Anything Goes

by Cathryn Cooper

  His brows lowered over his eyes as if to better direct his gaze.

  He took in the sleek brownness of her body, the gleam of her skin. Her breasts seemed to quiver. Her belly tightened and, as it did so, the clutch of pubic hair that sat like a tangled powder puff at the top of her legs seemed more luxuriant, more enticing.

  His eyes were drawn to the whole of that beautiful area around her hips and thighs. Perhaps it was because of the fact that she was still wearing her plain black stockings and garters. There was always something extra arousing about being part undressed rather than completely naked.

  Tremors of passion made the muscles of his arms tense and bulge shiny and proud against his skin. He stepped towards her and looked deeply into her eyes. Her mouth hung slightly open.

  He towered over her, his shadow dominating hers. Then he kissed her, his fingers holding her jaw roughly so she could not turn away until he allowed it. When he did so, she was breathless, her whole body pulsating with both her need and his.

  'Oh, please,' she mewed, and he knew she meant for him to do more.

  The shadows in the cool, stone-slabbed room grew longer as he began to slide down her body, his fingers pulling on her nipples until his mouth got there.

  Her skin was like velvet beneath his lips. Her nipples sweet as cherries in his mouth.

  When he got to her belly, he poked his tongue into her navel and tasted her saltiness, the sheer femininity of the flavour of her flesh.

  Running his hands down her back and onto her buttocks, he buried his face in her crotch, sucked in her smell and her taste, the curls sweeping over his tongue and tangling in his teeth.

  As the tip of his tongue slid between her pubic lips and tapped gently on her clitoris, his hands covered the fullness of her bottom, his fingers probing the gap between.

  Her response was electrifying. Errol felt her whole body tense like a coiled-up spring, her muscles taut, her ribs straining against her skin. He heard her cry with delight.

  When he straightened up he kissed her again and transferred the taste of her sex onto her lips. Her tongue came up to take it. Her lips sucked on it, relishing her own taste and the sheer delicacy of the operation.

  Then, as the taste was transferred, he gripped her buttocks, then slid his hands along her thighs, lifting her so he could best put himself into her.

  She offered no resistance. Her legs rose, clamping around his waist, her ankles crossed there.

  He pulled her buttocks towards him as the head of his member parted the moist frills of flesh that gathered round her vagina like the petals of an exotic flower.

  He heaved, thrust himself forward until half his length was in. Another thrust, and his whole length was in her.

  'It's too big,' she mewed, and made Errol feel proud.

  He knew he was fully swollen. Knew he was a big guy anyway. But to hear some woman say it was unbeatable.

  Spurred on by her comment, he rammed himself tightly against her so that her opening was entirely sealed with the width and the length of him.

  Errol felt a tight bunching of muscles and an incurable ache running along his penis. His release was not far off, yet he was adamant that Lacey Lee would climax first.

  Like most women he'd known, he knew she would appreciate short, quick little movements that would put the most pressure possible on her clitoris.

  Buttocks bunching, he jerked his pelvis backwards and forwards in quick bursts, his pelvic bone slamming firmly against the place where it really mattered.

  He instantly knew he'd taken the right action when she threw her head back and thrust her breasts towards his face.

  Arching her back, she cried out.

  Errol calculated the precise moment when her climax had reached its apex and caught hold of her nipple with his teeth. He tugged at it, sucked it right into his mouth and, just as he had expected, she screamed - but not with pain. It was a kind of exhilaration, like a whoop of triumph coming from someone who had achieved what she wanted. And she had done just that.

  He felt her legs tighten around him, squeezing the breath from his body as she enjoyed the full pressure of his flesh against the full length of her vulva.

  Trembling like her body, her voice gushed out unintelligible sounds that were more like a tune than mere words.

  In his mind he could almost feel what she was feeling. It was as if she had wound something up deep inside herself and that something was connected to him. Because of that feeling, the climax she was experiencing transferred to him.

