Fanchon's Book

Chapter 14

The tangle of dank hair! the taste, the shame, the ignominy; long after we had gone up to our room and bathed and made love again, the memory of that abominable moment gave me queasy spasms. Had her desire been for sex, I would have understood it and suffered the degradation complaisantly, perhaps even joyously, taking a certain paradoxical delight in the humiliation of being compelled to satisfy her lust at such an unseemly time. I could easily have mired myself in the fetid flesh, impervious to its so-recent pollution, concerned only with its ever-alluring carnality. As it was, however, the shame of my capitulation was equaled only by the shamelessness of her demand.

I couldn't comprehend this new madness of hers, this need to defile me, to sully my mouth. At dinner she had made me swallow her saliva; in the garden-oh, the gall, the chutzpah!-she had used my tongue as a kind of impromptu toilet tissue. What next? Were there no limits to these dark depravities? Couldn't she see that they were more vicious than erotic?

Not that she wasn't erotic too, prodigiously so, and in the ensuing days-the delirious days that merged unendingly with the dreamy nights-our cozy little paradise resounded with the soft sighs and susurrations of love. How beautiful it was! And sad, often, when we let ourselves think about the fleeting hours, the transience of this lovely time of togetherness. We were both aware that our hotel hideaway, no matter how perfect, could never be the love-nest.

Mindful of that, I started writing my book even before I had the details of the plot organized. Then too, there was that less appetizing alternative staring me in the face and I didn't want to give Kristi any excuse to harp on it. As long as I showed progress, she couldn't very well reproach me for my squeamishness about taking another not-quite-honest peek at my husband's private papers. So I launched into the project without undue delay, striving hopefully to catch her interest and keep her from sulking.

It caught her interest, all right. I read the opening scenes aloud and she twitched and twittered throughout, obviously stimulated by the verve of the more lurid passages. But her attitude wasn't entirely hedonistic, and she managed to make a few comments-both critical and complimentary-about my writing. Nor did she allow her ignorance of style and form and craftsmanship to act as a deterrent; she even challenged my "author's license" revamping of the factual circumstances, carping at my very first bit of embroidery.

"But that's not the way we met, Fanchon."

"Of course not. But it's smooth and it makes sense and the extra character might be useful later."

"Useful? How?"

"Oh, just to add some spice. In threesome affair, for instance. Every sex-novel has some sort of orgy; why should mine be any different? Anyway, it's a good beginning, don't you think so?"

"Uh-huh. Keep it up. Make it sexy."

"Sexy-and then some. Voluptuous, that's the effect I'm trying to put over. I want the reader to smell the perfume on every page."

"Oooh, I like that." Then, with a coquettish flutter of eyelashes, "Hey there, voluptuous Fanchon, how about taking a little sniff of my perfume?"

I needed no coaxing. It was a long deep sniff and it led to other things, warm-lipped kisses, flurries of tender violence, exquisitely fanciful embraces spurred by the excitement of the manuscript; I felt as if my effort was already paying off-in pleasure if not in money. And thereafter, almost by tacit agreement, the discussion of each day's work became a regular ritual with us: I read aloud to her and she got aroused and affectionate and eager for fleshly frolics. Whereupon we jumped into bed as if fact and fiction were one and inseparable. Which, in turn, inspired me to write with even greater abandon: the hotter the passages, the hotter the embraces and I let my imagination run wild. But hardly wilder than my little devil-darling's whims. Ah, the delights of those post-literary dalliances! Truly, in every connotation of the phrase, my creation became a labor of love.

But alas, our holiday drew to a close and we had to return home and take up our old way of life, not a tragedy, really, since we did have plenty of time together. Nevertheless, it wasn't the same-and once we settled into the daily routine Kristi grew increasingly restive about the book and money and the hoped-for apartment; worse yet, she got somewhat slack with her household chores. I lent a hand now and then but was too busy writing my novel to do much. So the place got a bit messy and at last I was forced to censure her for it.

