Evil's Niece

by Melissa MacNeal

  ‘I don’t think —’

  ‘That’s right — don’t think!’ Monique released me, pivoting to fetch the bolt of fabric. Knowing the effect she was having on the body of a woman who swam far out of her depth and feared drowning in this sea of new-found sensuality. ‘This lace, it’ll give you a whole new perspective on clothes. After today, you might never wear anything else, Aunt Evil.’

  With deft motions, Monique unwound a long length of the soft, raven lace, making it shift and whisper in the little room. Smiling, looking so decidedly French, she then pulled it tight over my breasts, walked around me to catch the starting edge, and then tossed the final length of it over my shoulder.

  ‘Voila! A dress fit for a naughty queen — or a mayor’s wife on the make,’ she added with a chuckle. ‘Attend a party dressed in this — nothing more! — and you’ll be the belle of the ball, madame.’

  I glanced in the full-length mirror and sucked in my breath. My bare shoulders glowed with excitement above the filmy black wrapping of lace, which flowed to the floor yet left my nakedness clearly visible beneath the swirling pattern of roses and ivy.

  Before I guessed what she was about, Monique came up behind me and plucked the pins from my hair, sending it in an unruly auburn cascade past my shoulders. Then she turned her own hair loose, casting aside the white wisp of a cap by tossing her head, to stand before me with the most brazen expression I’d ever seen.

  ‘It’s all in the details, oui?’ she murmured. She shifted the lace at my shoulder so it draped more dramatically, and arranged the main layer so clusters of roses stretched strategically over my aching nipples. ‘A simple clasp at the shoulder, to hold it in place, and you are covered, cherie. Yet so very, very revealed.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly wear this in front of guests!’

  ‘Non? Then add little black panties — they’re all the rage. Or a garter belt like mine.’

  ‘But they’ll show through the —’

  ‘But of course!’ she cried with an exasperated wave of her hands. ‘And if that husband of yours doesn’t take you under the nearest table immediately, he will when he thinks someone else will beat him to it. Competition is a good thing, non?’

  My head was spinning with the airlessness of the room and the brazen way this young lady talked. Again she adjusted the cowl of black fabric that draped over my shoulder, with the look of a Parisian artiste — except then her palms slithered lightly down to brush my breasts, lingering there as she looked me in the eye. Monique’s face was mere inches from mine, her rouged lips parted and her dark eyes wide. She was the rudest, most abrupt, unpredictable person I’d ever encountered.

  And I was quivering. Holding my breath as I wondered…feared…anticipated what she might try next. One of her hands slithered down the lace along my waist, past my hip towards my inner thigh. And then she slapped it.

  ‘Foot on the chair!’ she commanded, and at once my body obeyed.

  ‘Now look at the effect. The dress parts at the edge, allowing a view of shoe, and then stocking, and then…bare thigh the colour of sweet cream, draped in black see-through roses, madame. I swear to you, I’ve never seen a more provocative sight.’

  She was studying my reflection in the mirror as avidly as I, yet her eyes lingered at the top of my thigh, where a hint of auburn peeked through. As though in a trance, she knelt before me and slowly pushed aside the filmy curtain of lace with a single finger, so close her breathing warmed the place between my legs. As though entranced by this maid’s magic, my folds tingled and parted and my foot slipped forward on the chair. Liquid dribbled down my leg, and I thought I’d wet myself with this uncontrollable excitement.

  Never had I been so open, or so intimately studied, for Chapin had never ventured down this path. And never had I felt so — evil, indeed! — deliciously wicked, despite the fear making my pulse pound below my belly. I drew in my breath, watching in the mirror as Monique moved closer.

  At the first sign of her pointed pink tongue, I almost bolted. Monique clamped her hands around my inner thighs, and with a low moan she moved in. Her face, from that angle, looked positively alive with lust — something I’d never dreamed of inspiring, or accepting, from another woman. Yet I’d heard about this sort of kiss, and wondered…

  The touch of her tongue made me gasp and, for want of a way to brace myself, I clasped the sides of her head. My fingers wove into her warm hair, feeling the pulse above her ears pounding as rapidly as my own, while Monique eased upward. She lapped as delicately as a cat, closing her eyes so those long lashes shivered at the tops of her cheeks, as though she’d never sampled such ambrosia.

