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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. All sexual acts depicted in this story take place between consenting adults.
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Title: Dance of the Sun Goddess
Author: Lucius
Content Warnings: The male protagonist is a racist, an imperialist and a Fascist sympathizer. He is otherwise a nice person.
It being 1927, racist language abounds.-------------------------------------------------------------
This story was begun as an exercise in smut with two contrasting speech patterns, the upper-class British aristocrat meeting the real-life African-American star/courtesan Josephine Baker. Then it kept growing and growing, the author going from Third-Person Omniscient to shifting Third-Person Limited and adding lots of backstory.
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Dance of the Sun Goddess
15 September 1927
Spally gently tapped his fingers against the walnut strip running under the window of his Rolls-Royce. As if answering the call, one of the raindrops from the shower that had just left off slithered down the glass, meeting others, merging with them in a flurry of encounters, speeding up. His eyes followed the watery path until the thin streak reached the bottom and disappeared.
It was well past midnight. She was taking her time.
The stage door swung open, a silhouette breaking the tall rectangle of electric light. Not even a chorus girl—just a stage underling who stopped to light a cigarette before disappearing down the dimly lit Rue de Saulnier. Spally shifted, stretching his long legs, glanced at Jules the chauffeur who sat impassively behind the wheel.
How many times did Spally see Josephine dance—four? Once in the Revue Nègre that made her famous, at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, when he was most awfully drunk. Thrice here, at the Folies Bergère. He had already seen the ‘hyper-revue’ Un Vent de Folie last spring, when on his way to Berlin to take his mind off the grim subject of death duties and taxes.
Tonight was the second time. In the plantation scene Josephine danced with that familiar bent-kneed sway, her movements deliberately awkward, clad in a variation of the ragamuffin costume she’d worn in the Revue Nègre. Elsewhere, she kicked through a Charleston in a skirt of billowing marabou feathers. Then came the metallic bathing suit, its rhinestone straps tracing the curves of her beautifully formed bare breasts. The banana skirt returned, too—this time more glittering, more severe, as if the fruit itself had hardened over time, sharpening into something closer to spikes. And for the finale, diamond balls dangled like dewdrops from the tips of her red-gloved fingers—
The door opened again, and he cocked his head expectantly. A showgirl this time. The young woman hurried past the Rolls-Royce without looking, her heels clattering loudly on the wet cobblestones. The clear-cut profile, the straight fine nose—a thrill of recognition ran through him.
La Nicolska! Last March it was the Russian ballerina he was waiting for here, sitting in a motor-car. A little farther down the street, perhaps.
The dancers of the Folies Bergère had always been available—for a high price. Paris had the best bordellos in the world, but bedding a Folies showgirl was the glamorous pinnacle of carnality offered by the City of Light. Every evening, after the show was over, long sleek cars were lined neatly along the Rue Saulnier, their owners—bankers, politicians, aristocrats—sitting in the back. Waiting for the dancers to emerge. Spally knew that in the times of fiacres Father used to wait here too.
Lila Nicolska was welcomed by someone looking like a millionaire from the Argentine—which he probably was—and stepped daintily into the waiting Hispano-Suiza. Six months ago it was Spally who enjoyed the beauteous body of the Russian, giving her body joy in return. He recalled her green eyes, glassy with lust. Daughter of a tsarist general, Lila spoke good French. However, their inter-coital chitter-chatter took an ugly turn when Spally mentioned Josephine. Classically trained Lila had her ballet number, ‘Une hostellerie sous Louis XIII’, juxtaposed with Josephine doing her magic in the ‘American Bar 1927’. In no time the Russian was spitting venom—cette sauvagesse, cet singe noir, cette bête fauve! Cette salope was a bit rich given the circumstances. Spally silenced the angry, naked Slavic votaress of Terpsichore with a long kiss and took her again, saying to himself that he ought to bed Josephine next time.
Sensualism was one of the family traits of the Trusbut-Parr-Cossingtons. Was it the fault of Sir William Cossington, a faithful supporter of Henry VII? He took to wife Eleanor Peever, the heiress of the notorious family descended from Roger, the Bishop of Salisbury in the times of King Stephen, and Maud of Ramsbury, his harlot? Spally recalled the thrill of discovering that in his family tree.
