What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG)

by CJ Roberts

  He adjusts his position so he is standing behind me, my back pressed up against his torso – I can feel his hard-on. His thumb is inside me now, his palm cupping the entirety of my vulva. He’s holding me as if I were a six-pack! It feels incredible.

  “So juicy,” he breathes, grabbing the champagne and flowers in the other hand and pulling me close behind him, thumb still inside me, his palm pressing hard against my clitoris. “Come on, let’s have a drink – you’ll need to put these flowers in water.”

  I’m on tiptoes tottering in front of him, his hand maneuvering me, thumb still inside, slowly circling as if he is steering me. I feel him with every step I take – gently pushed ahead by him, his palm pressing my sweet spot. I lean back for a second and press my back against his torso. I feel his erection through his pants up against me – his hand still controlling me as if I were a glove puppet. So dominating! But it feels really erotic. Then he softly lets me go. I’m nude, panting, wet as an oil slick, not understanding what has just happened. I turn round to face him – he’s smiling, amused.

  “Let’s have some champagne,” he suggests.

  “Let me put something on,” I reply, confused.

  He runs his finger up my spine and feels the choker about my neck, fondling the pearls with the tips of his fingers. “You’ve already got something on.”

  “Some clothes,” I whimper. I feel vulnerable, exposed. It’s as if he has control over me. No man has ever seen me this way. Nude with a choker of Art Deco pearls about my neck like an exotic dog collar. Yes, as if I were some expensive dog on a leash to be pulled and led this way and that! To be manhandled. I’m in my own apartment yet, for some reason, I feel helpless.

  He holds me by the wrist and pulls me closer. “No clothes. Why would you want to put on clothes? You’re so sexy as you are. So beautiful.”

  “I feel−”

  “I forbid it.”

  He’s French. Maybe the translation has come out wrong. The word ‘forbid’ sounds ridiculous. Like a command. So young, but evidently domineering. But then I see a humorous smirk on his face and I realize he’s teasing me.

  But before I can protest, he’s on his knees, running his tongue around my navel and down towards my wet opening. His head is underneath me now and his five o’clock shadow is brushing against my thighs and around the lips of my Venus. He starts licking me slowly, softly, as if I were an ice-cream on a sweltering day, under, over, around, up inside, running the tip of his tongue around to catch the melting bits. I’m groaning now, the pleasure is indescribable.

  “So sweet,” he murmurs. “You taste delicious. So, so ready for me. You have no idea how much I want to be inside you.”

  And then he stops.

  “Come on,” he takes my hand. “I think you need a glass of champagne.”

  I’m a wreck. I stand there, stupefied. Naked. Hot with longing. Desperate for him to lead me to the bed and fuck me. What’s he playing at? I want him inside me. Right now. But he’s talking about having a glass of champagne and putting the roses in water! Still holding my hand, he leads me to the kitchen. As if it’s his own apartment, he starts opening cupboards and looking for a vase.

  “Up there on the left, second cabinet,” I say with disbelief – my groin on fire.

  I watch him fill up the tall, glass vase with water and arrange the glorious bouquet of pink roses; pale, pale pink, like some of the highlights and shades of the pearls. Before he starts rummaging about for glasses, I climb onto a chair to locate my special, crystal, champagne glasses that I was given by my mother for a wedding present. Never used. How ironic, they, like the choker are also original Art Deco. They’re shallow coupe glasses like saucers – the sort in 1930s Hollywood movies, when champagne flowed in fountains and femme-fatales smoked with silver cigarette holders.

  Just as I’ve reached up for them, as I’m still standing on the chair, I feel Alexandre’s hand slip up between my thighs again. This yes-no tease is driving me to distraction. I nearly drop the glasses. I look down and see his head planted between my thighs, forcing them apart. I splay my legs a little. His soft hair is tickling me, brushing against my clit like silk. I close my eyes in bliss. He spins me around, his strong hands clamped on my hips. I can’t move, I’m being manhandled again. He has my backside now in his face. I can’t see him but I can feel him gently parting my buttocks with his fingers. His tongue starts licking between my crack. Up and down. Wow this feels incredible. Thank God I had a bath and I smell of sweet oils, I think to myself, as I whimper with pleasure. My hands cannot touch him, I’m still holding the champagne glasses and I don’t want to drop them. He pushes my back down a touch so I am now leaning slightly forward, bending over, still standing above him on the chair.

