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Hotel Heiress: New Orleans

By: AudreyHepburn



This episode of "Hotel Heiress" follows the action to "Hotel Heiress: Behind Bars" so read that episode first in order to fully understand the action to this episode. Here's the back story:

Young rich adventuress Valerie Masters was imprisoned in a woman's prison in New York for a murder she did not commit (this was in Episode "Hotel Heiress: Behind Bars). Through a sordid deal involving sex and an affair with a black prison guard, Byron, she was able to be released from prison upon the discovery she was innocent and she knows that the true murderer, Latina wild woman Alma Chavez, has been living in New Orleans. She has kidnapped her own lover the married photographer artist Ron Ash. Now Valerie and Byron set off to New Orleans, Louisiana, armed with guns, to take matters into their own hands, determined to save Ron and catch the criminal Alma. The series reads like fictionalized memoirs, not always in chronological order and the heroine is in her 20's and describes her experiences in the 1990's.

New Orleans, 1994

What a picture I must have made at that time.

I don't remember what I wore. Each time period dictates its own fashion and in the 1990's, it was a fabulous time for individuality in fashion, unlike these days. I must have been wearing clothes that were not in style and certainly not my own California couture so I wouldn't be recognized. It wouldn't do at all if I was mobbed by the public who recognized me as a celebrity. That would keep me from doing what I came to Louisiana to do. I did not want the media covering my little investigation on Ron Ash's kidnapper and the real culprit behind the murder I was framed for. I arrived in New Orleans with Byron at the right time, during Mardi Gras madness. 

Now up until then, I had only been to New Orleans for Mardi Gras only once, when I was about ten years old, back when my mother and father were still together. At that time, still an innocent child, the city was magic. Everything was colorful and exotic, and the multi-colored, showy floats in the big parade were bizarrely beautiful. The old buildings and houses were so elegant. People were friendly and leisurely and it could have been the land of Oz for all I knew. I had no idea that this city had a dark side until I returned as an adult.

I was still in my early twenties. There was no real reason why I should be in New Orleans on a manhunt for a murderous woman and kidnapper, no reason other than my own anger against her. 

This woman, this Alma Chavez, caused my wrongful imprisonment in New York, framed me for a murder she had committed. She then took off with Ron Ash, the San Francisco married photographer who had photographed me for his artwork in New York, a man I had feelings for. Sure, he was Alma's lover. He had a seedy side to his own nature, a private side of him that he didn't tell his wife Linda about. He did drugs. He and Alma were not only lovers but they smoked pot and did other drugs together.

Surely by now, wherever Ron was, he knew that this girl was no good. She had taken him against his will to New Orleans and no one knew what they were doing or where they had hidden themselves. The air was filled with danger and suspense. I was risking my very life in taking matters into my own hands, seeking justice myself. It was like straight out of a detective "film noir" type novel but this was real and it's no fictional embellishment in my memoir. 

I look back and wonder what was I thinking? Was I that consumed with revenge and with anger? You bet I was! Looking back, I wish I had done things differently – like just left the case to the authorities, to cops, to detectives and investigators. But there I was and New Orleans and I was looking forward to an adventure and there was no turning back. Of course, I didn't tell my mother or father or closest friends what I was up to. I simply told them I wanted to get away and have some leisurely privacy in New Orleans. I specifically requested that no one come see me.

The city hadn't changed much, at least during the daytime. I arrived in the morning with Byron and we checked into a hotel. I don't remember the name of the hotel. It had a French name and its theme was a Creole plantation house. It was not a five star hotel, certainly nothing as high quality as my own father's Seasons hotel chain. It was charming but petite little boutique hotel with about five stories and little fancy façade on a porch-like entrance. 

A rose garden was sprawled around it, front and back, and there was a mysterious, distant looking courtyard behind two large gates at the front of the hotel. It wasn't anywhere near the major city areas or streets like Canal Street or Bourbon Street. It was just a lovely little hotel hidden away from view. What better place for a celebrity like me to stay. It worked too. No reporter or paparazzo had tracked me there and the hotel staff didn't treat me like a star, just like another guest of the hotel.

Byron was born in New Orleans and he told me he grew up there before he moved to New York City. He seemed to know New Orleans like the palm of his hand and from the minute we arrived, he served as my tour guide. He knew for instance that this quaint hotel just off the city's main streets was perfect for us. The walls were painted pastel lime-green, and there was no carpet and only polished wood floor. 

On the ceiling was a small gas-lit chandelier. Our little room had only one big canopy bed. Of course, I knew it was Byron's doing. I remembered our little deal back in prison. I didn't think he'd want to make love right away. It was still morning. We had our luggage sent to our room and we ordered breakfast, which consisted of Belgian waffles, fruit, and tea. The tea was exquisite and served as if it were high tea service. 

"Did you get enough sleep on the plane?" he asked me.

"Yes, thank you," I replied.

We sipped our tea. I had no idea why we were so formal all of a sudden. Here's the thing. The truth is I liked Byron. If he had not been my prison guard back when I had been locked up in New York City, and if circumstances had been different, this was the type of guy I would have been in a relationship with. I was attracted to black men as much as I was to white men. Byron was a handsome, strong black man with a lean, athletic body and muscle. While his hard Nubian body was made for sin, his face was so calm and so distinguished and even innocent looking. 

"Remember, this is not going to be a vacation," he said, "we're here on a dangerous little mission just because you want revenge."

"Don't make it about me," I said to him, "you want to bring that Alma bitch to justice just as much as I do."

"Lord knows I do. She ruined my life. She made me quit high school and I was on drugs for a long time. I had to go into rehab. She was always cheating on me with other guys. She doesn't care for anyone but herself and she's a walking danger. It's ironic that I turned out to be a prison guard after having been in jail once myself too –and because of her."

"Do you have any idea where we can find her?"

"No idea. It's going to take a while but we got to move quickly."

"But we just got here. Can't we relax for a bit?"

"Ok. What do you want to do?"

We were quiet for a few minutes, the sound of the Grandfather clock in our room striking eight in the morning. The sun was streaming through the window and the birds were singing and chirping cheerily. Because we were just outside all the Mardis Gras action, we were wrapped in intimate silence and secluded in a very serene setting. It got boring real fast.

"You want to fuck?" I said to him.

"Hell yeah!"

Byron's face lit up, as if I had said the magic word. We began to remove our clothes. Again, I don't remember what I was wearing; most likely it was a pink top that showed off my belly button and flat tummy and little skirt or something. He was wearing jeans and a tight fitting navy blue shirt. Underneath, I had a white, lacy bra and panties, which were from the latest Victoria's Secret line. I had modeled for Victoria's Secret and I wondered if Byron had ever seen me in one of those pictures from the catalogues. But then again, probably not. Women ordered lingerie from those catalogues and if any man was looking at those pictures, it was only to get off. He didn't act as if I was a big time celebrity. He was treating me as if I was just another girl.

For some reason, I liked that!

He stared at me, his eyes feasting on my fit white body, the sight of my firm, pert breasts and shaved pussy making his dick very hard. He licked his lips and he could have howled in his sexual excitement. He seized me possessively and kissed me. His lips felt damn good, hard, passionate, and warm. His black lips on my white lips. He had me by the shoulders and kissed me in a long and lingering way, as if we had all day. Of course I knew we did not have all day. But for now, here in the seclusion of this little inn, we were both ready to make love. 

His kisses became hot, matching the heat of the morning sun streaming into the little room. His hands roamed down to my back and over my ass. I moved slightly but he didn't let go and held me in place. Our bodies were pressed together tightly and intimately. I could feel how huge his cock was getting, his erection rubbing against my thighs.

His cock was among the biggest I've ever seen, save for white male porn stars. The image of a big black dick was no myth, not in Byron's case at least. His hands cupped my ass as we began to bump and grind softly, moans escaping my lips. In one swift motion, he picked me up and he put me to bed. I was on my back, my legs dangling over the edge of the canopy bed. It felt so natural, so right. We had already enjoyed sex with each other at the prison in New York City. 

