The Cajun Cowboy

by Sandra Hill

  “Here,” she said and stabbed his navel with her tongue.

  Hot damn! Who knew I had an erotic zone there. Hell, it feels like I have ten thousand carnal hairs in there, and she’s got every one of them on red alert.

  She was on all fours over his body with her mouth just above his belly. Glancing up at his face, she asked, “Did you like that?”

  Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! “It was okay.”

  “Well, then, maybe you would like this better,” she said. Sitting back on her haunches, she tugged quickly on the waistband of his shorts and drew them down to his thighs, then all the way off, all this before he could say, “Hells bells and hallelujah!”

  He jackknifed to a sitting position. “Enough! I want to participate in this game.”

  She shoved him back down. “No. My game. My rules. Relax.”

  It was hard for him to put two syllables together with his cock standing up like a tupelo tree and every nerve ending in his body standing to attention, but he did. “Relax? Are you freakin’ serious?”

  “Don’t question a gift horse, sweet cakes.”

  “This is some kind of rodeo where the cowboy is gifted with a horse,” he teased, folding his arms behind his head.

  “And that’s not even the main attraction.”

  “And that would be?”

  She smiled mischievously at him. Then she raised her arms over her head in a long, posed stretch, after which she flexed her fingers in front of him in an exaggerated fashion, like a pianist about to give a magical, musical performance. Then and only then did she take his most prized body part in hand and for damn sure performed her own brand of magic. She stroked him, she churned him, she licked him up one side and down the other. When she finally took him in her mouth, he died a little bit and went to heaven.

  Just before he came about an hour later—give or take about fifty minutes on the man-exaggeration-scale—she shimmied up his body and kissed him deeply.

  He exploded his insides onto her stomach. Sheer unadulterated ecstasy.

  He could hear his heavy breathing in the silence that followed. And he could swear he heard some heavy breathing from Charmaine, too.

  “Merci, chère,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

  “Ummmm,” she answered sleepily. She was splayed over him with her legs bracketing his thighs.

  “I made a mess on you. How ’bout we take a shower together, then it’s your turn.”

  “Sounds tempting, but not tonight.”

  “Huh?” Now this is a surprise. Since when does a woman do me, then hightail it out of Dodge without a little satisfaction of her own? He shouldn’t be upset, but he was. “Did I just get a pity fuck?”

  She stiffened and raised her head to look at him. “As I recall, there was no fucking going on. As I recall, I’m still a born-again virgin.”

  “Dammit, Charmaine,” he said, “is that what this was all about? Have a little action without crossing the friggin’ line you’ve drawn in the sand.”

  She sat up and rolled off him, grabbing for his T-shirt, which she held against her stomach. By the slump of her shoulders, he could tell he’d hurt her feelings.

  I screwed up again. Damn, damn, damn! Why can’t I just shut up? “I’m sorry. But one-way sex has never been my thing. I wanted you . . . still want you . . . more than I wanted to be done.”

  “It was a gift, Rusty. Can’t you just accept that?”

  Well, I sure made things better by talking some more. Why not just keep it up? Alienate her totally. So, he did. “Hell, no! I’m not a kid to be handed a lollipop and patted on the head . . . or my cock, in this case.”

  She gasped at his crudity. “Why? Most men would.”

  Because I probably still love you, that’s why. “I’m not most men. You couldn’t have wanted me very much if you could just stop there.” He knew that wasn’t true. He might have been in a testosterone haze, but he hadn’t been so far gone that her arousal hadn’t been evident to him. Angry, he jumped off the bed, about to stomp off to the bathroom when he stopped and pointed a finger at her. “Stay here. Don’t you dare move.”

  She raised her chin and glared at him, but she said nothing. Dieu, if she only knew how she looked, sitting there all defiant and half-naked.

  After he pissed and washed his hands and cock, he wet a clean washcloth and prepared to go back to Charmaine’s bedroom. When he opened the bathroom door, he almost ran over Tante Lulu who stood there about chest high to him, wearing the same pink tube thingees in her red hair. Red hair? Lordy, Lordy!

