Dave's Disastrous Mardi Gras

The truck, along with my plans, gave out just north of Canton Mississippi.

I had been fantasizing about this trip south for at least five years. Growing up within shouting distance of the Canadian border in frostbitten upper Michigan, which I couldn't wait to leave, I had managed to at least get into university in big-time Chicago, which got me a little bit, at least a couple states' worth, closer to my cock-stiffening objective.

I had wanted, like forever, to go to Mardi Gras in that great Oz city of New Orleans. Every winter I dreamed about warm breezes off the Gulf of Mexico, a beer in hand in the French Quarter, babes draping their bare boobs, released from their shirts, out over second-story balconies while drunken guys threw strings of brightly colored beads at them in return, a whole city in full-party, all-rules-left-behind mode. It just couldn't possibly get any better than that.

Well maybe if I hooked up with a frisky, local, bourbon-marinated wench for the evening that would ice the cake. Actually wouldn't even need to be local.

But every year one thing or another – money, bad timing, bad weather, some wild-ass girlfriend who didn't fancy me making the trip down there solo – kept me away, but this year I was going, hell or high water.

I had saved up seven hundred bucks and was determined to blow it all in fine style. My cock had been erect the entire month beforehand just for thinking of the trip, and then after eleven plus hours on the road my miserable, fucking, ten-year old Nissan truck decides to crap out on me in god-forsaken Mississippi.

It had been running unevenly for awhile, the speedo pegging itself one moment, then everything hiccuping another, and I finally had to call it serious over with just outside Canton.

The guy at the gas station said no one in town would be able to do a decent job diagnosing and fixing it, so I had the thing towed to what he said was a good Nissan place in Jackson, which passed as the nearest city.

It finally got dropped off outside the closed gates of Ron's Autoservice near ten PM, so I would have to make arrangements first thing the next morning. I found a cheap old rundown hotel in the town center and wasn't exactly Mr. Happy Camper checking in.

Already I was spending money on staying somewhere other than New Orleans, and I didn't even know how many bucks the car was going to eat up before getting fixed. The prospects of getting to New Orleans before Fat Tuesday were vanishing before my eyes.

The girl who checked me in at the hotel didn't need to be very bright to figure out my mood. She was polite enough, thankfully, not to inquire too deeply into my scene, but I ended up telling her anyway, my face and agitated words revealing far more of my disappointment than I intended. She was maybe twenty, slender, nothing special, but she seemed to understand my frustration.

Her light brown hair was back in a bun, but she kept pushing a wayward strand of hair back behind her right ear while she listened to me.

"You know, we got our own decent Mardi Gras here in town," she said in that sing-song lilt that doesn't exist in the Northlands. "It's not New Orleans but it's a pretty good parade."

"How long does it go?" I went, skeptical.

"The whole of downtown, six whole blocks long."

Pretty much as I figured. Jackson, from what I had seen of it, seemed provincial even by Michigan standards, and I didn't bother to disguise my snort of disgust.

"I suppose they have the 4-H Club and the local SPCA in the thing too? Maybe even floats from the Kiwanis club?" I said, making a face. I had wanted dancing girls in thongs, their tits barely covered by wisps of feathers, while they shook their asses back and forth to drunken, appreciative hoots of male delight.

She looked a bit wounded, and I regretted my retort.

"Well, if you don't get to New Orleans, you still may want to check it out," she said. "You might be surprised. Starts around five in the afternoon while it is still light and goes on past dark."

I got my key and headed towards the stairs to my second story room.

"Do you go?" I asked, turning around, "or do you have to work that night?"

"Well, I do work that night, but not here," she replied, with a look that didn't invite any more inquiries.

I stomped up the stairs, dropped my bags and planted myself face-first on the lumpy bed, feeling as low as I had in a long time.

Sure enough the next morning, Monday, Ron's garage checked out my truck, and it needed a new "computer," the black box that apparently ran everything. Would set me back four hundred plus big ones and the part would come in Wednesday at the earliest. God fucking dammit.

I contemplated getting on a bus to New Orleans and trying to find a place halfway near the French Quarter but gave up that idea fairly quickly. It would be late Monday by the time I pulled in at best, and I might make it there for Fat Tuesday, but I knew whatever lodgings were close to the action would be expensive if available at all, since I had planned on staying a ways out of town on the cheap and driving into the city.

