New Orleans Irresistible
Erotic Mystery Stories
O’Neil De Noux
Copyright 2011 O’Neil De Noux
Smashwords Edition
For more information about the author go to http://www.oneildenoux.net
Twitter: ONeilDeNoux
for debb and those legs
THE STORIES
The Knockout
First Published in Bizarre Sex & Other Crimes of Passion Anthology, Masquerade Books (Winner of the Small Press Writers and Artist Organization’s Best Anthology of 1994)
Produced on National Syndicated Radio by Mental Minutes®, 1996
Dive Inn
First Published in Erotic New Orleans (Pontalba Press, 2001)
Reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2002, Carroll & Graf (US) and Robinson Publishing (UK), Dec 2002
The Gold Bug of Jean Lafitte
First Published in The Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica Anthology, (Robinson
Publishing, 1999.)
Reprinted in New Orleans Mysteries, Big Kiss Productions Apr 2009
Kissable Cleavage
New Orleans Confidential, PointBlank Press, Mar 2006;
Reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Vol. 7, Carroll & Graf (US) and Robinson Publishing (UK), Dec 2007
A Walk in the Rain on the Wild Side
First Published in Noirotica3 Anthology (Black Books, 2000)
Reprinted in Libido Magazine (January 2001 Issue)
Reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Anthology, (Robinson Publishing, 2001)
Like a Skank in the Night
Finalist for THE GOLDEN CLIRORIDES AWARD for Best Erotic Humor Story 2006
First Published in Hardboiled Sex 2006, Jun 2006 (www.desdmona.com)
The Human Dress
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Vol .5, Carroll & Graf (US) and Robinson Publishing (UK), Jan 2006
Whispers in Walled Tombs
First Published in Love in Vein II Anthology (HarperPrism, 1997)
Reprinted in Deathly Desires Anthology at EroticSF.com, Dec 2002
Her Windblown Skirt
First Published in New Mystery Magazine (Vol. VII, No. 1, July 1999)
NEW ORLEANS IRRESISTIBLE is a work of fiction. The incidents and characters described herein are a product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Published by:
Big Kiss Productions
New Orleans and Covington, LA
New Orleans Irresistible
Erotic Mystery Stories
Introduction
For the record – she’s not big and there’s nothing easy about New Orleans. The old nickname, City That Care Forgot is closer to the truth, but trying to explain or label New Orleans with words has eluded writers for over two-hundred ninety-three years. As Rome is to Europe, New Orleans is America’s Eternal City. She can’t be changed, can’t die, can’t be flooded into submission or blown away by hurricanes. Her people can be scattered but they’ll return and others will come to be seduced by New Orleans, because New Orleans is an idea, an emotion, a unique way of life with such delicious pleasure, she’s – irresistible. She’s America’s Erotic Capital.
Ernie Pyle once wrote, “They say that when you get within a hundred miles you begin to feel a little drunk on just the idea of New Orleans.” The greatest crime-fiction writer of our time, Elmore Leonard, who was born in New Orleans, put it succinctly in Tishomingo Blues when a character explained, “People born and raised in New Orleans only move if they’re forced to.”
Yeah, and they usually find a way to come back.
Here are two examples of New Orleans seduction.
Around 1970, a young science-fiction writer named George Alec Effinger came to the Clairon Writers Workshop at Tulane University and stayed. Except for a brief sojourn into marriage in L.A., George remained in New Orleans for thirty years to write the keenest, most entertaining and downright outstanding short fiction in the city’s history (winning the Nebula and Hugo Awards along the way) until his untimely death at age fifty-five. He told me New Orleans had possessed him.
George taught me how to write a short story. Another writer who was seduced by New Orleans, John Edward Ames, urged me to turn my knack for writing good sex scenes (as I had in my novels) into writing erotic stories. He was right, of course, and it’s paid off. I’ve had nearly one hundred erotic stories published in the U.S. and Europe.
Ames moseyed into New Orleans in 1986. Already an acclaimed horror writer, John turned his attention to mysteries, westerns and of course, erotica. Simply, John Edward Ames is the hardest working writer in the city. Over the last thirty years, he’s had over seventy books published (mostly novels) and sold nearly a hundred short stories. The most prolific writer in town, he’s the best writer working in New Orleans by far.
When Hurricane Katrina hit and we all got the hell out of town, John was absolutely miserable to be away from home and returned as quickly as possible while many of us stayed away. The man didn’t care about sporadic electricity, that the streets were blocked by fallen trees and upturned vehicles left when eighty-percent of the city was under water, nor that the city water was undrinkable. John rushed back to his small upstairs apartment on St. Charles where he writes twelve hours a day. In the seven months right after Katrina, John wrote three novels.
