Fanchon's Book

Chapter 13

Some sort of phone call. It seemed so irrelevant. Not until we checked the weather and went upstairs to change clothing did it regain even a modicum of its former significance. By then the diapason of my tumultuous organs had quieted enough to let an echo of reason be heard. Oh yes, I had a phone call to make. And a book to write. Much to do. Much.

So that I might keep my love.

At the moment, though, my love was concerned with a more immediate, albeit less important issue: she stood at the closet trying to decide what to wear. I listened with half an car while I held the receiver and waited for the telephone operator to get lucky. Kristi sounded far more interesting. What to wear to the fireworks display? Such a problem! The downpour had ended, but everything outdoors reeked of dampness-and another shower might be in the offing. A raincoat, then? But the air was so sultry, muggy, too hot for clothes, and wouldn't it be great if we could go out there naked? What fun! Those nudists knew how to live. Why couldn't the rest of humanity be as free and easy aboutMy connection came through and for a little while I left Kristi to her own devices and concentrated on my agent. Stutz was surprised to hear from me. And flabbergasted, to put it mildly, when he got the gist of my message. As expected, however, he had his experienced finger on the pulse of the literary market and he told me what I wanted to know.

Nor was it a sluggish pulse, from what I gathered, especially in the field of potboiler paperbacks. And as for a fat advance against future royalties, well, Stutz had some pretty promising suggestions to put forth. By the time I hung up I was more enthusiastic than ever about doing a novel, and now I even knew just what kind it was going to be.

But I kept my own counsel and didn't let it interfere with Kristi's epoch-making decisions. I knew better. First things first: what should she wear to the fireworks?

"How about you, Fanchon? Your trench coat?"

"You choose, darling." Such a fuss over nothing! I had too much else on my mind. "I'll dress the same way you do."

"Will you? Hmm… " She scowled, still pondering. Then her face brightened and she clapped her hands elatedly. "Ooh, I know just the thing. We'll wear trench coats-and that's all."

"Huh?"

"Coats and sandals. Nothing else."

"You-you mean naked?"

"Sure. Naked underneath the raincoats."

"But-but-"

"Who's to know? We'll keep the coats on. It's daring, I'll admit, but I'm game if you are. What do you say, Fanchon? Just for the thrill of it?"

That fatal phrase again. Just for the thrill of it. How could I resist? But it was too late for quibbling, anyway, she had already started stripping her garments off, giggling infectiously as she got carried away with the outrй notion-so what could I do but follow suit?

It was quite a sensation, titillating, weird, strolling through the hotel lobby like that, with only a single layer of cloth between my nude skin and the whole wide world. Sexually arousing, actually, although the humor of it had us struggling to keep from laughing aloud in conspiratorial glee. When we got outside, the temptation became too strong and I just had to touch her. My hand slipped inside her coat; she gasped as it patted the little tufted belly-bulge, then shook her head as I sent a fingertip exploring moistly.

"Not here, Fanchon. Too many people around."

"Sorry… " But I didn't retract my delving fingers; her remonstrance was only lukewarm, not nearly as torrid as the permissive response of her flesh. "I'll never be able to keep my hands off you. Can't we avoid the crowd?"

"Well… "

"Please, darling? We could take a walk in the garden. It's dark back there."

"You're hot for me, huh?"

"Burning up." People passed by and I had to pull my hand free-but only to raise it to my lips. "See?" I poked my tongue out and tasted her on my wet fingers. "Won't you take pity on your poor passionate slave?"

"Okay. I suppose we can see the fireworks from the garden. But once they begin, no monkey business. And I mean that."

"All right. No monkey business. But it won't be easy for me. I'll be thinking of what's under your coat." We moved down the pathway toward the rear of the building. "Fireworks aren't exactly my dish of tea, I'm afraid. When you see one skyrocket you've seen them all."

"Never mind. If you're hot, you'll just have to save it. Oh, by the way, how did your phone call come out?"

"Fine. Highly successful, as a mater of fact. But I won't bore you with the details."

"Fanchon, relax, will you? Tell me about it."

"I didn't think you cared."

"Oh, don't be so touchy. I'm still sure there's an easier way to get the money, but I won't discourage you. Anyhow, talking about it will help keep your mind off sex. What did your agent have to say?"

I had to chuckle. "Sex, that's what. I'm going to write a sexy novel for the American market."

"Hey, that sounds like fun. Tell me more."

I told her. Even if she seemed less than optimistic, I was glad to see her show some interest. And so I gave her a general playback of my conversation with Stutz, clarifying a few of the particulars for myself at the same time. It was all new to me, this business of writing just to make money. Quite different from poems and short stories done for the sake of art and or prestige; and it was good for me to talk about it.

There has been a recent change in policy, a major one-according to my agent-among book publishers in the United States: blue-nosed censorship was no longer in vogue. Most of the houses were clamoring for hot manuscripts, and with a bit of effort any halfway decent writer could make a quick dollar. But the theme had to be sex, mainly, not romance or mystery or adventure. Sex-and the hotter the better. Oliver's pornography collection would come in handy as a reference library, I realized, although I wasn't yet sure whether I wanted my sex scenes that explicit. Nor did I feel any kinship with the Anglo-Saxon four-letter words, despite my familiarity with the English language and the American vernacular. But I knew damn well that I could grind out a novel sexy enough for the buying public-and I told that to Kristi in no uncertain terms.

