I had almost forgotten about that. “Remind me what they were?” I say.
“Test one – you’re a dog lover and you care about animals. Test two – you’re brave and adventurous; you came rock climbing with me, even though it was obvious you’d never done it before.”
“I told a white lie,” I admit. “I was worried you wouldn’t invite me otherwise. Dogs…” I smile. “Is that the only reason you like me?”
He laughs and adds, “You’re the whole package. You’re beautiful, smart, sexy, independent, mature, and I still have that little ‘challenge’ in mind. We still have work to do. Now stop doubting me and get on the bed where you belong.”
Did I just hear that right? Where I belong!! Who is this guy with his old-fashioned values? But then I see a glint of humor in his eye and I know he’s just kidding.
“When you say ‘mature’ what do you mean exactly?” I ask. Is mature a code word for old?
“Mature. A woman who is mature knows what she wants. Like you. You have a past, you’ve experienced life. You’ve borne some knocks and bruises, perhaps. Suffered, had your heart broken maybe. You’re a whole person, Pearl. You have a good career. You’re not some sniveling twenty-one year old innocent just out of college, hanging on to my every word, my every movement. I’d find that unattractive. I don’t need some ingénue to bolster my ego and make me feel more manly. I know who I am. I’m not perfect but I feel comfortable in my own skin. I’m young but I have everything. I like a woman with substance. I like you,” he says, moving close.
I hold him back. “You say mature. How old am I?” I ask apprehensively.
Brave move. What if he thinks I’m older than I am?
“I don’t know and I don’t care. I would never ask. But you’re beautiful and you have my attention. Now get on the bed.”
I lie nude on my four poster bed, lapping up all his compliments and bathing in honeyed words like ‘beautiful’ and ‘you’re the whole package.’ Pack Age, his accent says – uh, oh, that age word again drumming in my ears. But it’s my hang-up, not his. I’ve got to move on from that.
He straddles me and kisses me softly on my nose, my eyelashes, my lips, my shoulders. I’ve been waiting for this – waiting to be fucked by him. Whether I have an orgasm or not, I don’t care – I want him inside me. My breath is shallow – butterflies are circling my stomach.
His fingers are draped against the full expanse of my vulva like a velvet curtain, cupping me like a glove. What a great fit it is, too. I’m pushing my pelvis against his palm, and his index fingers are making rhythmic upside-down ‘come hither’ movements along my hot wet entrance, probing into the glistening doorway of my Venus. He’s reaching in and upwards with his smooth finger against my ceiling and hoists me up several inches off the bed. So dominating, so in control – instinctively he knows what my body wants. It feels incredible – my G-spot is hungry for him, hungry for his magic wand.
Still with his fingers inside me, he pulls my groin up towards his face – my back arches off the bed and he presses his still tongue against my vulva. He holds it flat against my clitoris without movement. I’m squirming up against it, gyrating my hips, arching my back more to get closer to him, moaning with pleasure. I’m pushing and grinding and suddenly his tongue, from being quite still, strokes me vertically and diagonally in sudden flashing lashes. He’s whipping me with his tongue. I’m tingling with desire, throbbing with longing.
Then he stops. His tongue is still again. My V-8 is humming like the fiery little engine it is. I can feel my juices oozing. I’m so revved-up.
“Please,” I beg. “Please fuck me.”
“Not yet. All good things come to little girls who wait. Especially neo-virgins – I need to take it slowly with you.”
His tongue starts probing deep inside me, in and then out. He stops again. I’m squirming on my back, his head is between my thighs and I grab his hair and try to pull his head up towards my face. I need him inside me. I need that huge beast of his phallus deep inside. His tongue starts fucking me, in, out, in out. It feels amazing but I want more, I yearn for all of him to go deep. I miss him so far away from me. I want the intimacy of his entire being, his face on mine, his torso on my breasts. I need him whole. I’m longing for that erection to probe deep inside against my walls.
He gets up and I hear him rummaging about in his jeans pocket. I open my eyes which have been closed in ecstatic reverie and see the condom packet which he is ripping open with his teeth. Yes, yes, at last! It’s a brand I haven’t seen before – XL lambskin. I didn’t know they made them extra large but I guess it makes sense for him. He rolls it on to his erection – my V-8 humming away in preparation, throbbing with the thought of him inside me.
