A visible ripple traversed the arc of Rosalba's spine as she crouched to dry my feet. Ah, how she adored me! Even through the fabric of her uniform I could see the sinuous signs of emotion. In her solicitous hands the bath towel became an expression of love, a thick-napped caress; its diligence to duty seemed scarcely more than subterfuge.
Dear, devoted Rosalba, so demonstrative. Her ingratiating zeal saddened me in a way, foreshadowing the end of an era. Our parting was imminent and I dreaded the loss of her sweet services. They seemed even sweeter now, rendered with such guileful innocence when there was so little purpose to seductive tactics. Today of all days I hadn't expected.
But she was already dabbing up my legs. I tingled in amused impatience as the coyly enterprising courtship progressed, her ever encroaching touch setting the sensitive skin of my thighs aglow. Such a sly suitor, my Rosalba; did she think she was fooling me with those artful endearments?
Her hushed breathing sounded a new, emboldened note. I heard the throaty modulation, strange yet piquantly familiar, sex-charged; in the stillness of the tiny bathroom its implicit urgency was intensified a thousand fold by the echo-chamber effect of the tiled walls. I knew she wanted me. Desperately. Now even the most subtle of soft gestures could only betray the true objective of her cunning campaign.
Nevertheless she persisted hopefully, tempering illusion with reality. In the guise of the utilitarian towel, Rosalba's caress grew daringly amorous one moment and discreetly affectionate the next. Yet, somehow, she managed to maintain a certain semblance of propriety-as if she understood only too well the caste-oriented relationship between maid and mistress.
Propriety?
Well, something like that. The incongruous notion sent a chuckle to my lips. But her gliding movement swerved suddenly and the laughter strangled in the tightened tourniquet of my nerves, emerging as a distracted moan that registered desire even in my own ears. The fleecy touch had become an exquisite invasion; I felt it in the moist intimacy of my flesh-drying me?-backed up by sedulously forceful fingers.
"Rosalba ... "
Her eyes glistened, beseeching. "Madame?"
"The towel-uh, you don't really need it, do you?"
It slithered out of my body damply, plopping to the floor. I missed it. But only for an instant-and then, miraculously, the hot void was filled and I shivered sensuously at the initial contact: the cool contrast of Rosalba's cheeks. My thighs soon warmed them, clutching feverishly, capturing the upturned face, making it an integral part of me. I sagged slightly and hung suspended, buoyant in breathless anticipation, buttressed by the makeshift tripod of my widespread stance and Rosalba's kneeling form.
And at last it came, the little unseen motion, the fantastic flutter of her tongue. The thing that had sustained me so long. I welcomed it with a small sigh, wondering how I would ever learn to do without its unique consolation. Not by the most sanguine stretch of the imagination did I dare dream that my new maid might be similarly endowed. Could there be anything like it in all the world?
Rosalba's tongue. The way it vibrated. For the life of me I couldn't tell how she did it. Or how she kept its electrical turbulence so accurately pinpointed. The darting tip penetrated adroitly, piercing the hooded insulation of my flesh, jabbing at the button that switched on the circuit of sensation. My insides dissolved in liquescent response.
I swayed precariously, nearly losing the now-slippery support of her face. Damn. This was ridiculous. In the bathroom, of all places-how unromantic. And difficult too, considering the creeping lassitude in my limbs. Any more of that enervating tongue would have me limp as the sodden towel on the floor. It was time to call a halt to such folly.
"Enough," I murmured weakly.
"Mmm?"
"Rosalba, no. I want you to stop."
Her hands cupped the backs of my knees. "Madame?" She glanced up, imploring, her open mouth still nuzzling with a kind of wistful tenacity. "You-you won't let me?" The veiled voice tickled, teasing the tendrils of my hair like a coquettish zephyr. "You won't let me say good-bye to you?"
"Good-bye? Oh, so that's what you're doing."
"Yes, Madame. You-you don't like it?"
I peered down, all but blushing at the sight of her smeared face. The sheen of her skin-of the perspiring forehead and passion-slicked cheekbones-was hardly less humid than the depths of her misted eyes. She looked positively lewd, and I was sorely tempted to revoke my veto and yield to her shameless ardor.
But I steeled myself. "Of course I like it, you silly girl. But here? In the bathroom? Not exactly the setting for a fond farewell scene, is it?"
"Oh. You're right, Madame. I'm sorry. I should have known better. But it's getting late and I thought maybe ... uh ... " Her words trailed off despondently.
"Hmm? Tell me."
"Well, I thought maybe I wouldn't get a chance later on. Like this, I mean. The chance to say good-bye to you."
"Like this? Rosalba, is it so important?"
"It-it's the only way I know, Madame. The only way I can show you how I feel."
"You're a darling." I smiled sympathetically, quite flattered by such a charmingly candid testimonial. "But you mustn't waste your caresses on me. You should be saving them for that young man of yours."
"Oh, he'll get his share. Don't worry, I'll make him a good wife. But I'll never forget you, Madame. I'll always be thankful for everything you've done for me."
"So it's gratitude, eh? Is that all?"
She turned her head, pressing a tender cheek against the under curve of my belly. "You know ... " Supplicating arms encircled my thighs, clinging in forlorn hope. "Oh Madame, Madame, this will be our last time together."
Her near-tearful plaint struck a chord of commiseration in me. I felt expansive. Benevolent. And a bit condescending too, no doubt, but that was only natural: after all, the girl was still in my employ.
"Our last time. Umm, perhaps not, my dear. We'll see each other again. Surely you'll come and visit me some day, won't you?"
"Madame! You-you really want me to?"
"I'm inviting you." I stroked her disheveled hair indulgently. "And you'll be my guest then, not my servant; I'll even insist on your calling me by name. No more 'Madame'-just your old friend Fanchon."
"Oh ... Madame ... you're so nice. How can I ever thank you? Yes, I'd love to see you again;" She sneaked a quick kiss, then sniffed querulously. "If only I didn't have to live so far away. But you know I'll come if it's at all possible."
"Fine. I'll be looking forward to it. But enough of this sentimental foolishness before we're both in tears. I have to dress now. Do stand up, Rosalba, your poor knees must be aching."
Slowly, reluctantly, her hands fell away and she sat back on her haunches. "My knees?" A wan grin flitted across her features. "But it's my heart that's aching. Because you didn't let me finish saying goodbye."
"Is that so? Then you'll just have to go on suffering, I'm afraid. Still, we might find time later-if you hurry and help me dress. But I'm not making any promises, mind you."
"I understand, Madame. No promises." Apparently mollified, she arose dutifully and followed me into the bedroom.
Despite my air of finality, I knew I had pretty much committed myself to another session of lovemaking before she took her leave. But that would be no great hardship: the gift of Rosalba's tongue, sui generis, was something to be treasured, not spurned. Even now I could have gladly spread my legs and accepted it-lying down, of course, not teetering hazardously like some giddy ballerina with a substandard sense of equilibrium. Only the unseemly setting had vexed me, not the archly improvised act itself; was I a barbarian that I should fail to appreciate such a quaintly aesthetic mode of bidding me adieu?
But the climax of our farewell performance would have to wait. Business before pleasure-and I had an interview to conduct. The new maid was due any minute; literally and figuratively, I had to gird my loins for the encounter. True, I had already given my consent, practically-sight unseen, as it were-to take her on for a trial period. But I meant to be thorough, nonetheless, and had every intention of putting the girl through an exhaustive inquisition first.
Dressing presented no problem. Lingerie, a negligee, the mules with the furry pompoms; Rosalba scurried around to get the things I needed. My mental preparations were less manageable, however, and I continued to view the affair somewhat shakily, conscious of my own prejudice and yet-with good reason-unable to conquer it. Could any maid measure up to my faithful Rosalba?
"Tell me about her," I said. "You're sure she's safe?"
"Safe?" Rosalba frowned quizzically. "But I've told you that, Madame. Kristi isn't the gossiping kind-or else I wouldn't have recommended her."
"I hope you're right. Not that I don't trust your judgment, but I do have to think of my husband's career. Even the barest whisper of scandal could be tragic."
"Kristi won't give you any trouble. Not that way. About the other things, though-well, like I said, you might have to break her in slowly. This is her first job as a lady's maid, you know. She's so young and inexperienced. And shy, too."
"You make her sound like an innocent child."
"Mmm, a child, maybe, but not exactly innocent."
Rosalba's twinkling leer was eloquently suggestive. "You'll like her, Madame, she's really very pretty."
"That's small comfort. I'm not looking for beauty in a maidservant, all I need is someone who can-" The melodic cadence of the downstairs chimes cut me short; I shrugged lamely and gestured for Rosalba to go to the front door.
"It must be Kristi," she said. "Will you want to talk to her in the living room?"
"Uh ... no, I think not. Bring her up here."
Where better to interview a prospective personal maid than in my own bedroom? I checked my appearance in the mirror, then lit a cigarette and stretched out upon the chaise lounge in leisurely fashion. But I was awake to my rapidly burgeoning curiosity; now that the zero hour had actually arrived I felt a prickle of excitement at the thought of meeting Rosalba's replacement.
Nor could I help but notice how provocative a posture I had fallen into. Did I hope to dazzle the girl? Deliberate or not, the indolent pose displayed my mature figure at its voluptuous best. The negligee, slinky and sheer-lemon-yellow to set off my brunette coloring-had pasted itself to every curve and contour, vividly limning the post-nubile ripeness of my flesh. Lower down, the carelessly tossed folds revealed a daring length of nude leg. Patently alluring admittedly, if not downright lurid; wreathed by the spiraling haze of blue cigarette smoke, I could almost see myself playing the bitch-goddess of the boudoir in a Hollywood lust epic. In glorious Technicolor yet.
Oh, I was proud of my body-and justly so. Let the girl gawk. Why shouldn't I use my undeniably luscious assets to good advantage? Let my new maid survey and scrutinize the succulent flesh that would be hers to attend; let her savor its spicy appeal and thus be apprised of the non-pecuniary rewards of her job. Surely she would reckon the mundane weekly wage a mere pittance in comparison with the munificent nightly fringe-benefits.
As a matter of fact, it was something of a pittance; unfortunately I had a limited budget to abide by and couldn't be lavish in matters of money. High as my husband ranked in the government, we lived rather sparingly and avoided any ostentatious luxuries that might impair his "poor but honest" political image. Whether our quasi-poverty was strictly sham I truly didn't know; I suspected as much, having heard rumors about hoards of untold wealth cached in foreign banks. But I had never discussed it with Oliver, nor was he the kind of man to whom I could even broach such a ticklish question. So I held my peace and stayed within my meager allowance, keeping household expenses-maid's salary included-down to a minimum.
Which accounted, in part, for my now-overt compulsion to dazzle the girl. Aside from the inherent rationale of ego and libido, there was the unremitting concern with frugality. My taste in maidservants was esoteric, to say the least, and might well have been expensive; in my dubious economic circumstances I could only afford someone who would deem her service to me virtually a labor of love. Wasn't it logical, then, that I should be so mindful of making a devastating first impression? With my near-naked body as bait, there would be little need for concessions about wages and hours and-
"Madame?"
"Hmm? Oh, it's you, Rosalba."
"Yes, Madame. And this is Kristi."
"Kristi ... " I beckoned lazily but with a hint of implied authority. "Come in, child. Over here where I can see you."
Battered suitcase in hand, the girl sidled close to my chaise; diffidently she set her burden down and dipped into a curtsy. Not until she straightened up did I get a good look at her face. The vis-a-vis confrontation. And at that moment-mired in the engulfing gaze of those great green eyes-I lost track.
I damn near lost myself!
Certainly I lost whatever smug complacency. My own acknowledged beauty had engendered. If I didn't stir and shatter the statuesque elegance of my pose it was because of simple paralysis, nothing else; not lofty insouciance, not sexy showmanship-merely a stunned wonderment that delayed the next tick of the clock and held me immobile in the infinite interim. The most I could do was blink and goggle in disbelief. I had never been in the presence of such perfection.
A butterfly? Ah, yes-fair and fragile, a tremulously anxious butterfly, poised in delicate balance between fear and fascination. Or an angel, perhaps, a seraphic spirit gone astray, unsettled and apprehensive out of its celestial element; a divinity in female form, all cream and gold-somehow I couldn't cope with any less ethereal concept: in that split-second syllable of timeless time I saw a purity too sublime to be of this workaday world.
Smoke curled from my cigarette in a tranquil wisp. Somewhere, miles away, I heard Rosalba clear her throat. There was no other motion. No other sound. Only the static silence of the cosmos on its headlong rush toward eternity.
Then, abruptly, the butterfly and or angel broke the spell, bending eagerly to move the ashtray and catch the smoldering stub about to scorch my fingers. I smiled and patted her cheek in approval. She hung her head demurely, but not before I got a fleeting glimmer of responsive warmth from beneath the lowering curtain of her long lashes. And I realized that the lovely creature had found her earthly niche; Kristi was mine, my own heaven-sent handmaiden, the servant to satisfy my every wish. A willing worker in the workaday world. And oh, so beautiful!
In a manner hardly more than perfunctory I zipped through the dreary business of the interview. If indeed it could be called that. What need had I of petty details when I could look into those shining eyes and see the reflection of my own rapture? We came to terms readily, almost intuitively-as if we had already achieved a rapport verging on utter unanimity.
The maid's room was next door to mine-a convenient arrangement, verily-and I shooed both girls out, telling Rosalba to help Kristi unpack and get settled in her new home. Alone then, in a state akin to intoxication, I counted my blessings and gave way to rosy visions of the future. But my prophetic imagery took a singularly significant tack, and even in my beatific semi-swoon I felt a tiny twinge of conscience.
Sex? So soon? Is that all you can think about?
I caressed myself and shuddered in delicious guilt.
That face. That beautiful face. The face of an angel. Could I take all that innocence and plunge it into the hot swamp of sensuality between my thighs? Mmm, yes, right there-oh, if only I had it now, the sweet rosebud mouth, the pretty pink tongue-what a thrill! And so wicked ... wicked. Wicked and depraved to sully those dainty lips, to defile such purity, to corrupt an angel. But wasn't it exciting? Wasn't it terribly exciting just to
-
Fanchon, you're a bitch!
Oh yes, I was sure as hell a bitch, a sexy bitch, sexy enough and bitchy enough to spread my legs and wave Rosalba to the foot of the chaise the minute she stepped into the room. Whereupon she sank down and assailed me with grateful gluttony. It was still her way of saying good-bye, but I had no sympathy with mawkish sentiment now. Off with the old, on with the new. I shut my eyes and was scarcely aware of Rosalba herself! it was only her titillating tongue I craved-and even that became an impersonal thing as I wallowed in my private trough of lechery and watched the flashes of radiant blonde loveliness illuminate the dark screen of my mind.
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!
Chapter 3
A bitch in heat? I had to admit it; even now, lolling in the scented warmth of the bathtub, I all but devoured the toothsome little dish with my predatory gaze. Kristi didn't see me; she was busy rinsing out the lingerie in the washbasin-and in my mind's eye I undressed her and spent a poignant few minutes appraising the tender curve of her backside.
Beautiful.
More so than mine, perhaps, since she had all the advantages of youth in her favor. Still, I couldn't really criticize my own shapely bottom, less tender than Kristi's but quite appealing in its zaftig maturity. I stroked it with the palm of my hand, enjoying the slippery self-caress and offering a silent paean of commendation to the unsung hero who had invented modern day bath oil: better than the asses' milk of Cleopatra's era-and certainly cheaper. It felt just fine. No, I couldn't complain about my body. My only regret was that Kristi took so little notice of it.
All right, why not rectify that irksome detail? High time, wasn't it? She liked her job, obviously, and I no longer had to worry so much about her quitting-especially after her giggly reaction to the risqu� stories I had told. Anyway, even a direct frontal attack seemed a safer course than last night's prowling and peeping madness.
"Kristi ... "
She swung around. "Madame?"
I loved the tiny tinkle in her voice. Although the way she spoke-in a kind of murmur, subdued, breathless-"Madame" came out more like "ma'am." Yet her vocabulary was good, remarkably so for someone in her position: the youngster's facility with words and meanings amounted almost to a flair. Oh yes, I had come to the conclusion that my new maid was no ordinary servant. Except for that stand-offish reserve of hers, the little angel simply had no faults.
A frontal attack, then. Now. Smiling to soften the shock, I sat up in the tub and cupped my hands under my breasts. "You know something, Kristi? I ought to go on a diet. Don't you think I'm getting a bit fat?"
"Fat? You, ma'am?" She shook her head slowly, evidently flustered but. still taking my question seriously. "Oh, no. How can you say that? You have a beautiful figure."
Something gushed deep down, a sudden melting; I felt like a schoolgirl in the after flush of her first romantic compliment. Kristi's eyes kept lingering and I wondered if my skin was turning rosy. But I didn't dare look. Damn! Were my nipples getting hot, too? Nothing was touching them; my hands were holding my breasts from underneath; oh, but that sensation, the swelling, the stiffening, so unbearably familiar, what else could it be?
I settled back again, letting the water cover my embarrassment-or enough to save face, at least. I had to pursue the issue now; the possibilities were tremendous-and wasn't it weird, this shuddery self-constriction, the crazy bottled-up excitement? I only hoped my voice didn't quaver.
"How sweet of you to say so, my dear. Coming from you, that's praise indeed. I'll never be as slim and lovely as you are."
"Oh ... "
"Kristi, Kristi, you mustn't be so bashful. A woman should be proud of her body, not ashamed of it. If you get a little flattery, why not relax and enjoy it?"
"Yes, ma'm. I-I understand."
"Do you? Then why are you lowering your eyes like that. And such pretty eyes, too; green is one of my favorite colors. Look at me-there now, that's much better. See how easy it is? You're a beautiful girl, my dear, and you shouldn't be so modest about it."
"You-you think I'm beautiful? Please, ma'm, when you talk like that I get all ... well, you know."
"No, dear. Tell me."
"Oh-you know. All funny inside. Kind of mixed up." But of course, yes, I did know. I knew exactly what she meant. And what a lucky break for me! stumbling upon it like that, the chink in her armor, the speck of information that would give me the extra leverage I needed. So she got all funny inside, hmm, just from a little compliment?
"Mixed up or not, Kristi, you must realize that I'm merely stating a fact. You're very beautiful. Frankly, you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
"Ma'm?" She bit her lip. Then, in a tone tinged with coy naivet�, "Oh, you're just teasing me. I know I'm not that pretty. Not like the movie stars."
"Silly. A lot of those film stars are patched together, practically-and yours is a natural beauty."
"You-you really think so?"
