Passion in the Rue de Lune

The Rue de Lune only came alive in the night, that twilight world when anything was possible, especially the forbidden desires that can conjure up illicit passion...and murder.

 

(FF)

By: Punchinello for Pulp Erotica

 

New Orleans, 1952

It was a hot and humid night, the kind of night that makes a dress cling to a woman’s body in that certain way that is both uncomfortable and immeasurably sexy. It was the kind of night that makes people in the city kill each other in petty arguments, the kind of night that makes dogs go mad and chase down children.

Susan Alison sat in a darkened outdoor cafe on the Rue de Lune of the French Quarter of New Orleans, uncomfortable but sexy. She played with the neckline of her white summer dress and sipped a cold beer while she watched the street scenes around her. Couples argued on a stoop; a dog sat and scratched itself raw; an old woman sat in a window and dabbed herself with a towel dipped in ice water.

Susan relaxed and soaked in the city, trying to ignore the oppression of the Louisiana heat. It was thick with atmosphere—a distant saxophone howled at the rising moon; a car somewhere off in the night honked its horn angrily. The night wore on.

A cool breeze seemed to bring Susan out of a dream. She opened her eyes and drew in a long breath. The heat of the day had finally gone; the streets were empty; her beer had disappeared.

“Good evening.” The voice belonged to a woman, French accent, near. Susan looked up and found her sitting across the table. She finished off Susan’s beer and smiled. “A lady shouldn’t be out this late alone.” Susan sat up, bewildered. The stranger looked to be in her late thirties, very pretty, with medium-length straight, blond hair.  “And,” the woman went on, “she certainly shouldn’t fall asleep in the street.”

“Yes,” Susan finally managed to say. “Thank you for waking me.” The woman smiled and stroked the rim of the beer bottle. She wore a black cotton v-neck dress with a matching hat and a red ribbon around her throat. Her lips were thin, her nose was narrow, and her eyes were very big. Her accent was genuine French. All said, she was striking.

The woman looked at her with kind hazel eyes. They were mysterious and deep and seemed filled with volumes of old writings. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” She spoke in low tones, soothing and probing at the same time. Sometimes young women found themselves in New Orleans without anywhere to go.

Susan felt very tired, slightly confused, and somewhat embarrassed. She collected herself and breathed deeply. “Yes,” she said, “Yes, I’m staying at a hotel. In the Hotel Zibeline, just down the street I think.”

“Oh, that’s a nice place—also on the Rue de Lune,” the woman said, “It has some lovely old architecture.”

Susan didn’t quite know how to respond, so she just smiled a little and stood up to leave. “Uh, my name is Susan—Susan Alison.” She extended her hand.

“Catherine Dubois,” she said, giving Susan her hand.

“Oh, you have cold hands,” Susan said in surprise. She wanted to put Catherine’s hand to her warm throat, to cool herself off.

Catherine smiled and drew her hand back slowly. “You are a stranger here, hmm?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I can show you around New Orleans while you are here,” she said. “How long will you be staying?”

“Two weeks,” Susan smiled. “I am on a long and very much needed vacation. And,” she added, “I would be very grateful if you could show me around town.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“When are you free?” Susan asked, “I have all day.”

“Oh, I’m busy during the day. How about if I show you the night life in New Orleans?”

“I have all night, too,” Susan said. “Besides,” she added, “I bet the night is more alive than the day, in New Orleans.”

“You would be surprised,” Catherine smiled. They walked off together toward Susan’s hotel, agreeing to meet the next night.

In the shadows of a building across from the café, a dark figure trailed them until they parted.

 

Susan awoke just after ten the next morning. She felt flushed, a little sick, and her body ached. She wasn’t used to the bed yet, she decided, and New Orleans was a little warm this time of year for her blood. She recalled the night before while she showered, feeling a little foolish about the way she had acted. She had been very tired and thoroly charmed by Catherine’s European grace, and had acted awfully girlishly. The cool water rejuvenated her, refreshing her skin, warm and sticky from the heat.

