Anything Goes

by Cathryn Cooper

  She peeled the dress away from Sheree's body as though she were skinning an orange or a lime. Once it was down at her ankles, Stacey's fingers went to the waistband of Sheree's knickers. Sheree herself pulled her cami-top off over her head. By the time she was free of it, Stacey's hands were guiding her knickers down past Sheree's knees and her cheek was resting casually against her bottom.

  'There,' Stacey said with a hint of triumph, a bemused smile playing around her lips as she regarded Sheree's flushed face via the mirror. 'See? No lumps!'

  As she said it she ran her hands over Sheree's hips, stroking her as if she were some shy, wild fawn about to flee to lonely places.

  'Now try it without the underwear,' Stacey suggested.

  Helped by her boss's wife, Sheree slid the soft, gauzy fabric back up over her body.

  Pink-faced, she stared at her reflection, aware that Stacey, who was fastening the dress at the back, was also staring.

  'You look provocative,' Stacey had breathed, her chin resting on Sheree's shoulder. 'You look as though you could have any man in the room, and any man in the room could have you.'

  Sheree had not replied. She had just stared at the two spots where her nipples pushed against the fabric, areolae easily seen.

  In the deep vee between her legs, she could see a dark triangular shadow.

  Stacey was right. She did look provocative.

  'Will you do it for me?'

  Rene's voice brought Sheree back to the present. As he said it, he passed her a glass of something purple that was decorated with black and green olives.

  Sheree trembled at the touch of his fingers; looked into his eyes as she sipped her bitter-sweet drink.

  The spirit rushed straight to her head. Or was it desire?

  'Yes,' she said throatily, the liquid glistening on her lips. 'Yes. I will do it for you.'

  He made no attempt to leave her dressing room. He merely leaned against the door jamb; smoking and watching through a thick blue haze of cigar smoke, his face quiet, his eyes dancing.

  The dress, she realised, was indeed of too fine a fabric to wear with any sort of underwear, even her most translucent.

  Before Rene's very eyes she disrobed, aware as she did so that her employer was scrutinising every inch of her body, his eyes caressing her in a parody of affectionate hands.

  She averted her eyes as she took off her flimsy undergarments, unwilling to look at him and feel herself blushing as she did so. It was almost as if she were afraid he might see the excitement in her eyes. It was also to do with the desire she would see in his.

  'Beautiful,' he said, his hand following the curve of her spine once she was dressed again and heading for the stage and her public. 'Like a sleek, sensual python.'

  Maybe it was him saying that, or maybe it was the feel of the fragile fabric against her skin, but when she sang, her body swayed. Her flesh tingled.

  She was aware of Max looking at her. She was also aware that every man in the audience was licking his lips. It was as though each one was imagining the feel of her nipple between his teeth, or the taste of her pussy on his tongue.

  'Make me your night-time baby,

  Make me your midday love.

  Don't give me your sometime, maybe,

  Give me your full-time love.'

  As she sang, she ran her hands over her body, tracing her sweeping curves, cupping the firm pertness of her breasts, the pink nipples staring like rosebud eyes at the audience.

  Music drifted from her mouth and her very presence seemed to drift away with it.

  She was soaring, flying away from the club and from New Orleans. Nothing bound her either to the earth, or to a man. She was a free spirit when she sang and sometimes it seemed she was floating out among the audience, overhearing things she shouldn't be hearing, peering into people's minds and seeing things that no one else could see.

  Her spirit soared. Rene was nearby. In his mind she could see herself naked, and Rene ravishing her.

  She also picked up a scene in Stacey's mind. Stacey was standing, watching what her husband was doing. Sheree strained to see what she was looking at. Her voice shook. Her body trembled. She had seen herself.

  As the last notes soared to the ceiling, the sunshine brightness of the spotlight fell on her body.

  Its sudden attention made her freeze for the briefest of moments. Then she smiled, threw up her arms and stood with legs apart.

