Fanchon's Book

Chapter 10

A holiday for just the two of us! How quickly and easily it all came about: a peek at my husband's papers, a few words to Kristi, a short wait-and that was that. We were off to laze in the luxury of the sun and the sea. Dolce far niente. For a week, at least, and probably longer.

I didn't dare stretch it too many days, though, considering the dubious yarn I had told Oliver about scrimping and saving and squeezing the money for my much-needed nerve-tonic vacation out of the household budget. He groused a bit, as expected, but he was too busy with affairs of state to make any firm protest, poor dear. I felt sorry for him. But what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him-and anyway, Kristi and I were already on the journey south; the time had come to put all our cares behind us.

All our cares.

Yes, and that included the malaise of my own conscience. The deed was done now, the not-quite-honest thing, and I had even given up stewing over Kristi's unrevealed contacts, the mysterious "people" with the financial know-how. It no longer worried me that such masterminds should be so accessible to a common working girl. (Common?-oh no, far from it: ages ago I had recognized that my golden-haired inamorata was no ordinary servant.) And regardless of the consequences-not that I anticipated any-we had pocketed enough money for our holiday and were hell-bent on enjoying it.

I might have wished for a more auspicious beginning, though. The trip was tedious; we arrived at our destination in a late-night rainsquall and got miserably chilled getting to the hotel; by the time we reached our room Kristi was alternately glum and glowering in weariness and exasperation. On the verge of a tantrum, evidently, and I figured I'd better do something to forestall it, but quick.

Not that I felt much better myself. But every minute of our holiday was precious, and I refused to allow her little-girl petulance to depress me further. I ordered a pair of potent drinks and suggested a bath. To cheer us both up, I told her.

She sniffed crossly. "It'll take more than that, Fanchon. I'm exhausted. Let's just go to bed, huh?"

"Without bathing? I'm too grimy."

"Me too, but who cares? It won't keep me awake."

"Darling, this is a big occasion. We can't just go to sleep on our first night, can we?"

"I can." Then, after a drowsy yawn, "Oh well, maybe a drink will help. I guess we ought to unpack, anyway."

"Uh-huh. But you don't have to-"

A knock interrupted me; the liquor had come and I scurried to fetch her drink before she changed her mind. Alcohol would give her a lift-and likewise me, although I truly didn't need any artificial stimulant: as I set the tray down and bolted the door, I had a sudden sensation of holiday-spirit giddiness, a lovely emotional whirl that made me want to ring bells and sing carols. We were here. Together. Just the two of us with the rest of the world locked out; why, it was like some kind of delirious super-honeymoon!

Saturnalia time, then. Tired or not, we were going to celebrate-and if my little bride seemed a trifle wilted, well, I was strong enough for both of us. And sexy enough-oh yes, I knew where all my pith-and-vinegar was coming from-wet weather and travel fatigue couldn't cramp my libido on this, our first night of stolen sweets. (Hmm, like that ribald joke Oliver used to tell? Fanchon rides tonight!) It must have been my locking the door that did it, an unfamiliar door sealing us alone together in an unfamiliar place, a bit of seductive symbolism: there was something exciting about clandestine lovers in a hotel room. Right now anything less than an orgy would be like craving tartar steak and settling for soggy meat balls.

But I could see that a little persuasive pampering was in order. "Why don't you relax, darling? I'll get our things unpacked. Is the drink all right?"

"Not bad. Pretty good, as a matter of fact. Fanchon, I'm sorry to be such a dud. I'm just pooped out, I guess. "

"Think nothing of it. Let me take care of my melancholy doll-baby tonight. I'll do everything. You won't have to move a muscle. When I'm through unpacking, I'll run a tub for you. I'll even stay right there and bathe your beautiful body."

"Silly… "

"Uh-huh. That's me. Silly in love. And industrious, too. Come now, I'll help you undress and you can stretch out and sip your drink and watch me work" I undid a few fasteners and began plucking at her clothing.

"Mmm, you're so sweet to me. I like it." She wriggled sinuously, letting me strip the garments away. "I'll bet you've got an ulterior motive, though."

"Who, me?"-wide-eyed, simpering in mock innocence-"an ulterior motive?" I bent swiftly, flicking a pink nipple with the tip of my tongue. "Darling, how ulterior can a motive get?"

"Oooh, don't… "

But her voice quavered coquettishly and my heart was full of love and I knew it was going to be a wonderful night; I just couldn't resist pressing a warm breathed kiss into the priceless jewel of her intriguingly indented navel. Such an adorable little tummy button, so dainty and delicate and "Hey, slow down. Don't you have work to do? Besides, I haven't had my bath yet."

"Dmmm… "

"Fanchon, please!"

This time her tone was peevishly adamant and I had to suppress my amorous inclinations. Yes, there was work to be done, suitcases to be unloaded, clothes to be put away; why dawdle? Oh, I had energy. abounding now: it fizzed and sputtered and gurgled inside me like a choked-off geyser clamoring for release.

