Fanchon's Book

Chapter 2

Off with the old, on with the new. A smooth transition in my well-ordered existence. Oh sure. Easy go, easy come; the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace-but without the pomp and circumstance, the brassy fanfare; no, softly instead, gently, dreamily, more like taking a Walk with Delius to the Paradise Garden. Except for a few minor stumbling blocks along the primrose path.

Only they weren't exactly minor, dammit, and I didn't dare risk stubbing my toe so early in the promenade. Kristi was a prime morsel, far too precious to take lightly; much as I wanted her in my bed, I knew I had to solidify our relationship first. An ill-timed advance might even frighten the child away.

Patience, then.

Luckily I was in no immediate danger of becoming a sex-starved neurotic, having shown foresight in yielding to the blissful satiation of Rosalba's farewell. Or of both her farewells, rather, although I truly hadn't intended allowing her to wheedle me into a second session. But after insisting on staying late to help me prepare for bed-well, what with one thing leading to another, we chatted about Kristi for a while and I must have gotten steamed up all over again. Especially when Rosalba told me about the intriguing impression I had made.

"She thinks you're wonderful, Madame. She loves you already."

"Really? But she seemed so bashful."

"Give her time, Madame. Let her get used to you. And soon she will love you as I do."

"As you do, Rosalba? And how is that, pray tell?"

"Like… uh, like this, Madame."

"Oh? How nice."

"This too. Madame? Shall I show you?"

"Yes, do. Show me, show me… "

And in her own inimitable manner, Rosalba did just that, burrowing between my thighs and making funny little sucking noises, tasting me, sampling me, wet lips nibbling in a prolonged and tantalizing prelude; ah, how clever she was relentless, unhurried, browsing upon my flesh daintily, withholding the final flurry of her tongue until she had me writhing in anticipation All. of which I accepted gladly, including the exhaustion that I knew would inevitably follow. Anyway, it was pretty good protective insurance, using the anodyne of my ex-maid's mouth to fortify me against the prurient itch that would have to go unscratched during the cautious indoctrination of my maid-to-be. Smart thinking, as it turned out, even though the organ solely responsible for the brainstorm was located far south of the brain.

For a few days, then, I was better able to withstand the rigors of enforced abstinence as I went about my business. Not that such self-restraint came easily: after all, I had never been one to rate continence a virtue. Kristi occupied my mind if not my bed-although the two became whimsically synonymous in my fitful reveries and I probably raped the poor unsuspecting tyke a dozen times.

Less fanciful was the effect she had on my work. I couldn't concentrate. My creative ability fell into the sere, the yellow leaf; I stared at the blank paper on the platen and cursed the dry thought-buds that refused to blossom. Words failed me, and in the most literal and literary-of connotations. The typewriter keys smirked with a kind of knowing impudence, as if they were privy to my subconscious secrets, as if the machine itself was conveying the message that should have been obvious: at this particular point, my work was of secondary importance.

Actually, it wasn't very important to begin with. I had published a slim volume of poems and a few short stories that were received with creditable notice, but my writing still fell into the "housewife's hobby" category. Just something to while away the lonely hours. My husband, bless his heart, was always busy with government and politics and whatnot; aside from the necessary social functions and state dinners, we were seldom together. Besides, he too had a time-consuming hobby, one that struck me as rather droll for a man of his advanced age and station: Oliver collected erotica, all kinds of pornographic shockers-ancient and modern, classic and shoddy, books and manuscripts in many languages. He pored over them in his own bedroom, leaving me much to my own devices. So-like any restless young wife-I had branched out in other directions, giving vent to my penchant for poetry and fiction and some "whatnot" of my own.

But now even my literary outlet had forsaken me and there was no getting around that glaring fact. To hell with the typewriter then; Kristi came first. Until I got her into bed-successfully-I would know no peace.

A complex matter, though, in spite of Rosalba's optimistic opinion. Kristi was such a dewy young thing, so painfully innocent of sophistication, quite proper, really; that golden hair of hers might well have been a saintly halo-and untarnished, frustratingly enough. How does one go about plotting the downfall of an angel?

One begins.

Such a problem: aller Anfang ist schwer. After due deliberation I launched an attack upon her shyness, upon the air of meek modesty that I found so inhibiting. A tough target, true, but to me the keystone of her personality; if I could smash it, the rest of her would crumble and come tumbling into my hands. So I hammered away in that general direction, adopting an attitude of brazen familiarity in both speech and manner.

All to no avail. Under my barrage of bawdy talk, Kristi merely giggled and remained demure as ever-a bit of a paradox, considering how well she seemed to understand all the dirty words. Nor did she show any noticeable reaction to a more intimate contact with my body, performing her newly assigned tasks somewhat awkwardly but without much change in demeanor. She took care of my hair, she did my nails, she assisted while I dressed and undressed; yet it was always with those same downcast eyes, that same shrinking humility.