Marrying heiresses was another family trait. It helped the Cossingtons acquire lands and noble titles—six of the latter, actually. Spally’s nickname was derived from the courtesy title Marquess of Spalding that he had borne until the last year when Father died and he inherited his dukedom. Now Spally was the tenth Duke of Evesham, the proud owner of 125,000 acres, a string of country houses, including the great Italianate palace of Frith, a town residence in Mayfair, a villa on the French Riviera and a fine collection of Old Masters.
Spally inherited a certain weakness for dancing-girls as well. His father almost married Edith George, a stunning Gaiety girl, before his betrothal to the only daughter and heiress of the last Earl of Nuneaton. It was Lady Alice who became the Duchess of Evesham and Spally’s mother. Edith George had to settle for Lord Pangbourne.
As for Spally, in the stuttering, fervid days of the last autumn of the War—Father far away at Salonika, Mother at Frith, turned into an Army hospital— he dipped his toe in the hedonistic waters of the Chelsea artistic world on the rare days when he contrived to leave Eton. A bit of an aesthete, he loved music and played the piano as often as he could. In London on an exeat, he was lucky to be relieved of his virginity by Margaret Morris the modern dancer. To borrow a Tacitean phrase, the beautiful and venturesome Margaret became his magistra libidinum.
Post-war promiscuity suited Spally well—he had become a notorious petticoat-hunter. The King was wont to say marrying too young was a bad thing, and Spally wholeheartedly agreed with his liege lord’s sentiment, even if he regarded George V and Queen Mary as insufferably dull. His father once sought to win the attention of Princess Victoria, and it was rumoured that Bertie could well accept the ninth Duke of Evesham as his son-in-law. The Princess of Wales, however, raised an adamantine wall around her beloved Toria.
His views upon the subject of marriage notwithstanding, the young grandee became the butt of every ambitious debutante’s arrow during his first London season after taking his seat in the Lords. Spally was glad to have made his escape from the little ladies and their unbearable mothers drawn by his strawberry-leaved coronet, first to his Yorkshire grouse moor and then to Venice.
Making his way home, Spally decided to spend a few days in the City of Light. He stayed at his uncle’s hotel particulier in the Sixteenth Arrondissement, Lord John having abjured Paris, unbearably rainy that summer, for Capri. Spally availed himself of Lord John’s Rolls-Royce along with Jules the chauffeur. It was he who was paying Lord John’s generous allowance now, was he not?
Now Spally was to spend the night with the coloured dance hall star. He saw no reason not to sate his sexual curiosity. His ducal title, next to the Crown itself in degree, placed him well above every other subject of the British Empire, black or white. He knew that mentally the Negroes were inferior to the whites—that’s what anthropology taught and the Encyclopaedia Britannica said. But wasn’t having the tight bum that wiggled at least 120 times per minute more important and admirable than having white skin?
Carter, his Johannes factotum inherited from Father, had made all necessary arrangements. Yesterday ten crisp thousand-franc notes changed hands, and half an hour ago Carter took care of delivering a bouquet of roses, a diamond bracelet tucked between the petals.
The door flew open.
Josephine Baker dashed out—Jules sprung out and managed to open the door for Spally in time, but only just.
‘I am delighted to welcome you, Miss Baker,’ Spally shook the warm hand of the coloured star.
‘Hey there, Duke!’ Josephine eased her lithe body onto the back seat with a broad grin, flashing her large white teeth. Spally followed her, Jules closing the door behind them with a soft thud.
‘Sho’ is nice to meet ya—oh, and call me Jo!’ Josephine shoved the bracelet down along her wrist until the diamonds flashed from under the sleeve of her lamb coat. ‘Much obliged!’ She planted a hearty smack on Spally’s cheek. ‘Let’s get rollin’—how ’bout Le Boeuf?’
‘Let’s go… Jo,’ Spally gave a small nod of assent, his smile widening. Her fingers drummed at the glass partition. ‘Le Boeuf, vite!’ they said in unison and laughed.
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Two hours later, she was devouring her favourite spaghetti with red pepper at her small cabaret, Chez Joséphine, from time to time glancing across the table at the plain face of the Duke bathed in the cool light of blue chandeliers, his cheeks flushed bright pink from all that alcohol and dancing. Jimmy Walker, the Prohibition-floutin’ Mayor of New York, at her club last night, the Duke tonight—little Josephine was comin’ up in the world!
