Fanchon's Book

Chapter 12

A many-textured thing, that was our love. What would the new day bring? More of last night's madness?

Ah yes, more, more, more-and madder? But the joy of the moment was joy enough: the joy of waking up and remembering, of seeing the four walls of our insular world, of feeling the intimate presence of my beloved, of knowing we were on a holiday and wouldn't have to wait until nightfall; hmm, wouldn't it be interesting to experiment in broad daylight?

Now?

Not that daylight seemed broad, exactly, I could make out the mid-afternoon hands of the clock, but only gray weather filtered through the window blinds. Our "rainsquall" must have decided to stick around. Or spawn progeny. Still, who needed bright and cheery atmosphere? Not we two, certainly, not for our kind of love, no, I could already taste the darkness of my desire. The memory of last night was on my lips as much as in my mind.

Beside me, naked legs gracefully askew, Kristi slept. I bent and sniffed deeply, filling my flaring nostrils with the intoxicating musk-aroma. Need surged in my loins: awake, my darling, awake and let me love you but she remained untouched by my plea, the loosely tossed limbs quiescent, their beauty a temptation, their pose a challenge.

Did I dare?

I dared. With more bravado than bravery, I slid to the foot of the bed, tense, breathless; aware of the possibility that she might wake up angry. But it.was a calculated-risk that struck only minor terror in my ambitious heart-even in anger my beloved could be captivating: she wore the-mood like a royal mantle. Anyway, the consequence could hardly be more dire than my need. And if I drew her from sleep slowly enough, carefully, delicately, she would probably be pleased…

Her feet were soft. My lips paid a lingering tribute. Soft and clean and perfumed; hadn't I bathed and scented them myself? So dainty-but cruel too at times; last night she had crushed me to the floor with her foot on the back of my neck, not once but often; it was one of the things I recalled most vividly. That and the finger-snapping, the peremptory signal she had used in conditioning me to instant obedience-all part of what she called my "training"-nor could I forget how she had finally united both tokens of servitude to evoke the groveling ritual with no command other than the wordless snap of her fingers. The thought turned me hot with humiliation; such a shameful thrill! and almost instinctively I ducked my head and relived it, rubbing the nape of my neck against the sole of her foot.

"Mm… Fanchon?"

"Oh. I-I didn't mean to disturb you."

"It's all right. No, don't stop. I like that. Hmm, I must have trained you well last night, you do it so naturally." She flexed her knee and stroked my face with her toes. "Ooh, your skin is warm. Are you excited, dear?"

"You should know. I'm always excited."

"How nice. Oh, Fanchon, I do love you. Sweet… such a sweet, sweet slave-and so devoted, yes, do that, kiss my feet, my pretty feet-and my legs too after a while; then maybe I'll let you suck me. Would you like that?"

"Darling… "

"Kiss, kiss-ah, what a mouth you have! Don't you wish we could wake up like this every day?"

"Umm, every day. I'll do it."

"But you can't, of course. Too bad."

"I'll do it, I'll do it. You'll see."

"Oh, sure. But only while we're on vacation-and then we'll have to go back home and… well… you know… "

"I'm sorry. I'll try to make you happy."

"Happy? But you can't afford it, Fanchon, that's the trouble. You've spoiled me-and now I get the chills when I think of your nasty old husband hanging around. He'll be in the next room every night and-oh, I just hate him! How can I be happy living there? I do wish we had money. Enough so that I wouldn't have to work. Enough for a little place of my own so that we could be together whenever… " Her voice faded despondently. "Just a dream, I guess."

"Please angel don't be sad. This is our holiday. We'll worry about it when the time comes, shall we?"