She stood in awe of me, I realized, and was probably still spellbound by the sexy spectacle I had presented on the chaise that first day. Maybe I was even some sort of goddess to her, not a flesh-and-blood woman but a sacrosanct idol to be worshiped only at a distance. Whatever the reason, I fretted in increasing exasperation over my failure to get through to the girl.

In a spate of impetuous audacity, I shed my last vestige of decorum and had her attend me in my bath. I actually flaunted my nudity. But again my effort went for naught; and I couldn't help but recognize that the entire affair was affecting me far more than it should. Such a silly mess. A grown woman playing peek-a-boo games with her skittish little maidservant.

But I had passed the point of no return. I couldn't make Kristi conscious of my fleshly presence; now, unaccountably, I became conscious of hers. That fresh young body-what I could see didn't displease me, but how would it look naked? Would it match the perfection of her face? Surely not. As if anything could! But I was dying to find out for myself.

The idea began to haunt me (a strange twist perhaps, that of the two of us I should be the body-conscious one) and I took to disrobing her with my eyes. The baggy uniform revealed only enough to pique my curiosity: delicately molded ankles and calves, a saucy hint of bosom, a lissome figure that seemed appealing on the surface, at least. But what lay underneath? Was the skin as smooth and flawless as mine? The flesh as sleekly rounded?

Oh, I didn't expect the sweet child to approximate my own full-blown dimensions; she was definitely more Diana than Juno. But there was the overall conformation to be considered, the general symmetry, the total harmony of the proportions. And always the possible angularity, of course, so prevalent among the poorer classes of our country, the bony consequence of years of malnutrition. Then too, what of her skin? Wouldn't it be awful to find that petite derriere pocked and pimpled by some kind of adolescent acne? Revolting, to put it mildly; the very thought made me shiver and break out in goose bumps-of the fast-fading species, thank heaven.

I even contemplated the partial expedient of buying new uniforms for her, tight-fitting and scantily cut in the style of the comic-opera soubrette. What an enchanting vision! But my husband would have looked askance at such scandalous frippery; moreover, my tight and scanty budget just wouldn't stretch to cover the expenditure. So I shrugged off the provocative notion, tabling it for some future date when morals and money might be of less concern.

Still, I had to do something to allay my inquisitive doubts. And in the late-hour hush of one sultry night, spurred by a fidgety interlude of insomnia, I overcame my chickenhearted hesitancy and got rash enough to go a-snooping. Nervously-lacking the conviction of my courage-I tiptoed through the dimly lit hall to Kristi's room. I knew she slept with her door ajar, letting the faint outer glow serve as a nightlight. And in this oppressive heat she certainly wouldn't be swathed in sheets and blankets.

I put my eye to the crack. She was lying upon her bed, limbs askew, motionless but for the barely discernible rhythm of her breathing. Sound asleep, apparently. I eased the door open and made my way toward her, fascinated, intent on getting a closer look. Her sole garment was a short nightgown, rather like a peasant girl's shift, worn and washed thin, wrinkled and tucked-up high on her thighs. I saw her. All of her. Or as much as the feeble light would permit.

There were no knobby bones. No pimples. No blemishes, not even a mole or a freckle. So I was satisfied. I was seeing what I had come to see.

Satisfied?

Was that what I had come for? To judge some kind of clandestine beauty contest? Questions befogged my brain, vague, cryptic, fecund with sinful suggestion; oh, so many questions! But all with the same answer. Hotly, moistly, my insides churned in expressive response-as if my vulva could speak, as if the tumescent, quivering lips had shattered the silence and shrieked aloud.

I stared. And then went rigid in dismay as I watched the thick-fringed eyelids flicker and open. Not wide, not even halfway; only enough to cast fan-shaped shadows on the pale rise of her cheeks. But more than enough to warn me of her awakening. I stood there frozen, my flesh a solid block of ice surrounding and snuffing out the last pitiful candle flame of inner passion. All the questions narrowed down to a single terrifying one.

Does she know?

I couldn't tell. There was no sign of recognition in the hazy somnolence of those slitted eyes. But in my state of benumbed panic I sensed far more than I saw and for an agonized instant I could have sworn there was a telltale reflex, an oddly luminescent flash of awareness. It must have been my overwrought imagination though, and the waxen eyelids calmly drooped and closed.

My body defrosted and functioned again. I ducked out and raced back to the sanctuary of my own room. Once inside I came unstrung and couldn't make it to the bed; limp, feverish, panting for breath, I leaned against the friendly bulwark of the door and prayed for sanity to return and dispel my trembling delirium. Oh, but I felt foolish. What a stupid thing to do! Spying in the night, peeping, ogling the angelic little creature like a rapacious slut, a bitch in heat; what was the matter with me? Didn't I know better than to pull such an idiotic stunt? Was I already in my dotage? Good grief, one might think I was falling in love with the child!