The reprimand wasn't my idea. But I couldn't openly contradict Oliver-and when he grumbled about the laziness of my maid, I had no choice. So I scolded her. Right there at the dinner table, with Oliver looking on and nodding his head in smug approval.

Such a painful duty! All the more so considering how long it would be before I might get a chance to apologize. Hours, probably: it was the opening night of the opera, a major social function, and we were already dressed and ready to go. Nor could I smile and chide her gently, not with my husband watching; much as it hurt me to do it, I gave her the necessary tongue-lashing and ordered her to get some housecleaning done while we were out. She took it meekly, but I knew only too well what a rage she must have been in.

She didn't show it, though, not even when I maneuvered a few minutes alone with her with the professed purpose of adding a final touch to my hairdo and makeup. Instead, she fussed over me like a devoted servant, coddling me, telling me how beautiful I looked in my white tulle gown, bending to adjust the flounces, crouching to brush a speck of dust from my shoe, helping me into my wrap, oh, the little minx was practically killing me with kindness. Only when I tried to offer an apology for the unfortunate incident in the dining room did I detect any sign of coolness in her demeanor. And it was scarcely more than a shrug of indifference.

"Forget it, Fanchon."

"But I want you to know how sorry-"

"Not now, dear. Go to the opera and have a good time. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"Not tonight? Darling? Won't you wait up for me?"

"Well… I don't know. Should I?"

"I wish you would. Tonight, especially. You know why."

"Hmm, that's right. He won't be coming home with you, isn't that what you said? We'll have the house all to ourselves?"

"All to ourselves. There's some sort of political meeting after the opera, and those things always last till morning."

"Uh-huh. I'll stay up."

"And I'll be-thinking about you all through the opera."

"Mmm, I'm glad. Think about me." Then, rather brusquely, "And he-re's something to remind you that I'm waiting." She reached under her skirt and pulled her panties off. "I've worn them all day, so they're not exactly perfumed. But you do like to sniff me, don't you, Fanchon?"

"Darling… "

And with her still-warm panties tucked in my purse, I traipsed off to the opera with friend husband. The tenor rasped, the soprano squealed roulades and cadenzas like a bel canto fire-siren and the visiting ambassador's insipid wife bored me with her inane bavardage, but I had my love to keep me entertained. Or at least the scent of my love. Oh yes, I found the opportunity to sniff. In the comparative darkness of our loge, I crumpled the precious garment in my hands and buried my nose in its redolence and bit the impudently allusive fabric to muffle my mirth while I wondered what the ambassador's dried-up old biddy would think if she knew. But I snickered with more lewdness than levity, and by the time I arrived home I was agog with anticipation. Panties were a deliciously piquant reminder, but they only gave me a hunger for the real thing.

I raced upstairs. But the real thing wasn't around. Not in her bedroom, not in mine; panic nudged me and I almost rambled on the steps scurrying back down to search the rest of the house. The rugs and furniture were spotless, just cleaned, evidently; I noticed it when I clicked on the bright lights. So the poor embarrassed little angel had taken my admonition seriously! Angry or not, she had certainly been working.

And when I finally located her, what a shock! She was still at it. In the cellar, of all the unlikely places, and not in the main basement area but away off in the storage room, a boarded-up alcove that reeked of musty antiquity. The crowded cubbyhole was positively grimy, thick with dust-the floor, the walls, trunks, suitcases, boxes, barrels, junk that had accumulated over the years-all filthy. I stood there aghast, clutching at my gown to avoid making contact with the sordid mess.

"Come in, Fanchon. I've been waiting for you." Waiting for me? Down here? I recognized the ring in her voice, crisp, commanding, impatient, and I knew it boded evil. Evil for me. She certainly looked evil with her hair dirty and disheveled and her bedraggled shift soiled and stained with sweat and her bare feet coated near-black. Like a wicked witch about to straddle her broom rather than sweep the floor with it.

"Darling, what are you doing here?"

"Can't you see, stupid? I'm obeying orders. You told me to clean the house, didn't you?"

