"Oh, oui, oui, mon cher… pump all of it into me! All of it! It's mine… mine… mine! Your cream is mine!" she mumbled, her thighs quaking, her belly trembling with the unleashed pool of warm pleasure he was emptying into her. Until, at last, he fell heavily relaxed on top of her and once more she encircled him inside her caressing arms.
She sighed from deep in her breast, her legs falling limp, shamelessly, while her heart pounded in her chest. Her body had been fulfilled at last… and oh God, how fulfilled…
"Cheri… mon cheri," she whispered. "I love you… You believe me, eh?"
Shannon swallowed and gave off a long sigh of his own. "I believe you, baby."
"And we will be very happy… I know… won't we, cheri."
"Very… once we get all that money, we have to be happy, angel… Money's the secret."
"And we will get my baby? My little Igat…?"
"Of course, we'll get her," said Shannon, finally rolling off her to the side, on his back. "You never signed any papers with the Girardes, did you?"
Madeleine turned toward him and raised to one elbow, her magnificent breasts brushing against him pendulously. "Papers?" she repeated, then slowly shook her head. "There were never any papers, cheri."
"Good," he said. "Then, there's no question. Igat is still legally your child, and we'll get her when we're ready… after we take care of the Larreau business."
His confident words sent a thrill of elation soaring through Madeleine. She clutched at his arm tightly. Dear God, they were going to be so happy, just the three of them… "Tell me, cheri, what do you want me to do? How can I help?"
Shannon smiled, then rolled toward her. He said: "Well now… you just lay quiet, baby, keep your legs open and I'll tell you all about it…"
CHAPTER SIX
Annette Larreau could not definitely pinpoint the exact moment in her twenty-two years when she first contemplated suicide; it was as if the idea had been haphazardly floating around in her brain as far back as she could remember, before all of her father's mistresses, before "Cousin" Antoine had been sent to prison and his Madeleine had disappeared, before the evil ogre who had first her committed her mother to an institution for the mental deficient when she was ten, even prior to the time when she had come to understand that the name Larreau was synonymous with every conceivable vice and evil imagined or otherwise, and that her father was lord-governor of the domain.
All the same, she had never tried it, nor was it a mania or fixation with her, any more than did she fall into morbid states of depression or dwell on the subject when she was with the select few people she called friends. The simple explanation was that she had long ago decided she was a social freak and had always been, that the sight of her name in the elite gossip columns nauseated her, that she did not belong and in general, was not wanted; but she was that novelty piece, the risque bit, the notorious daughter of the nefarious Gaston Larreau, crime czar; and her first and immediate appearance at any function always made for a delightful raising of eyebrows and exciting under-the-breath conversation. The entire picture of her whole life had been, presently was, and would be as long as she existed, a waste, and she had no desire to continue on with it further. It was that simple; the time had finally come to put an end to things, but the question was, how?
Being of the new, mod, non-violent generation, she abhorred guns, knives and the like, and the mere thought of strangulation by hanging one's self, or administering poison, even wrist-slashing, seemed nothing short of crude, abominable methods. An overdose of sleeping potions was probably the more practical and less painful approach, however, a little item on the back page of the Montreal Star had finally helped her to make up her mind. It was a short and concise piece that told of a young man being found in his apartment, dead from an overdose of heroin: thus, Annette Larreau decided to become an addict first… a corpse later, once the novelty wore off.
There was one more issue of importance to be taken into consideration she thought, as she drove her sporty red, Karmann-Ghia south on Highway 9 from Quebec City where she had spent a "square-peg" few days with old Laval schoolmates, and that was the disposition of the sleek, noble beast seated erectly on the seat beside her… the future of her gallant and faithful Great Dane, Sir Launcelot. He was devoted to her and she loved him with a depth of feeling that went far beyond the shallow emotions peculiar to the human animal; she loved him as no woman ever loved even her lover, and the thought of leaving him behind to the unmercy of the world raised tears each time it crossed her mind. Yet, she had only to look into his great brown eyes to know that she couldn't bring herself to take his life; still, neither could she bear to leave him behind to some worse fate… Dear God, she did love him so…!
He was the only meaningful thing her father had ever given her, and she had raised him from a pup, raised, trained and taught him that his entire existence was meant to fill the void in her life. She had treated him as a human, never an animal, showering her love upon him and demanding the same in return. Her Launcelot had never known copulation with another dog for she had denied him that, jealously so, but in place of a bitch dog she had given him herself, patiently teaching and guiding him until she was certain there was no human of the male specie who could begin to match his magnificent love-making.
Dear God, she had only to think of their nightly intimate moments to work herself into a sexual frenzy. If only people could rise to the level of so-called dumb animals… what a different and wonderful world it would be, she thought. She reached over and stroked his great head, smiled at him and he whined back his response. Damn, for two cents she was tempted to pull off on a side road to some secluded spot and let him lick her between her legs to climax. That anticipating, wanting expression was gleaming innocently in his great round eyes, and the mere thought had pleasurably moistened the tight, hairlined slit between her warm, itching thighs. She shifted in the seat and felt her panties draw snugly up into the soft, vibrant crevice, gently splaying the fleshy lips to tauten provocatively against her suddenly aroused clitoris. Once more, she squirmed her buttocks down into the leather of the cushion causing delightful little sensations to tingle in her loins and belly. The giant dog, with ears erect, watched her and whimpered longingly, his brown eyes pleading, as if somehow he could, and had, read her thoughts. His nose twitched also, as if the odor of the excitement forming down between her legs had wafted over to him.
Annette laughed warmly, almost excitedly, again reaching over to stroke his head. "Ah… mon cher, but I'm afraid it will have to keep, eh? Maybe later, sweetheart… but for sure, tonight…" Then, her smile changed to an expression of sadness. After awhile, she said: "My gallant Launcelot… what's to become of us, you and me…? We are all that either of us have in this rotten world… and in all humaneness I can't leave you behind when I go… nor can I take your life… Mon Dieu… I don't know… I don't know, cheri."
Her abrupt solemn change of mood immediately dispelled her prurient desires of a few moments before. She settled back in the seat and drove with her eyes fixed on the road as she thought. There was something almost sadistic in the method she had settled on to bring things to an end for herself, plus the idea of addicting her body to heroin, inasmuch as her own father filled his coffers from the illicit traffic, amongst other evil things; yet, at the same time, it sounded like a wild and crazy adventure. She'd tried it and liked it, freaked-out on "speed" a few times and forgotten her woes, but "smack" was going to be a brand new trip, and getting the stuff should be simple. Armand Nicolet would help her.
She smiled as she thought of sweet little Armand, son of Canada Steel's first family, introvert, homo and addict. He'd help her all right; they were buddies who occasionally cried on one another's shoulder, understood each other's plight, had even slept together to see if he could stand it heterosexually, but with the exception of a bit of soixante-neuf it had fallen flat for him. Still, they were friends each knowing and sharing the other's problems, finding mutual consolation in their individual ostracism from the established world. Tonight, she'd see Armand and the few others she called friends… tonight at Mother Turtle's… and that would be the beginning of the end… but first, she was going home and spit in her father's eye. That was one more of the few remaining pleasures she still enjoyed on this earth.