Hotel Heiress: New Orleans

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This episode of “Hotel Heiress” follows the action to “Hotel Heiress: Behind Bars” so read that episode first in order to fully understand the action to this episode. Here’s the back story:

Young rich adventuress Valerie Masters was imprisoned in a woman’s prison in New York for a murder she did not commit (this was in Episode “Hotel Heiress: Behind Bars). Through a sordid deal involving sex and an affair with a black prison guard, Byron, she was able to be released from prison upon the discovery she was innocent and she knows that the true murderer, Latina wild woman Alma Chavez, has been living in New Orleans. She has kidnapped her own lover the married photographer artist Ron Ash. Now Valerie and Byron set off to New Orleans, Louisiana, armed with guns, to take matters into their own hands, determined to save Ron and catch the criminal Alma. The series reads like fictionalized memoirs, not always in chronological order and the heroine is in her 20’s and describes her experiences in the 1990’s.

New Orleans, 1994

What a picture I must have made at that time.

I don’t remember what I wore. Each time period dictates its own fashion and in the 1990’s, it was a fabulous time for individuality in fashion, unlike these days. I must have been wearing clothes that were not in style and certainly not my own California couture so I wouldn’t be recognized. It wouldn’t do at all if I was mobbed by the public who recognized me as a celebrity. That would keep me from doing what I came to Louisiana to do. I did not want the media covering my little investigation on Ron Ash’s kidnapper and the real culprit behind the murder I was framed for. I arrived in New Orleans with Byron at the right time, during Mardi Gras madness.

Now up until then, I had only been to New Orleans for Mardi Gras only once, when I was about ten years old, back when my mother and father were still together. At that time, still an innocent child, the city was magic. Everything was colorful and exotic, and the multi-colored, showy floats in the big parade were bizarrely beautiful. The old buildings and houses were so elegant. People were friendly and leisurely and it could have been the land of Oz for all I knew. I had no idea that this city had a dark side until I returned as an adult.

I was still in my early twenties. There was no real reason why I should be in New Orleans on a manhunt for a murderous woman and kidnapper, no reason other than my own anger against her.

This woman, this Alma Chavez, caused my wrongful imprisonment in New York, framed me for a murder she had committed. She then took off with Ron Ash, the San Francisco married photographer who had photographed me for his artwork in New York, a man I had feelings for. Sure, he was Alma’s lover. He had a seedy side to his own nature, a private side of him that he didn’t tell his wife Linda about. He did drugs. He and Alma were not only lovers but they smoked pot and did other drugs together.

Surely by now, wherever Ron was, he knew that this girl was no good. She had taken him against his will to New Orleans and no one knew what they were doing or where they had hidden themselves. The air was filled with danger and suspense. I was risking my very life in taking matters into my own hands, seeking justice myself. It was like straight out of a detective “film noir” type novel but this was real and it’s no fictional embellishment in my memoir.

I look back and wonder what was I thinking? Was I that consumed with revenge and with anger? You bet I was! Looking back, I wish I had done things differently – like just left the case to the authorities, to cops, to detectives and investigators. But there I was and New Orleans and I was looking forward to an adventure and there was no turning back. Of course, I didn’t tell my mother or father or closest friends what I was up to. I simply told them I wanted to get away and have some leisurely privacy in New Orleans. I specifically requested that no one come see me.

The city hadn’t changed much, at least during the daytime. I arrived in the morning with Byron and we checked into a hotel. I don’t remember the name of the hotel. It had a French name and its theme was a Creole plantation house. It was not a five star hotel, certainly nothing as high quality as my own father’s Seasons hotel chain. It was charming but petite little boutique hotel with about five stories and little fancy façade on a porch-like entrance.

A rose garden was sprawled around it, front and back, and there was a mysterious, distant looking courtyard behind two large gates at the front of the hotel. It wasn’t anywhere near the major city areas or streets like Canal Street or Bourbon Street. It was just a lovely little hotel hidden away from view. What better place for a celebrity like me to stay. It worked too. No reporter or paparazzo had tracked me there and the hotel staff didn’t treat me like a star, just like another guest of the hotel.

