Zane Pella: Fanchon_s Book

"Let her do it to you, Fanchon. Just once, before she goes-a nice good-bye, kind of, huh? I'll bet you remember that crazy tongue of hers; wouldn't you like one last waltz with it?"

I laughed and blushed a little and allowed as how it might be interesting, a valedictory performance of Rosalba's tongue, why not? I felt no guilt about cheating, naturally, now that such an escapade was officially sanctioned. Moreover-simply for the sake of scientific research (and perhaps a touch of envy for so felicitous a knack?)-it seemed only fair to attempt another analysis of that "vibration" phenomenon. Provided the experiment could be accomplished discreetly and without undue embarrassment.

Trust resourceful Kristi to take care of that. She arranged everything. The boudoir lamps were low; I lay supine in suspenseful solitude, naked, a bit aroused in a sexual way, possibly, but nonetheless amused by the prankish nature of the coming event. Rosalba entered the room, a meek, somewhat pathetic figure in a dingy-dull robe; eyes downcast almost apprehensively, she shuffled to the foot of my bed.

"Madame?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"I-I've come to say good-bye."

"Yes, of course, Rosalba. By all means… " I drew my parted knees up in a curtly indicative pose. "Do it. Here. Say good-bye to me."

There were no preliminaries; her diffidence dissolved and she dove headfirst between my legs to start that electric tongue of hers oscillating. Rather like a soundless buzz. I studied the praxis quite calmly, more curious than carnal-minded, intent mainly upon picking up a few practical pointers. Then, like a dim wraith out of the dark doorway, Kristi appeared, approaching and taking shape buoyantly, nude and smiling and beautiful, a permissive chaperon expressing her approval.

She winked at me and flipped the bed sheet over Rosalba's head-and suddenly we were alone, my beloved and I, alone but for the covered heap somewhere down there; excitement soared and I trapped Rosalba's face in the vise of my thighs and peered at my naked idol imploringly, licking my lips to let her know how I desired her.

But she must have been well aware of that. Nimbly, she hopped onto the bed and stood up to hover above me; I went on licking my lips, preparing for her, preparing for her pleasure. And for mine. But then, carelessly, with a kind of callous indifference, she plumped herself down upon my face; jamming me into a state of blind befuddlement with the haphazard seating of her body. Crushed and enveloped by the mass of stultifying softness, I just couldn't figure-out where I was. Or what she wanted of me. My mouth was blocked; I struggled frantically to find some chink in the fleshy barrier, a fissure, an orifice, any opening at all; with desperate jabs of my tongue I sought some familiar nook or cranny, something, anything, even a dimple that might give me a sense of direction. But there was nary a clue, not the slightest; nor did she budge to aid my piteously futile search, no, she merely sat there stolidly, a solid encumbrance that thwarted my every endeavor. Until, disoriented to the point of panic, I forgot the peculiar circumstances of our rendezvous and uttered a glottal, guttural groan of frustration.

That did it. The noise in my throat. She wriggled peremptorily, silencing me in quietly dictatorial fashion and snapping my distraught mind back to sensibility: we were not alone-and I'd better shut up before I blew the gaff. It was only a warning wriggle, nothing more, a brief jounce of her body, but the impact persisted signally and I grasped a broader significance; oh, I understood everything now, even her immediate resumption of unruffled immobility afterward. She was using my face as a seat, that was it. Not a love-object. Just a place to park her bottom. And in so doing, she was sealing me off from all extraneous stimuli in a deliberate effort to focus my attention on Rosalba. On my "one last waltz" with that frisky tongue. Such a highhanded minx, my calculating Kristi!-all tactics and no tact-still playing the chaperon, patronizing bur non-participating, the not-so-innocent bystander (hmm, bysitter?) in the front row.

Resigned-if not quite reconciled-to my little tyrant's coercive insistence, I let my limbs relinquish custody of poor Rosalba's ears. As the delicate clitoral contact was re-established and the buzzing became palpably prominent once more, I tried to audit and reappraise what was going on down there. But I couldn't surrender wholly; my primary need refused to cede to the secondary-and again I strove impatiently for the intimate treasure of my beloved's body, snooping out the topographical contours of the baffling buttock terrain in a valiant attempt to strike it rich amid the lush sugar-loaf hills. So that I too might advantageously exercise my tongue.

A valiant but vain attempt. Damn! Would the goodies never come my way? Did she intended holding me like this all night? How long was that farewell kiss supposed to go on? It felt pretty good, admittedly, but I just couldn't concentrate on something so remote and impersonal, not with the treasure-trove so close, the delectable prize, the mouth-watering sweetmeat, the only thing that really"Rosalba!"

"Mmm?"

"Stop what you're doing and listen. This is me Kristi. Remember what I told you? Go do it now. Get into the bathroom and wait for me. Shut the door and turn the light on and get yourself ready. Understand? I want you to be ready for me!"

"Umm… I-yes… "

"Go now. Right away. Run!"

I heard it. Every word; oh, monstrous, monstrous! but the contact was broken and the bedsprings creaked Rosalba's exit and the relenting flesh against my lips cushioned but no longer curbed; it shifted obligingly, a tender cheek-caress, and then the soft buttocks spread and settled in a thickly fluid motion, molding themselves to my features and covering my face like hot candle wax melting down to overflow and absorb its sconce. And the prize was mine, the prize I had lusted for so unswervingly-and with it came the miracle, ah yes, maravillosa! the external buzz had given way to an internal throb that was infinitely superior. As if my thrusting tongue had plugged me into another current, opening a brand-new circuit of sensation.

But the sensation wasn't mine alone; I could feel her body quivering in excitement, stirring into action, claiming and clenching my tongue in a convulsive muscular contraction that set the surrounding skin twitching consensually. It went on with concentrated tenacity, fiercely amorous-squeezing, pinching, squeezing-a caress designed to cosset and chastise (and certainly to cherish!) all in the same instant. Like a confident and conclusive sign of proud possession, a show of ownership.

And I was glad to be owned. So impossibly fantastic! I had my tongue shoved up my maidservant's backside, a despicable act, surely, simply disgraceful for a woman of my station in society; and yet now-even in this flash-span of lucidity-I found only bliss in my topsy-turvy world. Fanchon loves Kristi. A slave to my servant. Let her own me, then. But of course! How could I be other than what I was?

The contraction ended. But the exquisite yoke of bondage remained firm, and I continued my kiss gratefully. I was too hot to quit now And so was she, luckily. Hot. Too hot to get up and leave me. She squirmed a little and then inched into the beginning of the familiar rocking movement, extending it gradually, exaggerating the arc: a sweeping undulation that soon had the entire length of fleshy cleavage rubbing over my nose and mouth in a rolling glide. Rolling, rubbing, bearing down in rampant intensity-as though she had some sort of prodigious irritation, an inflamed itch that needed scratching all the way from coccyx to clitoris. Only the unguent-slick seepage of her sex-stimulated flesh saved me from being pulverized. I couldn't breathe. But I loved it, all of it, even the oppression, the smothering ecstasy of her violence, and I managed to get my lungs working after a while, alternately snuffling and gasping for air in the split-second of semi-freedom at opposite poles of the pendulum swing. Until the time of culmination drew nigh; the lurch, the telltale inner rumble, the spasmodic distention-and my passion-crazed little joy rider stopped suddenly and sagged and cupped my face deep in her dilating vulva. I wallowed in it, prolonging the fever-pitch of the peak moment, sucking and munching madly in a raging compulsion to provide the utmost of pleasure above and beyond the ultimate threshold.