  “Tsk-tsk! You almost gave me a heart attack, boy.”

  “What are you doing up this time of night?”

  “Hah! When you get to be my age, you have to pee every other hour. What you doin’ with that washcloth?” she asked, a sly cast to her eyes.

  “Uh, I spilled something,” he said, and, boy, was that the understatement of the year.

  “I’m sure you did.” She cackled with glee.

  Raoul belatedly remembered that he was naked and he draped the washcloth over his lower half, but not before the old lady commented with a lascivious glance

  downward, “Great wee-wee!” just before she sashayed past him into the bathroom,

  slamming the door behind her.

  Raoul’s jaw dropped. Wee-wee?

  But then that infernal voice in his head remarked, Not so great, actually. I’ve

  seen better.

  Go away!

  You should have seen the wee-wee on Adam. God was being generous in

  those days. And Goliath! Saints preserve us! Oops. I forgot. I am a saint.

  Raoul shook his head slowly from side to side and wondered when his life had

  taken a detour to Bedlam.

  Chapter 11

  Still in the still of the night . . .

  The door opened without so much as a knock just as Charmaine had made her way to the dresser in the dark. It was Rusty, of course.

  “Are you back to hurl more insults at me?”

  “No.”

  “What are you doing here . . . again? I thought you went to sleep.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s what I’m in the mood for. Sleep. What are you doing up?”

  “Looking for a nightie to put on.”

  “Why would you be putting a nightie on?”

  “To sleep.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said again.

  He reached down and swiped a wet cloth against her stomach. She flinched at the cold and with shock at his action. Then, before she could say, “Buzz off, bozo!” he put his hands on her waist, lifted her high off the floor, turned, and tossed her onto the bed. He followed immediately after, covering her with his naked body, then immediately adjusted himself, side to side and up and down so that his chest hairs abraded her nipples and his erection rested between her legs.

  “Tante Lulu saw me naked,” he told her out of the blue.

  “Just now?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Uh-oh!”

  “She said I have a great wee-wee.”

  “How great was it at the time?”

  “Not so great. In fact, it was more of a limp dick.”

  “Poor dickie!”

  “He’s not so poor now,” he said, bucking himself against her a few times for emphasis.

  “Rusty, why are you doing this?”

  “What kind of wuss do you think I am? Where, in what far reaches of that scattered brain of yours, could you imagine that I would let you do me, then shove me out the door?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “I don’t give a flying fig how it was. All I know is the game is only half-over. Are you ready for the second half?”

  “I’m still a born-again virgin. That matters to me.”

  “Okay. Agreed. I think this born-again virgin stuff is a load of crap, but I promise you’ll be ‘intact’ when you get up tomorrow morning. In fact, you can keep your panties on. We’re going to make love, though. That’s a promise, too.”


  “I like being in bed with you,” she said by way of concession. And that was the truth. She’d loved waking up earlier and finding him in her bed, sleeping. She loved the smell of his skin. She loved the weight of him now, pressing her to the bed. Charmaine liked men, in general, but this was different. This was Raoul . . . rather, Rusty.

  “I feel like I’ve been wanting you forever.” He nuzzled her neck as he spoke.

  She tingled all over, whether from his sweet words or his nuzzling, she couldn’t say. Probably both.

  “Did you dunk yourself in peach water again?” He was sniffing her neck and her shoulders and hair.

  “Peach bubble bath.”

  “I love peaches.” He licked her neck to show just how much.

  “I know.” And she felt his lick all the way to her toes.

  Arching himself up on braced arms so that he could look at her directly, he said, “Honey, I want to make this last so long and go so slow that you will be begging me to take you.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Go to it then, cowboy.”

  He smiled down at her then—such a relaxed, take-no-prisoners smile that she couldn’t help but think that this was the Rusty she had known before—not the frowning, always disapproving Rusty of the past week.