  “Relax, chérie,” he cajoles, and I am too turned on to disobey.

  His palm is cupping my Venus now, my clitoris throb-tingling as he slips his thumb inside and circles it, touching on my inner front walls. The base of his palm putting pressure against my clit – I’m flexing my hips back and forth. I’m really wet. This feels so….oh my God! His tongue is licking me up and down along the crack of my buttocks once more. Licking, flicking, darting, probing. He’s still palming my clit. I think I’m going to come. That would be a first. All my sensations are deep and hot inside – my brain is like a marshmallow…

  My mind is going into a tunnel of black and then flashing pink and red and …oh wow, his thumb is pressing and circling rhythmically in a place at the front of my walls, in a place, oh….ah…, ah, ah. I feel every nerve inside me as I implode with pleasure in this deep, undiscovered zone, deep inside me. I cry out – this is the most intense, throbbing orgasm of my life.

  He holds his grip firm as I writhe with ecstasy, letting the orgasm spasms of my pulsing, tingling nerves climax in waves, until slowly, very slowly it calms.

  He takes his thumb and hand away and licks my juices from his fingers. “Hmm, tasty,” he grins, looking up at me. He lifts me down from the chair and sets me on the floor, gently. He grabs the champagne bottle, takes the glasses from me and places them on the kitchen counter. He pops open the champagne and pours, as if what he has done is the most normal occurrence in the world.

  I’m a quivering wreck.

  “You like that, then?” he asks with a crooked smile.

  My jaw hangs open. “That’s never happened to me before. That was new. Where you had your thumb has opened up a completely new….a new−”

  “I must have hit your G-spot.”

  I have read about this famous G-spot but was beginning to believe it was a myth. “It felt….how can I describe it? It felt deep. So intense.”

  He smiles knowingly and narrows his eyes as if to say ‘that’s just the beginning.’ Does this man realize what he has just done? Oh yes, I think he does. He has a confident air about him as if he does this every day of the week.

  “Well, I got to do a little exploration of your body so I had an idea,” he says humbly.

  I’m still in a state of wonder. Shivering with amazement. He seems to know my body better than I do and we hardly know each other.

  “Are you cold, baby?” He looks concerned. A gentleman and a rogue rolled into one. I’m not cold, just shaking with post-orgasm ecstasy. He takes off his loose linen shirt and puts it about my shoulders. I drink in his torso. I close my eyes for a second and, like flash photography, or when you’ve been staring at something bright, the image makes an imprint on my brain. His stomach muscles ripple into segmented compartments – not a six-pack, no, that’s far too crass a word to describe what I see. Nor the statue of David, whose penis is a sad let down and makes his body look like an excuse – no, I know what’s beneath Alexandre’s pants and I have a feeling it’s beyond substantial. His body is superb; a work of art.

  He catches me ogling at him and smiles, oh so subtly. He knows the effect he is having on me. Oh yes, he knows all right.

  He leads me to my living room and places me on the chaise longue as if I’m his
patient recovering from an operation. That’s how I feel. Shaky, trembling with wonder at the skill of my doctor who has just discovered something about me, that I didn’t even know myself.

  I sip my champagne; we’re christening my crystal glasses. A real celebration, I think. That elusive G-spot was targeted! The champagne is delicious – no wonder – it’s Dom Pérignon – Marilyn Monroe’s favorite. Music is playing softly on Alexandre’s iPhone – I recognize it – Bach’s Air…so beautiful and soothing. He is sitting beside me, wearing only his jeans. I notice his lovely feet bare – elegant, each toe pleasing to the eye. He’s unbelievably handsome and I try not to stare too hard. I can’t decide if he looks like a pirate or a gentleman – a mixture of both, I think. Like a pirate, he took me by surprise.