  I wanted to close my eyes and scream with the sensations coursing through me, but I didn’t dare bring Madame LaRue running in — nor did I want to miss that marvel taking place beneath my springy mass of curls. In the mirror, I watched her dark head bob between my spread legs, saw her lips parting mine for intimate kisses like I’d never dared imagine.

  ‘Open yourself, cherie,’ she whispered. ‘Let Monique catch every drop and show you how it feels to shatter from the inside out.’

  I flexed, and the spasms of desire shot like lightning through me. Was all that moisture coming from her tongue, or my…sex? The wet, rhythmic licking sounds filled the little room, kicking up a salty scent I found extremely heady. My hips were rocking forward to meet her advances, making the black lace tickle my thighs. Those same hot longings Dewel had inspired at the courtyard gate were cresting as she followed the edges of my folds and then ran her tongue hard up the centre, pushing my mound higher with her fingertips to open me even further.

  My God, I felt lewd, yet I was beyond stopping. A panting sound surrounded us and, when I glanced at the mirror again, I realised it was me. Humping and breathing so hard, chasing after an elusive rainbow of pleasure I couldn’t yet define —

  And then she thrust her tongue inside me.

  I lurched, and my grimace was that of Chapin’s blonde as she neared completion. ‘No,’ I rasped. ‘No more! I can’t take any —’

  Faster she licked, high against that hot little button where every nerve burned. I swore I smelled smoke. I tried to pull away, but Monique grabbed my backside, kneading with strong fingers that cut into my flesh like the iron bars of that gate — driving her tongue upward and so furiously, we were both quaking.

  ‘Monique, please!’ I panted, grasping for that last straw of sanity even as I realised an uncontrollable madness ruled me. I felt ready to soar, and when her fingers slipped beneath the lace to pinch a nipple, my insides lurched as though I’d fallen from a cliff.

  As I convulsed, she stood to kiss me, stifling my scream. I clenched my eyes shut. My jaw dropped with the extreme need to cry out, made more intense by the wet, slippery lips that covered mine as she thrust her fingers into me. My body shuddered as though someone had shot me through with a lightning bolt — going far beyond the shocking sensations I’d allowed myself when Dewel pressed me against that gate. The current grabbed me and shook, until I collapsed into the chair like a wet rag.

  My maid fell forward against its upholstered arms, her hair flying wildly around us as she caught herself. She wiped her mouth against the back of her hand with a glutton’s gusto, and then she giggled. ‘Your first time, oui, ma tante?’

  I blinked, struggling to regain rational thought. ‘Why, of course not! Chapin —’

  ‘You can’t fool Monique,’ she said in a voice that brooked no argument. Then she lowered herself to straddle my lap, wrapping her arms about my waist. ‘Men are too caught up in their own frenzy to make us come that way, and Chapin’s no different. But now you know how it’s supposed to feel. How did you like that fine climax?’

  For a moment I could only rest with my arms around this minx, wondering whether I should be more upset by her impertinence, or by the sad fact that she was right.

  I was thirty years old and had just felt my first orgasm.

  And I’d had it with a woman.


  And the wetness around her pert nose and lush, parted lips made it clear I’d gushed all over her because I’d…lost control of myself.

  I swallowed hard, pondering this. There was no comparison to Chapin’s fumblings in the dark, which at first had ended with his stickiness all over my thighs. Then, as the years went by, our encounters became fewer and further between.

  But then, I’d assigned Monique the small bedroom between my husband’s suite and mine. She already knew about my love life.

  What she couldn’t understand was the aching in my heart, as I recalled the lust that had driven those lovers in the courtyard yesterday…the surging, yearning, all-consuming need that overtook them, with an intensity my handsome husband had never shown for me.

  ‘Yes, it was my first climax,’ I finally sighed. Not knowing what else to do, I stroked her hair back from her face. ‘It’s been an enlightening day, Monique. I never anticipated —’

  ‘Ah, but that’s the best part.’ Her cheeks coloured prettily. ‘We get too serious about the loving and forget that fucking should just be fun! Get dressed, ma tante, and we’ll see what your seamstress has put together for us. We’ll take it home, so Monique can design a new wardrobe — your secret weapon, to ambush Monsieur Proffit and his cock, oui?’

