Touchdown Desires

by Jenna Payne

  Andrew looked at his brother, who was short of breath as well, and silently they both agreed on what was to happen. Without warning, Andrew and Jacob pulled out of their respective holes and laid Bailey down on her back. Bailey looked up as the two men stroked their cocks above while she played with her breasts and pussy.

  “Come on me,” she said. “Make me yours forever.” The Nelson twins closed their eyes as they simultaneously emptied their loads onto Bailey’s face and chest. Bailey groaned in pleasure as she made herself climax as well, feeling the sticky fluid of her friends cover her body. Bailey looked up at the twins who stared down at her with loving eyes. The three now realized that this moment in their lives was not just a reunion, but a new chapter in all of their lives and that no matter how far away they would drift apart, they would always be together forever.

  THE END

  Bonus Story 34 of 40

  Blood Moon over the Mississippi

  Dead Bouquets

  Violet Miller arrived in Louisiana on April 3, 1923. The train pulled into New Orleans Union Station, issuing a cloud of steam and soot as it slowed to a stop at the platform, groaning with the weight of ten cars and 800 miles of track behind it. A misty rain was falling, and the warm earth steamed up into the cool afternoon air, blurring the outlines of the city. The station master checked his pocket watch. At 4:00 sharp, the doors of the train were thrown open in unison, and a flurry of activity swarmed over the platform. Red caps and chauffeurs rushed forward to take hold of trunks and hat-boxes. Mothers and nannies grabbed hold of wayward children as they sought to slip away into the fog. Men shouted their greetings to each other. Women kissed each other’s cheeks. The din of many accents filled the air as people from every corner of the country congregated there. The train sighed and settled in place. The fireman wiped sweat and black soot from his weathered brow. Violet Miller stepped onto the platform, and smiled.

  Even in the chaos of the arrival, she turned the head of every man in her vicinity. She stood poised for a moment, looking around interestedly at the goings on. Her dark chestnut bob was nearly hidden by a peacock blue cloche hat pulled down low over her deep azure eyes. She wore a grey dress that dropped just below her knees, blue shoes, and gloves to match her hat. A sable stole was draped casually over her narrow shoulders. She held a small travelling case. She was lithe and tall. The artist Miró had once said to her, over his fifth tumbler of absinthe, that she was the most perfectly proportioned woman alive. Beyond her slender form, it was her bright blue eyes, shining out from beneath thick black lashes that commanded the attention of those around her.

  Her trunk emerged from the train, and immediately a young porter procured it for her.

  “You lead the way,” Violet told him, her voice husky, her words carved out into harsh consonants by her New York accent. “I’m brand new here.” She offered him a smile. He tipped his hat and hurried ahead, cheeks rosy from the encounter. He hailed a black cab, and loaded her trunk inside of it. She gave him the address on Bourbon Street, and the driver whisked her away toward the French Quarter. Violet took in the city from the back of the car, gazing out the window into the rainy streets. Through the gray haze, she could make out ornate porches, and cheerfully painted buildings. Naples yellow and crimson, framed with cast iron vines. Flowers and palms spilled from window boxes and balconies. A streetcar trundled by her window. She was staying at the home of a friend from New York, a banker who had roots in Louisiana. He had warned her of the rough and tumble environment as he handed her the keys, and then he laughed, and allowed that it was probably just the kind of excitement she was looking for.

  Though the rain fell harder as they drove, the streets were filled with people of all colors and origins, crisscrossing in front of them, huddled under umbrellas or the necks of their jackets. Violet smiled to herself. Soon the car pulled to a stop in front of a two story house. It was painted a deep emerald green with grey painted shutters, and the cast iron porches of each story were overflowing with spring flowers. A light hung just above the front doors, glowing warmly in the fog, beckoning Violet into her new home. As she walked up the steps, the cab-driver close behind lugging her trunk, the double doors opened, and she was greeted by a matronly woman with a friendly smile.

  “Welcome, welcome, Ms. Miller. I’m Caroline…Mr. Astor has instructed me to take very good care of you. Come in, come in!” She beckoned Violet forward, shuffling around, taking her hat and her fur and instructing the driver on where to bring her luggage.

