Hooked Up: Book 2

by Richmonde, Arianne

  I’d have to be the bulldozer guy. I had no choice. Whether Pearl liked it or not, I was coming to get her. She was falling off a cliff with her broken wing and I was the only person who could catch her.

  I dozed off on the plane, planning every move in my head: our flash-lightning wedding, our honeymoon, and how I’d insist on us both taking a break from work—maybe that tree house in Thailand I’d been fantasizing about would be a good plan. Pearl needed a rest, needed time to heal.

  August in Paris. Tempers are raising the thermometers even higher.

  We had a picnic by the river today, and everything was perfect. Sophie’s back home from staying at her friend’s. Papa’s been on good behavior. Maman loves him with every tiny piece of her heart. Smiles. Making sexy eyes, laughing, happy dinners, and happy faces. But I can feel the demon returning. The slimy creature is making its way back inside him and settling in for the night. Sophie says he’s okay; that he’s taken his medication, but I can feel it bubbling under his skin. I hold Sophie’s hand. We’re watching TV.

  I whisper in her ear. “Stay in my bed tonight.”

  She laughs. “You’re a big boy, you don’t need me.”

  I want to tell her how he rubbed himself up against me—when she was away. When he wasn’t taking his pills. He rubbed himself up and down, through the sheets, and I could hear him moan when he stopped. I could feel the wetness. He gripped my shoulders. He rubbed. He cried. He rubbed. He got up and left.

  “I don’t want him rubbing again,” I tell Sophie.

  She takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom, away from our parents, who are still staring at the TV screen. Sophie isn’t smiling now. “What did he do? Did he touch you here,” she asks, her finger pointing to her private place.

  “He didn’t touch me there. But he breathes in my ear and cries and rubs himself up against me. He tells Maman he’s coming to say goodnight to me and read me a story but sometimes he falls asleep in my bed when he’s drunk.”

  “The bastard.” Her eyes are looking here and there as if she’s planning something. “And Maman does nothing?”

  I shook my head. “She doesn’t know.”

  “No point telling her because she won’t believe you anyway. But I believe you, Alexandre. I know what he does. I know.” Tears are in Sophie’s eyes. I wonder if he has rubbed her too, but I don’t ask. “Are you going to stay at your friend’s house again?” I ask with fear.

  “No, I’ll stay here tonight. If he touches you, call out to me. Okay?”

  I nod my head.

  PUSSY WHIPPED

  PEARL

  I DECIDED IT was only fair to swing by Alessandra’s to say goodbye and explain the situation. She was going to get wind of it one way or another, so I’d let her know that I wouldn’t be returning to LA for meetings, that I’d be emailing and Skyping if need be, but distancing myself emotionally from the movie project. What I’d thought was “my baby” now had a surrogate mother:

  Sophie Dumas.

  I’d been betrayed on so many levels and it made me bitter toward Hollywood. It brought something to light: I wanted my old job back—I felt the urge to do documentaries again. I didn’t care about movie stars and big budgets. I cared about those little Nigerian girls being sold for sexual slavery. I cared about the fourteen year-old girl Malala shot in the head by a Taliban man for championing education for girls. By some miracle she was still alive.

  These were the things that drove my passion. Not some blockbuster, even if it did have a gay rights message.

  I called Alessandra just to make sure she was going to be in. And on my way I swung by a Thai restaurant and picked up some Tom Yam soup and other treats. I was hungry after my trapeze exertion and I was sure Alessandra would be up for a bit of Thai food.

  She was. When I walked into her house I realized I hadn’t been here before when it was dark. She had lit her wood-burning stove and it smelled of firewood and rose incense. She was delighted that I’d brought take-out, and we began to heat up the soup as we stood in the kitchen chatting.

  She was wearing tight jeans and I couldn’t help my roving eye. Women are always checking out each other’s buns, but I was not comparing myself to her; I was admiring her sexy curves. I couldn’t help it. I still looked a bit disheveled and truthfully needed a shower—I knew I looked anything but hot.

