The Cajun Cowboy

by Sandra Hill

  Meanwhile, her hands were busy, caressing his shoulders, sweeping over his back, cupping his buttocks. Somehow, he had come to be resting between her spread thighs, and the best part of him was planted against the best part of her. Well, not necessarily the best part of him, but the part that was growing to monumental proportions and throbbing to beat the band. He hoped she was throbbing, too. He suspected she was by the way her lower body kept jerking against him.

  He drew back, despite her hands, which urged him back. Her lips were already kiss-swollen and her eyes glazed over with passion. He probably looked the same.

  Moving lower to territory he loved, he gazed at her breasts for a moment, then examined the familiar terrain with his fingertips. Shaping her. Tracing her. Flicking her. Even pinching her. All accented by her moans of encouragement. Finally, he put his mouth to one pink nipple and took her, areola and all, sucking deeply. He felt the tip against the roof of his mouth. He wished he could swallow all of her.

  She bucked against him and murmured, “Too much, too much. Wait. Stop. Oh, no, don’t stop. Oh. Oh.”

  Then he suckled her other breast.

  By then, she was flailing futilely from side to side, trying to escape his ministrations, but digging her fingernails into his shoulders at the same time.

  Faster than a Cajun could peel a crawfish, he removed her skirt and panties. Then he rolled off her and directed in a voice he barely recognized for its huskiness, “Look in the mirror, sweetheart, and see what I see.”

  Her arms rested loosely above her head on the pillow. Her full lips moved and made small panting noises. Her nipples and breasts were engorged from his ministrations. Her legs were spread slightly in invitation. Her belly button ring gleamed in the soft light.

  “Oh, my,” she said.

  That about said it all.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered and stood, quickly toeing off his boots, then shucking his jeans and briefs. He stood before her for a moment, wanting her to see just how much he desired her. His cock was rock hard and bigger than it had ever been, blue veins standing out in urgency. A blue steeler, for sure.

  “Oh, my,” she said again and smiled.

  He smiled, too, and moved on top of her. Putting his hands under her butt cheeks, he raised her slightly and used his knees to spread her thighs. Taking his cock in hand, he placed himself at her entrance, then looked up at her. “I love you, Charmaine.”

  “Ooooh, don’t say that.”

  Damn, damn, damn. I picked the wrong time to spill my guts.

  “You’ll spoil it,” she groaned.

  He groaned, too. And his cock would have groaned, too, if it could. Dumb man tongue, for sure.

  “I know you signed the papers today. I know it will be over after today. Don’t pretend.”

  Huh? “What papers?” he asked, recalling she’d mentioned papers before. I can’t believe we are having a conversation when my brain and other body parts are about to explode.

  “The divorce papers.”

  “Huh?” he said aloud this time, and frowned. “I never signed any divorce papers. Those were autopsy permission forms.”

  It took only a second for his words to sink in. “Really?”

  “Really. You thought I signed divorce papers?”

  She nodded, tears in her eyes.

  He said the only thing he could think of at the moment. “I love you, Charmaine.” I hope my timing is better this time.

  And she smiled.

  Unable to wait any longer, he thrust into her hot, spasming sheath, which was surprisingly tight for a born-again virgin. When she said, “Oh, Raaa-oooul,” he knew by the use of his given name that the timing had been just right. After that, he wanted to tell her how good she was, how great it felt with her vaginal muscles clasping and unclasping him in welcome, but he couldn’t speak above a whimper.

  Charmaine did her orgasms the way she did everything in life. With gusto. She arched her hips off the bed, moving his much larger body with her, propelled by the strength of a massive adrenaline rush. She dug her nails into his butt till she drew blood. And she screamed out, “Raaa—oooul!”

  Ya gotta love a girl who could stun a guy mid-come, Raoul concluded. Ya gotta love a girl who could make a man believe in multiple orgasms . . . for men! You gotta love a girl who isn’t afraid to be insatiable.

  Ya gotta love Charmaine.

  And that was the last thought Raoul had before a mind-blowing explosion that seemed to impress the hell out of Charmaine. It sure impressed him.