He straddles me again – then moves down the bed and circles my clitoris with his tongue, careful not to touch it directly, which makes it more desperate to be fondled. But, he leaves it be. He slowly moves his way higher, his chest now on top of me, my nipples hard beneath his strong torso. I can feel his whopping great cock pressing up against me, about to enter me. I moan with anticipation. I grab it – it is rock hard inside the condom which feels soft, not the usual rubbery texture. I guide it towards my wet opening but he pulls back.
“You cannot have it all, little Pearl. Not yet. Greedy girls have to watch their appetites.”
He lets the tip probe my hot entrance but just the tip.
“Please.” I am pleading now, whining like a child for candy.
He starts with shallow thrusts, barely penetrating me, his arms enclosing me tightly, his mouth on mine. Then he pauses and lets his erection rest just an inch inside me. He’s lingering close but not moving. I’m flexing my hips, desperate to get closer, my hands are like claws on his tight ass, pulling him toward me. Fuck me all the way. Please, I beg silently. But he’s holding back, his strength and willpower overcoming me.
“So wet, I’m going to have to suck that little oyster later. I’d like that little oyster and its Pearl to come with my mouth around it,” he whispers in my ear as he nibbles the lobe.
I groan and tense my buttocks, thrusting myself at him. Only the tip of his huge erection is inside me, then he makes tiny thrusts – and pulls out, each time its soft, huge head pressing up and brushing past my clit. The shaft of it is rubbing against me and he’s gently thrusting between my labia without entering me. I’m screaming now. This feels incredible.
“Shush, quiet now. So juicy,” he murmurs. “I love your hair, your body, your soft skin, your blue eyes, I love the way you smell. I love the way you’re so desperate for me to fuck you.” As he says this he plunges his erection deep into me, the whole of him inside, simultaneously pressing his pelvic bone against my clit, holding himself firmly in place before withdrawing again. The tease is driving me crazy. My body is begging for each plunge, the taut fullness of him. I can feel the nerve endings on my clitoris swelling with heat. He pulls out. He’s guiding his penis now with his hand – he’s slapping it against my clit and I’m moaning.
“I’m going to really fuck you now like you deserve, you greedy little girl. You want my cock? All of it?”
“Please,” I cry. “It’s so big it scares me, though.”
“Too big for you? Too big for your tight little pearlette? It’s so tight. Like a virgin. I think it needs to be ripped open by my big cock. I think it needs that.”
“Yes,” I groan, my buttocks clenched, my pelvis rising higher so I’m pressing deep up against him, his erection poised at my soaked entrance.
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Yes,” I cry. “Please, please.”
But he starts teasing me with the tip again and, just as I can’t take any more, when I think I’m going to come from the rhythmic brushing on my clit, he suddenly slams himself hard into me; his erection swelling inside me, his immense size filling me whole, his pelvic bone pressing hard down on my clitoris. I’m shouting out, my brain concentrated on my Venus – my entire universe at this mome
nt. All I care about, all I desire. He takes his cock out again tantalizing me at the entrance, circling me and then slaps my clit with it again. The sensation is so intense. He plunges into me once more, I can feel his pubic bone pressing against that sweet spot and I start coming in a rush of heaven, all my nerve endings in that one area sending my whole body into a quivering spasm. My contractions are tight about his erection, squeezing him as he’s holding it there. He pulls away then thrusts it in hard and then goes still. He’s moaning quietly now and I can feel his hardness inside me as he explodes. My hands are clawed about his ass, holding him close. My pulse is pounding between my legs…ah..ah..I’m still climaxing and so is he. He’s kissing me, his tongue ravenous for mine. My pelvis starts to move up and down. I could keep going with this all day.
“I came with penetrative sex,” I gasp.
“I hardly even fucked you, if you noticed. I didn’t need to. This is just getting you warmed up, Pearl. Just getting you used to me inside you. We’ll get there. This isn’t a race, time is on our side.” He pulls out of me slowly and I suddenly feel bereft. His face is inches away, his lips on my cheek but I feel lonely already. I can’t get enough of him. This is crazy.
“I want more,” I breathe, still feeling tingles from my intense orgasm, craving him inside me again, the intimacy, the deep connection.
“I know you do.”
“I want more now.”
“Well you’ll have to wait,” he says with a trace of a smirk. “I have work to do. And you do, too.” He looks at his watch. “It’s seven a.m.”
“Please.”