She liked what she saw. The Britisher had a good build—tall and lean and fine-boned, even if his shoulders could of been broader for her liking. Pleasant smile too—shame ‘bout that long thin nose of his. There was lust burnin’ in his green eyes, but real warmth could be glimpsed there from time to time. The Duke couldn’t keep up with her Charleston moves—shoot, no surprise there! Leastways he tangoed well.
His golden hair had looked just swell in the warm gold lighting of Le Boeuf sur le Toit, Josephine having taken him there first. Le Boeuf was a chic boîte de nuit filled with men in tuxedo jackets and women in Chanel, Lanvin or Vionnet, mixing with a few poets, painters, and—how did the Duke call ’em boys?—‘muliebrous pederasts’, that it! Whatever ‘muliebrous’ meant.
The American Legion was about to hold its convention in Paris, and former doughboys were filling the city. They were there at the Folies, quite a few of them drunk and ogling her bare breasts with half-insane leers. There’d be many more of them in the coming days. Tonight she just didn’t want to hear ‘nigger’ and ‘nigger-lover’ from the lips of a cracker. Didn’t want the Duke to hear that neither. Shoot, no good ole boy from Podunk, Alabam would dare to get a drink at the Boeuf’s bar with Picabia’s Cacodylic Eye hanging above it, staring right at him outta a welter of scribbles, nossuh!
Josephine and the Duke danced and bantered and danced some more—Le Boeuf had a brilliant jazz pianist and a great horn player, too. The Duke drank champagne—Josephine demurred, never drinking anything stronger than beer. She didn’t smoke neither. The spindly, pale Jean Cocteau came to greet her and the Duke, his eyes awful red from all that opium he smoked like it’s his job. Cocteau was with Louis Aragon—tall, dark, slim and looking oh so fine, his eyes keen and bright.
There was that wicked thought of flattin’ her Britisher and leaving’ with Aragon right there and then, but the French swell was with that awful Nancy Cunard from England—her hair the colour of ash, her face slathered thick with white greasepaint, her thin arms covered from wrists to shoulder with African ivory bracelets.
Sho’ ’nuff the Duke knew Nancy. He knew the Boston Crosbys, rich and crazy as bedbugs, too. Harry Crosby looked like death warmed over—Caresse said he’d just gotten over a bad spell of fever. Josephine figured by the looks exchanged between the Duke and Caresse that there’d been something between those two. Not Jo’s business, that.
Long ago in Saint Louis little Josephine was fascinated by a kaleidoscope, the colourful shards of glass flicking into new patterns with each twist and turn of the tube. The conversation that folded and unfolded at the bar was a kaleidoscopic one. Her French much better lately, she followed it, taking little part. The wrecks of planes lost in the Atlantic—so many valiant flyers dying in the last few weeks!—drowned in the memories of Lucky Lindy’s great success, and then the ocean suddenly splashed across Boston, the waves rolling to the stop against the sturdy legs of the electric chair that killed Sacco and Vanzetti last month. His Ballet Mécanique a big succès de scandale last year, the squished-nosed George Antheil and his Hungarian wife, Boski, joined them the bar, both tanned and smiling, just back from Tunisia, and the parched bleakness turned into hot African desert.
Another click of the kaleidoscope—out of the desert sand sprung the head of Ambassador Rakovsky, who had called on the workers and soldiers in the capitalist countries to rise up and defend Soviet Russia in the case of war. Aragon, nigh in a frenzy—Nancy been making eyes at the young Comte Armand de La Someplace—declared himself a Party member.
Josephine’s Duke tore up the patch. The red star in the kaleidoscope dissolved into the Imperial red on the map, which turned into the blood of Count Nardini, the Italian vice-consul shot and killed here in Paris on Monday. The Duke held forth on his hope and belief that the British Empire was on increasingly good terms with Italy. Praised Mussolini into the bargain too. A dark-haired, olive-skinned gal passing by glared at him—one of them exiled Italian anarchists, like as not.
Josephine didn’t care about Mussolini.
Louis Aragon did.
Be that as it may, before the Communist heart-throb, now beet-red in the face, could speak his mind, Cocteau—his eyes the only thing red about him— deftly swerved the conversation towards the alcoholic butcher Sadilleck who had gone on a stabbing spree in the Paris–Boulogne express, killing one—only to die of D.T.’s in his cell. Aragon talked jailhouse murder.
