said to him, "they'll recognize them from the little bit of cleavage I show in my soap opera."

"Just do it, ok?"

And that was that. The Parade floated down Canal Street, the Cajun dance music infecting the crowds who began to dance in the streets. Byron took my hand and before long we were dancing up a storm ourselves.........

* * * * *

The French Quarter was alive with jazz music and parties. After the parade, Byron and I returned to the small inn and had lunch there. It was affordable and a smart move. I didn't want to be seen in restaurants in the city for fear of being recognized, photographed or interviewed about my being here in New Orleans. At night, Mardi Gras was crazier than during the day. Sure enough, I was obligated to lift up my top and expose my breasts to leering crowds. I did it with a group of girls standing in the sidewalk as guys threw beads at them. I liked the beads on my neck. It was almost like a pretty accessory and at the moment, the only "jewelry" I had on.

Fortunately for me, no one seemed to recognize my breasts, not even from the art-house foreign film I had been in where I showed full-frontal nudity. It was early in the evening. The city lights glimmered like fireflies and some folks were still in costume. Of course, there were many drunks out and about. Their reckless behavior – throwing bottles of beer into the air, shooting guns into the air and making lewd comments to any girl passing by resulted in cops showing up when they got out of hand.

Byron's eyes searched the street. He found a strip club called "Lady Marmalade" which seemed to be very popular. A lot of men and some couples were going in there and a heavy Techno music could be heard coming from inside as well as a blue light which went off and on in a fast manner to the beat of the music.

"Let's look in there," he said to me.

We walked into the club. Inside, a vast stage stood in the center, where a group of three girls were dancing topless and in thongs slowly. One of the girls was busily working the pole. Men were jamming dollar bills into the girl's thongs and at their feet. A cloud of smoke surrounded one table full of men smoking Cuban cigars. Everyone was drinking.

"Alright, let's not look too conspicuous," Byron said," I'll pretend I'm ogling the strippers and you go and order a drink but keep your eyes open."

Byron went ahead and stood by the stage looking at a brunette who had just arrived on stage and began to do her erotic dance. As it appeared, Byron was having fun during our little investigation and he even payed the girl a few dollar bills. I frowned at him and he only smiled as if he wanted to laugh.

At the bar, I ordered whisky. Some of the men at the bar began to leer at me. Perhaps they knew who I was or perhaps they didn't and were staring anyways. I realized walking about earlier when it was daytime that this charming little Louisiana city by the water was also the home of many ignorant rednecks. They probably didn't follow Hollywood culture or read any magazines in which I was featured.

"Don't I know you?" the bar tender said to me.

Finally, I thought, someone recognized me. Yeah, I know I said I didn't want anyone to know I was here but it always, always felt good to be recognized as a star. Any star who tells you otherwise is lying. Fame is the ultimate high.

I smiled at the bar tender. He was a cute blonde-haired guy with a tight body and he didn't look like a redneck at all.

"Didn't you go to my high school, class of '88?" he said to me.

I frowned and I walked away with my drink in my hand.

Byron approached me and put a hand on my shoulder and leaned next to me to whisper:

"No sign of them here. Sorry to say this but we should check out at least two more strip clubs."

"This is crazy. We're not doing it the right way," I responded.

"So how do you propose we do it, Miss Thing?"

"I have a black-and-white photo of Ron and his wife Linda. Linda gave it to me while we were in New York City. Do you have one of Alma?"

"Yeah."

"Good. We can show people the pictures of Alma and Ron and ask if they've seen these two together in the city."

"Good thinking. Ok, let's roll."

We walked out of that strip club and into another. We didn't pay attention to the name. It was at one far end of the street with neon lights over the entrance and female torsos jiggling in yellow light.

The place looked the same from the inside – a bunch of colorful lights everywhere and female bodies, both artificial and real, swaying their hip and gyrating in a seductive way. The strippers were doing their thing but here not everyone seemed to be interested. Some men were giving them money but most men were busy chatting and watching a sports news broadcast on the TV set.

We approached two middle-aged guys drinking beer.

"Have either of you seen these two people?" Byron said to them showing them the photos of Alma and Ron.