"Uh-huh. I suppose so…"

I lulled her with my caresses. And I lulled myself too, after a fashion, letting the detergent tide of passion lave away the ugliness of my poverty and her discontent. Until, almost reluctantly, she heaved a small sigh of appreciation and came out of her doldrums to whisper the word, the all-important word, indulgently at first and then with increasing urgency as I dived between her legs and began to suck; but soon there were more words, other words, lewd, lewd, and I was relieved when her thighs clenched convulsively and deadened the noise. Even so, the soundproofing was only partial, and through the soft flesh clapped to my ears I could still hear dots and dashes of scurrility. But somehow it didn't bother me as much now; she seemed to be enjoying her outburst immensely, synchronizing the shrillest oaths and obscenities to the lustiest tremors and twitches of her body; it was all rather quaint, in a way, and how could I feel antipathy toward gutter argot if it gave the ferocious little hellcat such apparent glee? Let her spout the dirty words, I was too busy to care, too busy mouthing my own hot-tongued silent imprecations-and besides, I just couldn't see myself resenting something that simulated her sexually and kept her mind off the querulous view she had taken of our future. I only hoped the gnawing grievance, would slither away and be forever forgotten. I didn't even want to talk about it. At least not until it became absolutely necessary.

As it turned out, though, the problem had been shunted aside only temporarily. We spent the rest of the afternoon in bed mostly, calling room service for sustenance and resuming our lovemaking with restored vitality. Then, toward evening, we bathed and dressed and went downstairs to the main dining room. That was where she brought it up again, right in the middle of the soup course. The money issue.

I hadn't realized how much it was upsetting her. Nor could I find any means of circumventing the discussion, now that it seemed so portentous. So we got involved in some serious talk-and I soon gained a better understanding of what I had feared might be a clear-cut case of avarice. Nothing of the sort; it hinged on jealousy, rather: Kristi didn't really object to low-paid housework, but the nearness of Oliver was simply too much to bear. She wanted me-and no one else. Our romance would wither and die without privacy, she insisted, and we needed the same kind of seclusion that had made last night so perfect. A hideway, then. A place where we could be together and not have to worry about a husband on the other side of the thin wall. A little love-nest all our own.

So it was more than "just a dream"-and how quickly I agreed with her! Even as she outlined her proposal, I had shimmering visions of what it would be like. My tender tyrant in a cozy apartment, living the role of the petted and pampered mistress, lounging in a negligee while I came every day and served her. Waited upon her, attended to her wants and whims, amused her if she got bored, caressed her when she turned amorous, yes, and I would even look the part-like a vivacious maid, perhaps, dressed in one of those outrageously sinful soubrette costumes: high heels, short skirt, tiny cap and apron (hmm, hadn't I once considered buying just such an outfit for her?), all of it for effect, more theatrical than practical. But there would be menial chores to perform, too, the dusting, the cleaning, the bed-making (if she ever got out of it long enough!) and I might rinse her undies and hosiery or do her hair and fingernails. Toenails too if she so ordered, although that would reduce me to the status of a body-slave, almost, and I'd have to wear thong sandals and a skimpy tunic-unless she fancied her slave naked. Oh, the times we could have! the wild and wicked revels, the crazy stunts and games, the hot sex; was there anything we wouldn't dare if we had a place of our own? The possibilities were as infinite as my darling little dreamer's imagination, and the prospect held me spellbound.

But I snapped out of my trance in a hurry. Now that Kristi's dream was my dream, something had to be done to make it come true. Couldn't we figure out a way to get the money?

One way was obvious. She mentioned it; I demurred emphatically-and she must have recognized that persuasion would be futile. Despite the simplicity and success of the surreptitious venture, I had no intention of filching any more secret information from Oliver's files. Not that I didn't give it some thought. But as a last resort, that was all, in case none of my other ideas worked out.

Oh yes, I did have ideas. But weak ones, hardly more than faint flashes; all through dinner they kept flitting around in my mind like errant fireflies, a confused tracery of ephemeral notions, maggoty concepts, all entailing some form of skullduggery-and all consequently worthless. Nevertheless, they gave me confidence. Something feasible was bound to turn up in my fertile brain; hadn't I always regarded myself as a creative person?