Byron was born in New Orleans and he told me he grew up there before he moved to New York City. bursa escort He seemed to know New Orleans like the palm of his hand and from the minute we arrived, he served as my tour guide. He knew for instance that this quaint hotel just off the city’s main streets was perfect for us. The walls were painted pastel lime-green, and there was no carpet and only polished wood floor.

On the ceiling was a small gas-lit chandelier. Our little room had only one big canopy bed. Of course, I knew it was Byron’s doing. I remembered our little deal back in prison. I didn’t think he’d want to make love right away. It was still morning. We had our luggage sent to our room and we ordered breakfast, which consisted of Belgian waffles, fruit, and tea. The tea was exquisite and served as if it were high tea service.

“Did you get enough sleep on the plane?” he asked me.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied.

We sipped our tea. I had no idea why we were so formal all of a sudden. Here’s the thing. The truth is I liked Byron. If he had not been my prison guard back when I had been locked up in New York City, and if circumstances had been different, this was the type of guy I would have been in a relationship with. I was attracted to black men as much as I was to white men. Byron was a handsome, strong black man with a lean, athletic body and muscle. While his hard Nubian body was made for sin, his face was so calm and so distinguished and even innocent looking.

“Remember, this is not going to be a vacation,” he said, “we’re here on a dangerous little mission just because you want revenge.”

“Don’t make it about me,” I said to him, “you want to bring that Alma bitch to justice just as much as I do.”

“Lord knows I do. She ruined my life. She made me quit high school and I was on drugs for a long time. I had to go into rehab. She was always cheating on me with other guys. She doesn’t care for anyone but herself and she’s a walking danger. It’s ironic that I turned out to be a prison guard after having been in jail once myself too –and because of her.”

“Do you have any idea where we can find her?”

“No idea. It’s going to take a while but we got to move quickly.”

“But we just got here. Can’t we relax for a bit?”

“Ok. What do you want to do?”

We were quiet for a few minutes, the sound of the Grandfather clock in our room striking eight in the morning. The sun was streaming through the window and the birds were singing and chirping cheerily. Because we were just outside all the Mardis Gras action, we were wrapped in intimate silence and secluded in a very serene setting. It got boring real fast.

“You want to fuck?” I said to him.

“Hell yeah!”

Byron’s face lit up, as if I had said the magic word. We began to remove our clothes. Again, I don’t remember what I was wearing; most likely it was a pink top that showed off my belly button and flat tummy and little skirt or something. He was wearing jeans and a tight fitting navy blue shirt. Underneath, I had a white, lacy bra and panties, which were from the latest Victoria’s Secret line. I had modeled for Victoria’s Secret and I wondered if Byron had ever seen me in one of those pictures from the catalogues. But then again, probably not. Women ordered lingerie from those catalogues and if any man was looking at those pictures, it was only to get off. He didn’t act as if I was a big time celebrity. He was treating me as if I was just another girl.

For some reason, I liked that!

He stared at me, his eyes feasting on my fit white body, the sight of my firm, pert breasts and shaved pussy making his dick very hard. He licked his lips and he could have howled in his sexual excitement. He seized me possessively and kissed me. His lips felt damn good, hard, passionate, and warm. His black lips on my white lips. He had me by the shoulders and kissed me in a long and lingering way, as if we had all day. Of course I knew we did not have all day. But for now, here in the seclusion of this little inn, we were both ready to make love.

His kisses became hot, matching the heat of the morning sun streaming into the little room. His hands roamed down to my back and over my ass. I moved slightly but he didn’t let go and held me in place. Our bodies were pressed together tightly and intimately. I could feel how huge his cock was getting, his erection rubbing against my thighs.

His cock was among the biggest I’ve ever seen, save for white male porn stars. The image of a big black dick was no myth, not in Byron’s case at least. His hands cupped my ass as we began to bump and grind softly, moans escaping my lips. In one swift motion, he picked me up and he put me to bed. I was on my back, my legs dangling over the edge of the canopy bed. It felt so natural, so right. We had already enjoyed sex with each other at the prison in New York City.

He was eager to feel his mouth on my pussy and he bent his head and kneeled by the bed. Taking my legs, he put them over his back. His face was over my pussy and his stomach touched bursa escort bayan my own. After kissing my stomach he began to work his tongue on my pussy. Expertly, he began to tease and caress my pink, smooth, hairless pussy with his hand rubbing it and making me aroused. He then laved and licked my pussy in an achingly slow manner.