‘We were all part of Eternity. Sun-Eternity! And we gave the Sun all the gold. I must plunge into the black Sun—naked and alone…’ Harry Crosby switched to English. By Josephine’s lights, he’d better not go on. White men sure were odd creatures.
It was high time to leave for Chez Joséphine anyhow. She dragged the Duke away from Aragon wishing for the guillotine on Trafalgar Square.
Jules took them to Rue Fontaine. It was a quarter past one o’clock when she burst through the doors of Chez Joséphine amid a fanfare from the stage, her white maids, her goat, her pot-bellied pig and the Duke in tow. Inside she mingled with the patrons, white and black, men and women, exchanged a few words with the amazing Colette, then Charlestoned and tangoed with the Duke, watching their reflections in the many cut-glass mirrors around the stage, watching and feeling his tender fingers on her naked brown skin, displayed in the deep V-shaped cut at the back of her green dress.
Familiar warmth pooled low in her stomach. No backing away tonight.
She knew that Pepito, her manager and lover, was looking at them. His stare was pricking her skin. He managed all her contracts, papers, business proposals. He had full control of her finances and of everything she owned. Lately Pepi had become tight as a tick, doling out an allowance so meager that Josephine, one of the highest paid stars in Europe, often ran short and had to lean on credit.
Ten thousand francs was good money. Good enough to sleep with a man who’d never hit a lick, whose life was all owning and not doing. Must have been nice battenin’ on all that lands of his—she had to hoof it for every franc she got.
Pepito was gonna be spittin’ like a goose a-shittin’ later. Hurt her, perhaps. She loved Pepito, but to hell with him tonight. Au diable!
‘Jo, your dancing is unique. You possess a certain… uninhibited quality that is quite startling,’ the Duke’s eyes sparkled. Josephine reckoned that wearing a midnight blue tux instead of black, like this time, was his idea of ‘unhibited’.
‘That’s just me, honey. Can’t help it,’ Josephine answered, her mouth full of spaghetti. ‘Gotta shake what your mama gave ya, right?’ She finished chewing and leant back, letting the fabric of her dress pull taut across her breasts. ‘Ain’t nobody back home ever thought I'd be dancin’ on no big stage in Paris. They said I was too skinny, too loud. Too much.’
‘Yet here you are. The talk of Paris.’ The Duke went for another crêpe with caviar. At Chez Joséphine, they were the bee’s knees—she took care of it.
Josephine snorted lightly. ‘Honey, I just like to dance. Turns out folks here like to watch a girl havin’ fun.’
‘’Tis true, they certainly do.’
At last her fork clattered onto the empty plate. She recalled how here in Paris she had tasted spaghetti for the first time in her life—eatin’ with her fingers! She almost laughed at the memory.
‘Shall we go?’ The Duke looked at her, then at the mural covering one wall, depicting a painted Josephine dancing. ‘I’m at a small house in La Muette,’
‘Sho’ ’nuff, Duke. Sho’ ’nuff,’ she said, giving him another toothsome smile. ‘Yours for the night, ain’t I?’
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Boulevard des Batignolles. The Rolls picked up speed. Josephine sidled closer to the Duke, craning her head to stare up at the Hôtel Fournet at the opposite side of the road.
Nobody in Paree knew nothin’ ’bout her when she came there right off the Berengaria boat train. Josephine remembered looking out of the hotel window at the huge painted advertisement for shoe polish on the house wall to the left, the smiling sun edging in front of the sad moon.
How she had yearned to be like that sun, bringing joy and smiles to many.
It was almost two years ago.
A lifetime ago.
Now she was the tropical sun of Paris. Still, just a silent, naked attraction. La muette, that’s her! The mute girl indeed. And she wanted to sing so much!
Her fingers slid over the grey Bedford cord of the seat to entwine with his. Let him get some of that sunshine.
He understood and reached out, touching gently the kiss curl snaking out from under her close-fitting cloche hat, her warm skin.
The automobile was gliding across the new bridge that spanned the railroad tracks leading to the Gare Saint-Lazare when she pressed her lips right into his. They kissed, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. Mouths exploring eagerly, tongues stroking.
Josephine pushed herself against him, wanting to be as close as she could with her clothes on, urging him on, kissing him fiercely. His hands roamed her body under the coat, caressing her breasts, her midriff through the flimsy fabric of her dress, then the bare skin of her thigh above the gold band holding her garter—she didn’t like girdles.
