When Lulu was Hot: A Cajun Series Prequel

by Sandra Hill

  Instead, he shrugged out of his jacket and shirt, placing them neatly on a nearby chair so they wouldn’t get wrinkled. It was pure Phillipe, neat and careful, even under pressure. Well, his military training might have added to his fastidiousness, she conceded. He would get no demerits from her, although she couldn’t have shaken him up too much if he still had the cool to maintain his obsession with order.

  “I could always ask room service for an iron, and I could press your uniform before you leave,” she offered.

  He growled. He actually growled at what she considered a very kind offer. “I have only nine hours, give or take, before I have to leave. I intend to make use of every minute. And none of it will involve an ironing board, unless you’re stark naked, bent over it, posing for a pin-up.”

  Phillipe was no longer her “gentleman sailor,” but a virile Louisiana man whose appetites had been suppressed for too long.

  Heat flooded her face, then proceeded to unfurl down her body, causing the important parts to go all warm and melty like. Did he mean to make love to her for nine hours? Whoo-boy! She didn’t know much about sex, and none of it from actual experience, but that seemed a might excessive. In a good way.

  “And I don’t hot damn well need instructions from a wet-behind-the-ears mudbug Cajun girl on how to do what comes naturally.”

  “Well, someone’s got his tail feathers ruffled,” she said.

  He was beginning to unbuckle his belt when he glanced up at her. Then he did a little dance from foot to foot until he could step out of his pants, which he of course had to fold and lay over the chair. Only then did he smile, very slowly, and tell her, “It’s not my tail feathers that are ruffled, chère. It’s my tail.” He waved a hand downward where he did, indeed, have a tail, or something way bigger than a feather, pointing outward. He was down to only a white undershirt, white undershorts, and white socks, and she couldn’t help but notice his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and cute behind, not to mention the muscles defining his arms and legs. In fact, he looked good enough to be a male pin-up. Maybe they could have one of those pin-up pictures made, together. Wouldn’t that be the bee’s knees? She giggled.

  “You’re staring, Louise. Didn’t your mama ever tell you it’s not polite to stare?”

  Mama never told her anything about this! She continued to stare, and the “feather” moved. “Lawdy, Lawdy, you do give a girl the vapors. I sure hope you have some of those thingamajigs in yer wallet. Guess I shoulda mentioned that before you undressed. Otherwise, you’ll have ta run down to the drugstore, I s’pose.”

  His eyes went wide with surprise. “Do you mean prophylactics? Rubbers?”

  She nodded, embarrassed.

  “The military makes sure all its men know about…thingamajigs.” In fact, he reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a small tin with Ramses imprinted on the lid. He placed it on the bedside table, then sank down to the side of the bed and said, “Your turn, Jezebel. You mentioned ‘stuff’ you know about. I’m all ears, and eyes.”

  Now that it came down to the nitty gritty, she wasn’t sure she could do this. For courage, she flicked on the radio sitting on the dresser, and Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” came on. Certainly appropriate. “When I said that I knew stuff, I didn’t mean that I know things from experience.”

  “Of course not,” he said. Then, noticing her frown at his sarcasm, he added, “Did you read a book?”

  “There are books about seducing a man?”

  “Sed-seducing a man?” he sputtered out. “I thought by stuff, you meant the nuts and bolts of sex.”

  “There are nuts and bolts in sex? I didn’t know that.”

  “Louise! If you say that you know stuff, then say you don’t know this stuff from a book, or from practice, what exactly are you saying?”

  “I know about flirting, of course. What Southern gal doesn’t? The stuff I’m talkin’ about is how ta make a man have sex with you when he resists.”

  His jaw dropped.

  “Face it, sweetheart, you had every intention of goin’ off ta war…or at least off ta Virginia, leavin’ me intact.”

  He put his face in his hands and muttered something before raising his head. “And you plan on seducing me into changing my mind?”