  He shimmied himself a bit down her body so that his face was directly over her breasts. “Do you have any idea how much I wanted to touch these before? What torture it was not to?”

  No words were necessary from her because he had already cupped her breasts from underneath, raising them higher so that the nipples just peeked over the top—nipples he proceeded to strum with his thumbs.

  “Aaaahhhh!” she squealed and reflexively arched herself upward, as if trying to avoid the delicious contact. “Torture goes both ways,” she gasped out.

  “Is that torture?” he asked as he continued to play with her.

  “Sweet torture,” she admitted.

  He smiled with pure male satisfaction. He kneaded her breasts with his whole hands. He rubbed the nipples with his closed fingers. He pulled and tugged and finallyfinallyfinally he put his mouth to one of them, sucking rhythmically.

  Charmaine, to her mortification, began to come in a matching rhythm of erotic waves, starting in her womb and rippling outward. Some men bemoaned their hair-trigger ejaculations. Charmaine bemoaned her hair-trigger orgasms . . . at least where Rusty was concerned.

  Rusty must have sensed what was happening with her because even as he began to give equal suckling attention to the other breast, he lowered his arms and spread her thighs wider, tugging her knees up and her heels back to meet her buttocks. All of her female parts were exposed then, albeit under cover of her panties, as she undulated wildly against his belly. Her climax came quick and ended quickly, but it satisfied her deeply, turning every bone and sinew in her body to mush. Her eyes fluttered shut, seeking sleep.

  “That was Number One, babe. Are you ready for Number Two?” Rusty’s voice was thick and raw as he asked his question.

  Her eyes shot open.

  He knelt between her legs now. Her feet were on the mattress, her knees still spread wide. He used a forefinger to flutter the little ring in her belly button, but that was not where he was looking. Nope, it was her panties that held his attention, or one particular, very wet portion of her panties.

  Holding her eyes, he ran the back of his fingertips from her navel to her belly, over her crotch, all the way down.

  She whimpered.

  He licked his lips.

  “Where’s your tattoo, Charmaine?”

  “Huh?” The line he’d just drawn on her lower half was sizzling and yearning for a repeat, and he got a sudden interest in tattoos. “Oh, that tattoo. You can’t see it.”

  “Why? Where is it?”

  She used a forefinger to tap a spot at the very lowest part of her belly, about an inch away from the crease with her thigh.

  His eyes went wide.

  “But you can’t see it now, even if I took off my panties.”

  “Why?”

  “I would need to have a Brazilian bikini wax for you to see it.”

  “What the hell’s a Brazil wax?”

  She used a forefinger again to draw him a picture . . . on her underpants.

  His eyes went even wider.

  “Let’s go do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Give you a Brazil wax.”

  She laughed. “Get a life, buddy. I wouldn’t let you near me there with hot wax . . . or a razor. Not with those shaky hands.”

  He glanced quickly to his hands, which weren’t shaky at all. But they probably would be if she were dumb enough to give in. Which she wasn’t.

  “Maybe another time,” he said way too easily. “I’m really hungry now.”

  Disappointment riddled through her, which was silly. He’d just given her a great orgasm. Since when did she get so greedy? “I think there’s leftover beans and rice in the fridge.”

  “Not for food, silly.” He tapped her playfully a little north and left of her tattoo, which caused her to about have another orgasm.

  “These aren’t edible underpants,” she cautioned in an embarrassing squeak.

  “We’ll see about that.” If she wasn’t turned on enough by that remark, he added another equally titillating one, “I think my tongue has a hard-on.”

  And Charmaine, not to be outdone in the outrageous department, said, “I think I know the very thing to do with a tongue hard-on.”

  A short time later, Rusty was chirping, “Number Two!” and Charmaine was gasping for breath. “Very good, Rusty! But, now, I think I’ve had enough for one night.”

  He winked down at her. “Oh, chère, I’ve only just begun.

