I’m still standing in my heels and can feel him slide into me and ram me hard, pressing my butt back against the wall. I cry out. This is hot. I shouldn’t say it, but it is. He’s pumping hard to the rhythm of Sex Machine and with every thrust I feel my Venus clinging to him, not wanting to let him go.
“I. Love. Fucking. You.” His voice is raspy. He’s like a rock. It almost hurts but I can’t resist. His tongue is on my neck, his hands clasping around each of my buttocks, pulling me close to him, sealing me against his groin. He’s slamming me deep, his fingers clawed into the flesh of my ass.
“You like being used, Pearl? Or you just like using.” The second statement is not a question.
“I’m sorry. I was just interested in you, not your company. I wanted to get to know you for you.”
“Is this what you wanted to get to know?” he says, slamming into me so hard it bruises me inside.
“Yes,” I whimper. He sees me as a manipulative bitch and all I can do is moan with pleasure. I am being used by him and I love it.
“So tight!” he cries. “This. Tight. Velvet. Glove. Clenching. My. Hard. Cock…..Your tight little pussy doesn’t want to let me go. Don’t tell me you don’t want this.” He’s pounding hard, really cramming me full with his size, pounding into me with no mercy.
“I don’t want it,” I gasp. “Please release me, you’re too big for me, it hurts.” But my body is telling a different story – I’m driving my hips forward, meeting him with every thrust and I’m crying out with gratification. “I love you… fucking me,” I pant. “I love you…. inside me.”
“You love me Pearl? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
I don’t reply but moan even more. I tighten my fingers, like talons around his ass, and pull him closer. I can feel him thicken and harden even more, filling me up with his expansion and then burst inside me. He growls, literally – his release is like an animal in the wild. He’s still fully dressed, jacket unfastened, only the opening in his pants from where his huge erection meets me, parting my panties to one side, his thick penis forcing my Venus lips wide open like the wake of a vast barge on a river.
I’m dreading the minutes ahead. He’s got what he wanted and now he’ll pull out and leave. Like a punishment. To teach me a lesson. This will be the last time I’ll see him. I should have told him to go. Kept my dignity. I should have resisted but I dissolved, as I always do with him, like melting vanilla ice-cream.
All his. Wanton and lusty, letting sex rule my brain. Sensibility, not sense. Why does he have this hold over me?
He does pull out, but to my surprise, he isn’t done yet. He’s still stiff as if he hadn’t had an orgasm at all. He spins me around, his hands forceful on my hips and shoves my ass against the corner of the kitchen table. He pushes me down, bends me over till my crotch is pinned against the corner.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” he snarls, his body pressed flush behind me, holding me sandwiched between his crotch and the table. I can’t move. I can hear no smile in his voice. No charm. He’s pissed as hell.
I didn’t climax, so I’m feeling hot and ready for another round even though I’m sore.
From my peripheral vision, I see him knot up the sperm-filled condom and put on another. Fast. I don’t even need to suck or fondle him, he’s ready all right, his huge member proud as the Washington Monument. I can feel it against my buttocks. He grabs a cushion from one of the kitchen chairs and wedges it between my groin and the table corner.
“Fuck the table,” he commands.
I feel uneasy. Self-conscious. This is what he asked me to do with the arm of the sofa when we had phone sex. Furniture has a whole new meaning now.
He rips down my moist red panties with one hand and grabs my butt – I feel the soft hardness of his erection pressed up against my behind. I start gyrating in anticipation. I’m wet and I want him inside me.
“Good girl. Push harder against that cushion. That’s right, just like that. Seeing that peachy ass moving, and pressing that hot little pussy against furniture gets my cock so fucking hard.”
I’m moving my ass back and forth and sense the glorious head of his erection ease itself inside my rumbling V-8. He’s taunting me with just the tip. I’m grinding back and forth, his tip teasing my opening and the cushion rubbing on my clit which makes me wet and hot. Really hot. My nipples are erect. My skin is tingling all over.