True, I hadn't shown much originality a few days ago. It was Kristi's idea, not mine, that had promoted our holiday. But the circumstances were different now, I felt strong, I had a justifiable incentive-and of even greater significance, I wasn't pressed for time. For such a long-term deal-and expensive, too-she wouldn't expect me to come up with some hasty hit-or-miss scheme.

Still, I might have to do a bit of temporizing. Even now she seemed glum, casting a desultory gaze at the resort bulletin that had come with the menu. At the moment, what I needed most was a mere figment, a glimmer, a ray of promise just bright enough to keep her from sulking.

Then, astoundingly, I had it!-more than a glimmer, more than a placating hope-and the impact knocked out the insidious fireflies and cleared my head. Creative person? Then why not create? Why not do the thing I did best?

"Eureka," I murmured.

"Huh?" She kept looking at the printed circular and spoke around a spoonful of dessert. "What did you say?"

"Nothing much." I grinned complacently, quite smug in my new-found omniscience. "Eureka. From the ancient Greek. Shouted by Archimedes upon the occasion of-"

"Fanchon, don't act so smart."

"Well, at least I didn't shout it. Now if you could just manage to tear your attention away from that hotel gossip sheet you're so interested in… "

"Uh-huh. But it's not gossip. Only announcements. Hey, they're having fireworks tonight. Can we go?"

"In the rain? Fireworks?"

"It's stopped raining, I'll bet. It must have-or they'd be canceling the announce-"

"Kristi, please! I've got something to tell you. Something more important than the weather or fireworks. Would you be considerate enough to listen?"

"Okay, so I'm listening. What's so important?"

"The money. Money for an apartment. I know how we can get it. I'm going to write a book."

"A book? Poetry, you mean?"

"Of course not. Or short stories, either; none of those arty things that only the critics read. No, I'll do a novel, a fast potboiler to suit the masses. A mystery, maybe, or one of those crime shockers with lots of sex and gore. Whatever is selling best these days. I'll have to check with my agent and find out."

"A novel… " She shrugged in unconcerned apathy. "Sounds pretty farfetched to me. Just because you've written. some poems and stories-"

"Darling, I love you-but this is business. Please don't set yourself up as a judge of my literary ability. I'm sure I can handle the job. What are you trying to do, discourage me?"

"You needn't get huffy about it. I was just wondering, that's all. How long will it take?"

"Hard to say. But I've got a shrewd agent. He might be able to get me an advance quite soon-and then we'll rent a cozy little flat for you. All right?"

"I-I guess so." Then, as if my writing a book had already become a closed incident, "Fanchon, can we watch the fireworks tonight?"

"Must we? Oh well, if it will make you happy. But I'd like to go back to our room and put through a long-distance phone call first, I do have to talk to my agent and the sooner the better."

"Uh-huh. We can change clothes then. We'll stop on the way up and see what the weather is like, hmm?"

"Yes, dear. Have you finished your dessert?"

"I've finished this one. But we're not in that much of a hurry, are we? I want some more. There's plenty of time before the fireworks start."

I won the battle against my rising irritation and ordered the extra dessert, along with another coffee and cognac for myself. It was silly to feel so indignant, I realized. Just because she had punctured my pride with her lack of enthusiasm about the new project. Actually, my hurt feelings were no less childish than her sudden hankering for confections and fireworks-and she, at least, had some excuse for it, after all, wasn't she just a little girl on a spree?

Asinine, then, to let my impatience dilute the holiday spirit. The phone call to Stutz would keep. There was no rush. Although our waiter did seem a bit churlish about bringing the second order-and with good reason: we were practically the last ones left in the place. But that didn't bother me; indeed it was gratifying to be alone with Kristi again, even if we weren't behind locked doors. From our corner table the huge candlelit hall appeared almost deserted, an echoless cavern of romantically flickering shadows. I looked at her and felt a sentimental glow. So lovely. Precious. And such a happy little cherub, truly, spooning up the fresh batch of sweet stuff and smacking her lips over every bite.

