A Cajun Hotwife Memory Ch. 03

Chapter 3A

My adventure of spending several days in a Cajun home in southern Louisiana, enjoying great food and a hospitality that included having sex with the wife, was something I never expected, and it is thrilling even now to recall it.

But I wish to pause just a bit in my narrative to talk about Sherri, her beauty and her way of life.

In bed, she was a wild and uninhibited sexual creature. She was wonderfully responsive, vocal, and completely free and open about how much she loved sex.

But even though we had wonderful sex often, it did not occupy ever moment.

Sherri was much shorter then me. I remember asking her height, and she said she did not know, but it was about 5 feet or a little more.

"My Mom is just a little shorter than me, and she is five feet," she said.

She was built like an alabaster statue. The greatest sculptor in the world could not have fashioned a more beautiful, more beguiling creature.

Sherri was perfectly proportioned, with breasts that were firm and pointed just slightly upward at the nipples. They looked almost as if they were shouting, "Look at me."

Her dark black hair was worn long, cascading in waves and curls down her back. Equally black were her eyes, which flashed with fire when she was aroused.

Just moving across the room, in a simple summer dress, was like watching a ballerina. Her movements were unabashedly sensual. It was not that she put on airs, or even attempted to be sexy; it was that she was naturally a woman, and moved like one.

She blushed when I told her she was beautiful.

"Now Sherri," I said. "Certainly other men have told you that?"

"Yes," she replied, "But usually just before getting their way with me. I take it as just something a man says to a woman he's gonna play with."

She paused. "I guess I ain't bad looking, exactly. But I sure ain't something special around here."

But she very much one.

In one corner of the living room, the largest room in the simple wood frame house, stood a loom.

Sherri said she made almost all the clothes she and Herb wore. "Something store bought is kinda unusual."

She pointed to some brightly colored cloth partly finished on the loom.

"That's cotton and wool together," she said. "I'm making some jeture de laine for a coat for Herb."

She pointed to a nest of woven baskets in one corner.

"I wove those, too, 'cept by hand. I used grass, let it dry first."

Sherri also made the sheets, blankets and tablecloths in the house, using natural dyes made from indigo or berries,

At other times, when not tending to our mutual passion for each other, she would spend hours ironing. She was always singing, but in that French Creole lingo that no Frenchman would have understood, and certainly not me.

One song she sang over and over she told me was called "I always do my collars first." She had learned it as a girl, and it was a lesson in verse on how to iron properly.

Another song she sang she translated for me. It cautioned a married woman at a dance on being labeled wild because she danced too close to a man not her husband.

But there was one song I remember to this day.

She wrote it out for me, and I still have it, yellowed and torn, in her own fine handwriting.

Une jeune fille de quatorze ans,
Z-ah oui, grand Dieu, quelle belle brune.
Un jour elle dit à son papa
"Papa, je veux me marier."
"Fille jeunette, now taisez-vous
Vous n'avez pas-t-encore quinze ans
Vous n'avez pas-t-encore quinze ans,
Z-a pour-e-plaire à-t-un amant."

It is the sad story, she said, of a young girl in love with the wrong kind of man, and she is obliged to abandon him and return to her family, never to love another.

Sherri told me that almost happened with her.

"Me and Herb was doing the deed while I was still young. Mostly we'd do it on a mattress in the back of his pickup truck.

"Somebody saw us, and told my Dad," she continued.

"He was so angry he threatened to put me in a convent, and he could, too, and I would have gone. No choice.

"I was crying and begging and my Mom was sitting there listening, very quiet.

"Then she spoke up to my Dad, something she seldom ever did, and certainly not in front of us kids.

"She just said 'Henry, can't you remember?'"

"Dad looked at her and said 'Yes, I do remember" and smiled the biggest damn grin.

"He asked me if Herb was gonna marry me, and I told him he already had asked me, but I'd told him to wait a couple of years.

"Dad told me I wasn't waiting at all. We got married the next Saturday, in the church, and the priest did not ask any question.

"We didn't even get a license until the next year, but to everybody around here, we were married."

She put the iron down and looked at me with a twinkle, still wearing just the short, sheer apron.

"You know what Herb called me then, and does now? He calls me Bonsoir Catlin."

"What's it mean?"

"It means 'sassy little girl' in our language," Sherri replied, then turned and shook her delightful bottom, uncovered, bare, lovely.

"Come here bonsoir catlin," I said.

She did, and we rolled together again in heat of the early afternoon, hurrying to finish each other off before time for Herb to get back home.

To be continued