I check out of the motel the next morning. In a few hours I am on the train back to New Orleans. Keith will not even know that I am gone until he calls. I look out the window but I see nothing. I am not conscious of time. I feel only a deep gnawing ache.
The train pulls into the station. I.take a cab to the French Quarter, intending to stay at Le Petit Hotel again. It is long past midnight, but the crowds are still teeming in the streets. Music blares out of the bars and strip joints. Neon flickers blue and purple and white. Car horns honk. It all presses in. "Take me back to Canal Street," I tell the driver. "… to the Hotel Plaza."
My room is large and expensive. Thick carpeting and heavy drapes. It fronts Canal Street, half a dozen stories up. Looking 'out the window, I can see part of the first block of Bourbon Street with the crowds constantly rounding the corner, going to the French Quarter. I watch for awhile, then pull the drapes against it all and order a bottle of whiskey from room service. I feel like getting drunk. Really drunk.
The bellhop is young and gawky and eyes me up and down when he brings the whiskey. I give him a quarter tip and turn away. He takes a long time to get, out the door. I make myself a drink with lots of ice and just enough water to cut the taste. It surprises me how quickly it goes to my head. I take off my dress and lounge in my slip.
I finish the drink and have another. Then another. I put in less water with each drink. I sit there in front of the full-length wall mirror getting drunk and talking to myself. My mirror face talks back. I pull my slip down over my shoulders to look at my breasts and check to see how firm they are. I lift them up, then.push them this way and that. I scrunch them together, then spread them apart. I lift one up and pull down on the other. This looks funny and it makes me laugh.
I make myself another drink. It goes down even faster than the others, I smoke a cigarette. I wish I had some grass. I strip off the rest of my clothes and pad about the room naked. I think of getting dressed and taking a cab to Armand's. I go to the window and look out again. But I don't want to go down into the noise of the crowds, don't want to see everyone's face in the neon lights.
I go back and sit in front of the mirror and make strange shapes out of my breasts again. But it isn't funny this time. My head is spinning. I have been drinking steadily for over an hour now. But the whiskey isn't enough.
On the pretext of being hungry I call down to room service and order a sandwich and french fries. I hope the same bellhop will bring my food up. I pull on a flimsy nightgown while I wait for him and leave it half-open down the front.
He comes with the food. It is the same bellhop, tall and ungainly. "Hungry…?" I ask as he stands there like a statue waiting for his tip. I swing my ass a little as I say it, making my gown come open even More in front.
"… huh?… yes, I guess so."
"Eat it then… the sandwich. I've changed my mind. I don't want it. You can have it. What's the matter, you look surprised? It's good ham, isn't it? I'll make you a drink to go with it if you want. Just with water though, I'm low on ice."
"We're not supposed to drink on duty," the bellhop says. "I don't care about it, but the bell captain does. He might notice it on my breath."
"I'll give you something for your breath when you're finished. Here… take my drink. I hope it's not too strong. I'll make myself another. Sit down and eat, why don't you? I'll watch you. I'm never very hungry but I like to watch other people eat."
He nibbles at the sandwich. He looks uncomfortable. He keeps glancing at my breasts and pussy through my nightgowns. let the gown come open a little more. He chokes on the sandwich and I think I am going to have to hit him on the back. He keeps eating.
"… know where I can get some grass?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I wouldn't know anything about something like that."
"I thought all you bellhops knew where you could get it."
"I've only been here a few weeks."
"Do you want to screw?"
"… uuhh!" He almost coughs the sandwich out of his mouth. I am laughing inside but don't show it. I enjoy toying with him. I feel very drunk. He sits there staring at my legs as if he is trying to be certain of what I said.
I uncross my legs and spread them so that he can see all the way up. His eyes about pop out. "Do you want to screw I said…"
He puts the sandwich down, stands up. He almost knocks over his drink. "Yeah… sure…" he says. He reaches out for me hungrily as if I might disappear.
"Hey, not so fast," I laugh. "Sit down. Eat your sandwich first. We don't have to be in such a rush."
He wolfs the sandwich and gulps the rest of the drink. I strip off my gown and go over to him. I kneel down naked next to his chair. I watch him staring at my cunt and breasts. I reach for his zipper.
"Should I get out your prick?" I ask.
He sets down his glass and leans back in the chair. His eyes glaze. His cock presses out against his pants.
I pull down the zipper and take out his prick. It is even bigger than I'd thought. The head is swollen. Already it is sticky. I stroke it. "Mmm, you have a nice one… so big. Are your balls big like this too? Why don't we take off your pants and see?"