  “Thank you Caroline,” Violet smiled, relieved to be rid of her belongings. She looked around the inside of her new home with great interest. She was standing in the front hallway. The grey light of the day filtered in through long sheer curtains, illuminating a room decorated in the latest style. There were bits and pieces of Mr. Astor’s travels on display—an alligator head sat on a small table. Violet recognized paintings by some of their friends. A Picasso nude hung next to a Dalí sketch.

  “I’ll give you the grand tour, shall I?” Caroline bustled back into the room. She was a small, round woman, with rosy cheeks, dressed in a classic grey maid’s costume with a flour-dusted apron tied about her ample waist.

  “Yes, thank you,” Violet replied. “I love it already.”

  Caroline lead her through the first floor. The dining room, drawing room, water closet, and through to a back garden, surrounded by high walls, and replete with a small swimming pool. They stood on the back porch for a moment as Violet took it all in. It was nothing like New York City. The colors of the rose bushes that surrounded the yard appeared brighter and more vibrant somehow. The rain had stopped now, and the clouds had begun to turn golden in the early evening.

  “Can I take my supper out here?” Violet asked the maid.

  “You can take your supper in the bath tub, for all I care,” she replied with a laugh. “Speaking of, you must be in quite a state after two days of travel. Why don’t I show you upstairs to your quarters?” She led the way back into the house. Violet followed her up a staircase lined with photographs of exotic places. She glimpsed the pyramids of Egypt, and a Japanese garden as she passed.

  “This the guest room,” Caroline pushed open the door to their right. “And the studio, should you find any use for it.” She opened a second door. This room was unlike any other in the house. It was painted completely white. Even the wooden floor had been whitewashed. The windows were wide and exposed.

  “I say, this is awfully wonderful,” Violet breathed, stepping into the room. There was a desk by the windows, and an easel stood folded in the corner. There were two shelves, each bursting with paints and pencils and chalks. “Mr. Astor is terribly thoughtful, isn’t he,” she said, turning to Caroline with a smile.

  “Yes ma’am,” the woman replied. “Now if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to your quarters.” She showed Violet to her room. It was a large room with windows on two sides. The walls were painted a deep dusky blue, and the dark mahogany bed was dressed with white linens. Before the windows, green plants, exotic ferns, and cactuses were stacked on ornate iron stands. Some hung from the ceiling, dripping with pink and white blossoms. A small white couch sat across from the bed with a matching chair. The room gave off an impression of calm. Violet was beside herself with its beauty. Everything in New York was dingy and dirty compared to the vibrancy of this place.

  “And here’s your washroom,” Caroline concluded the tour. “The furnace is going, so the water’s nice and hot for you. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Violet stood alone in the blue-tiled bathroom. Slowly, she turned the knobs of the deep tub, letting it fill with hot, steaming water. She sprinkled soap, and a sprig of lavender into the bath, and watched the water as it became milky with heat and the scent of flowers. She stripped off her clothing slowly. First her shoes, and then her dress. She stood for a moment in her grey chiffon teddy, before gracefully slipping off her thigh-high stockings, and letting the last of her clothing fall to the ground. She steppe
d into the steaming bath, and with a small sigh, sank beneath the suds.

  When Violet entered the drawing room an hour later, she was refreshed and elegant in a filmy sea-foam green dress. She wore a similarly colored shawl with bright red tassels over her shoulders. It was almost seven o’clock now. The sun shimmered through the windows, and the furniture cast impossibly long shadows across the room.

  “Caroline?” Violet called, gliding from the room and walking towards the back of the house. The woman emerged from the kitchen door, “I’ll spend my evening on the porch, and would you mind fixing me a mint julep?”

  “Certainly,” the woman replied, disappearing into the kitchen. Prohibition was the talk of the town, but Mr. Astor’s cabinet was stocked with every manner of alcoholic delight imaginable, and Violet certainly wasn’t going to allow a silly government ruling to impact her cocktail hour. Now was the emergence of the ‘bright young things’, the rise of the bohemians and their exciting, colorful lives out of the ashes of World War I. It was as if an entire generation was attempting forget the agony of conflict.