"Yes, my dear, a natural beauty." I hesitated, then took the plunge. "Or as much as I've seen of it, anyway. Although you might be skinny and straight as a stick under that uniform. Are you?"
"I-uh ... Madame has the desire to see me naked?" What a jolt! Her voice had lost its mumble: the words sounded cool and clear; I had to turn away to avoid the perceptive glint in her glance. Did she know? Oh yes, she must have. She knew. So it wasn't an illusion last night. Kristi had seen me.
I was certain of it. And yet, stunned as I was, I could only admire her diplomacy and be grateful for her depth of understanding. Without mentioning my sneaky foray into her room, the clever little darling had managed to let me know she shared my secret. So it was our secret now, a mutual awareness; in one sharply defined stroke she had bridged the gap and eased the tension-although it did take me another difficult minute to smooth out the dent in my composure. "Naked?" I said, groping for appropriately casual words. "Why, yes, you'd be ever so much more comfortable. Aren't you warm in all those clothes?"
"Oh, I'm quite comfortable, ma'm. I don't mind. I just thought it was something you wanted."
"Well, uh, as a matter of fact ... "
"Ma'm?" She pouted prettily. "Please don't ask me to. Not here. Not like this." Then, brightly, "Oooh, I just had a wonderful idea. How about if I put on a show for you? Like a model or a famous actress, maybe. That would be fun."
"A show? A striptease, you mean?"
"Nope." She giggled-a sliver of crystal glee-"It's got "to be a surprise, so I can't tell you." The twinkling expression faded abruptly and she seemed to slip back into her shy shell. "Oh. I didn't mean to sound fresh, ma'm. It was just an idea."
"But you weren't fresh, my dear. I'm very interested. And curious too; won't you tell me what it is? No, I suppose that would spoil the fun. All right, I'll try your surprise."
"You-you'll let me do it my way? Promise?"
"Your way ... " I shrugged. Ah well, noblesse oblige. What mistress could deny such a delicious little maid her whim?" Yes, Kristi, you may do it any way you like."
"Thank you, ma'm."
As if the subject had been thrashed out and dropped, she turned her attention back to her chore at the sink while I finished my bath. But it was only the beginning, of course, not the end-and later that night we got to the heart of the matter.
Kristi didn't explain much. Just enough to whet my curiosity by asking me to wait in her room while she made her secret preparations in mine. So I went in and sat upon her bed, stewing impatiently and wondering what the little imp had up her sleeve. A major production, no doubt, after such a buildup it was bound to-
"Ma'm?" She stood in the doorway.
"Are you ready, Kristi?"
"I'm sorry. Not yet. I need another extension cord. Aren't there some in the kitchen?"
"Uh ... yes, I think so. In the drawer next to-" I broke off, frowning because of the delay. "Never mind. I'll go down and fetch it myself. We'll save time that way."
It took but a moment or two; stirred by eager anticipation, I made the trip hastily, digging the tangle of electric wires out of the drawer and trotting back up the stairs again. I felt somewhat sheepish, admittedly, running an errand for my own servant, but it didn't make sense to stop and brood over it. My bedroom door was closed, though, and that gave me cause for concern. The little rascal was sure taking over the place. Did she expect me to knock on the door of my own room? Hmm, a bit much, wasn't it?
But I swallowed my pride and knocked; the door opened a scant few inches and Kristi's bare arm snaked out from behind it. I placed the jumble of cords in her extended hand, heard her whispered murmur of thanks and then saw the door shut me out again. As if I had been dismissed. Oh, she had said thank-you politely enough, but as I went back to waiting in her room I felt sticky and sweaty and irritable. Still, I couldn't interfere now, I might ruin the whole thing-and perhaps it would really be worthwhile, after all. Or so I kept telling myself.
It seemed like ages. Why doesn't she hurry? I fretted and fumed, chain-smoking cigarettes that tasted like packing crate excelsior rolled in parchment. Until, at last-and not an instant too soon, since my patience had just about ebbed to the vanishing point-I heard her call and ask me to come.
I entered somewhat uncertainly. Kristi was nowhere in sight. The lamps had been rearranged, all three of them now focusing on one central area. The stage, no doubt-and the big easy chair was apparently intended for the audience. Namely me. I stepped over the extension wires and sat down.
The bathroom door was slightly ajar and Kristi's voice floated out to me. "That's right, ma'm. Now will you test the switch, please? It's hanging over the side of the chair."
"The switch? Oh ... " I found the little device and clicked it. Everything went dark. Completely. Pitch black. Another click made the lights flare up again and I marveled at the ingenuity of the rather complicated setup. The current for all the lamps was wired through that one handy switch. "It works fine, Kristi."
"Uh-huh. Will you turn it off, please?"
I pressed the button. Noises reached my ear in the total darkness; I sensed her nearness but couldn't tell where she was or what she was doing. My tongue felt thick and unwieldy as I licked my dry lips, trapped in the sudden excitement, no longer irritated or resentful, no longer aware of anything but the black dome over me and the three invisible lamps in front of my chair and the rustling, gliding unseen presence of-
"Lights, please." Like a film director, almost.
The glare blinded me. And then-ah!-my vision cleared and I saw my darling Kristi naked for the first time, naked, naked; oh yes, and beautiful enough to blind me all over again. Creamy skin and hair of gold and eyes like scintillating emeralds-and a body that made me squirm in an agony of admiration, of envy, of regret for my own lost youth. But there was no pain or pathos in the moan that welled up within me: it split the silence like a song of joy, a lover's serenade, and I knew that for the rest of my life I would remember this white-hot terrible thrill of wanting something even more than I wanted myself.
Angel, devil, half-innocent, half-siren, so utterly awe-inspiring;' what should an audience do in such a moment? Applaud? Cheer? Whistle? No, not for this supernatural creature. My suppressed impulse strangely intoxicating in and of itself-was to go down on my knees and lift my arms in supplication. Adoration. Homage to the fire-and-ice-maiden, the fairy tale princess from a faraway exotic clime.
"Ma'm? Would you turn the lights off, please?"
I heard her. But it was more than I could do. And I sat there, drinking in the beauty, the perfection, feeding upon it and feeling myself grow full and potent and dynamic in the new-found ecstasy of being alive. The joie de vivre of my youth recaptured. As if time had clover leafed to take me back to days of wine and roses and hot-mouthed kisses in the trellised shadows of the night.
"Madame ... please!"
It was an effort. But she sounded peevish and I couldn't blame the little darling; I had promised to do it her way. So I clicked the switch, pulling the igloo of darkness over my head again, not happy about it but deeply conscious of the need to comply with her wish. Her every wish, somehow, now that I had seen the nude glory of her. Certainly I had no desire to make her angry or distrustful of me. Not ever.
Chapter 4
Fairy tale princess-and mine, all mine! Only I would have to woo and win her first, surmount the obstacles, break the spell, climb the ladder of flaxen hair to the top of the tall tower; ah, would that I were a knight on a white charger!-how tidy it all was in those days, how simple to rescue the fair damsel and carry her off to have and to hold and be listed in the record books forevermore.
I sat there in the darkness, loath to click the switch and dissolve the vision I was still seeing. The pretty pink-nip pled breasts, the creamy S-curves of waist and hip (like parentheses embracing the exquisitely lewd toison d' or) and the legs, the impossible legs, could such beauty be real? Oh, I had some heavy wooing and winning to do, but with that kind of incentive I knew I was damn well going to do it. Cajole her, flatter her, tell her how beautiful she was-and bind her close to me. Bind her with the chains of love.
"Ma'm?"
"Hmm? Oh. Yes, of course." I brought the lights back on, blinking away my dream.
"Were you sitting in the dark all that time?"
"It couldn't have been very long, Kristi." I glanced significantly at her bare feet and legs below the hem of the uniform. "You got dressed in a hurry, I see."
"Well, it was so near bedtime. But I'll put my shoes and stockings on if you-"
"No, don't bother. You could have left everything off, now that I've seen you."
She giggled. "Oh, no. That show is over." Then, just a bit timorously, "Ma'am? Was it all right?" She knelt and started unplugging the electric wires. "Did you like what I did?"
"I liked it very much. Your show was fine."
"Oh, I'm so glad ... "
There was a note of genuine relief in her tone; I watched her moving around to set the lamps back in their places, bending this way and that with a kind of nervous exhilaration; she had pleased me and was obviously happy about it. And so was I, of course, far more than I had let on. Perhaps it was only the infection of her mood that I caught, but it didn't seem right that I should sit so quietly nonchalant while she practically bubbled over. I got up from my chair to lend a hand.
"I'll help you, Kristi."
"No need for that, ma'm. I can do it."
The job was nearly finished, anyway. But I still wanted to do something to show what I felt-my gratitude, my elation, the joy of knowing that I had at last managed to put a crack in the wall between us. Much of it had been Kristi's doing, I realized, the peepshow had been entirely her own idea; by this time I was certain that the sweet child was in love with me but just didn't know how to go about saying so. She deserved a reward, a token of my appreciation, something more tangible than the compliments I planned showering upon her. It was up to me to sustain this cordial glow of camaraderie.
"Kristi, I have something for you."
"Ma'm?"
"A present. To thank you for such a charming performance."
"Oh. Is that it? Perfume?"
I nodded, somewhat taken aback by her lack of enthusiasm. It was good perfume, a brand ranked among the best, and I had broken the seal on the flacon only a few days ago. But she didn't seem overwhelmed by my expensive gift.
"You don't care for perfume, Kristi?"
"Oh yes, I do, ma'am. And thank you. But I'd rather not take it, if you don't mind."
"You-you don't want it?"
"Please, ma'm, don't be offended. It's just that-well, I didn't put on my show in hopes of earning payment for it." She smiled mischievously, the green eyes glistening. "Besides, if I needed perfume I could use yours and you wouldn't even know about it. And even if you did, I'll bet you wouldn't scold me."
"'Hmph! Little rascal. All right, I think I understand. We'll share the perfume. You may go ahead and use it any time you care to. And that goes for all my cosmetics and hairspray and lotions and things. Fair enough?"
"Uh ... yes, ma'am. Thank you."
"But I still want to do something for you. Now, I mean. Because your show pleased me so much. Kristi, you were beautiful. When the lights went on, you took my breath away. From the top of your head right down to your pretty toes, you were perfect. And I'll be unhappy unless you let me reward you in some way. Now be honest with me, my dear. What would you really like?"
"Ma'm? You-you mean it?"
"Yes, dear. What can I give-"
"No. Not that. I don't want any presents. But did you really think I was beautiful? Even my toes?" She giggled again, a sharp sound, more like a peal of giddy excitement. "Ma'm, I know what you can do for me. Uh, it will be such fun. Let me put on another show for you sometime. Will you do that?"
"Another show? But "of course, my dear. I'd like that very much. But then you'd be giving me a gift, wouldn't you?"
"Well ... " She hesitated. un-no, ma'm, not exactly. It's kind of funny and I'm not sure how to tell you. Please, ma'm, you won't be angry with me? Promise?"
"Silly girl. I promise."
"It's silly, I'll admit. I guess I'm even a little bit ashamed of it. But as long as I'm going to work for you, then it wouldn't be right to keep secrets and' hide-"
"Kristi, stop that. There's nothing to be ashamed of. At least not in front of me. Whatever it is, I'll understand and I'll sympathize and I'll love you as much as ever. So come now, you sweet thing, just turn your beautiful face up and tell me all about it. Don't keep me in suspense."
"Well ... it's about my being an actress."
"Hmm? An actress?"
"Uh, not a real one, ma'm, just make-believe. I know I could never be in the movies or anything like that. But it's a kind of game I play when I'm by myself-I think up a part and then try to act it out. And sometimes I get so wrapped up in it that I even forget I'm acting. Isn't that awful?"
"Awful? Why, no, Kristi, I think it's cute. But you mustn't frighten me like that; the way you were talking, I thought you were hiding some terrible, horrible vice that might bring the gendarmes down on our necks."
"Uh. I'm sorry, ma'm."
"Nothing to be sorry about. But tell me, uh, this game you play, was that what you were doing when you posed under the lights? Were you being an actress then?"
"Yes, ma'am. Couldn't you tell?" A sheepish grin curved the corners of her lips. "I guess you think I'm pretty silly."
"Not at all, my dear. I only wish I had known about it beforehand. Maybe I would have played the game right along with you. Hmm, now that's an idea, isn't it?"
It was an idea, all right, an important idea, even though I spoke in a bantering tone. So the little imp wanted to be an actress, eh? Well, why not? What a marvelous opportunity for both of us! The more I thought about it, the more I recognized the possibilities involved, wild, erotic; oh, there was no end to the number of delightful scenes we might play together. With a little inventiveness, I could have her eating out of my hand in no time.
"Ma'm? I-I don't understand. You mean you would have stood up and come under the lights with me?"
"Something like that. But only if we had figured out what parts we were going to play. Next time we'll do that, shall we? We'll make up something and have fun."
"Oooh, yes! Ma'm, would you really do that?"
"If it would make you happy. Since I can't reward you with a gift, I suppose I ought to do it in the way you like best. Yes, dear, I'll play your game with you. In fact, we might even attempt it right now."
"Now? But the lamps-they're all-"
"Pooh-Who needs lamps?" Excitement gripped me; Kristi was still exhilarated-flushed face, shining eyes-why not take advantage of such an opening?" All we have to do is choose our roles and start playing them. The entire room can be our stage and-oh, what an idea!-I just thought of something, a good scene to begin with. Shall we give it a try? Just as an experiment?"
"Ma'm ... you're so nice. I'm ready. Just tell me what to do. Ooh, I never dreamed it would be like this. Working for you, I mean. I-I-"
"Hush, dear. Don't tell me how you feel; act it out instead. Now there's a part for you to play-you can be a slave girl who worships her mistress. Hmm, we could make something really dramatic out of that, couldn't we? How does it strike you, Kristi, do you think you can playa slave girl?"
"A slave girl ... " The green gaze lost some of its luster. "But that wouldn't be acting, would it, ma'm? I'm already your maid and you're my mistress-it's just real life, isn't it? We wouldn't be playing a game at all. "
"Hmm. You do have a point, my dear. But that's easy to fix. Let's say you're not a maid, you're a captive girl in ancient times. And I'm a Roman matron who has bought you at the market-so now you have to please me by being my beautiful love-slave."
"Oh. Ma'm ... I-I couldn't. I wouldn't know how."
"That's no problem. I'll show you."
"Ma'm? You? You'll show me? Ooh, yes, that would be fun. Please show me."
"No, dear, I don't think you understand. Once we start playing our parts, I'll tell you exactly what to-" I struck a snag; the woebegone look on the poor child's face stopped me cold. The game meant so much to her and I was apparently spoiling it by changing the rules. What could I do? The little darling loved me-and I did recall having made some sort of promise. Could I disappoint her? Wouldn't that build up the wall of shyness again? And run the risk of another setback just when we were making such wonderful progress?
"Ma'm? Is there something wrong?"
"Not a thing, Kristi. We'll do it your way. And I'll give you a demonstration of how the slave girl's role should be played. Only you'll have to help, of course."
"Yes, ma'm, I'll help. But if you're the slave girl, what part do I play? I don't think I could be a Roman matron."
I chuckled. There was nothing very matronly about the dainty little creature. But I already had a name for her, and in this case it seemed to fit the situation: she had tucked her hair up and it didn't take much imagination to visualize that golden crown as a symbol of royalty.
Still smiling, I went into a curtsy, low, graceful, the kind I had been taught in finishing school. "No, not a matron," I said, peering up at her. "A princess. You're a beautiful princess. And I'm your slave." But my smile was a pasted-on mask; I felt its falseness and dropped my gaze to the level of her legs, her beautiful bare legs, and then I couldn't wait any longer, I just couldn't, I had to kiss the cream-smooth skin, I had to know its softness with my own lips.
I heard her giggle, a silvery obbligato to the clamorous twang of my heartstrings; in a crouching glide I followed her moving body and strove to retain the delectable contact as she edged backward to sit upon the bed. Kissing, kissing, leaving a damp trail of a thousand kisses, I sought the young thighs and mouthed my way between them under the tucked-up hem of her uniform, moaning ecstatically at the unexpected discovery (ah yes, she had dressed in a hurry: no panties!) and at last smothering my moan in the hot silk-thatched mound of flesh that split invitingly and yielded to the thrusting pressure of my face. And oh, the mystery of it, the dark depths, moist, pulpy, tart-sweet to taste and breathe, a vortex of lubricity luring me liquidly ever deeper, mushy, slippery, oily, perhaps even slimy-but did it matter? Did anything matter but this?
For me the play-acting game had ended. I found myself in a mindless abyss of passion; there was no princess, no slave, no mistress, no maid, no sense of identification whatsoever. Only the thrill. The thrill of turning all of my entity into a sucking mouth. It was too enormous to comprehend, but then again I must have been too dazed to even try. And too busy.
Too busy being a mouth. Too busy sucking.
And too busy losing my head, although I didn't recognize it until I heard a shriek and felt Kristi's hands shoving me away roughly, small hands but strong, and I came up out of the wet softness reluctantly, drunk with desire, dizzy with the ineffable sensuality of it all; a sob of desperation tore itself from my throat and I knew only that something precious had been taken from me-but why, why?-and would it never return?
"Ma'm, you're hurting me!"
"Uh ... "
"You-you bit me. Your teeth-"
"I-I'm sorry ... "
Only it was too late; she was already out of my embrace and racing across the floor-through the door and out of sight, gone to her own room-gone-and I could do nothing but writhe in frantic yearning and sink my fingers into the seething maelstrom of my need, hoping beyond hope that I might find some solace in what I was doing. But I had hardly touched myself when I felt the drawstring of orgasm tighten around my hot flesh, and it wasn't until a century later that I realized that my tongue was out and that I had been licking my lips. Even at the very peak. Licking the taste of Kristi.
Chapter 5
The taste of Kristi on my lips-and during the next few days I recalled it often, appalled by my spontaneous act of self-abasement and yet excited by the inescapable fact that it was going to happen again. It had to. There was no other way. How else could I apologize for my boorish behavior? In the stress of that insensate moment I had actually bitten the poor sweet kid-and hard enough to frighten her, apparently, although my own memory (somewhat dubious, considering my state of oblivion) just didn't go any farther than the misty cognizance of a wealth of warm wet softness.
