Fanchon's Book(5)

In a manner hardly more than perfunctory I zipped through the dreary business of the interview. If indeed it could be called that. What need had I of petty details when I could look into those shining eyes and see the reflection of my own rapture? We came to terms readily, almost intuitively-as if we had already achieved a rapport verging on utter unanimity.

The maid's room was next door to mine-a convenient arrangement, verily-and I shooed both girls out, telling Rosalba to help Kristi unpack and get settled in her new home. Alone then, in a state akin to intoxication, I counted my blessings and gave way to rosy visions of the future. But my prophetic imagery took a singularly significant tack, and even in my beatific semi-swoon I felt a tiny twinge of conscience.

Sex? So soon? Is that all you can think about?

I caressed myself and shuddered in delicious guilt.

That face. That beautiful face. The face of an angel. Could I take all that innocence and plunge it into the hot swamp of sensuality between my thighs? Mmm, yes, right there-oh, if only I had it now, the sweet rosebud mouth, the pretty pink tongue-what a thrill! And so wicked… wicked. Wicked and depraved to sully those dainty lips, to defile such purity, to corrupt an angel. But wasn't it exciting? Wasn't it terribly exciting just to

Fanchon, you're a bitch!

Oh yes, I was sure as hell a bitch, a sexy bitch, sexy enough and bitchy enough to spread my legs and wave Rosalba to the foot of the chaise the minute she stepped into the room. Whereupon she sank down and assailed me with grateful gluttony. It was still her way of saying good-bye, but I had no sympathy with mawkish sentiment now. Off with the old, on with the new. I shut my eyes and was scarcely aware of Rosalba herself! it was only her titillating tongue I craved-and even that became an impersonal thing as I wallowed in my private trough of lechery and watched the flashes of radiant blonde loveliness illuminate the dark screen of my mind.



Chapter 2

Off with the old, on with the new. A smooth transition in my well-ordered existence. Oh sure. Easy go, easy come; the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace-but without the pomp and circumstance, the brassy fanfare; no, softly instead, gently, dreamily, more like taking a Walk with Delius to the Paradise Garden. Except for a few minor stumbling blocks along the primrose path.

Only they weren't exactly minor, dammit, and I didn't dare risk stubbing my toe so early in the promenade. Kristi was a prime morsel, far too precious to take lightly; much as I wanted her in my bed, I knew I had to solidify our relationship first. An ill-timed advance might even frighten the child away.

Patience, then.

Luckily I was in no immediate danger of becoming a sex-starved neurotic, having shown foresight in yielding to the blissful satiation of Rosalba's farewell. Or of both her farewells, rather, although I truly hadn't intended allowing her to wheedle me into a second session. But after insisting on staying late to help me prepare for bed-well, what with one thing leading to another, we chatted about Kristi for a while and I must have gotten steamed up all over again. Especially when Rosalba told me about the intriguing impression I had made.

"She thinks you're wonderful, Madame. She loves you already."

"Really? But she seemed so bashful."

"Give her time, Madame. Let her get used to you. And soon she will love you as I do."

"As you do, Rosalba? And how is that, pray tell?"

"Like… uh, like this, Madame."

"Oh? How nice."

"This too. Madame? Shall I show you?"

"Yes, do. Show me, show me… "

And in her own inimitable manner, Rosalba did just that, burrowing between my thighs and making funny little sucking noises, tasting me, sampling me, wet lips nibbling in a prolonged and tantalizing prelude; ah, how clever she was relentless, unhurried, browsing upon my flesh daintily, withholding the final flurry of her tongue until she had me writhing in anticipation All. of which I accepted gladly, including the exhaustion that I knew would inevitably follow. Anyway, it was pretty good protective insurance, using the anodyne of my ex-maid's mouth to fortify me against the prurient itch that would have to go unscratched during the cautious indoctrination of my maid-to-be. Smart thinking, as it turned out, even though the organ solely responsible for the brainstorm was located far south of the brain.