Josephine glimpsed the Arc de Triomphe out of the corner of her eye. He sure didn’t—his questing hand went for the knickers. She slipped her fingers into his fancy trousers… He groaned. Hold on, Jo—his cock weepin’ and damn near burstin’.
This wouldn’t do.
‘Gee, Duke, y’all is wild as a peach-orchard boar!’ Josephine panted, breaking the kiss, letting go of his cock and crossing her eyes. Horny as he was, the aristocrat fell back on the seat and burst into laughter. Giggling, she glanced at Jules—the chauffeur was looking straight ahead at the road, a Gauloise Bleue dangling from his lip.
The Rolls arrowed down the Avenue Ferdinand Premier de Roumanie, the twin minarets of the Trocadéro Palace thrust up into the night sky just like the tips of her breasts. The long low barracks on both sides of the main entrance to the old wedding-cake monstrosity were hung with American flags for the upcoming Legion convention.
‘Lookie there, Duke, the Eiffel Tower!’ Josephine was distracting the over-excited man. ‘Still gets me every time. Like a giant sparkly needle.’ The letters C-I-T-R-O-E-N in shimmering blue and white lights descended down the latticework of the world’s tallest tower.
‘Rather… remarkable,’ the Duke mumbled. ‘Oooh, Jo. Jo…You’re a marvel.’
Not a minute too soon the Rolls stopped before a fancy three-storeyed hotel particulier. Must’ve been that small house he had talked ’bout. Jules opened the door, but not before giving her and the Duke a few moments to straighten their coats. A tall, dark-haired valet in his early thirties opened the house door—he must of been waiting right next to it. The Duke hooked his arm through hers before leading her inside.
‘Your Grace. Miss Baker.’ His voice smooth and even, his face impassive, the valet took their coats. Josephine gave him a big smile anyway.
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‘Will there be anything else, Your Grace?’
Not even dancing with the alluring and talented Emmy Mogliani on the Lido could have prepared Spally for Josephine.
‘I shouldn’t think so, Rudman,’ Spally looked at Josephine. ‘See that Miss Baker and I are not disturbed in any manner.’
Not even the many frail beauties Spally had bedded could have prepared Spally for Josephine. At least he didn’t spend in the motor-car, schoolboy-like. But he had to have Josephine, the sooner the better.
‘Certainly, Your Grace.’
Spally already clutched Josephine’s hand, almost dragging her upstairs. They rushed along the dimly lit corridor to the bedroom. Inside, he shut the door and drowned in her luminous dark eyes. His mouth found hers again, capturing it, his hunger only increasing.
His hands moved from her neck to her waist, pulling her flush against him, pressing his constrained manhood against her. Josephine responded eagerly, her tongue tangling with his, her fingers mussing his hair, gripping it as the kiss became more frantic.
At last he tore away from her, gasping softly.
‘Just gettin’ started, Your Grace,’ Josephine purred. Even in his passion, Spally smiled, admiring her as she slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders, kicking off her shoes. He started to undress, then looked at her.
‘What shall we do about…’ The question hung in the air.
‘Don’t you worry, Duke,’ Josephine, already naked to the waist, was getting rid of her stockings. ‘Got one of them London caps fitted over the mouth of my womb.’
‘I say! Isn’t that illegal in France?’
‘Duke,’ Josephine’s smile flashed again as she stepped out of her knickers. ‘Ain’t no agent de poh-leece gonna get near my sweet jelly roll!’
‘Jelly roll, what? Oh!’ His prick throbbed. Not using French letters with courtesans was dangerous, but tonight it was a risk Spally just had to take. He wanted to feel all of her.
Apart from that, he’d never seen a woman looking healthier than Josephine. Naked, she did a twirl, then struck a pose, her body lit from the back by the two ornate Baguès lamps flanking the bed—her hand at her hip, her amazing breasts thrust forward, her long, muscular legs of a dancer tensed.
The dark perfection.
‘God, you are... magnificent,’ he whispered, his voice thick with desire.
Josephine flung herself onto the bed and lay back, her dusky skin in stark contrast to the white sheets. Grinning, she wiggled her toes in anticipation. Spally, now naked, settled between her legs, spreading them wide, having a good look at her puffy dark outer love-lips framing her delicate glistening pink inner folds, waiting for him.
