Fanchon's Book

Fanchon's Book by Zane Pella


Chapter 1

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?

But the climax of our farewell performance would have to wait. Business before pleasure-and I had an interview to conduct. The new maid was due any minute; literally and figuratively, I had to gird my loins for the encounter. True, I had already given my consent, practically-sight unseen, as it were-to take her on for a trial period. But I meant to be thorough, nonetheless, and had every intention of putting the girl through an exhaustive inquisition first.

Dressing presented no problem. Lingerie, a negligee, the mules with the furry pompoms; Rosalba scurried around to get the things I needed. My mental preparations were less manageable, however, and I continued to view the affair somewhat shakily, conscious of my own prejudice and yet-with good reason-unable to conquer it. Could any maid measure up to my faithful Rosalba?

"Tell me about her," I said. "You're sure she's safe?"

"Safe?" Rosalba frowned quizzically. "But I've told you that, Madame. Kristi isn't the gossiping kind-or else I wouldn't have recommended her."

"I hope you're right. Not that I don't trust your judgment, but I do have to think of my husband's career. Even the barest whisper of scandal could be tragic."

"Kristi won't give you any trouble. Not that way. About the other things, though-well, like I said, you might have to break her in slowly. This is her first job as a lady's maid, you know. She's so young and inexperienced. And shy, too."

"You make her sound like an innocent child."

"Mmm, a child, maybe, but not exactly innocent."

Rosalba's twinkling leer was eloquently suggestive. "You'll like her, Madame, she's really very pretty."

"That's small comfort. I'm not looking for beauty in a maidservant, all I need is someone who can-" The melodic cadence of the downstairs chimes cut me short; I shrugged lamely and gestured for Rosalba to go to the front door.

"It must be Kristi," she said. "Will you want to talk to her in the living room?"

"Uh… no, I think not. Bring her up here."

Where better to interview a prospective personal maid than in my own bedroom? I checked my appearance in the mirror, then lit a cigarette and stretched out upon the chaise lounge in leisurely fashion. But I was awake to my rapidly burgeoning curiosity; now that the zero hour had actually arrived I felt a prickle of excitement at the thought of meeting Rosalba's replacement.

Nor could I help but notice how provocative a posture I had fallen into. Did I hope to dazzle the girl? Deliberate or not, the indolent pose displayed my mature figure at its voluptuous best. The negligee, slinky and sheer-lemon-yellow to set off my brunette coloring-had pasted itself to every curve and contour, vividly limning the post-nubile ripeness of my flesh. Lower down, the carelessly tossed folds revealed a daring length of nude leg. Patently alluring admittedly, if not downright lurid; wreathed by the spiraling haze of blue cigarette smoke, I could almost see myself playing the bitch-goddess of the boudoir in a Hollywood lust epic. In glorious Technicolor yet.

Oh, I was proud of my body-and justly so. Let the girl gawk. Why shouldn't I use my undeniably luscious assets to good advantage? Let my new maid survey and scrutinize the succulent flesh that would be hers to attend; let her savor its spicy appeal and thus be apprised of the non-pecuniary rewards of her job. Surely she would reckon the mundane weekly wage a mere pittance in comparison with the munificent nightly fringe-benefits.

As a matter of fact, it was something of a pittance; unfortunately I had a limited budget to abide by and couldn't be lavish in matters of money. High as my husband ranked in the government, we lived rather sparingly and avoided any ostentatious luxuries that might impair his "poor but honest" political image. Whether our quasi-poverty was strictly sham I truly didn't know; I suspected as much, having heard rumors about hoards of untold wealth cached in foreign banks. But I had never discussed it with Oliver, nor was he the kind of man to whom I could even broach such a ticklish question. So I held my peace and stayed within my meager allowance, keeping household expenses-maid's salary included-down to a minimum.

Which accounted, in part, for my now-overt compulsion to dazzle the girl. Aside from the inherent rationale of ego and libido, there was the unremitting concern with frugality. My taste in maidservants was esoteric, to say the least, and might well have been expensive; in my dubious economic circumstances I could only afford someone who would deem her service to me virtually a labor of love. Wasn't it logical, then, that I should be so mindful of making a devastating first impression? With my near-naked body as bait, there would be little need for concessions about wages and hours and"Madame?"

"Hmm? Oh, it's you, Rosalba."

"Yes, Madame. And this is Kristi."

"Kristi… " I beckoned lazily but with a hint of implied authority. "Come in, child. Over here where I can see you."

Battered suitcase in hand, the girl sidled close to my chaise; diffidently she set her burden down and dipped into a curtsy. Not until she straightened up did I get a good look at her face. The vis-a-vis confrontation. And at that moment-mired in the engulfing gaze of those great green eyes-I lost track.

I damn near lost myself!

Certainly I lost whatever smug complacency. My own acknowledged beauty had engendered. If I didn't stir and shatter the statuesque elegance of my pose it was because of simple paralysis, nothing else; not lofty insouciance, not sexy showmanship-merely a stunned wonderment that delayed the next tick of the clock and held me immobile in the infinite interim. The most I could do was blink and goggle in disbelief. I had never been in the presence of such perfection.

A butterfly? Ah, yes-fair and fragile, a tremulously anxious butterfly, poised in delicate balance between fear and fascination. Or an angel, perhaps, a seraphic spirit gone astray, unsettled and apprehensive out of its celestial element; a divinity in female form, all cream and gold-somehow I couldn't cope with any less ethereal concept: in that split-second syllable of timeless time I saw a purity too sublime to be of this workaday world.

Smoke curled from my cigarette in a tranquil wisp. Somewhere, miles away, I heard Rosalba clear her throat. There was no other motion. No other sound. Only the static silence of the cosmos on its headlong rush toward eternity.

Then, abruptly, the butterfly and or angel broke the spell, bending eagerly to move the ashtray and catch the smoldering stub about to scorch my fingers. I smiled and patted her cheek in approval. She hung her head demurely, but not before I got a fleeting glimmer of responsive warmth from beneath the lowering curtain of her long lashes. And I realized that the lovely creature had found her earthly niche; Kristi was mine, my own heaven-sent handmaiden, the servant to satisfy my every wish. A willing worker in the workaday world. And oh, so beautiful!

In a manner hardly more than perfunctory I zipped through the dreary business of the interview. If indeed it could be called that. What need had I of petty details when I could look into those shining eyes and see the reflection of my own rapture? We came to terms readily, almost intuitively-as if we had already achieved a rapport verging on utter unanimity.

The maid's room was next door to mine-a convenient arrangement, verily-and I shooed both girls out, telling Rosalba to help Kristi unpack and get settled in her new home. Alone then, in a state akin to intoxication, I counted my blessings and gave way to rosy visions of the future. But my prophetic imagery took a singularly significant tack, and even in my beatific semi-swoon I felt a tiny twinge of conscience.

Sex? So soon? Is that all you can think about?

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.