  Violet made her way to the back door. She stepped gingerly out into the evening sunset, following the flagstone path that surrounded the swimming pool through a variety of roses. Her favorites were the bushes of huge white blossoms. Their aroma was sweet and light. In the remains of the day, they appeared almost ghostly, delicate and beautiful. The birds of the garden were chirping their quiet ‘good-nights’, and Violet could hear a murmur of voices from next door. She wondered who her neighbors were, in this strange and exciting city.

  Caroline called her back to the porch for her cocktail, and a delicious supper of alligator gumbo. As the sun set, Caroline lit an oil lamp and set it on the table.

  “I’ll be turning in now, Ms. Violet, unless there’s something else,” Caroline said.

  Violet dismissed her. She wanted to be alone—to take in her new home without interference. She sipped her mint julep and stretched her long legs out in front of her. The train ride had taken two days, from New York to Chicago, and then Chicago to New Orleans. She had hoped for some exciting company on the ride, but was disappointed by the dreariness of her fellow travelers—families and businessmen.

  Violet’s life in New York was far from uninteresting. She had been a model for Vogue and Vanity Fair since her discovery by Condé Nast himself at the tender age of 14. It happened that she was working as a maid at the famous Waldorf Astoria hotel, where Mr. Nast enjoyed the occasional indiscretion. She was supposed to have been making his bed and cleaning his rooms, but had become enamored of one of the dresses that hung in the wardrobe there. She could still remember the feeling of the fabric against her skin: soft white silk that clung to her slender frame and transformed her from girl to woman. Mr. Nast had discovered her, transfixed by her own reflection. He should have been angry—furious that a lowly maid would be so bold as to fondle the garments of the rich—but instead he was delighted.

  “Now aren’t you just a picture,” he had said as he stood just behind her, taking in her appearance in the mirror. Violet thought that he was going to take her—to use her misconduct as an excuse to lay hands on her and make her his own for the night—but instead, he offered her a job.

  Since then she had starred in a few notable films, and become a regular at the cocktail parties of the rich and bohemian. She made fast friends with the artists that came to New York—a rotating cast of surrealists and cubists and every type of artist under the sun stayed at her park-side apartment. She loved the excitement of Midtown, the grime and naughtiness of Downtown, and the perfect beauty of Central Park, but the time had come for a break from the constant chaos of the Big Apple. New York City was like a martini. Delicious down to the last drop the first hundred times, but bitter and sickening after the 101th glass. Violet had reached the bottom of her glass, and she was ready for something else. She was ready for the smoky sweetness of bourbon—for dark spiced rum and cocktails that were slow to mix and easy to drink. She needed a slower pace and a sliver of solitude.

  Violet rose gracefully and retreated to the house to mix herself another mint julep. It was quiet and dark. A soft breeze blew through the front windows and dispelled the humidity of the day. Only the sounds of ice tinkling cheerfully against her glass and the soft click of her heels on the wood floor could be heard as she made her way through to the garden. Just as she stepped out of the house into the ring of golden light cast by her oil lamp, she heard a loud SPLASH. She froze in place. The night had fallen velvety and inky black over the cityscape, and it was difficult to see beyond the edge of the porch. She stood completely still, her cocktail glass sweating in her hand. The sound of continuous splashing told her that whoever, or whatever it was, was still there, flailing about in her swimming pool.

  “Hello?” she ventured, carefully setting her cocktail on the table, and reaching fearlessly for the lamp. A moment later, however, there was the sound of a body emerging from water, and the slapping of wet bare feet on the flagstones of the garden. She waited tensely as they came closer, her heart beating hard against her ribs.

  “Why hello there,” came a low and laughing voice from the shadows. Into the ring of light stepped a young man wearing nothing but a sleeveless union suit of white silk. Water was still streaming from his slender yet muscular arms and legs. His undergarment was soaking and almost completely translucent. It clung to his body. Violet was at once amused and excited to note that she could take in every detail of his physique, even the rather impressive outline between his legs. After this brief appraisal, she fixed her blue eyes determinedly on his face. He was staggeringly handsome, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His dark hair was slicked back. He was clean-shaven, and looked to be about twenty-five years old.