  “You wanna watch a movie or you want to talk about Stone Trooper? she asked, stirring the Tom Yam.

  “You know what? I’m a bit Troopered-out.”

  I revealed to her the whole Sophie saga, keeping the tale simple and not too dramatic, but explaining why I’d be bowing out gracefully from any more script tweaking and future get-togethers. I told her about my plan to see my father, and that I was flying to Hawaii the following morning.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said, her eyes mournful. “So it’s your last night at that cool hotel, huh?”

  “Actually I checked out. I was in a flustered state, I thought I might be getting on a plane that very second, but then I got distracted by the trapeze school on Santa Monica Pier.”

  “Oh so that’s what the sweaty appearance is? I wondered why you were looking so mussed up.”

  “Would you mind if I took a shower?”

  “Sure, of course. You wanna eat now or wait?”

  “I’ll take a quick shower first, why not? I don’t want to stink up the kitchen.”

  She got out some plates from a cupboard. “I like the smell of your sweat. It’s sexy.”

  I snickered sarcastically. “Now that has to be a lie.”

  “No it’s not. My ex . . . well she goes crazy for underarms, you know?”

  “Well I have to admit, I like the smell of Alexandre’s day-old T-shirts so I do understand.”

  “She likes it when I have hairy armpits, it drives her wild. I mean crazy wild.”

  I grimaced. “Each to their own, I guess. You’re still seeing her? You refer to her as your ex yet you speak about her in the present.”

  She looked uneasy but didn’t answer directly. “Whenever we have . . . whenever we had a fight, I’d shave to get her pissed.”

  I laughed. “Shaving your armpits was a big punishment?”

  “I know, isn’t it crazy?”

  “What was she like . . . what is she like, your ex?”

  “Beautiful. A tigress between the sheets.”

  “Does she live in LA?”

  Alessandra looked uncomfortable. “Actually, I don’t really want to talk about her, do you mind? Let’s talk about you, Pearl. Any more nightmares?”

  I’d forgotten that I’d laid bare my soul before our bathtub ‘event.’ “No, no more nightmares, thank God.”

  “Pearl, can I ask you a very personal question?”

  “You can ask but I’m not sure I’ll give you an answer.”

  Alessandra chuckled and tossed her mane. “Do you have multiple orgasms?”

  Where did that come from? I remembered the shock of when it happened in Cap d’Antibes with Alexandre. “Do you?” I asked, boomeranging her question.

  “No. Never. And I never had an orgasm with a man. I wanted to . . . but . . . I tried, you know, but it just didn’t happen.”

  “Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of women go through that,” I said carefully, not wanting to reveal anything too personal. “You know what? I’m going to grab that shower and then we can eat. I hope you like cold sesame noodles. Puffed rice cakes, vegetable spring rolls, and there’s some spicy prawn curry as well.”

  “I’ll heat up the oven.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  I felt her eyes on my back as I sauntered to the bathroom, and she shouted after me, “Do you want to borrow a robe? Hey, Pearl, if you already checked out of your hotel, why don’t you stay here tonight?”

  I turned around. “No. Thank you for the offer, but I can check into an airport hotel. I’m flying out at daybreak.”

  “As you please. Grab a terry-cloth robe from the bathroom. You k
now, you can chill out comfortably while we watch the movie. Have you seen All About Eve?”

  “One of my favorite Bette Davis films: ‘Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night,’ ” I said, quoting my favorite line.

  “Oh dear, well, we can put on something else.”

  “No, that’s perfect—I haven’t seen it for years.”

  I showered and then we ate watching the movie. Eve Harrington . . . what an insidious character, and Bette Davis’s Margo Channing, who’d just turned forty. Oh, how I identified! Eve Harrington: a seemingly sweet-as-candy actress usurping her idol’s position in such a scheming, clever way. The whole scenario reminded me of Sophie. The story was different, but the intention was there: to slowly silently take over, to push out your rival with a smile on your face. Buying me my wedding gown, telling Alexandre she loved me, yet plotting behind my back. Although she hadn’t actually done anything actively bad, so it looked as if I was paranoid. Sure, she’d called me a “cougar” and a “stalker” a few months back, but I shouldn’t hold that against her forever. She did apologize, too. But I knew she was up to no good.