She caught my eye. "Fanchon, you're staring."

"Nobody will notice. The place is empty."

"So it is. Hmm, that gives me an idea. Eureka. I was going to wait till we got upstairs, but… "

"Darling? I don't understand."

"Eureka. From the ancient Greek, remember?" She leaned close, frost forming on her words. "You weren't very nice to me tonight, Fanchon. You didn't have to be so sarcastic."

"Sarcastic? Was I?"

"Damn right you were. Pretty snotty, that's how you've been acting. Not like a loving slave, certainly."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"You ought to be. Plenty sorry. But don't tell me about it, just show me. Show me you want to be my slave again. Get down on your knees and show me."

"Here? Darling, you-you can't mean it."

"Here. Now. Under the table."

"But-but it's so risky. What if someone sees us?"

"Too bad about that. But no one will-unless you're clumsy about sneaking down there. After that, you'll be hidden. The tablecloth nearly reaches the floor."

"You want me to… uh, to suck you?"

"No. That's a favor you haven't earned yet. Just kiss my feet, that's all. As. an apology for your rudeness. One kiss on the toe of each shoe."

"Please, darling, couldn't we wait till-"

"Listen, you bitch, I've waited long enough. I know it's risky, but you're going to do it just the same. Because I'm telling you to. And because you're my slave."

My eyes begged for mercy, but I sat there motionless, stubborn, the stiff angle of my body almost defiant. It wasn't fair to make me play our private game in public. The thing she demanded was unreasonable, just too indiscreet, too dangerous; surely she would sense my well-founded conviction and relent at the last minute.

But I saw only stony intransigence in her intent visage, and I knew the worst. Fair or not, she wasn't about to back down. Nor could she even afford to I realized, now that our war of nerves had become 'so critical: the loss of face would turn conquest into farce. At this crucial point, a revoked command could only mean that her authority was no longer in effect. It would shrivel the very kernel of our still-ripening relationship.

And if I continued to disobey, what then? Wouldn't that be the deathblow?

A lance of terror pierced my heart and impaled my flesh to the chair. I couldn't move. Couldn't budge. And I wanted to now, I had to-but the shocking recognition of my near tragic mistake held me paralyzed. What stupidity! For the sake of self-righteous. prudence I might have lostShe snapped her fingers. "Fanchon?" The stone-rigid expression never wavered. But her voice went strangely soft, una corda, breathless with a kind of suspenseful complicity. "Just for the thrill of it?"

How I loved her at that moment! The lifeblood gushed; I took a swift survey of the room and then, warily-tremulous with fear and excitement-I slumped low in my seat and slid down to the floor and ducked my head as the tucked-up tablecloth let me pass and then fell neatly into place behind my crouched body. And what a thrill it was! Bizarre, grotesque, utterly enthralling; like some type of claustrophobia, more sexy than scary. Fear diminished as I recognized the safety of my complete concealment. Excitement expanded wildly in the constriction of the tent-like enclosure; I was surrounded by walls of fabric that would yield to the slightest push and yet I could no more escape than from a cage of steel. Because she had put me here, the little devil!-imagine, "just for the thrill of it"-such cunning coercion, irresistible, divulging a puerile penchant for danger and daring me to share her perversity; like children we were, both of us, naughty children making a mockery of the-grown-up world around us.

But I had strict orders to carry out. I crept to her, emotionally stirred but not quite relishing the physical task itself; oh, if only her feet were bare so that I might touch warm flesh instead of coldly impersonal leather-but in dressing for dinner she had donned appropriately formal pumps, pretty to look at but definitely not for kissing. Nevertheless I had no choice; I bent in resolute resignation and fulfilled my mission, dabbing my dry lips once to the tip of each shoe.

There. It was done.