I was sorry, of course, and had told her so, but that scarcely atoned for my blunder. So I knew I would be playing her game again-but gently this time, skillfully if possible, and with the fixed purpose of expressing my contrition; how else could I regain the little darling's confidence? True, I might have dropped the entire matter right then and there. Or at least remained patient until time healed the wound. That would have been the judicious course, perhaps, but all my emotional instincts demanded otherwise. The girl had added a new dimension to my life; I looked forward to each day with a feeling of zest now, a hedonistic fervor, an intensity that had been sadly lacking in recent years. Tutto dl novello par bello. I couldn't sit around and twiddle my thumbs and let the sparkling champagne grow flat.
Nor did I. But it soon became evident that I a tough nut to crack. Kristi was my employee. and. never once did she let down in her household duties-indeed she was more obliging than ever in such details-but getting her to relay and discuss the paramount Issue was something else again. Until, m a fit of urgency, I all but ordered her to do so.
She didn't talk much. Worse yet, she listened with a stoic smile on her face and I realized I wasn't making much headway. But I had no choice; I had told her to sit and hear me out-although I certainly hadn't anticipated such an impervious defense. It got to be pretty exasperating, and it was almost m anger that I finally spoke the words that drew a response from her.
"Kristi, what do I have to do, beg you?"
"Ma'm?" Her lashes fluttered, overly coy; there seemed to be mischief brewing inside her. "I guess you really liked the acting game, huh?"
"I've already said so."
"You liked it when I was the princess?"
"Yes dear. It was fun."
"And you want to play again?"
"I'd love to. Any part that suits-"
"Please, ma'm, don't mix me up. I'm not talking about any other parts. Just the game you made up. The princess and the love-slave. Would you like to play that one again?"
I nodded, tense; somewhat bewildered by the repetitious interrogation, but aware nonetheless that she was leading up to something. Something not quite kosher. The tilt of her lips had turned the stoic smile into a challenging smirk; was she teasing me? Trying to get me aroused only to shrug me aside again? I wouldn't put it past her. Not now. This was the devil half I was seeing, not the angel.
"Remember what you said, ma'm? About begging me? Well, if I'm going to be your princess, don't you think you ought to?"
"Hmm?"
"Come on, beg me a little."
What a coquette! Did she really expect me to beg? But of course she did; wasn't it all in the game? Oh, how clever! shifting into our play-acting scene so deftly, such a smooth transition-and how crass of me to have suspected her of trickery: the child was a nugget of purest gold. But at least I had sense enough to pick up her cue and get into the spirit of the thing. I dropped into my school-taught curtsy again, paused for a long moment and then-in a deliberately theatrical manner-sank all the way down upon my knees. "See how humble I am, princess? I'm begg-"
"No, don't call me that. I'm not your princess yet. I'm still just Kristi. If you want to play the game, you'll have to beg me first."
"Kristi ... " It was more than I could grasp. But I was already kneeling before her and I simply couldn't get up arid quit, it would have been too embarrassing for both of us. "I'm begging you," I said and was amazed at the throaty, choked depth of my voice. "On my knees I'm begging you. Please?"
"Oooh, I like that. Yes, ma'm, I'll be your princess." A fleeting frown marred her radiant features. "Hey, that doesn't sound right. Ma'm. No, I can't go on calling you that. Not if I'm a princess."
"I understand, princess. My name is Fanchon."
"Yes. Fanchon. Very good. Now tell me, Fanchon, just what are you begging for?"
"I-I'm begging for a second chance. Let me kiss you and prove I can do it without hurting you."
"Well! You might say please."
"I'm sorry, princess. Please let me kiss you?"
"Yes. Here, you may kiss my hand."
Her imperious gesture stunned me. The little monster-sticking her hand out like that-wasn't she carrying the charade a bit too far? But how beautiful she looked sitting here, how bright and piercing her eyes. Emeralds, truly. I knew she was stimulated: And hadn't she told me about getting all wrapped up in her acting role?-I should have expected something like this. What else could I do but humor her?
I kissed the extended fingertips lightly. They wriggled in a peremptory request for more; my lovely little princess was getting hot-how nice! and I parted my lips and bathed her hand with kisses. A finger slipped into my mouth; I sucked on it, quivering in a warmth of my own as it squirmed a small duel with my tongue.
"There now, Fanchon, you've kissed me. Satisfied, "Princess ... no-oh, you know. Not just your hand."
"Umm, I suppose not. All right then, you may help me undress. You do want to see me naked, don't you?" My eager compliance was sufficient reply. Hastily, although rather awkwardly, all thumbs in anticipation, I tugged her clothing off. And once again, much as I should have been accustomed to it by this time, I went numb with intoxicated fascination at the sight of her nude body. The sheer splendor of it!
"So beautiful," I murmured. "Hmm? You like?"
"My beautiful princess ... "
"Am I beautiful? From my head to my pretty toes? You said that, Fanchon, remember? I didn't even know my toes were pretty until you told me so. But you did say it, even though you probably didn't mean it."
"I-I meant it. You're beautiful. All of you."
"I'm glad you think so. It's the way a slave should feel about her princess. Would you like to kiss me now?"
"Please ... yes, darling princess."
"Then kiss my toes. My pretty toes."
In the murky whirl inside my skull there was a bubble of clarity. Such a diabolical little scamp! taking my words and twisting them to suit herself; even the idea of the worshipful slave had been mine (maybe I should have copyrighted it?) and she was stealing the whole plum right out from under my nose, taking over like a petty tyrant.
"What are you waiting for, Fanchon? You don't want to be my captive slave? The beautiful slave I bought in the marketplace for my pleasure? But you do, you know you do. And I want you to. So come now, obey me-kiss my feet!"
A tyrant, no less; ah, but what a lovable tyrant, a spoiled and saucy child, willful, outspoken, afire with brash vivacity, so utterly free of adult inhibitions. The shell of shyness was gone. I crouched low and pressed my mouth to one bare foot, then the other-beautiful feet, slender and high-arched and without a single blemish-but I couldn't stop to admire them, no, I couldn't stop for anything: two kisses weren't enough. Her toes pried my lips apart-forcefully; the command was implicit-and my only concern was to please my princess.
And please her I did. Nor did I have to be told how. Her little sighs and squeals and giggles kept me in line, informing me of my progress; I wondered if I would-have done all these bizarre things without that joyous pattern of noise to follow. Would I have opened my mouth like this? Licked the soles of her feet with my tongue? Sucked the pretty toes that wiggled between my lips? I didn't know. I didn't care, really. I just knew I was doing them-worshiping the beautiful feet of my beautiful princess-and adding every possible fillip that might bring another sigh, another giggle, another surge of heat in the already molten pit of my loins.
Then, quite abruptly, she rose from the chair and moved over to toss herself upon the bed, leaving me on the floor, still kneeling, avid for a greater intimacy and yet almost afraid to ask for it. But I had to. The hunger within me had grown too insistent to deny.
"Princess? May I kiss you some more?"
"No. Not yet. Let's just relax awhile. Uh ... I think I'd like a cigarette, Fanchon. Are there any around?"
I scurried to fetch the pack. I lit one and placed it between her lips, hoping to keep her in the "princess" mood. Holding up the ashtray in both hands, I went down on my knees beside the bed, letting her know that I was still her slave even though she had interrupted my caresses. Oh, it wasn't difficult to figure out the reason for her sudden coolness. She was punishing me.
And I deserved it. This time when the moment came for me to bury my face in the lush sweetness of her flesh, I would know better than to bite. I had lost my head once, I had actually hurt that delicate treasure but never again! Oh no. Trembling in my need to prove myself, I prayed that she would hurry and finish the cigarette and give me my second chance. But she leaned back against the pillow and smoked lazily.
"Fanchon ... "
"Yes, princess?"
"You like it? The way I play? It's not too much for you?"
"I'm your slave, princess. See how I'm kneeling and worshiping you even now? Nothing my beautiful princess could do would be too much for me."
"Don't be so sure about that. I might really get carried away some day. But we'll see. Meanwhile, though, let's just chat a little bit, shall we?"
"If you wish, princess."
"I do wish. But you don't seem very chatty, so I guess I'll just have to ask and find out what I want to know. Remember the other night when you got so excited? Tell me what you were thinking about. I'd like to hear it."
"I-I don't understand. You were my princess and I was a slave making love to you. Is that what you mean?"
"Sort of. But try to think back. Right to that very last minute. Was that the only thought in your mind?"
"Well ... uh ... " I felt a rush of shame: how right she was! But the thing wasn't easy to talk about and I had to grope for a way to say it aloud. "Funny. You'll probably laugh at me. But I did think of something else; it was almost a hallucination, really. I-I thought of myself as a mouth."
"A mouth?"
"Uh-huh. A sucking mouth."
"Hmm, interesting ... "
I waited. She took the ashtray from me and balanced it upon the creamy curve of her belly. It perched there like some barbaric ornament and I only wished that it might have been encrusted with shining jewels. Then, in a languid whisper, "Kiss me now, Fanchon. Show me what a good love-slave you can be."
Ah, how quickly I got between her legs! For this privilege I had gone down on my knees and kissed her hand and licked her feet; now at last she was relenting-and I plunged my lips into the pink-and-gold nest before she came up with some other wild task for me to perform. I sucked her. But slowly, gently, especially so-up above me she was still smoking the cigarette and I had to be careful of the precariously positioned ashtray.
"Ooh, that's good, Fanchon. It's getting me hot.
How about you? Are you getting hot, too?"
"Ummm ... " I nodded my head.
"I love your tongue. Do you like doing it to me?"
"Yes ... mmmm ... "
"Swing around a little so that I can see you. I want to look at your bottom. You have such a nice plump bottom. Yes, that's the way. So nice and plump." Her hand stroked my buttocks. Feathery fingers darted here and there; I squirmed closer, dividing my attention, trying most to concentrate on my mouthful of succulent flesh. She patted me, her palm soft on my skin, the touch light, tantalizing, maddening-but not once did I break the rhythm of my lapping tongue; oh, I was so determined to show my princess what a fine slave I could be. And grateful for the opportunity.
We remained like that. Minutes, hours, years? I had no idea how long it lasted. An eon, perhaps. But there was no doubt about the end: her fingers shot into me suddenly and I erupted, stifling my shriek of ecstasy in the furry warmth of her. After a while my body went flaccid, drained of all but the contented afterglow.
"Stay there," she murmured. "Keep kissing me. I'll tell you when to stop. I haven't finished my cigarette yet. I do like these extra-king-size ones."
Incroyable! All that joy in the time for one cigarette. And it would always be like that, I realized, just as long as I could hold the little darling close to me. A lifetime in every day. A new, ageless Fanchon in a new, wonderful world. Even now, exhausted from my orgasmic upheaval, I was happy to obey; I went on kissing her, sliding my tongue between the swollen lips that seemed to pucker and kiss me back.
"A mouth ... " Her voice was faint, pensive. "Yes, I do find that interesting. A sucking mouth. Maybe I'll think up some kind of scene for next time."
The satisfied afterglow faded; I was getting excited again. Next time? I could hardly wait. Energy poured back into me, the suggestive words rejuvenating my tired body. I raised my bottom-the nice plump bottom that she liked so much-and waggled it to gain her notice. For another touch, hopefully. Another caress. But she only went on smoking the extra-length cigarette.
Chapter 6
A sucking mouth! How I shuddered afterward: had I actually uttered those coarse words myself?
Foolish question. Rhetorical, obviously, inasmuch as most of my shuddering stemmed from desire rather than dismay. Anyway, it was true, wasn't it? No less true than if the vulgar phrase had sprung into existence on a Freudian analyst's couch. A mouth. A sucking . mouth. Maybe I had always felt like that in some sequestered segment of my subconscious.
Oh, I could go on rationalizing it usque ad nauseam, but to what avail? I knew it was so. My little princess knew it was so. The hypothesis had already eclipsed its need for verification; a spade by any other name was still a spade; in a rosebush of sensuality, why be chafed by intellectual thorns? Pleasure had come my way, rare, priceless beyond concept-and if this be unreason, let me make the most of it.
Fanchon, you're a sucking mouth.
I was ready. Ready to hear her say the words. And as it turned out, though, there was no need to plead for her favor. I already had it, evidently; she came into my room dressed in robe and slippers, just as eager for me as I was for her, green eyes glittering, red lips smiling, blonde hair loose and flowing down her back ready for bed, my bed.
"Ma'm, I had such a crazy dream last night. I've been dying to tell you about it all day."
"In that case, I'm dying to hear it."
"Well, it got pretty weird. I was in some kind of sex orgy, right in the middle of it, but I couldn't see the people around me, I could only feel their mouths." She giggled breathlessly. "Oooh, what fun! Mouths and mouths and mouths-there must have been a hundred all kissing me."
"Hmm, quite a dream."
"I'll say. And you know something? I thought of you when I woke up. I was almost tempted to come over here and tell you about it right that minute."
"You should have, my dear. Next time, please do. My beautiful princess is always welcome."
"Next time maybe I will. I sure could have used you."
"Used me? Oh ... " I knew what she meant, audacious little minx that she was, and yet even the insolence of her bold statement only stimulated me all the more. "Yes. You could have used me. I wish you had."
"Uh-huh. I'll remember that."
"Princess? Would you like to use me now?"
"That's what I came for. Only I don't feel like playing a princess tonight, I guess I'd rather just be myself. A girl named Kristi." In a single sinuous motion she slithered out of her robe and slippers and fell back upon the bed. "And as for you, Fanchon, we both know what you are. A mouth. A hot mouth. Now multiply yourself a hundred times and kiss me."
I knew I wouldn't have to wait like the last time, days and days; the little darling loved me and wanted more of what I could give her. I could tell. She went about her duties as usual, but now there was a provocative spark in her eye when she glanced in my direction, an expression on her beautiful face that would have seemed impudent if it hadn't been so adorable. Once, just once, while she was dusting the furniture in the living room-she put her hand out toward me in that brusquely imperative manner of hers and I thought we were about to embark on another flight of fantasy. But my husband came in just then (I could have killed him!) and she merely shrugged and went on with her chores. Not that he would have noticed. What with political crises occurring with monotonous regularity, poor dear Oliver lived in a world of his own, a world of presidents and prime ministers but nary a princess. At least not my princess. He was scarcely aware of the change in the household.
Game postponed, then-but I knew the delay would be short. Now that Kristi had sampled my painless kiss, the handwriting on the wall was only too legible: I had been tried and found not wanting in the balance. I bathed alone that night, preparing meticulously, powdering and perfuming my body in delicious expectation, wondering how it would begin. Would I have to beg again?
I didn't mind. In its own way, the ritual had been quite exciting-although it did seem a mite grotesque that I should have to kneel and humble myself at the feet of my own servant. Still, what else could I do? Oh, she was so capricious, my darling little princess, and I just didn't dare defy her.
Multiply myself? I couldn't see how. But I didn't have to, of course, I didn't have to see or understand anything but that beautiful naked body and what I could do for it. One mouth, a hundred mouths-what difference did it make? If such was the desire of my darling princess-but no, she wasn't a princess tonight, just a girl named Kristi; I didn't understand that either, but her legs were spread and the fluff of fine spun silk was there in front of my face, so delectably alluring, the color of antique gold, and I parted my lips to partake of it. I knew what she wanted. I knew what I wanted. Like this, yes, to kiss and suck and-
"Fanchon, no!"
"Hmm?"
"A hundred mouths, I told you. Do it right. All over. Kiss me, nibble me-come on now, do it!"
I did it. Anyhow, I tried. I kissed her. All over. I nibbled her ears and licked the soles of her feet-and there wasn't much in between that I missed. But always lightly, lightly, and even when I left her lovely breasts and found my way back down to the sweet pink-lipped slit greedily, she stiffened in adamant dissent and refused to let me burrow into its moist depths; I had to content myself with a myriad of kisses upon it and around it and beneath it in the soft creases and hollows of her thighs and buttocks, still kissing, kissing, never sucking; oh, the frustration! I was hot, so unbearably hot! and if she didn't do something soon-
"Stop now, Fanchon."
"Hmm?"
"You heard me. Must I say it twice? Let's rest awhile."
"Rest? But I-"
"Come. Lie down alongside me. Get comfortable.
You and I have some things to talk about." Talk? Rest? Get comfortable? Oh sure-like a Hindu mystic on a slab of nails, except that I was attuned not to the spiritual but to the physical: I felt every excruciating point. But I lay there without complaint, gritting my teeth and suffering in silence, a reluctant martyr.
She sat up and touched my lips with a fingertip. "Such a nice Fanchon-mouth. Mmm, yes, I remember, a sucking mouth-that's what you are. Do you want to suck Kristi? Is that what pretty Fanchon-mouth is so excited about?" She jerked her hand back. "No, no, mustn't be impatient. You'll get your chance."
I swallowed my groan of desperation. She peered down at me, snickering a little-more sympathetic than sardonic-and then, quite swiftly, scrambled up to a standing position on the bed. The abrupt movement caught me by surprise; all of a sudden there she was, towering high above me, leaning against the headboard for support, drawing the extended line of my gaze across the glistening kiss-damp tuft of hair and through the valley between her jutting breasts to the enigmatic smile on her face. Rather like the front and rear peep sight arrangement of a rifle, only I wasn't sure which target to aim at.
"Kristi, what-what are you-"
"Hush." She raised one foot and placed it upon my lips; it quivered at the immediate touch of my tongue.
"Mmm, I like that. My feet are sensitive. Just the way your mouth is. Sensitive. You'll do this for me often, I hope-even when I don't ask you to. Ooh, yes, I love it when you lick my feet." Then, in a tone thick with promise, "Such fun we'll have. You'll see. We'll play games, we'll act out all kinds of crazy scenes-you know, even while I'm talking about it like this I get wild ideas."
The wilder the better, I thought, but I couldn't say it aloud, the sole of her foot limited my lingual agility strictly to caresses. And when she moved it a moment later to explore my bosom with her toes, I was too overwhelmed to speak. I held my breath and looked up at that aphrodisiac perspective and nearly swooned from the sheer wonderment of it all. Was this me? Lying on my back and staring upward and licking my lips covetously while the curling toes pinched my swollen nipples? Me? Yes, I would kiss the feet of my darling Kristi, anytime, now and forever, I would suck those sharp-nailed toes if it pleased her; oh, such cruel toes! tormenting me like that-but where were they going? Down my body? Where? Ah
There?
They didn't. What a disappointment. My limbs shot apart and I waited and hoped and prayed ... But her soft little foot stopped roving and planted Itself firmly upon the bed even with the other and then, slowly, the length of her upright form crumpled and sagged Into a squat over my face; I opened my jaws wide and stuck out my tongue and heard her voice in the dim distance as the cloven flesh settled and squirmed fluidly to take me into its scented prison.
"But you're really just a mouth, Fanchon, and we both know it. So whatever scenes we play will probably end like this. Yes, now, suck me!"
