Tarotica

Eli scooped a clam from its shell and fed it to her. Then he forked one into his own mouth and chewed it with obvious relish.

“I want you to eat these clams while I eat your pussy,” he said.

“You mean now? Here? ”

He speared another clam and held it up for her to examine. “Look at this little beauty. Surely you see the resemblance?”

He ran the tip of his finger along the crustacean’s ridged mouth. Miranda’s pussy tingled in response, as if he were caressing her. Lewdly, he licked the clam, then slipped it in her mouth.

“Mmm,” she sighed, swallowing the shellfish.

“When our waitress returns, order blackened redfish for me,” he said, and ducked beneath the table.

She felt his hands push up her dress and gently spread her legs. When his tongue found her seam, Miranda gasped. Self-consciously, she glanced around at the other patrons. Do they have a clue what’s going on? But they all seemed immersed in their own conversations, oblivious to Eli’s seduction beneath the checkered tablecloth.

Miranda popped a clam into her mouth as Eli’s tongue flicked her slit. She sucked another juicy morsel while he sucked her clit. As her fingers slid yet another clam into her mouth, his fingers slid into her opening and stroked her g-spot.

When the rotund black woman returned to take their order, Miranda simply stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. It took a moment to wrest her thoughts away from her cunt.

“I’ll have… crawfish etouffee,” she said finally, struggling to keep her voice steady. “My companion…wants… oh!” Eli’s finger eased into her asshole.

The waitress frowned at her. “You okay, girl?”

“Uh, yeah, um.” Miranda ran a hand through her purple-streaked hair and squeezed Eli’s head between her thighs. His hot breath was like a bellows, fanning her flames. She clutched the edge of the table. “He’d like the… blackened redfish.”

“Y’all want gumbo wid that?”

Eli‘s lips closed over her clit. Her orgasm banged at the door. “Yes! Oh yes!”

The waitress raised one eyebrow, then shrugged and turned away as Eli brought Miranda to climax. He pumped two fingers into her, hard and fast. Stifling her cries with her napkin, she ground her pussy against his hand. She was still trembling when he emerged from under the table, his mouth glistening with her juice.

“Oh. My. God.”

Eli grinned and slurped a clam from its shell. Then he slid one into her gasping mouth.

“This is what you taste like,” he said. “Sweet, succulent, sublime, with just a hint of the sea. I’ll never again eat clams without thinking of you.”

* * *

After dinner, Miranda talked Eli into taking a ride through the French Quarter in a horse-drawn carriage. As they rolled along the streets of the Vieux Carre, music spilled from restaurants and bars.

“This is even hokier than the River Walk boats in San Antonio,” he complained.

She snuggled against him. “I think it’s romantic.”

“Fortunately, we’re not likely to run into anybody we know here.”

“We’re tourists, doing things tourists do.”

He slid his hand under her skirt and caressed her bare thigh. “I’d rather be doing things lovers do.”

“All in good time.”

He gazed at her breasts, her nipples evident through the thin fabric of her pink sundress. “This heat has one advantage—I get to look at you in skimpy clothing.”

She giggled, mentally replaying their scene in the restaurant. I can’t believe we did that!

When the half-hour ride ended, their driver stopped at Jackson Square. Another carriage pulled up behind them. As Miranda started to climb down, she noticed the statue of Andrew Jackson in the center of the park. The dark man on a rearing horse. A sudden spike of fear pierced her heart. She glanced at the carriage behind them. Two men wearing sunglasses and baseball caps had disembarked and were walking quickly toward them. The scene in the crystal!

“Eli, watch out,” she warned. “Those men coming toward us—”

One of the men reached for Miranda, but Eli hit him hard in the jaw and sent him reeling. He elbowed the second man in the stomach.

“Run, Miranda!”

With his youth and physical strength, Eli could probably outdistance the assailants. But in her strappy sandals, Miranda knew she hadn’t a chance of getting away.

She stood frozen in place, desperately trying to see a way out of her predicament.

Suddenly she remembered the golden cord she and Lancelot Lucas had knotted in the magicians’ secret pyramid. Lancelot’s words echoed in her mind. “If ever you need extra strength, all you have to do is untie a knot.” She’d stashed the cord in the bottom of her purse more than a month ago, then forgotten about it. She dragged it out and struggled with a knot, as the man Eli had elbowed lurched toward her.

Eli grabbed her arm and pulled her after him, shouting, “Run!”

The knot opened. Energy surged into her feet and legs, the force propelling her forward like a rocket’s thrust. She raced ahead of Eli across Jackson Square, around Saint Louis Cathedral, and down Rue de Royale.

After several blocks, Miranda spotted a tall, wrought-iron gate standing ajar; it led into a walled courtyard. They ducked inside and slammed the gate behind them. A latch clanked into place. Huddling in the shadows, they gasped for breath, inhaling the heady scent of jasmine that perfumed the air. Slowly her panic subsided.

When he could talk again, Eli asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, are you?”

“My hand hurts some, but otherwise I’m fine.” He rubbed the knuckles he’d used to punch their attacker. “Were you the star sprinter on your college track team? I’ve never seen a girl run like that.”

“Well, not exactly.” Miranda realized she was still clutching the gold cord. It really worked, she thought gratefully as she shoved it back into her purse. “Were those the French guys who are after you?”

“I think so. With those sunglasses and hats, though, I can’t be certain.”

“How’d they know where we were?”

“I guess they must have followed us.” Eli shook his head. “I thought I’d been careful about covering my tracks.”

“What should we do?”

“Go to the police.”

“Do you think they’ll believe us?”

“I’m sure they’ll believe us. New Orleans has the highest crime rate in the country,” he said. “Catching those assholes is another matter entirely.”

Miranda dug out her cell phone and dialed 911. “Two men just assaulted me and my friend in Jackson Square…No, we aren’t hurt…We’re on Rue de Royale…” She looked around for a street number or some other identification. An old-fashioned coach lamp burned above a sign on a brick building at one end of the courtyard. “I think we’re in the Garden of Eden.”

She hung up and took Eli’s hand. “They’re sending a patrol car to take us to the station so we can make a statement. It might be a while, though. The dispatcher said they’re pretty busy tonight.”

“The Garden of Eden?”

“That’s what the sign says.” She pointed at the brick building.

“I wonder if this is the Tree of Knowledge?” He indicated a nearby tree replete with fragrant white flowers. In the light from the coach lamp, they could make out a number of other trees like it growing in the courtyard.

Miranda sniffed a blossom. “They smell divine.”

A door opened in the brick building and a woman wearing a bibbed apron over a long blue dress stepped out. At her side, she cradled a shotgun.

“Who’s there?” she called.