I undressed for freedom of movement and attacked the task vigorously. Eyes shut, Kristi lolled upon the bed, an inspiration in the nude; even while busy at the closet I stole glances at her and licked my covetous lips. The leg nearest me lay flat, lax, the knee of the other was drawn up in a rounded steeple, its flexuous thigh-curve luring my gaze downward to the exposed crest of hair. The palm of her hand covered her navel limply (or was she treasuring my kiss?) and its barely perceptible rise and fall concurred with her measured breathing, the only indication of life. But I knew she wasn't asleep, not in a pose so deliberately provocative; such a temptress! did she have any idea what that voluptuous vision was doing to me?

With ten-thumbed clumsiness, I hurried to finish my pedestrian chore and take on the next one, still a chore but far more pleasant, attending Miss Lazylegs in her bath. But her prolonged stillness was beginning to upset me; the half-full glass on the bedside table had gone untouched for quite some time now-and I decided to jog her back into wakefulness before I drew the tub. With all our things tucked away at last, I sat down on the edge of the bed and placed a kiss on her upraised knee.

"Fanchon?" Pale eyelids twitched and opened. "Oh, I must have dozed off. Did you get everything unpacked?"

"All done. Shall I fix your bath now?"

"Dh, not yet. I'm too tired to get up."

"Darling? You know I'm going to help you. Don't you want to be all nice and clean and sweet-smelling so that I can make love to you?"

"I-I suppose so. But I haven't finished my drink yet." She reached for her glass languidly. "Anyhow, we've got a whole week in front of us. Must you be so impatient?"

"Drink up, then. I'll wait. But don't you dare go to sleep on me."

"Okay, okay." Then, giggling through a sip and a swallow, "How could I fall asleep when you're panting like that? You sound like a doggie with its tongue hanging out."

"Like this?" Anything to keep her awake. and interested; I did the,appropriate dog-imitation. "See what a sensual bitch I am? Bow-wow. I'm a bitch in heat."

My comic performance brought a chuckle. But a vague wisp of memory cast its shadow: bitch in heat? I had called myself that once before; it hadn't seemed so funny then. Nor was it funny now. It was just me. Fanchon. With my tongue hanging out. The real Fanchon. Panting for Kristi and watching her mirth fade and leave an expression on her face that was strangely sad.

"Oh, my darling Fanchon, what have I done to you? The things you do to please me. Am I turning you into some kind of slave?" She shook her head slowly. "Sometimes I wish we had never started the-" Her teeth clamped her lip; she shrugged and shook her head again. "Oh, you know what I mean."

"Yes… " I heard the throb of my own heart. "I do know. But I'm glad we started. You mustn't feel guilty about it."

"You-you don't hate me?"

"I love you. Everything about you. The things you make me do. Everything. Kristi, don't you understand? You've made me a happy woman. And if you're turned me into a slave, then I'm a happy slave."

"Sweet… sweet Fanchon… "

"Not sweet. Sexy."

I bent and kissed the back of her hand. My tongue dabbed between the fingers, seeking the little belly bijou: but she tightened upon it protectively. Her body squirmed suggestively, though, and I sensed its burgeoning excitement; my lips trailed down her skin lingeringly in an attempt to nourish the flame and keep the pot boiling. But her hand made a quick leap and set up another, more intimate defense.

"Fanchon?"

"Mmm?"

"Please don't. I-I'm so messy from the long trip."

"Uh-huh. Bath time?"

"Soon… "

I heard the clink of her glass and smiled at my own sagacity. She was aroused now and gulping her drink; that poignant moment of self-reproach had flitted by, its prickly anxiety smoothed by the attrition of my softly persevering caresses. We were back on our own private one-way street, thank heaven, and I wasn't about to let up and give her the chance to get remorseful about its direction again. My lips continued wandering.

"Fanchon, you shouldn't."

"Umm… "

"Wait till I've had my bath. I must smell awful." I lifted my head and sniffed wryly. "Oh sure. Awful. So hurry you and finish your drink. Because I'm going to keep kissing you until-"

"You'd better not. Or maybe you don't believe me, huh? Here, I'll show you." She jutted her middle up brusquely. "Look at me. No, not up here. Look at my hand. See what it's doing?" Her fingers dipped inside the folds of flesh. "There. Now you'll know why you should have waited."

And then, right under my horrified eyes, she brought her moist hand up and smeared it, over my face. I shuddered but made no effort to pull out of reach; the crude gesture stunned me and suddenly it was too late: she was poking her fingers into my mouth and I felt the weak dragging sensation in my loins and knew I was getting hot and all I could do was lick the lewd hand and suck those insolently probing fingers-and when they pinched my tongue and held it and tugged my head down between her up rearing thighs, I whispered faintly and sank into the suffocating quagmire and gasped at the shocking realization (no, not the taste or the smell!) that she had indeed enslaved me. Because I loved it.

And because she was telling me so. Suck It, you bitch. I don't have to be clean for a slave-bitch. Oh yes, you're my slave, sure enough. Who but a slave would suck like that?"

Obscene. Her language, her manner; even the pubescent bush seemed more coarse, somehow, and I found only evil in the slimy mucosity of her pulp-fleshed cleft. But such an exciting evil! The evil of slavery-and wasn't it a weird thrill?