"Oh, that's silly. And unfair, too. You know I was practically forced into it. Anyway, nobody ever cleans the storage room." I couldn't repress my revulsion. "Ugh! this place is like a dungeon. Come, dear, let's go upstairs and I'll help you bathe."

"A dungeon. Hmm… " She scowled darkly.

"Don't be angry, darling. Do come."

Slowly, still scowling, she shook her head. But the expression on her face puzzled me: there was something more,than anger in those green-glittering eye-slits, something more than rancor or resentment in the quiver of the lax-lipped mouth. Lust? No, it couldn't be. Not in this foul pigsty-and yet my body knew better and my flesh was already responding, growing limp and numb with a kind of aroused impotence, that old familiar weakness of loin and limb; heaven help me I thought, is it to be here?

"A dungeon, she murmured again. "Isn't that where they punished disrespectful slaves in olden times? Seems pretty suitable right now, I'd say. It's your dungeon, Fanchon. Unless you want to turn around and run. Do you?"

"N-no… "

"Then we'll stay. Until we finish our business. You owe me an apology, don't you? Well, let's have it."

"Oh. Of course, darling. I'm sorry about-"

"Not like that. Get down on your knees."

"But-but my gown. It's white. It-"

"White? It won't be that way long. Kneel, you bitch!"

"Please… can't we just go-"

She lunged, one hand snaking out to seize my hair. Fingers gripped and twisted savagely, driving me down, down; my knees buckled and struck the concrete. She released me-but only to slap my face, once, twice, and I slumped to the filth and lay there sprawled, whimpering, dazed, aware that I couldn't fight her, aware of the excitement bubbling in my blood, aware of the ominous shadows, the sinister setting, a dungeon, yes, a hellish dungeon; oh, it was almost like those games we used to play, the acting games (was it a thousand years ago?), only now my white dress was real and my cheeks hurt and my chic hairdo had come undone and was fanning out over the grimy floor and "crawl, slave!" She snapped her fingers. "Here. To me."

I raised my head. She had stepped away to sit back upon the edge of a huge trunk; I scrambled toward her feverishly, blinded by tears of pain and humiliation, shuffling along on my-hands-and-knees, ruefully conscious of my beautiful gown trailing its delicate flounces in the sooty squalor. "Look up at me, Fanchon. First I want to hear about the panties. Did you smell them while you were at the opera? Did they get you hot?"

"Yes. I did. I got hot."

"Hot for what?"

"Mmm… you know… "

"Tell me. Don't mumble. If you want it, you'll have to speak up. Hot for what?"

"Hot for you, darling. Hot to-oh, you know… to suck you."

"Then do it!" And in one long sinuous motion she rose from the trunk and stripped herself naked to stand upright in front of my crouched body, her middle jutting in arrogant demand. "Suck me. While your mouth is still clean. Here, you hot slave bitch, do it! Suck it good!"

The flesh. Not a substitute. The pink cleft in its nest of blonde flax. Sweaty, perhaps, and less than immaculate, but the real thing certainly, the real thing at last! and hadn't I nibbled the crotch of her panties and fidgeted through three hours of meaningless music just dreaming of this very moment?

I dried my tears in the flaxen nap. My tongue parted the pinkness and found it already moist, surprisingly moist with the succulence of her passion-and I knew it had stirred her enormously, this thing she was doing to me, this strange obsession, the thing of dirt and degradation. My white gown on the messy floor. My hair a dust-mop. My hands filthy. And I tried to understand, oh yes, I tried and I didn't mind not really, not if it meant so much to her, not as long as she let me have this. The real thing. The thing that was my obsession as much as the other thing was hers. So why should I mind? But how bold of her to say it like that, about my mouth-while it's still clean-so bold and brassy. And scary, too; it frightened me a little even though I didn't mind, no, I didn't really mind I kept telling myself I didn't mind and soon the soft fluff-fringed vulva sheathed my face and spread balm upon my sore cheeks and after that it was all right, everything, just fine, and I stopped worrying about the dirt, the dungeon, the madness, and I thought only of the hot thrill of sucking and felt it seethe in the pit of my belly-the same hot thrill, the sweet surge toward orgasm-and I throbbed all over and began to pant for the coming ecstasy. But she didn't let it happen. And I was so close, too. On the verge. Instead she shook loose of my bobbing head; I heard her laugh-oh, the insolence!-and she whirled around and bent and jutted her middle again, only the other way this time, and it was her saucy derriere that demanded my kiss.

