Zane Pella: Fanchon_s Book

A visible ripple traversed the arc of Rosalba's spine as she crouched to dry my feet. Ah, how she adored me! Even through the fabric of her uniform I could see the sinuous signs of emotion. In her solicitous hands the bath towel became an expression of love, a thick-napped caress; its diligence to duty seemed scarcely more than subterfuge.

Dear, devoted Rosalba, so demonstrative. Her ingratiating zeal saddened me in a way, foreshadowing the end of an era. Our parting was imminent and I dreaded the loss of her sweet services. They seemed even sweeter now, rendered with such guileful innocence when there was so little purpose to seductive tactics. Today of all days I hadn't expected.

But she was already dabbing up my legs. I tingled in amused impatience as the coyly enterprising courtship progressed, her ever encroaching touch setting the sensitive skin of my thighs aglow. Such a sly suitor, my Rosalba; did she think she was fooling me with those artful endearments?

Her hushed breathing sounded a new, emboldened note. I heard the throaty modulation, strange yet piquantly familiar, sex-charged; in the stillness of the tiny bathroom its implicit urgency was intensified a thousand fold by the echo-chamber effect of the tiled walls. I knew she wanted me. Desperately. Now even the most subtle of soft gestures could only betray the true objective of her cunning campaign.

Nevertheless she persisted hopefully, tempering illusion with reality. In the guise of the utilitarian towel, Rosalba's caress grew daringly amorous one moment and discreetly affectionate the next. Yet, somehow, she managed to maintain a certain semblance of propriety-as if she understood only too well the caste-oriented relationship between maid and mistress.

Propriety?

Well, something like that. The incongruous notion sent a chuckle to my lips. But her gliding movement swerved suddenly and the laughter strangled in the tightened tourniquet of my nerves, emerging as a distracted moan that registered desire even in my own ears. The fleecy touch had become an exquisite invasion; I felt it in the moist intimacy of my flesh-drying me?-backed up by sedulously forceful fingers.

"Rosalba… "

Her eyes glistened, beseeching. "Madame?"

"The towel-uh, you don't really need it, do you?"

It slithered out of my body damply, plopping to the floor. I missed it. But only for an instant-and then, miraculously, the hot void was filled and I shivered sensuously at the initial contact: the cool contrast of Rosalba's cheeks. My thighs soon warmed them, clutching feverishly, capturing the upturned face, making it an integral part of me. I sagged slightly and hung suspended, buoyant in breathless anticipation, buttressed by the makeshift tripod of my widespread stance and Rosalba's kneeling form.

And at last it came, the little unseen motion, the fantastic flutter of her tongue. The thing that had sustained me so long. I welcomed it with a small sigh, wondering how I would ever learn to do without its unique consolation. Not by the most sanguine stretch of the imagination did I dare dream that my new maid might be similarly endowed. Could there be anything like it in all the world?

Rosalba's tongue. The way it vibrated. For the life of me I couldn't tell how she did it. Or how she kept its electrical turbulence so accurately pinpointed. The darting tip penetrated adroitly, piercing the hooded insulation of my flesh, jabbing at the button that switched on the circuit of sensation. My insides dissolved in liquescent response.

I swayed precariously, nearly losing the now-slippery support of her face. Damn. This was ridiculous. In the bathroom, of all places-how unromantic. And difficult too, considering the creeping lassitude in my limbs. Any more of that enervating tongue would have me limp as the sodden towel on the floor. It was time to call a halt to such folly.

"Enough," I murmured weakly.

"Mmm?"

"Rosalba, no. I want you to stop."

Her hands cupped the backs of my knees. "Madame?" She glanced up, imploring, her open mouth still nuzzling with a kind of wistful tenacity. "You-you won't let me?" The veiled voice tickled, teasing the tendrils of my hair like a coquettish zephyr. "You won't let me say good-bye to you?"

"Good-bye? Oh, so that's what you're doing."

"Yes, Madame. You-you don't like it?"

I peered down, all but blushing at the sight of her smeared face. The sheen of her skin-of the perspiring forehead and passion-slicked cheekbones-was hardly less humid than the depths of her misted eyes. She looked positively lewd, and I was sorely tempted to revoke my veto and yield to her shameless ardor.

But I steeled myself. "Of course I like it, you silly girl. But here? In the bathroom? Not exactly the setting for a fond farewell scene, is it?"

"Oh. You're right, Madame. I'm sorry. I should have known better. But it's getting late and I thought maybe… uh… " Her words trailed off despondently.

"Hmm? Tell me."

"Well, I thought maybe I wouldn't get a chance later on. Like this, I mean. The chance to say good-bye to you."

"Like this? Rosalba, is it so important?"

"It-it's the only way I know, Madame. The only way I can show you how I feel."

"You're a darling." I smiled sympathetically, quite flattered by such a charmingly candid testimonial. "But you mustn't waste your caresses on me. You should be saving them for that young man of yours."

"Oh, he'll get his share. Don't worry, I'll make him a good wife. But I'll never forget you, Madame. I'll always be thankful for everything you've done for me."

"So it's gratitude, eh? Is that all?"

She turned her head, pressing a tender cheek against the under curve of my belly. "You know… " Supplicating arms encircled my thighs, clinging in forlorn hope. "Oh Madame, Madame, this will be our last time together."

Her near-tearful plaint struck a chord of commiseration in me. I felt expansive. Benevolent. And a bit condescending too, no doubt, but that was only natural: after all, the girl was still in my employ.

"Our last time. Umm, perhaps not, my dear. We'll see each other again. Surely you'll come and visit me some day, won't you?"

"Madame! You-you really want me to?"

"I'm inviting you." I stroked her disheveled hair indulgently. "And you'll be my guest then, not my servant; I'll even insist on your calling me by name. No more 'Madame'-just your old friend Fanchon."

"Oh… Madame… you're so nice. How can I ever thank you? Yes, I'd love to see you again;" She sneaked a quick kiss, then sniffed querulously. "If only I didn't have to live so far away. But you know I'll come if it's at all possible."

"Fine. I'll be looking forward to it. But enough of this sentimental foolishness before we're both in tears. I have to dress now. Do stand up, Rosalba, your poor knees must be aching."

Slowly, reluctantly, her hands fell away and she sat back on her haunches. "My knees?" A wan grin flitted across her features. "But it's my heart that's aching. Because you didn't let me finish saying goodbye."

"Is that so? Then you'll just have to go on suffering, I'm afraid. Still, we might find time later-if you hurry and help me dress. But I'm not making any promises, mind you."

"I understand, Madame. No promises." Apparently mollified, she arose dutifully and followed me into the bedroom.

Despite my air of finality, I knew I had pretty much committed myself to another session of lovemaking before she took her leave. But that would be no great hardship: the gift of Rosalba's tongue, sui generis, was something to be treasured, not spurned. Even now I could have gladly spread my legs and accepted it-lying down, of course, not teetering hazardously like some giddy ballerina with a substandard sense of equilibrium. Only the unseemly setting had vexed me, not the archly improvised act itself; was I a barbarian that I should fail to appreciate such a quaintly aesthetic mode of bidding me adieu?