  I smiled, hoping she was right.

  ‘Then I’ll get you those servants, like he insisted.’ My maid stood up to rub the wrinkles from her short black skirt and pinafore. When she saw the wild disarray of her hair in the mirror, she laughed, gathered it on to an untidy topknot and wrapped the frilly white maid’s cap around it again.

  ‘It’s best to give a man what he demands — what he thinks he wants,’ she continued as she helped me up from the chair. ‘But together, you and I — Evie and Monique — we’ll take Chapin for a ride that’ll leave his head spinning! He’ll have much more to answer to than he bargained for, when we’re through with him.’

  Even in her zany Cajun sing-song, her words sounded more like a threat than a promise. Once again, I sensed things might spin out of control. ‘Perhaps I should interview candidates Madame LaRue recommends —’

  ‘You’ve heard of the School of Domestic Endeavor, oui? Run by Honore Delacroix?’

  I looked up from folding the length of black lace, to gauge her expression. ‘Of course! They have an impeccable reputation for training well-disciplined domestics, suited to the choosiest of families. Or so I hear.’

  Monique bowed, and then retrieved my corset from the floor. ‘Training and discipline,’ she echoed emphatically. ‘Only the best for my Aunt Evil and the man she loves. Leave it all to me, cherie.’

  I bit back a protest and then turned, so she could lace my corset. I was fooling myself if I thought I had any control over this game, or would ever know all the rules.

  Then I smiled, for nothing had changed, really. Hadn’t women been living this precariously all along, with every man they ever met?

  5 A Picabou Party

  ‘The nerve of that woman! Can you believe she charges a fee for her maids?’

  I raised up on my elbows, still groggy from sleep, to watch Monique bustling about my room in the dimness of early morning. ‘Miss Delacroix? Why, of course she does,’ I remarked with a long yawn. ‘How do you think she makes her money?’

  ‘But without a trial period, we won’t know they’re suitable — non? I wasn’t even allowed to assess the trainees,’ she said, wildly waving her cheroot. ‘Something about Miss Delacroix having to be there for the interview, after I pay the fee!’

  Had I not been tired from lack of sleep — from fiddling with my slit whenever my thoughts drifted to Dewel, or this young woman’s wonderful tongue — I would’ve laughed. My maid was flapping about the room like a bird searching for an open window, frantically parting the drapes to yank up the sashes.

  ‘So we’ll go today, and I’ll pay the fee, Monique,’ I said pointedly. ‘It’s standard procedure. Just as it’s customary to inform your employer if you won’t be reporting for work. Where have you been these past two days?’

  The young woman caught herself before flinging a flippant remark my way. With a fist at her waist, holding her little cigar, she resembled a teapot with steam coming out its spout. ‘Dewel needed me. Mama needed me. And Tommy Jon, he needed me most of all.’

  ‘Tommy Jon?’

  ‘My beau. He’s got a cock so big it won’t all fit inside —’

  Mrs Frike’s shocked expression as she stopped in the doorway halted our conversation. ‘You’ll be wanting breakfast downstairs this morning, missus?’ she asked, her forehead puckered with disapproval. ‘Shall I set for the two of you?’

  ‘Yes, please, Fanny. Is Mr Proffit not in then?’

  ‘Left for the Exchange an hour ago, ma’am.’

  I had my ideas about what sort of exchange would take place at dawn. ‘Thank you, Fanny. That will be all until we come down for our meal.’

  Her stiff little bow bespoke rheumatic knees and a distinct dislike for my new maid. After years of service in this household, Fanny Frike knew her place, and knew how to keep others in theirs, so it would be interesting to see how Monique fared over the next several days.

  I set these thoughts aside to raise an eyebrow at the raven-haired beauty beside my bed. Her hair stuck out in two long, bobbing pigtails, which, with her lacy white pinafore, made her look like an overgrown child. ‘You were saying?’