The men examined the pictures carefully and didn't say a word. After a short while, one of the guys looked at Byron.

"No. We've never seen them. So what are you two FBI?"

"Yeah," Byron said sarcastically, "something like that."

We went around the club asking the same question. No one recognized Alma or Ron and said they've never seen them. At another strip club on the other side of the street, we did the same thing. I split up and asked some of the strippers when they were exiting the stage.

"I've seen the girl," one of the strippers said to me as she put on a robe and smoothed her hair.

"You have? Where? When?"

"She frequents this strip club but she hasn't come lately. The last time I saw her was probably a year and a half ago when I first started working here."

"Was she alone or was she with someone?"

"She was with two guys, tough-looking guys. They were in suits and smoking fine cigars."

"Thank you."

"Haven't I seen you some where?" the stripper asked.

Ah, she recognized me as a celebrity.

"Did you used to work here?"

I frowned and walked away to find Byron. He had had no luck and he told me no one recognized Alma or Ron.

"That dancer told me Alma used to come here," I told him, "but she must have been with her criminal or Mafioso friends when she did."

Byron looked tired and unhappy. I must have looked the same. It was about eleven and we must have searched every strip club in New Orleans. It became pretty clear that if we were going to find them, it wasn't going to be at a strip club. We walked out of the club and back into the streets. Outside, prostitutes were walking about, some getting into cars and some getting into little hotels. The Mardi Gras air still lingered but it had quieted down considerably. We began to walk back to our own little inn off the mid-city area.

"Why didn't you rent us a car?" I said to him, almost sounding like a nagging wife.

"I know this city well and it was better to walk so we can have a better chance of seeing them. If we're in a car, we'll pass them by too quickly."

"I'm so tired."

"I know, baby, me too. We'll search other places tomorrow. I know all her old haunts."

As we walked down the streets of New Orleans, surrounded everywhere by night-time party-goers, I noticed a little piece of paper the breeze had blown into my hand. I saw that it was a small business card. It read:

Stone Private Investigators. Located At Julia Street, Port Of New Orleans, near the ship terminal. We work on cases involving kidnappings, missing persons including children and infidelity investigations. Hours: M. Lennon Daytime 9am to 5pm Mon-Fri, S. Martin Nighttime 6pm-2am, Mon-Fri.

They listed their phone numbers which in addition to the office number was their cellular phone numbers. Now, you must consider that it was still pretty early in the 90's and at the time it often seemed as if only the wealthy had cell phones. Urban professionals and businessmen had them but not your next door neighbor. I had one, of course, as did my parents. My father was one of the first to purchase them back when they were big and not miniature.

I didn't tell Byron anything about this. I had begun to think that I should seek out the P.I. that worked nights and have him look for Ron. It was best left to a pro. The problem was how to keep Byron from finding out. I'd have to find a way to do this without him knowing about it and still pretend to be searching for Ron and Alma. I'd have to think on it some more.

* * * * *

We were in our hotel room again. The lights were off and only the dim light of the lamp by the nightstand was on. Byron was only wearing boxers and I could see that the bulge of his big cock under the fabric. He was becoming aroused as he watched me undress slowly. I was doing this to get him hot and horny, and then I figured we'd fuck until he got tired and sleepy. While he slept, I would stay up and then find the Private Investigator by the marina who kept late hours.

I took off my top and skirt, my clothes piling on the wooden floor. I removed my bra and panties slowly and with my eyes never leaving his. I was smiling softly and enjoying my little striptease. I gestured with my finger for him to come over as I hopped into bed. Grunting appreciatively, he got on the bed next to me. We kissed, slow, burning kisses, our hands exploring our bodies. My hands went down his chest and stomach while his hands went down my back and ass. He seemed to really like my ass. I suppose he had an anal fixation and back in the jail he had already fucked me anally. He slapped my butt.

Byron's kissed a trail down my neck, breasts, stomach and pussy. My nipples were hard and pleasure coursed through my body, making me throw my head back and move my body as his hands held my waist. He lifted me up and put me on top of him.

"Ride my cock, white girl," he said to me, "ride it."

"Oh God," I said, my voice choked with passion.