And my money, diminished by the truck repair, wouldn't stretch that far anyway. So I stewed around Jackson, trying one wretched bar after another, each sleazier and more local and more disappointing than the one before. I finally bought myself a burger and fries at Wendy's, then took that and a six-pack of Dixie back to the room.

Although I had been hoping to see the girl from yesterday at the desk, it was a guy, and not a friendly type, so I went upstairs and polished off the beer while watching stupid stuff on TV. I slept until noon the next day, not feeling all that great when I surfaced. The morning of Fat Tuesday arrived with a hangover, the order inverted as far as I was concerned.

Another walk around dismal Jackson was enough to drive me back into the hotel room and the TV for the afternoon. Finally as the sunlight started to slant into long shadows, I heard some music coming from downtown and figured I would go see what Jackson had to offer as a consolation prize.

Two things struck me right away. The first was that the crowd was much larger than I expected. It was shirt-sleeve weather and hordes of folks were out, all laughing and hollering and the women looked fine and the men were drinking and happy. The second was that the parade was fantastic!

I slithered my way up close to the action as the first band came by, playing a samba with loud driving drums that signaled serious party time. Some dancers came by, barely covered with feathers and slivers of fabric that did not require much imagination on my part to guess what was underneath.

Hot damn! Who would have thought that a place like Jackson could produce these handsome folks? Some girls were thin and small, others tall and angular, and there were some large wenches in colorful thongs who shook their ample rumps, their breasts bobbing around inside of whatever devices were there to try to contain them, but Newtonian physics seemed to work here as well as anywhere, and shaking made flesh move around, until the forces of stopping and starting made wonderful sights and I felt my groin tightening.

Well, the thing went on for hours. It was dark when it all finally began to wind down, and while my informant was correct, that it was only six blocks long, it didn't matter since the parade kept circling back, and you saw the same dancers and musicians more than once.

One group, Debbie Hurst and the Double-D Dixie Cups was fabulous. Debbie herself was slender and small, belting out old blues songs, but she was surrounded by a half dozen dancers, every one of them with some serious meat on their chests. My eyes ping-ponged back and forth, up and down, as they moved about.

Another band of dancers, the Sambassadors, were also tremendous, a mixed race crew of about ten women, all slender, all decked out in feathery wisps of costumes, and they moved with such sensual abandon I was transfixed. They had huge waving headdresses and long feathery costumes, and legs gyrating and asses hanging out, making movements that would have made a dead man's cock hard.

But the crowd, after milling for a half hour past the end of the celebration, began to disperse, and I reluctantly turned to make my way back to the hotel. As I crossed the main street I noticed a couple dancers still in garb with tall feathery headgear talking under a streetlight, and gathered my courage up to go over and say hello and thank them for their efforts.

There were two women I recognized as from the Sambassador's group, one cute, shorter, dark-skinned dancer, and a taller, slender women with lovely light skin.

They saw me coming and the tall one smiled.

"Well, hello Dave," she went. "Did you enjoy our li'l Jackson Mardi Gras?"

I nearly fell over. Only one person in town, besides maybe the guy at Ron's Autoservice, could possibly know my name. I took a closer look at the dancer – it was the reception girl at the hotel, the one who had directed me to the whole celebration. I hadn't recognized her in the parade with her headdress on, but, to be honest, I hadn't been looking much at her face anyway.

Her creamy long legs went on for miles, stretching up from the pavement, her small breasts tucked into their brightly-beaded, minimal restraint system, her ass hanging out back beyond her thong. But she was smiling at me.

I stammered. I made a fool of myself. I thanked them. I ogled. They both loved it.

"This is the guy from the hotel," she said to her companion. "Dave, meet Jo Anne," she said, and we shook hands. I realized with a start I didn't even know her own name. She sized up my reaction immediately.

"I'm Danni Raye," she said, looking me straight in the eye, a smile on her face, and shaking my hand.

"We're just going to change, you want to come up for a moment?" she asked, her eyebrows arching in encouragement. "Far as we're concerned, the party's only just begun."

"Sure," I blurted and then found myself following the two ladies into a street door and up a flight of stairs, my eyes riveted on the movement their rumps made while they climbed the staircase ahead of me.