I felt her hand at the crux of my thighs. Not the fingers, only the palm-patting me affectionately. Hardly a sexy gesture. But it was enough, more than enough, just that tiny touch and I exploded in a stupendous climax and might have fainted but for the terrible, wonderful weight mashing down on my face and rocking back and forth and asserting its absolute and unconditional right to make use of my mouth. My sucking mouth. Dh yes, I knew who I was, yes-you know exactly who and what you are, don't you, Fanchon-mouth?-and I didn't faint, of course, I just went on doing what I was supposed to do. And loving it.
Chapter 7
The absolute and unconditional right-quelle betise! Letting myself get carried away like that, and with my own maidservant, an employee, a hireling, certainly a creature far beneath my social level; how ludicrous could a doting mistress get?
Ah, but the little darling was under my skin, and even in the cold light of day I no longer viewed our relationship in elemental terms of maid and mistress. She worked for me, true, but in the perfumed eroticism of our nights together it was I who labored-and willingly. Because we were lovers. Because our lives had become enmeshed, inextricably so, and I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Mistress? maid? peasant? patrician?-merely an exercise in the semantics of oligarchy; why bother? For me it was already an exercise in nugacity: only a bigoted and logic-tight mind could have managed to keep bed-Kristi and kitchen-Kristi in segregated compartments. When darkness turned to dawn we might paint on conventional faces to adapt to the workaday environment, but a chameleon of another color is still the selfsame chameleon; our reality lay in the fantasy world of my boudoir.
Lovers, then. Oh, it wasn't a romantic thing-moonlight and roses and all that drivel, the hearts and flowers syndrome-but I knew our involvement went deeper than just a sex-fling. I could even see it as a lifetime liaison and the prospect made me happy indeed; there was nothing I wanted more. So why shouldn't I play the indulgent wooer and cater to the tastes of my wooed one? Why shouldn't I kowtow complaisantly and submit to her precocious demands? If my adoration of her beautiful body pleased her so much, should I be selfish and worry about mine? Hah! Even that my own body-was of less consideration now: it had no purpose other than to serve. And serve it would, gladly, devotedly, ardently, in whatever manner my domineering little sweetheart required; could an all absorbing affair like ours exist on half measures? Ludicrous or not, I would do it again-cheerfully, again and again, if such was her desire-I would let her make use of my mouth.
Admittedly, though, I did feel a smidgen of chagrin over that melodramatic delusion of mine-"the absolute and unconditional right"-a freakish notion to end all freakish notions. I found it more frightening than funny-especially when some intangible but irresistible centripetal force kept sucking me back into the enormity of that ephemeral moment.
I relived it often during the next few days, perhaps because the cogent memory was all I had to sustain me. Oliver had brought a batch of work home-top-secret stuff, something about a huge munitions purchase, so important that he wouldn't entrust it to a secretary and I couldn't very well refuse his request for help. I didn't understand much of it (the sums of money were positively staggering!) but with my penchant for detail, I got the bits and pieces organized enough for him to make an analysis and final judgment. I did some typing for him, too, quite a lot of it, and we were together night and day until the job was finished.
It had happened before, although seldom, and I didn't mind lending assistance when called upon. But as a consequence, my adventure with Kristi went into a cooling-off period; there just wasn't time for nocturnal romps. Not that either of us cooled off much, oh no, I could actually feel the suffusion of our mutual warmth whenever we met in the course of the day. The little angel missed my lovemaking.
Nor was she so angelic about it after a while. Kristi's itch for me had her nerves on edge. I recognized the symptoms: the pouting expressions, the petulant glances, the sullen deportment of a spoiled child on the verge of a tantrum-and in an effort to head it off I managed a few minutes of privacy with her. Sufficient for a kiss and an apology, at least, plus an invitation and the good news that our separation would end that very night.
It wasn't enough. I listened to her mumbled half incoherent reply and realized that the lovelorn little scamp was morose to the point of resentment. Not of me but of Oliver. She begrudged my time away from her all the more because it had been spent in the company of my husband. Jealousy-and I told her how silly it was; she had nothing to be jealous about in the first place; and anyway, Oliver and I were man and wife, weren't we?
"Well ... " She seemed unmollified. "Just the same I wish you could be with me all the time. Or even for a couple of weeks, maybe-just the two of us. Couldn't we go away somewhere? Like for a vacation?"
"Impossible, my dear. Frankly, I can't afford it."
"You mean money? But you must be rich enough to-"
Oliver called from his room; the interruption couldn't have come at a worse moment. Kristi had touched upon a sore spot (oh yes, I too wished there was money for such a holiday) and his shouted summons aggravated my annoyance. So I lashed out rather angrily-at the nearest scapegoat, of course-telling the poor kid that my finances were no concern of hers and then running off to leave her in a state of shock.
How I regretted my anger afterward! Even while hustling to clean up Oliver's project, I could see what a fool I had been. It was only natural for my affectionate doll-baby to want to be alone with me, and after the lengthy spell of isolation she certainly had a right to whine. I should have petted her instead of making such an ugly scene. Mea culpa. I would beg her forgiveness. And wasn't it just a wee bit thrilling to know that the peevish little spitfire had showed signs of jealousy? Oh, I could hardly wait to make up with her. And to prove my devotion.
As for my temperamental outburst, though, I had no idea how much I would really regret it until later. With Oliver's business out of the way at last, I hastened to my room expectantly, all keyed up-only to find it empty. Stung by the apparent rebuff, I started my tub running with every intention of bathing and going to sleep and letting the girl sulk. But it didn't take long to change my mind; the poor dear was jealous to the point of distraction, obviously, and could I blame a confused child for losing her sense of proportion?
I tapped on her door and went in. She was sitting up in bed reading a magazine; she dropped it to her lap and peered at me in silence, her pretty face alert and yet touched by a kind of curious impassivity. As if she anticipated either a scolding or an embrace but didn't quite know which. And at that particular moment I decided against any word or gesture that might further widen the rift between us; even the mention of our small spat seemed impractical. There were other, more expedient ways of smoothing things over.
"You look lovely," I said. "Sometimes I forget how beautiful my darling Kristi is. Let me feast my eyes on you."
"Uh-huh."
"But I left the water running in the tub, I'd better go fix it. Won't you come and join me, angel?"
"Yes, ma'm. If you say so. I'll turn it off."
"Oh, I didn't mean that. You don't have to help me."
"But I do, ma'm. That's my job. You're the mistress and I'm the maid-and I guess I'm supposed to earn my keep." . "Darling, you're upset ... " I sank to one knee Impulsively and pressed my lips to her hand. "If I hurt your feelings, won't you let me make it up to you?"
"Make it up to me? How?"
"Oh, all kinds of ways. You'll see."
"Well uh I was in the middle of this story-"
"Sweetheart, you don't want to read, do you turned the dainty hand over and bent my head, aglow with sudden elation as the cool palm relented and yielded to the solicitous zeal of my kiss. "Mmm, delicious. I could eat you up. It's been so long."
"It's been long, all right. Too long."
"I know I know. But I'll make it up to you."
"Will you, ma'm? You still haven t to me how."
"Any way you like, darling. I'm at your service. The thought struck me with a near physical impact, a jolt and I laughed to cover my flaring rush of excitement. "Now there's a fun-game we could play. I'm at your service. Little mistress, won't you let me be your maid tonight?"
She giggled. "Really? You mean we switch places? Then, abruptly serious, with a nod that was almost condescending, "Go take your bath, Fanchon. And don't bother about putting anything on. I prefer my servants naked."
"Oh! You darling!"
"Here now, none of that." She disengaged her hand.
"And none of that 'darling' stuff, either. You know my name. Even a stupid maid should be able to figure out how to address her mistress. And what are you hanging around for? Just do your little bow and go take your bath-and be quick about it."
"Yes ... " I curtsied low. "Yes, Miss Kristi."
And with my insides throbbing in jubilation, I raced back to my own room and undressed and climbed into the tub and went through the motions of bathing. In a hurry. Oh, such a hurry! Because it was the wish of my little mistress.
My little mistress?
Just another play-acting game, of course, a new one-and of my own choosing, too. It would be fun. And yet the constant reversal of our positions was taking its toll: I could feel myself accepting the strange pattern more and more readily; second nature, almost, and it gave me a bit of a twinge. At this incautious rate, I would soon be completely lost in the labyrinthine merger of fact and fancy.
Ah, but my heart was already leading my head; I couldn't take time out to fret about philosophical molehills when I had a mountain of pleasure practically within my grasp. The roles were assigned, the scene had begun (the play's the thing!) and my stern little mistress awaited me.
Naked-as decreed-I left the bathroom. She was there on my bed, her golden head propped against the piled-up pillows, indolently graceful, divinely nude, oh, the magic appeal, the sorcery of that sublime body!-a pagan idol, sensual, alluring, a goddess of love; I could have prostrated myself on the floor in veneration.
Except for that damned magazine.
"It sure took you long enough, Fanchon. I got interested in the story again."
"Sorry, ma'm. I tried to be quick. But here I am-at your service. What can I do for you?"
"Hmm, I like the way you keep saying that. 'At your service'-almost as if you really mean it."
"But I do mean it, Miss Kristi. Command me."
"Oh, don't be such an idiot. Why should I have to command you? Just go on about your duties, that's all. I'm sure you can find some work to do while I finish my story."
"You-you're going to read?"
"Uh-huh." Her unconcerned shrug was like a dismissal. "And, uh, yes, you might fetch me a cigarette. A drink too, perhaps, something tall and cold and sweet."
"Miss Kristi? I-I'll have to go downstairs for that."
"Of course. Put on a robe."
I had a few realistic objections to voice, but the barrier of the magazine blocked communication: she was already immersed in that confounded story-and what the hell, why argue? I still hadn't made up for my nasty fit of temper; let this be my reparation. Pamper the little monkey. Cigarettes-and a drink too, if that was what it took to placate her, much as I detested the idea of traipsing around in the kitchen at this time of night. Let her play the "lazy mistress" role to the hilt. Only I dreaded leaving the bedroom, even though I slipped into my robe and started out the door with all the celerity of a conscientious maidservant. That was another world down there, stark, orthodox, alien to our enchanted cloister, and I knew the errand would make me feel ridiculous. Like an infatuated old woman, probably. But every ill wind blows at least one bounty: a drink would do me good. Loosen me up-yes, a good stiff drink. And as long as I had to go to the kitchen anyway ...
Chapter 8
A good stuff drink. Funny. I didn't take one. I got so engrossed m mixing a spectacular concoction for Miss Kristi that I just didn't need anything for myself. And besides, well, sneaking a drink without permission wouldn't that have been disloyal somehow?
In a little while I was glad I had skipped it. As the "lazy mistress" sipped from her tall glass and read her magazine, the "industrious maid" pranced around the room busily, tidying up, stooping to pluck a stray hair-pin from the carpet, doing a dozen small chores that hardly needed doing. Then, surprisingly, the matter of the drink-or non-drink, rather-became an issue.
"You're quite a bartender, Fanchon. This is great. But didn't you fix one for yourself?"
"No, ma'm. You didn't say I should."
"My, aren't we righteous! O' Come on, honey, don't be a hypocrite. I'll bet you had a couple of quick ones downstairs."
"I most certainly did 'not." Indignation frosted my tone. "I had a taste of yours, but that was all."
"Fanchon?" With a conspiratorial smirk, "you're sure you're not telling me a fib?"
"It's the truth. Do you want to smell my breath? Why should I lie to you? I really don't think it's fair to accuse-"
"Hey, I believe you, I believe you. Don't be so touchy; I take it all back. But I must admit-such integrity shouldn't go unrewarded. Now you deserve a drink. Wouldn't you like to go and make yourself one?"
I mulled it over. Put on a robe and putter around in the kitchen again? No, thanks. Not at the moment. The atmosphere of the boudoir had suddenly become quite promising: the little mistress was getting generous. And anyway, the intoxication I sought didn't come in a bottle; I licked my bps and glided to the foot of the bed where I could observe it clearly, the gold-fringed chalice that contained a delight more heady than any wine or whisky.
There-right in front of my eyes, the only prize I hoped to earn; would my thirst for it ever be slaked? And what a struggle to restrain myself, to refrain from bending and slithering up between the shapely thighs to let my tongue lick those juicy lips instead of my own dry ones; no, I couldn't see walking out on such delectation and traveling all that dreary distance Just for a drink. There was something I wanted more. And I thought I knew a way of getting it.
"Uh, thank you, Miss Kristi, but I'd rather not. I can do without liquor."
"Truly? You don't want a drink?"
How nice! She was urging me. Not exactly crestfallen but on the defensive nonetheless, because of her unwarranted accusation. Uh yes, she owed me a reward, all right, but I wasn't about to settle for anything so picayune as alcohol: my tastes were on a grander scale. (Hmm, wasn't there a song about that? Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all. Clever, those American lyricists.) So the little devil had a conscience, eh? Fine. Let me exploit it to the maximum profit.
"As a reward, Miss Kristi? Thanks all the same, but it's not necessary. Unless ... uh ... "
"Yes?"
"Well, I was thinking of something I'd like better. If you insist on rewarding your devoted servant."
"Don't be impertinent, Fanchon."
"Please, ma'm, I didn't mean to be. I'm not asking for much. But I've finished my work-so couldn't I just come and sit close until you're through reading?"
"Umm, that's a reasonable request, I suppose. And since you've been such a good girl ... " Her voice trailed off; she lifted one bare foot and wriggled the toes in a come-hither gesture. Then, as if the matter had ended, she stuck her pretty nose behind the raised magazine again.
I sank down, eagerly compliant, sucking the precious toes into the steaming vacuum of my mouth. But I did it more in triumph than in submission: nothing had ended, this was only the beginning. As I had known it would be; ah yes, I remembered the flacon of perfume, the reward she had rejected in favor of another more to her liking. Now it was my turn-and with the success of my maneuver a fait accompli, the seeds of felicity were planted and I planned on reaping a lush harvest.
Odd about that. Not the result itself but the manner in which I had brought it about, so devious, so subtle, so shrewdly patterned upon her own cute precedent; in a way, it was almost as much fun as sex. Nor did I feel any concomitant guilt over my sly stratagem: It was all part of the game. Not like sneaking a drink without permission-oh no-that would have been a breach of confidence, an act of bad faith, a deception outside the rules of our relationship. While this, well, in all candor, didn't it just lend a bit of spice to the wooing? A game within a game, actually, and I had gained my victory without cheating. Hmm, and would there be a game within a game within a game some day? An intriguing prospect, surely.
But my victory wasn't complete as yet; even as I kissed the feet of my beloved I had my sights set on a more intimate target. I kept peering up at it, the coral confection that I craved, so winsomely displayed in the shadow beneath its chevron of flaxen hair. Fascinating. I just couldn't take my-
"Fanchon, what are you staring at?"
"Oh!" What could I say? She had lowered the magazine and had seen me peeping. "Miss Kristi? You know ... "
"I want your lips, not your eyes. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to hide it." Her body went into a slow, sinuous spiral and she rolled over to be upon her stomach. "I've still got some reading to do."
"Yes, ma'm."
"It won't be long, you greedy girl." Resting on her elbows, she brought the magazine in front of her face.
"Meanwhile, though ... " And then she shut me out again, focusing all her attention on the printed page.
Meanwhile? Of course. No, I hadn't been shut out, merely diverted. Yes, that was it: a diversion-in every sense of the word-and more to the point, a rather daring challenge. Or so I assumed. But I couldn't be positive, considering the circumstances, nor was I even sure of my own reaction. It seemed simpler-or less hazardous, at any rate-to go on kissing her feet.
The heels were uppermost now; I nibbled them in affectionate greeting and then lapped at the soles with the flat of my tongue. But one foot kicked back sharply, like a little slap under my chin, a goading motion, coercive, authoritative, a demand for more extensive activity, and I knew I had been denied any easy course. Little Miss Machiavelli had turned her back on me, but there was method in her antisocial madness.
My lips grazed an ankle; I felt the responsive twitch, a sanction-involuntary but still compelling-and was momentarily wracked by a shudder of apprehension. Could I go through with it? Kiss her-there? I scarcely had courage to look. One glance was enough and I closed my eyes and continued kissing the remarkably unflawed surface texture of the delicately sloped rise from ankle to calf, relishing even the taste, the flavor, and doing it all with self-conscious application of every faculty, afraid of the letdown in concentration that might make me see it again. It. Up there. The obscene furrow, deep, deep, a dark mystery better left unprobed.
Oh yes, I had been close to it before. But only with little dalliances, tongue-taps, kisses in volatile flurries; never on a undetermined mission. Or preordained, rather, since the idea certainly wasn't mine. To me the whole business suggested a kind of bawdy indecency, a humorless dirty joke told for the sake of its dirt alone. Not unclean physically, of course: Kristi bathed religiously and always came to my bed immaculate-but I still regarded it as something smutty.
It. The nameless it ...
But how long could I linger over the backs of her legs? oh, I loved the velvet-smooth skin that stretched from calf to knee to thigh; and higher? I tilted my face and peeked again, striving desperately to bifurcate my gaze, straining wall-eyed for a stereoscopic view (parallax, of sorts?) in the pitiful hope of inspecting the twin buttocks while seeing only a censor's black smudge in between. But my vision just didn't split that way. I saw it-uncensored ...
My eyes snapped shut. I felt a billow of revulsion and yet my reconnaissance couldn't have been a total loss: behind sealed eyelids I recalled the precise location of the lovely domes and bent to drop a speculative kiss upon each. After a while, somewhat beyond the need for speculation, I browsed a little and luxuriated in the incredible softness, less fearful now and even a bit excited by the perilous proximity of that ominous and unsavory abyss.
The flesh stirred under my lips. I heard a small mutter, indistinct, indecipherable, and then the loud thump-and-rustle of the carelessly tossed magazine hitting the floor. And at last her voice, dripping sarcasm as it doled out the disjunct words in a deliberate drawl.
"Fanchon, isn't it about time you quit stalling? All I could manage was an inarticulate whimper. I didn't stop kissing, though. But neither could I cast out the sense of dread that made me shirk my task (and I did so much want to please her!) and go on shunning the unwholesome caress. Would she demand it? Was she really such a depraved little animal?
"Listen, lover girl, I'm not forcing you. But that tongue of yours is only tickling me and I don't feel like laughing. I've got a sensitive spot there-and I do mean sensitive-so if you're going to do it, do it right." I jerked my head away, piqued that she should channel her own frustration into a disparaging rebuke of me. "Uh-huh, sure, you're sensitive," I said chidingly, "but what you're asking for is sensual, don't you realize that? You're a sensual creature."
