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

by CJ Roberts

  “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 VIPs 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.”

  It’s true. The pressure is turning me on and I start squirming in my seat, even though I have my seatbelt on. He eases his hands underneath me, cupping both his palms below my buttocks, lifting me a few inches off my seat. His fingers are slipping into me from behind, then tracing up the crack of my ass and back down. His thumb is inside me now – that magic thumb which seems to know where my G-spot is. I start moaning quietly. I have my eye on the flight attendant, still strapped into her seat. She’s reading a magazine and the seats between us almost block her view. Almost.

  “Haven’t you had enough of me for one day?” I ask in a whisper, conscious that we could be seen.

  “Don’t forget, you’re still being punished for being an ambitious little American brat.” He punctuates the ‘brat’ with pressure from his thumb on that elusive spot. It feels amazing.

  “What kind of punishment?” I ask softly – the throb more intense as his thumb circles inside me.

  “I think a bit of slow torture, don’t you? I think you need to be taught a real lesson.”

  “What kind of lesson?” I breathe.

  “I’m sure I can think of something.”

  “Oh yeah? Like some more whipping me with your tongue? Or beating me again with the feather?” The idea of it makes me shudder with anticipation.

  “No. Not that.”

  I can feel my breath quicken. “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  My legs are still crossed tight. The full skirt of my pink flowery dress covers his hand, but the plane has leveled out now… oh no! The flight attendant is un-strapping herself from her seat and is making her way in this direction.

  I wriggle in my seat, “Alexandre take your hand away,” I hiss at him, but he’s laughing and he won’t move it. His thumb is pressing harder on that sweet spot now. Ah…panic – she’s meandering towards us – smiling at us. This is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me. Oh my God! I cross my legs tighter, my thighs acting as clamps to try and force his hand away out from in between my legs. She’s upon us now. I can feel it building up. At the last second he takes his hand from out beneath me but it’s too late because seconds before he releases it, he pushes hard with his thumb and I feel a volt surge through me and explode in a massive spasm…the fear of being caught, the excitement, the shame, all merge into one thundering orgasm, pounding like an adrenaline-rushed heartbeat shooting right up my V-8. My legs are still crossed. I keep the pressure up and squeeze my muscles together even tighter and a second rush is upon me. Boy oh boy, this is gloriously intense. But very embarrassing.

  “Can I get anything for you both?” she asks sweetly.

  My body is shuddering with delicious contractions. Every nerve is concentrated between my legs as if the rest of me was a rag doll. I’m coming in both places: Alexandre’s thumb’s final press on my G-spot, coupled with the clench of my thigh muscles putting pressure on my clit, has sent me over the edge.

  Alexandre is laughing. My eyes are half closed, my mouth hanging open, my breath caught in what seems like a seizure. My stomach muscles are juddering. I’m shaking all over.

  “Are you okay, madame?” she asks in a French accent with a look of great consternation. She is bending over me frowning – her eyes worried.

  “She gets a little queasy,” Alexandre replies, and then bursts out laughing again.

  “Is she going to be sick?”

  “No, she’ll recover,” he utters with an ironic smirk. “If you could bring us some champagne that would be great.”

  The hostess looks shocked. She must be thinking he’s crazy to ask for champagne when I seem as if I’m about to barf, or worse, have a heart attack. “Are you sure?” she double-checks.

  “Quite sure – champagne is good for her, eases up the muscles a bit. Don’t worry, I know what her body needs.”

  Oh yes, I think, still shuddering. You know my body better than I do.

  The flight attendant moves off. Thank God. I am aware that he could have said all
this to her in French but he obviously wanted me to experience full humiliation. His punishment.

  “Are you having fun, Pearl?” He chuckles again.

  I can’t speak – the mini aftershocks of that 9.1 earthquake on the Richter scale are still giving me ripples of intense pleasure – tremors like bells inside my body have every part of me shimmering and quivering.

  “Such a disrespectful little hussy, aren’t you? Have you no decorum at all?” He breaks into another grin.

  I finally uncross my legs. “You bastard.” Then a smile forces its way onto my lips.

  “Well I did say we were ‘coming along for the ride.’ But to be honest, I wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.”

  “Coming along for the ride. Really, Alexandre,” and then I joke, “don’t rub it in.”

  We both laugh. “Don’t think you’re off the hook yet, Ms. Robinson, we still have to fill in our membership form. I’d like to come along for the ride too, don’t forget.”

  “Fill in – very funny. Forget it. I refuse to be a member of this silly Mile High Club. Won’t do it. Just won’t. You can put a giant tick against the ‘Pearl – Public Humiliation’ box on your goddam list and leave me alone in peace for the rest of the flight.”

  The chilled champagne arrives. I look up at the flight attendant from under my lashes and smile furtively, sheepishly – then keep my gaze down, mortified that she can guess what has just happened. Perhaps it’s part of her job – to pretend she doesn’t know what’s going on.

  Egged on by thirst and a sense of shame, I find myself glugging down my beverage like water, wondering what else could be on Alexandre’s proverbial (or actual) list of things to ‘encourage’ me to do. He’s clever – it all appears as if it is coming (no pun intended) from my own free will – and it is – yet –

  Why do I feel I’m being controlled by him?

  I curl up against his strong shoulders and the next thing I know, my body collapses into an exhausted, profound sleep.

  When I wake up all the lights are dimmed and it’s pitch dark outside the plane windows. I find myself – not curled up next to him anymore – but stretched out, the seat down like a bed. He must have moved me when I was asleep. I glance over and he’s working on something – charts or graphs – it looks extremely mathematical.

  “Hey, baby, you’re finally awake,” he says, winking at me. I’m glad to see the gentle Alexandre has returned.