  Easy Rider . . .

  Charmaine was flat on her back on the circular bed, which was still vibrating. She stared up at herself in the ceiling mirror and had to admit, I look hot!

  Really, she was the Penthouse version of “Woman Satisfied.” Every man’s fantasy. Heck, it was every woman’s fantasy, too, to be wiped out this way by man.

  Raoul slept beside her, wiped out as well. She gave herself a mental slap on the back for achieving that feat. And, yes, she was thinking of him as Raoul, not Rusty, again.

  He said he loved me. Forever? Or is this just a fling? Will he listen to my ideas for the ranch now? Or go on as usual? Stop it, Charmaine. You’ve been given a gift. Stop asking for more. Take it one day at a time.

  When she glanced up at the mirror again, she did a double take because Raoul was staring upward, too. And it wasn’t just his eyes that were upward.

  She smiled at the mirror.

  He smiled, too.

  “I’d like to have a picture of us like this.”

  “Me too. Actually, someone’s probably taking our picture from a peephole somewhere.”

  She shrieked and tried to duck under the sheet at the bottom of the bed, but he laughed and pulled her back. “I was just kidding.”

  He settled her so that she lay half-on, half-off his body. Leaning down, he pressed a quick kiss on her lips. “Thank you, chère.”

  “For what?”

  “For the most spectacular sex of my life. For giving me your virginity . . . again.”

  She slapped him playfully on the chest for his teasing. “It was spectacular, wasn’t it?”

  “Mais oui, sugar.”

  “Say it again.”

  He knew without asking. “I love you.”

  Tears filled her eyes and she told him, “You know, you could get almost anything from me with those three words.”

  “Something to keep in mind.” His eyes twinkled mischievously.

  She slapped him playfully again.

  “You say it,” he demanded then.

  She knew it wasn’t those three little words he was looking for, at least at this moment. She twirled his chest hairs with a forefinger, then gave him what he wanted in a sex-laden croon: “Raaa-oooul.”

  He smiled, and his already half-erect penis stood up, ready to boogie.

  “Like that, do you?”

  “Are you speaking to me? Or Longfellow?”

  “Both.” She laughed. “You still use that ridiculous name for it?”

  “It likes that name.”

  “So, cowboy . . . ?” she drawled out.

  His eyes went wide with suspicion at her tone.

  “Remember when I suggested a dude ranch to you and you told me I know diddly-squat about a ranch?” She swung her leg over his hips and straddled him.

  She could tell that his attention was divided between her question and her position atop his family jewels. “Oh, no! You’re not going to pick a fight with me now, are you?”

  “Nope. I just wanted you to know that this cowgirl knows more about ranching than you think I do.”

  “Oh?” He was clearly interested now, his eyes going from her breasts to the part of her body pressing him down.

  “For example, I know how to ride,” she boasted, lifting herself up, then onto him.

  His eyes appeared as if they were rolling back in his head for a second, which she took as a good sign. In truth, the way Raoul filled her, stretching her inner folds . . . well, the wh
ites of her eyes might very well be showing, too.

  He put his hands on her waist and adjusted her better, then said, “Prove it.”

  “Them’s fightin’ words for a Cajun gal.”

  “Prove it.”

  And she did. Giddiup. And then some.

  Feathering her nest . . .

  Who knew there were that many ways of making love? Well, he’d known but never experienced the whole shebang all in one night.

  It all started when he was awakened from a sound sleep. Okay, he had been knocked unconscious by two drain-your-brain-of-blood orgasms, thanks to Charmaine, bless her heart. He’d been dead to the world, probably snoring, when he’d sensed his dick getting wet . . . and hot. He recalled seeing an episode of ER one time where some cuckoo bird had decided to dip his wick in hot oil to see how it felt. Ouch! But this was different. Not blistering hot. More like warm . . . blistering only in the sexual sense.

  He opened his eyes slowly to the most amazing sight. Charmaine drizzling oil from a small bottle, which she’d obviously purchased from the X-rated toy case, onto his Longfellow. Then blowing on it.

