Zane Pella: Fanchon_s Book

It came sooner than I anticipated. That very night, late, after I had fetched her a tall drink and hovered close by on the off-chance that she might relent and let me kiss her pretty feet while she relaxed on the chaise and read the newspaper. Sullen as ever, the heartless little rascal ignored me even though she must have noticed that I was practically devouring her nude loveliness with my near-famished languishing looks. But she sat up and stretched after a while and then swung her legs to the floor and padded toward the bathroom-and I knew my opportunity had arisen. Propitiation time. It was now or never.

"Darling, wait."

"Huh?"

"Not yet. Let me get ready for you."

"Ready? Hey, where are you-"

But I was already rushing past her and sinking to the floor and arching backward over my self-prescribed crucible and doing it, getting ready! and the abrupt vitreous chill bit into the nape of my neck and crystallized all the facets of my Fanchon-bitch sensuality and I opened my mouth wide and almost cried out in exultation when I felt the hoped-for stir of lust in my loins and realized that I had truly become what my beloved goddess wanted me to be (shades of Danae!) and wouldn't she be delighted to find her slave so hot and sexy and anxious to serve? Her toilet slave-ready. Ready to be used. Asking only to bask in the warm golden sun-shower of her love. Would she get exhilarated and giggle and chatter and make all those wild noises? Touch me with those frolicsome fingers? Oh, I could hardly keep from"Well now… and what have we here, hmm?" Mutely, mouth agape, I squinted up at her and held my pose like some rigid, inert body-a fixture of flesh-letting the stretched stillness of my jaws plead my cause with graphic eloquence.

But she knew only too well what she had here. And what she had to do in it-for her own easement, if not for mine. She even seemed quite casual about it, giving me a perfunctory nod and swinging around and spreading her legs and getting herself organized above my face as if she deemed it no more than natural to have a pair of lips parted and prepared for her pleasure. Or for her convenience, rather, that was the impression I got.

Until it began-and for an instant of gasping enravishment my awareness encompassed only the trickle of her love into the gulf of my gratitude. Just a trickle. So little love? Scarcely enough for a grateful swallow; how could I prove my willingness? But I must have succeeded regardless: she leaned back and peered down at me and I heard her voice, jubilant, ecstatic, sounding the same cry of exultation that I had suppressed a few minutes ago.

"Oooh yes, Fanchon, you love it, you love it!"

And I did, I did, I did love it and I told her so in a frothing wheeze of urgency and then-not for herself but for met-the divine chalice tilted into position again and I took the cascade of its blessing greedily; ah, how she loved me, loved me, and with her fingers too now-oh, that tiny tantalizing fingertip-but I wanted more, more, I wanted the crazy gleeful noises, the exhortation and the acclaim, the sweet squeals of praise, and I panted for breath and fought off the choking sensation and did my best to make her appreciate what a good slave I was so that maybe on a cold winter night she might"Fanchon, listen, let's do it anyway. To hell with the money. Let's kill him. Just for the thrill of it!"

And then the noises started, shrill and strident, giggling, cackling, menacing, terrifying-and yet thrilling, so thrilling! and my conquered soul-and-body exploded in orgasm and I gulped and gurgled and gulped again and wondered if I too was going mad…

I hardly know what else to call this belated addition to my story. A postscript, perhaps. Or more pointedly "a word to the wise." Nor do I have time for such verbal niceties now; no pretty phrases, no elegant adjectives, no glittering prose, no pretentious trash. Only truth. Or as much truth as I dare tell in this rash moment of defiance. I must get these extra pages written' and in the mail before she sees them. And before my courage runs out.

The finished manuscript is in the publisher's hands. My agent just telephoned the news of its acceptance. But there is a proviso to be met first: the original ending seemed vague and abrupt-and would I consider doing something about it? So I am doing something about it. Here and now. That is the reason for the epilogue.

No, not the reason, the excuse. The reason is more personal and you may not understand it. Or believe it.

But my husband will-if this reaches him-and that is why I must say it while I still have the chance. I wish it were possible to speak to him frankly and confess everything, but I am her slave more than ever-and only in the heat of this spasm of rebellion can I tell my husband that she really plans to murder him. Slowly. Through me. But not "just for the thrill of it"-oh no-and not for the money either, what little there is.

I know now that her motive is political. There is a plot afoot to take over the government; it will be swift and sure when it finally happens, but the date of the coup is months away yet and there is still time to forestall it. The whole thing hinges upon the death of my husband. But his passing must appear normal-old age, long illness, natural causes-and I suspect that she has been sent here to seduce me and enslave me and make me perform the deed. And I shall do it, of course, I do not see how I can stop myself. Because I love her the way I do.

Only my husband himself can prevent it. He will read the book, I am certain-he reads all the new American erotica-and he should be able to identify me from some of the stylistic expressions I have used, expressions familiar to both of us, and there are plenty of them scattered throughout the manuscript. (Have I unconsciously been trying to attract his attention from the very beginning?) But only he will recognize me. No one else. The characters in the story are too disguised to offer any clues. Nobody but my agent is aware that I am the writer-and in order not to involve him I shall mail this, the epilogue, directly to the publisher's offices in New York. But when my husband reads the book, he will know and understand and figure out what toForgive me. I hear her calling. Forgive this ungainly bit of writing; I must send it off immediately and cannot take the time to polish the wording. She is calling me and I must go to her. Because I am her slave. Because I love her. I am ready to commit murder for her. But I hope and pray that I never have to.