He starts laughing. I suspect he loves being in control. He is in command of my body as if I were a marionette. I’m writhing on the bed, the sheets deliciously rubbing between my thighs, extending my post orgasm thrill. I swear, if he were to enter me again, I could come once more. But he’s standing up putting on his jeans.
“Breakfast time,” he barks. “Up, up, lazy girl, get that sweet butt off the bed, move that little Pearlette into action.”
“More action – exactly. Give my Pearlette more action. Please.”
He laughs again. “Let’s just say things are going as I hoped they would. I like seeing you hungry for me.”
I’m on my stomach, still lying on the bed. I press a cushion in between my thighs and start moving up and down, my buttocks high in the air – trying to tempt him.
“Careful, little girl, or I’ll have to fuck you from behind. But really fuck you hard. Till you’re ravaged inside.”
I start moaning. Begging. “Yes Please.” I have no shame. No composure. No dignity.
He approaches the bed and I feel victorious. He’s going to give it to me. Ram it up me. Fill me up. Yes!
But instead, he lifts me off the mattress and carries me like a baby in his arms to the bathroom. He sets me down. He opens the glass doors of the shower and turns on the faucet. He claps his hands loudly and there’s a ringing in the air. He says, “Shower time! In you get, Pearl.”
I do as he says. He eyes my naked body up and down and takes his jeans back off. He’s stiff again. Yes!
We are both in the shower together and I’m still feeling stimulated. I want my power back. I take the shower gel, put some on my fingers and lather it across his back, shoulders and his athletic torso, and I move down his thighs. He’s hard as a diamond. I crouch down, feeling the warm water splashing on top of me and take him in my mouth again. I’m hungry – desperate for him, shameless with my voracious appetite. I concentrate hard on making him groan, clinging to his leg as I suck on him.
“You just can’t stop, can you?” he says. But I know he likes it, as he flexes his hips towards my mouth.
“No, I can’t get enough of you,” I pant, and then start licking his shaft as if my life depended on it.
My nipples are erect without him even touching them. The water is splashing on them, arousing me. I stand up and kiss him on his mouth, holding his erection tightly in the grip of my hand. He shoves his thigh between my legs and I gasp. His wet flesh is pushing against my clitoris; he rams it hard against me as I start to writhe on his leg. My hand is moving up and down on his hard-on, faster now to the same rhythm that my pelvis is pushing up and down, pressing against his firm thigh. My hard nipples are smacking against his chest. I keep this up for several minutes until I feel the blood rush along his phallus, and creamy liquid ooze in a gush in between and over my fingers. I push harder on his thigh and hit that divine spot. My orgasm is rising hot between my legs. I’m groaning, kissing his chest, taking his nipples between my teeth. He growls out my name. It’s a simultaneous orgasm – both of us pleasuring each other in the same moment.
“Pearl / Alexandre,” we cry out at once.
I collapse in his strong arms, the water beating on my head.
Finally, I feel satiated.
Now I can go to work.
Chapter Eight
I have never been this obsessed by sex. Ever. I am akin to a thirteen year old boy reaching puberty, with sex constantly on the brain. All day, I walk about with fire between my legs. I am like a zombie at work, an automaton. After this morning’s love-making I can’t think of anything but Alexandre and his body parts and all the things he has done to me, and will do to me.
I am playing Under My Thumb by The Rolling Stones on my iPod – how apt. I have been, literally, under his thumb.
My cell phone wakes me up from my shallow-breathed daydream.
The voice says, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” It’s HIM.
“What are you thinking?” I ask guardedly, my stomach dipping with excitement and nerves. I’ve already humiliated myself enough this morning, already demonstrated that I’m like an addict who needs a fix, and that I have no control over myself whatsoever. Not when it comes to him, anyway.
“I’m thinking about you,” he tells me, his voice deep and seductive. Thank God he still wants me. “And you? Are you thinking the same?”
“No,” I reply.
“Oh.” I can hear the disappointment in his tone.
“Why would I be thinking about me?” I say. “It’s you my mind is focused on.”
He laughs at my silly joke. “I’ve been planning what I’m going to do to you. Have you thought about that, Pearl? The things I’m going to do?”
“Yes,” I whisper. There is someone else in the editing room. “And little else,” I add quietly.
“Dinner tonight?”
“I’d love to. Where?”
“At my place. I’ll be cooking. Anything you don’t eat?”