“Gotta love this pussy,” he murmurs in a rumbling voice. “It’s warm and welcoming. So sweet and glistening.”
I feel demeaned. He keeps using the word, Pussy. But something about feeling like a whore turns me on. I keep moving. I can feel my juices oozing, tempting the head of his thick shaft. I’m bent over almost double, my ass high in the air, my Venus pressing hard against the table corner, the cushion acting as a soft buffer. He’s rimming the wet slits of my opening from behind, controlling his penis with his hand. Round and round – all my nerve-endings are alert and begging. Begging for him to thrust it all the way in. Every now and then he unexpectedly changes the rhythm and does plunge deep inside, pulls back, and then continues with the tease. I’m moaning, “Please Alexandre, please.”
My forearms are flat on the table, my body in an L shape, my panties around my ankles, my nipples like bullets. I can feel his suit pants rubbing against my thighs, his big balls are slapping slowly against my pulsating opening – it feels so sensual. Three places are being stimulated at once, all zoned like targets in between my legs. There is a whole empire going on there. Aah! I press backwards with each thrust to meet him – each and every time he eases into me and then nearly all the way out. Then he starts pumping hard, really fucking me, and I can feel an expansion of sensation building up, blood is rushing up inside me – one more thrust, any more friction on my clit against the pillow – one more thrust inside me and I know it’s coming, it’s coming….ah…AH!
My body is a convulsing, quivering nerve-mass. He’s pumping rhythmically, but slower now, as I’m climaxing around him – I can feel his penis thickening even more. I’m still enjoying the intensity of my orgasm when he cries out my name and I feel a throbbing against my insides. He’s coming too, simultaneously – he’s emptying himself into my depths, expanding against my inner walls. My muscles contract and open, contract and open, clenching tightly around him. I’m still coming – it hasn’t finished – wow this is great. So intense. I’m crying out.
“What am I going to do, baby?” His voice is almost a whisper. “What can I do, I can’t keep away from you. I have to fuck you. I just have to.” He sounds anguished, almost tormented.
I feel mini after-waves undulating inside me, less like a tsunami now but the sensation of fluttering butterflies. I’m groaning softly. He’s kissing my back, the nape of my neck and cupping my buttocks with his strong hands like he owns my ass. I collapse on the table, my chest flat down, my legs still splayed wide open, either side of the table corner, and I release a sigh. I want to tell him I’m crazy about him but I bite my tongue.
Cool calm and collected.
That’s me.
Chapter Twelve
“Pack your suitcase.” He’s doing up his pants.
“What?”
“It just occurred to me now. I’m taking you away for a long weekend.”
“Well, I don’t think I can go just like—” I click my fingers— “that.”
“Yes, you can. Don’t argue, just get some stuff together.”
I’m standing there, naked, in nothing but high heels. Who does he think he is? He barges through my back door unannounced, fucks me like I’m a whore, and is now demanding I go away for the weekend with him? Then my faux irritation relents. Isn’t this exactly what you fantasized about, Pearl?
He looks at his watch. “We don’t have time for procrastination. Hurry up, get your essentials and a change of clothes together. A friend of mine will be taking off soon – if we hurry we can get there in time, we can’t miss the slot.”
The slot? I
n a daze, I wander into my bedroom, find a suitcase at the back of my closet and start to throw a few things in. He follows me, watching to make sure I’m doing as I’m told – meanwhile speaking on his cell. He’s talking to someone in French so I don’t understand a word except ‘jet’ and ‘passport’. Then he orders a cab.
“Passport?”
“It’s in my handbag,” I say.
“That giant ogre of a thing?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll have to do something about that.” His eyes narrow, then he runs them up and down my body like he wants to fuck me once more. Not again! How potent can his libido be?
He claps his hands together. “Okay, done. Let’s go.”
“Wait, my toothbrush and stuff.”