Susan walked naked thru the room to the bedside, where she took her makeup kit from her valise. She walked around the room casually as she tied her reddish-brown hair back, enjoying the cool, sexy feel of the air on her nude body, the thickly-padded carpet on her bare feet. She caressed her breasts proudly and showed her auburn bush to the full-length mirror, trying to decide if it was time to trim it again. The warm morning light streamed in across her backside, thru a crack in the curtains of the window by the door; her second-floor room exited to a promenade directly outside, a very New Orleans touch that allowed occupants to come and go discreetly at all hours.

Susan returned to the bathroom and put on her makeup with practiced ease. She tried to think of something to wear, but finally decided to go out and buy something. She hadn’t really brought anything for a fancy night out, and she wanted to seem a little more sophisticated. Besides, it would give her something to do during the day.

The young woman heard a noise from outside her room, not quite a knock on her door, but more as if someone had brushed past it. Still naked, she picked up a hand towel and clutched it to her chest, not that it covered much. Then, she went guardedly to the door to peek thru the peephole. She could see no one.

Then there was another noise to the side of the door, at the little window—more of a scrape, as if someone was trying to creep across the ground outside, out of view. She tried to cover herself better with the towel—tho she had to stretch it taut to make it even begin to cover her breasts and bush—and crept toward the window. Susan froze for a moment, heart suddenly thumping in her chest.

There was an eye peeking in thru the gap in the curtains, darting from side to side, searching for her.

Shocked, terrified, Susan snatched up a shoe and rushed the window, smacking it just where the eye peeked in, making a terrific noise. She could hear the scrambling of feet, but nevertheless retreated to the bathroom, heart pounding, her nude body flushed and tingling. When she saw and heard nothing more, she went to the bedside and dialed the front desk.

Voice trembling, Susan reported the peeping Tom and demanded that someone come to ensure he was gone. Then, constantly looking over her shoulder, Susan quickly slipped on a pair of white panties, slid into a dark skirt, and topped it with an oversized white blouse to wait for the hotel staff.

The hotel manager himself came, ensuring her that no men were on the promenade or on the street below, but it was cold consolation for the frightened woman. She thanked him and asked that someone check back later, and the manager agreed that he would personally check on her periodically thruout the evening. The way he undressed her with his eyes, the shapely woman had no doubt that he would.

 

Susan shook off the peeper incident and went out shopping here and there around town, especially in the more fashionable boutiques. She ate a late lunch at the same cafe where she had dozed off the night before. At the same table. In the same seat.

It was about five when she finally returned to the hotel and retired to her room. She kicked off her shoes and decided on another long, cool shower. She stepped out of her skirt and shrugged her blouse off. Just then, the phone rang. She answered it immediately, altho it made her feel uneasy to caught in nothing but bra and panties in the open room again.

“Susan? This is Catherine. Will you be ready in half an hour?”

Susan looked over her shoulder at the window before cradling the phone with her shoulder and ear and slipping out of her panties. “Half an hour?” she said, detached. “Easy.”

“Good,” Catherine said, “I’ll be there shortly.”

“All right, I’ll see you in half an hour,” Susan said. Then, in fit of girlishness, she added, “Au revoir.”

“Au revoir,” Catherine replied in her dusky voice.

Susan hung up and stepped into the shower. The water was cool and invigorating against her skin. It dripped from her hard nipples and flowed down her body in little rivulets. She lathered herself all over, imagining what she and Catherine would that evening, and spent long minutes stroking and caressing her body clean, losing all track of time.

Twenty minutes later, Susan was slipping into a pair of lacy white panties when there came a knock at the door. It startled her, making her heart race for a moment to be caught again in a state of undress. She hurried into a loose camisole and answered it.

Catherine smiled warmly as she entered. She wore a stylish, short black dress and high heels. The long, gold chain of a pocket watch hung between the pocket and the bottom button on the front of the dress.

“Hello,” Susan crooned.

“Hi,” Catherine murmured. “You’re not ready?” She took a seat in the day chair by the window to watch Susan dress.

“Not quite,” Susan said absently as she went to the bed.