  And Charmaine, after hearing Rusty announce gleefully two hours later, “Number Four!”, was beginning to think that the Cajuns took that old phrase of theirs way too literally, “Laissez les bons temps rouler.” She had had the good times literally rolled out of her. Cajun style, guar-an-teed!

  But she was still a born-again virgin. Talk about!

  I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news . . .

  Raoul was the first one to arrive at the breakfast table the next morning. Life had dealt him some bad breaks yesterday, but the night had ended well. Correction. The night had ended with a blast, and he was feeling gooood.

  He smelled the coffee before he entered the kitchen and saw a midget with red corkscrews all over its head stirring a pot on the stove. On her body the midget-aka-Tante Lulu was wearing a black cat suit. And what a sight that was with her nonexistent butt and boobs!

  “’Morning,” he said cheerily as he poured himself a cup of thick black coffee.

  “Good mornin’, sunshine,” she replied, turning toward him. She wore red lipstick today, which, backdropped by her white skin, resembled blood. So, of course, smart fellow that he was, he said, “You lookin’ mighty fine today, Miz Rivard.”

  “Hush yo’ mouth, boy.” She preened with pleasure at his compliment. “You wants some couche-couche for a start, yes?”

  He nodded and she ladled out some of the fried cornmeal topped with a dollop of butter and sweet cane syrup. He took it to the table, wondering, Why does she go in for these outlandish outfits? But he immediately chastised himself. What do I care? She’s a nice old lady who’s being nice to me, and her adopted niece was especially nice to me last night, and . . .

  “Glad to see yer smilin’ today, sonny boy,” Tante Lulu said, sitting down at the table next to him with her own cup of cafe au lait. “Me, I was wonderin’ . . . what’s yer opinion ’bout a Xmas weddin’?”

  “For who?”

  “You.”

  He choked on his coffee as it went down the wrong pipe. “I’m already married.”

  She waved a hand airily as if that didn’t matter a bit. “Thass what Charmaine said.”

  “You talked about this with Charmaine?”

  “I sure-God
did. I tol’ her and I’m tellin’ you . . . you gots to renew yer vows if this marriage gots a chance.”

  “Where did this idea come from? Is it because I was with Charmaine last night?”

  Her entire face lit up with pleasure, which was a sight to see with the red curls bobbing, her white vampirelike skin, and the crimson lips. “You was with Charmaine las’ night? Glory be! I’m gonna light a candle next time I go to church to thank St. Jude.”

  “I wasn’t with her like that.” Not exactly.

  “Does she still have her doo-hickey?” She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.

  How do I answer that question? No, she doesn’t have her original doo-hickey. Yes, she has her born-again doo-hickey.

  “It doan make no nevermind. The point is, iffen you love her, you will want to do this.”

  What about her loving me? Don’t you think that would be a major consideration?

  “Besides, I ain’t never had a Christmas weddin’ in our fam’ly, and I already gots ideas fer decoratin’ yer living room fer the reception. Unless you wants to do it all at Our Lady of the Bayou Church, but thass a ways from here.”

  “Hold your horses, lady. There is not going to be a wedding that I know of, and certainly not one so soon as Christmas, and I really don’t want you planning anything on your own, and—”

  As if he hadn’t said a word, she continued, “Father Girard, the new priest at Our Lady of the Bayou, is an old boyfriend of Charmaine’s. Betcha he’d love to be the minister.”

  Isn’t everyone an old boyfriend of Charmaine’s? And I just bet he’d love to minister to her. And who the hell cares? I am not going to let anyone rain on my parade today.

  Which Charmaine, of course, proceeded to do by strolling into the kitchen wearing white athletic shoes, latex running pants that showed every inch of her body from waist to ankles, including the goose bumps on her ass, and a long-sleeved, white, form-hugging shirt proclaiming DON’T TANGLE WITH ME. Her hair was big and wild. Her face was fully made-up, complete with red lipstick, just like Tante Lulu, except totally different.