Louisiana Days Ch. 02

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Each year, in a show of noblesse oblige, John Duncan, publisher of the Daily News and a member of the parish gentry — for whatever that’s worth — put on the most extravagant Christmas party in newspaperdom. I got to attend two of them, but it’s the first one that I remember best. That was where I met Diane, gorgeous wife of my editor, Elliot Barr.

Diane was pretty with a delicious shape and legs up to her armpits, Her reddish brown hair that made her green eyes even more alluring. She was of medium height with very large breasts. In other words, she’d give the pope an erection. She was also the third daughter of terribly wealthy Cajun businessman with social ambitions: the perfect wife for a Mississippi Rhett Butler.

Elliot was Mississippi middle class, which in the poorest of the 50 states was determined by family and profession, not by economics. At home he acquired a Southern speech that was slow, calm and lyrical, always grammatically correct and free of slang or profanity. At the University of Mississippi he acquired all the trappings of an arrogant and obnoxious fraternity boy. But, he was tall, athletic and good looking: the perfect husband for a Cajun Scarlet O’Hara.

John’s party my first year began with cocktails at his huge house on the Feliciana Highway, and continued with this monster bacchanalia in the banquet room at Tony’s Lodge, a few yards away via a lighted footpath that wound through oaks and reeds. The Lodge closed early that winter Sunday, allowing the cooks to concentrate on prime rib, turtle soup and crab dip for the Daily News, and the bartenders on pouring industrial quantities of whiskey and wine. There was a jazz band that could also do Rolling Stones and Louie Prima. Not well, but they tried.

That night, after four Maker’s Marks, I decided I wanted to get in Diane Barr’s pants. So, I asked her to dance. Of course, she had had a few belts herself, and when we danced it was terribly close. I moved my hand over her back looking for, and finding, that sensitive spot between the shoulder bades. I pressed her closer to make sure she could feel my emerging erection. She, probably even drunker than I, was soon snuggling at my neck. I really wanted to fuck her right on the spot, and I was hoping she was having similar ideas. But, when the music stopped, she jumped away, dropping my hand and rushing to the buffet table to talk to Peggy, the publisher’s 30-year-old trophy wife.

Well, I danced with a few of the composing room girls and printers’ wives. I tried a few times the same maneuver that seemed to have worked so well on Diane. I didn’t get slapped in the face by the women or punched in the face by their husbands, but I certainly came close a few times. After one particularly close encounter, I went to take a break, drink coffee and smoke a cigarette in the dark, empty dining room. Well, it was not empty after all: Diane was there, taking a break, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. My imagination went into high gear.

“Thought I’d be alone,” I said as I walked to where she was sitting. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Well, you did,” she laughed, loudly.

“Quite a party,” I began, and for the next few minutes we swapped vacuous clichés about the noise and the crowd of drunken newspaper workers. “Would you like to dance, I asked. “There’s no crowd here.” She hesitated for a moment, knowing what would happen and trying to make up her mind.

“No shenanigans?” she said.

“No shenanigans,” I replied.

And, so we danced in the dark, quiet dining room, closer and closer and closer. I began moving my hand up and down her spine, my fingers counting each vertebrae, from her neck to the tip of her ass.

“I thought we agreed, kartal escort no shenanigans?” her lips said though her body disagreed.

“OK, I lied,” and I cupped that delicious ass in my hand and pushed her toward my growing cock. Again, she snuggled at my neck, this time kissing so as to leave her mark. “Now, how am I going to explain this?” I asked.

“That’s your problem.” She began nibbling at my ear, her tongue moving through each and every crevice. Her teeth pulled at my ear lobe. I put my hand on an ample breast, and when she didn’t object I began massaging, feeling the nipple grow through her sheer bra. I kissed her, a long wet kiss, more seductive than passionate. I wasn’t sure if she was moved more by booze or by passion. I mean, after all, the husband was still in the next room. Soon, we stopped pretending to dance and just held each other, feeling our bodies tight and together. Heat. Sex. Each kiss was longer, wetter, hotter, I soon had my hand up her dress, and she was fumbling for my zipper, when we heard Emile, the Creole head waiter: “Mr. Jack, if you don’t get straighten up, your ass and your smashed-in face gonna be back in New Orleans by sun up. “

We went back to the party as if nothing had happened. I quickly said my goodbyes, walked back to my ancient TR3 and undid the top — a pantomime worthy of the Stooges — in hopes the breeze would sober me up a little. It didn’t work. I, of course, didn’t put the top back up when I arrived at my apartment, and Nemesis, of course, had it rain all morning for me.

