Chapter 16

As the airplane descended towards Louis Armstrong International Airport, the city of New Orleans spread below us. Rory’s face was pressed to the portal. She’d been excited from the moment we left home.

Surprising me, she’d managed to pack everything into a small overnight case, assuring me she had all the clothes she needed. I’d briefly worried at her attire when we left. Skin-tight light grey leggings with a colorful T-shirt reminded me of the outcry when two girls were refused boarding. Then I remembered, they’d been family members of an employee. Still, the airline - was it United? - had made a huge public relations goof.

I’d also worried about her leggings for other reasons. They were so darn tight I could see where they pressed into her cleft and how her labia actually bulged at either side. Even her mons was obvious, shaped sensually by the material. My concern had been for my potential reaction. How could I fly with an erection in my pants and not be arrested? What would other passengers think about me with a hard on escorting a sexy teen?

Her exquisite ass was stunning, too. No detail of her sensually shaped buttocks were left to the imagination. She had such a perfect ass, compact, yet utterly female and utterly gorgeous.

Walking through the airport towards the departure gate, Rory leading, I’d watched her ass undulate - raw sexiness - and, when lust had raised its head, I’d commented, “Don’t do that.”

Rory, without turning, asked, “Do what?”

“Walk like that. Your butt moving and everything. It’s distracting.”

She’d laughed, obviously pleased. “I’m just walking normally. Stop staring at my ass.”

I’d tried and failed. How could any normal male not ogle and admire?

We checked into the Hampton Inn downtown in the French Quarter. The room wasn’t ready. Leaving bags, we strolled, exploring the quaint architecture, the French and Creole influences. Even mid-week, there were crowds of tourists. Interesting shops - tourist traps, witchcraft stores, and others interspersed with quaint cafés and restaurants scenting the air with mouthwatering aromas - kept us entertained. Rory was insatiably curious, especially with shops that promised secrets to voodoo curses.

We ate a late lunch at Antoine’s Restaurant; a hundred and seventy-odd year old establishment. The Jambalaya was spicy hot, the shrimp sweet and tender, the chunks of ham smoky and delicious, all in a rice and tomato concoction. Rory consumed large glasses of Coke as she plowed her way through the plate with determination and frequent murmurs of delight. Her dark eyes were never still, constantly observing the baroque, ornate interior decor; green walls with gold accents, and old paintings and pictures covering every wall.

At three, we had our room. It was nicely appointed, neat and clean with a large sitting area and two queen beds.

With instructions not to wander far from the hotel, and to change first if she was leaving, I headed out to meet Jonathan Keeps, the attorney handling the civil case. I was due to appear as an expert witness tomorrow.

RORY SAT AND TRIED to watch TV. Too boring. She glanced out the window at the city, bustling with activity. Restless and still excited from the trip, she headed out to explore.

New Orleans, especially the French Quarter, was beautiful. She loved the intricate trellises and balconies, the wooden window shades and intricate iron balcony railings. Colorful flour pots added a magical feeling.

And the air! Everywhere she walked, the air was scented with spices and food. The Jambalaya had been delicious. What other dishes would she try?

She window-shopped for an hour and a half, oblivious to the people around her. Her mind was half on the goods displayed and half on Ethan.

Twice now, he’d surprised her. She’d often giggled at the tawdry raw sex scenes she’d read in romance novels, convinced they weren’t real. How could two people go at each other like that? And yet, on the beach, she’d felt like she was being fucked by a raging bull, barely hanging on, and Gawd! Not only was her climax awesome, but being ... what was that word? Ravished! That’s it! Ethan ravished her!

Rory reacted to the memory, her body tingling. Was she a slut for loving it so much? It was the first time she’d felt she’d had no control - in someone else’s power - and she’d never allowed that before. But now? Gaaawd! She wanted it again! His dominance and power were a bit scary, exciting scary.

How had it happened? Was it letting him watch her pee? Was it letting him watch her masturbate? That had been exciting!

The window of a clothes store caught her attention. She wandered in and browsed. That skirt was really pretty. Checking the price, she moved on. Sixty-eight dollars? Were they crazy? She checked out the tops, her eyes drawn to body-hugging spaghetti-strapped cotton ones. The colors were great; pastels ranging from lilac to green to bright yellow. And only fourteen ninety-five! She selected two and made her way to the cashier.

Bag in hand, she strolled along the street, her thoughts back to sex. Sunday night had been totally different. Ethan was right. There were so many different types of climaxes. In bed, it was like he could read her mind. No words were needed. For the first time she could read his body, know what he was feeling, and, making love so slowly had shocked her.

Ethan was different and she thought she knew why. He’d loved her, soft and sexy, careful and considerate, and her climax had been different again; softly intense and full of emotion. She’d felt him cum in her. She’d felt his erection swelling and felt wetness inside as he’d cum, and that had intensified her climax.

How many ways were there to cum? Were they all different?

She stopped. Her cheeks heated up. She was wet! Was there a wet spot showing? Darting into another store, she hid behind a display, checked she couldn’t be seen, and bent, checking her crotch. Damn! A tiny dark spot on her light grey leggings!

She had to stop thinking about sex!

As she wended her way through the crowds, heading back to the hotel, someone grabbed her tit from behind. Without thinking, she reacted, twisting around and hitting the guy, yelling, “GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME, YOU PERVERT!”

I STEPPED INTO THE Hampton Inn lobby. Cool, air conditioned air greeted me. I breathed a sigh of relief. New Orleans was stinking hot.

A man hustled over from the registration desk, medium height, short brown hair, black-rimmed glasses.

“Mr. Grant?”

I stopped and smiled in greeting. A small brass nameplate on his dark suit informed me Robert Wheldon was the manager.

“Yes?”

He looked distraught. “I’m so sorry, but the police are waiting for you up in your suite.”

Dread flooded me, my heart lurching. “What happened?” I asked, hurrying towards the elevator.

Robert followed me. “I’m not sure, but they brought your guest in.”

Jesus Christ!

He followed me into the elevator, talking. I wasn’t listening. My mind was churning, fears racing through my mind, speculative thoughts each scarier than the other. I ran down the carpeted hall and fumbled in my pockets for the key card. “Where the hell is it?”