  A hushed gasp went up from the audience. Then applause. Loud, stupendous, ear-splitting applause that fell like cracked sticks from people's palms and, at the same time, cries of endeavour, of encouragement, and even of affection, exploded in the audience.

  The band behind her joined in. Sheree threw everyone kisses, aware that she had sung well, but not entirely sure that it was her singing and only her singing that had attracted that sort of attention.

  It was Max who explained.

  'Honey. Is that dress made of cobwebs or what?'

  Sheree turned to look up at him, her smile frozen along with her arms which she still held out at her sides.

  'What do you mean?'

  Already the suspicion was there. As she dropped her arms to her side, she waited for Max to confirm what she thought the problem was.

  'You're giving them a top-rate performance. They can see your tits and they can see your pussy. Where the hell did you get that dress?'

  Sheree gasped, then stepped quickly back from the spotlight.

  Animated by embarrassment, she stepped back from the limelight, her eyes flitting swiftly from side to side.

  'Follow me,' she heard Max say.

  He eased her back through the midnight-blue velvet curtains at the back of the stage.

  Sheree was breathing hard, not quite knowing whether to revel in her triumphant reception, or remonstrate that they were only interested in her body. And yet, she knew the latter was not true. It couldn't be true. She knew her voice was good.

  'You sang real well,' Max commented.

  'Thanks for saying so. I really needed for you to say that.'

  'It's the truth. Listen to that crowd. They like everything about you, honey. They like the way you sing - and...'

  He eyed her up and down.

  'And they certainly like the way you look. Can't say I blame them. I like the way you look too.' He smiled.

  She smiled back.

  A faraway look came into Max's eyes.

  'I was thinking,' he began.

  'Of Emmeline?'

  He hesitated before nodding. 'Yes. Does it show that much?'

  Sheree lightly caressed his cheek. 'You might be cooing sweet words to me, turtle dove, but I can see your thoughts are flying someways up north.'

  A sad, regretful look came to his face. 'I'm sorry.'

  'No need to be. I understand. I never thought I'd admit it, but I'm sure missing Errol. That's why I know how you feel. Kind of similar aren't we?'

  He gazed at her for a moment as if a great realisation had come on him. Then he smiled again, but only fleetingly. He nodded.

  'We are that, I suppose. But please, believe me, I wouldn't want to hurt you. Us getting together like we have, I can't say it doesn't exactly mean nothing, but it isn't the same as me and Emmeline - if you know what I mean.'

  Sheree patted his big, broad shoulders and felt the mighty muscles tense.

  'I know exactly what you mean. I think, for the time being, that we have a need for each other. Once Errol and Emmeline are around, things will probably be different. But for now, let's not get hung up about it. Let's just take some comfort from it whilst we can. OK?'

  Max looked straight into her eyes. It made her feel good to see respect reflected in his.

  'OK,' he answered. 'Shall I walk you home? It's a fine evening. Still warm out there where the other folks live.'

  'Sure. If you'll give me time to change.'

  Perhaps it was the night air and the thought of having Max for company, but Sheree did not put her underwear on. Neither did she
bother with a dress. Instead, she merely slipped on a silky soft coat; a mixture of silk and linen that was cool against her naked flesh.

  Of course, she kept her stockings on, and her shoes which were suede and a pale lilac in colour.

  'No Rene?' she asked as Max took her arm.

  'Haven't seen him nor Stacey. Might have already left, or might have gone on to some speakeasy with friends. Either way, they ain't trailing us.'

  'You make them sound like Indian scouts out tracking for General Custer.'

  'Don't you know that I'm really a blonde beneath this?' he laughed as he raised his hat.

  Sheree laughed with him and the ease of their companionship with each other made them walk closer.

  Max put his arm around her and pulled her closer so that their hips brushed gently against each other.

  Max took a deep breath, then moaned and stopped in his tracks.

  'Why do you always do this on such a fine night?' he asked, throwing his head back and moaning again.