We both burst out laughing, realizing how apt his question is.
“No red meat. Only free range chicken.”
“I’ll send a car to pick you up at eight o’clock.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Oh yes, I know you will.”
So arrogant! This man is sure he has me just where he wants me. Under his thumb. And what a thumb it is too, zeroing in on my G-spot the way it did the other day. Just thinking about it has me feeling all melty again.
Eight O’clock is going to feel like an eternity.
* * *
The exterior of Alexandre’s corner-lot, pre-war apartment building is particularly elegant. It is entered on Sixty Second Street under a very high fixed marquee, rather than the ubiquitous green awning seen everywhere else in Manhattan. The doorman lets me in with a flourish. It seems he is expecting me. The lobby is grand and makes my place look humble. This is how the other half live, or rather, not the other half (I am the other half – I have food on the table, right?) This is how the 0.75% lives – the ridiculously wealthy. The old black and white marble floors are polished to a high sheen, set off by large arches. Antique sofas upholstered in silk damask are placed strategically by a vast, marble fireplace overhung with a Louis XlV mirror. I doubt people sit on those sofas very often, as they are pristine. The flower arrangements look as if they were prepared for a wedding or for some charity benefit, towering in old-fas
hioned copper vases, which gleam so brightly they reflect the room. All this, for just the lobby.
The doorman buzzes open the elevator for me and says, “The Penthouse, Ms. Robinson.”
“Thank you.”
I walk inside the roomy elevator that smells of roses. Just as the doors are about to close, an elderly lady shuffles forward, shouting, ‘wait’ but the doors magically reopen, controlled at the entrance by the doorman. The elderly lady steps in. She is draped in jewels, dons oversized dark shades and carries a host of shopping bags from Tiffany and Neiman Marcus.
“Hello, I say and smile.”
“Hello dear,” she croaks.
The lit-up buttons display our floors, although neither of us has pressed anything.
“You’re visiting Alexandre?” she enquires.
“Yes. For dinner.”
“How exciting. He’s a marvelous cook. I wonder what he’ll serve you.”
“You’ve had dinner with him?” I ask, trying not to sound too surprised – I don’t want to seem rude.
“Dinner, lunch. He’s a lovely boy – everybody in the building just adores him. Such a talent at everything he does. He’s arranged some soirées for charity with musical quartets and just the best food ever. He’s so kind and has time for everyone – even an old lady like myself. Such a honey.”
Her door opens at the third floor. “Have a lovely evening, dear.”
“Thank you. You too,” I call after her.
The elevator is lined in mirrors and has a small bench to sit on, also upholstered in silk damask. I inspect myself. I’m wearing a black dress, a beautiful, vintage Jean Muir which I picked up for a song somewhere in The Village. It is silk knit and hangs like a dream. Simple, elegant, understated. It fits like a glove, perfect about my bust – tight about my breasts, demanding no bra. I have a small back which means a lot of tops and dresses swim about me, but it’s also a blessing as it means I can pick up things from the sixties and seventies that don’t fit today’s modern woman.
I left my apartment looking as if vandals had ripped my bedroom apart. Every single item of my wardrobe is lying in chaotic piles on the bed, strewn over chairs, on the floor. They have even found their way into the bathroom. Decisions, decisions. I was going to wear a slinky, long, red dress but thought it was too ‘sex siren’ – not the message I want to advertise. I think Alexandre has got the point. I don’t want overkill. I tried on a beautiful cream dress with rosebuds but I looked too ‘little girl’. Then I decided that I must wear the pearls. Not something I can put on for work, and where else can I wear them if not for dinner with Alexandre? So then the dress became all about, ‘what will go with the pearls?’ Thank goodness I left work early and gave myself time. I finally settled on this old favorite, the Jean Muir. Classic. Timeless. It reaches just below my knees, is tight about the bust but flares in two layers so if I spin about it almost makes a circle around me. I put on some simple pearl studs but would you know it? The pearls of the earrings did not match – did not pick up even one of the forty shades of the choker. So I tried some diamond studs which my mother gave me for my twenty-first birthday, which match the clasp of the necklace – just about. The faithful, high, nude pumps complete the outfit. Nude pumps with a black dress? Yes, they lengthen the legs. A tip I picked up from Vogue.
Forty Shades of Pearl (Part One of The Pearl Trilogy) Page 9
