Moist Lips and The Sacred Monkey

"So, tell us more of your impressions of this mysterious city, Mary?" asks Alexandra, with an emphasis on "mysterious." "Does it live up to your expectations?"

Mrs. Anderson clears her throat, tries for a moment to concentrate, and ignore Alexandra's fingers. "It's more than what I thought," she says, looking at Alexandra, then me. "It's so intoxicating. I had no idea. I wish I weren't a little afraid of it all. I wish I could be more like the people who live here. I think everybody here must have a story."

"Well," says Alexandra. "You know what Bob Dylan once said about this town: 'There's something obscenely joyful behind every door.' And he's right."

With that, Alexandra slides to the edge of the booth to stand up, saying, "This town is a place of dark seduction. It is what it is. Let's walk."

So I pay and we leave, passing a few street buskers, then heading down the narrow, dark side streets with balconies overhanging, almost right on top of us. Our surroundings, as we head away from Dumane, are all of the sudden almost too quiet, secretive. There are few people, fewer street lamps. The summertime night air thick and oppressive.

It may have been the cobblestones, and partly the pinot grigio, but Mrs. Anderson's right ankle gives, just a little, but enough to warrant both Alexandra and I to put our arms around her waist. One of us on each side of her. We walk on, my arm just below Alexandra's, my outstretched hand resting at the top curve of Mrs. Anderson's hip. To her, it must seem quite by accident. Or maybe not. She makes no move to stop me. But then her buzz from the wine, I'm speculating, is much farther along than ours.

We walk quietly for a moment or two. Then Alexandra says, "Mary, we have some delicious Bavarian mousse croissants and a yummy bottle of dry champagne just waiting for us back at our pension. Come join us. It's only one more block. And it's still early."

Mrs. Anderson tries to be polite. "I shouldn't. I've intruded on your evening too much already. And you've paid for everything."

I look at her. "If you try to argue with Alexandra, you won't win. Besides, we have a nice little balcony we can sit out on and watch the people below and the night sky above. You haven't experienced the French Quarter until you've sat on a balcony and watched the world go by below you."

"Absolutely," rings in Alexandra. "And feel that fresh breeze that's just starting up. Do you feel that? It's coming in off the Gulf. It'll cool things down for several hours. A perfect end to a sensational evening. Don't you just love it? Think what you'll be able to tell your friends back home."

* * *

An hour later I find myself on the divan, lips to lips with Mrs. Anderson, seated beside me on our balcony, both of us in hot embrace. I'm running my hand up and down her side, from shoulder to breast, to her waist, her thigh, her calves. Her body is warm to my hand. We are fully dressed but flooded with desire even still. And our clothes are damp from the day's heat and humidity.

At first her kisses were hesitant, she seemed lost and unsure. She was surprised when I first kissed her. Shocked, really. But I had to. Alexandra was expecting it. You see, she brought her here for me. But now, a few moments later, Mrs. Anderson is returning my kisses, meeting my tongue with hers. I find her lips especially soft, her mouth spicy from the file gumbo. Beads of sweat line her brow, probably from the wine. Her face, arms and legs are moist with perspiration. I smell a little perfume. Her hands are moving on my back. I can feel the pull between us. She wants more than anything to be seduced. Let the guilt come later.

Alexandra had gone to the bathroom, but she returns, dressed now in a thin, silken Japanese kimono-like robe. I don't need to wonder if she is naked beneath it. As we break our kiss, Mrs. Anderson is met by Alexandra leaning in and kissing her lips once, lightly, then sitting back.

Mrs. Anderson leans her head back on the divan, closes her eyes. Slowly shakes her head back and forth. Very slowly. "I can't believe I am here, doing this," she says. "Things like this don't happen to me. I'm a high school teacher, for God's sake. I have a family."

"Would you like to leave?" Alexandra asks in her quiet voice.

"I'll be glad to walk you home," I say just as quietly.

Her eyes are still closed. She is quiet for the longest time. It is a moment of truth. She knows it. She is about to cross the Rubicon. Slowly, she shakes her head, no. She will stay. She's aware, with this single gesture, that she has surrendered her fate to us.

Alexandra, who is seated with us, parts her own legs, letting the bottom of her kimono fall away. She brings Mrs. Anderson's hand to her upper thigh, placing it there, only inches from her sex, that top part of the thigh where Mrs. Anderson can't help but feel the heat from Alexandra. Mrs. Anderson opens her eyes, lowers her gaze to look at her hand, but makes no attempt to move it, one way or the other. We think she's probably never touched a woman's thigh before.

