From New Orleans
by Skybo Vromaghaven
Copyright© 2025 by Skybo Vromaghaven
Erotica Sex Story: A woman and her partner are on a road trip to New Orleans to rekindle their relationship, and so the erotica begins...
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Wife Watching Gang Bang Cream Pie Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Voyeurism Hairy Size .
“I don’t care how it looks, I’m tired of riding, I need to pee, and I’m thirsty,” said Jessica. “So stop the damn car.”
She was in a shitty mood, had been since last night in New Orleans. The whole trip was coming apart. Jessica had been hell to live with since she had the kid about six months ago. She had always been a damn good-looking woman—great figure, lovely face, with big brown eyes contrasting with the light blonde hair. Everyone thought she bleached it, but I knew better.
I know the kid took up a lot of her time, but she was always busy, or tired, or complaining about how she looked. I thought she looked fine—good as ever—but she could always find something that wasn’t right. I’d been working a lot lately. Our company had merged with another company, and I was doing all I could to make sure I was one of the ones who got to stay on.
Our sex life had been zip; she was too tired or too something most of the time. About the only time she wanted to was in the morning when I was having to leave for work, and I couldn’t take time. Anyway, things had been getting worse for us the past few months, so we decided to take the trip to New Orleans to try and get away, maybe relax, and go back a few steps to when our relationship had been better.
The weekend started off bad when she couldn’t find anything to wear. We were packing, and she must have been through three dozen outfits. This was too small, this was too tight, this one was too old, this one too whatever. I told her just pick something and let’s go. If she needed anything, we could find something there. I mean, shit! We are trying to get away for a weekend, and she’s worried about the clothes. It’s not like New Orleans has a dress code or anything.
No sooner than we got there, the cell phone was ringing. It was Nancy, my assistant, calling about some stuff from work. Talk about bad timing. Jessica has never liked Nancy. Nancy has some big tits that she is really proud of and likes to show off. At the Christmas party, she wore a dress with slits down the side under the arms and no bra. Half the time you could see nipple and all from the side. Jessica said I was staring at them, and maybe so, but it was difficult to avoid them with her waving them around like that.
Nancy called about three more times, the last time while we were eating dinner. Jessica was getting more and more pissed. I think Jessica suspects that there is something going on between me and Nancy, but there isn’t. I have to admit that Nancy has been looking real good lately, especially with things sour between me and Jessica, but I have been straight, unless you count patting Nancy on the ass a few times and really enjoying feeling her tits rubbing up against my arm when we had to be working on something together. I may have kissed her a few times and played with her boobs, but I have never fucked her.
Anyway, we had a few drinks with dinner, then went into the lounge to dance some. I thought things were starting to go pretty well, we had a few more drinks and danced real close together. I slid my hand down on her ass while we were dancing, and she ground her pussy up against me. I got a hard-on while we were dancing and was damn glad it was dark when we went back to the table.
They had rotated waitresses while we were dancing and our new waitress stopped by to ask if we needed any more drinks. She had a name tag on—Nancy, and a huge pair of tits practically hanging out on display. I turned around and there they were damn near in my face and I spilled my drink.
Jessica started going off again. It was just too much: the Nancy’s and the tits and the liquor and all. She got up and hauled her ass to the room. I stayed and paid out, then went on up. She had gone into the bedroom bar and helped herself to a couple of miniatures of bourbon before I got there. It started over, about me and tits and Nancy and all. We both lost our temper, and it ended up with me sleeping on the sleeper sofa.
The next morning, we both had hangovers and finally got the stuff together and checked out about 2 p.m. We missed both breakfast and lunch, but with the hangovers, it didn’t seem like we missed a lot. She wasn’t speaking much to me, and I knew better than to try to make conversation when she was in one of these moods. We were taking a shortcut one of the guys at work had told me about, but I think I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.
We ended up on a two-lane road out in the middle of the swamps and hadn’t seen much of anything for about 20 minutes except for a few dead snakes on the road. Large dead snakes. It was getting late afternoon, and I didn’t have a hell of a lot of gas. No road markers.
Jessica asked if I had any idea where we were, and I said, “Sure,” a lot more confidently than I felt.
“Stop and ask.” She knew me pretty well.
“Stop where and ask who?” I said. “We haven’t seen anything but dead snakes for 20 miles.
“What about that place up there on the left?” she asked.
I hadn’t seen it: a low, unpainted wood building with a gravel parking lot. It blended into the trees along the side of the road. There was a sign over the door, saying “BAR” in white letters on an unpainted board.
“Looks a little scruffy to me,” I said. That’s where we came in.
“I don’t care how it looks. I’m tired of riding. I need to pee, and I’m thirsty,” said Jessica. “So stop the damn car.”
I pulled into the parking lot; we were the only car. I thought the place might be closed. No house nearby, just a path leading off into the swamp. I hoped that wasn’t the restroom. Spooky-looking place; big live oaks, Spanish moss trailing down and moving slowly in the light breeze. Cypress boards weathered black. Smell of honeysuckle or something sweet in the air. Door painted green, weathered and flaking. Looked like a movie set for some decadent Southern movie.
“Let me check it out,” I said, but she was already out of the car and headed toward the door. We went in, and when our eyes got accustomed to the dark, we saw three men at the bar and a bartender. They were somewhat roughly dressed locals, who just watched us without saying anything. The bartender was one of those thin whipcord Cajuns; a life of heat and work in the swamps and oil fields had pulled every bit of fat out of his body.