They opened a door into a small suite of a couple rooms, which looked like some sort of small professional office for accountants or something. "Jo Anne works here during the day," said Danni Raye by way of explanation, "and so's we can stash our stuff here while the parade is on."

"Your clothes are in Don's office," said Jo Anne, "I moved 'em after you left earlier."

Danni Raye opened a door, paused, and then motioned me in.

I was about to ask if she wanted me to wait outside but wasn't about to refuse the invite. She left the door ajar and pulled off her dancing heels, obviously glad to be out of them.

"What did you think?" she asked with a smile.

"Terrific!" I gushed, not exaggerating in the least. "You all were phenomenal."

"A little better than you expected maybe?" she kept smiling, almost smirking. She had a wide mouth, nice teeth, lovely soft lips, now that I paid attention to her.

"Yes, absolutely!"

"Take a seat," she offered, "it will take me a few minutes to get out of these." I sat down in a well-used but comfy leather chair, while she began to disassemble her intricate costume. I am sure it looked to her like my tongue was hanging out, and I could not keep from staring.

Her body was sweetly lithe, and I took a sharp breath when she removed her top, her half-apple sized breasts had the cutest little dark nipples.

"You're gorgeous," I went, my words trailing off.

"You're kinda cute yourself," she replied, and the next thing I knew she was pulling my pants off, then my undershorts, and my cock was out, halfway hard. I was taken aback, a bit undone as it were, but her actions were so smooth and easy I couldn't help the little shudder of pleasure that ran through me.

She plucked a feather off of her costume, and idly began to tickle my prick with it. Her eyes were intent on my cock, which quickly stiffened into a fine state. She ran the feather up and down my shaft, teased the head of my cock, and then ran it under and around my balls. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

When I looked down again she was using the feather in one hand, while her right hand had cupped my balls and was gently kneading them.

The door pushed open and Jo Anne came in.

A smile quickly appeared.

"Well, looks like y'all have gotten comfortable pretty good there," her eyebrows arching.

She was in a tight pair of jeans and a close fitting sleeveless white top which set off her dazzling dark skin. She crossed her arms and looked at us for several minutes. My balls had tightened way up, and I was enjoying not only the tickling, teasing sensations from the feather and Danni Raye's hand actions, but the delight her eyes had taken on while working over my cock.

"Always like finding another use for the feathers," said Danni Raye, as if she needed to come up with a rationale for her actions.

"He's got nice legs," Jo Anne finally drawled, eyes moving from my twitching cock to my thighs.

"Y'all play soccer or somethin'?"

"I cycle," I said, thinking of the miles I put on my urban bike in Chicago, where driving the truck around was an unattractive and expensive option for transport. I probably did fifty miles a week, and I was pleased that my legs, which were indeed strong and thick, got the attention that she was giving them. She wandered over and gave my thigh an appreciative squeeze.

"Here, you take a turn with this," said Danni Raye, giving Jo Anne the feather.

And then, double pleasure mixed with surprise, I was treated to Danni Raye's sweet mouth dropping down to my cockhead, which she gave a nice tonguing, while Jo Anne tickled my balls with the feather.

"Nice cock too," murmured Jo Anne.

I was starting to wonder what corner of heaven I had wandered into.

Danni Raye's tongue obviously knew its way around a cock. Her lips ran lightly up and down my prickhead, tongue darting into my piss-slit and doing wonderful things up and down my shaft. I was entranced watching her head go up and down on me, her small breasts moving so delectably. I reached down and played my fingers over one of her now hard nipples.

Jo Anne was grinning like a demoness. "Always good to get the first cock of the night over with early," she said, providing some glimmer of what the rest of the evening might hold in store.

Danni Raye's mouth was soft and wet and ardent. Wonderful sensations traveled throughout my groin. I especially loved the way she handled my prickhead, softly cupping her lips around it and working it with her tongue. Her fingers kneaded my balls, all drawn up and aching with delight.

I would love to tell you that I stayed hard like Hercules for half an hour and ended with a mighty climax, but only the second part was true.