  “Uh-huh. But I wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it, so I went ta my best friend Lettie Doucet and she sent me ta her cousin Violette. You know, Vi, don’t you? She’s ’bout yer age. Anyways, Vi hit some hard times after her husband was killed, and she works the night shift on Bourbon Street, if ya get my meanin’.”

  It took Phillipe several moments before he understood. “Mon Dieu! You went to a prostitute for seduction advice?”

  She smiled. Now he understood. Would he be disgusted, or angry?

  What he was, it turned out, was amused. He burst out with laughter and fell back on the bed, laughing so hard tears rolled down his face and he held his sides as if in pain. Finally, he shimmied himself up onto the mattress so that his head was propped on the pillow and his legs were crossed at the ankles. With one hand, he motioned for her to proceed. “This ought to be good.”

  “It will be,” she promised. “First off, a lady has to have good lingerie, according to Vi.” She unzipped the back of her dress and let it slide down to puddle at her feet.

  He gasped at first sight of her lacy nude bra and panties, not to mention the black garter belt, and sat up straighter.

  “What do you think?” She arched her back so that her breasts stuck out, making them look bigger than they were.

  “I think you’re trying to torture me for not making the first move.”

  “Would I do that?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. Then, with a quick turn, she looked back at him over her shoulder. “Are my seams straight?” When he just made a gurgling sound, she added, “Vi says that men like seamed stockings because the seams are like highways leading to paradise. Which is silly, of course. Like rear ends are anything but a place ta sit down on!”

  Muttering something about heart-shaped gifts from the gods, he shot off the bed and was next to her before she could add her coup de grace, “I appear ta be all thumbs t’day. Would ya help me take off mah stockings?”

  “I’ll help you, all right,” he muttered, picking her up and carrying her over to the bed where he dumped her, then proceeded to crawl up and over her. Once he’d arranged himself over her, belly to belly, his thighs separating her legs, his arms braced over her head, he told her, “I’ll take over from here, darlin’.”

  And he did.

  In the mood…

  “I love you,” he told her, before making love to her the first time. The words, finally spoken, put a seal on their relationship. It was not a sailor’s line, polished over and over as a thigh opener, but a promise. A forever promise. That’s why he had avoided the declaration for so long.

  He guessed he was still more Cajun than he realized. When a Cajun man gave his heart, it was “till death do us part.” Like his pawpaw said.

  “Finally!” she said, nipping him on the jaw, then kissing it better.

  Nip away, chère, he thought. There were parts of his body that appreciated her small gesture of pain/pleasure. In fact, there was one particular part that would welcome a nip-kiss. Maybe later. For now, he prodded, “Well?”

  She pretended not to understand, at first, but then she sighed. “I love you, too, Phillipe, but I had to wait for you to say the words first.”

  “Why? You had no qualms about seducing me.”

  “That’s different. There are some things that have to be done the old fashioned way.”

  So, she was Cajun at heart, too.

  He was still lying atop her, braced on his extended arms to lessen his weight. Gazing down at her, he said, “I love you, Louise. Today, tomorrow, always. I can’t make promises about our future, but I can’t imagine it without you.”

  “I feel the same way, Phillipe.” She put a hand to his cheek, lovingly. “Stop worryin’ about me, how t
a fit yer obligations with my inclinations. I’ll be happy wherever you are.”

  It was a gentle loving then, because it was Louise’s first time and because he wanted to express all the emotions he’d been holding back, for what reason he couldn’t remember at the moment. First, he ordered her, “Don’t move,” as he jumped off the bed and shucked his skivvies and socks quicker than the blink of an eye. He was about to climb back onto the bed.

  But Louise ordered, “No. Stand there a minute. Let me look at you first.” She rose up on her elbows to get a better look.

  He was a little embarrassed. Not by his nudity. He knew he had a good body, honed by military training. But it was probably the first time Louise had seen a man with a full-blown erection, and his was definitely full-blown.

  “Oh, Phillipe, you are so beautiful.”

  He didn’t know about beautiful, but he wasn’t embarrassed anymore. “Your turn, darlin’,” he said as he sat on the edge of the bed and proceeded to undress her, bit by bit. It was like unwrapping a much-anticipated Christmas gift.