He was eager to feel his mouth on my pussy and he bent his head and kneeled by the bed. Taking my legs, he put them over his back. His face was over my pussy and his stomach touched my own. After kissing my stomach he began to work his tongue on my pussy. Expertly, he began to tease and caress my pink, smooth, hairless pussy with his hand rubbing it and making me aroused. He then laved and licked my pussy in an achingly slow manner.

It wasn't long before I was in a sexual heat, making me shudder and moan as he orally pleasured my pussy.

He must have done this countless times.

It showed and I had enjoyed oral pleasure from boyfriends and lovers in the past (and not a far away past mind you, since I was only in my early twenties). He continued to fuck my pussy with his tongue, building a rhythm. His fingers slid into my wet and open pussy. God was this hot. I moaned and threw my head back, using my own hands to arouse myself further. 

I rubbed my breasts and fondled them myself, making my pink areolas hard. We could have been doing a scene in a porno film. There was professional touch to Byron's tongue and fingers, his magnificent oral treatment of my wet pussy. And I reached an orgasm that was real and powerful, my voice hoarse from moaning.

We were not finished. After ensuring I had cum, Byron, whose cock was still hard, climbed up on the bed and spread my legs. He was on top of me, face to face, breathing, panting, wanting me like he had never wanted anyone else. I didn't get why he wanted me so much. He had told me himself only black actresses did it for him. He liked the actresses that appeared in Spike Lee films. "Jungle Fever" had been a hit not that long ago. But he was into me. He didn't care that I would probably never be his woman. He was just content to have this moment and this experience right here and now. He probably got a kick out of having sex with a star like me.

I was panting too.

He leaned over me and kissed me, his mouth open, shoving his tongue down my throat. Aggressively, his heart pounding, he began to seriously fuck me. His cock delved into my pussy, in and out, mercilessly, not wanting to go slow. His cock was as hard as steel. He had probably been hard or at least thinking of doing this while we were on the plane to New Orleans. His cock pumped into me, making me writhe under him. I threw my head back and let out a scream. He was grunting and screaming. 

He was a primal man, a jungle man, a man from the African bush that had captured a white beauty and was ravishing her until he was sated of his lust. The sunlight streamed over us through the canopy of the bed. The bed was now rocking, as if ready to collapse due to Byron's heavy and intense fucking motion. His hips smacked against mine, making a heavy sound. We were both screaming and fucking, our bodies meshed. He kissed my neck and buried his head there while fucking me. I raked my nails down his back and gripped his black buttocks.

After a while, I had my orgasm and his followed instantly. He was still on top of me. Our heavy breathing became quiet and we relaxed, looking at each other in the face.

"Damn girl," he said, "that has got to be the best I've ever had."

"Best orgasm?" I said to him, wondering what he meant.

"Hell, yeah. Best fuck, best orgasm, best oral. And I think I owed it to you after what you did for me in the jail."

I remember that I had done a lot for him in the privacy of my prison cell, things that could have shamed a veteran porn star. Of course, looking back now, I don't recall everything we did. It's like a blur in my mind now. I guess it must have been too much, but also very hot. He got off me and we both lay next to each other, basking in afterglow and sunglow. I stared up at the ceiling, painted in pastel green. I felt serene and sated. Because it was still the beginning of the day I was also very energized. 

"What a good way to start the day, huh?" I said to him.

"Yeah."

"Do you think anyone heard us? I was awfully loud."

"Maybe. Who knows. Who cares baby. You're a lot of fun. If someone heard us, what's the big deal? It's not like couples check into a hotel, share a bed and not have sex. Besides, it's Mardi Gras. It's party time for folks down here in New Orleans."

"Yeah, but I'm Valerie Masters. They know who I am. Someone here could spread the gossip and dish out the dirt on me and you."

"So?"

"Well, it's not something I want said about me, you know, there's a word for a girl who does what I just did."

"Will you listen to yourself? Since when do you care what people say? You're not a virgin. You're like what 21? 22? Didn't you go to college and have sex and take drugs? Don't you like to party? I read in a magazine that you really like to party."

"I'm not saying I don't party. I don't want the paparazzi and sleazy tabloid reporters to start publishing articles with pictures of me and you and our "jungle fever" moment."

"You poor little rich girl. If I were you I'd tell them all to fuck off. It's your life.

"You don't get it," I said to him and I knew he really didn't. After all he was a non-celebrity.

"What? What don't I get?"

"It's not really the sex. It's the fact these bastards will profit off what should be my own personal and private life. Hollywood gossip columns are filled with half-truths and lots of lies. They take one photo of an actress behaving badly and they don't let it go afterward. If people take photos of us, they'll think we're lovers and that I'm expecting your baby or something like that."

"If it's just bullshit why do you care? Look, don't worry. I'll keep us low-profile. No one said anything to us when we got here. No one seems to care. Everyone's so distracted by Mardi Gras to notice you."

Afterward, I got up and dressed, careful not to wear anything stylish or fashionable. I took a shower with Byron but all we did was kiss and splash each other with water playfully while laughing, uninterested in another bout of sex. After dressing ourselves, we were ready to do what we had come to do in the Big Easy......

* * * * * * * *

I wore a pair of oversized dark sunglasses. Even before my rival Paris Hilton did it, I was doing it and even I wasn't the one who started the trend. In the 60's, Audrey Hepburn sported Ray bans in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" and made it hip and cool. Sure, I looked more like a movie star with them on but Byron turned out to be right. No one seemed to notice me, caught up in the festive frenzy of Mardi Gras. 

We were on Canal Street and the Parade was passing through. The crowds were big and everyone, save for a few people, were wearing a variety of costumes, masks, tiaras, crowns, robes, feathers, long beads and Medieval Court Jester type of outfits. Cajun and Zydeco music was playing and people were throwing beads and little balls to the spectators. I heard people speaking English, Spanish, Creole French and a Native American language. There was not a single soul that was bored. In the crowds, I lost Byron for a moment.

He was also trying to find me, searching the crowds. It was the easiest place and time for someone to get lost or kidnapped. People were wearing masks and costumes and at times it was even hard to tell who was male and who was female. After about ten minutes, I found Byron and we both agreed not stick together, if possible even hold hands while walking in the street.

"Look we're not going to find Alma and Ron like this," Byron said to me, "too many people and we might not even recognize either one of them if we see them. Alma likes to party and if she's even here she must be in costume. I bet you Ron is too."

"Well, I've been meaning to tell you," I replied, "I'm starting to think this was not such a good idea. I think that we're putting ourselves in a lot of danger. Alma knows this place a lot better and she might have friends in the criminal underworld, right?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if she's friends with the Mob. She's certainly friends with drug-pushers and dealers."

"So this is not something we know anything about. Well, you do, but not me. This is the type of work for a detective, Private Investigator or cops."

"What better person to lead us to Alma than me, a former lover, a New Orleans man and I know Alma's little bad habits and old haunts."

"Well, where is she then? Is Canal Street an old haunt of hers?"

"She used to watch the Parade and sometimes she was in it as an exotic dancer in a mask."

"Do you see her now?"

Byron's eyes surveyed the girls in the parade. They were scantily clad, wearing high feathered headdresses and beads. They were dancing to the beat of the music and swaying their hips. Byron looked and looked, which I thought must have been a pleasant job for him, but didn't seem to pick out Alma among the girls. 

As for Ron, I had his features and body engraved in my memory and mind. He didn't seem to be anywhere here either. I'm sure he would have loved the Parade. In its own way, it was a free-floating, artistic and expressive cultural thing, the sort of thing that often drew his attention. He loved going to Burning Man, had gone to Woodstock in 1969 and as a San Francisco photographer, appreciated the individualistic and artistic American scene. He was friends with gays and lesbians who were artists of one type of another. But I did not see Ron anywhere. Byron's face nearly contorted as he pondered the matter.

"Bourbon Street," he said.

"She's in Bourbon Street right now?" I asked him.

"No, tonight. The French Quarter has a little unofficial tradition of its own. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"No I don't, I'm from California."

"Bourbon Street's night life is notoriously seedy. Strip clubs, prostitutes, and drugs. She could be at a dance club or strip club if we go there tonight. But it has to be tonight."