  Violet sat down in her wicker chair, and sipped her cocktail with an air of casual hospitality. “And what brings you to my back yard, Mr. …?”

  The man rested his foot casually on the bottom step of the porch and ran a pale hand through his sodden hair. “Anri, that’s spelled like ‘Henry’, mind…Lucas Henry.” he began, wringing out the legs of his underwear without much concern for the fact that he was basically naked in front of a woman he had never met. “Well, Miss, I was just strolling through the neighborhood, and thought I’d show some appreciation for your beautiful swimming hole, here.” He had a funny, lilting accent. It reminded her of Paris, the way his words curled under each other, like delicate flowers floating on top of a deep Southern drawl.

  Violet nodded and crossed her legs, finding it somewhat difficult to keep her eyes pinned to his face as he man-handled his garment. She noticed the faint lines of curious scars on his neck and arms. “And you thought I wouldn’t mind?” she inquired, wondering how far this man would take the conversation without an apology.

  “I didn’t believe anyone was home, although I can’t say I’m disappointed,” he gave her an appreciative nod. This was indeed the home of a beautiful lady. There was something about her that most Southern girls just didn’t seem to have. A cold edge under a soft exterior. It was alluring. That, and the smoothness of her white skin, and her long, slender legs. He could imagine tearing off her stockings with his teeth and devouring her whole. His stomach growled, and he licked his lips as he felt a small rush of heat in his belly. He climbed the steps and drew even with her.

  “May I join you for a drink, Miss…?” He sat before she consented, as if they were old friends, rather than a lady and an intruder.

  “Miller. But you ought to call me Violet,” she replied, wondering why she had relinquished her name so quickly.

  “Violet, Violet, Violet,” he murmured. “And as pretty as la fleur.”

  So he was French, Violet thought to herself. She hesitated for a moment, and then in spite of her better judgement, she went and fetched a silver tray with bourbon, mint, and sugar cubes, a box of cigarettes, and a glass, all arranged neatly in silver dishes. When she returned, the intruder, this Lucas Henry, had regained his dece
ncy. He was wearing grey linen trousers and a white collared shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and the buttons barely clasped. A cigarette dangled from his long fingers. His underclothes hung over one of the porch railings. She supposed this meant he must have changed when she departed, and that he had been momentarily nude in her garden. She was sorry to have missed it.

  “So tell me then, Miss Violet, what brings a New York City girl like yourself down to the bad side of New Orleans?” the man asked as she set the tray down in the center of the table. He was looking at her with interest. Violet wondered if he knew who she was. She was certainly popular in the city circuit, but down South?

  “Well I just needed a little break from the chaos, I suppose… It can become so terribly boring.” She reached for a cigarette and he leaned across the table to light it for her. As the flame danced between them, she saw that his eyes were an unusually deep coal grey with flecks of silver. The fire was reflected in them, making him look suddenly feral and dangerous. He winked, and she withdrew with a laugh, exhaling smoke into the cool evening air.

  “I was in New York once,” he said thoughtfully, rising to his feet and fixing himself a bourbon on the rocks with his cigarette clasped in the corner of his mouth as he spoke. “I had a painting in a salon—some idiot’s apartment on 14th Street.” He sat down and sipped his drink, looking across the table at her. She was smoking, regarding him with guarded interested. He let his eyes linger on her pale cheek, the curl of her dark hair right at the edge of her jaw. Her neck was graceful and enticing. He would have to earn her trust.

  “So you’re an artist?” she asked, sipping her drink. She was relaxed now. The shock of a stranger appearing in her new backyard had worn off, and she had begun to enjoy the presence of this mysterious and very handsome man. She watched his hands as he poured his drink. They were elegant, but rough with callouses. She could see scars on his forearms; lines and puncture wounds that reminded her of dog bites.