Zane Pella: Fanchon_s Book

It was pretty grim for a while. But after some of the smudge came off I got that old feeling again, stronger than ever; heated and reheated so often, my insides had boiled down to the pure distillate of desire. The tangency was enough, my lips on her bare skin, the tactile sensation-and in an ever-mounting frenzy I crammed her toes into my mouth and wriggled my tongue and no longer cared about the degradation, no, for me there was nothing but the thrill, the hot thrill; it was coming, coming, and I peered up into her eyes anxiously and prayed she would let me finish.

"Oooh… Fanchon!" She went into a fit of giggling hilarity. "Your face! If you could only see it."

"Ummm?"

"You're the one who needs a bath now. Maybe we should both go up and get in the tub, huh? And then we'll be nice and clean and we'll have all night together. All night… "

But she didn't push me away. Nor did I want her to, tempting as the prospect sounded. I couldn't quit now. I had to go on licking and lapping and sucking, on and on until it happened; let the bath come later; I had that roiling need in my groin to contend-with and could only"That face! It's so dirty. Maybe I ought to wash it for you, huh? Ooh, yes, I think I will."

And then her leg jerked out stiffly, a kick, a shove, and I toppled backward and writhed and shuddered and saw her standing above me, dipping, sinking, settling into a squat right over my head, and it was like that time on the bench in the hotel garden on the night of the fireworks; only it wasn't like it at all, it was worse, much worse, vile, ugly, disgusting; no, she wasn't going to sit on my face, she was going to wash it!

"Hold still, bitch! Don't you dare move!"

It happened. Everything. All at once. The hot stream purled out of her body and drenched my face-and it was no hotter than the molten gush of my orgasm. Oh, the horror of it! Of what she was doing to me. Of what was happening inside myself. But there was no way of stopping either one. Until at last she chuckled contentedly and straightened up and stepped away and my stomach rebelled and spewed it all back up and I lay huddled in the puddle of my own vomit and sobbed hysterically through the salty froth on my lips. I didn't hear her leave. But when I got my eyes open she was gone and I knew I had to hurry. Upstairs. Upstairs to take my bath and get ready. Ready to make love to her. All night! No, with such a gladdening possibility to prod me, I couldn't take the time to lie here and wallow in self-pity. I had to run to her before she changed her mind.

Wallow in self-pity? Hah! A luxury I could ill afford. But even when the last remaining dregs of my bitterness turned sweet in the honeyed intimacy of our all night tryst, there were still doubts to plague me. Doubts about myself, mostly. About what I had become. About what I might become.

No, I couldn't forget that my flesh had achieved its peak of sexual fulfillment in the very midst of the sickening outrage. Nor was my long-delayed climax any less consummate because of the gasping, shuddering, retching sensation. So the sensation must have been sexy too, although its unique and overwhelming impact-the sum of all its complexities-certainly defied analysis.

Anyway, it seemed apparent now that Kristi was detouring me gradually but firmly (and thus far with alarming success!) in a direction I didn't much care to take. What if the distressing detour turned out to be a cul-de-sac! Despite the "dungeon" episode my love for her never wavered, my desire showed no sign of erosion-and considering such immutable impassioned enslavement in the light of recent events, well, was there anything she couldn't lead me into? Wasn't it just a matter of conditioning? Dungeon after dungeon, perhaps, each more harrowing than the last and yet each with its own crowning climax, the orgasm, the carrot at the end of the stick; and every dungeon another malignant milestone in my conditioning course-until the strange craving became mine as much as hers? Oh yes, I could see our future together degenerating into just that, an eventual sharing of the dirt-and-degradation madness. A lifelong dungeon, practically. No wonder I felt uneasy about the power she held over me.

And that was my mood-uneasy-when Rosalba popped up again. Rosalba, my former maid, the deferential one, and still attracted to me as much as ever. I could tell. The moment I opened the door to let her in, I saw it in her eyes. I sensed it in the sincerity of her greeting, an effusive warmth that brought back sunny memories.

Actually, it was a pretty hectic moment and I scarcely had time to think. Kristi was out for the afternoon and Oliver had just phoned from his office to say that he had to leave the city on one of his sudden hush-hush political trips: could I pack a bag for him in a hurry?-a member of his staff would come by shortly to pick it up. So I was quite busy when Rosalba put in her surprise appearance.

It worked out nicely, however, when she volunteered to come up and help me with the packing. As a matter of fact, Rosalba insisted on taking over and doing most of the job herself. Meanwhile we had a lovely chat about old times and things, and she told me about her husband and how her marriage was going.

From what I gathered, it wasn't going well. The young man had already begun to take his new wife for granted (like all husbands?) and that was why she had left him. To teach him a lesson. Within a week or two, she was sure, he would realize what he was missing and probably come galloping after her like a lovesick stallion. And until then, well, here she was, hardly more than a bride but far from tearful about the separation; indeed she seemed happy to be on the loose, especially since it gave her the opportunity to see her good friend Madame Fanchon again.

We finished packing and got the bag downstairs just in time for the pickup. As the staff car drove away with it, I breathed a great big sigh of relief. Then, all at once, I felt a surge of something almost like wild elation: I too was separated from my husband-and wasn't it wonderful? Somehow, what with the telephone ringing and the suitcase chore to do and Rosalba dropping in so unexpectedly, the delicious import just hadn't penetrated. But now I could hardly wait for Kristi to come home and hear the good news. Oliver's secret government missions always lasted at least a few days, often stretching even a week or longer. Wouldn't my little sweetheart be thrilled at having the whole house to ourselves!

True, there was still Rosalba to reckon with; we hadn't discussed it, but I knew she had hopes of being asked to stay. And I did recall having invited her, but that seemed like ages ago-and I had no intention of letting her interfere with my pink-cloud bliss. Anyway, I couldn't make the decision now; I wanted to bathe and fix my hair and look beautiful for Kristi. After all, we had something to celebrate.

And again Rosalba volunteered her services. "A bath, Madame? Oh, please let me help:"

"My dear, you don't have to-"

"Madame? Please? For old times' sake?"

So willing. When she smiled so wistfully, how could I resist? Then too, I hadn't yet shaken off my "dungeon" uneasiness; perhaps it would restore some of my self-confidence to be pampered a little. To be attended by a servant who put me on a pedestal instead of grinding me into the dust.

Just like old times, then, and we both plunged back into the past. The indulgent mistress and the adoring maid, such a charming pageant! and sexy too after a while as Rosalba's coy glances and cunning caresses became an obvious courtship. Nor could I see any reason to dissuade her; I was already looking forward to sampling the bizarrerie of that vibrating tongue again. When she dried my body and dusted my skin with after-bath powder, I readily accepted the ministrations of her trespassing hands. And the more intimate incursion of her lips.