The auburn-haired woman spread her purchases out on the bed and chose from among them. After a moment of indecision, she put on a dark gray skirt—short and loose, a skirt for twirling on a dance floor. She put the jacket on over the thin camisole for a chic, casual look. Catherine insisted she wear black spike heels. With her hair done up, little ringlets hanging over her temples, and with just the right amount of rouge and the perfect shade of lipstick, Susan was ready—and devastating. Her nipples pushed at the thin camisole and her heavy breasts swayed as she moved, the jacket only keeping the ensemble from being positively lewd.

“You look tantalizing,” Catherine teased.

“Have you seen a mirror?” Susan gushed. “You could stop a clock.” It was true. Catherine looked chic and dangerous in her short black dress, tightly tailored to accentuate her curves. It pushed her breasts up so high that Susan could see the top of her black brassiere when she moved. Neither of them wore stockings; their bare legs were shapely and toned; it would have been a shame to cover them and further than their short hemlines already did.

 

When they returned to Susan’s hotel room, a slightly drunk and rather tired four hours later, they had seen enough of what there was to see on the famous Bourbon Street

“Did you like the jazz?” Catherine lounged in a chair near the end of the bed. Susan wandered about the room with a glass of wine as they talked.

“Oh, yes,” Susan replied. “I like Dixieland jazz best of all.”

“No, I don’t mean Dixieland. I mean the bluesy kind of jazz, with a saaaxophone.” She drew the word out, giving all the qualities of a lover’s name.

“Oh, a saaaaxophone,” Susan said, playfully mocking the other woman. She paused in her wandering to take off her jacket and lay it on a vacant chair. Her breasts swayed freely under her camisole.

“You know what I mean,” Catherine said. “It’s like a human voice. It’s sexy.”

“I know,” Susan admitted. “But how is it better than a singer, for instance?”

“I think the human voice is equally sexy,” Catherine said, “and it excites me to listen to jazz singers, but the saxophone is like a...a soft moaning voice: no words, just sound—soft, erotic sound.” She leaned forward in her chair, her blond hair falling forward over her shoulders. Her voice was liquid; her movements had a feline grace—beautiful but unnerving.

Susan sipped her wine. “Most jazz singers are women, tho. So a saxophone might seem sexier, I guess....” Susan sat down at the foot of the bed, looking out the window at the sky. Her nipples pushed at the fabric of her camisole when she leaned forward.

“Not always,” Catherine said. “A sexy woman can be more exciting than a saxophone, if the voice is right. It doesn’t matter that she’s a woman...perhaps it even helps. Men have difficulty expressing their sexuality.” She hung herself on the word.

It was a long moment before Susan replied. “But women don’t, do they?” she asked, turning. She toyed with her wineglass, looking at Catherine, meeting her stare. Catherine’s eyes glistened like woodland pools in the light of a witchcraft moon.

“No, they don’t. Women are more comfortable admitting that something or someone arouses them.... And they are more free to act on that confession.” They were very close, so close that their elbows nearly touched.

“Catherine,” Susan said softly, “are you trying to seduce me?”

“I have no secret agenda, Susan,” Catherine said, gazing evenly into the younger woman’s eyes. Susan’s eyes were starry nights with hazy clouds.

“I’ve never done anything like that,” Susan murmured, but she would not look away. She stroked her thigh absently and sipped her wine.

“You only have to want to,” Catherine guided. Her gaze became hard and penetrating. Her full, rose lips were slightly pursed. She leaned toward Susan almost imperceptibly.

Susan continued to stroke her thigh in silence. She looked deep into Catherine’s eyes and found them serene and patient. She too leaned forward ever-so-slightly.

Catherine reached down and put her hand on Susan’s. Susan glanced down at them as Catherine curled her cool hand around her warm one. Their gazes met again as Catherine moved Susan’s own hand slowly over the soft fabric covering the woman’s thigh. She pressed the hand into the soft cushion of Susan’s womanhood, moving it in tight circles with steady, even pressure. Susan’s eyes closed and her head tilted back to expose her long and pale neck. Her nostrils flared and she breathed in slow, unsteady breaths.

Pleasure came in long, level waves.

Catherine pressed forward until she could smell Susan’s skin. Her nose brushed Susan’s throat; her breath was heavy and hot against Susan’s bare throat. Her free hand rested lightly on Susan’s soft shoulder. After a moment, she drew back and released the younger woman’s hand. She breathed heavily, nostrils flaring, and wetted her lips with a quick, pink tongue.