But was it? Then why should I feel so guilty? As if I had caught myself in a breach of faith, somehow, an unwitting act of treason. I had obeyed punctiliously but hardly more than that; surely I could do a better job of showing how much I wanted to be her slave. Her willing slave.

I knew I had to do it again. But earnestly this time de bonne grace, and humbly, not as a duty but as a privilege: her beautiful feet were inside those starkly austere pumps… I lowered my face slowly, taking lingering consolation m my sudden sensation of humility, and then at last pressed my open mouth to the leather…

It warmed to my moist contact; there was a tiny movement, a wriggling of toes, an obviously amicable acknowledgment of the penetrating heat of my kiss-and abruptly, like an instantaneous reflex, I felt the familiar tug-and-strain in the pit of my belly. The sex urge. Pure lust. Incisive and overwhelming, even though my lips were barricaded from the essential stimulus of my beloved's bare flesh.

Strange?

Not really. Novel, yes, but far from ambiguous: it was only another benchmark in the broad latitude of my sensuality. If I could find pleasure in pain (and my martyred nipple still tingled!) then why should I be mystified by the discovery of a flair for fetishism?

I licked the leather assiduously, polishing the smooth surface with my tongue. In a burst of wanton initiative I lavished a profusion of kisses upon the slim heel-and had she so indicated, I would have sucked it into my mouth avidly. Perhaps I might even have swabbed and swallowed the dust from the sole, that was how aroused I had become, how deeply I had sunk into the unfathomed inferno of this new and deliciously degrading form of slavish devotion. But her feet remained rooted to the floor and I could only transfer my attention to the other shoe, treating it just as zealously, just as obsequiously, just as"Fanchon… " A whisper.

Her hand slipped beneath the table. Throbbing anticipation turned my answering moan into a quaver; I thought she was going to hoist her skirt and grant me the ultimate joy. How eagerly I would have scrambled between her thighs and nosed my way up into the scented softness! But no, her cupped palm stopped in front of my face and I heard her voice again, curiously calm, a soothing murmur.

"Eat this, dear."

I tasted it. Sticky sweet-the dessert, a blob of it-and I suffered a quantum of queasiness: I had no need of such sugary mush, overly rich, cloying; my palate was prepared for a more pungent prize. But it was there, and she ruled me even when her tone was gentle, and I lapped the gooey mess from her hand.

"You can come out now, Fanchon. Uh, wait. Let me make sure no one is watching. Okay, all clear. Get back up on your chair."

It seemed like a long haul, but I got there speedily enough. Out of breath, I sat for a long moment and then picked up the napkin to wipe my mouth.

She frowned. "You didn't like it?"

"Sorry, darling. Not the sweet stuff."

"Oh? My mistake, then. I was only trying to be nice to you. I gave you some of my dessert just to kill the taste. After all, well, shoe leather… "

"Is that why? I wondered. But darling, they were y our shoes. I didn't mind kissing them. When your toes wiggled, I even got excited; couldn't you feel me using my tongue? Everything of yours tastes good."

"Really? Everything? I must remember that. Although I doubt if it's true." Then, with a mischievous giggle, "What's that you're drinking? Cognac? Let me try some."

"Of course. I can order another one if-"

"No. I want yours. Uh-huh… " Still smiling impishly, she took the glass and sipped. "Not bad. But I'll make it even better. Just for you."

"Hmm?"

"Look!"

I looked. It oozed out over her lower lip, white, frothy; I shuddered; it took shape, a great gob of saliva; I felt myself cringing as it hung there, dangling (like a teardrop pearl pendant?) and then at least broke free and splashed into the cognac, a plop, a fizz, loathsome, horrid-spit-but I didn't hesitate to reach for the glass when her command came.

"Drink it, Fanchon. Then we'll go upstairs and get ready to seethe fireworks. And oh yes, don't you have some sort of phone call to make? Come, dear, gulp it down. I just flavored it a little for you, that's all. Doesn't it taste good?"