Fanchon's Book(20)

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.