Susan caught her breath and rested her hand on the arm of Catherine’s chair. They said nothing for a time, staring into one another’s deep, cavernous eyes. Susan took another sip of her wine.

“Pour the rest of the wine down your front,” Catherine spoke quietly.

Susan hesitated for just a moment and then breathed deeply and poured the cool red wine down the front of her camisole, across the generous curve of her breasts. The thin white fabric was stained a reddish purple and clung to her soft skin. Her nipples were sharp, dark circles on the cloth. As the liquid soaked in and ran down the middle of her chest, Susan closed her eyes and let her head drift back; her nostrils flared, she breathed deeply.

Catherine remained still and merely stared at Susan’s wet breasts. She reached out a hand and traced the outline of the other woman’s nipples. Then she rose out of her chair and leaned over Susan, stroked her auburn hair, and kissed her passionately on the lips.

Their tongues were serpents, writhing, twisting, entangling, constricting. Blindly, Susan reached out and found Catherine’s leg. She stroked it upward to the thigh, pushing the hem of Catherine’s short, black dress up to her thigh. Catherine caressed Susan’s wet breasts thru her top.

“Take it off,” she breathed, her voice a husky whisper.

They parted, eyes locked, and Susan pulled her camisole over her head and let it fall on the floor. Her slick breasts were flushed creamy pink, with small, hard areolas. A drop of wine ran down her flat belly. Catherine kneeled and licked the sweet droplet up. She kissed and licked Susan’s body as the redhead lay back upon the bed. Then she rose and began undoing the buttons down the front of her dress. Under it, she wore a lacy black brassiere.

Susan pulled her close and began unbuttoning Catherine’s dress from the bottom up. She opened it and kissed Catherine’s ash-white thigh close to her lacy black panties. Catherine bit her lip and moaned softly as Susan’s tongue flashed across her soft flesh. She shrugged out of her dress and fell to her knees beside the bed again. The two women’s mouths met in another fiery kiss, their pulses pounding, their hands roving, touching, caressing.

Susan unlatched the frontal snap of Catherine’s bra, and the black lace fell away. Her soft white breasts spilled out, red-nippled and aching. Susan pulled the blond-haired woman close and tongued her hard nipples. She sucked and bit them softly. Catherine moaned desperately. Bent over Susan’s long and supple body, she stroked her lover’s breasts, teasing her nipples with soft pinches.

Susan stroked Catherine’s thighs, pulling lightly at her panties. The chic blond bent down and kissed Susan’s tan neck, her breastbone, her shoulder. She ran her hand down the woman’s belly and slipped it into her pants; she stroked Susan’s pubic mound. It was soft, moist, almost sticky. She toyed with Susan’s skirt clasp and then unfastened it and slowly slid the zipper down the younger woman’s thigh. Laying back the cloth, Catherine could see Susan’s auburn pubic hair thru the white lace panties. She stroked the thin cloth with one long, sharp-nailed finger.

Susan lay back upon the bed, moaning and sucking her lip. She arched her back each time Catherine touched her soft mound. She caressed Catherine’s bare skin from her hard, round shoulder to her soft, round ass. She stroked her leg and her thigh. She slipped her hand between Catherine’s legs and caressed the soft, sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, pressing the knuckle of her thumb into the soft womanhood beneath her panties.

Catherine pulled away reluctantly, going to the end of the bed to pull Susan’s pants off her long, tan legs. She kissed each inch of skin as it was exposed, licked the underside of Susan’s bare knees, tickled her ankles with her tongue.

Susan moaned, stroked herself gently, writhed with passion under the attention of Catherine’s sweet tongue. Catherine let fall the trousers and made her way up Susan’s body, licking, kissing, touching. She kissed the soft flesh inside Susan’s thighs, her hands caressed Susan’s stomach and breasts.

Finally, she pressed her soft, seductive face against Susan’s silk-covered womanhood. She slid the bridge of her nose up and down the mound, pushing deeper into its musky softness. Susan moaned uncontrollably, stroked Catherine’s blond hair, pressed her head harder against her pulsating mound.

