Summer in New Orleans is hot. 100% humidity and the air feels like a wet towel slung over your body. It's too hot to wear a lot of clothes and forget underwear ...just another piece of material that sticks when you try to get undressed. Each afternoon, as if timed by the gods, it rains. The weather makes the world seem sluggish and slow. New Orleans is not the city that care forgot, but the city that forgot to care.
To this end Sylvia and Chris are almost naked. Sylvia wears a pair of loose cotton shorts and a t-shirt. Chris just wears shorts. It is with great envy that Sylvia watches Chris, wishing that that one extra piece of clothing that could be shed. It was Chris' idea to wait until the city was not crowded to come for a stay; however, there is a reason why the tourists shy away. Sylvia has lived in the south for most of her life in one town or another, that is until she hooked up with Chris. New Orleans is just another stop on the road to a geographical fix. He is Portland bred, but he ran away from the open spaces looking for a piece of mind. The heat is worse on him. Mainers think it's humid if it's 35% and the temperature reach the 60s.
Sylvia wonders if she'll ever get over her craving for Chris and as her thoughts turn to cravings, she remembers the icy, sweet treats from childhood. "Have you ever had a snoball?" she asks.
"A snow ball? Of course I've had snow balls. We used to make forts and throw them all the time back home," Chris says.
Sylvia laughs. "No, not that kind of snow ball. A Snoball, with sticky sweet syrup poured over shaved ice. The kind that make your tongue turn colors and your parents send you outdoors to eat because they invariably drip out the bottom of the paper cone." Chris shakes his head no. "Then let's further your education. I remember seeing a stand just up the street."
They walk hand in hand. The SnoBall stand is just that: a box with four walls, a roof, a window in front and a door in back. Through the glass in the window, a sign proclaims all the flavors available for consumption. Sylvia orders for the two of them ...wild cherry for her and ammoretto cream for him. Watching Sylvia's mouth get cherry red, Chris gets ideas. He orders two more, one that is bright green lemon-lime flavored and another that is blue bubblegum flavored. They each carry two back to their hotel room. Sylvia is baffled at his need for so many sweets.
Once back at the hotel he says, "Now I'm gonna cool you off. Take off all your clothes." Sylvia obeys and hopes that her other craving will now be fed. There is not much to tie her to, but Chris pulls out some soft, fuzzy restraints that he can tie together. Sylvia stands facing him, eyes down cast, arms together in front of her. Her breasts pushed together by her arms.
Chris tugs the short lead on the restraints and pulls her onto the cool white sheets on the bed. Mutely, she watches as he arranges her body to his satisfaction. Sylvia's arms bound at the wrist are over her head. A pillow is placed under her hips so that her sex reaches up into the air and her legs are pulled out, spread-eagle. His eyes drink in the lovely site of her; soft, sweaty and excited.
She is a canvass waiting to be painted. And that's just what he does. Slowly, he takes one of the snoballs, gets some of the wild cherry ice into the straw and begins to paint her nipples. The shock of cold ice hitting hot flesh makes her arch up. Her nipples, already awakened by the promise of his touch, harden into little pebbles. The ice makes her feel hot and cold and erotic all at the same time. Anytime Chris feels he has made a mistake to his "painting," he erases it with a flick of his tongue.
Next comes the lemon-lime green. Visions of tie-dyed t-shirts dance in her head as he creates the same kinds of spirals and patterns with the ice across her stomach. Tribal designs in blue cover her face and neck. Finally, Chris feels that she has had enough of this torture of ice, he begins with the fire. Everywhere the ice has melted, he licks.
Around the sensitive spiral of her earlobe he tastes the sweet bubblegum flavor mingled with salty sweat. His lips travel down her neck. Shivers that have nothing to do with the cold travel down her body. At the hollow between her neck and her shoulder, Chris bites down. Sylvia is almost out of her mind. When he reaches her breast, he begins to nibble. Strong, white teeth capture the little bud, pulling and teasing moans from her body. All the way down her stomach he licks and kisses traces of the syrup away until he comes to rest between her legs.
"I've saved the sweetest for the sweetest part of you," he fairly purrs. Chris takes the amoretto cream and pours it over the lovely soft folds of her vagina. "Now for dessert." He begins to clean up all the cream with his tongue, but soon, he is unable to tell if it is the amoretto or her cream he is licking up. His tongue darts in and out, lovingly caressing the folds of her sex. Sylvia begs him to let her come, but he stops and adds more amoretto. She cries out in frustration, the shock of the ice cooling her internal fires. He begins again, sucking and caressing her hard little clit. Several times he stops at the moment of her peak to add more ice until there is none left. Chris stands up at the end of the bed. The view of her wet, vibrating pussy is more than he can take. He shrugs out of his shorts, his proud cock full and hard. As his dick slips past her warm lips, she cries out. Within a few strokes, her wet juices flow over him. The force of her orgasm is more than he can take. He plunges into her, hard, and allows his own cream to fill her up.
Together, entwinded she leans over and says "Well, you certainly don't have snoballs."
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