It wasn’t long before I was in a sexual heat, making me shudder and moan as he orally pleasured my pussy.

He must have done this countless times.

It showed and I had enjoyed oral pleasure from boyfriends and lovers in the past (and not a far away past mind you, since I was only in my early twenties). He continued to fuck my pussy with his tongue, building a rhythm. His fingers slid into my wet and open pussy. God was this hot. I moaned and threw my head back, using my own hands to arouse myself further.

I rubbed my breasts and fondled them myself, making my pink areolas hard. We could have been doing a scene in a porno film. There was professional touch to Byron’s tongue and fingers, his magnificent oral treatment of my wet pussy. And I reached an orgasm that was real and powerful, my voice hoarse from moaning.

We were not finished. After ensuring I had cum, Byron, whose cock was still hard, climbed up on the bed and spread my legs. He was on top of me, face to face, breathing, panting, wanting me like he had never wanted anyone else. I didn’t get why he wanted me so much. He had told me himself only black actresses did it for him. He liked the actresses that appeared in Spike Lee films. “Jungle Fever” had been a hit not that long ago. But he was into me. He didn’t care that I would probably never be his woman. He was just content to have this moment and this experience right here and now. He probably got a kick out of having sex with a star like me.

I was panting too.

He leaned over me and kissed me, his mouth open, shoving his tongue down my throat. Aggressively, his heart pounding, he began to seriously fuck me. His cock delved into my pussy, in and out, mercilessly, not wanting to go slow. His cock was as hard as steel. He had probably been hard or at least thinking of doing this while we were on the plane to New Orleans. His cock pumped into me, making me writhe under him. I threw my head back and let out a scream. He was grunting and screaming.

He was a primal man, a jungle man, a man from the African bush that had captured a white beauty and was ravishing her until he was sated of his lust. The sunlight streamed over us through the canopy of the bed. The bed was now rocking, as if ready to collapse due to Byron’s heavy and intense fucking motion. His hips smacked against mine, making a heavy sound. We were both screaming and fucking, our bodies meshed. He kissed my neck and buried his head there while fucking me. I raked my nails down his back and gripped his black buttocks.

After a while, I had my orgasm and his followed instantly. He was still on top of me. Our heavy breathing became quiet and we relaxed, looking at each other in the face.

“Damn girl,” he said, “that has got to be the best I’ve ever had.”

“Best orgasm?” I said to him, wondering what he meant.

“Hell, yeah. Best fuck, best orgasm, best oral. And I think I owed it to you after what you did for me in the jail.”

I remember that I had done a lot for him in the privacy of my prison cell, things that could have shamed a veteran porn star. Of course, looking back now, I don’t recall everything we did. It’s like a blur in my mind now. I guess it must have been too much, but also very hot. He got off me and we both lay next to each other, basking in afterglow and sunglow. I stared up at the ceiling, painted in pastel green. I felt serene and sated. Because it was still the beginning of the day I was also very energized.

“What a good way to start the day, huh?” I said to him.

“Yeah.”

“Do you think anyone heard us? I was awfully loud.”

“Maybe. Who knows. Who cares baby. You’re a lot of fun. If someone heard us, what’s the big deal? It’s not like couples check into a hotel, share a bed and not have sex. Besides, it’s Mardi Gras. It’s party time for folks down here in New Orleans.”

“Yeah, but I’m Valerie Masters. They know who I am. Someone here could spread the gossip and dish out the dirt on me and you.”

“So?”

“Well, it’s not something I want said about me, you know, there’s a word for a girl who does what I just did.”

“Will you listen to yourself? Since when do you care what people say? You’re not a virgin. You’re like what 21? 22? Didn’t you go to college and have sex and take drugs? Don’t you like to party? I read in a magazine that you really like to party.”

“I’m not saying I don’t party. I don’t want the paparazzi and sleazy tabloid reporters to start publishing articles with pictures of me and you and our “jungle fever” moment.”

“You poor little rich girl. If I were you I’d tell them all to fuck off. It’s your life.

“You don’t get it,” I said to him and I knew he really escort bursa didn’t. After all he was a non-celebrity.

“What? What don’t I get?”