  He has me transfixed, bewitched. I scrutinize his even features, his strong, straight nose, his defined jaw, his full mouth, and I wonder what it is that makes a person attractive. It isn’t just the looks – no, it’s a glint in the eye, the way a person laughs. Alexandre laughs a lot, his conversation interspersed with chuckles, which makes him seem carefree, light. But I saw that dark side last weekend, the flash of fury when he mentioned his father. And nobody as wealthy as Alexandre can be that sweet. He must have a ruthless edge when it comes to business, or some kind of killer instinct.

  The Dom Pérignon has made me tipsy, not drunk, but gloriously relaxed. Alexandre is stroking my body, running his long fingers along its entirety, caressing me with a feather touch. Every once in a while he kisses me, soft kisses on the lips, before he lets his tongue dance with mine in a hungry embrace. I’m feeling needy; a longing is pulsing through my veins. How can that be? I have just been satiated. My legs keep opening wide with a will of their own. I want him to make love to me. For some reason, I want more. I feel less self-conscious now, half nude with nothing on but his shirt and the pearl choker, and he, still in his faded Levis, with a look of quiet contentment on his face.

  It is dusk outside; the sky is turning orange and throwing a golden glow through the west-facing windows of my living room. I can feel the warmth on my face and an immeasurable sense of relaxation courses through my body as if I were a rag doll. He could do anything with me now. I am his.

  He takes a swig of champagne and kneels at the far end of the chaise longue and pushes my legs akimbo. He blows softly between them and darts his tongue out touching my clitoris with the tip of his tongue, almost imperceptibly. I groan and wriggle on my back.

  “You’re so sensitive, aren’t you Pearl? You like it soft, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “How do you like to come, chérie?”

  But I already have come, I think. Doesn’t he realize what a big deal for me that already is?

  “Hum?” he asks.

  I’m silent. What can I say? I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t tell him that I’m basically unable to orgasm with penetrative and oral sex.

  “Tell me about your first time,” he urges. “Not the first time you had sex but the first time your little pearlette exploded.”

  My pearlette. How dainty. What a beautiful way to describe it. Only a Frenchman could come up with that.

  I don’t have to think hard. I remember as clearly as if it happened yesterday.

  “There was the very first time in the bathtub with the shower-head,” I admit, almost shamefully. “The pressure of the water got me excited and I had a spontaneous orgasm. It was a huge surprise. I was ten when it happened. And then, soon after that when I was crossing my legs really tightly. I was taking an exam and the pressure, the fear and the panic gave me an orgasm – I didn’t even touch myself.”

  He is still caressing me. I touch his arms and stroke the hair on his head. He’s running his tongue along my thigh now and his pinkie finger is tapping my clitoris so gently like the delicate wings of a butterfly. I’m squirming, I raise my hips up, rotating them – this feels so good. All I can think of is him being inside me.

  “And who was the first person to make you come, hmm? The first to give you extreme pleasure?”

  I have never told anyone this. Ever. I lie there silent.

  “Hmm? The first to give you that big, mind-blowing O?” he asks.

  I say nothing.

  “How old were you?”

  “Fifteen,” I whisper.

  “Was she a girl?”

  How did he know that? Is he psychic?

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “Because of the way your body is, Pearl. So responsive to the faintest, most delicate touch. Usually only girls know how to caress that way – young boys can be like bulldozers. Girls turn to girls; they explore each other as teenagers. What happened to you is more common than you realize.”

  How does he know all this?

  He moves around to the side of the chaise longue and begins to fondle my breasts with a light touch of his fingers, flicking the nipple softly, and licking me on my navel, then under the arms, tracing his tongue to my nipple, now in his mouth. He sucks it and it hardens. I groan again. I start frantically unbuttoning his jeans and his penis springs up free, hard, erect and enormous. I cry out at just the thought of it inside me. But wonder if it’s too big for me. This is hot. He is hot.