  First her bra, which revealed small but perfectly formed breasts with delicious pink tips. He touched them gently with his fingertips, causing her to arch upward and moan.

  “You like that?” he asked.

  “Heavenly,” she replied.

  When he leaned down and took one into his mouth, licking the nipple with his raspy tongue, she moaned, “More.”

  He smiled and moved downward. Undoing her garters, then rolling the nylons down her legs. She still had on her red heels which he had to remove first. He had plans for those high heels, later. The famous Betty Grable back view, glance back over the shoulder, white bathing suit with high heels pin-up, came to mind. Not that he’d ever examined the photo more than, oh, say, a hundred times. Except Louise would be sans bathing suit, in his imagined pin-up. Just the sexy-hot, red heels. And maybe her hair would be down and not upswept. And, of course, her hair was dark, not Betty Grable blond. And maybe she would have this same flower in her hair. So many possibilities!

  And, holy Cajun catfish, but this present scenario was much more exciting than any sailor’s locker pin-up could ever be.

  Louise was left with only the wispy, see-through panties now. True to her outrageous form, Louise bent one knee, lifted her arms above her head, and posed for him. With her dark hair spread on the pillow, with the flower still behind one ear, she would win any competition for best pin-up model, ever. Forget Betty Grable—Louise was hot, hot, hot. Not that he would ever want to share this picture with any other guy.

  With the scant garment removed and tossed back over his shoulder, he began a slow loving. Kisses…many, many kisses. And caresses. Tentative fingers exploring all her secret places. And words, husky words of appreciation for all her tempting parts.

  And Louise, innocent as she was of the actual sexual act, was a quick learner. In fact, she soon taught him a few things about arousal and the rise of excitement to a fever pitch. Were these tricks she’d been taught by Vi, the prostitute, or was she a born seductress?

  In any case, the gentle loving was a slow torture for them both, until Louise grabbed hold of him right where a man didn’t want to be grabbed, and demanded, “Now! I’ve waited long enough.”

  He saw stars for a moment. But then, who was he to argue, especially with his cock in a vise?

  It was over way too soon. Louise claimed it hadn’t hurt, much, and he kept telling her how much he loved her, and she repeated the words back at him. Now that the words had been spoken, they couldn’t seem to say them enough.

  She spent a good half hour exploring his body. She was fascinated by the dark hairs on his chest and the trail it made down, down, down his belly. She played with his male nipples and stuck the tip of her tongue in his belly button. She even examined his balls which she thought were funny. He would have been offended by that if he wasn’t so appreciative of the fondling. And, of course, the witch loved the effect her efforts were having on his favorite part, which she named Le Buche, the log.

  When she tried to climb on top of him…another idea from the great Violette?...he told her, “It’s too soon. You must be sore.”

  “Hah!” she said and took matters into her own hands. Literally. This second time, she learned about female orgasms, and she couldn’t stop talking about it:

  “Phillipe! That was better than necking and kissing, combined. Better than sweet beignets with café au lait on a Sunday morning in Nawleans.

  “Do all women know about this?

  “It felt like little explosions goin’ off in my body. Glory be!“

  Mon Dieu! This has to be the best kept secret, ever.

  “Is it like this all the time, Phillipe? Is it? Oh, I surely hope so.“

  Does it feel the same way for a man? Oh, only one at a time per bout. That doesn’t seem fair.“

  But is there a limit on how many bouts there can be in one night?“

  Wait till I tell my mother she left the best part out when she gave me that sex talk.”

  “Um, I don’t think discussing this with your mother is a good idea,” he suggested.

  “Maybe not,” she agreed and grinned at him.

  “I think I may have awakened the tiger here,” Phillipe said, laughing at her enthusiasm, and kissing the top of her head as he drew her tight against his side with her face on his chest.

  “You implyin’ that I’m a tiger, cher? Well, just wait till you hear me roar,” she said and nipped his chin, at the same time inching one knee up and over his thigh.“

  I’d rather hear you purr, darlin’.”