“We don’t have time – I can buy you anything you need.”
“That’s a cute offer, but I usually buy my own things, thanks.”
“Yes, of course you do. Hurry up,” he orders, slapping my nude backside.
I scramble into the bathroom and run some water over a flannel and wipe in between my legs, then race back into the bedroom and grab the first dress I see from my closet and toss it over my head. It’s an old 1950’s flowery thing with a dirndl skirt, clinched at the waist, full-skirted with a tight bodice and low neck. It’s the last thing I want to wear but Alexandre is tapping his polished shoe on the floor with impatience.
“Perfect. You look like a little girl.” He drags me from the room by my wrist and grabs my suitcase.
“Wait! I haven’t put any underwear on.”
“No time.”
“Where are we going?”
For the first time today he smiles. “Surprise.”
* * *
It was a race to get here, but now we are ensconced in the swish private plane, luxuriating on beige leather seats, while each of us is being offered an apéritif’ by the hostess cum flight attendant.
His ‘friend’ turns out to be some high-ranking, government official, next in line, it seems, to the French president himself. The man is on his way back from a secret, unofficial meeting – in other words, he is using the jet for his own personal use.
He and Alexandre spoke to one another in their native tongue and it was translated to me that the politician didn’t want to seem rude but he had a ton of work to do before we landed, so did we mind if he kept to himself during the flight? Thank goodness. My pidgin French would have been an embarrassment, coupled with the fact that, while we were walking up the ramp to embark, a breeze of air blew the skirt of my dress up above my thighs, and I was sure this high-ranking government man saw my bare, private parts. Alexandre laughed – the man he decided, was too ugly to pose a threat. “I don’t know,” I teased, “I could be the next Carla Bruni.”
“Socialism in action for you!” Alexandre says now with a wry grin. “Our government is probably paying for his mistress somewhere, maybe a private apartment here or in Paris – don’t you just love the double standards?”
“And what about us? Is this flight a freebie, courtesy of the poor French tax payers?” I ask.
“Let’s just say the French government owes me a couple of big favors. I’m sorry to say, I have no control, whatsoever, with how they manage their budget. We’re coming along for the ride, Pearl, that’s all.”
“We’re taking advantage of a dishonest situation. That could be construed as immoral.”
“I’m an opportunist, Pearl.” His smile is bad-boy. “Just like you.”
“I…” I stammer.
“You knew what you wanted and you came after it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way you sucked your iced cappuccino through that straw when we first met at the coffee shop. Flicking your tongue around your lips.”
“It was you! You were doing that – licking your lips, staring into me with those startling eyes of yours, getting me all hot and bothered.”
“I wanted to fuck you there and then.”
“Well why didn’t you?” I demand. “What took you so long?”
“Because I was hoping you’d be – how can I say this?”
“Begging for it.”
He laughs. “You said it, not me.”
I stare out the window as we take off. I love that dip in my stomach the plane makes – it reminds me how I have felt these past few weeks. Alive. On the edge. I watch the twinkling city of New York gradually fade below – the lights of matchbox cars turn to tiny dots. Alexandre has one hand on my bare thigh and the other tapping on his iPad, writing notes.
“Sorry, just doing a list,” he explains, “of things I need to get done.”
“You’re a list writer then?”
“That way, the problems are no longer swirling about in my head, but committed to paper, or these days, my iPad. That way they have less power over me, I don’t have to think about them anymore – at least not until I look at my list and systematically knock each thing off when the time is right. It ensures a good night’s sleep.” He shoots me a sly glance. “One of my secrets of success.”
“Like Madonna.”
He knots his brow. “Madonna?”
“She also writes lists of things to get done.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because my brother is obsessed by her. He also informed me that Beyoncé wears four pairs of pantyhose on stage to keep it all in place.”
“She must get very hot.”
“To use your expression – tricks of the trade. Secrets of success.”
“And what’s your secret of success?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Ah, that would be telling.”
