Fanchon's Book(48)

"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."