Catherine kissed it, licked it, snapped at it. She caught the fabric with her teeth and pulled the panties down, down around Susan’s knees. “Suck me,” Susan said breathlessly, half moaning, half begging. Catherine kissed Susan’s soft inner thigh again, smelled the musky aroma of her pink gash. She kissed it, licked it, sucked at the soft folds of wet, warm flesh. Susan moaned, cried out, pressed Catherine golden head deeper inside her. Catherine’s tongue lashed out wickedly, strong and cool against Susan’s softest, warmest skin. Susan’s legs wrapped around Catherine’s waist, caging her, forcing her closer, deeper. Soft cries and gasps escaped Susan’s soft mouth. She caressed her own breasts, squeezing, stroking, pinching her nipples.

“Yes! Yes! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” was all auburn beauty could say.

Finally, she collapsed completely with a moaning cry and great gasping sigh. She stroked Catherine’s hair and shoulders. Catherine kissed her way up Susan’s body, her face wet and sticky with Susan’s lubrication. She kissed Susan on the lips, and the two of them fell into a deep, passionate kiss, tongues delving and exploring, entwining and encircling. They lay beside one another, kissing and touching, for several minutes.

Then there came a knock at the door. Startled, Susan leaped up, reaching for something, anything, to cover her nakedness. Clutching her stained camisole to her breasts, she was filled suddenly with shame. Catherine rolled over casually to look at her; her nakedness seemed beautiful, natural.

“Who could that be?” the blond asked.

“The hotel manager,” Susan said. “I asked him to check on me. There was a man creeping around earlier....”

The knock came again. “Just a minute!” she called. Immediately she regretted it. Now the manager would suspect something, and even if she went to the door fully clothed, he would surely know that she had been up to something wicked. Oh, how the male staff would snicker with him!

But she only threw on the camisole, still wet and stained with wine, which didn’t even cover her bush. And when she got to the door, instead of looking thru the peephole, she immediately turned the handle of the lock.

Seemingly in slow motion, Susan saw herself turning the knob to open the door, glancing back at Catherine looking beautiful on the bed, sitting up, clutching the sheet to her nude form, one long, bare leg touching the floor. Then Susan saw the window. Before, she had made sure the curtains were completely closed, but somehow, now, since Catherine had been in the room, they had come open slightly, leaving a gap again wide enough for someone to see in—to see the two women strip each other, make love, cry out in orgasm, lie naked together in the afterglow.

Suddenly, as the door opened, a black-gloved hand came thru the gap. It grasped at the air, startling the two women. A shoulder heaved against the door, throwing Susan back against the wall. Into the room burst a figure in black—a black dress! A young woman, her pretty face twisted into a mask of rage, stood brandishing an automatic pistol.

“Olivia!” Catherine cried.

“You whore!” the girl screamed. “You betrayer!”

“Olivia, no! Calm down, darling!” She rose, drawing the sheet off the bed with her, only barely covering her nude body.

The girl stepped aside and slammed the door closed, then turned the pistol on Susan. “You bitch! I knew you’d seduce her!”

“Oh my God!” Susan gasped, suddenly recognizing the girl. She had her in one of the shops earlier that day, and again at the café. It had been her who had spied on Susan thru the window in the morning!

“Olivia, darling, please, don’t do this,” Catherine begged, pushing her tangled hair back. “I’ve told you; we’re thru.”

“I’m not thru with you,” the black-haired waif spat. “I’ll kill you for what you’ve done!”

Susan backed away, but had little room to move in the small room. She took a pillow from the bed to hide her nakedness.

“Darling, I’ve told you. I can’t be with you anymore. Don’t you understand? You have a sickness, you need to see doctors—”

The angry girl stabbed the air with the pistol. “Don’t you think I’ve seen doctors?! All they care about is that I’m a lesbian! They all want to cure me, all right! They want to cut out my heart!”

“Olivia,” Susan began, “Listen—”

“Shutup!” the girl screamed pointing the gun at Susan again. Then she turned back to Catherine. “Don’t you understand? I love you. I’ve always loved you. You were my first. And when the others made love to me, you were the one I saw. You were the only one I truly loved.”