Alexandre nods over to the direction of his highfaluting friend. “So much for him getting important work done – he’s already fast asleep. Look, he’s snoring.”
We are at one end of – I would like to say – ‘room’ – it’s so spacious – and this man, wearing old-style spectacles, is at the other. He looks like a school teacher, not a politician. If I knew anything about French politics, I suppose I’d be impressed but I do not have a clue who he is.
“Are you a member of the Mile High Club?” Alexandre suddenly asks.
I roll my eyes. “That is such a cliché.”
Secretly, though, I have always wondered what it would be like to make love thousands of feet in the air. Probably uncomfortable – don’t people always do it in the bathroom?
“In all seriousness, Pearl, are you a member of the Mile High Club?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Should we join?”
“The membership comes at a price.”
“I can afford it.”
I give him a lopsided smile. “Maybe you can, but me? I’m not so sure.”
“What kind of price are we talking about?”
“The price of discomfort.”
He laughs. “Oh, you assume we’d have to do it in the toilet?”
“Well, yes, isn’t that par for the course?”
“No, it certainly is not. There’s no way I’m scrunching myself up double in some toilet,” he exclaims with a look of mock outrage, smoothing his tailored suit pants with his hands.
“Well, where then?”
“Right here, baby. Right here, on these luxuriously comfortable seats. They’ve been very thoughtful – even made them of leather for us – easy to wipe down,” and he mumbles in my ear, “because I know how wet you get.” He slips his hand higher up my thigh.
“Shush, stop that dirty talk! The politician will wake up. Or the flight attendant will see us.”
“No, he’s out for the count – I doubt very much he’ll stir for several hours. And the flight attendant – well I’m sure she’ll make herself invisible. The staff isn’t meant to hang about with the V.I.Ps in private jets – unless they’re needed.”
“Are we Very Important People?”
He laughs. “Hell, yes.”
“You’re just kidding,” I say, “about doing it in public.”
“Don
’t be so sure. Haven’t you ever had sex in public before?”
“No, I certainly have not. You?”
He temples his fingers and brings them up to his face as if in great thought. “Let’s see. On a beach in the Bahamas once, on a yacht, in a swimming pool, on a ski slope just off piste, in the Bois de Vincennes, in a—”
“Okay, I think I’ve heard enough. I get the picture.” I’m in a jealous sulk for a second, furious at the ex-girlfriend(s) who have dared to be so brave with him in all those places, but then, I ask, “By the way, where’s the Bois de Vincennes?”
“It’s a huge park in Paris on the eastern side. The lungs of the city.”
I say nothing. Back to my silent, jealous ravings.
“You’re beautiful, Pearl, especially when you’re green-eyed.”
An unwanted smile steals itself across my face. How did he know? I pummel him, my mock angry fists coming up against his hard abs.
“I’ve never done it on a plane though,” he tells me. “Promise.”
“No. Forget it, Alexandre. I won’t be part of one of your lists. Crossed off as something ‘done.’ ” I stick my tongue out at him like a seven year old.
He’s laughing again. “Touched a nerve, have I?”
“You’ve touched several nerves, actually. Did you know that” and I lower my voice to a murmur, “—the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings?” I squeeze my thighs tightly together so he can’t get his hand any further. “Not here, Alexandre. Stop it.”
“Well you are a mine of information – Madonna, Beyoncé, now this. No, I had no idea, but it does make sense. I’ll remember,” he whispers in my ear, “all those sensitive little nerve endings when I’ve got my tongue up there. He’s trying to force my thighs apart and, although I desire his hands all over me, I cross my legs rigid and clench my thighs super-tight like closed scissors.
He’s nibbling my lobe now and a frisson runs down my spine. “Careful now, we know what happens when you do that, little girl, when you cross your legs too tight. Especially with no panties on.”
Forty Shades of Pearl (Part One of The Pearl Trilogy) Page 15