We both stand her up, and there, on the balcony, we begin undressing her in the darkness, Alexandra in front of her, me behind. There's a dim light fixture at the corner of the balcony, almost certainly illuminating us for the few strolling partiers below. Mrs. Anderson probably doesn't realize that. Or more likely no longer cares. She is in a haze.

"Mary," says Alexandra, as she stands very close, face to face with Mrs. Anderson, unbuttoning the top of her dress. "Do you know what Tennessee Williams once wrote?:

"When you love somebody, you musn't listen to what they say. You must look at their eyes ... and feel their heart."

"Tonight," she says, "Albert and I have looked into your eyes. And we feel your heart. Let us fulfill all of your desires. Just for this one night."

Mrs. Anderson is, I guess, emotionally flooded, unable to respond.

We unbutton the rest of her dress, lift it over her, then take off her bra, and her rather modest panties. Finally, her glasses. She is naked, the breeze enveloping her body, making her brown nipples hard. Her breasts, which perfectly fit her slender figure, slope just slightly downward, and look as if they've not been loved for years. I think right now she would give anything to have them touched.

Alexandra, instead, reaches down and lightly brushes the inside of Mrs. Anderson's thighs with her fingers. This woman is so wet, she is dribbling down her legs. Alexandra wipes them, then licks her fingers, letting Mrs. Anderson watch.

We each take a hand and walk her into our room, easing her down on the bed. I reach over and kiss her for a long time. She likes it. I marvel at the taste of her and the heat between us. The smell of her skin. She closes her eyes. Another kiss lingers. Her tongue feels so willing. When our lips finally separate, she opens her eyes. It is Alexandra, not me, who is now climbing on top of her. They are both naked.

Mrs. Anderson's look is startling. But Alexandra affords her a warm, loving smile that says everything will be all right. She lightly strokes her face.

Alexandra, lying full length on Mrs. Anderson, braces her arms on each side of Mrs. Anderson's face, then looks into her eyes. Mrs. Anderson feels Alexandra's breath against her ear. Alexandra's tongue reaches out to lightly touch her eyelids. Then Alexandra moves her lips, heavy with green lipstick, to Mrs. Anderson's lips. I can tell their tongues are darting, playing together. Alexandra pulls back, then kisses her again.

"Mary," Alexandra says with deliberate slowness and calmness, after she has pulled back yet again. "Have you ever had a woman kiss these adorable nipples of yours?"

Mrs. Anderson's afraid and can only shake her head slightly -- no. She's breathing too heavy and can't talk.

"Well," says Alexandra, "If you don't like it, we'll give you your money back."

Mrs. Anderson is terrified that a woman is seducing her. It is all over her face. Even more, she's in disbelief that her own body is betraying her, giving in to every touch and every kiss on her skin. Each touch making her heart beat faster, the kisses heating up her skin. She knows she should make Alexandra stop. But she doesn't.

Alexandra makes love to her for a half hour, me sitting across the room, watching in the dark. But the light on the balcony shines faintly onto the bed. I can see them. They can't see much of me.

I'm not surprised, of course, that Alexandra is a skillful lover. I've come to learn never to be surprised by her. And she obviously is no dilettante with other women. I watch as she continues with soft little kisses up and down Mrs. Anderson's skin, gently blowing, then kissing down her neck, the top of her chest, all along her waist, then below to her thighs, lingering there for many moments with more sweet kisses, then behind her knees. She curls up at Mrs. Anderson's feet and kisses her toes for the longest time. Licks them too. Sucks them. One at a time. She works her way back up to her breasts. In each kiss, her lips hardly touch.

Through all those years with her husband, and whatever few earlier boyfriends had her, nothing compares to this for Mrs. Anderson. Sometimes you can just tell things like this. In her world, this is so forbidden. She is beside herself with shameful arousal, her body now moving a little with every caress. Each kiss inflames her loins a little more. There's an unquenchable fire building in her. There's a look on her face -- am I really letting this happen to me?

Still, she's quiet through the endless pecks and licks. That is until Alexandra grabs her nipple between her lips and begins alternately sucking, then pulling. Even gently biting. Deep sighs, then low guttural moans begin. Mrs. Anderson grabs Alexandra's neck with her hands, holding on and now beyond any point of return. The fire in her is raging. Alexandra lifts her head up and asks:

"Mary, have you ever had a woman lick your pussy?"