  Like her he spasmed, threw his head back and let the sensations of pure release wash over him.

  His mouth opened. Arteries and veins became full of blood and strained against the thin flesh of his throat.

  His stomach muscles tightened. His buttocks did the same because he was finalising the last few thrusts that would lodge his semen within her vagina.

  When the final thrust came and his emission spurted into her, his cry of triumph was not dissimilar to hers.

  At the end of it, each received what they truly wanted. Lacey Lee had been fucked by a big man with the sort of body normally seen only on classic Greek statues. Errol, for his part, got the name of the club where Shirley Anne had got a job.

  Chapter 19

  Six white pillars supported an Athenian style portico in front of the Brabonne house.

  It was not quite what Sheree had expected. After all, Rene freely admitted his Cajun roots, but had not admitted to the fact that, unlike most of the Canadian French who had fled from British rule, his family owned such a palatial abode.

  Sheree, smelling of perfume and lemon juice, got out of the car and, with leisurely, graceful movements, smoothed her skirt down over her hips, then adjusted her hat.

  She glanced quickly at Rene.

  'Please,' he said politely and, with a flamboyant gesture, indicated that she follow him.

  The door that opened on their approach was of well-polished wood with a handle of brass that was as bright as sunshine.

  'Good morning, Master Brabonne.'

  The woman who opened the door had skin the colour of demerara sugar, eyes as dark as bitter chocolate, and white fluffy hair that framed her face like a cluster of summer clouds.

  'Your mother is in the drawing room.'

  Sheree noticed the woman glance at her almost appraisingly before she turned her back and led them across a polished wooden floor on which thick Persian-style rugs were thrown.

  At the very moment they stood before the door to the drawing room, Rene came to a halt and held his arm out to bar her way. Her nose banged against it as she came to an abrupt halt.

  'Rene—' she began.

  He turned to her. 'Be quiet.' His tone was more clipped and superior than she had ever heard it before. 'You will wait here. My mother will want to see me alone. She may want to meet you, or she may not. Mame will take care of you for now.'

  He did not wait for a response from either her or the full-bosomed servant, but merely shoved his hat and cane at the woman he had addressed as Mame. She took it without comment or being thanked as Rene turned quickly on his heel and opened the door that had been so resolutely barred to her.

  A shaft of light and the smell of lavender spilled out of the drawing-room door before it closed behind Rene Brabonne.

  Sheree stared after him, then took a deep breath and tried not to look nervous.

  'If you take a seat, I'll bring you some tea.' Mame's voice was as dark as her skin. Sheree looked up at her and smiled.

  'That would be nice.'

  'But I have to service madam and the young master first before I get yours.' She sounded as if it was a duty to be performed within a strictly allocated time, almost, thought Sheree, as if she'd be punished if some unspoken rule wasn't strictly adhered to.

  'Fine.'

  Sheree did a very good job of looking unconcerned. She sat down in a well-stuffed sofa that had scrolled ends and cabriole legs. She felt a tingling deep inside that she couldn't rea
lly account for. It was as if something was about to happen that would heap demands on the more sensual side of her nature. What form it would take, she didn't know.

  The door closed behind the retreating servant and Sheree took advantage of being alone to look round.

  Deep crimson paper lined the high-walled hall. The ceiling was high and raftered and the floor was of black and white tiles laid in the Dutch pattern and relieved only by the addition of thick red and blue Turkish rugs.

  There was an obvious opulence about the place, but there was also something a little disconcerting.

  The sofa was soft beneath her bottom, the rugs thick beneath her feet. She was alone, yet felt she was being observed.

  High on the walls, hanging from brass chains fixed in even higher, were gilt-framed paintings of men and women who bore a striking resemblance to the man she had arrived with.