And immediately I could have bitten my tongue off, the same tongue that had been criticized for its failure to please. I had spoken in childish retaliation, but the words still rang with rancor. Stupid of me, slipping out of character like that, dissipating the erotic mood; whatever the provocation, I should have known better. "Me? Sensual?" She swung around and sat up, her expression grim. Then, dispassionately, with a shrug, "Hmm, maybe I am. Sensual. Let's find out."
"Huh? Miss Kristi?"
But she paid no attention to me. Without even a glance, she left me and strode to the big closet-door mirror; nearing it, her steps turned mincing, her body began weaving, almost dancing, an undulant sway-a come-on? It had to be. She made no protest as I sidled toward her. As if she had known beforehand that I would take the lure. Not until I sank to my knees in front of her did she acknowledge my presence, and then it was only with a single jutting movement, crude, angular, trenchant, abruptly at odds with the flowing dance: a lewd thrust of her pelvis.
Right into my face.
After that I couldn't tell if she was still dancing or even swaying; I had waited so long for this and now it was mine, mine, all of the engulfing succulence, and I drowned myself in its wet warmth and would have followed it to the ends of the-
"Fanchon!"
"Mmm?"
"Look. There." She rapped my head. "In the mirror."
I got one eye open in the right direction. A blur but I could still see enough. A crouching woman. Sucking. A slim young girl. Getting sucked. A monstrous picture, but oh, what a thrill! and I couldn't stop looking and I couldn't stop sucking and I couldn't stop loving the girl and loving the woman too: they were so exciting like that, together, a oneness, so sexy!
"Can you see yourself, Fanchon?"
"Ummm ... "
"Answer me!"
"Uh ... yes ... yes, Miss Kristi."
"No, don't call me that. We're not acting, we're not mistress and maid now, we're just two women. Sensual women. Look at yourself. Look! Aren't you sensual?"
"Umm, yes ... sensual."
"See for yourself what you are. Oh, such a sensual bitch. Isn't that right, Fanchon, aren't you a sensual bitch? Come on, lick me, lap me, suck me ... " And she kept saying it over and over again, but then I had nothing to lick or lap or suck because she was whirling around and-"lick me, lap me, suck me," again and again, her hands behind her back now, cupping my burning cheeks, pulling me into her flesh but not all the way, no, I had to close the gap myself as her hands left me and gripped the separate halves of her buttocks and opened the path.
"Your tongue, Fanchon. I want your tongue."
I gave it to her. I would have begged her to take it.
Because I was a sensual bitch and I knew it, and the dark mystery held no terrors for one such as me. "Look in the mirror. At me this time."
It wasn't easy. My tongue wasn't that long. But I kept it wriggling and fluttering and squirming as best I could. Then I saw what she was doing. With her hand-in front of her now-the fingers dipping into the pit of her belly. Doing it to herself, and I wished that I had two mouths, but she didn't seem to need them; I could feel her body getting close to its climax-or is it mine?-and then she went into a slow convulsion and I heard her voice, a shrieking command.
"Get back in, Fanchon. All the way!"
In a frenzy of obedience, I plunged. All the way.
Wedging my face between the fleshy pillows, shooting my tongue into the depths of her body. Suffocating and loving it. Dying a small pleasure-death.
And then it happened. To her. And to me. Marvel of marvels, it happened to me-without being touched! As if I had swallowed her convulsive climax and made it my own. But I couldn't make the soul-shattering ecstasy last forever, I slumped down and collapsed and everything went blank and all I could remember was my face landing on the floor between the spread legs of my beautiful goddess; and one bare foot was close, so close, and I struggled feverishly to slide my head over so that I might kiss it before oblivion overwhelmed me.
Chapter 9
My beautiful goddess. Gone? Light flashed in the black void of my mind long before I could get my eyelids unstuck, harsh light, searing, cruel-the blinding glare of panic. Where is she? I couldn't feel her near me. Such a terrifying moment, waking up on the floor and knowing that she had taken her presence away; oh, how I needed her!
I forced my eyes to function. There were signs of life, yes, but it was only the thing in the mirror, shaky, haggard, an awakening mound of flesh; naked Fanchon. That sensual bitch. Not much to look at, really, and I turned my head.
Ah!
A sluggish spiral of cigarette smoke climbed ceiling ward; in a spate of rekindled animation I crawled toward its source. No, she hadn't run off and left me. My love was still here. My love, my love. And how imperiously beautiful she looked on the chaise lounge, like a highborn lady taking her ease, the Maja Desnuda; wasn't it fitting and proper that I should greet my love by kissing her feet?
"So you're back among the living, eh, Fanchon?"
"I'm back. Was lout long?"
"A few minutes. You must be pretty' tired."
"I-I guess I am."
"Well, I'll let you go to bed soon. I'm not very sleepy myself, though. Be a dear and sit up with me for a while, will you? Pull up a chair or something." I rose to get the chair, moving unsteadily, just a shade bewildered. Our sex fantasy was over, apparently, and yet I was still doing her bidding. Not that I minded staying up with her: in this sweet aftermath of lust I was glad to remain close and bathe in the aura of our shared love. But she did seem a trifle too composed, indeed almost calculating. When I picked up the chair and swung around toward her, she was staring off into space, her face a study in pensive preoccupation, the cigarette between her fingers all but forgotten as it
The cigarette!
It was a mad dash, but I made it. In one breakneck scramble, I dropped the chair and grabbed the ashtray and slid it under the cigarette in time to keep the skin of her midriff intact. Another split-second and there would have been a badly scorched young woman.
I sagged to the floor to catch my breath and get my nerves untangled. Kristi nodded and patted my cheek, a gracious commendation; I glowed contentedly-and then the vivid memory impaled me, the barbed enlightenment, and I realized what I had just done. The significance of my instinctive gesture was Inescapable.
Leaping to serve her like that. Like the day we met. Exactly. A carbon copy. But with our roles reversed and I had performed my ashtray stint just as swiftly and impulsively as she had done it for me.
Fact. Conclusive and categorical. I had no choice but to accept it, the caustic reality: in my own house, I had become a satellite. Perhaps even a puppet, although no one had jerked any strings to spur my spontaneous act of servitude. The name went with the game. I had played my part only too well, too consummately, and now the greasepaint was indelible.
That first day-butterfly? angel?-how incongruous it all seemed in retrospect; I knew now that my glittering golden girl was a creature of dark desires. But no vampire had ever found a more willing victim, and I loved her for it. Loved her beyond reason. Beyond self. Loved her enough to surrender the reins of my destiny.
"Aren't you going to get the chair?"
"Uh, no, I'll stay right here."
"Yes. I like that. You won't ever leave me, will you, Fanchon? I need you. Don't ever stop loving me." Then, childlike, almost as a plaintive afterthought, "You do love me, don't you?"
"Do I have to say it? I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. I'll always love you."
"Oh, you darling! It's wonderful the way we're so good for each other. I've never been so happy. Except for ... well ... you know ... " She made a little aggrieved gesture in the general direction of Oliver's room. "You'll forgive me if I get jealous sometimes?"
"I'm glad you're jealous-even though there's nothing to be jealous about. Anyway, you won't have much chance to brood about it. We'll be together every night."
"That's a comfort. Fanchon dear, were you really angry when I asked if we could go away for a vacation?"
"Umm, I suppose so. But more troubled than angry, probably. Because it's something I want just as much as you do. And I simply can't afford it; isn't that awful? My husband controls a whole treasury, practically, and I don't have enough money for a little holiday. Please believe me, Kristi, if there was some way ... " I kissed her hand abjectly, hiding my shame; I wanted to lay the world at her feet, and even this one small gift wasn't within my power.
"It's all right. I understand." Her fingers fondled my lips tenderly. "Still ... uh, maybe there is a way."
"Hmm? What do you mean?"
"Well, I know some people who-" She shook her head abruptly. "No. It wouldn't be quite honest. Forget it."
But I couldn't forget it and I said so. And she started to tell me, haltingly, lamely, about the way that wasn't quite honest. About the people who could take a gram of inside information and turn it into a bonanza. People who dabbled in stocks and bonds and government securities and knew how to make a quick profit on almost any kind of advance tip concerning the dealings of officialdom. No, it wasn't honest. Nor was it seemly that I should conspire against my own husband; and yet no actual harm could befall him, not the slightest loss of prestige in his political position-and hadn't I given him the best years of my life? Wasn't It time I got something in return?
Still-as Kristi had already so scrupulously stated-it wouldn't be quite honest. But she didn't sound the same now and I just couldn't cut her effusive prattle short: she seemed so enthused, so spirited, so unabashedly embroiled in her own naughtiness-as if the entire messy business was just one big hilarious prank, a whimsically conceived tally in her personal vendetta with Oliver. What inspired her most, obviously, was the two-pronged thrill of hoodwinking my poor unsuspecting husband both financially and connubially at a single stroke. Such a mischief-maker!
She sat up suddenly, swinging her legs over the side of the chaise. "Hey, I got all excited just talking about it. How about you, Fanchon?"
"Well, I'll have to think it over and-"
"Sure, sure, bur that's not what I mean. I'm feeling sexy again. Ready for some more fun."
"Oh?"
"But you're not, I guess. You're tired, huh?" She pouted wistfully, making an appealing little moue. "And I did say I'd let you get some sleep, darn it."
As yes, a mischief-maker-but so mercurial in her mental processes, a frisky kitten that might bounce in any direction at any instant: scarcely an augenblick ago she had chortled over the prospect of clawing Oliver, and now the only thing on her mind was a sex-frolic. Malicious one moment, cuddlesome the next. But never dull-and I blessed the fate that had sent the capricious little pussycat here to turn my otherwise arid existence into her own private bowl of milk.
Ready for some more fun. What an amusing way to put it, ingenuous and yet flippant; utterly charming, of its caresses as if nothing else had any importance. There was a tickle-spot high on the inside of my thigh; she touched it and I twitched; she jabbed her big toe into it hard and I writhed. Underneath me, the nap of the carpet became less downy; it bristled and bit mercilessly into my squirming buttocks. And at last the aggressive toe pushed past the touchy spot and found another that was much touchier and far more ticklish (and certainly crucial!) and my body no longer floated in softness; up and down it arched and thumped and oscillated between the acute penetration and the blunt abrasion, striving for the pang and struggling against the prickle-and gradually coming to accept both as something more powerful than either. A sob broke from my lips. A sob of need.
"Fanchon? You like it?"
"Ummm ..."
"I'm not hurting you?" Ah, but of course she was hurting me. Hurting me terribly! Hurting me more and more with every motion. And wasn't it fantastic the way my hands were holding her ankle and pulling her foot deeper so that it would hurt even-
"Hey! Are you all right?"
"Please ... do it to me! With your foot. I want it. I don't care if it hurts. I love you ... "
Her foot slid into me, paused, and then probed for depth. I groaned and clutched it in the hairy wetness, sucking on it with my vulva-mouth, licking it with my clitoris-tongue, gasping rapturously every time the wriggling toes prepared the path for a further inch of passage.
She stood up suddenly. "Yessss ... " A hiss, fierce that was my Kristi, but terribly exciting too, and I felt myself responding in reciprocal readiness. The way she had her foot dangling in my lap; how could I help but catch the fever of her restlessness? I too was feeling sexy again. Ready for some more fun.
But I was already having it. Fun. I didn't dare say so, though, for fear she might stop. I didn't want that. It was nice to be wooed for a change, nice to sit quietly and let her try to arouse me; such a delicious sensation! My body floated between two layers of softness, the carpet below, thick, plushy, and the stroking foot above, gentle, affectionate; I wanted the fleecy titillation to-go on and on.
"Fanchon?"
"Mmmm ... "
"Getting sleepy?" she giggled knowingly. I didn't answer. Not of my own volition, anyway.
But my flesh was slipping out of control here and there, a flicker of betrayal, a ripple of admission; the sole of her foot brought a quivering reaction wherever it glided; even the graze of a sharp toenail evoked a shudder that stifled pain and shrieked of pleasure; no, an answer wasn't necessary. The little tactician had proved her point.
And the foot kept moving; oh, how good she was to me! wooing me like that even though the victory was already hers. Had she tumbled back on the chaise and spread her legs I would have plunged headfirst between them with no hesitation whatsoever, Or had she sat stiffly and merely uttered that one word-suck-my lips would have slavered their unqualified acquiescence. But that sweet, dainty, wonderful little foot just continued on its merry way, bestowing the largesse
and frightening. "Oh yes, I'll do it to you. With my foot. Like you've never had it before."
Somehow, she managed to brace herself and balance on one leg. I couldn't tell for sure. I knew only the thrust of her violence, that foot-kicking into me, kicking, kicking/-and I fell flat on my back and yet it stayed with me, still doing it, still kicking savagely, smashing away with the force of a brutal battering-ram, driving deep into the slippery shaft of my now erupting passion; nor did it stop until my upheaval ended and the tension drained and I lay weak and trembling in the divine afterlife of the most excruciating and exquisitely lethal orgasm I had ever experienced.
When I returned to earth again, she was seated on the chaise and caressing my head with her toes. I angled my face up to kiss them; she muttered an impatient negative and I realized that her immediate desire was for neither the giving nor the receiving of kisses or caresses. Only cleanliness. I bunched my disheveled hair in both hands and finished the job for her, wiping the precious little foot dry.
"Oh, you do love me, Fanchon. If we could be together ... "
"We will, we will. Together. I'll do it."
"Such fun. A holiday for just the two of us." Settled, then. The thing. The not-quite-honest venture. But it all seemed so far away and I was tired, so tired-and I saw her leaning back and spreading her thighs in an invitation that might become a command if I didn't-
"Fanchon? Too sleepy to suck me?"
Not an invitation, not a command. Just a question.
But I gathered my remaining ounces of energy and made the only possible reply and knew that sleep was as much "out of the question" as if it had never been mentioned.
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?
Chapter 11
Because I loved it. Could there be any other reason why I was burying my face in the sex-redolent muck and sucking her like this? Her thighs clamped around my neck; I bore the yoke bravely, knowing that a good slave was too valuable a property to injure permanently; my owner would never really harm me. We trusted each other. We belonged together. Like individual melodies entwined, punctus contra punctum, in one gloriously pulsating fugue.
Ah, how we pulsated!
My own body-un touched-was just as passionate as the one I was kissing. More so, perhaps, and it no longer seemed a phenomenon to me: I understood everything now. Like that time in front of the mirror, the stupendous orgasm brought on solely by my act of absolute submission, yes, my understanding was complete and I didn't have to grasp at shadowy straws of rationalization. I knew. And the very knowledge kept me at a quivery fever-pitch of enravishment.
Maybe I had always known. Certainly I must have had an inkling of it as far back as the night of furtive prowling and peeping just for an eyeful of the extraordinary new girl in my house. But not until a few minutes ago had I opened my heart in avowal: if you've turned me into a slave, then I'm a happy slave. Spoken from a throbbing heart-and at last I was letting the light of its revelation illuminate the fuzzy-dim corners of my mind.
So I sucked. Because I loved it. The flesh, yes (because it was her flesh), but more than the flesh I loved the compulsive self-abasement, the feeling, purely emotional, of being a slave to that flesh. In past years I had never regarded sex as anything but a physical act. An enjoyable act, inevitably-since I was always a creature of sensuality-but an act geared primarily to tactile-sensation, the touching and rubbing of meat upon meat: a coldly pragmatic opinion that I had come to accept as fact. And now I knew better. The truly transcendental ecstasy came not from doing but from being.
Oh, the doing was fine, too; I was beyond caring about the unbathed condition of the body I worshiped. Should a little sweat and slime deter a slave from duty? My face dipped deep and remained submerged even when the clenched thighs loosened and she hooked her heels over my back to hang suspended and smear herself against my chin, my cheeks, her pelvic grind-and-thrust serving up hairy mouthfuls for me to gorge upon. When I managed to take a breath, her heavy odor intoxicated me in its heady envelopment; I inhaled the stench of lust and perspiration and responded as if it were perfume.
Fingernails nipped my shoulders. The bare heels pounded my back like soft-knobbed drumsticks upon a tympanum. She was nearing it, the peak, the final spasm that would trigger mine; I gobbled frantically (yes, gobbled; hadn't I called for tartar steak?) and cast skill and caution aside in a last-ditch effort to consume and be consumed. I heard the noise from inside her, the visceral gasp, the signal of orgasm-and then my own climax struck and I knew nothing but the velvet darkness sweeping in and-
"Hey! Don't pass out!"
"Mmm?"
"Wake up, Fanchon. Come alive."
"Didn't you ... uh, darling, didn't you make it?"
"Sure, I made it, but that's no reason for you to fall apart. Don't you know how to suck? You're supposed to let me down gently. Keep on lapping for a while. Slow and easy."
"I-I thought you were dropping off to sleep."
"The hell you did. You just got wrapped up in your own little blast and forgot about me. What kind of slave is that?"
"Oh. I'm sorry. You want me to ... ummm ... "
"Now you're getting the idea. Uh-uh. Like that. No, give me some more tongue, I want to feel it down there. Nice and soft. And make a thorough job of it, huh?-like you were swabbing me clean. That's the way I want you to do it all the time. At the end, I mean. After I come."
I shuddered. So brash, so bossy, such an arrogantly vulgar lecture: the harangue of a guttersnipe delivered with the hauteur of a goddess. But she was quite right, of course, she had caught me napping (literally!) and I had to atone for my sin of omission; I bent to my task in abject humiliation, crushed by her criticism and determined to make my slavish apology a satisfactory one. Nor was it a simple matter, either, considering my state of exhaustion.
"Good, good. You're learning. But that's enough for now. Sit up, Fanchon. Do you think you'll be able to remember it next time?"
"I'll remember."
"You'd better. I might not be so patient about it if I have to tell you again."
"You-you weren't very patient just then."
"Oh?" Her frown was fierce. "You're complaining?"
"No-no. Not really."
"Smarten up, Fanchon. What have you got to complain about? You're only getting what you asked for. You like what we're doing, don't you? If not, well ... "
"Please ... I-I obeyed you, didn't I? I'll do whatever you say, but please don't be angry."
"Okay. As long as we understand each other. I just don't want to hear you griping when the going gets rough." She stretched contentedly and sat up. "Hey, I feel pretty good now. How about you? Too tired to give me that bath you promised?"
"I'm tired-but' if it's what you want ... " I shrugged and swung my feet to the floor. "I'll get the tub ready."
"Wait a minute. You do look kind of worn out. Maybe you'd rather go to sleep, huh?"