"Hey, lover-girl, aren't you hot for this too?" And the laugh once more, so bold and brassy, and now even the taste of her, brassy, as I got wedged between her bare buttocks and sent my tongue squirming on its endless errand; and pretty soon it started coming on again, the churning miracle inside me, and I knew I was going to make it, I just knew"Now you can apologize, Fanchon." She turned abruptly, pulling away from my gaping jaws, and sat back against the trunk. "With your mouth-but quietly. You talk too much, anyway. Just kiss my feet nicely so that I'll know you're sorry. And, uh, yes, you might as well lick them clean. As a penance, let's say."

Another denial? Sharp claws of frustration shredded my entrails. Her words hardly touched me, no, it was the sudden loss of her intimate flesh that ripped my nerves; was she doing it deliberately? Staving off the climax? Building me up only for the fun of letting me down?

But I had to heed the words, of course; she showed no sympathy for my plight and I didn't dare beg for anything but her forgiveness. And she had already told me how to do that. With my mouth. Quietly. So the agony of my screaming libido had to remain locked in. The apologetic slave had a penance to perform-in silence.

I performed it.

Oh, I realized only too clearly that we were beyond any need for an apology, for contrition, for propitiation; all that was merely an excuse to put me back into the dirt again. My penance was little more than pretext. But I kissed her feet "nicely" and then took on the disagreeable task of licking them clean.

It was pretty grim for a while. But after some of the smudge came off I got that old feeling again, stronger than ever; heated and reheated so often, my insides had boiled down to the pure distillate of desire. The tangency was enough, my lips on her bare skin, the tactile sensation-and in an ever-mounting frenzy I crammed her toes into my mouth and wriggled my tongue and no longer cared about the degradation, no, for me there was nothing but the thrill, the hot thrill; it was coming, coming, and I peered up into her eyes anxiously and prayed she would let me finish.

"Oooh… Fanchon!" She went into a fit of giggling hilarity. "Your face! If you could only see it."

"Ummm?"

"You're the one who needs a bath now. Maybe we should both go up and get in the tub, huh? And then we'll be nice and clean and we'll have all night together. All night… "

But she didn't push me away. Nor did I want her to, tempting as the prospect sounded. I couldn't quit now. I had to go on licking and lapping and sucking, on and on until it happened; let the bath come later; I had that roiling need in my groin to contend-with and could only"That face! It's so dirty. Maybe I ought to wash it for you, huh? Ooh, yes, I think I will."

And then her leg jerked out stiffly, a kick, a shove, and I toppled backward and writhed and shuddered and saw her standing above me, dipping, sinking, settling into a squat right over my head, and it was like that time on the bench in the hotel garden on the night of the fireworks; only it wasn't like it at all, it was worse, much worse, vile, ugly, disgusting; no, she wasn't going to sit on my face, she was going to wash it!

"Hold still, bitch! Don't you dare move!"

It happened. Everything. All at once. The hot stream purled out of her body and drenched my face-and it was no hotter than the molten gush of my orgasm. Oh, the horror of it! Of what she was doing to me. Of what was happening inside myself. But there was no way of stopping either one. Until at last she chuckled contentedly and straightened up and stepped away and my stomach rebelled and spewed it all back up and I lay huddled in the puddle of my own vomit and sobbed hysterically through the salty froth on my lips. I didn't hear her leave. But when I got my eyes open she was gone and I knew I had to hurry. Upstairs. Upstairs to take my bath and get ready. Ready to make love to her. All night! No, with such a gladdening possibility to prod me, I couldn't take the time to lie here and wallow in self-pity. I had to run to her before she changed her mind.