My story is a little different. Born uptown on State Street, I was raised in Mid-City. Although I was an army brat, traveling with my father to Oklahoma, Italy and Kansas, before settling in the New Orleans suburb of Metairie, I am and always will be a New Orleanian. I didn’t have to be seduced. It’s in my blood.
I wrote this introduction in for the first edition of this book in 2006 in Lake Charles, Louisiana, where Katrina deposited me. But I never left New Orleans in mind and spirit. I can never leave New Orleans, even if I’m not physically there. Eventually I meandered back, settling on the north side of that evil Lake Pontchartrain (you know, the one that flooded the city), to hilly land above sea-level, so my new house won’t get flooded when the levees break again. I can drive into the city whenever I feel like it because, baby, New Orleans ain’t goin’ nowhere.
The stories in this collection are about pleasure. They are also about other passions – obsession, fear, exhibitionism, love and murder, sex and violence, you know – modern day America.
Again quoting Ernie Pyle, “New Orleans hungers for pleasure, and has it, and let him beware who tries to interfere.”
Come experience the steamy side of irresistible New Orleans.
O’Neil De Noux
April 2011
• • •
The Knockout
Pausing just inside the door of Morning Call Coffee Stand, the long legged girl shifted her weight from her right leg to her left and scanned the well lit cafe. Joseph Perrier, seated at the center marble counter, put his coffee cup down and stared at her. When the girl's gaze met his, he tried his best to look like he wasn't staring. The girl, moving smoothly in her spiked heels, eased over and sat on the stool next to Joseph Perrier. He nervously took another sip of coffee.
She was a knockout, a sultry brunette in a white silk blouse and a tight black skirt. The blouse was thin and clingy, revealing the outline of a low-cut bra beneath, and there was a generous slit up the front of the skirt. Sitting next to Joseph, she placed her small purse on the counter top next to his keys and ordered a cafe-au-lait from an eager waiter with frizzy hair and leering eyes.
She crossed her legs, readjusting herself on the stool. Joseph stole glances at her. A centerfold body, he thought to himself, small waist, round hips and breasts bulging against the buttons of her blouse. He could feel his heart racing as the girl reapplied dark lipstick to her full, pouty lips. Then she looked at him, batted her dark blue eyes and smiled.
Joseph looked away quickly. He cupped his chin in the palm of his hand to hide his weak chin and reached for his cup. For the thousandth time, he wished he could grow a beard that would hide his chin. He felt his heart beating in his ears. He took a nervous sip and put the cup down just at the girl next to him leaned over and in a velvety voice said, "Hi Joe."
His stomach bottomed out. He slowly turned to face her.
"Do I know you?" he croaked and quickly cleared his throat.
"You know all about me," she answered with a wink. "You know the story of my life."
The waiter arrived with her coffee. Grinning at the girl, the waiter gave her a big smile before withdrawing. As soon as they were alone again, an impish look came upon the girl’s face.
"You know how I like surprises," she said.
Joseph couldn't speak.
She leaned an elbow on the counter and rested her chin in the open palm of her hand and said, "You're such a kidder, Joe. Don't you recognize me?"
He shook his head no.
"I'm Julia. Julia Carondelet," she said as she picked up her cup and took a sip. "From the book. You know."
Joseph Perrier, New Orleans’ most acerbic book critic, suddenly felt dizzy. A half hour earlier he’d mailed in his latest review, dropping it at the post office next door before stopping at Morning Call for a nice steamy cup. The book he reviewed featured a sultry brunette named Julia Carondelet. Honest to Christ!
He felt his mouth hanging open. He closed it. His throat was so dry he couldn't swallow. Staring into those blue eyes, he felt goose bumps along his neck and back.
She leaned closer and whispered, "I'm so glad you're surprised."
His heart raced. He could feel it pounding. Julia Carondelet? He had to be losing his mind. He almost jumped when he felt her fingernails moving up his arm.
"You can't imagine how happy I am to be here with you," she said. "A clever man is hard to find."
He reached for the glass of water next to his cup and downed it in one gulp, but his throat still felt like a dust bowl.
She moved her lips next to his ear and whispered, "Take me home, Joe. I want to make love to you." Then she kissed him gently on the ear lobe. Her rich perfume seemed intoxicating. “You know. I always tell the truth.”
Joseph closed his eyes.
"Would you do something for me?" she asked in a voice meant for the bedroom. "Would you kiss me?"