Spally bent over her on his knees and outstretched arms, his manhood thrusting out proudly.
‘Mea domina fusca…’ His dark lady. He kissed Josephine with surprising gentleness, caressing her taut breasts, letting his hand trail across her stomach, enjoying the way her muscles fluttered beneath his touch.
Spally’s hand moved down, cupping her furred mound, gently applying pressure to her womanhood. His finger gently circled her seat of pleasure, sank between the slick folds of her pussy. It found her opening and teased it. Then it moved into her, and Josephine gasped in delight. He kept sliding his finger in and out of her, driving her wild. Two fingers caressed her nether lips while his palm lightly rubbed her pleasure button. Josephine’s legs spread further apart.
He shifted, withdrew his hand and entered her in one long, forceful stroke. Josephine aahed, her back arching. He watched her face as he thrust rhythmically inside her. Her eyes widened as she felt the full force of his lust.
Moaning with every deep stroke, clinging to his body, Josephine wrapped her legs round him, crossed her ankles at his lower back, drawing him in deeper, her hips bucking to meet his every thrust. Her firm breasts jiggled slightly with each impact, and Spally couldn’t resist the temptation. He leant forward and kissed her shoulder, then lowered his head to lick, suck and bite her taut nipples, slowing down, taking longer strokes.
‘Oh, that feel good… real good,’ she panted, her voice thick with desire, her heels urging him on.
Spally looked intently into Josephine’s eyes, now glazed with passion, and kissed her deeply. He picked up the pace, the slap of his heavy, seed-filled balls against her buttocks punctuating his every thrust. Her pussy walls tightened, clinging to every inch of his cock, her strong inner muscles fluttering.
‘Harder, baby, yeah, right there!’
Spally couldn’t hold back much longer—he was furiously pumping into her, his loins on fire, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Her tight, wet sheath gripping him, her moans of pleasure—it was all too much to resist. He slammed into her as deep as he could and stilled. Moaning frantically, Josephine reached between them, rubbing her clitty with two fingers, her body taut as a bow-string.
Above her, Spally roared in delight. The first warm splash of his seed at the deepest reaches of her body took her over the edge. Wailing, strumming her clitty furiously, Josephine shattered, her body shaking with the force of her climax. Spally watched her come undone beneath him, revelling in the exquisite sensation of her pussy clenching and spasming on the throbbing length of his shaft, milking him as he blissfully spent himself into the dark-skinned woman.
Spally collapsed onto her body in a daze, breathing heavily, his weight pressing Josephine into the soft mattress. She lay beneath him, caressing his back with her hands and heels, her body trembling in the aftermath of her release.
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‘Oh, I say… By Jove, this is really a thrill!’ The Duke rolled off of her and onto his back, his cock, now half-flaccid glistening with their mingled wetness.
A trickle of his seed dribbled down between her thighs, but Josephine didn’t mind it. She snuggled up to him, basking in the afterglow.
‘Oh, Duke, you stickin’ it in just right, makin’ a girl feel all kinds of wild,’ she cooed, kissing him. They cuddled and clung to one another until his cock was hard as iron again.
She pushed gently against him. ‘Alright, outta the way, Duke, your turn to get rode.’
‘If you shd wish—’
In a single fluid movement Josephine swung her leg over him, straddling his hips. ‘I sure do,’ she scooted back a little until the Duke’s shaft was nestled tightly in the crack between her buttocks. Raising up on her knees, she reached behind to wrap her fingers around his throbbing mahnood—he pulled in a deep breath. Holding his cock, she eased down, feeling her flesh starting to stretch.
They moaned in unison as the thick head of his cock slipped inside her again. Josephine sank down slowly, taking one inch at a time until her mound bumped against his pelvis, the Duke sighing happily as she took all of him in. Josephine looked down at his blissful face and wiggled her hips, adjusting herself, his coarse hairs tickling her clitty. He stroked her hip, patted her toned buttock. Josephine began to ride him at a steady rhythm, her full lips parting to release soft moans. The Duke was caressing her titties, his thumbs circling the darker circles around her nipples.
Pleasure slowly flooded her body again—her moans grew louder as her movements became more fervent. His hands moved down her torso, now tracing the contours of her stomach, her hips, her buttocks...