  'What have I done?' Sheree asked, her voice and her expression suddenly anxious.

  'Your smell,' he murmured, turning towards her and holding her close. 'You smell gorgeous.'

  He kissed her then and she felt the warmth of his palms through the fabric of her coat.

  Already aroused because the night air was drifting up between her legs and caressing her thighs, her desire increased. The touch of his hands was pressing the cool fabric against her bare flesh. And, of course, he didn't know she was naked beneath her coat. But he would soon, she promised herself. He would soon.

  'Let's find a place,' she murmured.

  'My place or yours?'

  She shook her head emphatically. 'No. Not that kind of place.' She glanced up and down the street as if searching for something or someone.

  There were still a few people about - just enough to make what was to come that much more interesting.

  At the sound of hoof beats, an immediate idea came into Sheree's mind.

  'Let's take a cab,' she cried suddenly.

  Max was not given enough time to answer.

  A horse-drawn, open-top carriage was coming down the street, the sort of transport that seems to belong in the French Quarter of New Orleans far more than a car ever can.

  Seeing Sheree waving her hand high, the driver pulled up, the smell of horse sweat and rich leather pungent on the evening air.

  'My place,' Sheree cried, and leapt up into the carriage.

  'One two one seven, Rue de la Fontaine,' Max instructed the driver.

  'The long way round,' Sheree added.

  Max stared at her. Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to tell him that talking about Errol had made her feel sad. Suddenly she was no longer the exuberant, sexy songbird that Rene Brabonne had hired.

  She was a young girl from the sticks of Louisiana, missing the man she loved, but determined to drown her sorrows in the arms of a man who was missing his love too.

  She snuggled close to him, nuzzled his chest, and purred with contentment as she enjoyed the warmth of his breath against her hair.

  He raised her lips to his, kissed her long and deep and, as he did so, began to undo the buttons of her coat.

  He sucked in his breath as his fingers came into contact with her breasts.

  He had an urge to say something, but the driver was too near. OK, he was probably used to having lovers cooing on the back seat of his cab, but it looked as if Sheree intended to do a lot more than coo.

  Not that the driver seemed to care that his passengers were breathing heavy and groaning slightly. His gaze stared straight ahead, somewhere between the horses ears, and his own ears seemed only to hear the clip clop of the horse's hoofs, their echo ricocheting off the closed shutters and dark buildings that lined their route home.

  Invitingly, Sheree lay herself back on the seat of the cab. Her eyes told Max everything he needed to know.

  Her coat was spread out around her. Her body was bare and his for the taking.

  People walked by on the sidewalks. Sheree wondered if they surmised what Max was doing. Could they know he was kissing her breasts, sucking her nipples into his mouth, licking and nibbling on them before his lips went to her belly?

  Could they possibly know that his fingers were running through her pubic hair?

  She moaned as he squeezed her pubic lips. There was a glorious sensuality in feeling the warm, heavy air lying on her naked flesh. She was exposed to the night and to any eyes that might be watching from the dark windows along their route.

  But she didn't care. She almost wanted them to see, invited them to gaze upon her firm, young form.

  Perhaps the young would be jealous of what was happening to her. Perhaps the old would be disgusted. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the old would be roused to old memories. The husband might return to bed to gaze on a wife who now cursed him instead of kissing him. And the widow might return to a lonely bed to reflect on how things used to be, on how she had loved, was loved, and made love.

  As they travelled home Max played with her body, caressing her, squeezing her, cupping her breasts and exploring her sex.

  He slid his fingers into her, the wetness covering his fingers, running down over his fist.

  Sheree raised her buttocks off the seat as delicious sensations spread like racing quicksilver.

  Her sex was like a cauldron rich in spices, herbs and honey. Steam in the form of desire, was spilling out from her deepest depths, rising, spreading throughout her trembling body.