Joseph was leaning so far back, he almost tumbled from the stool. He was breathing heavily now. He nervously pulled a five dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it on the counter, and left the cafe. He was outside before he realized his keys were still on the counter.
He heard the cafe door swing open behind him and heard the tinkle of keys.
"You forgot something," she said. Her breasts were pointing at him like a pair of loaded cannon. "I'll make a deal with you," she added. "I'll give you the keys. You take me home."
•
In the car, she said nothing at first. She just leaned against the passenger door and watched him. When she crossed her legs, causing the slit to rise high on her thigh, he could hear the sound of nylon brushing against nylon. God, she was gorgeous!
"Turn here," she finally said, after they’d stopped at a red light.
"But I live that way."
"Turn here."
Two red lights later, she nodded to a street sign on the corner and said, "Does that look familiar?"
He read the street sign and the pins on the back of his neck turned to needles. One side of the street sign read: Julia. The other side read: Carondelet.
The light turned green but he didn't move. Still staring at the signs, he said, "I don't get this."
"I'm lonely, Joseph," she said in a voice suddenly sad. "Even pretty girls get lonely. Take me home."
•
He flipped the lights on in his modest townhouse and stood awkwardly in the center of the living room. She moved up to him, placed her right hand on his shoulder and reached down with her left to remove her high heels.
When she began to unbutton her blouse, he moved a hand upward slowly, stopping a half inch from her right breast. She leaned forward and pressed her breast against his hand and there it was, real and firm and in his hand. Her chest rose with his touch and he could feel the hardness of her nipple against his finger tips.
She was wearing a low-cut French bra, as he knew she would. He watched her fingers unbutton her blouse and open it and pull it off her shoulders. She dropped it on the floor. Her bra unhooked in front. Slowly, she opened it and freed her large breasts.
She grabbed his shaky hands and pressed them to her hard nipples. He ran his fingers over them, feeling their soft hardness, the heat. She closed her eyes and sighed. She bit her lower lip, raised her arms and stretched, arching her back like a cat.
Moving back a step, she turned around and removed her skirt. One button and small zipper, and it fell. She wore pantyhose but no panties. She never wore panties. He knew that. When she turned back, and he couldn't help staring at the dark mat of hair between her legs. He was mesmerized by the vision in front of him.
She tucked her fingers into the hose and worked it down. She stood back up, naked, and smiled at him. In the book, the author had said she was perfect. He was right. Joe's hand automatically covered his chin once again.
Julia leaned forward, closed her eyes, parted her lips and kissed him. She frenched him. Her wild tongue explored his mouth, pressing against his tongue. He felt her fingers on his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. Her fingers worked their way down to his belt, to the button of his pants, to his zipper. He felt his knees weakening. She removed all of his clothes, then shoved him back on his sofa.
In the thirty-five years of his life, it was the first time a woman had taken over completely. She moved against him, rubbing her hard nipples against his chest, licking his neck, nibbling her way down his throat, down his chest to his belly. She rolled her tongue in his navel and flicked her tongue through his pubic hair.
She kissed the tip of his swollen dick. Sinking her mouth on it she moved her head up and down, up and down. Joseph thought he was going to explode in her mouth. He felt her fingers squeezing his balls. He pumped her, fucked the hot mouth of this gorgeous woman until she suddenly pulled away.
Swaying over him, Julia climbed on and rubbed her silky pubic hair and the wet lips of her pussy up and down the length of his erection. She was good and wet; and he could smell the musty, strong scent of her pussy juice. He was ready to explode. His breath rasped in and out. Julia reached down and guided his dick into her. She shuddered for a second before her hips began a long, grinding wet ride atop him. She leaned up. He opened his eyes and watched her face, flushed in passion. He watched her grab for the pleasure. She was one hot, fine woman. He craned his neck forward and began to suck her nipples, one at a time.
She shrieked. He was startled momentarily, until he remembered that she was a screamer. Her pussy was scalding. So hot, it burned and pulled at his dick. She bucked and rode him like a bucking bronco. He fucked her back, grabbing her ass and spurting his cum deep within her, driving his dick deeper and deeper.
“Oh Baby!” she gasped. “Oh Joseph! Joey! Giuseppe!”
She hit a high note as they climaxed together. She fell on him and lay there for a long time. She told him it was wonderful. Then she asked, "Where's the bedroom?"
They lay on his brass bed, arms and legs wrapped around each other until she started up again and it was time for seconds, slow seconds, the way he'd always wanted to do it the second time around.