“It’s not really the sex. It’s the fact these bastards will profit off what should be my own personal and private life. Hollywood gossip columns are filled with half-truths and lots of lies. They take one photo of an actress behaving badly and they don’t let it go afterward. If people take photos of us, they’ll think we’re lovers and that I’m expecting your baby or something like that.”

“If it’s just bullshit why do you care? Look, don’t worry. I’ll keep us low-profile. No one said anything to us when we got here. No one seems to care. Everyone’s so distracted by Mardi Gras to notice you.”

Afterward, I got up and dressed, careful not to wear anything stylish or fashionable. I took a shower with Byron but all we did was kiss and splash each other with water playfully while laughing, uninterested in another bout of sex. After dressing ourselves, we were ready to do what we had come to do in the Big Easy……

* * * * * * * *

I wore a pair of oversized dark sunglasses. Even before my rival Paris Hilton did it, I was doing it and even I wasn’t the one who started the trend. In the 60’s, Audrey Hepburn sported Ray bans in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and made it hip and cool. Sure, I looked more like a movie star with them on but Byron turned out to be right. No one seemed to notice me, caught up in the festive frenzy of Mardi Gras.

We were on Canal Street and the Parade was passing through. The crowds were big and everyone, save for a few people, were wearing a variety of costumes, masks, tiaras, crowns, robes, feathers, long beads and Medieval Court Jester type of outfits. Cajun and Zydeco music was playing and people were throwing beads and little balls to the spectators. I heard people speaking English, Spanish, Creole French and a Native American language. There was not a single soul that was bored. In the crowds, I lost Byron for a moment.

He was also trying to find me, searching the crowds. It was the easiest place and time for someone to get lost or kidnapped. People were wearing masks and costumes and at times it was even hard to tell who was male and who was female. After about ten minutes, I found Byron and we both agreed not stick together, if possible even hold hands while walking in the street.

“Look we’re not going to find Alma and Ron like this,” Byron said to me, “too many people and we might not even recognize either one of them if we see them. Alma likes to party and if she’s even here she must be in costume. I bet you Ron is too.”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” I replied, “I’m starting to think this was not such a good idea. I think that we’re putting ourselves in a lot of danger. Alma knows this place a lot better and she might have friends in the criminal underworld, right?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s friends with the Mob. She’s certainly friends with drug-pushers and dealers.”

“So this is not something we know anything about. Well, you do, but not me. This is the type of work for a detective, Private Investigator or cops.”

“What better person to lead us to Alma than me, a former lover, a New Orleans man and I know Alma’s little bad habits and old haunts.”

“Well, where is she then? Is Canal Street an old haunt of hers?”

“She used to watch the Parade and sometimes she was in it as an exotic dancer in a mask.”

“Do you see her now?”

Byron’s eyes surveyed the girls in the parade. They were scantily clad, wearing high feathered headdresses and beads. They were dancing to the beat of the music and swaying their hips. Byron looked and looked, which I thought must have been a pleasant job for him, but didn’t seem to pick out Alma among the girls.

As for Ron, I had his features and body engraved in my memory and mind. He didn’t seem to be anywhere here either. I’m sure he would have loved the Parade. In its own way, it was a free-floating, artistic and expressive cultural thing, the sort of thing that often drew his attention. He loved going to Burning Man, had gone to Woodstock in 1969 and as a San Francisco photographer, appreciated the individualistic and artistic American scene. He was friends with gays and lesbians who were artists of one type of another. But I did not see Ron anywhere. Byron’s face nearly contorted as he pondered the matter.

“Bourbon Street,” he said.

“She’s in Bourbon Street right now?” I asked him.

“No, tonight. The French Quarter has a little unofficial tradition of its own. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“No I don’t, I’m from California.”

“Bourbon Street’s night life is notoriously seedy. Strip clubs, prostitutes, and drugs. She could be at a dance club or strip club if we go there tonight. But it has to be tonight.”

He looked at me, his eyes falling over my top. I knew he was undressing me with his eyes, trying to picture my breasts.

“Oh, and you’ll have to flash your breasts if you come to Bourbon Street tonight. That’s the “unofficial tradition” I’m talking about. Girls are drinking and they’re wild and you get beads if you bare your breasts. If you don’t, they won’t stop bothering you or pressuring you to do it.”

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