Thrusts and Thrills in the Mirror

New Orleans has always embraced me like an old friend. It’s the city where I’ve felt most alive, and the second place in the world where I’ve been made to feel like a queen (I’ll spill the tea on my top spot another time, promise). This story comes from my fourth or maybe fifth trip to the Big Easy.

There’s something intoxicating about the power of beauty. In New Orleans, where the men carry a sultry, effortless charm, they never let me forget it. On the streets, their gazes are bold, like they’re mapping every curve of my body with their eyes. It’s a look that strips you bare, leaving you feeling desired, electric, and undeniably aroused.

This time, I checked into a boutique hotel in the French Quarter, a charming spot with wrought-iron balconies and history in every brick. My room was on the eighth floor, with tall windows that, on a clear evening, framed the city’s glowing skyline and the distant shimmer of the Mississippi River.

It was late, and the long journey had left me drained, so I opted to stay in and order something simple from the hotel’s kitchen. I called down for a po’boy sandwich and a local Abita beer. While waiting, I slipped out of my travel clothes and into the soft, white robe provided by the hotel. I was craving a long, steamy shower – and maybe a moment to indulge myself, since it had been over a day since I’d had any release. To avoid interruptions, I decided to wait for the food first.

Sure enough, a knock came at the door within fifteen minutes. I opened it to find a waiter standing there with a polished silver tray. It held a hefty shrimp po’boy, a small bowl of complimentary fried okra, and a chilled bottle of beer, condensation dripping down the glass.

“Good evening, miss,” he said, his voice smooth with that Louisiana drawl.

“Good evening – please set the tray on the desk over there. Thank you.”

He lingered, his eyes locked on me. The robe hugged my body, hinting at the fact that I wore nothing beneath it.

“You from Chicago?” he asked, a spark of curiosity in his gaze.

“Yeah, born and raised.”

“Chicago girls have this vibe – always so stunning.”

His comment was forward, but it sent a warm thrill through me.

“Thanks. Do I pay you now, or is it charged to my room?”

“Pay me – it’s $30.”

I grabbed my purse to settle the bill.

“Haven’t seen you here before. I’m Marcus,” he said, flashing a grin.

“Just arrived today, Marcus. Nice to meet you.” He stepped closer, offering a hug that was a touch too familiar, his hands grazing my back a little longer than necessary.

I shot him a look, half-raised eyebrow, but honestly, his boldness didn’t bother me. And I couldn’t ignore the hard press of him against me during that hug – it sent a pulse of heat straight through me.
I paid, he handed me the change, and I tucked my purse away. But Marcus didn’t move. He just stood there, eyes still on me.

“Staying long?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“About ten days. Now, if you don’t mind, it was a brutal flight, and I’m dying for a shower.”

“Can’t leave just yet,” he said, glancing down at the obvious strain in his uniform pants. “I’m in a bit of a situation here, if you catch my drift.”

“Well, that’s a you problem, isn’t it? You’ve got a job to get back to. So, how do we solve your… issue?”

“I’ve got an idea or two.”

“Give me one.”

He didn’t speak. Instead, he pulled a cushioned chair from the corner and set it in front of the room’s full-length mirror, its antique frame adding a touch of decadence.

“If you sit there, part that robe, and look at yourself in the mirror, I’ll handle my problem just watching. That’s all I’m asking – give me that view, gorgeous.”

His brazenness hit me like a wave, igniting a fire that started low and spread fast, warming my skin and quickening my pulse. I should’ve told him to get lost, but the truth was, I wanted to play along. I gestured for him to take a seat where he’d get the best angle. I settled into the chair, slowly untied my robe, and let it fall open just enough to reveal one breast, the nipple taut and flushed under his gaze. I spread my thighs and glanced at the mirror. My smooth, bare skin glistened faintly, a sight that sent a shiver of excitement through me.

“God, I love it all clean like that,” Marcus said, his voice low. “Makes me want to run my tongue over every inch.”

He shifted, freeing himself from his pants – a thick, pulsing length that he gripped firmly, stroking with purpose.

I started with one finger, tracing slow circles over my clit, teasing myself until my breath hitched. Then I added a second, gliding along my slick folds, exploring every sensitive inch from top to bottom. I parted myself wider, watching in the mirror as my body responded, wet and eager, the heat building into a delicious ache. My fingers moved faster, pressing harder, and Marcus matched my pace, his hand working himself with raw intensity.

“You like this, Marcus? This what you wanted? Or is there something else?” I teased, my voice husky.

“That’s perfect – keep touching yourself like that. Now slide a couple fingers inside, nice and slow.”