As the march to Christmas went on, I was at first scared Diane would say something to Elliot. When it became obvious she didn’t tell on me, I began to wonder whether she remembered anything when she sobered up in the morning. And if she remembered, did I want her to remember. Of course, I now wanted to fuck her more than ever.

# # #

January, for most newspapers, is one of the slowest months for advertising. To counter revenue lost in retail, many newspapers publish a “Progress Edition.” The multi-section supplement is filled with cream puff stories about the various industries and institutions in town, from schools and hospitals to creosote plants and warehouses, all of whom, of course, take out ads. The ad departments get busy selling and creating, but the stories are largely written by the news staff.

That year, the Daily News Progress Edition was especially successful, and to thank the news staff for its work, the ad department — meaning Doris Williamson — took us out to lunch at, you guessed it, Tony’s. The waiters were loving every minute of that one: I was seated between Doris and Diane. If I recall right our little group numbered ten, when the photographer, publisher and wives were added, including Diane Barr. We were seated at a large, round table near a corner.

It was after deadline on a Friday, and with no paper on Saturday and this being Louisiana, drinks and wine were part of the celebration to go with the white table cloth, silverware and raw oysters. After about an hour or so, with the laughter and oyster jokes becoming louder and the three bottles of wine becoming four, then five, people began leaving to tend to one task or another. I’m pretty sure I was part of the one-thirty exit, but Diane caught me by the arm and asked, “Can you stay for a minute, I’ve got to talk to you.” I stayed — otherwise there wouldn’t be a story to tell or a memory to enjoy. Whatever it was, I found myself alone at a table in the dining room at Tony’s with the boss’s wife, whom I was dying to fuck.

Diane and I began work on the final half bottles of Mondavi’s cheapest, and she apologized for being so drunk at the Christmas party. I maltepe escort bayan apologized for being drunk, too.

Then she said: “You’ve just got to tell me about Doris.”

So I explained my idle reference to “I’d rather do Doris,” and Elliot’s challenge.

“Well, did you?”

“Did what?”

“You know what I mean: Did you do Doris?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, all the rumors say yes. But I want all the good stuff. What was she like? Did she…”

“Hey,” I interrupted. “I’ve got to be at least a little discrete about my private life if I want to maintain the delusion that I am a gentleman. Let’s just forget about Doris.”

The whole time, she is moving closer and closer to me. As we downed the rest of the unfinished bottles, I slipped my hand under the table and let my fingers climb up her thigh and under her dress. She whispered, “I’d rather you do me,” and put her fingers on my cock. We left for my apartment.

It only took a few minutes for me to arrive at my place on Bertheaud Street. Diane was about five minutes or so behind me. I was going to make us drinks for her arrival, but as we had done pretty well in that department earlier, I just waited. When I looked out the window I saw her climbing the stairs. As she reached the top, I opened the door, not sneakily or hurriedly, but quickly.

Standing in the middle of my living room, we kissed, a long, passionate, wet, tongue-filled kiss that was so much more so than anything we experienced at the Christmas party. She pressed her more than ample tits against me and I grabbed her ass and pushed her against my erection. She pinched my tongue between her teeth before sending her tongue deep into my mouth. I held her, letting my hands walk up and down her back and sides. She moved her hands all over me and her lips and tongue attended to my neck and ear. She let her warm breath blow into the ear, along with purrs and pants. When our lips next met and parted, she put a hand behind my head and held me in our kiss, as her other hand reached for my crotch and began stroking my mounting erection through my trousers. I unhooked and unzipped her dress and let my hands discover her skin, her ribs, her spine.

“Wait,” she said, and undid my tie and the buttons on my wine stained shirt. She rubbed her hands across my chest again and again. Her dress slipped to the floor. She had taken off her bra before arriving. I began rubbing her tits, the nipples stiffening before my tongue could get a taste. Her areolas were large and a pale pink. We pressed our naked torsos together, kissing and rubbing every inch in a carnival of pleasure — that really is the only way to describe it.