"Well ... " With a wan smile, "Do I have a choice?"
"Hah! You already had it, sweetie. A big occasion, you said. Our first night. Okay, so it's a big occasionally it's going to be bigger than you thought. Fanchon, our first night doesn't end till morning; is that all right with you?"
"Morning? I-I'll try, but I doubt if-"
Her hand shot out to my breasts. I yelped in alarm as she caught a nipple between her thumb and forefinger; the yelp subsided to a moan as she squeezed slowly and my alarm turned to pain.
"Shut up, bitch! Shut up or I'll think you're complaining. I told you the going might get rough, didn't I? We'll be up all night and you'd better be on your toes. You're going to do everything for me, just like you said. You want to bathe my beautiful body, huh? You want to take care of your doll-baby, huh? Wake up, then. Look alive."
"Yes. I'll do it. Whatever you say. I'll go fix the tub.
But I can't move when you're pinching me like that."
"Hurts, huh? Okay, I guess it served its purpose."
Her grip relented. "You're awake now, I see. You feel all right? I sure hope so-because I need a healthy slave tonight, a lively one. Get up now and carry me to the bathroom."
It didn't register. Not with much meaning, at least. My bruised nipple ached; a congestion of apprehensive images sloshed around in the pea-soup fog of my befuddled brain; I looked into the glittering green eyes and saw no pity-and then I knew she meant it. Carry her to the bathroom? Impossible. But I had to try. Or else-
The punishing hand reached again, but I was already following orders. Lifting her. Tottering. Struggling under the burden and praying that I wouldn't collapse.
"No! Fanchon, put me down." She slipped away from my arms and stood upright on the bed. "You're not strong enough. You almost dropped me. Here, turn around. Carry me piggyback." She laughed on a sudden shrill note and clambered upon my back. "Grab my legs, quick, hold me, oh yes, you can be my piggy. You're always hungry anyway; you want to eat me, piggy? Let's go. Into the bathroom."
I heard the sharp snap of her fingers, peremptory; it crackled in my ear and roused me to action. More stirring yet was the clutch of her thighs, the hot skin rubbing; and between them, tickling, jostling up and down in rhythm with my steps, the still-wet tuft of hair, a paintbrush dipped in excitement: I could feel the cumulative effect of its touch spread over my body like a glowing coloration. Again? So soon? It was nothing short of a miracle, but I couldn't deny my own senses.
She had her arms around my neck. Her hands flirted with my breasts and then grasped them tightly. It hurt a little, but I didn't mind-not even when the pressure increased, oh no, I was beginning to like it; my swollen breasts were being mashed and responding as if they were begging for more. My sore nipple became a pointed source of excitation, biting into the enclosing palm and suffering a kind of delicious martyrdom.
Pleasure in pain? in vividly tangible pain? Of course-and why should I even think it strange? Wasn't it obvious that my sensual capacities were unlimited? Oh, I had so much to learn and my darling Kristi would teach me all of it; our love was a many-textured thing; the heat In my breasts merged with the heat of my loins and I was glad now that I had learned how to suck and how to be a piggy and carry my greedy little piglet (oh yes, a greedy piglet, just as greedy to be eaten as I was to eat her) and take her into the bathroom where we could-
"Fanchon, here. I gotta go."
"Hmm?"
"Set me down, you idiot. On the toilet. Turn around, that's it. But gently, gently-uh-uh-now quick-as a reward for being such a nice piggy, get down on your knees and kiss me ... " And then with a squirming motion that found my open mouth and just as suddenly withdrew from it, "Only a nibble, that's all you get. Now go fix my bath."
I moved to obey, dazed, bewildered frustrated tasting her and wanting more. But before' I could turn the faucets I heard the trickling splash behind me and for the first time I felt something like embarrassment and was actually relieved when I got the water gushing noisily into the tub. Still, I couldn't resist the urge to swing my head around and look at her. At her beautiful face. At her lovely naked body. At my mistress my owner my princess my goddess-and somehow I was no longer embarrassed by her wickedness' after all hadn't I knelt before that toilet as if it were a throne? Yes, and I would be there yet if she hadn't stopped me, fight there in front of her, cringing at her feet, burrowing between her thighs, sucking, sucking-if she hadn't sent me away ...
"Hey, what the hell are you staring at? Pay attention to your work, damn you. Don't be such a glutton. Don't worry, you hungry bitch, you'll get all that's coming to you. And aren't you lucky?-this is only our first night here."
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 lost-
She 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?"
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 about-
My 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 outr� 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."
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.
Chapter 15
Wallow in self-pity? Hah! A luxury I could ill afford. But even when the last remaining dregs of my bitterness turned sweet in the honeyed intimacy of our all night tryst, there were still doubts to plague me. Doubts about myself, mostly. About what I had become. About what I might become.
No, I couldn't forget that my flesh had achieved its peak of sexual fulfillment in the very midst of the sickening outrage. Nor was my long-delayed climax any less consummate because of the gasping, shuddering, retching sensation. So the sensation must have been sexy too, although its unique and overwhelming impact-the sum of all its complexities-certainly defied analysis.
Anyway, it seemed apparent now that Kristi was detouring me gradually but firmly (and thus far with alarming success!) in a direction I didn't much care to take. What if the distressing detour turned out to be a cul-de-sac! Despite the "dungeon" episode my love for her never wavered, my desire showed no sign of erosion-and considering such immutable impassioned enslavement in the light of recent events, well, was there anything she couldn't lead me into? Wasn't it just a matter of conditioning? Dungeon after dungeon, perhaps, each more harrowing than the last and yet each with its own crowning climax, the orgasm, the carrot at the end of the stick; and every dungeon another malignant milestone in my conditioning course-until the strange craving became mine as much as hers? Oh yes, I could see our future together degenerating into just that, an eventual sharing of the dirt-and-degradation madness. A lifelong dungeon, practically. No wonder I felt uneasy about the power she held over me.
And that was my mood-uneasy-when Rosalba popped up again. Rosalba, my former maid, the deferential one, and still attracted to me as much as ever. I could tell. The moment I opened the door to let her in, I saw it in her eyes. I sensed it in the sincerity of her greeting, an effusive warmth that brought back sunny memories.
Actually, it was a pretty hectic moment and I scarcely had time to think. Kristi was out for the afternoon and Oliver had just phoned from his office to say that he had to leave the city on one of his sudden hush-hush political trips: could I pack a bag for him in a hurry?-a member of his staff would come by shortly to pick it up. So I was quite busy when Rosalba put in her surprise appearance.
It worked out nicely, however, when she volunteered to come up and help me with the packing. As a matter of fact, Rosalba insisted on taking over and doing most of the job herself. Meanwhile we had a lovely chat about old times and things, and she told me about her husband and how her marriage was going.
From what I gathered, it wasn't going well. The young man had already begun to take his new wife for granted (like all husbands?) and that was why she had left him. To teach him a lesson. Within a week or two, she was sure, he would realize what he was missing and probably come galloping after her like a lovesick stallion. And until then, well, here she was, hardly more than a bride but far from tearful about the separation; indeed she seemed happy to be on the loose, especially since it gave her the opportunity to see her good friend Madame Fanchon again.
We finished packing and got the bag downstairs just in time for the pickup. As the staff car drove away with it, I breathed a great big sigh of relief. Then, all at once, I felt a surge of something almost like wild elation: I too was separated from my husband-and wasn't it wonderful? Somehow, what with the telephone ringing and the suitcase chore to do and Rosalba dropping in so unexpectedly, the delicious import just hadn't penetrated. But now I could hardly wait for Kristi to come home and hear the good news. Oliver's secret government missions always lasted at least a few days, often stretching even a week or longer. Wouldn't my little sweetheart be thrilled at having the whole house to ourselves!
True, there was still Rosalba to reckon with; we hadn't discussed it, but I knew she had hopes of being asked to stay. And I did recall having invited her, but that seemed like ages ago-and I had no intention of letting her interfere with my pink-cloud bliss. Anyway, I couldn't make the decision now; I wanted to bathe and fix my hair and look beautiful for Kristi. After all, we had something to celebrate.
And again Rosalba volunteered her services. "A bath, Madame? Oh, please let me help:"
"My dear, you don't have to-"
"Madame? Please? For old times' sake?"
So willing. When she smiled so wistfully, how could I resist? Then too, I hadn't yet shaken off my "dungeon" uneasiness; perhaps it would restore some of my self-confidence to be pampered a little. To be attended by a servant who put me on a pedestal instead of grinding me into the dust.
Just like old times, then, and we both plunged back into the past. The indulgent mistress and the adoring maid, such a charming pageant! and sexy too after a while as Rosalba's coy glances and cunning caresses became an obvious courtship. Nor could I see any reason to dissuade her; I was already looking forward to sampling the bizarrerie of that vibrating tongue again. When she dried my body and dusted my skin with after-bath powder, I readily accepted the ministrations of her trespassing hands. And the more intimate incursion of her lips.
"Rosalba ... " I patted the top of her head. She seemed to be happy down there; how could I be other than generous? "Would you like to stay for a day or two? Until you figure out what to do about your husband?"
"Umm, yes, Madame. Thank you."
She went on thanking me in her own inimitable manner and I felt it, the tongue, the hot fluttering tongue; nor did she stop when the bathroom door was pushed open. With her face buried between my thighs, Rosalba probably didn't even see it. But I did. Only for an instant, but that was plenty. Kristi stared coldly and then, with a shrug of indifference, swung around and vanished. Not a word. Just a look. But it was enough to give me a chill and I had to stifle the impulse to shove the kissing mouth away and go chasing after her. I stood firm, though, congratulating myself on my display of fortitude. Of independence. Such sangfroid! and it must have been because of the uneasy mood that had beset me. Oh sure, I wished she hadn't caught me in the act like that (how flagrant can a delicto get!) but I didn't regret it as much as I ordinarily might have. When I thought of the cellar and lying on my back and what she had done to-
"Madame?"
"Hmm?"
"Is-is there something wrong? You're not ... uh ... "
A tug at Rosalba's hair silenced her lips; her tongue-tip returned, making a slithery search for my spot of concentrated sensitivity, finding it, touching it with that titillating turbulence; no, her tongue had lost none of its technique. But she had cause for concern and so did I, damn the luck! the crucial spot was all but numb now and my body wasn't responding. I didn't feel the melting joy, the wave of warmth to welcome the onrushing orgasm, damn, damn, damn it to hell, the orgasm wasn't even oncoming, much less rushing.
I cursed Kristi's interruption and almost cursed Kristi herself; did she have a monopoly on all of me? Was her checkrein on my emotions so binding that I couldn't experience a purely physical reflex to a purely physical stimulus? Could she actually contravene the contact of that tickling tongue on my clitoris? No, I wouldn't admit that. Not without a fight.
If need be, then, let my approach be clinical. The surroundings first, the cramped circumstances-standing awkwardly in the bathroom like this made it just too difficult; why not get comfortable? Why not stretch out on the bed and spread my legs and deliver my flesh to that nice vibrating pressure. The carnal reaction was bound to occur.
"Rosalba ... "
"Mmm?"
"This is silly. Come. The bathroom is no place for-"
"Madame ... oh, please"-clutching my thighs "don't go ... "
And she thrust her face deep, mouthing frenetically, giving up any attempt at technical skill, gluing herself to my body; I heard her mumbling and I knew she was begging me not to move, begging with her mumbling lips and her clutching hands, begging me to stay right there in the bathroom. I couldn't understand her anxiety, but it was so, exactly so, that was the way she wanted to make love to me. Another strange obsession, perhaps? Or maybe it was just a different version of the same obsession, maybe it was still the dirt-and-degradation thing and the bathroom was Rosalba's dungeon; yes, that simplified it somewhat and I remembered the night in the hotel, that first night, the time when we played piggyback and I carried her to the bathroom and set her down on the toilet and-oh, but that was Kristi, not Rosalba, and I didn't want to think about Kristi, I wanted to think about Rosalba and how she was sucking me, the adoring maid sucking the indulgent mistress, only it was already too late and I could feel myself getting hot and it wasn't because of Rosalba and what she was doing, no, it was Kristi Kristi Kristi and just thinking about her was enough and I knew I had lost the fight and she owned me. Body and soul she owned me, and if she walked in and snapped her fingers right now I would do it-just like that night-I would fall to the floor and lift her foot and kiss it and put it down on my neck and prove to her that I was forever her slave, her humble slave, her passionate slave, and I would love her and love her and love her and .then it would happen. It was happening now. Orgasm. The crisis at last! and I labored mightily against Rosalba's helpful head but didn't fail to give credit where credit was due; nor did I feel cocky any more, good grief, no, I had all kinds of regrets. My foolish independence had dwindled to nil. I had been caught cheating-and there was no trumped-up fortitude stiffening my spine now, only a strength-sapping shiver of fear and foreboding. Caught. Caught in the act. How sorely would I be made to suffer for my indiscretion?
Chapter 16
Body and soul, that was how I belonged to her-and later in the evening I screwed up sufficient courage to go and say it. And to take my bitter medicine, whatever she cared to dole out, whatever would put us in harmony again; oh yes, I was-quite prepared to suffer for my sin.
Her attitude surprised me, though; she seemed slightly cool but far from incensed. Mildly amused, rather, and there was even a faint smile on her face as I admitted my guilt and declared my undying love and blurted out the whole bewildering mishmash about Oliver leaving so suddenly and Rosalba showing up at the front door and pitching in to help with the packing and then taking advantage of my distracted state of mind by insisting on serving me further and cadging an invitation to stay the night; not that the turmoil and confusion justified my shameful conduct, no, I could only unburden my conscience and hope for clemency.
I must have sounded pretty penitent. Remorseful and apologetic enough to avert a vendetta, at least; anyway, the anticipated recriminations just didn't materialize ...
"So now you expect to be punished, eh, Fanchon?"
"Well ... I-I guess I deserve it."
"No doubt. I ought to beat your bottom with a leather strap. But what good would it do?" Her lips twisted in a little, grin of mockery. "Besides, you'd probably love it."
"Then you're not angry? Oh, darling ... "
"Here now, none of that." She brushed away my impetuous gesture, allotting me only her hand to kiss. Then, almost musingly, "Still, it wouldn't be right to let you off scot-free. Maybe I'll banish you, huh?"
"B-banish me?"
"Hmm, yes, it's an interesting idea. Let's give it a try, just a short one. Consider yourself banished, Fanchon. You can't make love to me tonight. I don't want to see you till tomorrow. That's a fair punishment, isn't it?"
"Darling ... please don't-"
"You'd better not complain or I'll make it longer."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Cheer up, its only one night. And you can have Rosalba to keep you company."
"No! Never again. I don't want Rosalba."
"Is that so? I'm glad to hear it. Then you won't mind if I take her myself. To keep me company."
"You-you and Rosalba?"
"Sure. What's wrong with that? You had her this afternoon, didn't you? So why shouldn't I have her tonight? And since she's an invited guest, well, you might be gracious about it and offer us your bedroom. You'll do that, won't you, Fanchon?"
So jaunty, such smiling nonchalance; didn't she realize what she was doing to me? But of course she did. It was her way of making me suffer: depriving me of her companionship, inflicting a sentence more stiff than I had bargained for, letting someone else take my place in her affections-and in my own bed. Her way of getting even-and with a vengeance. Oh, it was just her way-and I should have known my dereliction would cost me dearly.
It cost me, all right. I had a rough night. For a while I sat in Oliver's room and tried to work on my novel. But the thing seemed like such pretentious trash, and I got to brooding over it and seriously contemplated junking the entire project. Nor did I find much divertissement in my absent husband's collection of pornographic books, less pretentious, perhaps, but certainly just as trashy-and how could a printed page of erotica be anywhere near as exciting as the eroticism of my everyday existence?
Falling asleep was also a losing skirmish. I tossed about in restless irritation, uncomfortable in the purgatory of Oliver's bed and agonizing over what was going on in my own. Kristi and Rosalba. What are they doing in there? A dozen different visions tortured me, and I struggled valiantly to guide my thoughts into less troublesome channels. But sleep played truant. Until at last I got up and padded into Kristi's small room-and there, lulled by the lingering scent of my beloved, comforted by her near-intimacy, I managed to quell my melancholia and drift off into dream-void torpor.
Hours later the touch of her hand coaxed my eyelids open, it glided across my face to the soft awakening of my lips. I kissed it and left slumber behind. She was sitting on the edge of my bed-no, her bed-draped in a negligee (mine? hers?) that scarcely screened the dazzling splendor of her body.
"Good morning, my poor punished Fanchon. So this is where you slept last night,. hmm? I looked in your husband's room first."
I murmured a muted good-morning-darling into the palm of her hand. Her fingertips turned tenderly sportive and I prolonged the kiss gratefully, aware that my term of excommunication was over. The only blessing of a lovers' tiff is the bliss of making up afterward; and wasn't she an angel to seek me out like this. and make the initial overture?
"Hey, that library in there is really something. Now that he's away, maybe I'll get a chance to read the dirty books." She stroked my cheek and ended the caress in an airy gesture of self-reproach. "Oh, I'm such a lazy girl. If I spend my time reading, who'll do the housework?"
"Read all you like. But the collection is pretty dull, I'm afraid. I found that out last night. Somewhere around two o'clock-if you know what I mean."
"Oh? You didn't sleep?"
"I couldn't sleep. Let's just say I had a bad night. And you know why, you little devil."
"Uh-huh. I ought to know. Sexy, sexy. Me too-how about that? I missed you. I wanted you the minute I woke up. That's why I left Rosalba and came hunting for-" Her train of thought snapped; she paused reflectively and then giggled. "Ooh, Fanchon, I just had an idea! Rosalba. Let's keep her here for a while. She can do the housework. And I can be lazy."
"Keep her? As a hired maid?"
"No, silly, you wouldn't have to pay her. She's such a simpleton; I can talk her into anything. I'll bet she'd be willing to work for free just to have a place to stay until that dumb-ox husband of hers comes to his senses."
"Hmm, well, I'll think it over. Later, though. Now what was it you said about waking up and feeling sexy?"
"Rosalba could have my room. I'll be in there with you anyway, won't I? And we'd have more time for each other if-"
"Darling, is it that important? Let her stay then, it doesn't really matter. Except that she-"
"Oh, you're so good to me, Fanchon. I guess I'm selfish, huh? You give me everything-and what do I ever give you in return?"
"Little one, you give me somebody to love. And that's all I've ever asked for. Just you ... " I reached for the pale hand and squeezed it impulsively. "We'll keep Rosalba around, if you like. But I wouldn't want her to know too much about us. About what we do together, the crazy games and things; you do understand, don't you?"