Without missing a beat, Josephine placed her right foot flat on the mattress, going more side to side now, thrusting down at different angles that sent shivers through her body, the bed creaking beneath them. ‘Yeah... you feelin’ this? Oh, you feelin’ it...’ His hands were hard on her hips, helping to guide her. Lost in pleasure, pushing up into her, he stiffened in release again, gasping her name. And then, with a final, shuddering cry, she clenched around him, her body seizing, a wave of pure delight washing over her.
As they lay entangled, recovering, Josephine stirred first. ‘Whew,’ she breathed, her voice husky. ‘That’s some lovin’.’
‘You love, as you dance, with such ecstasy,’ the Duke fondled her back.
‘Uh-huh, I’m gonna love, I’m gonna dance all my life! I wanna sing too. To bring… bring sunshine into the lives of thousands. That’s what I was born for. And I’m gonna dance and sing ’til I drop!’ Josephine answered hotly.
‘Err, I was born to be a duke,’ he smiled.
‘Must be all kinds of dukes out there, I guess,’ Josephine mused, shifting on the bed. ‘Look, what’d you do if you lost everythin’? Like all those Russian princes and counts I see ’round here.’
‘Were I to escape the revolution with Monsieur Aragon’s guillotine… Play the piano here in Paris, I should imagine!’ the Duke answered with a small, slightly uneasy laugh.
‘You any good at it?’ She stroked his arm.
‘Well, well, well, I don’t undertake to say… I’m no Paderewski.’
She supposed there was a piano in the house. ‘Show me.’
‘What? Now?’
‘Now,’ she breathed.
‘Very well,’ he swung his legs over the bed, wrapping himself in a sheet.
‘Jus’ don’t go pullin’ it over your head!’ Josephine said half-jokingly and jumped on the floor.
‘Are you afraid of the ghosts, what? What else are you afraid of?’
‘Nah,’ she lied. She was a little scared of the Kluxers too, but they were far away.
He put his slippers on and led her down the corridor, naked as she was born.
‘I guess I’se most ’fraid of gettin’ old, and you? Getting’ ruinated?’
‘Ruinated,’ he chuckled. ‘Perhaps, Jo.’
The drawing-room flooded with light at the flick of the switch. He stepped over to the Erard grand piano and sat down, sucking a deep breath before raising the fallboard. He stroked the keys, white and black, his lips compressed into a thin line.
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Spally began. He chose the Handel Sarabande in D minor, not only because he loved playing that piece at the magnificent Bechstein Father had installed in the great hall of Frith for Mother. The slow, relentless, two-bar ostinato rhythm was the processional of his England, his demi-paradise, his green and pleasant land. It was the pomp and glory of the Imperial Crown, the Peerage, the Cossingtons, the pink on the map.
He heard the slap of her bare foot against the parquet floor and raised his eyes from the keyboard. Josephine was dancing, lost in the rhythm. A sarabande it wasn’t—but it was something unique to her. Her face serious, her eyes flashing, she moved with grace, honestly proud of her naked body, her naked soul.
She was the black sun goddess. The pride of her race.
He finished the piece, and he she hugged him from behind, kissed him behind the ear. He sat in silence, the walls of the drawing-room fading away.
It was the beginning of Michaelmas term in Oxford, the time when the grey walls of colleges are hung with scarlet creepers. Spally was in the rooms of Feiling, his tutor at Christ Church, looking across the wide expanse of Tom Quad as he drank his sherry. The Palestine mandate having just come into force, the British Empire was at its largest, and he had just shared his optimism with the historian.
Spally heard the quiet, stuttering voice of Feiling. ‘You may well find Arabs and Jews fall woefully short of your hopes for them, Spalding. Palestine is given to us as a mandated territory, and we may succeed in adjusting their claims of ancient origin, establishing the national home for the Jews promised by Lord Balfour whilst safeguarding the civil and religious rights and status of Moslems,’ Feiling swirled the sherry in his glass. ‘Yet bear always in mind, Spalding, that of every seven people in the British Empire six are coloured. The question is, can the British keep the hearts, the bodies, the souls that the lasting greatness of our commonwealth demands? Can we go on as Imperial people when the vitality of loyalties is extinguished?’
Would Spally’s gilded world decay, overrun by the energy of primitive races of mankind—the force of millions of Josephines and their brothers? He was used to the attention that went with his peerage, his ordinary face gracing the pages of Tatler, The Bystander, The Sketch or The Graphic for the delectation of lower middle classes. At Chez Joséphine all eyes were upon her. Few noticed her companion.