  He raised himself on his elbows and asked in a choked voice, “What are you doing?”

  “It’s hot oil. Well, it’s not hot oil when you put it on, but it gets hot when you blow on it. Are you hot yet?”

  He smiled. “Oh, yeah.” Talk about a blow job!

  After that, he used the remainder of the oil to heat her up. She especially liked it when he spread her wide and dripped the oil onto that little bud between her legs, which was getting bigger. Especially when he gave her a little tongue action to accompany the blowing.

  Of course, they had to wash off all the oil in the supersize shower stall in the bathroom. He showed Charmaine how to have sex standing up with her arms braced on the tiles above her head and him coming in from behind. Both of their knees collapsed on them, and they landed on the floor, laughing. He figured, While we’re down here, what the hell! So, they ended up having doggie sex on the floor of the stall with water pelting them all around. Charmaine didn’t seem to mind. What a gal!

  They both slept for a while then. But he awakened about two hours later, surprised to see by the bedside clock that it was only 2:00 A.M. What’s a guy to do at 2:00 A.M. in a porno motel when his woman is fast asleep? Check out the toys, of course.

  Raoul couldn’t decide between the vibrating lips, the velvet handcuffs, or the condoms with little prickles all over them. He settled on the shrink-wrapped gift box of feathers. The directions said: “Use your imagination.”

  Okaaay!

  Imagine that! . . .

  Charmaine was awakened by the sound of chuckling. Male chuckling.

  Lying on her back, flat as fritter, she cracked open one eyelid to see Raoul kneeling on the bed beside her examining a plastic case. And chuckling.

  “What’s up, cowboy?” she inquired.

  He glanced down at his penis and said, “Nothing. Yet.”

  “Uh-oh!”

  “Is that uh-oh good, or uh-oh I’ve had enough of this cowboy?”

  “Never enough.”

  He smiled. And what a smile. It was one of those crinkle-the-eyes, dimple-the-edge-of-lips smiles. One of his specialties, though he probably didn’t know that.

  “What’s that?” she asked, looking pointedly at the plastic case he was now opening.

  “Feathers,” he said. “The only directions say, ‘Be creative.’ What do you think?”

  “I think you should be creative.” She half sat up in bed with her head propped on two pillows. And waited.

  First, he took out a hard-bristled feather, like that of a chicken or duck. Brushing it lightly around her lips, he raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Nice,” she said. Most people didn’t realize how sensitive lips were to mere touch. Charmaine knew because every time she outlined her lips with her trusty lip brush she got a little mini-thrill. Hey, when you’re a born-again virgin, you get your thrills any way you can. “Let me,” she said, then used the same brush to outline his lips.

  “Very nice,” he agreed. His penis liked it, too, although she hadn’t ventured anywhere near its territory.

  Next he took out a feather with long hairs, like a hundred silky threads. He brushed her body from shoulders to toes, over and over again, giving special attention to her breasts and groin.

  She reciprocated, but since he was still kneeling, went only from shoulders to knees, over and over, with special floaty strokes over his Longfellow, which was becoming quite a long fellow again.

  Raoul was breathing heavily in the quiet room when he took out a small three-pronged feather thingee, which was apparently battery-operated. When he vibrated it across one nipple, then the other, she about shot up off the bed. “Holy moley,” best summed it up for her.

  When she used the same thingee on the tip of his erection, he stuttered out, “Holy . . . holy . . .” grabbed the apparatus, and tossed it over his shoulder. The case with the remaining feathers fell to the floor, obviously destined for another day, as Raoul fell on her, spread her thighs and entered her in one fell swoop.

  Once she finished one bout of spasming, he settled himself deep inside her and said, “I love you, chère.”

  “I love you, too,” she said, caressing his face gently. Then, she added with what she hoped was a chuckle, “Prove it.”

  He proceeded to with slow, excruciatingly pleasurable strokes. Filling her. Then almost pulling out totally. Filling her. Then almost pulling out totally. Repeatedly. Forever.

