Fanchon's Book(45)

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."