Zane Pella - Fanchon_s Book

Then-oh, the shameless hoyden!-"Guess what, Fanchon. I'm watering the flowers."

"I doubt if they need it."

"They don't-but I do." And a moment later, "There. All done. Come here a minute, will you? I need some help." I rushed to her. But it wasn't help she needed. Not the way she was leaning back against a tree with her legs spread and her coat pulled up. She needed me. And I sank to my knees and plunged my mouth into the tangle of dank hair and"Not like.that, silly. Just lick. Tidy me up a little. Don't make it sexy, make it sanitary."

The tangle of dank hair! the taste, the shame, the ignominy; long after we had gone up to our room and bathed and made love again, the memory of that abominable moment gave me queasy spasms. Had her desire been for sex, I would have understood it and suffered the degradation complaisantly, perhaps even joyously, taking a certain paradoxical delight in the humiliation of being compelled to satisfy her lust at such an unseemly time. I could easily have mired myself in the fetid flesh, impervious to its so-recent pollution, concerned only with its ever-alluring carnality. As it was, however, the shame of my capitulation was equaled only by the shamelessness of her demand.

I couldn't comprehend this new madness of hers, this need to defile me, to sully my mouth. At dinner she had made me swallow her saliva; in the garden-oh, the gall, the chutzpah!-she had used my tongue as a kind of impromptu toilet tissue. What next? Were there no limits to these dark depravities? Couldn't she see that they were more vicious than erotic?

Not that she wasn't erotic too, prodigiously so, and in the ensuing days-the delirious days that merged unendingly with the dreamy nights-our cozy little paradise resounded with the soft sighs and susurrations of love. How beautiful it was! And sad, often, when we let ourselves think about the fleeting hours, the transience of this lovely time of togetherness. We were both aware that our hotel hideaway, no matter how perfect, could never be the love-nest.

Mindful of that, I started writing my book even before I had the details of the plot organized. Then too, there was that less appetizing alternative staring me in the face and I didn't want to give Kristi any excuse to harp on it. As long as I showed progress, she couldn't very well reproach me for my squeamishness about taking another not-quite-honest peek at my husband's private papers. So I launched into the project without undue delay, striving hopefully to catch her interest and keep her from sulking.

It caught her interest, all right. I read the opening scenes aloud and she twitched and twittered throughout, obviously stimulated by the verve of the more lurid passages. But her attitude wasn't entirely hedonistic, and she managed to make a few comments-both critical and complimentary-about my writing. Nor did she allow her ignorance of style and form and craftsmanship to act as a deterrent; she even challenged my "author's license" revamping of the factual circumstances, carping at my very first bit of embroidery.

"But that's not the way we met, Fanchon."

"Of course not. But it's smooth and it makes sense and the extra character might be useful later."

"Useful? How?"

"Oh, just to add some spice. In threesome affair, for instance. Every sex-novel has some sort of orgy; why should mine be any different? Anyway, it's a good beginning, don't you think so?"

"Uh-huh. Keep it up. Make it sexy."

"Sexy-and then some. Voluptuous, that's the effect I'm trying to put over. I want the reader to smell the perfume on every page."

"Oooh, I like that." Then, with a coquettish flutter of eyelashes, "Hey there, voluptuous Fanchon, how about taking a little sniff of my perfume?"

I needed no coaxing. It was a long deep sniff and it led to other things, warm-lipped kisses, flurries of tender violence, exquisitely fanciful embraces spurred by the excitement of the manuscript; I felt as if my effort was already paying off-in pleasure if not in money. And thereafter, almost by tacit agreement, the discussion of each day's work became a regular ritual with us: I read aloud to her and she got aroused and affectionate and eager for fleshly frolics. Whereupon we jumped into bed as if fact and fiction were one and inseparable. Which, in turn, inspired me to write with even greater abandon: the hotter the passages, the hotter the embraces and I let my imagination run wild. But hardly wilder than my little devil-darling's whims. Ah, the delights of those post-literary dalliances! Truly, in every connotation of the phrase, my creation became a labor of love.

But alas, our holiday drew to a close and we had to return home and take up our old way of life, not a tragedy, really, since we did have plenty of time together. Nevertheless, it wasn't the same-and once we settled into the daily routine Kristi grew increasingly restive about the book and money and the hoped-for apartment; worse yet, she got somewhat slack with her household chores. I lent a hand now and then but was too busy writing my novel to do much. So the place got a bit messy and at last I was forced to censure her for it.

The reprimand wasn't my idea. But I couldn't openly contradict Oliver-and when he grumbled about the laziness of my maid, I had no choice. So I scolded her. Right there at the dinner table, with Oliver looking on and nodding his head in smug approval.

Such a painful duty! All the more so considering how long it would be before I might get a chance to apologize. Hours, probably: it was the opening night of the opera, a major social function, and we were already dressed and ready to go. Nor could I smile and chide her gently, not with my husband watching; much as it hurt me to do it, I gave her the necessary tongue-lashing and ordered her to get some housecleaning done while we were out. She took it meekly, but I knew only too well what a rage she must have been in.

She didn't show it, though, not even when I maneuvered a few minutes alone with her with the professed purpose of adding a final touch to my hairdo and makeup. Instead, she fussed over me like a devoted servant, coddling me, telling me how beautiful I looked in my white tulle gown, bending to adjust the flounces, crouching to brush a speck of dust from my shoe, helping me into my wrap, oh, the little minx was practically killing me with kindness. Only when I tried to offer an apology for the unfortunate incident in the dining room did I detect any sign of coolness in her demeanor. And it was scarcely more than a shrug of indifference.

"Forget it, Fanchon."

"But I want you to know how sorry-"

"Not now, dear. Go to the opera and have a good time. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"Not tonight? Darling? Won't you wait up for me?"

"Well… I don't know. Should I?"

"I wish you would. Tonight, especially. You know why."

"Hmm, that's right. He won't be coming home with you, isn't that what you said? We'll have the house all to ourselves?"

"All to ourselves. There's some sort of political meeting after the opera, and those things always last till morning."

"Uh-huh. I'll stay up."

"And I'll be-thinking about you all through the opera."

"Mmm, I'm glad. Think about me." Then, rather brusquely, "And he-re's something to remind you that I'm waiting." She reached under her skirt and pulled her panties off. "I've worn them all day, so they're not exactly perfumed. But you do like to sniff me, don't you, Fanchon?"

"Darling… "

And with her still-warm panties tucked in my purse, I traipsed off to the opera with friend husband. The tenor rasped, the soprano squealed roulades and cadenzas like a bel canto fire-siren and the visiting ambassador's insipid wife bored me with her inane bavardage, but I had my love to keep me entertained. Or at least the scent of my love. Oh yes, I found the opportunity to sniff. In the comparative darkness of our loge, I crumpled the precious garment in my hands and buried my nose in its redolence and bit the impudently allusive fabric to muffle my mirth while I wondered what the ambassador's dried-up old biddy would think if she knew. But I snickered with more lewdness than levity, and by the time I arrived home I was agog with anticipation. Panties were a deliciously piquant reminder, but they only gave me a hunger for the real thing.