one night stand sex leila

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Is there anything better than meeting a girl, taking her back to your room and making love without ever even learning each others’ real names? If there is, I’ve yet to discover it. Let me give you an example, one of my favorites, though it is damn hard to pick a favorite cherry from a bowl of perfect specimens each glowing red and shiny as searing ember and clear as an image viewed from the wrong side of a telescope.

Jackson Square, New Orleans, might be the perfect place to meet a new lover. Then again anywhere could be, if two like minded souls should be there at the same time. But it seems that open souls are attracted to the statue of Andrew Jackson, or perhaps the stone St. Louis Cathedral. Perhaps it’s the free flowing alcohol in the city, the air from the river, the simple charming beauty of the promenade or just the reputation of the city but there is something to there that opens hearts and spreads ankles.

Case in point, it was when I was taking my usual detour from the riverside to my big-for-New-Orleans but objectively tiny Royal Street apartment tht I met Leyla. I should say, I spied her. I’ve always had a thing for redheads and my god was she a specimen. Hair the color of the sun the morning before a storm, skin like milk and tits that looked like they could feed an army of starving children. Best of all, she was sitting in a just-above-her-knees floral print dress that could be mistaken for modest but showed off her plentiful assets, smiling unabashedly as she read. This, gentlemen (and I use the term ironically), is a dream girl.

I rode my 250cc motorcycle up to beside the bench where the ass I was begging to be as firm as her tits looked soft was sat and asked what she was reading. Before I could finish the sentence she held up one finger to silence me, still reading. Yup – she cared about the prose. I was starting to like her, not just her body. Strange how beauty can do that. I took the opportunity to check her out further and realized she was not yet 20 years old and had that strange fashion sense that could be called neo-pinup. Also she had a pack of cigarettes tucked into her cleavage. But what made the numbness of the road flee my balls was that her eyebrows were as red as her curls… she was natural. I wanted to throw a bag over her and drag her to a cave somewhere to have my way with her. In retrospect I should have been more wary she’d have done that to me. Redheads. I swear. Be careful, guys, there’s a reason dynamite is colored red.

One or two more times I tried to interrupt. To say I’d be right back, or ask her what she was reading and was silenced both times with that same single finger. It was then I decided I was going to spank her butt if we ever did get in bed, which I was sure we would, because I was a cocky young man with a kick ass motorcycle and money to spend. So, I smoked a cigarette and waited and eventually she looked up and smiled at me and all thoughts vanished. Her smile was beaming. Imagine a young Drew Barrymore painted in rennaisance style complete with halo and you’ll get the picture. She crossed her ankles, held out her hand daintily as if to ask for help to rise and said, “Leila,” and continued to hold it out and smile knowing I would take it and help her up. And naturally, I did. And without another word she sat side saddle behind me on my bike and told me she liked the Carousel bar. Yes, my lady, to the carousel bar. Your wish is my command and may I say your breasts feel magical pressed against my back.

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