He looked at me, his eyes falling over my top. I knew he was undressing me with his eyes, trying to picture my breasts.

"Oh, and you'll have to flash your breasts if you come to Bourbon Street tonight. That's the "unofficial tradition" I'm talking about. Girls are drinking and they're wild and you get beads if you bare your breasts. If you don't, they won't stop bothering you or pressuring you to do it."


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."




Hotel Heiress: New Orleans



"You're a model?"

"I'm an actress and model. My name's Valerie Masters."

I always said this with a degree of flair and slowly, watching for reactions to see if they recognized me. The guy took out another cigar and smoked in silence. He had an expressionless face.

"I've never heard of you," he said matter-of-factly while smoking.

What was with this town? I came to the conclusion that the further you are from Hollywood geographically in the U.S. the chances were greater that they didn't recognize celebrities. Of course I realize now that it owed to the fact I had done only a few movies and I was mostly a soap opera star. The soap opera genre has mostly housewife audiences.

"I need your help. I came here after having been wrongfully incarcerated for a long time. I'm a celebrity for God's sake. This wasn't supposed to happen to me. I'm rich!"

"Ma'am, rich or poor, folks get screwed one way or another."

This guy was no non-sense I quickly realized. He was already showing he was better for this job than Byron was. I smiled softly and crossed my legs. I had decided not to wear panties and this caught his eye as my pussy was briefly seen while crossing my legs. Ok, so I can give Sharon Stone credit for giving us girls the idea to do that.

"Can you help me?" 

"Let me get this straight. You came here to look for this Alma Chavez woman and her kidnapped lover?"

"Yes."

"Did you come alone?"

"No. I....I brought along my..my...boyfriend from New York, Byron."

"And he's also helping you to find this woman and her lover?"

"Yes."

"Did it ever occur to you that this Ron guy went willingly? I have never come across a case like this. No woman kidnaps a man. The kidnappings I have encountered in my years as a Private Investigator were always males kidnapping women or minors, sometimes their own children during difficult divorce or custody battles."

"I was there when she kidnapped him. It was in a neighborhood in New York City, possibly the Bronx. She shot and killed a black girl, Felicia Sullivan, and then she took off with Ron."

"You're not explaining much. Was it the Bronx or wasn't it? And how is it you were there in the scene of the crime?"

I didn't respond immediately. I feared this would happen and now the time had come. I had to confess my own misbehaving ways.

"I was talked into joining Ron and Alma into going back to her place where we were supposed to engage in threesome sex."

He was quiet as if surprised by this. He did not look at me with any real sort of feeling but regarded me like I was just another client.

"I was drugged," I said to him, "I didn't want to go along with it. Ron and Alma did drugs together. But I can assure you, he was kidnapped. He is not the perfect husband and he has been unfaithful to Linda but he doesn't deserve this. I'm certain he's in grave danger. Alma is a vicious woman and once she's tired of him, she'll abandon him or even kill him."

He was quiet, smoking that cigar of his. He got up and walked about as if thinking things through. He opened the Venetian blinds on his office and looked outside. 

"This is a corrupt, decadent and godless town, especially during Mardi Gras," he said to me, "if you can believe it, I get the most bizarre and criminal cases of kidnappings and murders around this time. It's easy to disappear in the big crowds and the maddening festivities. As for me, I don't care to party myself, don't even like Christmas."

What was he on about I wondered. This guy was straight out of a film noir only it was for real. I looked around his desk. I noticed a case of cigars and I had the urge to smoke. I cleared my throat.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" I said to him.

"Go ahead, knock your self out, kid," he told me.

I took a cigar into my hand and lit it up with the lighter he had on his desk. I hardly ever smoked but it felt so good to do it. It made me relax. Parker Stone moved about the office, pondering in silence. He returned to his desk and sat down, his eyes meeting my own.

"Here's what I'm going to do," he said to me, "if you pay me now, I'll start working on looking for those two and investigating about their whereabouts and any new identities they might have assumed."

"I can pay you now, yes," I said to him, already reaching for my purse.

"Give me tomorrow to work on this. Where can I reach you? What's your hotel room number?"

"I have not told my... my boyfriend... about my hiring you. I don't want him to think I find him incompetent for the job. He's just a ..a prison guard and doesn't really have the potential to do the type of work you do."

"I think you're a bright lady to hire a professional like myself."

"Don't call me at the hotel. I'd rather meet at the hotel tomorrow sometime in the afternoon. I'm going to make my boyfriend believe that we're still working on this case ourselves. The hotel is called "The Creole Camille" and it's –"

"I know where it is."

"I'm in Room 30. You can reach me on my cell phone number."

"You have a cellular phone?"

"Yes. I'm a celebrity remember."

"I'll meet you there tomorrow at four p.m.?"

"That would work."

"Good. I'll give you a report on the progress of my investigation. Are you by any chance carrying a gun?"

I took it out of my purse and showed it to him. It was a small handgun.

"You know how to handle a gun?"

"My first boyfriend right after high school was a cop and we would go to target practice and he taught me how to use a gun to protect myself. Do you feel I'll need it?"

"That's exactly what I'm implying. Like I said, crazy town, crazy people and if this Alma Chavez is as bad as you say she is and has powerful Mafia friends, you'll need to protect yourself."

I payed him, we shook hands and it was official. He was going to work on finding Ron and Alma for me. I just prayed to God that all would turn out well in the end and that no one would get hurt. Not me, no this P.I., not Byron and not Ron. I got up and walked out of the office and once again hailed a taxi to return back to the hotel.......

* * * * *

The next day, Byron and I were in the city again, engaged in a day-long search for Ron and Alma. We were both carrying guns and we figured we'd just make a citizen's arrest and call the cops and authorities who were searching for Alma Chavez themselves. We did see some cops roaming about, but there was no way of knowing whether they were New Orleans Police or undercover cops from New York trying to find Alma. 

There was an air of tense danger in the air. It wasn't so much because Alma was a dangerous in and of herself, it was the fact she was affiliated with the Mob. She had criminal buddies and if she had killed before, she'd do it again. She'd consider it a special pleasure to kill me, a celebrity, and the girl she had framed. I was so glad I was seeking justice. And to me, it was justice, not revenge, though some would argue that it was revenge as well. Alma did not know that this was one celebrity she wasn't going to screw with.

But let's face it. I was a spoiled rich California princess and I didn't know how to fight or use a gun. I had lied to that P.I. Stone Martin. I never had a cop boyfriend and although I had done some target practice, it was on a date and it was only for fun. I thought guns were purely guy stuff.

So I was just as glad that I was getting help from seemingly two men – Byron, who was handy with a gun and was a tough guy having lived the way he had, and that P.I. Stone Martin who was also very skilled at what he did and could obviously fight and shoot well. But I just wanted to be there when they put the cuffs on Alma Chavez and when they sent her to prison.

Byron and I searched everywhere, even in the little remote streets and the boulevards that twisted this way and that by the Mississippi River which flowed into the city. We searched uptown, downtown and mid-town. We even went into The Superdome and looked in the wharfs by the New Orleans port and Lake Portchartrain. 

We searched houseboats and sailboats that we suspected was Alma's New Orleans residence. No one seemed to know her and if they did, then they were protecting her and not wanting to tell us the truth. It was a nightmare. The hours flew and before long it was turning four in the afternoon. I remembered the rendezvous I had scheduled with the Private Investigator back at the hotel.

As Byron stared at lovely paddlewheel riverboats leisurely floating on the Mississippi River, I got his attention by pulling at his shirt.

"I want to go back to the hotel alone," I said to him flatly.

"Why alone?"

"I need a nap. I'm so tired. Please, Byron, I can't go on right now."

He looked at me as if trying to ensure that I was telling the truth and that I wasn't putting on an act. Of course, being a consummate actress and a good one, I was able to convince him that I really was tired. 

"Well, alright. I'll meet you there at about six this afternoon then in a few hours," he said to me, "then we can have dinner and continue our search. Do you need me to take you back to the hotel?"

"No. I will hail a taxi cab."

"Alright. You know it just occurred to me that maybe that bitch is hanging out in riverboats. They have bars and casinos in those boats you know. That's the kind of place for her and her nasty Mobster friends."