I straddled him and this position I had always liked. I was in control of the pacing and I felt his cock slid up my pussy slowly, making me moan and arch my back. His hard cock was huge but my pussy was able to take all of it. It felt so damn good to bounce above him, each thrust sending me over the edge. I went slowly, building up to a faster pace, ensuring that he was getting as much pleasure out of it as I was. Up and down over his cock, up then down, finally increasing my pace. I lost myself in the moment; my head tilted back, my hands over my breasts, screaming my lungs off. His explosive orgasm came at the same time as mine.

We were far from done. I told him I wanted to suck his big black cock and this made his cock hard again. He got up and held me in place on the edge of the bed. Then I reached up and began to rub his cock up and down the shaft, working it, giving him a hand job, ensuring that his cock was hard and ready. He moaned in pleasure as his cock grew again. He was then able to just slam down his cock down my throat easily.

I sucked his cock gratefully, murmuring and gagging on its largeness. He took me by the hair and pulled on it roughly, making my head bounce a little. He closed his eyes and let out a primal scream as his cock fucked my mouth. Now, this being a memoir of all my experiences and adventures, I must say that each session of sex I write about is not a fictional. I ended up having lots of porn-movie style sex throughout most of my young adult life. Because Byron was young himself (possibly in his late 30's) he was able to stay hard and keep me satisfied. I loved giving oral and sucking cock and his cock was unlike any I had ever seen.

When he couldn't hold it anymore, he released his cum all over the bed. I didn't like it anywhere on my body and whenever I could do something about it, I did. I have had cum showers and had it on my face and other parts of my body but I didn't much care for it. This is why I was a bigger fan of soft-core adult films that didn't show any cum shots.

"Damn girl you give some good head," he said to me.

He then took me fiercely into his arms and kissed me standing up. He slapped my butt again and he leaned on my neck.

"I want to give it to you in the ass," he said.

I figured he would want to do that. Well, I thought, if we have heavy anal sex that might just do the trick and put him to sleep afterward.

"Ok, baby," I said to him.

Growling, he threw me on the bed. The sheets felt good against my stomach and belly. I could still smell and feel his cum on the sheets. His cock was hard again (wow!) and I raised my ass to him. I faced away from him and got on all fours. He just moaned and looked at my ass as if it was the best looking ass he'd ever seen in his entire life. I thought that was saying a lot because surely he had enjoyed anal sex with black girls who usually possessed big butts that drove men like him wild.

He didn't fuck my ass right away. He used his fingers to work my pussy, inserting them in and out of my pussy and making me shiver and moan in ecstasy. After doing a little of that he began to do it inside my anus. I had never had that from any man before but it felt good. His fingers went in and out of my anus and he even spat inside my anus and on his own fingers to make it wet and slippery. I moaned and writhed.

"Stay still, hold on to something like those pillows," he ordered.

I complied and grabbed on to the pillows. He then slammed his dick into my ass as roughly as he could. At the first penetration I could have been knocked over. It hurt but it also felt good. He began to move his cock inside my ass and shoved it as deep as he could. His balls slapped against my thighs and his hips smacked against my ass. He grunted repeatedly and fucked my ass like we wouldn't live to see tomorrow. He was great at anal. I cowered at the force of his cock inside my ass and screamed like I was under attack. In and out, deeper and deeper his cock went.

"You like it in the ass don't you white bitch?" he said to me.

Well, that was a surprise. Now he was using dirty talk and bad language when he had never done that before, not even back at the prison. He seemed to be enjoying this far too much. But of course, that was a good thing and it meant he'd be sound asleep in no time after this.

"Huh? Do you like it in the ass?"

"O yes baby, I love it, keep going."

It was no lie or act. I did like anal. I just didn't get it that often. He fucked my ass harder and I felt like fainting. He released his cum before long and it was over my ass in big spurts. I didn't like that he had cum on me and I knew I'd have to take a shower afterward. He steadied his breathing and stopped moaning.

"Damn, that was the best," he said.

"Thank you," I said.

He covered himself with the sheets and put his head against the pillow. He closed his eyes. Then he opened them and looked at me. I was standing by the bed smoothing my hair which had become disheveled during the anal sex.