He jumps up, unbuckles his belt. He kicks his pants and shorts off onto the floor.
I am still kneeling. I feel his balls. "Mmm, yes… they're nice too."
He stands there proudly, drinking up my compliments, enjoying the touch of my soft hands.
"Shall I eat you… your prick?"
He gasps a little but doesn't say anything. He turns so that his cock is pressed against my cheek. It feels juicy.
I kiss the big head and watch it swell even more. I start to take it between my lips. I hesitate. "You won't cum in my mouth, will you?"
"No… No… I wouldn't… not that." He says it like a promise. He pushes his cock against my lips.
"All right then," I say. I open my lips and bite the head of his prick lightly. I suck his cock all the way into my mouth, slide my lips and teeth back and forth against its thickness. I lick the fat bulging tip.
He sighs and groans and grips my shoulders tight. When I feel the quick shudders beginning in his body, I pull my mouth away.
I get down on the carpet, lie on my back. "Fuck me now," I say. I spread my legs. He kneels over me. He has trouble steering his cock in but I help him and he pushes all the way inside me. He pulls halfway out and drives in again. With his second thrust he draws out too far and I lose him. I reach down to help him find me again. I get the tip of his prick back against my cunt lips. But as he touches my skin, he loses it. I feel his cum spurt out. Not inside me; all over my thighs and the hair around my pussy. He keeps curving and cuming. I have never known a man to spill out so much cream. But none of it does me any good. I haven't even been close to curving. I just lie there on the carpet as he keeps shooting scum on me. I don't even. feel drunk anymore. I just feel naked and soaking wet.
He begins to cover my breasts with kisses. But I don't want any more from him. I push him away. "No… not now."
He looks hurt. His face falls. He sits back on his haunches, looking puzzled. His cock softens.
I feel sorry for him. "Was it the first time for you?" I ask.
"Huh?"
"… the first time you screwed a woman?"
"No, I've been with lots of women… well, not like this exactly. Feeling around mostly. But I've been out with hundreds of them."
"I know. I'm sure you have." I reach out and pat his cock, then get up and pull on my gown. "Won't they be wondering about you being gone so long… the people downstairs?"
"No… not really. I don't care about that." He comes toward me, his prick starting to harden again.
"I think you should be going anyway. I wouldn't want anyone to think I had a man in my room."
"All right," he says. He backs away reluctantly. "I can stop again tomorrow though?"
"Yes."
He leaves. I am glad to be rid of him. It would probably have been better the second time, but I no longer have any interest in him. I go to the bathroom and wash his cum off my hands and thighs. I take a bath and put on a clean nightgown and get into bed. I try to sleep but can't. I get up and make another drink, but the whiskey tastes bitter and I pour it out in the sink. I go back to bed. I am afraid of dreaming. I don't want to think. I reach under the nightgown and stroke the folds of my pussy, concentrate on that. I try to drift off to sleep as I'm cuming…
In the morning I have a hangover and feel as if I haven't slept at all. I want to check out of the hotel before the bellhop stops again. As I look through my suitcase trying to find something clean to wear, I think of the scads of dresses and slips and stockings I must have at home, if Graham hasn't thrown them all out. It's been over two months since I've been there. I think of my jewelry and a few things I'd like to have and in minutes I've made up my mind to go back for them.
I call the house to make sure that Graham is at work and not there. The phone rings and rings. No answer. I have breakfast, then check out and call a cab. It takes about twenty minutes to get there. The big stone house looks cold but impressive. As usual, the shrubs have been carefully trimmed and have that smooth rounded look. I unlock the door and go inside.
I spend the next couple of hours gathering up the clothes and jewelry I want and wandering about the house: Graham hasn't touched my things except that the picture of the two of us together has been removed from the dresser. It is still early in the day and I decide to take a bath in the big blue bathtub. It will be hours before Graham comes home.
I find some of my bubble bath in the linen closet and sprinkle it thick into the tub. The water is soothing when I get in and I lie back and let the heat soak in. I look about the elaborate bathroom. I start thinking about how half of the house is mine, about how half of the furniture and everything else is mine. It suddenly seems silly to me to be thinking of getting some lousy job as a waitress or something when half of all this is mine. Bank accounts too. And our stocks. By the time I get out of the tub, I have settled on getting a divorce and asking for half of all of it.
I decide to wait for Graham, confront him about it when he gets home. I pat myself dry with a towel, put on a flaming pink velvet robe one I'd forgotten I owned and take a nap in the cool quiet of the bedroom. My bed is comfortable. I lie there for awhile, feeling very luxurious, thinking about the divorce and the money I will have and making up nasty little speeches to tell Graham.