Fanchon's Book(64)

"Darling, wait."

"Huh?"

"Not yet. Let me get ready for you."

"Ready? Hey, where are you-"

But I was already rushing past her and sinking to the floor and arching backward over my self-prescribed crucible and doing it, getting ready! and the abrupt vitreous chill bit into the nape of my neck and crystallized all the facets of my Fanchon-bitch sensuality and I opened my mouth wide and almost cried out in exultation when I felt the hoped-for stir of lust in my loins and realized that I had truly become what my beloved goddess wanted me to be (shades of Danae!) and wouldn't she be delighted to find her slave so hot and sexy and anxious to serve? Her toilet slave-ready. Ready to be used. Asking only to bask in the warm golden sun-shower of her love. Would she get exhilarated and giggle and chatter and make all those wild noises? Touch me with those frolicsome fingers? Oh, I could hardly keep from"Well now… and what have we here, hmm?" Mutely, mouth agape, I squinted up at her and held my pose like some rigid, inert body-a fixture of flesh-letting the stretched stillness of my jaws plead my cause with graphic eloquence.

But she knew only too well what she had here. And what she had to do in it-for her own easement, if not for mine. She even seemed quite casual about it, giving me a perfunctory nod and swinging around and spreading her legs and getting herself organized above my face as if she deemed it no more than natural to have a pair of lips parted and prepared for her pleasure. Or for her convenience, rather, that was the impression I got.

Until it began-and for an instant of gasping enravishment my awareness encompassed only the trickle of her love into the gulf of my gratitude. Just a trickle. So little love? Scarcely enough for a grateful swallow; how could I prove my willingness? But I must have succeeded regardless: she leaned back and peered down at me and I heard her voice, jubilant, ecstatic, sounding the same cry of exultation that I had suppressed a few minutes ago.

"Oooh yes, Fanchon, you love it, you love it!"

And I did, I did, I did love it and I told her so in a frothing wheeze of urgency and then-not for herself but for met-the divine chalice tilted into position again and I took the cascade of its blessing greedily; ah, how she loved me, loved me, and with her fingers too now-oh, that tiny tantalizing fingertip-but I wanted more, more, I wanted the crazy gleeful noises, the exhortation and the acclaim, the sweet squeals of praise, and I panted for breath and fought off the choking sensation and did my best to make her appreciate what a good slave I was so that maybe on a cold winter night she might"Fanchon, listen, let's do it anyway. To hell with the money. Let's kill him. Just for the thrill of it!"

And then the noises started, shrill and strident, giggling, cackling, menacing, terrifying-and yet thrilling, so thrilling! and my conquered soul-and-body exploded in orgasm and I gulped and gurgled and gulped again and wondered if I too was going mad…




Epilogue

I hardly know what else to call this belated addition to my story. A postscript, perhaps. Or more pointedly "a word to the wise." Nor do I have time for such verbal niceties now; no pretty phrases, no elegant adjectives, no glittering prose, no pretentious trash. Only truth. Or as much truth as I dare tell in this rash moment of defiance. I must get these extra pages written' and in the mail before she sees them. And before my courage runs out.

The finished manuscript is in the publisher's hands. My agent just telephoned the news of its acceptance. But there is a proviso to be met first: the original ending seemed vague and abrupt-and would I consider doing something about it? So I am doing something about it. Here and now. That is the reason for the epilogue.