"Aren't you going to bed?"

"Yes," I said to him, "but I'm going to shower first. You go ahead and sleep. I'll join you in a bit."

He nodded and closed his eyes. I went into the bathroom and showered for a period of time I felt was long enough to ensure that he had fallen asleep. I dressed up again and looked over to the bed. Byron was profoundly asleep. My plan had worked. I sighed. Taking the little business card into my hand I looked at the address of the Private Investigator's office again. It was late. It must have been twelve thirty in the morning. The card said the guy kept late hours and he didn't close until 2 in the morning. I still had time. I got out of the room and headed to the streets.

I realized it was late and walking alone during the crazy Mardi Gras time was asking for trouble. Drunken men were still around and maybe some real scum too and it was dangerous. I immediately hailed a taxi.

"Where to?" the taxi driver said.

He was a black man who looked very tired. I smoothed my skirt. It was a pink skirt which I wore with a white blouse and pink jacket. I kind of felt like I was wearing a pretty little Jackie Kennedy type of outfit and all that was missing was the pillbox hat. I had on stockings and heels. I thought that looking good for the P.I. would fuel his desire to help me immediately. Didn't good looking girls always drive Private Eye's wild in those film noir movies from the 40's?

"Ma'am, I said where to?" he repeated himself.

"Julia Street, the Port," I said to him.

* * * * *

The office building stood against an almost dramatic view of the New Orleans ship terminal, where some cargo ships and even cruise ships could be seen. Julia Street stretched near the marina. The taxi stopped right in front of the office and I payed him the cab fare, which was not as expensive as cab fares in New York City. A breeze was blowing, a breeze that was coming from the nearby Lake Pontchartrain. The night air was cool. I took a deep breath and walked toward the door. It was made of some glass by the top corner and I noticed that the P.I. man was indeed inside, drinking coffee to keep awake.

He buzzed me in and the door opened automatically. He put down his coffee and retrieved a cigar from a case and said nothing. I thought it was pretty rude of him not to say anything. I wondered what this guy was going to be like and whether or not he was competent enough to help me out.

"Sit down, beautiful," he said after a while.

I sat down in front of his desk. He finished his coffee and then put out his cigar inside it. He coughed.

"You'll have to excuse me, I have a bit of a cold. Staying up nights is getting to be too much for me," he said," my name is Stone Martin, Private Detective."

After he composed himself, he took a good look at me. I did the same. He was a handsome older guy, probably in his forties, with dark brown hair, a strong body, suspender pants and clean white long-sleeved shirt he had rolled up to his elbows. His face had a somewhat funny look, as if he felt everything was a joke but at the same time he had the toughest, serious-looking face I'd ever seen. It was hard to know whether he was going to tell jokes or yell. He looked as tough-as-nails and every bit like a film noir detective.

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for someone desperately. You see, there was a kidnapping –"

I showed him the black and white photo of Ron and Linda. I had also stolen the picture of Alma Chavez that Byron carried with him. He had put it on the nightstand by the lamp back in our hotel room. He looked at the photographs carefully, scrutinizing it as if it were already crucial to his job. He put the photos away in a folder that was on his desk.

"I'm going to have to confiscate these because I'll need them for the case," he told me.

"That's fine. Have you seen either of them in town?"

"No. And you need to specify who you're looking for. The couple or the Hispanic woman?"

"The Hispanic woman is Alma Chavez. She is a woman with a criminal past who for some reason or other never went to jail. She has friends among the Mafia and has in the past been a stripper and been involved with drug dealers. The man is Ron Ash, married; the woman to his left is his wife Linda. They live and San Francisco but their work – photography art – brings them to travel to various places in and out of the U.S. Alma met Ron in New York and became his –"

"His mistress?"

"How did you guess?"

"I'm used to hearing things like that. You brought me a picture of a married couple and a single woman so I put two and two together and made the assumption that she is the married man's kept mistress."

"Well she was only briefly his mistress in New York. Then she kidnapped him."

"She kidnapped him? How long ago was this?"

"I would say almost a year ago now. I was in New York City doing modeling work."