In a hundred years, would anyone even recognize a duke, the illustrated magazines of 2027 likely full of stars of film and song and dance, white and coloured, only?
Fiddlesticks! Josephine was no goddess, just a Negro torso-tosser. The British Empire would go on. Italy could not be imitated in England, no, but an authoritarian state led by Church and king would bring a lasting reconciliation between classes and an Imperial renascence...
‘Hey Duke, what you’re thinkin’ of right now?’ Her dark fingers massaged his shoulders.
‘Oh, nothing. Just choosing what to play next.’
Spally launched himself into the Rondoletto from Stravinsky’s new Serenade in A, the theme for the right hand all light and modernity with a delicate hint of jazz, the sequences of arpeggios for the left hand standing up for order and tradition. This time Josephine just listened intently.
‘I’m wonderin’ what I might could do with that,’ she touched her chin when the music ended.
‘Say, have you ever seen Isadora Duncan?’ Raising himself off the piano-stool, Spally threw his sheet over her shoulders so that they were enveloped together.
‘Isadora? Never seen her dance. She hangs out at the Boeuf, but we never talk—she hates music hall, y’know?’
‘Does she? I saw Isadora in London. She used to be a great lyric dancer. Her body is older and much heavier now...‘
Josephine frowned a little, reminded of her fears.
‘… but she could do wonders with Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert. Not Chopin—her interpretation of the Funeral March was awful.’
‘Don’t want to talk ’bout no funerals,’ Josephine’s breasts pressed into his chest. ‘One more, right?’ she said, her voice suddenly more business-like.
She didn’t have in mind one more piano piece—of that he was certain. Spally answered with his eyes. She slipped from under the sheet, walking in front of him to the bedroom, her taut dark moons frolicking.
‘You want my behind, don’tcha?’ Josephine asked, climbing on the bed. ‘I see how you look at my ass.’
‘I… yes. If you are agreeable.’
She laughed. ‘Agreeable? Baby, I’m the most agreeable girl in Paris tonight! Just get somethin’ to make it easier and get behind me.’
Rudman had been thoughtful enough to leave a small jar of vaseline—not too hard to find in Lord John’s house, Spally mused—on the bedside table. He opened the container before joining Josephine on the bed. She turned on her hands and knees, arching her back gracefully, her hips high, presenting herself to him.
Spally carefully rubbed the thick ointment into the dark swirl of muscle with his finger, pressing firmly, then sinking inside her, listening to her soft moans. Then he slathered with vaseline his own pulsating flesh, stretched in raging erection again, and palmed her cheeks, spreading them apart. Josephine jolted a little when the tip of his member butted against her forbidden hole. Spally applied steady pressure, watching the broad head of his prick slide in ever so slowly. She groaned as he filled her, sinking deeper and deeper inside, looking down at her straining ring.
‘Jo?’ His shaft was fully inside her.
‘I’m good, I’m good,’ she responded through gritted teeth.
Spally began to move, lost in the joy of dominance and possession, his hips slapping against her cheeks with each driving thrust. He reached around to fondle her breasts, pinching and twisting at her nipples. Josephine took him deep, her fingers reaching down to tease her clitty, her cries of pleasure spurring him on. At last Spally stilled and spent inside her clenching back passage with a strangled moan. Josephine convulsed beneath him a few seconds later, a silent scream on her lips as her own climax ripped through her. They collapsed together, still joined, and lay there in a tangle of limbs. Finally, Spally pulled out of her with a soft grunt and they rolled apart. Neither spoke for a long moment, savouring the aftermath of their coupling.
‘Gotta leave you, Duke,’ Josephine spoke at last, raising herself on her elbows.
‘Certainly,’ he nodded. ‘Jules will take you home. One more thing,’ he reached for the bedside table again and held out the small gold-coloured box. She accepted it with her fingertips and opened it.
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The large emerald ring that lay inside was her surprise. It wasn’t right that it was easier for her to get one instead of lasting tenderness and affection. But another day was about to dawn—and she was gonna dance through it, as she always did.
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Feedback is welcome!
Being on top is fun so you can control things a bit more, though you also feel more in charge and responsible for what is going on, so it might not appeal to some.