"Umm, yes, you're right, it's best she doesn't know. Don't worry, I'll take care of that. Rosalba won't even suspect our secret. Hey, it's going to be fun just loafing all day long. And I'll get some hot reading done, too."
"Hot reading, eh? You'll probably be disappointed." I carried the delicate fingers to my lips again. "Books aren't as exciting as the real thing."
A conspiratorial twinkle lit her face. "Your book might be ... " And with a little lilting chuckle of delight, she shook out of the negligee and tumbled into my arms. "My impatient Fanchon. You want some material for another Chapter?"
But no, it wasn't a time for new material, at least not that kind of material, the material of prurient perversities, of lust and lubricity, the material designed (hopefully!!!) to sell books. It was a time for love. A time for the subdued sweetness of making up after a quatreI; ah, how utterly unselfish were the embraces of my golden-haired divine goddess! How endearingly considerate the caresses she deigned to bestow upon her mortal idolatress! It was as if she had replaced the hair-shirt of my punishment with the silken-soft mantle of her all-absolving affection.
She made no demands. And yet-quite soon-I felt the urge to fulfill them, the unspoken demands; need they be said aloud to be acknowledged as the esoteric elixir that gave our alliance its very essence? Ours was no ordinary relationship. Just as Kristi was no ordinary servant. Nor I an ordinary housewife. Generous and forgiving as my loved one might me, she was still my glorious goddess-and I found myself kissing her feet. She liked that, even though she remained quiet. When I turned her over and started nibbling up into the sweet curve of her buttocks, she still didn't say a word. But I knew what she must have been thinking and it was true, so true, Fanchon, you're a sensual bitch! and I probed the darkly lewd gully and fixed upon the little puckered place and pried it open with the tip of my tongue and became the sensual bitch she wanted me to be; nor did she have to ask me or tell me or nudge me, no, I was already slavishly possessed with the desire to please-and I poked my tongue in and pulled it back into my mouth and got it wet and then did it again, over and over again, the in-and-out lubricating motion from my moist mouth to her moistening flesh, until everything became slick-smooth and slippery and at last I stuck my tongue deep into the body of my beloved and joined myself to her as if the seal of mouth and flesh made us one.
I could have stayed there forever, cherishing the moment, aware that it was all the more precious because of my night of exile. But there was yet another unspoken demand to fulfill. And only when I lowered my head and ducked under her belly and twisted around to nuzzle up into the succulent softness of her vulva did she finally break her silence. A moan. Then a whisper. Hot, soulful, inflammatory; such an inspiring whisper! It set me on fire with ecstatic devotion.
"Ah yes, Fanchon, you give me everything. Suck, suck ... "
It was a long time before we left the bed. But I didn't consider it a wasted morning, no, in its evanescent hours lay the key to life itself: das Leben ist die Liebe. And there were others like it in the days that followed. Lovely mornings. Lovely afternoons. Lovely nights for the loveliest of lovers.
For a while I paid only cursory attention to Rosalba. She slept in the maid's room and took her orders from Kristi, and both seemed contented with the adjustment. There was some sex-play between them but not enough to be obtrusive; anyway, a fit of jealousy would have done me little good and I decided against making an issue out of it. Especially since my enchanting angel-child was being so thrillingly sweet to me.
Then my husband's office called and I had to pack a second suitcase for him; they didn't say for sure but I got the impression that he would be gone much longer than anticipated. Which was fine with all concerned-except that the additional time allowed Rosalba to become more firmly entrenched in the household. Too much so, I realized, and I wondered how to go about getting rid of her without creating a fuss.
Not that Kristi was neglecting me. But the novelty of the situation had worn off and I begrudged every minute she spent out of my sight. Nor did it help my already tottering aplomb when I returned home from a social engagement one day to find the pair of them locked in my bathroom. A "mistress and maid" theme, no doubt, and although I didn't knock on the door and interrupt their fun, it jarred me to recognize that in a certain singular sense I was being displaced by an interloper. Kristi seldom bothered to make up play-acting scenes for us any more, nor had I any need of them, really, but it hurt to learn that her deviously naughty brain was still inventing-and for someone else's benefit. After that, Rosalba's presence in the house became a thorn in my pride.
Eventually I scraped up sufficient nerve to do something about it. Kristi was in Oliver's room, reading; I went in to talk to her. But before I could open my mouth she pounced on me with an impetuous hug and kiss. Then, bright-eyed, giggling, obviously enthused, she dangled a typed document in front of my nose.
"Look what I just came across, Fanchon. In with the books."
It was a copy of Oliver's will. I got huffy and told her to put it back where she found it; after all, my husband's private affairs were no concern of hers. But she had already read it, of course, and my admonition came too late. That being the case, well, I too was curious enough to scan the paper-and then we both knew of the existence of a foreign bank deposit. Of which, some day, I would be the sole inheritor.
But it wasn't a seemly subject for discussion-and besides, I had to get that other more pertinent business off my chest. The will was restored to its hiding place without further comment, and then-spuriously casual-I voiced a small suggestion about Rosalba overstaying her welcome and wasn't it time we sent her away?
I met with stubborn opposition, though. Kristi was intractable. She liked having Rosalba around to do her bidding; worse yet, she insisted that I keep the girl on indefinitely-and since my budget wasn't affected, even Oliver's return would have little bearing on the arrangement.
"It's perfectly safe, Fanchon. Who would object to an extra housemaid? Rosalba can share my room; we'll set up the folding cot for her. And as long as it doesn't cost you any money ... "
"But she's becoming a fixture here. If she settles down like that, how will we ever get rid of her?"
"Oh, that's easy. You know what a silly goose Rosalba is. I'll just talk her back into patching things up with her husband. And out she'll go. Whenever we're tired of her."
"I'm tired of her right now, darling. And I really don't see why you're so keen on her staying. She does most of the housework for you, I'll admit, but is that the only reason? You're not in love with her, are you?"
"In love with Rosalba? Don't be ridiculous. Fanchon, how could you even think it? You're the one I care for! That's why I want to keep Rosalba around, actually-because of my love for you. I can't be nasty to you the way I can to her. And sometimes I just get that nasty urge; it's a kind of compulsion, you might say."
"A compulsion to be nasty? What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know. That night in the cellar-remember what I did to you? That was nasty. And you didn't like it. So it won't happen again-not to you, anyway. But just the same, I still get the urge now and then."
"You-you do that to Rosalba?"
"Uh-huh. Only I don't have to force her. She loves it. She opens her mouth and swallows what I give her-and worships me all the more for it. But you should have figured it out for yourself by this time, Fanchon. Haven't you heard us making all that noise in the hall bathroom?"
"N-no. I-I just didn't realize ... "
"Well, you realize it now. And I'm glad, frankly, I'm glad it's out in the open. I hate that little two-by-four toilet, it's so shabby and uncomfortable. Now maybe I can use yours, huh? You won't mind if I take Rosalba into your bathroom once in a while, will you?"
What could I say? I looked at the glittering green eyes, the determined face, the chin tilted at such an obstinate angle-and all I could do was bite my tongue and let it pass and hope the whole mess would soon blow over. Certainly I couldn't see myself offering to take Rosalba's place. Ugh!
After all, well, somehow everything got pretty chaotic-and just a bit weird, too. Kristi still slept with me, but now she contrived to spend more time with Rosalba, gravitating between us and yet avoiding any overlapping of the two pursuits. As if each was a separate sphere of activity. Except that she led Rosalba into my bathroom every so often, and I had to turn my head and act as though I didn't notice. But I did notice, oh yes, and I listened to the strange sounds and shuddered and knew that it wasn't any innocent "mistress and maid" charade going on in there behind the closed door.
I stood it as stoically as I Could. But I soon recognized the ugly fact that I was involved in an invidious competition. Kristi loved me, but that didn't constrain her from conferring a portion of herself upon my rival. And measured in minutes, the portion seemed to be increasing with exasperatingly conspicuous regularity. Until at last my heart shriveled and I went to my beloved and got down on my knees and pleaded with her to send the girl away.
"Poor unhappy Fanchon. So you're jealous, hmm? But if Rosalba goes, who'll be my toilet slave?"
"Is it-is it so necessary to you? That sort of thing?"
"No, not exactly. But there's something exciting about it. I guess I've just got a dirty mind, huh? Anyway, I don't want to give it up-and I'd be angry if you forced me to."
"What if I let you ... uh ... you know ... "
"Do it to you?" She snorted in wry reproof. "Fanchon, you can't even say it; even the words are disgusting to you. You'd only get sick to your stomach again-and that's no fun for me. I need someone who feels a sexy thrill when it happens."
"Sexy ... no ... I could never feel-"
"Rosalba does. It makes her so hot she begs for more. Shall I prove it to you? She's always ready for me, always thirsty; I'll call her in and drop a little hint, that's all it takes. I'll have her begging for it right here m front of you."
"Please, no, don't call her! I believe you." A mist of despair blurred my eyes. "Darling, what can I do? How can I convince you? If that girl stays another day I'll just die, I know I will."
"Come now, Fanchon, I'm sure you'll live. Don't be so morbid. Let's have no talk of dying." Then, in an oddly pensive murmur, "Unless it's about-" She shrugged abruptly. "Oh, forget it. So you want me to get rid of Rosalba, huh? I can't see any reason why I should. Still ... "
"Darling?" I clasped her legs to my breasts. "For me?"
"And what will you do for me?"
"Anything. Everything. I swear it. Anything you ask." My voice cracked to the consistency of a leaky sob. "Just so you and I can be together."
"Hey, you're crying! Crocodile tears, maybe?" She smiled down at me. "But no, of course not, you're truly suffering, you poor darling. My sweet Fanchon ... would you really do anything? Would you do something dangerous if I asked you to? Something bad? Because there is something-something so awful I can hardly say it-only it's not just for me, it's for both of us. Listen to me, dear, and try to understand; I know it's terrible but I can't stop thinking about it. It's been tormenting me ever since the day I was leafing through the books and stumbled across that paper "
I clung to her in desperation. I must have known what she was going to say, I should have expected it. But I heard her and felt the chill of dread and broke out in a cold sweat; and then I thought of all that money and how it would enable me to wrap her in luxury and keep her happy and hold on to her forever-and I nodded my head into the soft embrace of her thighs, brushing my damp cheeks dry upon the overheated skin, sensing only vaguely that I was making myself a party to murder. The murder of my own husband.
Chapter 17
A party to murder. Murder most foul. Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out. Et cetera: oh, there was no end to the clich�s and quotations-and all of them reaffirmed what I already knew: a pretty sinister subject, murder.
Incredible, then, how easily I became inured to the enormity of the idea-incredible to me, at any rate; could my immorality indeed be so immoderate in scope? Did I dare dally with death? Ah, but I scarcely had time for introspective inquiry, not with my darling Kristi-devil in such an enlivened mood-she kept me too deliciously diverted. She even managed to inject a sybaritic tincture into the occasion of Rosalba's farewell.
"Let her do it to you, Fanchon. Just once, before she goes-a nice good-bye, kind of, huh? I'll bet you remember that crazy tongue of hers; wouldn't you like one last waltz with it?"
I laughed and blushed a little and allowed as how it might be interesting, a valedictory performance of Rosalba's tongue, why not? I felt no guilt about cheating, naturally, now that such an escapade was officially sanctioned. Moreover-simply for the sake of scientific research (and perhaps a touch of envy for so felicitous a knack?)-it seemed only fair to attempt another analysis of that "vibration" phenomenon. Provided the experiment could be accomplished discreetly and without undue embarrassment.
Trust resourceful Kristi to take care of that. She arranged everything. The boudoir lamps were low; I lay supine in suspenseful solitude, naked, a bit aroused in a sexual way, possibly, but nonetheless amused by the prankish nature of the coming event. Rosalba entered the room, a meek, somewhat pathetic figure in a dingy-dull robe; eyes downcast almost apprehensively, she shuffled to the foot of my bed.
"Madame?"
"Yes, my dear?"
"I-I've come to say good-bye."
"Yes, of course, Rosalba. By all means ... " I drew my parted knees up in a curtly indicative pose. "Do it. Here. Say good-bye to me."
There were no preliminaries; her diffidence dissolved and she dove headfirst between my legs to start that electric tongue of hers oscillating. Rather like a soundless buzz. I studied the praxis quite calmly, more curious than carnal-minded, intent mainly upon picking up a few practical pointers. Then, like a dim wraith out of the dark doorway, Kristi appeared, approaching and taking shape buoyantly, nude and smiling and beautiful, a permissive chaperon expressing her approval.
She winked at me and flipped the bed sheet over Rosalba's head-and suddenly we were alone, my beloved and I, alone but for the covered heap somewhere down there; excitement soared and I trapped Rosalba's face in the vise of my thighs and peered at my naked idol imploringly, licking my lips to let her know how I desired her.
But she must have been well aware of that. Nimbly, she hopped onto the bed and stood up to hover above me; I went on licking my lips, preparing for her, preparing for her pleasure. And for mine. But then, carelessly, with a kind of callous indifference, she plumped herself down upon my face; jamming me into a state of blind befuddlement with the haphazard seating of her body. Crushed and enveloped by the mass of stultifying softness, I just couldn't figure-out where I was. Or what she wanted of me. My mouth was blocked; I struggled frantically to find some chink in the fleshy barrier, a fissure, an orifice, any opening at all; with desperate jabs of my tongue I sought some familiar nook or cranny, something, anything, even a dimple that might give me a sense of direction. But there was nary a clue, not the slightest; nor did she budge to aid my piteously futile search, no, she merely sat there stolidly, a solid encumbrance that thwarted my every endeavor. Until, disoriented to the point of panic, I forgot the peculiar circumstances of our rendezvous and uttered a glottal, guttural groan of frustration.
That did it. The noise in my throat. She wriggled peremptorily, silencing me in quietly dictatorial fashion and snapping my distraught mind back to sensibility: we were not alone-and I'd better shut up before I blew the gaff. It was only a warning wriggle, nothing more, a brief jounce of her body, but the impact persisted signally and I grasped a broader significance; oh, I understood everything now, even her immediate resumption of unruffled immobility afterward. She was using my face as a seat, that was it. Not a love-object. Just a place to park her bottom. And in so doing, she was sealing me off from all extraneous stimuli in a deliberate effort to focus my attention on Rosalba. On my "one last waltz" with that frisky tongue. Such a highhanded minx, my calculating Kristi!-all tactics and no tact-still playing the chaperon, patronizing bur non-participating, the not-so-innocent bystander (hmm, bysitter?) in the front row.
Resigned-if not quite reconciled-to my little tyrant's coercive insistence, I let my limbs relinquish custody of poor Rosalba's ears. As the delicate clitoral contact was re-established and the buzzing became palpably prominent once more, I tried to audit and reappraise what was going on down there. But I couldn't surrender wholly; my primary need refused to cede to the secondary-and again I strove impatiently for the intimate treasure of my beloved's body, snooping out the topographical contours of the baffling buttock terrain in a valiant attempt to strike it rich amid the lush sugar-loaf hills. So that I too might advantageously exercise my tongue.
A valiant but vain attempt. Damn! Would the goodies never come my way? Did she intended holding me like this all night? How long was that farewell kiss supposed to go on? It felt pretty good, admittedly, but I just couldn't concentrate on something so remote and impersonal, not with the treasure-trove so close, the delectable prize, the mouth-watering sweetmeat, the only thing that really-
"Rosalba!"
"Mmm?"
"Stop what you're doing and listen. This is me Kristi. Remember what I told you? Go do it now. Get into the bathroom and wait for me. Shut the door and turn the light on and get yourself ready. Understand? I want you to be ready for me!"
"Umm ... I-yes ... "
"Go now. Right away. Run!"
I heard it. Every word; oh, monstrous, monstrous! but the contact was broken and the bedsprings creaked Rosalba's exit and the relenting flesh against my lips cushioned but no longer curbed; it shifted obligingly, a tender cheek-caress, and then the soft buttocks spread and settled in a thickly fluid motion, molding themselves to my features and covering my face like hot candle wax melting down to overflow and absorb its sconce. And the prize was mine, the prize I had lusted for so unswervingly-and with it came the miracle, ah yes, maravillosa! the external buzz had given way to an internal throb that was infinitely superior. As if my thrusting tongue had plugged me into another current, opening a brand-new circuit of sensation.
But the sensation wasn't mine alone; I could feel her body quivering in excitement, stirring into action, claiming and clenching my tongue in a convulsive muscular contraction that set the surrounding skin twitching consensually. It went on with concentrated tenacity, fiercely amorous-squeezing, pinching, squeezing-a caress designed to cosset and chastise (and certainly to cherish!) all in the same instant. Like a confident and conclusive sign of proud possession, a show of ownership.
And I was glad to be owned. So impossibly fantastic! I had my tongue shoved up my maidservant's backside, a despicable act, surely, simply disgraceful for a woman of my station in society; and yet now-even in this flash-span of lucidity-I found only bliss in my topsy-turvy world. Fanchon loves Kristi. A slave to my servant. Let her own me, then. But of course! How could I be other than what I was?
The contraction ended. But the exquisite yoke of bondage remained firm, and I continued my kiss gratefully. I was too hot to quit now And so was she, luckily. Hot. Too hot to get up and leave me. She squirmed a little and then inched into the beginning of the familiar rocking movement, extending it gradually, exaggerating the arc: a sweeping undulation that soon had the entire length of fleshy cleavage rubbing over my nose and mouth in a rolling glide. Rolling, rubbing, bearing down in rampant intensity-as though she had some sort of prodigious irritation, an inflamed itch that needed scratching all the way from coccyx to clitoris. Only the unguent-slick seepage of her sex-stimulated flesh saved me from being pulverized. I couldn't breathe. But I loved it, all of it, even the oppression, the smothering ecstasy of her violence, and I managed to get my lungs working after a while, alternately snuffling and gasping for air in the split-second of semi-freedom at opposite poles of the pendulum swing. Until the time of culmination drew nigh; the lurch, the telltale inner rumble, the spasmodic distention-and my passion-crazed little joy rider stopped suddenly and sagged and cupped my face deep in her dilating vulva. I wallowed in it, prolonging the fever-pitch of the peak moment, sucking and munching madly in a raging compulsion to provide the utmost of pleasure above and beyond the ultimate threshold.
The peak moment, her peak moment. And mine too. Simultaneously. Predictably. Divinely. In its own mysterious manner, the arcane alchemy never failed.
She slid from her perch and patted my smeared eyelids dry. Then, blithely, with barely a break for rest and rehabilitation, "Fanchon, you ought to see this. Come and watch."