  So far, Sophie was winning. Getting her way with Alexandre—pushing me away from him.

  We’ll see if she succeeds, I thought.

  Alessandra plied us both with champagne, and because of the spiciness of the Thai food I’d glugged it down without really noticing. Uh oh, I had an early plane to catch, and I began to feel woozy. But I was so relaxed by the cozy log fire, and she had a way of making me laugh with her ironic and direct sense of humor, that I was loath to leave . . . just yet.

  All About Eve ended and I was sprawled out on the couch in Alessandra’s terry-cloth robe, my hair still damp. She was gazing at me, her lips slightly parted.

  “Pearl, this is our last ever moment together. Probably.”

  “Yes, it is. I don’t think I’ll be returning to LA.”

  She pouted. “Why?”

  “It’s too tough here. I mean, New Yorkers can be rough around the edges, but at least what you see is what you get. Here things are subtly sinister. I can’t explain it, but I feel this place is a little Machiavellian . . . sugar-coated with a seductive sheen, which makes it all the more dangerous. Los Angeles is a magnetic place and you can get sucked in all too easily.”

  Alessandra templed her hands to her chin as if digesting my opinion and then said softly, “I sense you have a dark side to you, Pearl. And I think you need to be punished for being a little slutty in the past.”

  I stared at her in amazement. At first I wanted to slap her—what she said was way too close to the bone, and I felt hurt—betrayed even. She was a woman, should understand, know how tortured I was by my own guilt and self-blame about what had happened to me. But then I was overcome by . . . I can’t even explain it . . . a sort of morbid intrigue. There was something fiendish and sinful about Alessandra, and it drew me in.

  She continued, “Before you leave this wicked town for good, would you like to experience one last thrill?” She ran her fingers through her wavy hair. “You like living on the edge, don’t you, Pearl? Experimenting? Today on the trapeze, for instance, and all those years ago putting yourself in danger with those horny, out-of-control football jocks. What were you expecting? You knew it would end in tears, didn’t you? You knew, yet you did it anyway.”

  My heart was pumping with both irritation and curiosity. I narrowed my eyes. “Where’s this leading?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Not really,” I replied coolly.

  “And that makes it all the more titillating, doesn’t it? I know you want your fiancé to spank you, to flick a whip on your wet little pussy.”

  This woman was something else. What a nerve! I wanted to laugh out loud, but what she just said was secretly turning me on. The champagne had made me so relaxed that I felt fearless, and a shiver of excitement shimmied through me. I told her, “Like I said, Alexandre would never play S and M games with me even if I begged him. Anyway, I don’t like being hurt.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “We would use a safe word.”

  I tried to suppress a smirk. For some reason this conversation was amusing me, although Alessandra had a dead serious expression on her face. “We?” I asked.

  “I’m going to blindfold you, Pearl. We can play a little fantasy game. You pretend in the darkness beneath your blindfold that I am Alexandre. See if you like it. If you don’t then just shout out the word, Sicily.”

  “Sicily?”

  “You wanna choose something else?”

  “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

  “You need to purge your guilt about your past. Extricate that feeling of culpability. I’m going to help you do that by punishing you. Then you’ll be free. Call it witchcraft, think of it as a little spell, if you like.”

  As she said the word, “spell” Lucifer jumped onto the couch and rubbed his soft black fur against me. His tail brushed onto my slightly open robe and it touched my flesh seductively. He purred loudly as if agreeing with his mistress.

  “Pussy,” she spat out.

  Does she mean pussycat? Is she talking to Lucifer?

  “You’re a coward, Pearl,” she clarified.

