Zane Pella - Fanchon_s Book

A good stuff drink. Funny. I didn't take one. I got so engrossed m mixing a spectacular concoction for Miss Kristi that I just didn't need anything for myself. And besides, well, sneaking a drink without permission wouldn't that have been disloyal somehow?

In a little while I was glad I had skipped it. As the "lazy mistress" sipped from her tall glass and read her magazine, the "industrious maid" pranced around the room busily, tidying up, stooping to pluck a stray hair-pin from the carpet, doing a dozen small chores that hardly needed doing. Then, surprisingly, the matter of the drink-or non-drink, rather-became an issue.

"You're quite a bartender, Fanchon. This is great. But didn't you fix one for yourself?"

"No, ma'm. You didn't say I should."

"My, aren't we righteous! O' Come on, honey, don't be a hypocrite. I'll bet you had a couple of quick ones downstairs."

"I most certainly did 'not." Indignation frosted my tone. "I had a taste of yours, but that was all."

"Fanchon?" With a conspiratorial smirk, "you're sure you're not telling me a fib?"

"It's the truth. Do you want to smell my breath? Why should I lie to you? I really don't think it's fair to accuse-"

"Hey, I believe you, I believe you. Don't be so touchy; I take it all back. But I must admit-such integrity shouldn't go unrewarded. Now you deserve a drink. Wouldn't you like to go and make yourself one?"

I mulled it over. Put on a robe and putter around in the kitchen again? No, thanks. Not at the moment. The atmosphere of the boudoir had suddenly become quite promising: the little mistress was getting generous. And anyway, the intoxication I sought didn't come in a bottle; I licked my bps and glided to the foot of the bed where I could observe it clearly, the gold-fringed chalice that contained a delight more heady than any wine or whisky.

There-right in front of my eyes, the only prize I hoped to earn; would my thirst for it ever be slaked? And what a struggle to restrain myself, to refrain from bending and slithering up between the shapely thighs to let my tongue lick those juicy lips instead of my own dry ones; no, I couldn't see walking out on such delectation and traveling all that dreary distance Just for a drink. There was something I wanted more. And I thought I knew a way of getting it.

"Uh, thank you, Miss Kristi, but I'd rather not. I can do without liquor."

"Truly? You don't want a drink?"

How nice! She was urging me. Not exactly crestfallen but on the defensive nonetheless, because of her unwarranted accusation. Uh yes, she owed me a reward, all right, but I wasn't about to settle for anything so picayune as alcohol: my tastes were on a grander scale. (Hmm, wasn't there a song about that? Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all. Clever, those American lyricists.) So the little devil had a conscience, eh? Fine. Let me exploit it to the maximum profit.

"As a reward, Miss Kristi? Thanks all the same, but it's not necessary. Unless… uh… "

"Yes?"

"Well, I was thinking of something I'd like better. If you insist on rewarding your devoted servant."

"Don't be impertinent, Fanchon."

"Please, ma'm, I didn't mean to be. I'm not asking for much. But I've finished my work-so couldn't I just come and sit close until you're through reading?"

"Umm, that's a reasonable request, I suppose. And since you've been such a good girl… " Her voice trailed off; she lifted one bare foot and wriggled the toes in a come-hither gesture. Then, as if the matter had ended, she stuck her pretty nose behind the raised magazine again.

I sank down, eagerly compliant, sucking the precious toes into the steaming vacuum of my mouth. But I did it more in triumph than in submission: nothing had ended, this was only the beginning. As I had known it would be; ah yes, I remembered the flacon of perfume, the reward she had rejected in favor of another more to her liking. Now it was my turn-and with the success of my maneuver a fait accompli, the seeds of felicity were planted and I planned on reaping a lush harvest.

Odd about that. Not the result itself but the manner in which I had brought it about, so devious, so subtle, so shrewdly patterned upon her own cute precedent; in a way, it was almost as much fun as sex. Nor did I feel any concomitant guilt over my sly stratagem: It was all part of the game. Not like sneaking a drink without permission-oh no-that would have been a breach of confidence, an act of bad faith, a deception outside the rules of our relationship. While this, well, in all candor, didn't it just lend a bit of spice to the wooing? A game within a game, actually, and I had gained my victory without cheating. Hmm, and would there be a game within a game within a game some day? An intriguing prospect, surely.

But my victory wasn't complete as yet; even as I kissed the feet of my beloved I had my sights set on a more intimate target. I kept peering up at it, the coral confection that I craved, so winsomely displayed in the shadow beneath its chevron of flaxen hair. Fascinating. I just couldn't take my"Fanchon, what are you staring at?"

"Oh!" What could I say? She had lowered the magazine and had seen me peeping. "Miss Kristi? You know… "

"I want your lips, not your eyes. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to hide it." Her body went into a slow, sinuous spiral and she rolled over to be upon her stomach. "I've still got some reading to do."

"Yes, ma'm."

"It won't be long, you greedy girl." Resting on her elbows, she brought the magazine in front of her face.

"Meanwhile, though… " And then she shut me out again, focusing all her attention on the printed page.

Meanwhile? Of course. No, I hadn't been shut out, merely diverted. Yes, that was it: a diversion-in every sense of the word-and more to the point, a rather daring challenge. Or so I assumed. But I couldn't be positive, considering the circumstances, nor was I even sure of my own reaction. It seemed simpler-or less hazardous, at any rate-to go on kissing her feet.

The heels were uppermost now; I nibbled them in affectionate greeting and then lapped at the soles with the flat of my tongue. But one foot kicked back sharply, like a little slap under my chin, a goading motion, coercive, authoritative, a demand for more extensive activity, and I knew I had been denied any easy course. Little Miss Machiavelli had turned her back on me, but there was method in her antisocial madness.

My lips grazed an ankle; I felt the responsive twitch, a sanction-involuntary but still compelling-and was momentarily wracked by a shudder of apprehension. Could I go through with it? Kiss her-there? I scarcely had courage to look. One glance was enough and I closed my eyes and continued kissing the remarkably unflawed surface texture of the delicately sloped rise from ankle to calf, relishing even the taste, the flavor, and doing it all with self-conscious application of every faculty, afraid of the letdown in concentration that might make me see it again. It. Up there. The obscene furrow, deep, deep, a dark mystery better left unprobed.

Oh yes, I had been close to it before. But only with little dalliances, tongue-taps, kisses in volatile flurries; never on a undetermined mission. Or preordained, rather, since the idea certainly wasn't mine. To me the whole business suggested a kind of bawdy indecency, a humorless dirty joke told for the sake of its dirt alone. Not unclean physically, of course: Kristi bathed religiously and always came to my bed immaculate-but I still regarded it as something smutty.

It. The nameless it…

But how long could I linger over the backs of her legs? oh, I loved the velvet-smooth skin that stretched from calf to knee to thigh; and higher? I tilted my face and peeked again, striving desperately to bifurcate my gaze, straining wall-eyed for a stereoscopic view (parallax, of sorts?) in the pitiful hope of inspecting the twin buttocks while seeing only a censor's black smudge in between. But my vision just didn't split that way. I saw it-uncensored…