"Probably. But I really can't go on right now. I need to get some sleep."

This time he looked at me with a degree of suspicion but it was fleeting. He smiled and kissed my hand.

"Go, baby girl. Get some sleep."

I took a taxi to the hotel and hurried to my room. Sure enough, right by the doorway stood Stone Mason. He was wearing a beige trench coat and it looked like he had not been waiting long. I was relieved. He took my hand and kissed it. I liked when men did that and it always came as a surprise. In California, the guys I knew never did things like that. I figured he was just showing off his Southern gentleman manners.

"Miss Masters, can we talk in the room or at the hotel café?" he asked me.

"I could sure use some coffee," I said to him.

We headed downstairs to the unprepossessing café which was nothing more than a small room by the lobby with no artwork, no windows and a lot of tables. There weren't many people and the few were having light meals and coffee drinks, minding their own business, talking or reading papers. Stone ordered us coffee and then he looked straight at me and lowered his voice.

"Miss Alma Chavez is not even in New Orleans," he revealed.

I could have been knocked over with a feather. I tried not to look surprise so as not to make a scene in the café. 

"You mean all this time I've been looking for her she hasn't even been in the city?"

"She has been hiding out somewhere in Cajun country, at the mansion of one of her friends whose occupation is supposedly commodities trading but I'm more than sure he's a big-time Mafia lord and heads a drug cartel."

"How did you find out?"

"Lots of investigative work, even offering money to anyone who knew. My informants said that Alma has been seen with the Mob boss in Baton Rouge and other parts of Louisiana but she is never around long enough to gain any attention. She is fully aware the authorities are looking for her. It's believed she maintains a crack house in an abandoned riverboat in the Cypress Island/Lake Martin area. That's the bayou. It's outside Louisiana in Lafayette. Because that's so far out there and the address of the mansion was never given to me, it will be hard to find it. My informants only gave me a few descriptions and they don't seem to know too much themselves."

"I feel so stupid. All this time looking and searching for nothing."

"Do you still intend to keep my involvement a secret from your boyfriend?" he asked me.

It appeared as if he enjoyed my reaching out to him for help and only him. It must have made him feel even manlier.

"No I think it's about time I told him what I've been up to," I replied, "I can't keep it a secret for long. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Yes."

He handed me an envelope and he gestured for me to open it. I tore it open and noticed it was a small invitation card. It read:

Bal Masque, Masquerade Ball, In The Vieux Carre, starting at 8pm this evening and ending at 3am. Celebrate Mardi Gras in an elegant setting at a Creole manor. Costumes are required. They are available for purchase at the costume shop or if you wish to wear only a mask, they are sold at the entrance of the manor.

The admission price was very expensive but I had brought money along. I was surprised and looked at Stone with a puzzled expression.

"You want to take me to a masquerade, detective?" I asked him, "this is hardly the time for that."

"You have to be there with your boyfriend Byron. It's been rumored that Alma Chavez will show up."

I took a deep breath.

"I will be there. I'll notify the authorities and we'll proceed carefully. You must be there, though. This is where we will make the capture and arrest, God willing."

"Thank you, detective," I said to him.

* * * * * *

The costume shop had a kind of French "Louis XIV/Versailles" theme. The costumes consisted of colorful, elaborate, showy 18th century clothes that looked like the wardrobe on the movie set for "Amadeus". The women's gowns were long and frilly, and even high-piled Pompadour wigs were part of the costume. The men's costumes were puffy shirts, knee breetches, feathered hats and long coats. But some costumes represented other eras as well and some costumes were threadbare "country" clothes from Provence and there were Napoleon Era attire such as Empress Josephine gowns and Napoleon army uniforms. There were masks everywhere, of all shapes and colors, adorned with feathers and speckled with fake rubies and diamonds. 

I told Byron that I felt like going to a Masquerade just out of the blue. He thought it was odd but I pleaded and charmed him into saying yes and coming with me. It will be fun, I had told him, a way to relax and keep from going nuts over this dangerous investigation. Having money to spend, I walked into the costume shop with Byron and we purchased our costumes for the Masquerade. 

The customers there were Creole and spoke French and English, and the shopkeepers were also Creole. They were helpful in assisting us in finding costumes. I went as Marie Antoinette and Byron went as Napoleon, the most commonly sold costumes there. 

We were in an older section of the Vieux Carre and this was a very historical area that dated back years ago when Louisiana was heavily influenced by Spanish and Creole societies. The houses were pretty old and used as museums and the larger masons were used for public events such as political meetings and events, movie filming and concerts and balls. 

The Masquerade was held in one of these very old Creole manors and as soon as Byron and I walked in there, we were breath taken. Nowhere had I ever seen such elegance and such beautiful décor. The home was stylish, full of gilded mirrors, old and beautiful paintings, murals, chandeliers, elaborately-patterned carpets and room after room furnished with antique furniture. 

I wondered if my father could afford to buy these priceless pieces if they ever decided to sell them in auction. He would definitely make a good profit if he began a "Creole" themed hotel as a part of his already successful Seasons hotel. He had already earned a fortune with his other Seasons around the world, each appropriately suited to the country's touristy attractions. In Paris, he had French manor house themes, in Italy from Italian villas and in England he had borrowed inspiration from Buckingham Palace.

"Damn, I've never been to a more beautiful house," Byron remarked, "I just hope I'm not the only black guy here."

"No you aren't," I said, "see, there's a few black folks over there and listen, they're speaking French. They must be Creoles too."

Byron stared at them. They were dressed to the nines in 18th century clothes and speaking French. Byron looked sheepish as if he didn't belong here. 

I figured he must have grown up on the Skid Row section of New Orleans and most likely had only a high school education under his belt. He did his best to fit in and walked about, holding his head high and looking mysterious and cavalier in his mask. We held hands and I made polite small talk with the other guests, feeling like a fairy tale princess at a ball. We headed toward the buffet table, weighed with silverware, tea, and an assortment of Creole dishes like gumbo, shellfish, crawfish etouffee and on other tables were a wide selection of French wines. Every guest had too much of a snobbish attitude and no one even recognized me from TV. I wondered if they thought owning a TV was beneath them.

But although I kept a look of calm coolness, my eyes darted about and searched among the guests for Alma or Ron. I knew what she looked like but it was once again like finding a needle through a hay stack among all the colorful masks and costumes, like back at the Canal Street Parade.

The host and hostess of the masquerade were obviously rich as Croesus and New Orleans VIP's, belonging to the city's wealthy elite. I didn't know them and I was pretty sure my own folks didn't know them. 

My dad had never maintained business contacts with the Southern states and had never opened up hotels anywhere in the South, save for Florida. He had two Seasons hotels there – one in Boca Raton and one in Miami. My father loved to vacation in Florida having grown up in New York and he often went there to play tennis, to go sailing on his yacht and to pamper himself among friends. But he had never taken an interest in making business with the South. I didn't blame him. It was like a whole other world here.


"J'ai besoin de votre attention, Mesdames et Messieurs," said the host, in a pronounced French Creole accent, "we are so happy to have you with us tonight. This Masquerade is also being held for charity. If you wish, you may donate some of your own money in the donation box and this will go to the treatment of AIDS as well as cancer."

Everyone applauded. I didn't think they'd have these type of charity balls down here. I had myself participated in such events with my own family. At the beginning of the 90's, the AIDS epidemic was widely known and a movement towards safer sex and also education went nationwide. 

"Ecoute! The orchestra has just arrived and the waltzing will begin. Ce soir, we have the privilege of hearing a Viennese orchestra." 

The orchestra was small; merely a chamber orchestra made up of mostly strings, and the violinists took their seats. They were not in costume but they were in some kind of old-fashioned orchestra uniform, and they were George Washington type wigs. The conductor was wearing the same kind of uniform and after adjusting the score on his small podium, the orchestra began to play Strauss waltzes. 

Couples began to form and they began to slowly move on to the ballroom to waltz. The ballroom was adjacent to the grand living room and foyer and here the floor was made of pure marble, looking like some giant mirror on the ground. The ceiling was high and numerous chandeliers hung from above, looking like dangling pearls over the dancers.

