Author's Note : Inspired by the Mardi Gras Parade(s) and the Rio Carnival, this story is purely a work of fiction. There are no factual errors because it is fantasy, and if you find differences with the actual Mardi Gras or the Carnival, please note that I haven't given enough details for you to nitpick. This is not for those who like reality in these stories... that's like asking for a politician who's honest. Dream on.
"Where's Ronnie?" My wife June asked me upon entering the house. It was close to six in the evening.
"Out," I replied, not exactly bothering with a full reply, my attention distracted by the live feed of the year's Mardi Gras just a few miles away from home. On the box, the camera had caught a few young ladies flashing themselves... my wife snorted when she saw the scene, and then gasped.
"There she is!"
"There," June stabbed the TV with her finger, pointing to a girl in the background who wasn't putting up much of a fight as she was tossed from one guy to another, each taking his own sweet time to pull her tee-shirt up and grab a handful of her tan-lined tits. I ogled the firm pair that the girl had - those tooters shot right into your eyes. The camera zoomed in on two perfect nipples, so obviously hard, their color an exotic dark shade of pink. This girl was definitely aroused...
As she was making me...
And then, as the camera panned out, the girl pushed her top back over her breasts. June, still in shock, hadn't spoken another word. I stared at the face. So familiar...
"She looks a lot like Ron, doesn't she?" Unlike my wife, I didn't really believe that our daughter was such a wanton young woman.
"Dammit, Jack, that IS Ronnie! See that mole on her jaw. And those earrings..."
Unfortunately for my daughter, the cameraman focused on her for a couple of seconds too long, enough for me to confirm what my wife had just pointed out. That mole... those earrings... those breasts...
"But she said she was going over to a friend's place," I offered defensively, lest my wife put all the blame on me for being so easily taken in.
My wife snorted. "Sure, and that's what I told MY father when I came over to see you, and had you knock me up..." She stared at me with all the fury of an angry mother, and I averted my eyes back to the TV. Thankfully, Ron was no longer anywhere to be seen. Let her come home tonight, I promised myself, there would be hell to pay.
My wife, apparently, wasn't going to be so patient. She threw her coat across the room - she was a lawyer by profession - and grabbed my arm. "Come on," she muttered, her fury threatening to explode, and I figured it would be less dangerous to follow her out to the car, even as I tried to figure out exactly what it was that she had in mind.
Before I knew it, we were on the road, speeding right over the limit, with a very pissed-off mother at the wheel. I tried to calm her a couple of times, "Don't overreact, baby, she -"
"She is a two-bit whore, that's what she is," my wife hissed, and I bristled at the remark. Sure, my daughter was enjoying some 'freedom,' but she wasn't putting out for anyone, at least as far as I could see. And the description, the thought came to my mind, was ironic in that it came from a woman who slept with her boss to get some extra perks.
"At least," I muttered loudly enough for my wife to hear, "She doesn't sleep with the partners of Hillworth and bullshit Co. to score some brownie points."
The knuckles of my wife's hand were white as she gripped the wheel fiercely. Back when I had first confronted my wife with proof of her infidelity, we had made a deal never to bring that home again, because I couldn't convince my wife that I didn't sleep with my publisher - my brother does, but that's another matter. That peacetime treaty was now broken.
Maybe she was just too stressed out, or maybe she had finally accepted the truth; June did not bring up anything about my publisher (Okay, so I slept with the sexy lady once! Just once!) and was silent for several seconds. That relief, I soon learnt, was only temporary. "Bitch! She's only eighteen, and already she looks ready to screw half the town."
I started to open my mouth to ask her to get a grip on her language but she cut me off. "And shut up, Jack. You allow her to go to a pervert's paradise and now defend her? You are just as bad as she is, maybe worse. Irresponsible son of a -"
Not wanting to hear her rant, I turned away from her and concentrated on the outside. My wife, the irritating shrew that she was, continued for some more time, making sure I heard some of her compliments, a 'motherfucker', a 'home-sitting loser' and 'an impotent bastard.' I almost rose to the bait, biting back certain comments with more control than I would be able to muster the next time.