He rolled her on her back, moving her legs wide to sink his dick into her. He fucked her like he never fucked before, like he’d always wanted to fuck a woman. Julia was wild. Their sweaty bodies slid against one another in the dark room. It lasted an hour at least until she screeched a high note again and pleaded for him to give it to her. And they came again together.
God, it was great. She was great. She was perfect. Curled next to him, her hair disheveled, her lipstick wiped clean from her lips, she looked so beautiful and so fragile. She was the perfect woman. She even took the wet spot.
He didn't care anymore what her name was, or what kind of weirdness had been playing with his mind that day. This was one great girl and one great lay. She was perfect, even if the book he’d reviewed wasn’t. He’d destroyed the book. It made him smile to himself, thinking how he’d devastated that singularly inferior piece of fiction. It had two strikes against it to begin with. It was a mystery and it had a sex scene.
•
The phone woke him.
"Hello," a graveled voice said at the other end of the line. “How are you and the bitch?"
Joseph sat up.
"What sa' matter? You recognize my voice, don't ya'?"
Joseph felt his insides sinking. He had trouble catching his breath.
"It's me. Pitt. And I'm gonna get her. I'm gonna cut her up. Just like in the book." The voice started chuckling. "Catch y'all later." Then he hung up.
Joseph looked at his digital clock. It was after eight, and already dark outside.
But this was crazy! There was no such person as Robert Pitt. There was no such person as Julia Carondelet, yet there she was, lying in his bed on her stomach, the lower half of her body still under the sheet, her face covered by her long hair. He pulled the sheet away and ran his eyes over the length of her sleek body. She moved slightly and rolled her ass to him. God, she was lovely. She was a twenty-one year old wet dream. And there was a madman out there who said he was going to kill her.
He picked up the receiver to call the police and then thought about it. What the hell could he tell them? He'd just received a threatening phone call from a fictional character?
When a car raced by outside, he jumped, climbed out of bed and peeked out at the empty street. Then he went to his desk and reached into the side drawer and pulled out the gun he’d bought at a collector’s show in the Superdome.
It was an English military revolver, a Webley thirty-eight with a five-inch barrel and a blue steel finish, dulled from age. He opened the top-breaking cylinder and pushed the barrel forward. Dust rose from the cylinder when he removed one of the short cartridges.
The bullet had a round, lead head. He read the writing on the bottom: "R P 38 S & W." He looked for a date on the bullet, an expiration date, but there was none. He remembered reading somewhere, in another damn mystery, that bullets went bad after a time. But how long was that time? He remembered the salesman said the Webley was popular during the second world war. The ammunition was probably just as old. He reloaded the revolver and put it on the desk.
"What are you doing?" Julia asked. She sat up and yawned. Her large breasts rose as she stretched.
"Does that gun have anything to do with the phone call?" The dark blue eyes were staring at him.
"Uh... "
"Who was it?"
He tucked his chin against his chest and said, "It was Robert Pitt."
She brushed her long hair aside and asked, "What did he say?"
"He said he was going to get you, just like in the book."
"Oh." She didn't seem alarmed. Then again, in the book she wasn't afraid before Pitt got her. She smiled and said, "You know how Pitt lies. He's just a bully. You aren't afraid, are you?"
"Uh... "
"You shouldn't be," she smiled. "You're far more intelligent than that creep. And remember the old saying, the strong take away from the weak, but the smart take away from the strong."
She got up, stretched again and said, "I'm going to take a shower. Want to join me?"
•
Climbing out of the shower with Julia, Joseph thought he heard something. Wrapping a towel around himself, he crept through the bedroom and peeked out at the living room. He was about to take another step when he heard his front door open.
"The phone," he called out to Julia, "call the police!" Joseph reached for the gun. Julia, still naked, scrambled over the bed for the phone.
"It's dead," she said.
He could hear footsteps now. He wished he had a machine gun. His mind began to play with him. What if the Webley didn't fire? What if the ammo was too old?
Julia began to make tiny sounds as the steps came closer. Sweat dripped down Joseph's temples. Perspiration rolled from every pore of his body. His throat was as parched as desert sand.
The footsteps stopped just outside the bedroom door. Joseph wasn't sure, but he thought he heard someone laughing – it was a faint laugh, a sick laugh, a maniacal laugh. He smelled something, something like stale beer.
Joseph blinked his eyes wildly to clear away the sweat and when he refocused them, Pitt was in the doorway. The man seemed larger in real life. Joseph raised the Webley and cocked the hammer. Pitt, the heavy drinking knife-man, weaved as he stood in the doorway. He took a step in. A sliver of light from the desk lamp cut across Pitt's huge face, illuminating the hideous scar that ran from the man's right eye down to his jaw line. Pitt's eyes looked drunk and bleary and mean.