"You know how to do the waltz, girl?" Byron asked me, with a little grin. 

"I do," I replied, "I was taught at a small age. I took ballroom lessons."

"That figures, rich girl. Did they also teach you to ride horses and did you go to finishing school?"

"Yes, my folks made me do all that. But believe me, that stuff bores the heck out of me. Not always, though. Sometimes I feel like waltzing with someone. It's very romantic. And I still love horses. It's just that after all those years of repressive teachers and all that culture, I had to break free and do my own thing, not what my folks wanted."




Hotel Heiress: New Orleans



"I see," Byron said, "like do drugs in New York City."

"Well, that just happened by accident. I don't normally do drugs and the few I've done was no big deal. At least I'll never truly be an addict."

"So you want to dance right now? I don't know shit about waltzing."

"We don't have to but everyone's gone over there."

"My God, is it possible Alma knows how to waltz?"

"I don't think so. Maybe she hasn't arrived at the party. Look, some folks are just arriving."

We looked into the direction of the entrance where costumed and masked guests were pouring into the house. It was now about nine in the evening and these people were an hour late. Among the guests I noticed Private Detective Stone Martin. I had the ability to remember body types and faces and I instantly knew it was him despite his costume and mask. His eyes searched everywhere but he also maintained a look of collected coolness and reserve. He didn't speak to anyone and made his way into the foyer.

It was then when I decided to tell Byron about him.

"Byron, there' something I must tell you," I said to him, "it's about the other night. After we made love and while you were sleeping, I sought a Private Investigator here in town."

"Say what?"

"Yes. I honestly think it's too much for us to do something like this. We're no professional detectives. We can't just do this type of thing without help. His name is Detective Stone Martin and he's right here at the party. He's right over there. He's looking at us."

"Why is he here?"

"He's already done some detective work and he has learned that Alma is not even living in New Orleans. She's living somewhere in Cajun country outside the city. She's got Ron somewhere over there. There were rumors that she was going to show up for the ball tonight."

"She's here?"

"No. I haven't seen here. I've been keeping an eye out for her. There's no sign of her or Ron here."

The Detective approached and he shook my hand. He also shook Byron's hand.

"I'm Detective Stone," he said to Byron, "and by now you must know why I'm here."

"To get that Alma woman who's been causing so much trouble," he said.

"She has kidnapped a man and that's a crime."

"That's not her only crime. She killed a woman in cold blood. And I know she's killed other people."

"And how would you know that?"

"She used to be my lover."

"Detective, everyone's dancing in the ballroom. I think it's best to stay here to keep our eyes out for Alma."

"Good thinking."

The next half hour was spent by the buffet table, eating and drinking and "staking out" for Alma. By then, many of the dancers had returned to the foyer and grand salon to socialize and drink. We were almost losing hope when we noticed that a woman escorted by two men entered the manor. She fit Alma's profile perfectly. She was a short, tan skinned woman and the men looked strong and swift. Stone leaned against my face to whisper:

"Isn't that her?"

"Yes," I said, "I'm pretty sure of it."

He sprang into action at once. He approached them while Byron and I stood against the wall by the door and watched. He arrested their walk and he showed them his badge and spoke to them. 

I watched as Alma's mouth opened wide and she didn't seem pleased. You can tell she looked afraid and angry even with her mask concealing her face. At that moment, the two strong men who were with her pushed Detective Stone aside and ran towards me and Byron.

"Get them," Alma ordered.

The men grabbed me and Byron and we were locked in their tight grip. We tried to break free and struggled but it was of no use. The men took us, running across the floor and then Alma ran with them. They took us out of the mansion, down the steps, in full view of the horrified guests. Detective Stone screamed at Alma and urged someone to call the police. Moving quickly, the men and Alma took us inside a black limousine. Inside, there were two other mobster friends, dressed in dark suits. The limo was pretty dark and the lights were dim but the feeling of danger was in the air. This could be my very own final chapter of life. They looked at us with a grin.

"Here she is, muchachos," Alma said, "This is the rich bitch I was telling you about. I can't believe my luck. I thought you were in New York."

"You're not going to get away with this," I said to her, "by now police have issued a dragnet and they'll be coming after you and your crooked friends."

"Shut up, puta," she said to me.

I knew enough Spanish living in California to know that "puta" was a really wicked insult meaning "whore" or "bitch". I spat at her face, the anger that had been boiling inside me finally ready to explode.

"You're going to pay for that," Alma said to me, slapping me.

"What have you done to Ron?"

"Oh, you're worried about him are you? That's pretty interesting because you're not even his wife."

"Ron and Linda are my friends. I came here after being released from prison because of you. You killed Felicia."

"I thought it was pretty funny how you went to jail for that."

"You're a psychotic bitch," Byron said to her, "this girl has done you no harm."

"Byron? Is that you?" Alma said getting a closer look at him.

"Yeah it's me," he said, "and you've really gone "loca". Now you've kidnapped two more people. What the hell is your problem?"

"It's not good to see you, Byron, especially knowing that you and this white bitch have something going on. You two fuck buddies or what? Did she make you her boy toy? Did she promise you to get you an acting career?"

"Me and her are none of your business, Alma. Let us go. This girl's right. You're a wanted criminal and they're looking for you. That guy really was a P.I. and cops here in town have been informed about you."

"Yeah, well, I'm taking us to a place no one can find us in a million years. It's way out in the swamp."

"And pray tell what are you going to do with us there?" Byron said.

"Oh, you'll see," she replied with a grin.

I tried not to look afraid but the truth was I was petrified. She was obviously going to kill me.

The limo driver remained a total mystery. I couldn't see him well and all I could see was his back. He looked like he was probably one of Alma's Mafia gangster friends. He was driving the limo pretty fast and cutting through traffic as swiftly as possible to get out of the city. Before long, we were on a long road that led out of New Orleans and into God knew where.

* * * * *

Cypress Island was as far removed from civilization as I thought was possible. Lake Martin was the major body of water here, a vast, swampy bayou that seemed to stretch over a dark, foreboding wilderness. A grey mist shrouded the ground, and it was difficult to see the road ahead. The limo driver seemed to know this wild landscape well and remained on course, following a dirt road that seemed to go on for miles, deeper and deeper into the bayou forest. Cypress trees grew everywhere and many tangled brush. The road disappeared and the night's darkness enveloped us. I was scared.

The limo came to a stop. 

Alma was holding a gun and at gunpoint she made us step out of the limo. Her mobster friends were keeping an eye out, as if expecting us to suddenly make a run for it. I could hardly see a thing. There was moonlight and in the soft silvery gleam that fell, I saw that we were standing by the little shore of a lake. Anchored to the shore was a riverboat or rather a pale ghost of a former operational paddlewheel riverboat. There it stood, eerily bathed in the moonlight, its color was a dark, smoky grey and it looked so old and dilapidated that it looked as if it could collapse on to the waters at any moment. 

"That's going to be your newest prison, bitch," Alma said, "only this time, you'll never get out of it."

Her burly gangster friends in suits suddenly pushed us and walked us to the riverboat. Inside there was a horrible, fetish stench, like a nauseous mix of incense, nicotine, excrement and semen. The place was dark and only a few lanterns on the ground provided some light. There were no furnishings and no color everywhere. 

In some of the deserted cabin rooms and the salon, there were ponchos and old blankets spread out on the wooden floor. I figured this was her crack-house where she and her criminal buddies enjoyed sex and drugs. Here in this skeletal riverboat, there was nothing but hard floor which was cracked and broken in some parts. The promenade deck looked intact, and it was strangely beautiful in the glow of the moonlight, the deck commanding a view of the lake and the bayou nearby. 

We were taken to the nether regions of the riverboat. We descended down a flight of stairs that spiraled downward into darkness. The smell of feces was stronger here and there was also a very frightening, abysmal sense here. Would this be my tomb and Byron's?

Alma's gangster friends carried lanterns to guide us down the stairs and on to the floor. Here we were possibly under the water of the lake and you could almost smell the water. I distinctly heard rats scuttling about. Alma said something in Spanish which I did not understand but her tone was strong and I suspected she was giving the men some orders.