  Monique’s grin lit up with a giddy sense of conspiracy. ‘Ah, oui, Tommy Jon Beaumont. Now there’s a man you must meet, Auntie Evil. And he wants to meet you, after I told him about licking you in the dressing room at —’

  ‘You told him what?’ I threw aside my covers to confront her. ‘I have my limits, Miss Picabou, and you have just pushed beyond them!’

  ‘Ah, oui, I pushed, madame!’ she gushed. ‘T-Jon, he stood behind me to pump me with his dick — and he held on to my hair like…’ She grabbed her pigtails and threw her head back, as her hips arched backwards to imitate her recent activities.

  It was all I could do to keep a straight face, but this little wanton had to understand what sort of behaviour — not to mention discretion! — I expected of her. ‘Stop it! You owe me an apology, Miss Picabou, and I cannot tolerate such lewd carryings-on. What if Chapin were in your room, with his ear to this wall?’

  Monique’s face fell like a bumped soufflé, but then she belligerently sucked on her cigar. ‘Maybe he’d learn something,’ she retorted. ‘I’m sorry my Auntie Evil doesn’t appreciate me this morning. But she must understand that I —’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate you, Monique, but —’

  ‘Then you’ll come tonight? To meet T-Jon at the Picabou party?’ Her dusky face brightened. ‘We’ll have music — a Cajun band! — and food like you have never eaten before.’

  Such an invitation was the last thing I’d expected, after her initial tirade about Miss Delacroix. ‘I don’t think —’

  ‘Oui, cherie. No thinking — and no telling Chapin! Just let Monique show you a good time.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d fit in with —’

  ‘It’s the next lesson,’ Monique insisted, grasping the low, ruffled neckline of my peignoir. ‘Tommy Jon, he wants to show you his special talent. He’ll make sure everything…fits in!’

  I paused, speechless, as those cow-brown eyes riveted mine and then gazed pointedly at the dual peaks beneath my nightgown. ‘And what does Tommy Jon do?’

  ‘Makes the finest boots — and toys — Auntie Eve has ever seen.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ What else could I say? This maid refused to be refused, and would somehow always have the last word, wouldn’t she? After all, she’d just coaxed my breasts to attention and could probably guess, by the scent, what I’d been playing with during the night.

  ‘Ah, oui, indeed,’ she whispered, and with a giggle she kissed my cheek. ‘Now get that pretty ass out of this bed. I’m ravenous!’

  Disappointment tingled between my legs as she f
litted towards the door. I had hoped she might be hungry for —

  And then she turned, flashing me a brilliant grin. ‘Was the house too quiet while I was gone, Auntie? Did you miss your sweet Monique?’

  A week ago I would’ve fainted dead away — or ordered her out of my house — for such a presumptuous remark. But I couldn’t lie, for it was much more than that licking I’d thought about during my long hours in this huge house, with just Fanny for company. I sensed my life was about to have the rug yanked out from under it. A dusty, faded rug that needed a good shaking.

  So I gave her the smile that had been in hiding ever since her abrupt arrival. ‘I did miss you, my dear. More than I can say.’

  * * *

  That night, as Monique led me by the hand towards the bayou, I felt more joy than I’d known in years. The stars came out to play, while the cicadas sang their lazy songs as the twilight fell around us like a veil, lush with promise. We had parked at the back of the plantation house and, as lights came on in Dewel’s downstairs windows, I wondered who lit his lamps…whether he was even at home on this fine night. Surely such a lusty man wouldn’t spend an evening alone — and wouldn’t have to, for any woman would gladly have him.

  Pick me! ran through my mind, and I shoved that wayward thought aside. I was a married woman, merely out to meet my new maid’s family — checking her background, I could call it, if Chapin asked. As luck would have it, he’d gone to a dinner meeting of political backers and wouldn’t be home until late.

  Or so he said.

  Monique’s laughter lifted me out of my suspicions. The heavy scents of water and thick vegetation told me we were nearing the bayou: swamp, some would call it. For the Cajuns who’d made it their home for generations, however, it was a world unto itself. A world with its own wildlife, its own rules — and its own secrets. As my maid helped me into a pirogue and then began to paddle, I entered another time and place; a setting normally unexplored by society types.