"Hmm? You-you want me to ... "
But she was already flitting across the floor. Racing to keep her date with Rosalba. I shuddered at the thought and whimpered in exhaustion, but I knew I had to follow her. To watch it-obediently-because she had told me to. And to see it for myself, once and for all, to satisfy my queasy curiosity.
The bathroom door was ajar and I sneaked toward it furtively if somewhat feebly, anxious to remain inconspicuous. But Rosalba couldn't have spotted me anyway; arched backward in a grotesque contortion over the toilet bowl, she had her head poised and her face hidden under Kristi's half-squatting body and could only have been staring up at the well-kissed crotch that I had just brought to orgasm. She too would offer her mouth to that crotch. But not for kisses. No. I heard Kristi chuckle coarsely, more like a cackle, and then the noises from down below, the ugly liquid noises echoing hollowly, splashing, gurgling, oh, obscene! and she leered at me (gloating?) and shrugged and lowered her gaze pertinently, slipping an attentive hand between Rosalba's gaping thighs to fondle and finger the luridly exposed meat in a lingering gesture of blandishment that appeared both tenderly erotic and benignly complimentary.
"Hey, baby, you're getting good. Too bad you won't be around to take care of me in the wintertime. On a cold night I'd never even have to get out of bed."
Some compliment. Ugh! And she was still chattering and cackling and carrying on about it. But I couldn't look at her artfully animated hand without a hot flutter of envy: she seldom touched me like that. So tantalizing. I started feeling sexy again-incongruous-sexy, sexy, much as I hated to admit it; how could I let myself become aroused by such a loathsome spectacle? Oh, but it was fascinating in a repulsive way; the sheer hypnotic horror of it turned my insides turbulent-and right then and there if she had beckoned and motioned me to lick her busy finger (and Rosalba!) I might have fallen to my knees and done it. But after that one leering glance she scarcely seemed aware of me, no, she was in a giddy heaven of her own, giggling deliriously, twittering and squealing and jabbering in a transport of garrulous glee, babbling near incoherent pagan raptures of appreciation and encouragement to the greedily gulping girl beneath her. And I could only shake off my ridiculous fancy and stagger away in forlorn indignation, mollified at least partially by the assurance that I had seen the last of that slobbering cesspool-mouthed creature who had the capacity to make my gushing little Kristi-heathen so happy.
Chapter 18
Fascinating in a repulsive way-but nonetheless fascinating, and I felt pretty qualm-sick whenever the spellbinding evil of that sordid bathroom scene recurred to me. More atrocious than the atrocity itself was the recollection of my own mesmerized state of mind: the emotional warp, the licentious abandon that had almost dumped me into the middle of the unholy mess, the fit of jealousy afterward, perverse, irrational, so blindly stupid-sulking and slinking away like an outcast-ugly, all of it, a stain on my mirror of memory.
On the brighter side, though, it was the last I saw of my intolerable rival; again, trust clever Kristi to make the necessary arrangements. Rosalba's quiet departure was dealt with as deftly and discreetly as the first-act details of her farewell performance. No fuss, no embarrassment; nor was her name even mentioned between us-as if she had become an exiled non-person in the rewritten history of a totalitarian regime.
Anyway, we were too engrossed in the enchantment of our revitalized romance to dwell upon past differences. With the house all to ourselves, we renewed the rapport of our hotel holiday, the wonderful time of togetherness; a second honeymoon, it was like, and we lived in a deliciously private totalitarian regime of our own. The little dictator was cruel and capricious and oh, how she loved me for loving her! Cruel-but with that impeccably dainty angelic tenderness of yore-a petulant cherub who knew when to bristle and when to bend and could enhance both the bristling and the bending with her bizarre flair for mischievous benevolence. And we made every precious minute count.
There were a few sober interludes, of course, as we discussed the serious business to come. Not that I had much to say about it-the terra incognita of subtle poisons and post-mortem procedures and the farsighted avoidance of police investigations-but Kristi spoke with surprising sophistication and I listened in awe and caught the contagion of her bravura; apparently the dark deed would be accomplished more adroitly than I had imagined. And far more slowly, what with long-drawn-out plans and rehearsals that might go on for months. There was just no hurry. The first step she outlined seemed a simple if somewhat tedious one: I had to be seen with Oliver in public often, regularly, with increasing frequency-and thus impress the populace as a loyal and loving wife to my distinguished and venerable husband. Aside from that, nothing, no change; the clandestine continuum could go on undisturbed. And so the grisly raison d' etre of our strategy conclaves-murder for money-took on a rather remote aspect.
So much for plots and intrigues; meanwhile the precious minutes became the accumulated hours of 24-carat-pure golden days. I considered working on my novel, but that was as far as it went-I merely considered it. Besides, I was getting close to the finish and hadn't yet come up with an idea for a plausible ending; nor could I recapture the creative urge when there were so many amusing delectations to distract me.
Amusing-hah!-the ingenious imp had more creativity in her little pinkie that I had in my entire plenum; oh, the whimsical concepts, the extravagant improvisations! She even went shopping and bought a maid's outfit for me, the sexy kind with the low-cut bodice and high-cut skirt (two sizes tight and I had to use a waist-cincher; perfectly scandalous!) and I couldn't figure out where she had gotten such a droll notion, but I was just infatuated old fool enough to put it on and wear it and love it and practically live in it; I curtsied to my exacting mistress and lit her cigarettes and served her breakfast in bed and brushed her hair and bathed and dried and powdered and perfumed her beautiful body and bowed to her demand for a daily manicure and pedicure-ah, what joy to kneel at Miss Kristi's feet and paint her toenails and then kiss them, one by one, in the hope that I might be permitted further liberties-and only after our sweet holiday-at-home suffered its eventual disruption (the return of Oliver, alas!) did I realize that throughout my tenure and observance of a maidservant's rank and customs and duties I hadn't once thought about the "acting game." Not once-even though I was actually playing it.
But the golden days were gone and I laid away my naughty costume and settled down to the grim business at hand. Although I couldn't call it grim, exactly; I dropped in on Oliver at the ministry and teased him into taking me to lunch and we both drank a little too much and fell into a festive mood. Like old times, he told me gaily, radiating sentimental charm-and so it was, really, just like old times, except that my husband was famous now and we got the plush-carpet treatment from the people in the restaurant. A bailiff is not without honor in his own bailiwick, I was pleased to note, and I felt pretty good just being there with him. I gazed at his kindly old face across the table and wondered how I could even think (if killing such a nice person, and yet I knew I would-because I had to-because she willed it; and wasn't I her slave?
Then-that extra aperitif, perhaps?-Oliver's sentiment went from mellow to maudlin, and before I could surmise the tragic trend of his maundering, he hemmed and hawed into the macabre theme of his possible assassination. While I sat in congealed stupefaction with a curdled smile on my face; assassination, what a shock!-did he suspect something? But no, his concern was genuine but only in a general way: these recurrent political crises were putting him in considerable danger, he informed me gravely, and with agitators from abroad fomenting revolution in every corner, he had judged it prudent to provide a small sub rosa reserve fund for the future. My future, not his-and he sincerely wished he could have done more to insure my financial security. But come what may, there was some money for me in a foreign bank, not much, certainly no great fortune, but sufficient to ease the immediate burden of my bereavement. So even if the worst happened and his death caused a collapse of the government, well ...
But I hearkened no longer, I was too busy worrying about how Kristi would react to the news. The money involved wasn't enough to commit murder for. Hardly. Compared to the millions we had dreamed of, it amounted to little more than a widow's mite. Kaputt were our cloud-woven castles in the air.
Castles?-nay, dungeons! Reserved for me. That most dreadful of dungeons once occupied by Rosalba-mine now? No, my rival's reality hadn't yet evaporated; I had bartered her dismissal for a promise I couldn't keep. No murder, no money-and I had a debt to discharge. What could I do but take Rosalba's place in the horrid dungeon? Take her place (literally!) and tilt my head back and" open my mouth and-ugh!-but what else did I have to offer?
It preyed on my mind as I headed homeward after lunch. Doomward. And yet I was already attuned to the inevitability of it-as if I had known all along that such a degradation would some day be my destiny. Kristi owned me. Didn't I have to be whatever she wanted me to be? Yes, even a murderess, if things had worked out that way, and was this any more monstrous?
Then again I may have been magnifying my misfortune somewhat or so it appeared, at least, after she heard my verbatim recital of Oliver's jarring disclosure. The news upset her, of course, but she remained less than rabid; no tantrum, no trauma, nor did she take me to task over the Rosalba-trade. Just the same, though, I sensed the terrible tension and was aware that somebody (guess who!) was going to pay for the bursting of her hope-bubble-and I had few doubts about how and where the propitiation would be made. I just didn't know when. And without even a threat-by-innuendo to guide me, I could do nothing but cross my fingers and wait.
So I waited. But I didn't need any squall-warnings to tell me that a cyclone was brewing, and I clung desperately to my attitude of premeditated acquiescence; after all, it was just another case of taking the bitter with the better, and if I kept myself expecting it-composed, prepared, actually primed for it-then maybe I wouldn't mind so much when the storm broke. Perhaps I might actually find it inoffensive. Or even quaintly intoxicating: the spirit of Rosalba, as it were. Hah! Some joke. The spirit of Rosalba. Gallows humor-a bit of dry wit gone soggy. Ho-hum, into each life a little rain must fall.
Only it didn't. Nary a drop. The impending storm just went right on impending and my unpredictable angel went into a sulk. A solitary sulk, dismal, endless, the kind that hurt, hurt deep down inside (how could she act so distant toward me?) until I couldn't bear it any more and in a wail of wistful impatience I asked if there wasn't some way I might cheer her up.
"Thank you, Fanchon. But it's my own problem."
"You're sure I can't help, darling? Oh, it's such torture when you're brooding all the time, it makes me feel so estranged from you. And guilty, too, I guess, even though it couldn't have been my fault. Are you blaming me because my stupid husband really turned out to be the poor-but-honest type of politician?"
"No. I hate him, but you're not to blame."
"Then why are you angry with me?"
"I'm not angry."
"Indifferent, then, and that's just as bad. Darling, you've got me so confused; won't you even talk about it? If you're annoyed with me then there has to be a reason, isn't that so? Please, sweetheart, I know you're disappointed about the money, but why are you taking it out on me? Is it, uh ... oh, I just don't understand-could it be because of Rosalba?"
"Huh? Rosalba?" A smirk, momentarily quizzical; then her lips recovered their permanent pout. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
"I'll bet you miss her. And I made you get rid of her."
"Fanchon, don't tell me you're still jealous."
"Well, I do worry about it once in a while. Some times I just know you'd like me better if I were more like her. And maybe I could be, you know, if I thought ... uh ... "
"Hmm? Could be what?"
"More like Rosalba. The same thing."
"Stop talking in riddles, Fanchon. What same thing?
"Oh ... you know. Your-your toilet slave."
The green eyes surveyed me dully and yet I was sure I had seen a flash, a sudden sheen, a hint of the vivid emeralds they used to be. As if my laborious bid to play Rosalba's role had tapped a hidden lode. But only the listless torpor prevailed in her vague murmur. "Umm, well, perhaps. We'll see."
"Darling? You-you're not interested?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what's the matter? Must I beg?"
"No. Just be willing."
"Willing? Oh, but I am, I am. That's what I'm telling you."
"Are you, Fanchon?" And again, cryptically, in a tone of mild exasperation undoubtedly calculated to exasperate, "We'll see ... " End of colloquy; just like that, with loose threads dangling all over the place and nobody around to reweave them into the tapestry. Nobody but yours truly. And rightly so, since I now recognized that the denouement of the unfinished drama had to be of my own delineation. Little Miss Sulkylips was leaving it strictly up to me.
No, she didn't want me to beg. Just be willing. Simple enough in substance but surely ambiguous in intent, and I could interpret her instruction only in the light of previous controversy. To me it implied something far more formidable than a mere display of docility in the playing of a difficult role. I had to learn to enjoy it, somehow, to desire it, crave it-and yes, in a sexual context, to lust for it with a fiery thirst that could be quenched at but one fountain. (But of course; hadn't I always thought of her as the. source of my rejuvenation? my own providential Fountain of Youth?) There was no other way to placate the determined little debauchee. Sensuality was the sole approach to the kind of willingness she demanded. The final stitch in the pattern of my conquest: if I could accept this ultimate humiliation joyfully then the design would at last be complete-and the weird and wonderful tapestry of our love would remain eternally inviolate.
Joyfully? So be it! With a bang, not a whimper. Eagerly-that was how to go about it-ardently, voluptuously, even if I had to hit myself over the head with a hundred intellectual arguments to gain one such emotional-erotic response. Arguments like the fact that I owed it to her in payment of debt, the grinding exigency of it-trapped, helpless-didn't I feel a "no way out" tingle of excitement? Arguments like the sublime beauty of her body; I could shut my eyes and behold the naked splendor in detail, the intimate fluff-on-flesh, fascinating! and hadn't I once seen that soft cynosure as a gold-fringed chalice? Ah yes, a chalice, exquisitely wrought, a sacramental chalice by Cellini, and wouldn't I swoon in aesthetic ecstasy just sipping from such a treasure? Arguments, arguments, but I had already convinced myself and now it was only a matter of temporizing watchfully and selecting the perfect moment to show my willful one just how willing I could be.
It came sooner than I anticipated. That very night, late, after I had fetched her a tall drink and hovered close by on the off-chance that she might relent and let me kiss her pretty feet while she relaxed on the chaise and read the newspaper. Sullen as ever, the heartless little rascal ignored me even though she must have noticed that I was practically devouring her nude loveliness with my near-famished languishing looks. But she sat up and stretched after a while and then swung her legs to the floor and padded toward the bathroom-and I knew my opportunity had arisen. Propitiation time. It was now or never.
"Darling, wait."
"Huh?"
"Not yet. Let me get ready for you."
"Ready? Hey, where are you-"
But I was already rushing past her and sinking to the floor and arching backward over my self-prescribed crucible and doing it, getting ready! and the abrupt vitreous chill bit into the nape of my neck and crystallized all the facets of my Fanchon-bitch sensuality and I opened my mouth wide and almost cried out in exultation when I felt the hoped-for stir of lust in my loins and realized that I had truly become what my beloved goddess wanted me to be (shades of Danae!) and wouldn't she be delighted to find her slave so hot and sexy and anxious to serve? Her toilet slave-ready. Ready to be used. Asking only to bask in the warm golden sun-shower of her love. Would she get exhilarated and giggle and chatter and make all those wild noises? Touch me with those frolicsome fingers? Oh, I could hardly keep from-
"Well now ... and what have we here, hmm?" Mutely, mouth agape, I squinted up at her and held my pose like some rigid, inert body-a fixture of flesh-letting the stretched stillness of my jaws plead my cause with graphic eloquence.
But she knew only too well what she had here. And what she had to do in it-for her own easement, if not for mine. She even seemed quite casual about it, giving me a perfunctory nod and swinging around and spreading her legs and getting herself organized above my face as if she deemed it no more than natural to have a pair of lips parted and prepared for her pleasure. Or for her convenience, rather, that was the impression I got.
Until it began-and for an instant of gasping enravishment my awareness encompassed only the trickle of her love into the gulf of my gratitude. Just a trickle. So little love? Scarcely enough for a grateful swallow; how could I prove my willingness? But I must have succeeded regardless: she leaned back and peered down at me and I heard her voice, jubilant, ecstatic, sounding the same cry of exultation that I had suppressed a few minutes ago.
"Oooh yes, Fanchon, you love it, you love it!"
And I did, I did, I did love it and I told her so in a frothing wheeze of urgency and then-not for herself but for met-the divine chalice tilted into position again and I took the cascade of its blessing greedily; ah, how she loved me, loved me, and with her fingers too now-oh, that tiny tantalizing fingertip-but I wanted more, more, I wanted the crazy gleeful noises, the exhortation and the acclaim, the sweet squeals of praise, and I panted for breath and fought off the choking sensation and did my best to make her appreciate what a good slave I was so that maybe on a cold winter night she might-
"Fanchon, listen, let's do it anyway. To hell with the money. Let's kill him. Just for the thrill of it!"
And then the noises started, shrill and strident, giggling, cackling, menacing, terrifying-and yet thrilling, so thrilling! and my conquered soul-and-body exploded in orgasm and I gulped and gurgled and gulped again and wondered if I too was going mad ...
Epilogue
I hardly know what else to call this belated addition to my story. A postscript, perhaps. Or more pointedly "a word to the wise." Nor do I have time for such verbal niceties now; no pretty phrases, no elegant adjectives, no glittering prose, no pretentious trash. Only truth. Or as much truth as I dare tell in this rash moment of defiance. I must get these extra pages written' and in the mail before she sees them. And before my courage runs out.
The finished manuscript is in the publisher's hands. My agent just telephoned the news of its acceptance. But there is a proviso to be met first: the original ending seemed vague and abrupt-and would I consider doing something about it? So I am doing something about it. Here and now. That is the reason for the epilogue.
No, not the reason, the excuse. The reason is more personal and you may not understand it. Or believe it.
But my husband will-if this reaches him-and that is why I must say it while I still have the chance. I wish it were possible to speak to him frankly and confess everything, but I am her slave more than ever-and only in the heat of this spasm of rebellion can I tell my husband that she really plans to murder him. Slowly. Through me. But not "just for the thrill of it"-oh no-and not for the money either, what little there is.
I know now that her motive is political. There is a plot afoot to take over the government; it will be swift and sure when it finally happens, but the date of the coup is months away yet and there is still time to forestall it. The whole thing hinges upon the death of my husband. But his passing must appear normal-old age, long illness, natural causes-and I suspect that she has been sent here to seduce me and enslave me and make me perform the deed. And I shall do it, of course, I do not see how I can stop myself. Because I love her the way I do.
Only my husband himself can prevent it. He will read the book, I am certain-he reads all the new American erotica-and he should be able to identify me from some of the stylistic expressions I have used, expressions familiar to both of us, and there are plenty of them scattered throughout the manuscript. (Have I unconsciously been trying to attract his attention from the very beginning?) But only he will recognize me. No one else. The characters in the story are too disguised to offer any clues. Nobody but my agent is aware that I am the writer-and in order not to involve him I shall mail this, the epilogue, directly to the publisher's offices in New York. But when my husband reads the book, he will know and understand and figure out what to-
Forgive me. I hear her calling. Forgive this ungainly bit of writing; I must send it off immediately and cannot take the time to polish the wording. She is calling me and I must go to her. Because I am her slave. Because I love her. I am ready to commit murder for her. But I hope and pray that I never have to.