Mrs. Anderson still can't speak, probably because in her mind what Alexandra is asking is so unspeakable. She's too hot, too excited. She shakes her head, no. Her eyes focused on Alexandra's eyes, not even blinking.

Alexandra moves down, gently blows on her dark, curly pubic hair, using her tongue to find Mrs. Anderson's vagina. With the first tender swipe of her tongue, the woman erupts, her body shaking, cries coming from her, tears streaming down her face. Heat shooting through her. It comes quick, is shattering. I'm thinking this is the first completely out-of-control orgasm Mrs. Anderson has ever had.

It takes a few moments. She turns her head and looks in my direction. Her eyes are again glazed. She's looking but not seeing. Alexandra gives her almost no time to savor the moment before going down on her again, this time her tongue on her clit, circling, blowing, licking, then circling again, repeating each little erotic move, all with a woman's touch. I want Alexandra to teach me this. Mrs. Anderson comes again, harder, longer, louder. But the tears are gone, replaced by pure intoxication. And for a few moments, ecstasy. It shows on her face.

"Mrs. Anderson?" Alexandra finally says, leaning her face close in. No response. She tries again. "Mary?"

Mrs. Anderson opens her eyes. Alexandra -- still lying on top of her -- gently runs her fingers through her lover's now matted hair.

"Would you like to feel Albert's cock inside of you? He has a beautiful dick and tonight it's all for you, if you want it?"

Groggily, as if coming out from under anesthesia, Mrs. Anderson says quite simply: "yes."

Alexandra moves her face in a little closer to Mrs. Anderson's. "Would you like him to fuck your brains out like you've never been fucked before?"

Mrs. Anderson very slowly shakes her head, yes.

"Then turn over on your knees and get that nasty, delightfully beautiful ass of yours up in the air." Alexandra commands.

Alexandra walks over to me and uses a hushed voice. "I've primed the pump for you, Albert. Make it dirty. She wants it dirty. I can tell. Go ahead. Get your clothes off."

And so I do, practically leaping onto the bed and ramming into her, slamming against her for a full 15 minutes, not letting up. You may know that I'm not very experienced myself, but I try my best. I try to be rough, brutal. But I'm on the edge of ecstasy myself, all the while fighting to not lose control. Her ass is just so beautiful to me. I have never been this excited with a woman. She feels so good. We fit together so well. All silken, and wet and warm, as if our bodies were made for each other.

I pause for just a second to shift my knees a little on the bed.

"Don't stop," Mrs. Anderson pleads, and she is crying as she says it. "Please don't stop. Fuck me. Fuck me . . . hard." I continue, somehow knowing, sensing, that this is the first time she has come close to being sated. Completely fucked. It's probably the first time she has ever said the word "fuck" out loud. She has, for the time being, tossed all shame aside. I no longer want this for me. I want it for her. I want to give this night to her.

I move in and out, in long, hard strokes. Pulling out very slow, pushing in fast and forceful. She pushes back, hard, wanting more. When it seems she can take no more, I suddenly decide to spank her ass, hard, twice. Real burning slaps. Very loud. She will have marks on her buttocks for days. I don't know why I did this to her. I can't explain it, but I like it. I push my thumb into her moist asshole, moving it in and out, as I move my dick in and out of her pussy, giving her no choice in the matter. She groans, but keeps pushing back, now even harder, hungrier than ever.

Eventually, I turn her over, then I stand up beside the bed and lean down a little, my very hard dick in her face. She knows I want her to suck on me. She's frozen in hesitation. I think maybe she's never actually done this before. Maybe she doesn't know how.

"Just put his dick in your mouth, kiddo," says Alexandra, who is sitting now in the chair I was in earlier. Mrs. Anderson touches my penis with her lips, opens and lets me slide my dick in. She's hesitant still, not sure of anything. Still frightened.

"That feels good," I tell her, reassuringly. She moves her mouth up and down my shaft, slowly. She gags a little, but resumes, gets used to it. She opens her eyes, looks at me. She's getting into it. I can tell she feels dirty and vulgar and -- for once in her life -- she loves it.

She sucks hard, goes much faster, grabs my balls with her other hand, stops and licks me a few minutes, then sucks me again, just the very head of my penis, then deeper in her throat. She can't get enough. This time I come, her swallowing me, nearly all of it. She closes her eyes and continues sucking. She's enjoying the last vestiges of this, not wanting it to end. Probably it's not so much me, just the act itself she has a need to complete.