  She closed her eyes, revelling in the wickedness of it all, hoping that someone high in some window was looking out on the street below. What would they think, she wondered? Here she was spread semi-naked in the open-topped carriage. And there was Max, exploring her body with his hands and his lips.

  She also wanted someone in the street to know what she was doing, but it would not have been so easy for them to see, though of course, they would hear her.

  At exactly that time when her body could no longer contain the nervous energy aroused by Max's fingers, Sheree cried out the sound of climax.

  She could not see who responded. Could not see what surprised looks fell her way. She only smiled to herself, purring as the last ebb and flow of orgasm drifted like a falling tide.

  In her mind, she was still the performer and was still performing.

  Even as Max mounted her, spilt his semen into her, and growled his climax along with the last heave of his loins, she kept her eyes shut.

  Errol had been on her mind earlier, but performing in a dress that was obviously transparent, and seeing what was in other people's minds, her thoughts went back to Rene and Stacey.

  Along with Stacey, she had watched herself doing things with Rene.

  Had she really done things with Rene? She couldn't remember doing much so far and, if she had, she certainly couldn't remember Stacey being there.

  I wonder, she thought, am I aware that Stacey wants to watch me having sex with her husband, or is it me? Is it me who wants Stacey to watch me having sex with her husband?

  Chapter 13

  It was when Stacey McKendrick had realised that good looks were all she had, and her voice would never be her fortune, that she'd aimed at becoming Mrs Brabonne.

  Of course, the idea of having a wife had never entered Rene's head. Why should it? He had the looks and the status to ensure that he would always be successful with women.

  When Stacey had first come to him saying she wanted to be a singer, he hadn't even asked to hear her voice. He had just looked her up and down, assessing how one so young seemed so worldly wise.

  So Rene had seduced her before she'd sung in front of the clientele of the Catnip Club. Or so he thought. If he had considered the matter a little more thoroughly and wasn't so egoistic, he would have realised that Stacey had seduced him.

  However, it soon became apparent that Stacey could not sing and neither could she dance. Therefore he should have told her to go immediately, but he didn't. Somethin
g about her proved irresistible to him, and so she became his right-hand woman. She looked after his employees, both male and female - and in more ways than one. And she catered for his ego - and his other more hedonistic tastes. Stacey, it had to be said, became his procurer. His pimp.

  Not that it was always a case of getting girls for him to take to his bed. Rene's sexual tastes, Stacey perceived, were far more wide ranging than that. He had a curiosity about the more perverse side of sexuality and, by catering for this, Stacey got beneath his skin. She became something and someone he could not do without so, just in case she ran off with one of the young studs she so ably seduced, he married her. 'And now,' he had boasted, 'you have become one of my chattels.'

  Stacey had smiled at that, but said nothing.

  Sheree was one of those delights Rene enjoyed with able assistance from Stacey. He congratulated himself on taking her on. Unlike Stacey, she really could sing. Besides that, she was very attractive; in fact, she was definitely the most exotic creature he had ever seen.

  Sheree was not the first young woman to live in the apartment above that of the Brabonnes. It had always been his pleasure to watch unobserved as his protégés had undressed before his eyes, or made love with one of their men friends.

  He had presumed Sheree would do very much the same thing. He had not expected her to use the tobacco store statue as a pseudo lover, but the fact that she got her sexual release for something that wasn't real was oddly arousing. The plain fact was, he was becoming besotted with her and what she did. Luckily for him Stacey, as always, helped him enjoy it more.

  As he viewed the slender young woman through the clever mirror lately patented by some guy over in Houston, Stacey was knelt between his legs, her mouth and her hands encouraging his erection to blossom.

  Above her, Rene breathed heavily. His eyes felt heavy. He wanted to close them because of what Stacey was doing to him. Her tongue was licking around the head of his penis. Her fingers were fondling his balls and pulling on his length, teasing both blood and semen to rush to its tip.

  But he could not close his eyes. He wanted to watch Sheree carry out her nightly regular routine with the tobacco store statue.