Fanchon's Book(49)

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.