  She eyed the well-shaped thighs of those that wore breeches, the barrel chests of those that wore trousers, and the creamy white breasts of the female members of the family who displayed their décolletage so proudly. Something about the look in their eyes made her shiver. What was it? There was no cruelty in their gaze. No haughtiness about the tilt of their head or the jutting of their chins. There was just a calm all knowingness about their expressions, and a certain lasciviousness in their eyes. It was as if the long-dead eyes were assessing her value or seeing through her smart suit to the lace-trimmed underwear beneath.

  'Here is your tea, miss.'

  Mame's voice made her start. She tugged her gaze away from the figures in the paintings.

  'Thank you.'

  As the tea was being poured, she noticed that Mame gave her curious glances.

  'Is something wrong?'

  Mame looked quickly away, dipping the tongs into the sugar and missing the lumps on the first two occasions.

  'Nothing wrong, miss.'

  The ideal servant, Sheree thought to herself. Mame, she judged, was the sort that noticed everything but said nothing. And yet, Sheree was convinced there was some meaning in her look. She decided on a different tack. Gain her confidence. Get her talking about other things, things that seemed completely innocuous.

  'These portraits.' She nodded at the men and women who gazed down at them from different paintings and a different age. 'Are they all family members?'

  Mame's dark eyes moved to where Sheree was looking.

  'They sure are.'

  'What are their names?'

  'Names? Well. Let me see.'

  Mame's eyes seemed to search for a place to start. She pointed to a middle-aged woman with a heart-shaped face and pink cheeks. Auburn hair sat in a pile on top of her head and coiled over each ear. It may well have been Sheree's fancy, but she was sure the woman's nipples were peeping over the top of her dress like the pink eyes of two plump, shy pigeons.

  'That is Mistress Yolande Brabonne. She was a Miss Cartwright from Savannah before she married. And that one,' she went on, her long, brown finger pointing to another woman who wore a high empire line dress and had fair ringlets falling around her face, 'is Mistress Lydie Brabonne. She was a la Roquette before she married.'

  Her breasts too, Sheree noticed, were displayed quite unashamedly.

  'And the men,' Sheree interrupted. 'Who is that man there?'

  She pointed to a tall, dark figure whose painted eyes seemed to be scrutinising her more intently than any of the others.

  'That is Master Robert Brabonne.' She pronounced Robert in the French way, the 't' nonexistent. 'He was married to Clarice. That's her over there.'

  She pointed to a grey-haired woman with a pinched expression dressed in a crinoline of 1840's vintage.

  'She looks older than him.'

  'She was. She was an heiress. Brought a lot of money to the marriage.'

  'And children?'

  Mame gave her a confused look.

  'Master Robert had many children.'

  She began to bustle about the finished tea things, her hands and fingers flying to fit everything back onto the tray.

  'But she didn't,' Sheree said softly.

  Mame paused. Her eyes met Sheree's. 'He was a red-blooded man. All the Brabonnes were like that. Marriage to them was no different than signing a contract for anything else. She brought her money to the marriage. He brought his land and his status. Both families were pleased with the match. Both had a high standing in society.'

  The door to the drawing room opened just as Sheree thought of a few more questions she would like answered. But the opportunity had passed.

  Rene, shoulders back, his silhouette sharply defined against the brightness of the room he was exiting, smiled as he approached her.

  A tall, graceful woman, grey hair stretched firmly away from her face, followed behind him. She was dressed in a pale mauve dress of a very soft material that swirled around her lean form as she moved.

  'This is Sheree,' Rene explained to his mother as he introduced her to Sheree. 'I named her myself.'

  Sheree held out her hand. It stayed there, alone in mid-air. Madame Brabonne did not even appear to notice or, if she did, preferred to ignore it.

  She held her head high, and there was a disdainful look about her mouth. The cold, white sparkle of top-quality diamonds flashed in her ears.

  Sheree tensed. Was it her imagination, or was Rene's mother regarding her as if she were a piece of prize bloodstock or a farmyard cow?

  Her worst suspicions were confirmed when Madame Brabonne began to comment on her as though she wasn't really there at all.

