Zane Pella: Fanchon_s Book

The idea began to haunt me (a strange twist perhaps, that of the two of us I should be the body-conscious one) and I took to disrobing her with my eyes. The baggy uniform revealed only enough to pique my curiosity: delicately molded ankles and calves, a saucy hint of bosom, a lissome figure that seemed appealing on the surface, at least. But what lay underneath? Was the skin as smooth and flawless as mine? The flesh as sleekly rounded?

Oh, I didn't expect the sweet child to approximate my own full-blown dimensions; she was definitely more Diana than Juno. But there was the overall conformation to be considered, the general symmetry, the total harmony of the proportions. And always the possible angularity, of course, so prevalent among the poorer classes of our country, the bony consequence of years of malnutrition. Then too, what of her skin? Wouldn't it be awful to find that petite derriere pocked and pimpled by some kind of adolescent acne? Revolting, to put it mildly; the very thought made me shiver and break out in goose bumps-of the fast-fading species, thank heaven.

I even contemplated the partial expedient of buying new uniforms for her, tight-fitting and scantily cut in the style of the comic-opera soubrette. What an enchanting vision! But my husband would have looked askance at such scandalous frippery; moreover, my tight and scanty budget just wouldn't stretch to cover the expenditure. So I shrugged off the provocative notion, tabling it for some future date when morals and money might be of less concern.

Still, I had to do something to allay my inquisitive doubts. And in the late-hour hush of one sultry night, spurred by a fidgety interlude of insomnia, I overcame my chickenhearted hesitancy and got rash enough to go a-snooping. Nervously-lacking the conviction of my courage-I tiptoed through the dimly lit hall to Kristi's room. I knew she slept with her door ajar, letting the faint outer glow serve as a nightlight. And in this oppressive heat she certainly wouldn't be swathed in sheets and blankets.

I put my eye to the crack. She was lying upon her bed, limbs askew, motionless but for the barely discernible rhythm of her breathing. Sound asleep, apparently. I eased the door open and made my way toward her, fascinated, intent on getting a closer look. Her sole garment was a short nightgown, rather like a peasant girl's shift, worn and washed thin, wrinkled and tucked-up high on her thighs. I saw her. All of her. Or as much as the feeble light would permit.

There were no knobby bones. No pimples. No blemishes, not even a mole or a freckle. So I was satisfied. I was seeing what I had come to see.

Satisfied?

Was that what I had come for? To judge some kind of clandestine beauty contest? Questions befogged my brain, vague, cryptic, fecund with sinful suggestion; oh, so many questions! But all with the same answer. Hotly, moistly, my insides churned in expressive response-as if my vulva could speak, as if the tumescent, quivering lips had shattered the silence and shrieked aloud.

I stared. And then went rigid in dismay as I watched the thick-fringed eyelids flicker and open. Not wide, not even halfway; only enough to cast fan-shaped shadows on the pale rise of her cheeks. But more than enough to warn me of her awakening. I stood there frozen, my flesh a solid block of ice surrounding and snuffing out the last pitiful candle flame of inner passion. All the questions narrowed down to a single terrifying one.

Does she know?

I couldn't tell. There was no sign of recognition in the hazy somnolence of those slitted eyes. But in my state of benumbed panic I sensed far more than I saw and for an agonized instant I could have sworn there was a telltale reflex, an oddly luminescent flash of awareness. It must have been my overwrought imagination though, and the waxen eyelids calmly drooped and closed.

My body defrosted and functioned again. I ducked out and raced back to the sanctuary of my own room. Once inside I came unstrung and couldn't make it to the bed; limp, feverish, panting for breath, I leaned against the friendly bulwark of the door and prayed for sanity to return and dispel my trembling delirium. Oh, but I felt foolish. What a stupid thing to do! Spying in the night, peeping, ogling the angelic little creature like a rapacious slut, a bitch in heat; what was the matter with me? Didn't I know better than to pull such an idiotic stunt? Was I already in my dotage? Good grief, one might think I was falling in love with the child!

A bitch in heat? I had to admit it; even now, lolling in the scented warmth of the bathtub, I all but devoured the toothsome little dish with my predatory gaze. Kristi didn't see me; she was busy rinsing out the lingerie in the washbasin-and in my mind's eye I undressed her and spent a poignant few minutes appraising the tender curve of her backside.

Beautiful.

More so than mine, perhaps, since she had all the advantages of youth in her favor. Still, I couldn't really criticize my own shapely bottom, less tender than Kristi's but quite appealing in its zaftig maturity. I stroked it with the palm of my hand, enjoying the slippery self-caress and offering a silent paean of commendation to the unsung hero who had invented modern day bath oil: better than the asses' milk of Cleopatra's era-and certainly cheaper. It felt just fine. No, I couldn't complain about my body. My only regret was that Kristi took so little notice of it.

All right, why not rectify that irksome detail? High time, wasn't it? She liked her job, obviously, and I no longer had to worry so much about her quitting-especially after her giggly reaction to the risquй stories I had told. Anyway, even a direct frontal attack seemed a safer course than last night's prowling and peeping madness.

"Kristi… "

She swung around. "Madame?"

I loved the tiny tinkle in her voice. Although the way she spoke-in a kind of murmur, subdued, breathless-"Madame" came out more like "ma'am." Yet her vocabulary was good, remarkably so for someone in her position: the youngster's facility with words and meanings amounted almost to a flair. Oh yes, I had come to the conclusion that my new maid was no ordinary servant. Except for that stand-offish reserve of hers, the little angel simply had no faults.

A frontal attack, then. Now. Smiling to soften the shock, I sat up in the tub and cupped my hands under my breasts. "You know something, Kristi? I ought to go on a diet. Don't you think I'm getting a bit fat?"

"Fat? You, ma'am?" She shook her head slowly, evidently flustered but. still taking my question seriously. "Oh, no. How can you say that? You have a beautiful figure."

Something gushed deep down, a sudden melting; I felt like a schoolgirl in the after flush of her first romantic compliment. Kristi's eyes kept lingering and I wondered if my skin was turning rosy. But I didn't dare look. Damn! Were my nipples getting hot, too? Nothing was touching them; my hands were holding my breasts from underneath; oh, but that sensation, the swelling, the stiffening, so unbearably familiar, what else could it be?

I settled back again, letting the water cover my embarrassment-or enough to save face, at least. I had to pursue the issue now; the possibilities were tremendous-and wasn't it weird, this shuddery self-constriction, the crazy bottled-up excitement? I only hoped my voice didn't quaver.

"How sweet of you to say so, my dear. Coming from you, that's praise indeed. I'll never be as slim and lovely as you are."

"Oh… "

"Kristi, Kristi, you mustn't be so bashful. A woman should be proud of her body, not ashamed of it. If you get a little flattery, why not relax and enjoy it?"

"Yes, ma'm. I-I understand."

"Do you? Then why are you lowering your eyes like that. And such pretty eyes, too; green is one of my favorite colors. Look at me-there now, that's much better. See how easy it is? You're a beautiful girl, my dear, and you shouldn't be so modest about it."