Fanchon's Book(14)

"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.