Fourth of July, with Kayla
I’m back in the States, and it’s the fourth of July. I’m with a girl named Kayla. She’s slender and several inches shorter than me, with shoulder-length wavy blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, full lips, deep dimples whenever she smiles. We’re in New Orleans, looking for a place down by the Mississippi to watch the fireworks, and it’s swelteringly hot. I’ve already sweated through my t-shirt. Kayla, wearing an American flag bikini top and a pair of daisy dukes, is a little better off, but her skin still glistens with perspiration. She has an athlete’s body, with smooth, strong legs and small, pert breasts that, in that top, almost make me feel patriotic.
We cross the iron bridge over the railroad tracks into the park. It’s crowded, full of families and groups of friends drinking beers. A group of bicyclists with wheels lined with brightly flashing Christmas lights are gathered by the big chain link fence at the end of the old wharf, getting loudly and happily wasted. We walk past them, cutting around the fence down the tracks to the park proper.
Kayla walks ahead of me. Her daisy dukes are enchantingly short, the white fringe of frayed denim ending just above where her legs round out into her ass. Watching her walk is distracting. She glances back at me and smirks a little when she sees where I’m looking.
I met her in my hostel. She’s a performance artist at a school in Florida somewhere. Out here for the fourth. With friends, but her friends wanted to go to some party or other that didn’t interest either of us particularly, and so here we are. Talking about art and America and apple pie. On the walk down Esplanade we talked about the fourth with our families as kids; as we entered the park our conversation shifted to experiences of the fourth overseas. She tells me about celebrating with a bunch of asshole expats in Thailand; I tell her about the little cluster of American backpackers in Spain and our impromptu hostel barbecue. About the loud Aussie chick who joined the party and ended up sharing my hostel dorm bed. She tells me about the time when she had a threesome with a French chef and his mistress. “How fucking French is that,” I say.
Once we’re past the tracks and into the trees where the river bends, it’s a little less crowded, a little darker. The dueling fireworks barges are already floating out in the river, just silhouettes now. We find a quiet place on the bank, a little out of sight of most of the others, in the shadow of a snarl of trees, and lay out our blanket. Crack open a couple of beers and lean back. I look at her and smile; she looks at me and smiles back. Then she kisses me. Tenderly, but like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her hand moves to rest lightly on my chest.
Our lips part, and she smiles again. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you,” she said. “I didn’t feel like waiting around for the foreplay.”
I look at her for a second. Her eyes shine in the dim light. Then I kiss her back, deeper now, slower. I part her lips with my tongue and she gives a little mew. Slowly, we sink down onto the blanket, beers forgotten beside us now. She wiggles her body up against mine, slides her thigh between my legs, letting it rest comfortably against my cock. Fingers the hem of my shirt. “Isn’t a little hot for this?”
I pull it off. This is New Orleans — a lot of the men we’ve passed are shirtless. Nothing wrong with —
And then she’s kissing me again, hungrily now, pressing her body against mine. Her breasts are soft against my chest, her hip smooth and strong, pressing against my cock, moving slightly against it. I wrap my arms around her, roll her on top of me. Her legs fall on either side of me and she lays atop me, her breasts on my chest, her pussy pressing down on my cock. Her daisy dukes are made of soft denim, and I’m wearing heavy cargo shorts so mostly what I feel is just pressure, but that pressure is sweet. And she’s kissing me, exploring my mouth with her tongue, exploring my sides and arms and chest with her hands, as I move my own hands up and down her back, feeling the ripple of lithe muscle under her soft skin. I wonder scatteredly for a moment if anyone can see us, but then she starts to slowly rock her weight on top of me and I forget to worry about it. My hands slide under the string bow of her bikini and I have to fight the urge to pull it free. Instead I slide them down her back and up the curve of her ass, trying to dip under the denim of her shorts, but the fabric is too tight.
Kayla smiles against our kiss and reaches between us. Unbuttons her shorts. There’s a quiet zip in the silence. And then her shorts are loose and my hand can dip underneath to cup her ass. She’s not wearing underwear.
