Zane Pella: Fanchon_s Book

I caressed myself and shuddered in delicious guilt.

That face. That beautiful face. The face of an angel. Could I take all that innocence and plunge it into the hot swamp of sensuality between my thighs? Mmm, yes, right there-oh, if only I had it now, the sweet rosebud mouth, the pretty pink tongue-what a thrill! And so wicked… wicked. Wicked and depraved to sully those dainty lips, to defile such purity, to corrupt an angel. But wasn't it exciting? Wasn't it terribly exciting just to

Fanchon, you're a bitch!

Oh yes, I was sure as hell a bitch, a sexy bitch, sexy enough and bitchy enough to spread my legs and wave Rosalba to the foot of the chaise the minute she stepped into the room. Whereupon she sank down and assailed me with grateful gluttony. It was still her way of saying good-bye, but I had no sympathy with mawkish sentiment now. Off with the old, on with the new. I shut my eyes and was scarcely aware of Rosalba herself! it was only her titillating tongue I craved-and even that became an impersonal thing as I wallowed in my private trough of lechery and watched the flashes of radiant blonde loveliness illuminate the dark screen of my mind.

Off with the old, on with the new. A smooth transition in my well-ordered existence. Oh sure. Easy go, easy come; the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace-but without the pomp and circumstance, the brassy fanfare; no, softly instead, gently, dreamily, more like taking a Walk with Delius to the Paradise Garden. Except for a few minor stumbling blocks along the primrose path.

Only they weren't exactly minor, dammit, and I didn't dare risk stubbing my toe so early in the promenade. Kristi was a prime morsel, far too precious to take lightly; much as I wanted her in my bed, I knew I had to solidify our relationship first. An ill-timed advance might even frighten the child away.

Patience, then.

Luckily I was in no immediate danger of becoming a sex-starved neurotic, having shown foresight in yielding to the blissful satiation of Rosalba's farewell. Or of both her farewells, rather, although I truly hadn't intended allowing her to wheedle me into a second session. But after insisting on staying late to help me prepare for bed-well, what with one thing leading to another, we chatted about Kristi for a while and I must have gotten steamed up all over again. Especially when Rosalba told me about the intriguing impression I had made.

"She thinks you're wonderful, Madame. She loves you already."

"Really? But she seemed so bashful."

"Give her time, Madame. Let her get used to you. And soon she will love you as I do."

"As you do, Rosalba? And how is that, pray tell?"

"Like… uh, like this, Madame."

"Oh? How nice."

"This too. Madame? Shall I show you?"

"Yes, do. Show me, show me… "

And in her own inimitable manner, Rosalba did just that, burrowing between my thighs and making funny little sucking noises, tasting me, sampling me, wet lips nibbling in a prolonged and tantalizing prelude; ah, how clever she was relentless, unhurried, browsing upon my flesh daintily, withholding the final flurry of her tongue until she had me writhing in anticipation All. of which I accepted gladly, including the exhaustion that I knew would inevitably follow. Anyway, it was pretty good protective insurance, using the anodyne of my ex-maid's mouth to fortify me against the prurient itch that would have to go unscratched during the cautious indoctrination of my maid-to-be. Smart thinking, as it turned out, even though the organ solely responsible for the brainstorm was located far south of the brain.

For a few days, then, I was better able to withstand the rigors of enforced abstinence as I went about my business. Not that such self-restraint came easily: after all, I had never been one to rate continence a virtue. Kristi occupied my mind if not my bed-although the two became whimsically synonymous in my fitful reveries and I probably raped the poor unsuspecting tyke a dozen times.

Less fanciful was the effect she had on my work. I couldn't concentrate. My creative ability fell into the sere, the yellow leaf; I stared at the blank paper on the platen and cursed the dry thought-buds that refused to blossom. Words failed me, and in the most literal and literary-of connotations. The typewriter keys smirked with a kind of knowing impudence, as if they were privy to my subconscious secrets, as if the machine itself was conveying the message that should have been obvious: at this particular point, my work was of secondary importance.

Actually, it wasn't very important to begin with. I had published a slim volume of poems and a few short stories that were received with creditable notice, but my writing still fell into the "housewife's hobby" category. Just something to while away the lonely hours. My husband, bless his heart, was always busy with government and politics and whatnot; aside from the necessary social functions and state dinners, we were seldom together. Besides, he too had a time-consuming hobby, one that struck me as rather droll for a man of his advanced age and station: Oliver collected erotica, all kinds of pornographic shockers-ancient and modern, classic and shoddy, books and manuscripts in many languages. He pored over them in his own bedroom, leaving me much to my own devices. So-like any restless young wife-I had branched out in other directions, giving vent to my penchant for poetry and fiction and some "whatnot" of my own.

But now even my literary outlet had forsaken me and there was no getting around that glaring fact. To hell with the typewriter then; Kristi came first. Until I got her into bed-successfully-I would know no peace.

A complex matter, though, in spite of Rosalba's optimistic opinion. Kristi was such a dewy young thing, so painfully innocent of sophistication, quite proper, really; that golden hair of hers might well have been a saintly halo-and untarnished, frustratingly enough. How does one go about plotting the downfall of an angel?

One begins.

Such a problem: aller Anfang ist schwer. After due deliberation I launched an attack upon her shyness, upon the air of meek modesty that I found so inhibiting. A tough target, true, but to me the keystone of her personality; if I could smash it, the rest of her would crumble and come tumbling into my hands. So I hammered away in that general direction, adopting an attitude of brazen familiarity in both speech and manner.

All to no avail. Under my barrage of bawdy talk, Kristi merely giggled and remained demure as ever-a bit of a paradox, considering how well she seemed to understand all the dirty words. Nor did she show any noticeable reaction to a more intimate contact with my body, performing her newly assigned tasks somewhat awkwardly but without much change in demeanor. She took care of my hair, she did my nails, she assisted while I dressed and undressed; yet it was always with those same downcast eyes, that same shrinking humility.

She stood in awe of me, I realized, and was probably still spellbound by the sexy spectacle I had presented on the chaise that first day. Maybe I was even some sort of goddess to her, not a flesh-and-blood woman but a sacrosanct idol to be worshiped only at a distance. Whatever the reason, I fretted in increasing exasperation over my failure to get through to the girl.

In a spate of impetuous audacity, I shed my last vestige of decorum and had her attend me in my bath. I actually flaunted my nudity. But again my effort went for naught; and I couldn't help but recognize that the entire affair was affecting me far more than it should. Such a silly mess. A grown woman playing peek-a-boo games with her skittish little maidservant.

But I had passed the point of no return. I couldn't make Kristi conscious of my fleshly presence; now, unaccountably, I became conscious of hers. That fresh young body-what I could see didn't displease me, but how would it look naked? Would it match the perfection of her face? Surely not. As if anything could! But I was dying to find out for myself.