  And she did. A lot.

  After that, they ate oysters and drank wine in bed and talked about everything but the future. That horse had already left the barn, and they weren’t going to dwell on it anymore. At least not during these precious hours they had left together.

  By morning, the love they’d professed for the first time the evening before was now firmly cemented by fierce and intense lovemaking, and sweet words of promise and hope.

  “No, don’t get up,” he said when he was fully dressed and ready to leave by four a.m.

  “But I was going to come see you off on the bus.”

  He shook his head. “I want to remember you this way.”

  And so Phillipe was alone when he boarded the bus that would take him to Little Creek, Virginia, and the beginning of a new adventure as an amphibian scout. But he was smiling as he left his homeland.

  He would return, guar-an-teed.

  Chapter 5

  As time goes by…

  Over the next year or so, Louise grew to love Phillipe more and more, even though they were apart for most of that time.

  He was kind. He showed that not just in his consideration of her feelings for the bayou, but how he treated his military buddies, spending his off hours teaching some of them the academic skills needed to pass written tests, and his own family, who were in the same financial straits as her own.

  He was loving. The letters he wrote often included newspaper or magazine clippings about couples who overcame insurmountable odds to be together. Who knew he had such a romantic side!

  He was sexy. Oh, my! And not just in bed.

  He was even developing a sense of humor. The photograph he sent of himself, wearing bathing trunks, a diving mask, and flippers, standing in a desert somewhere, was priceless.

  And the body he was developing with his military exercises, not to mention all that swimming….well, all she could say was, “Ooh la la!”

  They exchanged dozens of letters, many of his on the required V-mail microfilm paper when he was out of the country on some mission or other, with lines blocked out that might disclose his location or military activity. “Loose lips sink ships,” was the motto of the day. As if she would know Tunisia or Palermo from Timbuktu! Although she did buy a pocket atlas from the used bookstore on Canal Street.

  It was those times, though, when she didn’t receive a letter or a rare phone call, weeks
at a stretch, that scared her most. She knew by his “silences” that he must be on a mission, somewhere dangerous, where he might be wounded, or never return.

  The relief when she heard from him again was beyond description. Usually, she had to go off somewhere by herself afterward to cry her eyes out. But that was nothing compared to those women, and she knew a few, who got the hated “regret to inform” telegrams telling them of a loved one’s demise. The poor overworked telegram boys who delivered those messages had come to be called “Angels of Death.”

  She kept every single letter of Phillipe’s in a Whitman’s Sampler tin she’d been given for Christmas when she was twelve years old, the Salmagundi mosaic one featuring the pretty blond woman in profile. Some of the fine paper of his letters were frayed and worn from her constant rereading. A few were tear-stained and blurry. To her alarm, the box was almost full. When she’d first started saving Phillipe’s letters from the military base in Virginia, she’d thought the war would soon be over and the box too big. Now, she could barely close the lid.

  And, in fact, Phillipe was no longer with the S & R teams, but had instead moved over to some unit involving underwater demolition whose base was in Fort Pierce, Florida. He’d explained that there were now five different groups operating as amphibian special forces units: the Scouts and Raiders (S & R), Naval Combat Demolition Unit (NCDUs), Underwater Demolition Teams (UDTs), the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), and Motor Torpedo Boat Squadrons. Why he’d chosen to move from scouting and raiding, which was dangerous enough, to something involving explosives was beyond her.

  When Louise had relayed all this information to her mother, Mama agreed with her dismay and made tsking sounds of commiseration. “Boys allus like things that go boom.”

  Her papa, who had no less than twelve hunting rifles…TWELVE!...and who scared away half the birds in the bayou when he plinked tin cans off the garden fence, and who’d once tried to dynamite a stump in their back yard but, instead, blew away half of her mother’s vegetable patch, sighed and said, “Phillipe is one lucky somabitch, ’scuse mah French. I’d like ta blow up one them Nazi U-boats mahself.”