Fanchon's Book(60)

The bathroom door was ajar and I sneaked toward it furtively if somewhat feebly, anxious to remain inconspicuous. But Rosalba couldn't have spotted me anyway; arched backward in a grotesque contortion over the toilet bowl, she had her head poised and her face hidden under Kristi's half-squatting body and could only have been staring up at the well-kissed crotch that I had just brought to orgasm. She too would offer her mouth to that crotch. But not for kisses. No. I heard Kristi chuckle coarsely, more like a cackle, and then the noises from down below, the ugly liquid noises echoing hollowly, splashing, gurgling, oh, obscene! and she leered at me (gloating?) and shrugged and lowered her gaze pertinently, slipping an attentive hand between Rosalba's gaping thighs to fondle and finger the luridly exposed meat in a lingering gesture of blandishment that appeared both tenderly erotic and benignly complimentary.

"Hey, baby, you're getting good. Too bad you won't be around to take care of me in the wintertime. On a cold night I'd never even have to get out of bed."

Some compliment. Ugh! And she was still chattering and cackling and carrying on about it. But I couldn't look at her artfully animated hand without a hot flutter of envy: she seldom touched me like that. So tantalizing. I started feeling sexy again-incongruous-sexy, sexy, much as I hated to admit it; how could I let myself become aroused by such a loathsome spectacle? Oh, but it was fascinating in a repulsive way; the sheer hypnotic horror of it turned my insides turbulent-and right then and there if she had beckoned and motioned me to lick her busy finger (and Rosalba!) I might have fallen to my knees and done it. But after that one leering glance she scarcely seemed aware of me, no, she was in a giddy heaven of her own, giggling deliriously, twittering and squealing and jabbering in a transport of garrulous glee, babbling near incoherent pagan raptures of appreciation and encouragement to the greedily gulping girl beneath her. And I could only shake off my ridiculous fancy and stagger away in forlorn indignation, mollified at least partially by the assurance that I had seen the last of that slobbering cesspool-mouthed creature who had the capacity to make my gushing little Kristi-heathen so happy.




Chapter 18

Fascinating in a repulsive way-but nonetheless fascinating, and I felt pretty qualm-sick whenever the spellbinding evil of that sordid bathroom scene recurred to me. More atrocious than the atrocity itself was the recollection of my own mesmerized state of mind: the emotional warp, the licentious abandon that had almost dumped me into the middle of the unholy mess, the fit of jealousy afterward, perverse, irrational, so blindly stupid-sulking and slinking away like an outcast-ugly, all of it, a stain on my mirror of memory.

On the brighter side, though, it was the last I saw of my intolerable rival; again, trust clever Kristi to make the necessary arrangements. Rosalba's quiet departure was dealt with as deftly and discreetly as the first-act details of her farewell performance. No fuss, no embarrassment; nor was her name even mentioned between us-as if she had become an exiled non-person in the rewritten history of a totalitarian regime.

Anyway, we were too engrossed in the enchantment of our revitalized romance to dwell upon past differences. With the house all to ourselves, we renewed the rapport of our hotel holiday, the wonderful time of togetherness; a second honeymoon, it was like, and we lived in a deliciously private totalitarian regime of our own. The little dictator was cruel and capricious and oh, how she loved me for loving her! Cruel-but with that impeccably dainty angelic tenderness of yore-a petulant cherub who knew when to bristle and when to bend and could enhance both the bristling and the bending with her bizarre flair for mischievous benevolence. And we made every precious minute count.