Zane Pella - Fanchon_s Book

With ten-thumbed clumsiness, I hurried to finish my pedestrian chore and take on the next one, still a chore but far more pleasant, attending Miss Lazylegs in her bath. But her prolonged stillness was beginning to upset me; the half-full glass on the bedside table had gone untouched for quite some time now-and I decided to jog her back into wakefulness before I drew the tub. With all our things tucked away at last, I sat down on the edge of the bed and placed a kiss on her upraised knee.

"Fanchon?" Pale eyelids twitched and opened. "Oh, I must have dozed off. Did you get everything unpacked?"

"All done. Shall I fix your bath now?"

"Dh, not yet. I'm too tired to get up."

"Darling? You know I'm going to help you. Don't you want to be all nice and clean and sweet-smelling so that I can make love to you?"

"I-I suppose so. But I haven't finished my drink yet." She reached for her glass languidly. "Anyhow, we've got a whole week in front of us. Must you be so impatient?"

"Drink up, then. I'll wait. But don't you dare go to sleep on me."

"Okay, okay." Then, giggling through a sip and a swallow, "How could I fall asleep when you're panting like that? You sound like a doggie with its tongue hanging out."

"Like this?" Anything to keep her awake. and interested; I did the,appropriate dog-imitation. "See what a sensual bitch I am? Bow-wow. I'm a bitch in heat."

My comic performance brought a chuckle. But a vague wisp of memory cast its shadow: bitch in heat? I had called myself that once before; it hadn't seemed so funny then. Nor was it funny now. It was just me. Fanchon. With my tongue hanging out. The real Fanchon. Panting for Kristi and watching her mirth fade and leave an expression on her face that was strangely sad.

"Oh, my darling Fanchon, what have I done to you? The things you do to please me. Am I turning you into some kind of slave?" She shook her head slowly. "Sometimes I wish we had never started the-" Her teeth clamped her lip; she shrugged and shook her head again. "Oh, you know what I mean."

"Yes… " I heard the throb of my own heart. "I do know. But I'm glad we started. You mustn't feel guilty about it."

"You-you don't hate me?"

"I love you. Everything about you. The things you make me do. Everything. Kristi, don't you understand? You've made me a happy woman. And if you're turned me into a slave, then I'm a happy slave."

"Sweet… sweet Fanchon… "

"Not sweet. Sexy."

I bent and kissed the back of her hand. My tongue dabbed between the fingers, seeking the little belly bijou: but she tightened upon it protectively. Her body squirmed suggestively, though, and I sensed its burgeoning excitement; my lips trailed down her skin lingeringly in an attempt to nourish the flame and keep the pot boiling. But her hand made a quick leap and set up another, more intimate defense.

"Fanchon?"

"Mmm?"

"Please don't. I-I'm so messy from the long trip."

"Uh-huh. Bath time?"

"Soon… "

I heard the clink of her glass and smiled at my own sagacity. She was aroused now and gulping her drink; that poignant moment of self-reproach had flitted by, its prickly anxiety smoothed by the attrition of my softly persevering caresses. We were back on our own private one-way street, thank heaven, and I wasn't about to let up and give her the chance to get remorseful about its direction again. My lips continued wandering.

"Fanchon, you shouldn't."

"Umm… "

"Wait till I've had my bath. I must smell awful." I lifted my head and sniffed wryly. "Oh sure. Awful. So hurry you and finish your drink. Because I'm going to keep kissing you until-"

"You'd better not. Or maybe you don't believe me, huh? Here, I'll show you." She jutted her middle up brusquely. "Look at me. No, not up here. Look at my hand. See what it's doing?" Her fingers dipped inside the folds of flesh. "There. Now you'll know why you should have waited."

And then, right under my horrified eyes, she brought her moist hand up and smeared it, over my face. I shuddered but made no effort to pull out of reach; the crude gesture stunned me and suddenly it was too late: she was poking her fingers into my mouth and I felt the weak dragging sensation in my loins and knew I was getting hot and all I could do was lick the lewd hand and suck those insolently probing fingers-and when they pinched my tongue and held it and tugged my head down between her up rearing thighs, I whispered faintly and sank into the suffocating quagmire and gasped at the shocking realization (no, not the taste or the smell!) that she had indeed enslaved me. Because I loved it.

And because she was telling me so. Suck It, you bitch. I don't have to be clean for a slave-bitch. Oh yes, you're my slave, sure enough. Who but a slave would suck like that?"

Obscene. Her language, her manner; even the pubescent bush seemed more coarse, somehow, and I found only evil in the slimy mucosity of her pulp-fleshed cleft. But such an exciting evil! The evil of slavery-and wasn't it a weird thrill?

Because I loved it. Could there be any other reason why I was burying my face in the sex-redolent muck and sucking her like this? Her thighs clamped around my neck; I bore the yoke bravely, knowing that a good slave was too valuable a property to injure permanently; my owner would never really harm me. We trusted each other. We belonged together. Like individual melodies entwined, punctus contra punctum, in one gloriously pulsating fugue.

Ah, how we pulsated!

My own body-un touched-was just as passionate as the one I was kissing. More so, perhaps, and it no longer seemed a phenomenon to me: I understood everything now. Like that time in front of the mirror, the stupendous orgasm brought on solely by my act of absolute submission, yes, my understanding was complete and I didn't have to grasp at shadowy straws of rationalization. I knew. And the very knowledge kept me at a quivery fever-pitch of enravishment.

Maybe I had always known. Certainly I must have had an inkling of it as far back as the night of furtive prowling and peeping just for an eyeful of the extraordinary new girl in my house. But not until a few minutes ago had I opened my heart in avowal: if you've turned me into a slave, then I'm a happy slave. Spoken from a throbbing heart-and at last I was letting the light of its revelation illuminate the fuzzy-dim corners of my mind.

So I sucked. Because I loved it. The flesh, yes (because it was her flesh), but more than the flesh I loved the compulsive self-abasement, the feeling, purely emotional, of being a slave to that flesh. In past years I had never regarded sex as anything but a physical act. An enjoyable act, inevitably-since I was always a creature of sensuality-but an act geared primarily to tactile-sensation, the touching and rubbing of meat upon meat: a coldly pragmatic opinion that I had come to accept as fact. And now I knew better. The truly transcendental ecstasy came not from doing but from being.

Oh, the doing was fine, too; I was beyond caring about the unbathed condition of the body I worshiped. Should a little sweat and slime deter a slave from duty? My face dipped deep and remained submerged even when the clenched thighs loosened and she hooked her heels over my back to hang suspended and smear herself against my chin, my cheeks, her pelvic grind-and-thrust serving up hairy mouthfuls for me to gorge upon. When I managed to take a breath, her heavy odor intoxicated me in its heady envelopment; I inhaled the stench of lust and perspiration and responded as if it were perfume.

Fingernails nipped my shoulders. The bare heels pounded my back like soft-knobbed drumsticks upon a tympanum. She was nearing it, the peak, the final spasm that would trigger mine; I gobbled frantically (yes, gobbled; hadn't I called for tartar steak?) and cast skill and caution aside in a last-ditch effort to consume and be consumed. I heard the noise from inside her, the visceral gasp, the signal of orgasm-and then my own climax struck and I knew nothing but the velvet darkness sweeping in and"Hey! Don't pass out!"