  'What an enchanting creature. Where did you find her?'

  'She arrived at the club. She was looking for a job.'

  'Lucky for you. I think that out of all the mixed-blood women I've ever seen, she is by far the most dramatic. Quite exceptional. I think she would have made quite a splash in Robert's day.' Again the French pronunciation.

  Sheree stood as if dumbstruck. She wanted to respond, to say something really notable. But she couldn't. Rene had warned her to mind what she said and to be obedient.

  Madame Brabonne's gaze slid sidelong to her son.

  'She would have been a worthy concubine in the family tradition. I trust you have already broken her in to that particular pastime. I trust your wife approved.'

  Sheree's calm expression began turning into a glower.

  'Excuse me!'

  Madame Brabonne gave her son a knowing look.

  'Fiery with it. Just as you predicted.'

  Sheree's mouth dropped open. She was speechless, and yet she was also intrigued. What was at the root of this odd conversation?

  As if aware that she was seething fit to burst, Madame Brabonne suddenly turned to her.

  'It doesn't really matter whether Stacey approves or not, of course. As long as tradition is honoured. She is a good representative of all that was best about the family, this plantation and this house.'

  Sheree was lost. She wanted to shout some sort of defiance, and yet she wasn't entirely sure what she would be protesting about.

  Regal as a queen, Madame Brabonne, the woman in mauve, glided into the middle of the room. She turned round, face uplifted, eyes surveying the paintings of all those who had gone before.

  'Scions of a dynasty,' she exclaimed as she stood before the woman in the empire line gown. 'They came here, you know, with two sons and two dozen female slaves. They were the only slaves they ever bought. They bred their own after that.'

  Sheree blushed as Madame Brabonne's eyes met hers. There was almost a look of triumph in them as if she were daring Sheree to think the very worst.

  'Women slaves are less trouble. The male children were always sold off.'

  Sheree did not voice the thought that came into her mind. Was this woman saying what she thought she was saying? The women slaves had reproduced, but only females had been kept, the male children being sold off. And the sires of those children? The answer was obvious. Each member of the Brabonne family had married and even had children. But as
Mame had said, the family married for dynastic purposes, not for love or pleasure.

  The female slaves had been the harem of the Brabonne men, and over a period of time the slaves' skins had lightened.

  Sheree glanced again at some of the eyes staring down at her from the paintings. She fixed her gaze on Robert Brabonne. He stared back at her. It was then that she realised his eyes were as green as hers.

  The older woman chuckled, obviously delighted to see Sheree's reaction.

  'They got paler of course. But then, that's not exactly a bad thing is it. And, anyway, this was like one happy family.'

  Sheree's throat was suddenly very dry. She should have been outraged, but she wasn't. Instead, she felt excited by such a revelation, and in turn felt guilty that such a confession should make her feel that way.

  It was Rene who saved the day.

  'Come,' he said, taking hold of her arm. 'Let me take you around my family home.'

  Sheree went silently, disinclined to voice any of the thoughts in her mind lest she offend.

  He took her to the stables first where a pair of chestnut horses were stabled next to a pair of dapple greys.

  'Despite my trying to persuade her to buy an automobile, my mother insists on keeping her horses. Part of her past, she says. I cannot change her mind.'

  A jumble of thoughts still racing round her mind, Sheree patted each of the velvet-soft noses that nuzzled at the fine linen of her dress. She had to broach the subject.

  'Am I getting the picture, Rene?'

  She looked at him almost accusingly, and yet she knew he would see a certain excitement in her eyes.

  A slow smile spread across Rene's face. His blue eyes twinkled and she could almost believe the whole thing had been put on purely for her benefit.

  'In the early part of the last century, this place was nothing like any other plantation. It was like one great commune. One giant family.'

  Sheree shook her head disbelievingly. 'But what of their wives?'

  'They did not object. Things were different then, mon enfant. A marriage was a contract. Business was business.'