I lie between her legs and move my tongue to her vagina, smelling the sweat in her curly soft pubic hair. As delicately as possible, I lick her clit until both she and I are excited again. It takes only minutes. Her hips start twitching, I enter her again, moving back and forth, slow but hard. She pulls her knees up to my side, letting me go a little deeper. We both keep building up and up, until we crest, then climax. I spurt my seed into her. "Oh God, I can feel you come," she says, louder than she should. She comes herself, her body shaking, she herself groaning, then gasping for breath.

She's through, but she holds onto me. Kisses my neck. Squeezing me hard with her arms and her drawn-up knees. I think she fears sinking into some vast abyss if she lets go. I hold her too, my chest mashing her small, beautiful breasts, both of us feeling each other's racing hearts.

But eventually she does relinquish. She collapses, her body limp.

She is done. Finished. Sweating. Panting. Aching with exhaustion. Ravished. Satisfied. Maybe for the first time in her life.

I lie on my back and Mrs. Anderson lies at my side, her head on my right shoulder. Alexandra crawls in bed beside us but goes to sleep almost immediately. We do not. With her fingers, Mrs. Anderson strokes my chest and shoulders. I caress her back, pull her closer, then reach down and begin smooth strokes on her soft hips. We are quiet, talk only in whispers, say nothing really of importance. Mostly just how good it feels. The quiet moments of carnal love. We want more moments. We know we won't have them.

"Passion," said Ralph Waldo Emerson, "makes all things alive and significant." It has, for me, been a significant night.

It's probably around 5 am when we walk her slowly back to her hotel, a half dozen blocks away, us with arms around her waist. Almost no one is on the street at this hour.

There's not much talking until Alexandra sniffs the early morning darkness and says what wonderful smells The French Quarter has. She begins rattling off: the bakeries, the jambalaya from the kitchens, barbecue shrimp, fireball whiskey shots, all smells left over from the night before.

"Spilled beer." I can smell it on the curbside, I say.

"I can smell the Jasmine from the courtyards," says Mrs. Anderson. "And the dead moss, too." She's serene now, but still exhausted.

We pass the corner of Royal and Governor Nicholls Street. We walk down the middle of the street. In the darkness, I recognize the three-story gray building I had read about earlier in the week. It's the LaLaurie Mansion, the most haunted in all of New Orleans. A beautiful, huge home with arched doors and windows, a second story cast iron balcony, and supposedly a beautiful courtyard in back. Actually, it looks more like an apartment building.

Delphine LaLaurie and her husband, back in the 1830s, were atop the city's social scene, their home the gathering place for balls and lavish parties. Only later did the world find that she had turned the attic into a chamber of horrors to practice Voodoo and witchcraft on her slaves. Mangled bodies shackled to the walls, bodies crammed into small cages, decapitated heads and severed body parts everywhere. Police found it all. Since then, the place has had a long history of hauntings.

It's been said that whenever anyone who possesses real Voodoo powers walks on the sidewalk past the front door, the house gives off a low, agonizing moan. It's the grieving of the lost souls in Delphine LaLaurie's attic. I tell them the story. Mrs. Anderson shudders. Alexandra seems to not pay attention. We walk on.

We reach Mrs. Anderson's hotel. "We'll be here until tomorrow afternoon," says Alexandra. "You know our pension. So, find us again and let's enjoy each other's company. Albert and I won't ever give you a dull time."

Mrs. Anderson says nothing. She hugs us both, with real affection I might add, then kisses us -- first Alexandra, then me -- gently on the lips. She strokes my face. Lingers a little looking at me. She seems sad. Then goes inside the hotel. The two of us walk back. Along the way, I speak first.

"She won't come see us, will she?"

"No," says Alexandra. "By daybreak she'll be mortified at what she's done. Then she'll feel shame and guilt as she flies home to her husband. She'll go to church regularly for six months, at least."

"You think she'll ever forgive us?" I ask as we walk down the middle of the empty street.

"You don't understand women, do you Albert?"

"The guilt will fade," she tells me. "And when all is safe and back to normal, then very secretively she'll feel a tinge of pride -- or at least a certain satisfaction -- that she was able to experience something that most women like her only read about. And after that, you know what?"

"Do tell," I say.

"For the rest of her life, last night will become the focus of just about every sexual fantasy she will have until she's an old woman. She'll revel in its deliciousness. She may write it in some key-locked journal, but only in vague terms, and probably not tell even her closest girlfriend. It will always be her best-kept secret, locked away in the corner of her heart. She tries to be a good woman and she is. But for one solitary wicked night in her life she let herself be a complete whore. The soul inside of her loved it."