She nodded soberly. "If you can, then go to it. Will you be starting right away?"

"Yes, of course. not the actual writing, though. I'll have to come up with a plot first. Some kind of sin-and-redemption twist, probably. But I'll be working on it."

"A plot, huh? That shouldn't be very hard. Fanchon, I'll bet you could write a book about us."

"Darling, this is supposed to be fiction, not-" And then It struck me. A fanciful tale about the two of us? Intriguing. Worthy of consideration, surely. Enthusiastic or not, the little genius had hit upon something. I patted her cheek fondly. "That's an excellent idea darling. Absolutely marvelous."

"Then you can begin writing? Tomorrow?"

"Hey, don't rush me. I can begin plotting. There has to be a story line, a conflict, a resolution, a climax; it can't be just a series of separate incidents that wander around and lead nowhere."

"Oh. I get it. It has to be phony, huh? Real characters but with a phony plot and a phony ending-is that it? Okay how about this? You and I are in love and we work 'out a deal to murder your husband. Is that phony enough?"

"Um, a trifle too phony, darling. What's our motive?"

"Money, of course."

"But he hasn't any money. You know that."

"Hasn't he? I've heard rumors about-"

The boom deafened us; a rocket outraced its parabola of sparks and lit up the black sky with a sequence of multicolored stars hell bursts. The fireworks were on. With a vengeance. Leaving our (you should excuse the expression) literary discussion unfinished. And worse yet, leaving me out in the cold. Kristi was already wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"Darling, don't you want to sit down? There are some benches over there."

"Uh-huh. Come on. Let's hurry."

We trotted. She reached the bench first and dropped upon it; another set of rockets went off in a brilliant girandole and she squealed and leaped up again. Not because of the pyrotechnics, though.

"Fanchon, it's wet. The bench."

"Oh. You're right. It's still damp from the rain. I'm sorry. I'd give you my coat to sit on, but-well… you now… "

"Hmph! I've got a good mind to-" The concussive din intervened; she waited, glowering, and then spoke sharply. "Fanchon, you don't care about the fireworks, do you? You see one skyrocket and you've seen them all, isn't that what you said?"

"Darling, it won't upset me to miss part of the show. Shall I go up to the room and bring a blanket or pillow or-"

"Shut up! You talk too much. No, I don't need any god dam blanket or pillow, I've got a slave, haven't I? Lie down, Fanchon, I want to sit on your face."

"Oh… please… "

"Move, you stupid bitch! On the bench. You practically dragged me back here to the garden, didn't you? Okay, so I expect you to make me comfortable. I'll watch the fireworks sitting on that nice soft face of yours. Or maybe you'd rather give me your trench coat and stand there naked?"

"N-no. I'll do it. Whatever you say."

The wet boards soaked me. But I scarcely noticed. She stood at the end of the bench, fuming impatiently, and I knew I had to wriggle into place fast. I got there just in time; she had whirled around to look at the spectacle in the sky, her back toward me, and her hands were already yanking at the hem of her coat.

"And while you're there, lover-girl, you can suck my luscious bottom. Enjoy yourself. Now open your mouth and stick out your tongue and get your head centered under me-here I come!"

As her body descended, a rocket burst and in the red glare I saw her buttocks, dimly pink, and between them, darkly, the line of cleavage; but only for an instant, and then the flesh settled upon my upturned face and her coat billowed around me in a kind of secondary enclosure and I was lost, lost, but not too lost to remember who I was and what I was doing. Not too lost to suck like a slave. Like a loving slave.

Her luscious bottom! I jammed my pointed tongue right up into it; she shook a little and squirmed down heavily, almost fiercely, and it felt as if the viscous suction of the suddenly agitated sphincter was tugging my tongue up by the roots. I got one nostril free and breathed the scent of her, suffocating in a slow swoon of sensuality. But soon the deliciously demanding oppression relented and she began rocking back and forth, not her upper torso, just her buttocks, engulfing me in the gliding furrow, smearing the sweet slime of her passion over my face, forehead to chin, chin to forehead, back and forth, rocking and swaying and lurching in excitement, the glowing excitement of sex, the gleeful excitement of the fireworks, the glorious excitement of crushing her slave with love. Ah yes, I knew she loved me. Why else would she be so good to me?

When the fireworks ended, she stepped away; I flexed my neck gingerly and watched her fade into a cluster of shrubbery. She squatted, ducking out of sight, leaving behind only a tinkling peal of laughter.

Then-oh, the shameless hoyden!-"Guess what, Fanchon. I'm watering the flowers."

"I doubt if they need it."

"They don't-but I do." And a moment later, "There. All done. Come here a minute, will you? I need some help." I rushed to her. But it wasn't help she needed. Not the way she was leaning back against a tree with her legs spread and her coat pulled up. She needed me. And I sank to my knees and plunged my mouth into the tangle of dank hair and"Not like.that, silly. Just lick. Tidy me up a little. Don't make it sexy, make it sanitary."