"You're going to Hell for this Alma," Byron said to her.

"And even if I do," Alma said, "at least I'll have the satisfaction of having had fun on earth first. Muchachos, chain them up against the wall."

The men had honest-to-goodness chains which they used to bind Byron and I against the walls. It seemed as if it would take one big burst for the walls to crack and for water to pour in. Alma's no-good buddies had taken our guns. From the moment they had forced us into the limo, they had seized them.

We were standing, chained to the wall, Byron and me, looking at our captors and trying not to look afraid. Byron was so strong, so firm. He didn't show any sign of fear but I wondered if he felt as scared as I was. I had already turned pale and wanted to faint. 

"You'll be getting a visitor tomorrow," Alma said to us.

She laughed in malicious pleasure and she and the two gangsters returned up the stairs to the deck of the riverboat......

* * * * * * * *

The visitor turned out to be Ron.

He was dressed in a white, torn long-sleeved shirt (the sleeves looked as if they had been ripped) and some dark brown slacks that looked old and used, as if they had been the only pair of clothes he had been wearing for over a year. He looked defeated and dispirited, nothing like the energetic, strong, proud man I had met in New York. His hair looked almost grey. He had not lost much weight, and his body was strong-looking but it did look lean and as if he had been under a lot of strain. He barely had the energy to look up at me. Alma had him in a leash which she quickly removed. The same two gangsters that had chained us to the wall were with her again.

"Remember her?" Alma said to Ron, pointing at me.

Ron looked up and his facial expression turned to one of surprise.

"Valerie," he said.

"Ron," I said, moving against my chains.

"Reunited and it feels so good," Alma said in her malicious joking manner, "Ok, boys, chain him up with the rest of this trash."

"You're the trash, Alma," Byron said, his voice marked with anger.

"Still showing spirit and courage are we, you worthless ni-"

"Shut up. I swear I'd like to kill you right this instant."

Alma laughed.

"There's no way out for all of you. You'll be in here so long that you'll start going crazy with starvation. Then you'll die. I'm going to feed your dead bodies to Hugo."

"Who's Hugo?" I said.

"He's a big old alligator that Alma has been feeding with pieces of meat and by that I mean the corpses of men and women she and her friends have killed, innocent folks who stay at an inn nearby."

"Shut your trap. So listen up. I'll be back down here in a couple of weeks. If you guys are still alive, we're going to shoot you and you'll still be Hugo's lunch, even if you're alive."

"Fucking bitch," Ron said to her, "I don't know why even got involved with you. If I had known you were a sick, evil devil –"

"Oh shut up. You were with me because of the drugs we shared and the sex and you loved it."

"Yeah, well I wish I hadn't."

Alma laughed and her gangster friends joined in. They went back up the stairs to the deck of the boat, leaving us behind, chained to our fate..........

When it was high noon, the same thing always happened; a swarm of mosquitoes that came from the shoots above and from cracks and openings on the walls of the riverboat stormed inside, making a hellish buzzing sound that drove me nuts. They would fly around us and we would try to fight them off by moving our bodies and struggling in our chains.

We lost the concept of time, the three of us, Byron, Ron and I. We only knew it was day when the swamp mosquitoes attacked us and night when it was eerily quiet and we could hear all kinds of moans and animal sounds coming from the swamp. This was hell. I can honestly say I've been there. I longed even for the comfort of my little jail cell back in New York City, which was a palace compared to this nightmarish place. 

To keep our sanities, Byron, Ron and I had conversations, long-winded conversations about our lives, about our beliefs and about our past. Ron had played football in high school and some college and Byron had played basketball. Me, I had only played tennis and polo. Byron was Southern Baptist. Ron was an agnostic and his wife Linda was a Neo-Hippie Pagan. Me, I had grown up in a far too secular home and so I wasn't spiritual or religious in any sense. Since there looked to be no future for us, we couldn't discuss future plans. My hope was that the Private Eye I had hired, Stone Martin, would come to the rescue, he and New Orleans police. So far, there was no indication that this was happening. Maybe it was hard for them to locate this particular swamp. I told Ron about the P.I. and that also seemed to fill him with hope.

When Alma and her henchmen returned, they found us alive. We were pale from lack of sunlight and we had lost some weight. It had been too difficult for any of us to sleep so our eyes were tired and bloodshot.

"You guys are a lot of fun," Alma said, "I figured you'd be alive. Now we can have some real fun."

"Alma, look," Ron said to her, his voice rough, "don't do this. Don't add another crime to your list. Why don't you just let us go."

"You'd all love that and you couldn't think I was that stupid. You guys would tell the cops about me and I'll be in jail for life."

"I wanted to make a deal with you," Ron said," that's what I was talking about. I'm rich. Valerie is too. We can give you money in exchange for our freedom."

"Oh, no," Alma said, "I'm comfortable here in Cajun Country. I don't need any more money. I'm a Mafia princess almost. I want you guys to die at my pleasure. So this is what we're going to do. We'll let you loose and we will give you about half hour to run out of here. It's like Hide and Seek in the Bayou."

"That's always a good game," one of her gangster friends said.

I had a better look at them in the clarity of day. They were all Hispanic, their skins tanned and bronze looking, save for one burly white man who looked like he had been born and raised in the South. They were all obviously in some kind of ethnic Latin Mafia.

They released us from our chains and Byron, Ron and I raced up the stairs that led to the deck of the riverboat. Our hearts were racing, too, our blood pumping, filling us with adrenaline. We knew we didn't have a chance. These evil-doers knew the bayou a lot better than us and no matter how far we ran or where we went, they would be sure to find us. There was also the matter of that alligator Alma mentioned lurking around the swamp. I didn't know what to believe was more dangerous, the predatory alligator who could kill us or the wicked Mafiosos who were going to be hunting us down. They were also as much animal as the alligator.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Ron said, as we ran out into the unknown.

The swamp was vast, sprawling before us like some huge naturally constructed labyrinth of tangled underbrush, swamp water and cypresses. Even the ground off the waters was wet and spongy beneath our feet. It felt like we would sink into it like quicksand at any moment. We ran, o God did we run, because our lives depended on it. 

I don't know what Byron and Ron were thinking but all the while I was thinking that perhaps we could outrun them and hide somewhere just long enough to make them stop searching for us. Then we could run back to the city and report our experience to authorities. But at the same time, hearing Alma's hyena-like laugh and the approaching feet of her henchmen made me want to despair.

We were doomed in the bayou.

We ran for about half an hour although it felt like an eternity. We crossed a thick bayou forest, and we felt that we had really lost Alma and her men after we didn't hear any sounds coming from behind us. And then it happened. We heard gun shots, lots of them, followed by laughter and swearing in Spanish. 

We turned behind us to see that Alma's men were wielding the guns Byron and I had brought to New Orleans. They were firing at us. Somehow, they were fast on their feet, coming at us like an invading guerilla army troop. They had changed clothes somehow, and they were dressed in greenish army slacks and shirts. They looked like they were having the time of their life.

"How did they catch up to us?" Byron said.

"Alma knows this bayou like the palm of her hand," Ron said, "except for probably the farthest end of it by the edge of the woods."

"Keep running!" I shouted.

We ran, the bullets flying in the air, the sharp sounds of their guns piercing our ears. Thank God they weren't rifles or machine guns, because that would most likely have killed us. The handguns weren't really powerful enough but the men seemed to enjoy providing us with a frightening life-or-death chase. Before long, we were somehow back into the swamp, which we had lost in the immensity of the wood. There was water beneath us and it was hard to run. 

"It looks like we're going to have to swim," Ron said.

"I can't swim," Byron said.

I knew right there and then that he was a goner. If he couldn't swim, he wouldn't survive. Ron and I didn't say a word but we began to swim, as swiftly as we could, stroking the waters with our arms and legs, looking ever forward despite the horror of gun shots behind us. I looked behind only to see if Byron had begun to swim. He was swimming as best he could but he was behind us, lagging behind. 

"O God," I prayed, the first time I had ever prayed, "please make this nightmare end and save us."