“Darling, there will be more—”

“Never!” the girl screamed. “We were perfect together. We were happy. Don’t you understand? People like us can’t be happy. It isn’t allowed.”

Catherine crept closer to her former lover, a girl of just twenty or a little more; a girl who was once beautiful, with full lips and slender limbs like a child, now a twisted maniac with a gun. “Olivia. We can be happy again,” Catherine lied.

“Not with you, you betrayer,” the she-devil growled. She stuck the pistol out just inches from her lover’s breast and shot her point-blank. The report was deafening in the little room, stunning the girl as Catherine fell back and crumpled to the floor, the sheet falling away, a perfect red hole in her beautiful breast.

Susan screamed in horror, and screamed again in terror as the girl turned toward her numbly, smoking pistol in hand. She scrambled across the bed, ducking to avoid the gun, but the girl didn’t fire. The auburn-haired woman picked up Catherine in her arms and tried to stanch the blood. It gushed from the wound, surely near her heart. It stained Susan’s camisole again, this time red-black with blood mixing with the wine.

“Susan—” Catherine gasped weakly.

“Don’t touch her!” Olivia screamed. But she lowered the gun for a moment, and Susan grabbed a shoe and threw it at her head. Olivia ducked, and Susan leaped up, grappling with her, struggling over the gun. They fired it together into the ceiling, sprinkling little bits of plaster around the room, before Susan was able to overpower her. The half-naked woman pushed the girl back against the open door violently, banging her head. Olivia pushed back, and banged Susan into the doorframe. They struggled some more, Susan proving to be the stronger, forcing Olivia down to the floor. But Olivia kicked savagely and bruised Susan’s legs with her hard shoes. Susan pried at the gun desperately, but the madwoman wouldn’t let go.

“Help me,” Catherine wheezed. Susan glanced at her. She lay almost motionless in a growing pool of blood, clutching at the wound in her chest. The red ichor soaked and stained her naked, pale skin. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

Susan turned back and struggled again with Olivia, banged the gun into the black-haired girl’s forehead, cutting her deeply, making blood ooze from the gash. Olivia gasped and grunted and fought back. She got one hand down between Susan’s legs. She jammed her slender fingers into Susan’s pussy, saying, “Did you like it? Did you come for her? Did she make you moan?”

Susan thought quickly. “Oh, oh, yeah,” she faked. “Olivia, that’s nice. That’s good.”

“You fucking whore,” Olivia growled, digging her hand deeper into Susan’s cunt. “You like it, don’t you? You’re a dyke, too—just like Catherine.”

Susan let go of the gun and fumbled with the front of Olivia’s black dress. “Let me,” she whispered. It opened to reveal two beautiful little breasts with small, hard nipples. Susan sucked one, licking it like an ice cream bar, moaning her fake moan, the same moan she had practiced on the men she had let fuck her.

“Take off your dress, honey,” she urged. “I want to be naked with you. We can be together.” She rose up and peeled off her blood-and-wine-stained camisole, fully revealing her beautiful tits to the young girl at last, red where the blood had soaked thru on them.

Olivia panted and bit her lip, eyeing Susan’s luscious tits, but desire turned suddenly to hatred. “You fucking cunt-lick!” she screamed, and swung the gun up at Susan. But Susan pushed the gun aside with a growl and grabbed the girl’s hair savagely. She banged Olivia’s head against the floor, dizzying her.

The naked woman got up quickly then, and rushed out the door, screaming, “Murder! Police! Someone help me!” She rushed down the wooden promenade to the stairs and started down them. Just then, she saw Olivia stumble out the door, the dress torn from her shoulders, small tits protruding, clutching the pistol with one hand and the back of her head with the other.

Susan rushed down the steps, heedless of her nudity, the blood on her breasts and on her hands. She vaguely saw the hotel manager come out of the lobby, face aghast, his staff behind him, as she ran screaming into the Rue de Lune.

What she didn’t see was young Olivia, dazed and injured, stumble into the iron railing of the promenade, tumble over it, and fall fifteen feet to the parking lot below. Her head split open, gushing blood on the asphalt. She tried to rise, but she only wavered and fell back down, mashing her pretty face into the pavement, her body limp and lifeless.