Zane Pella: Fanchon_s Book

"Rosalba… " I patted the top of her head. She seemed to be happy down there; how could I be other than generous? "Would you like to stay for a day or two? Until you figure out what to do about your husband?"

"Umm, yes, Madame. Thank you."

She went on thanking me in her own inimitable manner and I felt it, the tongue, the hot fluttering tongue; nor did she stop when the bathroom door was pushed open. With her face buried between my thighs, Rosalba probably didn't even see it. But I did. Only for an instant, but that was plenty. Kristi stared coldly and then, with a shrug of indifference, swung around and vanished. Not a word. Just a look. But it was enough to give me a chill and I had to stifle the impulse to shove the kissing mouth away and go chasing after her. I stood firm, though, congratulating myself on my display of fortitude. Of independence. Such sangfroid! and it must have been because of the uneasy mood that had beset me. Oh sure, I wished she hadn't caught me in the act like that (how flagrant can a delicto get!) but I didn't regret it as much as I ordinarily might have. When I thought of the cellar and lying on my back and what she had done to"Madame?"

"Hmm?"

"Is-is there something wrong? You're not… uh… "

A tug at Rosalba's hair silenced her lips; her tongue-tip returned, making a slithery search for my spot of concentrated sensitivity, finding it, touching it with that titillating turbulence; no, her tongue had lost none of its technique. But she had cause for concern and so did I, damn the luck! the crucial spot was all but numb now and my body wasn't responding. I didn't feel the melting joy, the wave of warmth to welcome the onrushing orgasm, damn, damn, damn it to hell, the orgasm wasn't even oncoming, much less rushing.

I cursed Kristi's interruption and almost cursed Kristi herself; did she have a monopoly on all of me? Was her checkrein on my emotions so binding that I couldn't experience a purely physical reflex to a purely physical stimulus? Could she actually contravene the contact of that tickling tongue on my clitoris? No, I wouldn't admit that. Not without a fight.

If need be, then, let my approach be clinical. The surroundings first, the cramped circumstances-standing awkwardly in the bathroom like this made it just too difficult; why not get comfortable? Why not stretch out on the bed and spread my legs and deliver my flesh to that nice vibrating pressure. The carnal reaction was bound to occur.

"Rosalba… "

"Mmm?"

"This is silly. Come. The bathroom is no place for-"

"Madame… oh, please"-clutching my thighs "don't go… "

And she thrust her face deep, mouthing frenetically, giving up any attempt at technical skill, gluing herself to my body; I heard her mumbling and I knew she was begging me not to move, begging with her mumbling lips and her clutching hands, begging me to stay right there in the bathroom. I couldn't understand her anxiety, but it was so, exactly so, that was the way she wanted to make love to me. Another strange obsession, perhaps? Or maybe it was just a different version of the same obsession, maybe it was still the dirt-and-degradation thing and the bathroom was Rosalba's dungeon; yes, that simplified it somewhat and I remembered the night in the hotel, that first night, the time when we played piggyback and I carried her to the bathroom and set her down on the toilet and-oh, but that was Kristi, not Rosalba, and I didn't want to think about Kristi, I wanted to think about Rosalba and how she was sucking me, the adoring maid sucking the indulgent mistress, only it was already too late and I could feel myself getting hot and it wasn't because of Rosalba and what she was doing, no, it was Kristi Kristi Kristi and just thinking about her was enough and I knew I had lost the fight and she owned me. Body and soul she owned me, and if she walked in and snapped her fingers right now I would do it-just like that night-I would fall to the floor and lift her foot and kiss it and put it down on my neck and prove to her that I was forever her slave, her humble slave, her passionate slave, and I would love her and love her and love her and.then it would happen. It was happening now. Orgasm. The crisis at last! and I labored mightily against Rosalba's helpful head but didn't fail to give credit where credit was due; nor did I feel cocky any more, good grief, no, I had all kinds of regrets. My foolish independence had dwindled to nil. I had been caught cheating-and there was no trumped-up fortitude stiffening my spine now, only a strength-sapping shiver of fear and foreboding. Caught. Caught in the act. How sorely would I be made to suffer for my indiscretion?

Body and soul, that was how I belonged to her-and later in the evening I screwed up sufficient courage to go and say it. And to take my bitter medicine, whatever she cared to dole out, whatever would put us in harmony again; oh yes, I was-quite prepared to suffer for my sin.

Her attitude surprised me, though; she seemed slightly cool but far from incensed. Mildly amused, rather, and there was even a faint smile on her face as I admitted my guilt and declared my undying love and blurted out the whole bewildering mishmash about Oliver leaving so suddenly and Rosalba showing up at the front door and pitching in to help with the packing and then taking advantage of my distracted state of mind by insisting on serving me further and cadging an invitation to stay the night; not that the turmoil and confusion justified my shameful conduct, no, I could only unburden my conscience and hope for clemency.

I must have sounded pretty penitent. Remorseful and apologetic enough to avert a vendetta, at least; anyway, the anticipated recriminations just didn't materialize…

"So now you expect to be punished, eh, Fanchon?"

"Well… I-I guess I deserve it."

"No doubt. I ought to beat your bottom with a leather strap. But what good would it do?" Her lips twisted in a little, grin of mockery. "Besides, you'd probably love it."

"Then you're not angry? Oh, darling… "

"Here now, none of that." She brushed away my impetuous gesture, allotting me only her hand to kiss. Then, almost musingly, "Still, it wouldn't be right to let you off scot-free. Maybe I'll banish you, huh?"

"B-banish me?"

"Hmm, yes, it's an interesting idea. Let's give it a try, just a short one. Consider yourself banished, Fanchon. You can't make love to me tonight. I don't want to see you till tomorrow. That's a fair punishment, isn't it?"

"Darling… please don't-"

"You'd better not complain or I'll make it longer."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Cheer up, its only one night. And you can have Rosalba to keep you company."

"No! Never again. I don't want Rosalba."

"Is that so? I'm glad to hear it. Then you won't mind if I take her myself. To keep me company."

"You-you and Rosalba?"

"Sure. What's wrong with that? You had her this afternoon, didn't you? So why shouldn't I have her tonight? And since she's an invited guest, well, you might be gracious about it and offer us your bedroom. You'll do that, won't you, Fanchon?"

So jaunty, such smiling nonchalance; didn't she realize what she was doing to me? But of course she did. It was her way of making me suffer: depriving me of her companionship, inflicting a sentence more stiff than I had bargained for, letting someone else take my place in her affections-and in my own bed. Her way of getting even-and with a vengeance. Oh, it was just her way-and I should have known my dereliction would cost me dearly.

It cost me, all right. I had a rough night. For a while I sat in Oliver's room and tried to work on my novel. But the thing seemed like such pretentious trash, and I got to brooding over it and seriously contemplated junking the entire project. Nor did I find much divertissement in my absent husband's collection of pornographic books, less pretentious, perhaps, but certainly just as trashy-and how could a printed page of erotica be anywhere near as exciting as the eroticism of my everyday existence?