Ron and I swam for some distance and then we turned to see that Byron had been shot. The men were approaching his corpse, which was just lying over the swamp, floating, bleeding. Just then, possibly at the smell of Byron's blood, the alligator they called Hugo appeared. I gasped at the sight of it. It was a huge, fat, scaly green creature with a strong jaws and a mouth that looked as if it could swallow an adult whole. And the thing did just that, devouring Byron's corpse, feasting on his flesh, taking its time in consuming everything it could.

"Oh my God," I cried.

Ron held me in his arms tightly as we watched in horror. The men were laughing but they dared not approach. Hugo was too close to them so they swam as far back as they could. They stood watching the alligator eating Byron from afar. I looked up and saw that the sun was still high in the sky which meant it was probably noon already or some time in the early afternoon. The sun's orange-yellow gleam mixed with the redness of blood over the swamp waters.

"Come on, we better run," Ron said to me.




Hotel Heiress: New Orleans



Holding hands, we began to run again. Fortunately for us, we were no longer in the water. We found a small little trail, partially covered with branches and brush that snapped at our feet and seemingly grabbed our feet. We followed the trail into another part of the bayou. Here the cypress trees grew wild and the sounds of exotic birds could be heard. And God knows what other kind of animal. Further and further we ran, lost in the bayou jungle.

* * * * * * * *

We did not know where we were. Surrounding us were endless cypresses and the vast dark shade they cast. From above, a few streams of golden sunlight came through. From the looks of it, we were as far from the swamp as possible, but not far enough to be near any town or city. Birds sang quietly, the flap of their wing echoing in the air. The earth was no longer wet beneath our feet. Before us, shrouded by tangle vines and shrubs was a tiny cabin made entirely of dark pinewood.

"What in the world –"Ron said.

As we got closer, we noticed the cabin was on a small little knoll. When we drew nearer to the cabin, we saw behind it a panoramic view of the bayou jungle and in the distant background, sugar cane fields and towering above them was a ghostly looking plantation house.

We stood in awe at the sight of it, just standing there, as if no one had ever seen it in years, a plantation house concealed in the bayou, lost in time, long since forgotten. Vines and thorns covered some of its walls.

"That must be an old Creole sugar plantation," Ron said, "and this little house here must be one of many slave quarters."

"Makes sense," I said.

When we opened the wooden door, which was somewhat cracked and dilapidated, we heard a monstrous cry. I screamed. An alligator that did no look like Hugo leapt into the air and attacked Ron, pinning him down to the ground. It was the alligator from Hell, fierce, savage, blood-thirsty. It held Ron in its claws, and Ron, beneath its weight, struggled to break free, kicking in the dust. All I could do was scream as I watched horror.

Ron said he had played football and it showed. His body was quite strong despite his lean physique. He was working muscles he probably hadn't worked in a long time as he wrestled the alligator on the ground. From the way they grappled, it appeared as if Ron had also wrestled in high school. There they were, man and beast, in a fight to the death. Already, Ron's shoulders and legs were covered in blood. The alligator fought with an aggression that frightened me.

Ron had the creature in an arm lock, and it was wild in its despair, trying to break free, moving its strong, long tail back and forth frantically. They had moved around the ground and had somehow made it into the cabin.

Since the door had been fallen during their altercation, I was able to see what was going on inside. Ron was trying to break the alligator's neck. The wild thing tried to take a big bite out of Ron, opening its jaws wide but Ron would use his big hands to keep its mouth from closing on him. 

Inside, there was hardly any furnishing and that was logical since it was only a meager slave's hut. There was a large wooden table with empty soup bowls and a few chairs, as old looking as could be, and some torn pieces of cloth that once formed drapes. There was one window, the glass smeared with dust. The sunlight streamed through the window, giving the little abandoned cabin glowing warmth. As Ron continued to fight with the alligator, his eyes searched the cabin. I followed his eyes and we both noticed a box of matches and a lantern.

"Valerie," Ron cried out to me, "light those matches and light up the lantern. Do it now!"

I had no idea what he had in mind but instinctively, I obeyed, knowing that this was out of survival. I lit up the matches and then the hand-held lantern which stood on the table.

"Now throw it to me!" he bellowed.

I hurled the lantern toward him. He didn't catch it but maybe that was his plan all along. The lantern broke upon impact on the floor, and a fire began to burn. Ron, holding on to the alligator in a strong arm lock, finally managed to break its neck and the alligator bent its head as if defeated, emitting a powerful groan of pain. It was in hysteria, thrashing and writhing on the ground, and it was in even more pain when the flames of the fire began to consume it.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" he shouted.

Ron took my hand and we left the cabin. We ran down the little dirt path that led into the bayou wood. As we looked back, we saw that the fire had become bigger and it was now burning down the diminutive cabin. The alligator had tried to escape but it froze completely at the entrance. It was bleeding profusely and died right there and then.

"I thought you weren't going to make it," I said to Ron.

"Me either," he replied..........

Too tired to run, we walked into the bayou jungle, not knowing what we'd find or what would find us. We feared it would either be another wild gator, for surely the swamp was infested with many of them, or Alma and her wicked gangsters ready to shoot us. 


By now the sun was beginning to set, turning the moist ground into shades of red and orange, and coloring the wilderness in fiery hues. Exotic birds were singing or bickering, flying about as if scared or in a hurry to get somewhere. We were in a part of the bayou that was thick with too many low-growing trees and undergrowth. Sugar canes grew abundantly here, and we even spotted footprints, ancient footprints that had never disappeared; reminders of the black slave laborers in the plantation.

"It's going to get dark soon," I mentioned, "what are we going to do, Ron? Where will we sleep? We're too far from any town. I feel like we're going to die sooner or later."

"Don't talk like that," he said to me, holding me by the shoulders fiercely, his brown eyes glowing as if on fire, "we're not going to die. We won't give those bastards that satisfaction. This nightmare will be over soon and we'll see Alma and her goons brought to justice. Don't give up, you hear me?"

"I'm so scared."

He held me in his strong arms, making me feel warm inside, and safe, despite everything that had happened, even in the face of the danger that still lurked in the bayou. He began to kiss me, and they were not soft, butterfly kisses. They were strong kisses, passionate, hard. He kissed my forehead and my eyelids, my nose, my cheeks which were wet with tears, and my chin. When he kissed my chin, I automatically threw my head back. He held me closer to his body, pressing against me, his chest on my breasts.

"You're too gorgeous Valerie," he said in a low, rough, breathy voice as if he were panting, "you have the most beautiful body God ever made and you need to live to see more of the world. You're young and rich and you deserve to be happy. You'll be home in California again soon, and you'll be a big star one day."

His voice, choked with passion, had already aroused me. I, too, was feeling a sexual spell come over me. It seemed so natural, so right. I didn't know it then, but the reason Ron and I were feeling so sexual toward each other owed to wanting to survive, to defy the death that we thought would claim us in the bayou. 

"I want to make love to you," Ron said, "let me have you, Valerie."

A moan escaped my lips; his answer.

I clung to him, like my own life depended on it. We were kissing; our mouths open, passionately locking lips in such a way that made me melt in his arms, made me weak. His manly strength was flowing into me, making me stronger, making my fears slip away. The sun was descending in a horizon we could not see through the thick bayou vegetation and taller trees. The skies above were afire with strong hues of red, orange, yellow, purple and pink, the usual colors of the sky during sun-down. Our tongues dueled, our bodies were on fire and our breathing became hard. We made out like we had never done it before.

Our blood racing, our hearts beating wildly, I felt my nipples harden as his hands tore off my blouse. His hands groped my breasts and kneaded them, his hands cupping my full breasts. I threw my head back and let out a cry of sudden pleasure. 

His mouth was on my breasts, sucking my nipples hungrily and it was probably the first time he had had his mouth on anything. His tongue sucked my nipples roughly, taking my hands on his breasts and bobbing his head on one and then the other, making me hold on to his head as he continued to orally stimulate my breasts. His hands cupped my ass, pulling me tightly against him, allowing me to feel the hardness of his cock through his slacks.