  “Keep telling me your story,” he entreats.

  “We were just taking it in turns to tickle each other’s arms and back with a bird’s feather. You know how girls do? I felt so relaxed. The feather passed by my genitals a few times and I clenched my thighs tightly together and had an orgasm. It was shocking at the time – such an unexpected surprise. I felt embarrassed as she was my best friend. Soon, I started going steady with her brother. He was my first love, my childhood sweetheart. I trusted him so much. With him it happened – I used to climax. He always took his time. But after we split up when I was twenty-two−”

  I can feel tears spilling from my eyes now, the champagne has made me open up, the music is so moving, and the truth, like an uninvited gatecrasher, barges its way through my mouth and into my living room. “I can’t come anymore having penetrative sex,” I weep. “I’m sorry, it’s the way I am, there’s nothing I can do about it. There, you know now, Alexandre. I’m sure you’d rather be spending time with another woman, someone young and more malleable – someone more receptive.”

  “But that’s one of the things I love about you, Pearl. You’re very receptive, and open to adventure. I don’t want to spend time with another girl. I want to be with you, don’t you see that?”

  “I mean, I love this,” I whisper. “I love everything you’ve been doing, I think you’re gorgeous, you’ve turned me on more than anyone has for years. You’ve opened up a secret place that I never knew I had inside me. You’re so sexy and everything but−”

  “There are no buts, Pearl – it’s all in the mind,” he interrupts. “Without nerves sending impulses back to the brain, an orgasm wouldn’t be possible. It’s not just physical – it’s a crescendo, an orchestra of emotions. The Big O is just an orchestra, chérie, that needs a conductor for guidance, nothing more. As I say, the biggest sex organ is your brain.”

  “But I don’t want you to be disappointed. Please don’t expect too much from me – don’t take it personally, Alexandre.”

  “Oh, I’m going to take this very personally. You don’t know me so well, Pearl Robinson, but one thing I love more than anything is a challenge.”

  5

  It is the next morning and I’m going over the night before, analyzing every move, every word spoken.

  Last night, after I told Alexandre about my inability to come from penetrative sex, he held back. I expected him to want to immediately prove himself, throw me on the bed there and then and hammer me senseless, but he didn’t.

  Instead, he took me out to an exquisite, outrageously expensive restaurant where all the waiters and staff appeared to be in harmonized sync – administering to your every need or whim without appearing to be there. Alexandre held my hand under the table as we l
anguished over this sublime meal, then he walked me home and kissed me goodnight without coming up to my apartment. It all felt so natural in the moment, so romantic, but now Doubt with a capital D is creeping into my psyche and it has obviously decided to hang out with me like one of those ‘friends’ you’ve had for years and you don’t have the gumption to tell them to take a walk.

  The landline is ringing. Great. Just what I need, it’s probably my brother and his Sunday call.

  “Hi,” he begins.

  “Hi Anthony.”

  “Who are you having brunch with?”

  “The usual.”

  “Your fat friend?”

  “Daisy is not fat!”

  “She is so.”

  “You saw her four years ago after she’d given birth, for Christ’s sake. Not everyone can be like Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow, and what’s her name who−”

  “So did you fuck him yet?”

  “If you’re going to talk to me please stop munching at the same time.”

  “It’s just an apple.”

  “Well it’s crunching down the receiver, Anthony, and it’s very annoying. Anyway, why haven’t you set up Skype yet? I’m trying to fold laundry and I have to squeeze the receiver to my ear with my shoulder. It’s very irritating not having my hands free.”

  “Too much of a hassle to set up,” he munches. Crunch, crunch.

  “No, it’s not. It’s simple. Get Bruce to do it.”

  “Bruce is hopeless. You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Well for your information, no, we didn’t. But we did spend the evening together and we…look, I’m not going to go into details with you, Anthony, you’re my brother.”

  “Sounds like he’s gay.”

  “Alexandre is so not gay. Why do you assume everyone is gay like you?”

  “When was this?”