Fanchon's Book(58)

"Yes, of course, Rosalba. By all means… " I drew my parted knees up in a curtly indicative pose. "Do it. Here. Say good-bye to me."

There were no preliminaries; her diffidence dissolved and she dove headfirst between my legs to start that electric tongue of hers oscillating. Rather like a soundless buzz. I studied the praxis quite calmly, more curious than carnal-minded, intent mainly upon picking up a few practical pointers. Then, like a dim wraith out of the dark doorway, Kristi appeared, approaching and taking shape buoyantly, nude and smiling and beautiful, a permissive chaperon expressing her approval.

She winked at me and flipped the bed sheet over Rosalba's head-and suddenly we were alone, my beloved and I, alone but for the covered heap somewhere down there; excitement soared and I trapped Rosalba's face in the vise of my thighs and peered at my naked idol imploringly, licking my lips to let her know how I desired her.

But she must have been well aware of that. Nimbly, she hopped onto the bed and stood up to hover above me; I went on licking my lips, preparing for her, preparing for her pleasure. And for mine. But then, carelessly, with a kind of callous indifference, she plumped herself down upon my face; jamming me into a state of blind befuddlement with the haphazard seating of her body. Crushed and enveloped by the mass of stultifying softness, I just couldn't figure-out where I was. Or what she wanted of me. My mouth was blocked; I struggled frantically to find some chink in the fleshy barrier, a fissure, an orifice, any opening at all; with desperate jabs of my tongue I sought some familiar nook or cranny, something, anything, even a dimple that might give me a sense of direction. But there was nary a clue, not the slightest; nor did she budge to aid my piteously futile search, no, she merely sat there stolidly, a solid encumbrance that thwarted my every endeavor. Until, disoriented to the point of panic, I forgot the peculiar circumstances of our rendezvous and uttered a glottal, guttural groan of frustration.

That did it. The noise in my throat. She wriggled peremptorily, silencing me in quietly dictatorial fashion and snapping my distraught mind back to sensibility: we were not alone-and I'd better shut up before I blew the gaff. It was only a warning wriggle, nothing more, a brief jounce of her body, but the impact persisted signally and I grasped a broader significance; oh, I understood everything now, even her immediate resumption of unruffled immobility afterward. She was using my face as a seat, that was it. Not a love-object. Just a place to park her bottom. And in so doing, she was sealing me off from all extraneous stimuli in a deliberate effort to focus my attention on Rosalba. On my "one last waltz" with that frisky tongue. Such a highhanded minx, my calculating Kristi!-all tactics and no tact-still playing the chaperon, patronizing bur non-participating, the not-so-innocent bystander (hmm, bysitter?) in the front row.

Resigned-if not quite reconciled-to my little tyrant's coercive insistence, I let my limbs relinquish custody of poor Rosalba's ears. As the delicate clitoral contact was re-established and the buzzing became palpably prominent once more, I tried to audit and reappraise what was going on down there. But I couldn't surrender wholly; my primary need refused to cede to the secondary-and again I strove impatiently for the intimate treasure of my beloved's body, snooping out the topographical contours of the baffling buttock terrain in a valiant attempt to strike it rich amid the lush sugar-loaf hills. So that I too might advantageously exercise my tongue.

A valiant but vain attempt. Damn! Would the goodies never come my way? Did she intended holding me like this all night? How long was that farewell kiss supposed to go on? It felt pretty good, admittedly, but I just couldn't concentrate on something so remote and impersonal, not with the treasure-trove so close, the delectable prize, the mouth-watering sweetmeat, the only thing that really"Rosalba!"