  Charmaine once had a client, a sex therapist, who claimed that in the average sexual encounter the man thrusts 125 times. She’d believed then that the woman had been pulling her leg.

  Now, she believed she’d been telling the truth.

  In the end, she screamed and raised her hips high, forcing him to go faster. “Harder,” she demanded.

  “Like that?”

  “Faster . . . dammit . . . faster!”

  He laughed, a raw masculine sound of satisfaction. “Like that?”

  She couldn’t speak, so intense was the grasping and ungrasping of her inner folds around him.

  He couldn’t speak then, either.

  Except in the end when they both gasped out, “I . . . love . . . you!”

  Chapter 17

  Then the cow you-know-what hit the fan.

  “I didn’t know the sun rose this early,” Charmaine said with a wide yawn.

  Raoul was driving them back to the ranch, relishing the feel of her fingers laced with his . . . an oddly innocent and yet appropriate end to their wild night. He hadn’t wanted to leave their love nest, corny as it had been. It was only four-thirty, but he needed to be back at the ranch when work started for the day. There was too much for Clarence and Linc to handle on their own, even with Jimmy’s help, after yesterday’s holiday.

  But what was that about sunrise? He looked over to the horizon where Charmaine pointed. Then did a double take.

  “That’s not the sun. It’s a fire. And it appears to be at the Triple L,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to control the panic in his voice. He pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  Charmaine held tightly to the roll bar as they sped down the single lane road. “Oh, my God! A fire? And Tante Lulu is there all alone . . . assuming everyone else has gone home. And my mother and Dirk, of course. Oh, my God!”

  When they screeched into the front yard, Clarence, Linc, Jimmy, and, yes, Tante Lulu, were watching the barn being consumed with flames. On the porch stood Fleur and Dirk, their Winnebago having been moved to the back yard. One fire truck was already there wielding its water hoses in hopes of confining the blaze, the barn itself being an obvious loss. Other fire trucks with squealing sirens could be heard approaching from neighboring towns.

  “Anyone hurt?” Raoul yelled out to Clarence before he even turned off the ignition.

  Clarence shook his head. “Everyone’s safe.”

  “The Thanksgiving guests
left soon after nightfall,” Linc elaborated. “The old lady’s the one who first discovered the fire . . . ’bout 2:00 A.M. Said she got up to go to the bathroom and looked out the window. No one knew where you were, so we couldn’t call you. Anyways, we got all the stock out. Except for singed hides on some of the horses, they all made it out in time.”

  Raoul released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The veterinarian in him would have been especially horrified at all those animals suffering so.

  “Arson, I assume?” Raoul was addressing Clarence once again.

  Clarence shrugged. “Too soon to tell, but that would be my guess.” Clarence had seen a lot in his time, but his hands shook now.

  The whole time they talked, Jimmy stared fixedly at the fire. He was probably scared to death. Someone would have to take him aside and talk down his fears, as soon as things calmed down.

  Charmaine was hugging Tante Lulu and crying. Tante Lulu chattered away excitedly, explaining what had happened and when. While she certainly wouldn’t wish a fire on him, the old lady must certainly be revved up by all the commotion in their lives, compared to her normally mundane life. At least, there had been commotion ever since Charmaine had arrived. And, actually, chaos seemed to follow Tante Lulu, too, from what he’d heard.

  The other fire trucks arrived and began immediately to set to work. One of the men asked Raoul where there was a water source so they could connect their hoses, and he showed them both the well and the bayou stream.

  On the way back, he noticed something odd. Dirk had pulled Charmaine aside and was yelling at her, nose to nose. “Where the hell did you go?” Fleur was over talking to one of the firemen, who appeared impressed with her questions . . . or perhaps it was her attire. A red negligee through which her black bra and thong panties were visible.

  “What business is it of yours where I go, you overblown pipsqueak?” Charmaine yelled back at Dirk.

  “I thought you were just playing a prank on that husband of yours. With a pistol, for chrissake! I had no idea you two were leaving the ranch. I never would have let you go, otherwise. What a pair of dimwits!”