  “Alessandra, I’m not into being hurt. It’s one thing reading about this kind of stuff in a novel or seeing it in a film, but another doing it in real life. Okay, I admit, I’m curious but . . . ”

  She rolled her eyes. “Forget it. I thought it was a good idea . . . something to ease away your mental anguish. A way of striking out those bad dreams by administering a little light punishment, but if you’re not into the idea . . . ”

  My mind was ticking over. Maybe she had a point. Perhaps this could be the answer—the champagne part of my brain thought so anyway. What harm is there in at least trying? This woman is slight, not as strong as I am—she can’t hurt me.

  “Okay, Alessandra, but on one condition: no handcuffs. If I don’t like it I want to be able to stop instantly.”

  “That’s what the safe word is for.”

  “No restraints, I mean it. And only five minutes, just to see. No kissing. I’m not gay—kissing would be way too intimate.”

  She took another swig of her champagne and grinned wickedly, her full lips breaking into a smile that spread across her whole face. “You’re on.”

  She glided over to the other side of the room, her bare feet noiseless on the parquet floor. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She stood on a chair, carefully brought down a long box from the top of a freestanding closet, and blew some dust off the top of it. A treasure trove, obviously unused for a long while. Or, more likely, Pandora’s Box. Would evil things fly out when she opened it? My curiosity made me sit up. What am I doing?

  The lights were already dimmed, and Alessandra lit several candles and some more rose incense. She put on some music: Frank Sinatra’s Witchcraft (how fitting), and swayed her hips slowly to the rhythm. She was still in her jeans. I wore her robe. Obviously, she wanted to play Dom and have me as her Sub.

  She was right; I was a sucker for adventure.

  Most forty year-old women don’t go rock climbing and swing from trapezes, let alone get engaged to a man fifteen years younger than they are. And most women—period—forty or not—do not decide to experiment with a dose of lesbian bondage.

  Was I nuts? My sensible side yelled at me, “Yes,” but my curiosity drove me on.

  “Okay, Pearl,” she whispered, her lilting Italian accent catching the R of Pearl, “lie flat on your back.”

  The L-shaped sofa was large and there was plenty of space for me to sprawl out. I did as she bid. The room was blissfully warm and I felt comfortable. The champagne had eased away the fury I felt for Alexandre earlier. I suddenly wondered . . . was this my way of getting back at him? Yes, he told me that he’d find it sexy for me to be messing about with another woman, but S and M? I don’t think so.

  I observed Alessandra open up her toy box and take out a wh
ip. It had tassels at one end.

  She stood over me and pressed it up to my nose. “Smell this.”

  I sniffed; it smelled of perfume. She ran it gently over my face and the tassels tickled.

  “Now let’s get your robe off. You won’t be cold, will you?”

  “No, it’s lovely and warm here.”

  She helped me off with my robe and stood back as if admiring all of me. “You have a very sexy body, Pearl. I was looking at your ass earlier. So round and shapely, but not big. I bet that ass drives Alexandre wild.”

  “It does.”

  “Tell me what he likes to do to it.”

  I had let my eyes close and conjured up one of our last lovemaking sessions before my mind went pear-shaped with nasty memories. “He likes licking me there along the crack, pinching my pussy lips at the same time and teasing my clit until I’m begging him to fuck me.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “Tell me more, it’s making me horny.”

  “Sometimes he beats me with his cock. It’s so big and always rock-hard. He slaps me with it on my ass and right up at my opening. Until I’m so wet I can’t stand it anymore. Then he fucks me from behind until I come.”

  “Do you have anal sex?”

  “No,” I whispered. “He’s never tried. He’s very old-fashioned that way. He thinks men who do that must be secretly gay or something. Doesn’t understand why anyone would do that to a woman.”

  “Very vanilla.”

  “Yes, very. But sex with him is incredible. Well, when I’m not having needle-dick visions of that horrible night, that is.”

  “That’s what we’re going to deal with now, Pearl. Beat away your guilt about that night with needle-dick and company.”

  Her accent made me laugh. Not that the needle-dick thing was funny, but it suddenly struck me how ridiculous this whole scenario was. Both of us about to do this nutty experiment. I observed her graceful movements. She got a blindfold out of the box of tricks.