Finally, realizing that she no longer had a willing audience, my wife shut up.
The more I thought about it, the more it struck me that Ronnie was among the sexiest of women that I had ever seen. It was not like I was suddenly woken up to find my little girl a grown woman, and in spite of having more than a gentlemanly interest in her development, I was surprised by how... wholesome... that's the only word I can think of... she was. Firm breasts, a trim tummy and just that ounce of fat to get rid of any accusation that she was a figure-conscious reed.
This was my daughter I was thinking about, I reminded myself, only to find out that it was extremely difficult to think about anything else. Or anyone else. Ron was hot. There was no argument there.
We pulled into the main approach to the place where the Gras was being held less than five minutes later, not even wanting to look at each other. Part of the wide road was already a parking lot of sorts, with a lot of emergency vehicles and police cruisers. One of the cops gestured us to stop. We obliged, a little apprehensive when a partner joined him, but the first cop smiled warmly, putting me at ease.
"If you're gonna be back and out soon," he offered, pointing to a spot between a cruiser and an ambulance, "You can park there."
"We aren't sure, actually," I told him, a little sheepishly, "You see, we're looking for our daughter..."
"We? Oh, you mean Blondie here's your wife?" The second cop gave my wife an approving look-over, maybe even mentally undressing her. He could have raped her, for all I cared.
There was something about these two - Officers Roberts and Sorenson, according to their name-plates - that was pleasant. They laughed when I gave a theatrical sigh and agreed. "Unfortunately." If looks could have killed, I assume, my wife wouldn't have had to worry about any divorce proceedings... after all, they don't have a posthumous clause, do they?
"Well, buddy, you've got some balls though," Roberts said.
"Well," Sorenson clarified for his partner, "Most of the pops who come here looking for their daughters come alone... but they don't leave alone, you know. And some of them get mighty lucky..."
Reading my confused expression, Roberts added with a naughty grin, "And their wives never even realize why it takes them so long... get it?"
"Not me," I answered, getting their meaning. "Ron would never allow it."
"Veronica your name, missus?"
"No, it's my daughter's," I cut in, pointedly ignoring my wife's continuing glare. "This one is Mrs. Jack Mathew, the First."
Roberts and Sorenson broke up over that. "Hi, Jack," the former said, shaking my extended hand, "Welcome to Mardi Gras. And what do we call the missus?"
"Anything that comes to mind," I quipped, and the three of us laughed. "Of course," I added, "She prefers June. Winter, though, would have been more appropriate. Brrr!"
Roberts was still laughing as he signaled one of his colleagues to move their truck. Wordlessly, June drove into the dead-end alley that had been hidden by the bulk of the truck. Even as she turned off the ignition, the police truck was back in place.
Roberts and Sorenson were waiting for us at the roadblock. "Before you go in there," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the din from the party, "It gets rough in there, you know. We've got some plainclothes in there, but no boys in blue, so protect yourself. Especially you, Mrs. Mathew -"
"June," she corrected him harshly.
"June, in case you've never been here before, let me tell you it gets pretty harrowing. We don't step in unless we've got to, okay, and we are blind to anything else that goes on in there. The people who walk in understand this - it's made very clear to them. To be blunt, you are putting yourself at risk by going in. You can't fight back, and you will in all probability be violated."
"Like what?" I asked, enjoying the fact that he was painting a scary picture to my wife.
"Well, in short, by the time you come out - and I have to say you are too attractive - the only thing you may have intact is your life. Some of those drunks in there get pretty wild and fuck anything that moves, anything that grabs their fancy, but some of them are just content enough to rip off your clothes and feel you up. They won't hurt you, at least not in a permanent manner, but you might have a tough time walking at the end of it all.
"I suggest you and your husband hunt in pairs - no, I wouldn't recommend that - Jack looks like he could start a fist fight protecting you," at which I smiled wryly, thinking how I would leave my wife to the wolves while I hunted for my daughter and grabbed an ass or two in the process, "The best thing for you to do would be to stay here until your husband comes back."
.... There is more of this story ...