Fanchon's Book(7)

But I had passed the point of no return. I couldn't make Kristi conscious of my fleshly presence; now, unaccountably, I became conscious of hers. That fresh young body-what I could see didn't displease me, but how would it look naked? Would it match the perfection of her face? Surely not. As if anything could! But I was dying to find out for myself.

The idea began to haunt me (a strange twist perhaps, that of the two of us I should be the body-conscious one) and I took to disrobing her with my eyes. The baggy uniform revealed only enough to pique my curiosity: delicately molded ankles and calves, a saucy hint of bosom, a lissome figure that seemed appealing on the surface, at least. But what lay underneath? Was the skin as smooth and flawless as mine? The flesh as sleekly rounded?

Oh, I didn't expect the sweet child to approximate my own full-blown dimensions; she was definitely more Diana than Juno. But there was the overall conformation to be considered, the general symmetry, the total harmony of the proportions. And always the possible angularity, of course, so prevalent among the poorer classes of our country, the bony consequence of years of malnutrition. Then too, what of her skin? Wouldn't it be awful to find that petite derriere pocked and pimpled by some kind of adolescent acne? Revolting, to put it mildly; the very thought made me shiver and break out in goose bumps-of the fast-fading species, thank heaven.

I even contemplated the partial expedient of buying new uniforms for her, tight-fitting and scantily cut in the style of the comic-opera soubrette. What an enchanting vision! But my husband would have looked askance at such scandalous frippery; moreover, my tight and scanty budget just wouldn't stretch to cover the expenditure. So I shrugged off the provocative notion, tabling it for some future date when morals and money might be of less concern.

Still, I had to do something to allay my inquisitive doubts. And in the late-hour hush of one sultry night, spurred by a fidgety interlude of insomnia, I overcame my chickenhearted hesitancy and got rash enough to go a-snooping. Nervously-lacking the conviction of my courage-I tiptoed through the dimly lit hall to Kristi's room. I knew she slept with her door ajar, letting the faint outer glow serve as a nightlight. And in this oppressive heat she certainly wouldn't be swathed in sheets and blankets.

I put my eye to the crack. She was lying upon her bed, limbs askew, motionless but for the barely discernible rhythm of her breathing. Sound asleep, apparently. I eased the door open and made my way toward her, fascinated, intent on getting a closer look. Her sole garment was a short nightgown, rather like a peasant girl's shift, worn and washed thin, wrinkled and tucked-up high on her thighs. I saw her. All of her. Or as much as the feeble light would permit.

There were no knobby bones. No pimples. No blemishes, not even a mole or a freckle. So I was satisfied. I was seeing what I had come to see.

Satisfied?

Was that what I had come for? To judge some kind of clandestine beauty contest? Questions befogged my brain, vague, cryptic, fecund with sinful suggestion; oh, so many questions! But all with the same answer. Hotly, moistly, my insides churned in expressive response-as if my vulva could speak, as if the tumescent, quivering lips had shattered the silence and shrieked aloud.

I stared. And then went rigid in dismay as I watched the thick-fringed eyelids flicker and open. Not wide, not even halfway; only enough to cast fan-shaped shadows on the pale rise of her cheeks. But more than enough to warn me of her awakening. I stood there frozen, my flesh a solid block of ice surrounding and snuffing out the last pitiful candle flame of inner passion. All the questions narrowed down to a single terrifying one.

Does she know?

I couldn't tell. There was no sign of recognition in the hazy somnolence of those slitted eyes. But in my state of benumbed panic I sensed far more than I saw and for an agonized instant I could have sworn there was a telltale reflex, an oddly luminescent flash of awareness. It must have been my overwrought imagination though, and the waxen eyelids calmly drooped and closed.