He could have been anywhere from 30 to 60. Dark complexion, dark curly hair cut short. White teeth, probably never had a cavity in his life. Green eyes contrasting with the dark hair and complexion. He wore a plaid cotton shirt, khaki pants, and moccasins with no socks. Two of the other men were average size, in cotton shirts and Levi’s. The big guy looked like a wrestler, but was probably an oil field worker. He had on jeans and a T-shirt. His arms were thicker than my legs.
No air conditioning in the place, but with the big live oaks keeping the sun off and the ceiling fans moving the air, it wasn’t too bad. Still, I felt uncomfortable, like I didn’t belong here. “Let’s go on,” I said,” I’m not sure what we are getting into here.”
“I told you I have to pee and I’m not going into the woods to do it. Where’s the ladies’ room?” she asked them.
The bartender pointed to a door with no sign on it. Jessica opened the door, looked inside, and then disappeared through it. Nobody spoke, so I just stood there. Seemed like ten minutes before Jessica came back out. A damn long ten minutes.
“Let’s go, hon,” I said, and took her arm.
She pulled back and said, “I told you I was thirsty.”
“What ya’ll want?” said the bartender, with a soft Cajun accent. It was the first thing anyone had said to us since we came in.
“Can you make a margarita?” Jessica said.
The bartender nodded, looked at me, and said, “You?”
I said, “Bud.” He nodded again and pointed at a table next to the pool table. We sat down, and in a few minutes, the bartender brought a margarita and a bottle of Bud to the table. He said his name was Tibideaux and this was his place, and welcomed us. The others started playing pool quietly.
Jessica finished the margarita in no time and signaled for another. I was a little worried about her drinking fast on an empty stomach, but considering what had happened the last few days, I hesitated to say anything about it. While the bartender was mixing the margarita, she got up, walked over to the jukebox, and put some money in it.
I sipped my beer and watched her. I could tell she was starting to feel the liquor, but she was far from being drunk, just getting a glow on. I thought that might help things—she might actually be in a decent mood for a change.
After she selected the songs, she nodded for me to come up and dance with her. We danced to a couple of fast songs. She wasn’t putting on a show or anything, but I could tell she was dancing for the audience. The four men were watching us (her) and smiling. They were enjoying the little performance.
Like I said, she wasn’t doing anything blatantly sexual; still, she was looking damn good on the dance floor. I felt kind of like one of those brass poles in a stripper bar, the ones the girls use for a dance prop. After the second dance, she stopped and looked around the room.
“Who’s next,” she asked. The men looked at each other, then all looked at Tibideaux. He walked out from behind the bar and walked over to Jessica. About that time, a slow, sexy song started. Damn bitch, she knew what was coming—she played the songs. They started dancing, about a cigarette pack apart, nothing I wouldn’t feel like a fool complaining about. He was dancing with her like she was someone else’s wife, someone whom he respected. I began to relax somewhat.
They talked a lot, low, where no one else could hear what they were saying. She laughed a couple of times, seemed to be having a lot of fun. I haven’t seen that much lately. When the song ended, he walked her back to the table and thanked her for the dance. She said the pleasure was all hers and ordered us another round of drinks.
“We need to be getting on the road,” I said. “It’s getting late, and we still don’t know where we are. Anyway, if I drink much more, I won’t be able to drive.”
“Tommy,” she said, “This is the most fun I’ve had in a while, and it is only about 10 miles more to the interstate. There are motels there and gas stations, so we don’t have to worry.”
“You know all this?” I asked.
“Tibbie told me while we were dancing,” Jessica said. “He said there were two motels and three gas stations there. He also said I didn’t have to worry here; there were no cell phones and no big-titted Nancies around here, so we could relax and have a good time. The sheriff is his cousin, and they won’t bother anyone between here and the interstate unless they absolutely can’t stay on the road.”
“Jesus, did you tell him our life story?”
“No, we were just talking. He’s easy to talk to, like a friend. He doesn’t come on to you or anything; he’s just nice.”
“What else did you tell him?”
“Nothing, we just talked. He said it was normal for me to be depressed and worry about everything after having Timmie. He said almost all women go through that and feel insecure and unattractive. He also said I should hang on and trust you, and that you probably weren’t running around. Are you?”
That caught me cold. Here I was nodding and going along with the conversation, then that “are you” question slipped in there like a sharp little knife.
I was thinking, no, I’m not, not really; I might have fooled around a little, but I’m not having an affair. By the time I managed to get the “Of course not” out, I could tell from her eyes that I had taken too long and that she thought the answer was probably yes.
She picked her drink up, finished it off, and signaled for another. I really wanted to say something, but at this point I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t get me into trouble, so I just sat quietly and sipped on my beer. Tibideaux—Tibbie—brought us two more. By this time I really needed to take a leak, so I asked about the men’s room.
“Same one,” said Tibbie.
I got up and went to the john. It was plain, but clean. Rubber machine on the wall; three colors, four flavors, and something called a “ruff and ready.” I wondered if Jessica had noticed, then figured what the hell, they are putting them in women’s johns now so no big deal. No hot water, but real paper towels instead of that hot air machine.
When I got back, my beer was on the table, and Jessica was sitting on the pool table holding her margarita. Tibbie was propped back against the pool table a foot or so away, talking with her.
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