She had unhooked my belt, and pulled down my zipper. Diane then went to a knee, pulled down my shorts and began licking and kissing my testicles and my cock. Of course, I was getting tremendous pleasure from the attention, but the greatest thrill of the whole afternoon — a thrill that continues to get me aroused years later thinking about it — was the surprise of the whole thing. I mean, Diane! Elliot’s Diane! Mrs. Elliot Barr! Diane Barr’s lipstick is on my cock!! I was aglow. The thought was empowering.

Electricity was shooting all through my body. I was naked. My pants, shorts and shirt on the floor. It was Diane’s turn. Her white silk panties, slip and stockings were now on the floor. She was completely, gloriously naked. She looked absolutely fantastic, magazine fantastic. Really fantastic.. Much too fantastic for Elliot. Her hips were a bit wide but her ass and legs were firm. Her pubes were jet black and full… Oh so full. (When I saw that nude of a very bushy Demi Moore a few years ago, I thought escort pendik back to Diane.) All of this was usually hidden by the matronly dresses expected for middle-class Cajun women.

Diane was one of those fucks that no amount of time or other loves can erase from your mind, which I guess is why I’m writing about her now, and why I am able to remember so many of the details. My thoughts were entirely on what I felt was my conquest of Diane. Yes, I was conquering Diane. She was making the moves but I was to be the Vandal. I moved close as close can be and held her in my arms, my cock against her body, and began kneading her spine, massaging each vertebrae in turn,` first up, then kneading down to before finally touching her ass, my finger lightly pressing her hole. She shivered.

I took her by the hand and we walked to the bedroom. My heart was pounding rapidly, as was hers. I quickly tore the covers off and lightly pushed Diane into the pillows. She moved across the bed much like a snake squirming into position for a meal. It was my meal, of course, and I fell between her spread legs and traced my tongue up the inside of one thigh and down the other and did so again, and then for a third time. Then, I couldn’t take it anymore, though I’m not so sure about her, and I just let myself be smothered by that fantastic bush and drowned by her love juices.

After a few minutes — before I could drown or explode on the covers — I moved up, dragging my cock along her legs and kissing every part of that wonderful body I could reach. She was moaning and squirming now, her green eyes on fire and her breath heavy. “So good, Jack, so good. Fuck me. Fuck me,” she said, her Cajun brogue rising to the surface. And so I did. I wasted no time at all getting my body and my cock into position and entering that delicious body. Diane conquered. Elliot cuckold.

Oh she felt so good, her muscles tightly embracing and pushing against my cock. I pushed in and pulled outward ever so slowly but never out, again and again and again, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, enjoying each of her orgasms — and she had more than a few — moaning and whispering my name between near screams and shouts of, “yes, yes, YES!” and “Oh my god, Jaaaack.”

I stuck my finger slightly into her bud. She jumped. Without moving my fingers I asked, “Too much?”

“No, keep it there.”

I did so for a few minutes, pressing deeper to feel the movement of my cock against my finger eliciting more jerks and moans. “You like that?” I asked.

“Fantastic.”

I moved aside and turned her body over. As she lay prostrate, I lightly ran my hardness up her spine, about her neck and under her chin. She pulled up her knees as I moved down. She wasn’t to play the innocent Faulkner debutante at middle age.

Lubricated by our cum, I poised at the base of that tempting bud and began to enter slowly, slowly, slowly. Diane moaned, a moan of pain and pleasure.

“No, no,” she said, though she made no effort to move. I didn’t hesitate, but continue to move slowly inside. The tightness was exciting and severe at the same instant, and with each centimeter of penetration, Diane would tighten all of her muscles. Then she let out a scream that should have shaken the entire neighborhood. She jerked and tightened her muscles and pushed back toward me so I could get even more of my cock inside. She was in the orgasm to top all orgasm, and I could do nothing but follow suit. And I ripped and stroked and let out my own moans and screams as I pumped a river of my cum up her ass.

I moved out of her, my cock quickly shrinking. We were under the sheets, locked in a tight embrace and silently staring at the ceiling for more than a half hour. Without a word, we walked to the shower, soaping ourselves and each other. We were both pretty sore.

Diane quickly dressed and walked to the door, still in silence. I moved behind her, and held her shoulder for a goodbye kiss. She shook her head and left.

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