Julia gasped.
Pitt snickered and reached into the pocket of his trench coat and came out with a long-blade knife. Joseph held his breath and squeezed the trigger and . . . nothing. Joseph could see Pitt turn toward him. Joseph pulled the trigger again. It clicked but no gunfire. Pitt laughed.
With both hands on the Webley, Joseph yanked the trigger and the revolver thundered. Pitt stopped moving. Joseph yanked the trigger again, and again the gun exploded. He pulled again and again and again until his gun was making clicks and Pitt was on the floor.
Joseph didn't breathe for a full minute. There was no further movement from Pitt. Joseph eased over and peeked at the body. Pitt was crumpled over on his left side, the knife next to his head. Joseph kicked the knife away and waited. Then he poked the body with the barrel of the gun. It didn't move.
"Is he dead?" Julia leaned over the foot of the bed, her eyes wide and anxious. Her breasts looked so round and full. Joseph wanted to touch them.
Instead, he reached over and touched Pitt's throat. He found no pulse. He felt the man's wrist next and confirmed it, no pulse. Then he sat back and fought, with all his might, to keep from crying.
•
The next hours were a blur. After a long discussion, they decided to just get rid of the body, instead of calling the police. They couldn't find any forced entry into Joseph's house, nor any lock pick on Pitt. When Joseph had pointed out the man had a knife, Julia pointed out they could have planted it. So they dressed, wrapped Pitt's body in two large garbage bags, dragged the body out to Joseph's car and dumped it, after midnight, next to the St. Thomas Housing Project. The project was crime-ridden. Let them get blamed for it.
Back at Joseph's house, they went straight to bed He watched Julia pull off her clothes and stand there, her back to him, the yellow light of his bedroom bathing across her fine lines of her body. Joseph was already naked. He reached over and grabbed her ass. She craned her neck back and smiled faintly and he could see she was pale.
He worked his left index finger into her ass. She tried to pull away. He sank his right index finger into her pussy. She stopped moving and slowly opened her feet. Joseph went to his knees in front of her, rubbing his nose in her soft pubic hair, his fingers working both openings.
“Oh,” she moaned.
Joseph rolled his fingers in tiny circles and she cried out. Rising on her toes, she grabbed his head to balance herself. Joseph fingered her until she was good and wet, then rose and bent her over the bed. He worked his dick into her pussy from the back side and fucked her doggie style. He grabbed her hips with his hands and rode her. Julia cried and bucked back.
Leaning up, Joseph sank his left thumb into her ass again and she cried loudly.
“Oh, yes! Fuck me! Fuck Me!”
He fucked her long and good, feeling her come. He continued fucking her until he could no longer hold it in. He exploded in her in long hot streams.
Curling next to him in bed, she cooed, "I'll never nag you or bitch at you or scream at you. I'll be the perfect woman for you, if you let me." Her voice was warm and loving. And she always told the truth.
He was in charge now, on top of her again, shoving his dick deep within her, feeling all the emotions he'd always dreamed of feeling with a woman. She cried with each plunge, her voice wet with passion, her voice begging for him to give it to her.
"Yes. Yes. More. More. More!" She cried as he screwed her and continued crying until he felt himself coming within her.
"Oh, Joseph. Yes. Yes. Yes.!”
She wailed in ecstasy as no woman had wailed before. She was the perfect woman. She even fell asleep first.
•
A knock at the door woke Joseph. His clock said it was almost noon. He threw on his robe and peeked out the living room window. There was a black man in a business suit using a small black portable radio to knock on his door. The man knocked louder the second time.
Joseph opened his door slowly, and the man took a step back, tucking the radio into his back pocket.
"Good morning," the man said, pulling out a black ID folder with a New Orleans Police star-and-crescent badge attached. "I'm Detective Nelson Dante. Homicide."
Oh! No! The name. In the book. Julia Carondelet had sex with a black detective named . . . It had disgusted Joseph.
Joseph saw his life flash before his eyes.
"Are you Joseph Perrier?"
Joseph nodded.
"Do you still own at Webley Mark IV, thirty-eight?"
"Huh?"
"You know, you're the only person in the city who's ever bothered registering a Webley Mark IV."
"Uh," Joseph tried to recover, but the detective was too quick. The man's eyes narrowed, as if he could sense the fear in Joseph. The man's eyes were brown and yellow. They were sneaky eyes, scary eyes.