The hot setting sun intensified the heat between us, surrounding us with its warmth and glow, making us sweat as we worked each other's bodies into a heated sexual frenzy. My hands roamed down his back and held on to his waist as he continued to kiss me feverishly. His hot mouth was on my neck, kissing it slowly and making sure I was getting hotter by the minute. 

I moaned and writhed under his sensual attack. His skillful tongue slid down the flat of my stomach and he kneeled all of a sudden, holding on to my hips. His fingers were instantly inside my pussy, not caring whether I was ready or not. But I was. He slid them into me, at times pulling out and spitting on his hand to make them slicker before jamming them into my tight pussy. I screamed out as my first orgasm began to build.

His mouth was on my pussy and he laved my folds and continued to work his fingers on me in his unique style, making me go over the edge. My orgasm came and I felt weak in the knees. We were in the middle of nowhere, the bayou should have frightened us with the dangers around it, but we didn't care anymore. What better way to die than this way, fucking like no man and woman had ever fucked before.

I look back at this moment even now, and when my memory brings me to the greenness of that bayou, to that sunset, to that terrifying ordeal we had gone through, I push all the fear aside and remember the unbelievable, inimitable pleasure that Ron gave me, the pleasure we gave each other, the passion we shared. How long we made love, I don't recall. The sun disappeared and the bayou became engulfed in twilight.

By the time that happened, I had achieved several orgasms just from his tongue fucking my pussy and his fingers doing the same thing. To pleasure him in return, I got on my knees like he had done and took his cock into my mouth to suck on. He had a very good-sized cock, not large like Byron's black cock, but nice enough for me to enjoy. His long cock remained hard for me and I was able to spend a leisurely time taking it down my throat and sucking it masterfully. I licked up and down the shaft of his cock, wrapping my tongue around it, kissing it, putting to the cheeks of my face and taking it deep throat. He grabbed my blonde hair fiercely and groaned loudly. He couldn't hold it anymore and he erupted in orgasm.

I thought we were done and I had begun to walk away, thinking he'd follow me but he seized my small hand and arrested my walk. 

"Where are you going? Come here I want to fuck you."

After which the real fucking began. He laid me down on the grass, which although uncomfortable and clinging to my body and hair, felt oddly good. He spread my legs and got on top of me, all the while we kissed passionately, our mouths open and our body heat rising. He kissed down my neck again and on to my breasts as his hard cock slipped into my pussy. He was careful not to penetrate too quickly. He wanted me to feel good so he carefully slid it into my pussy in an achingly slow tease. I wrapped my legs around him. He continued to kiss me as he fucked me, his cock pumping into me, in a tempo he controlled. His thrusts were firm and strong, filling up my pussy completely.

He fucked me so good. His cock was like bullet shots in my pussy, steel-hard and penetrating me deeply, so deeply. I was in total ecstasy, my eyes bright; my head tilted back as he roared like a beast and fucked me harder and faster, each thrust more intense than the last. It was like sexual violence, and I raked my nails down his back, his back bleeding again, but not from the crocodile, from my passion.

I gripped his buttocks and pushed down on his ass cheeks as his cock went in and out of my pussy. Finally, we both reached a sexual high that consumed us and we had a simultaneous orgasm, screaming out, scaring the bayou wildlife and birds.

It was the best sex I'd ever had. We slept through the night in peace.

* * * * * *

We awoke to the sound of gun shots, the barking of dogs and multiple men's voices. 

It was morning and the sun was already quite warm. At first, we thought it was Alma and her mobster companions, so Ron and I remained quiet and perfectly still, crouching beneath the sugar canes. Then we heard the sound of machetes cutting down the canes, as if searching for something the canes. We didn't waste any time upon hearing all this, so we began to run. We didn't get very far.

"Hey! Stop!" said the loud male voices, and more gunshots.

"Stop running, this is the Police."

Ron and I ceased running and turned to look behind us. Sure enough, we saw them – beige-uniformed police officers, some of them with police dogs. They approached us and Ron and I stood there, not knowing what to do, frozen and looking directly at them.

"We're with the Sheriff's Department," they said, "and we were notified by the New Orleans Department that there were two missing people here, abducted at a Masquerade in the French Quarter."

From behind them emerged the P.I. I hired, Stone Martin, and he embraced me and looked happy to see me alive. He had obviously done his homework. He spoke to the officers and they continued to look at me and then Ron and I didn't understand what they were saying. They spoke in clipped and hushed tones, most of it in their "Louisiana English" patois.

"Miss Masters, you don't know how glad I am to see you safe," Stone said, "I wasn't sure where Miss Alma Chavez was hiding and locating the Mafia boss' mansion was like finding a needle in a hay stack but we finally did it."

"So Miss Chavez is in prison now?" Ron wanted to know.

"She was arrested along with the Mafia boss she claimed was her boyfriend and her Mafia friends. They are going to appear in a New Orleans court to face trial for the murders of many Louisiana residents and some tourists who were staying at the Cajun Moonlight Inn. Their bodies were found in the swamp, but only the bodies that hadn't been devoured by the alligator they had kept as a pet."

"Did they find the body of my friend Byron?" I asked him.

"You mean the African-American male that was with you?" Stone replied, "No, sadly we found nothing. My guess is the swamp alligator made him into a meal."

"We were there when it happened," Ron explained," Alma and her henchmen chased us, firing their guns at us into the bayou and the alligator killed Byron because he was unable to swim."

"Are you Mr. Ron Ash the famed photographer from San Francisco, California, spouse of Miss Linda O'Brien?"

"That's right. I was kidnapped by Miss Chavez and I was held prisoner in the mansion of the Mafia Boss. I think his name was Diego D'Acha.

"That's the guy. We booked him on illegal drug trafficking, operating a prostitution ring and multiple murders. He had eluded authorities for years and his crime syndicate had begun to spread all over Louisiana and Mississippi."

Ron and I smiled a tired smile of relief. Finally, justice had prevailed, but I had almost lost my life in the process.........

I bid farewell to Ron at the airport as he caught his flight to New York where Linda still waited for him in their Manhattan apartment. We hugged and shared one brief kiss, the memory of our lovemaking still singed into our hearts. 

"Don't lose touch, Valerie," he said to me, "I will be in San Francisco for the rest of the year, working. You're free to visit Linda and I whenever you want. And...if you ever wish to get together in private...here's my private phone number."

"No, I don't think we should –"

He handed me his cellular phone number anyways, and I put it into my purse. Sure it was probably wrong, sure it was something that didn't fit with my character, but I had enjoyed Ron's friendship and now sexual chemistry so that I couldn't refuse him. But I figured it would be a long time before we ran into each other again.

After Ron's plane departed, I made some phone calls on a public phone at the airport. I called my mother to let her know I was ok, rested and ready to return to California. Of course, I didn't tell her the whole story with its dark details, of nearly dying in the bayou.

To ensure that the media and news wouldn't give an account of my adventure, I told Private Detective Stone not to tell a soul about the harrowing experience. I told him it was my private life and I didn't wish anyone to know about it. So graciously, the detective only told half-truths to reporters and he payed cops in the Sheriff's Department who had found us in the sugar canes not to tell the whole grisly story.

New Orleans newspapers printed articles about my time in New Orleans and that I had run into Alma at a Masquerade. From then on, there is no mention of what else happened other than the kidnapping by Alma and he thugs. 

I was glad that only this Southern city newspaper dared to tell a bit of the tale. My mother in California and my father in the East Coast wouldn't be able to read the story. They all assumed, like the rest of the public who wanted in, that I was just vacationing in New Orleans at the time of the capture of the wild woman who had been a Mafia man's doll and a murderer in her own right. 

I telephoned my girlfriends Gina and Crystal and they were more than happy to hear from me.

"Where are you, girl?" Gina said to me.

"I'm still in New Orleans but I'm going to take a flight to LA."

"We're already in LA," Crystal said, "we're home from Europe. Tell you what, why don't you stay in New Orleans until the end of Mardi Gras. We'll both take a plane there to meet you. And we can enjoy the rest of the parties together. Then we can decide on what else to do or where to go."

"Oh, alright. I can't wait to see you guys again."

I hung up the phone and for the first time in a long time breathed without any fear and with a lot more comfort.