Danni Raye was smooth and efficient, and between my surprise erection, her avid tongue actions and my balls boiling away, I was probably in her mouth for less than five minutes. 'Course my cock had been hard for the whole last month, it just had been expecting to find its pleasure a couple hundred miles or so south of here. When release came, it came with a rush.

Her lips were almost down to my groin hair when I felt my hips bucking and my sperm load reaching bursting point.

"Ohhh," I grunted and I felt my sperm shoot forth. Danni Raye raised her lips up to my cockhead, and I felt her suctioning my sperm out.

Her tongue kept lapping on that hyper-sensitive area just under my cockhead and several strong waves of semen spurted into the back of her sweet mouth. My head lolled on the chair's headrest, my eyes closed, my groin very happy.

"Uuhhh," I murmured, feeling the last bits of sperm ooze forth and get suckled up by this gorgeous dancer.

She finished me off and stood up, pulling a stray pubic hair from between her teeth. Jo Anne was staring intently at us. Did I see a look of longing in her eyes?

The two dancers gazed at each other.

"You know about DJ?" Danni Raye went.

Jo Anne nodded. "Yep, can't come tonight. Too bad for you. And puts us in a bind for Rick's."

Danni Raye, almost as if I wasn't there, had pulled off the bottom of her outfit, her cute little ass so soft and smooth and small. If I hadn't just sent all my sperm down her throat, I would have wanted to put my prick right up her lightly haired cunt with the button lips and tiny inviting entry.

She pulled on a soft, closely fitting red dress that came down to about mid-thigh. I was pleased to note that neither bra nor panties went on underneath. The odd thought that popped into my brain then was that if somehow we ended up playing strip poker later, I would only need to win one hand. Well, maybe two if she had shoes on.

"Excuse us a sec," she finally turned to me, and she and Jo Anne went out into the hall, while I pulled on my undershorts and pants. I could hear them whispering animatedly.

At that point, I had no idea of what was next. I counted the night a winner regardless, even it it stopped right then. My balls had descended and had that warm, pleasant glow that comes from having a good workout. They were sensitive still, and I could feel them rub against the inside of my undershorts whenever I moved. Same for my shrunken cockhead, tingling and hyper-sensitive.

They both came back in and Danni Raye addressed me.

"You think you're good for more?" Her eyes were at my crotch, not my face.

"Or did Danni Raye do you in for the night?" Jo Anne had an impish grin.

I gathered myself up.

"I would regard this as an exquisite appetizer," I spoke with confidence and conviction.

"I would love, absolutely love, to find my penis up either one or both of you later this evening." I gazed with real lust at each of them in turn. "And I'm good for it. Guarantee."

Danni Raye giggled. "I thought so. Wanna come with us? We got a party to go to. Uptown, nice old mansion, good drinks, some of the other dancers always get together after the parade. Should be fun."

It did not occur to me to refuse.

We went out to the street and were met there by a big old black Lincoln with a large bearded Cajun-looking guy at the wheel and his small, tarted-up date by his side in the front seat. She had long dark hair and flashing eyes, and her soft tits were barely held in by her tight, blue, low-cut top with thin spaghetti straps. I think I remembered seeing her in one of the dancing groups. She had a sweet smile as I was introduced all around to Jean Paul and Jessie and then we peeled off to a northern section of town.

Rick's Place

I sat between Danni Raye and Jo Anne in the back seat. I had a million questions for them and I am sure I acted like a yahoo. I found out a little about them – they were old buddies, finished up high school a few years ago, worked in town, but a lot of my over-eager questions either weren't answered directly or veered off into other areas.

It wasn't exactly clear if they had boyfriends. I wanted to ask about the "DJ" guy but didn't find a way to do so gracefully. They had been in the Sambassadors for two years, and "loved it" as Jo Anne said.

I felt Danni Raye's hand on my thigh after awhile, while Jo Anne was talking. Danni Raye answered back, but her fingers began pushing my cock around through my pants, squeezing, and the beast began to stir again. I looked over at her but she was still talking, as if nothing else was going on. I turned to Jo Anne who had a quiet smile on her face as she stole a quick glance at my crotch.

Pretty soon Jo Anne's hand was on my groin as well and two sets of fingers were playing about. I took a deep breath.

I was getting sized up. Luckily my tool was responding, and I could feel it growing under their exploratory touch.