Eighty Days Blue by Vina Jackson Page A

Audubon Park, a couple of riverboat cruises down the Mississippi to survey the swamps and the reluctant-to-show-themselves alligators, the pilgrimage to countless cemeteries and the scattered voodoo museums, coffee and beignets at the open-all-hours Café du Monde on Jackson Square in the middle of the night after leisurely hours of lovemaking in their hotel room, their tired limbs and souls in bad need of recharging, hunting down trinkets in the French Market and more food, glorious food, and aimless walks up and down Bourbon Street listening to the duelling sounds of music rushing from open bar to open bar, a crazy patchwork of jazz, rock, folk, zydeco, soul and every variation of melody.
    On the corner of Royal, the shoe-shine kids tap-danced to their hearts’ content, and at the intersection of Magazine and Toulouse, a blind musician played the accordion while a string-like hippie girl with a gallery of tattoos down both her arms accompanied him on the violin. She was not a patch on Summer, in talent or looks, but Summer insisted on leaving her an exaggerated tip, clearing Dominik of all the useless change in his pockets out of solidarity.
    Dominik was visibly restless. He’d been here and done all this before. He could sense his unease growing, as could Summer.
    There was a whole day to go before New Year’s Eve. Dominik had managed to obtain a much-sought-after booking at Tujague’s in the first-floor dining room with access to the balcony, a stone’s throw from Jackson Square and the Jax Brewery, where the traditional glittering ball would rise all the way from street level to the roof at the stroke of midnight to bring in the new year. It was one of the hottest tickets in town, which the restaurant usually restricted to local regulars and Rotary Club eminences.
    Summer walked out of the bathroom, where she had taken a shower, shrouded in a big, white fluffy towel that barely reached the top of her thighs and revealed a teasing glimpse of her cunt. Sitting reading in bed, Dominik’s eyes moved up from his page and fixed on her. Summer looked down and realised how short the towel was. She made an effort to stretch the material but only managed to pull the thick white veil of the towel down and her breasts slipped out. Dominik smiled.
    â€˜Shy?’ he remarked.
    â€˜A bit late for that, surely,’ she said.
    He kept on staring at her, deep in thought, inscrutably pensive.
    Summer peered out of the window to check on the weather. The sky was grey, but she knew it would be warm enough to walk around with short sleeves, at least until evening.
    â€˜What do you want me to wear today?’ she asked him.
    His eyes lit up with undisguised mischief. ‘Nothing.’
    Summer dropped the towel altogether, allowing it to fall to the floor. ‘Like this?’
    â€˜Perfect,’ Dominik said. He pulled the bed covers from his body, revealing his already semi-hard cock, and began stroking himself.
    Summer initiated a movement to approach the bed.
    â€˜No!’
    â€˜You don’t want me to help,’ she suggested.
    â€˜No. Just stand there. As you are.’
    He widened the angle between his legs and kept on caressing his extended penis, the thick trunk gripped in his palm, a stray thumb gliding simultaneously across his purple glans. His balls appeared to grow in size as he played with himself, his eyes locked on her nudity. Summer recalled that first evening at his London house, how he had asked her to masturbate. She shivered.
    His breath quickly grew halting.
    Summer dropped a hand and brought it to her lower lips, but again he ordered her to remain still. He didn’t want her to pleasure herself. She must watch him. In silence.
    There was a moment, frozen in time, when the light from the window slat landed on the tip of his straining cock, like a line of fire bisecting the mushroom-shaped extremity, his balls full to bursting, and then the moment passed and Dominik