We lose ourself for a time in the hot New Orleans night, making out in the dark, until the first boom of the fireworks startles us both. I feel her body shake under my touch with the surprise of it, and for a moment, our lips part. Then she’s laughing, and rolls off of me to sit beside me and watch the fireworks. She doesn’t bother to button her shorts, and in the next burst of brilliant light I see a tuft of soft hair peeking out beneath the open zipper. I slide my hand into the opening, and she opens her leg, opens her mouth too a moment later. The light of the fireworks is reflected in her eyes as my fingers slide through her pussy’s lips, wet and hot. I get two fingers inside her and hook up, feeling for her g-spot, and her back arches. Her hands clutch handfuls of the blanket we’re sitting on.
She watches the fireworks as I touch her. Her breath comes quick, her nipples hard little mounds under her bikini top. Her hips roll against my hand, her back arching more and more the longer I go. Her hand moves to my thigh, squeezes, then to the clasp of my shorts. She fumbles it open, slides her hand inside, finds my cock, wraps her hand around it. Just sits there, squeezing my cock, panting now, trying not to make too much noise.
She comes as a big display explodes across the night, letting loose a loud moan of pleasure that’s drowned in the thunder of the fireworks. Then she melts against me, body going loose and warm against mine, her other hand moving to pull down the front of my shorts. She takes my cock out and begins to suck, slowly, taking her time, her body still shuddering with the aftershocks of orgasm. I lean back, supporting myself with one hand, letting the other slide up her body, feeling her ribs, then moving to cup her breast. I slide a pinky under her bikini top and, as she sucks my cock, slide her top up off of her breast, feeling her nipple hard against my hand. I caress it between my fingers and she starts to suck a little faster. I move my hand to her other breast.
I feel the pressure building in my cock and gently pull her away, pull her up to me. Kiss her deeply. She straddles me again, laying her body against me, her bare breasts hot against my chest, her bikini piled up against my collarbone, my cock wet and hard between our bellies. Her metal zipper presses into my legs and I push her shorts down just off of her hips, pinning her legs together but pressing the damp fur of her pussy against my cock in the doing. She gives a little moan, her legs flexing involuntarily, trying to part for me, but her shorts are too tight and it’s still feels a little too public to take our clothes off altogether.
Our lips part as the next round of fireworks explodes behind her. I can feel her heart beating through the contact of our skin. “You’re going to miss the show,” I say.
She looks at me seriously, eyes hungry again, but I gently take her shoulders and turn her. She moves with me. I sit up as she turns, until she’s sitting just in front of me, my cock pressed against her back. I slide my hands up her ribs to cup her breasts, and then gently pull her up and back towards me. She lifts her ass and slides her shorts down just a little more. Reaches under her to find my cock. Slides down onto it with a gasp. We sit there for a moment, just watching. I can feel her heartbeat through her pussy now. Then she starts to roll her hips, fucking me just a little at first. Sparks fly up from the two barges. It’s the last showdown. The moment before the finale.
I pull her against me, her nipples hard and hot against my hands, her ass hot and sweaty as it rolls against my belly, her pussy tight and fluttering and wet hot around my cock. I’m dimly aware that a little way away, down on the rocks by the river, another couple has stopped making out to watch us. Kayla isn’t aware at all. She’s fucking me hard now, her breath coming out in little pants of desire, her ass slapping against me, her knees planted strong on either side of my thighs. She twists to hook an elbow around my neck, turns her face to mine, kisses me as she fucks me.
Then the fountains of fire as the last salvo is launched, and she opens her eyes to watch, and then, right before the light explodes, gives a long, loud, moan. I’m already coming. It’s a few seconds before the thunder, and the echo of her desire seems a sudden public admission. And then the boom comes and crashes it all away. Our bodies clench together, slick with sweat, and then we’re just together, panting. The light in the sky fades away. The couple on the rocks are applauding, and it takes a second for us to realize they’re applauding us, not the fireworks. I can almost feel Kayla’s blush. My cock still twitching inside her, she primly readjusts her bikini top down over her breasts. Then just sits there for a moment, me inside her, onlookers be damned.
Before she gets off, she twists to kiss me a last time. “Happy fourth of July,” she says.
You can read more travel erotica by Decker Shane on your Kindle. Check out “Napoli” on Amazon today.