  “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “About four hours.”

  “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

  “Haven’t I,” he says distracted, still concentrated on his task.

  “No.”

  “Hang on – I’ll be all yours in a minute – just have to finish this.”

  I get up, grab my handbag and go to the bathroom. Even though it’s a private jet, the toilet lights are disconcertingly bright. Yuk. It shows up every wrinkle, every blemish. I have to stop myself from launching into a full facial there and then. I pee, then wash my hands and face, underarms and private parts and brush my teeth. I notice panda rings about my eyes – how did that happen? I clean them up and re-apply my mascara, brush out my hair and dot myself with my perfume, which happens to be French, a heady but fresh scent of figs that always makes me feel invigorated. I dab some under my arms and a teensy bit on my mound of Venus. I look in the mirror. That’s better, I’m ready. Ready for what? I ask myself.

  Ready for anything.

  When I get back to my seat, Alexandre has Bob Marley’s Is This Love? playing softly on his iPad. A good sign, I think. He welcomes me with a grin.

  “Sexy woman,” he comments, and he then unwittingly bites his lower lip. Uh, oh.

  “Alexandre, we need to talk.”

  He looks me up and down. “I’m listening.” But he’s not listening – his eyes are roving all over me. I’m standing – a trick I learned about self-empowerment; when you have something important to say, take the high ground.

  “We haven’t had a chance to discuss what happened – the way I behaved, my reasons.”

  “It’s in the past now,” he answers, running his gaze to my cleavage.

  “Well, it’s not. You were so angry with me. You didn’t call me for a week.”

  “You received your little punishment, it’s over now.”

  “It’s just – before I met you, I expected you to be some kind of geek. I’d only seen one photo of you−”

  “I don’t do photos or interviews, nor red carpet.”

  “I know – you took me by surprise. I didn’t want you to think I only wanted to get to know you just because of what you did – your job. I wanted to−”

  “You wanted,” he clarifies, “to fuck me the second you saw me and you worried that if we were involved professionally it would spoil things. That you might blow your chance with me.”

  “You are so arrogant!”

  “I’m French, what do you expect?” But he’s laughing in a self-depreciating way, so I begin to laugh, too.

  “What am I going to do with you?” I say, waving my finger at him. I’m still standing.

  He angles his seat into a flat bed and then grabs my legs. He’s pulling me onto his knee. “You’re going to ride me.”

  “No way, we’ve been through this. I won’t.”

  “Oh yes, you will.”

  I look about the cabin. It’s quiet and the politician is fast asleep. The flight attendant is nowhere to be seen. “No, Alexandre. And after your ‘rape’ earlier today in my apartment, to tell you the truth, I’m a little bit sore.”

  “You’re right. I behaved like a thug. It was just that….all I could think about was you. All week. I was going crazy. Just picturing your ass in my mind made me hard. All I could think about was your ass, your tits, your face. Relax now, Pearl – sit on my knee for a bit and I’ll tell you about where we’re going.”

  I sit on his lap, feeling all warm with the knowledge that he was obsessing about me as much as I was about him. “I’m so excited about this trip. Paris?”

  “No.”

  “Provence?”

  “That’s right, baby.” He pulls out the kingfisher feather from his pants pocket and blows on it.

  “I never got a chance to see this,” I remark.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” He brushes it lightly across my brow. “Close your eyes,” he whispers.

  I close them and feel the lightest touch. He strokes my nose with it, my lips. “Hold up your hair,” he says in a soft voice. “And bend your neck down.” I do, and he traces the feather along the nape of my neck. I purr with pleasure. “The lavender fields should be in bloom,” he tells me. “There are wonderful markets everywhere with fresh produce sold directly by local farmers. Hundreds of cheeses to choose from – and olives and pastries. Pretty hats. Delicious treats to eat. Thousands of wines. Chilled rosé at lunch, pale as rainwater – tapenade on home-made bread.”

  His beautiful voice is distant as I’m in a zone all of my own, enjoying the sensation of the feather on my neck. He draws it up behind my ears and I shiver. Then around to my front. It’s on my cleavage now – my body with a mind of its own doing its tingling. I wanted to say no – I did say no, but I find myself silently willing him to unzip my dress at the back. He does. I wiggle on his thighs pushing my panty-free ass into his groin and feel that familiar hardness. I start throbbing. Groundhog Day all over again – but in the best possible way. I want to keep doing this forever. He’s kissing the back of my neck so gently, and running the feather around my breasts, circling them, grazing the feather over my nipples.

  “Oh Pearl,” he whispers in my ear. “Sweet, delicious Pearl – so addictive.” I can feel his hands pull his erection free from his pants and he lifts my skirt so it is flesh on flesh. His hardness against the soft pad of my butt. “I love you….so close. I love you….near me.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you love me, Alexandre?” I smile.

  He lifts my leg over so I am in
a straddling position facing him. He kisses me on the mouth. There’s no turning back now. I simply don’t have the willpower. He’s pulled the top part of my dress down from my shoulders and his tongue is flipping and rolling over one nipple. He lies back flat, pulls me down and eases me on top of him by maneuvering my hips.

  “So wet, baby,” he coos as I slip right onto him. “Oh yeah, that’s good. Soo good. Oh yeah. So ready. Now what I’m going to do is just lie here and you ride me as you see fit. You have the reins, okay?”

  I nod. I’m loving this horse. This stud. Something about knowing we could be caught mid-act turns me on even more. He feels incredible. I straighten my legs so we are flush – flat body to flat body.

  “Here,” he says, popping a little cushion under his tight buns. This way I’m closer to you, you’ll feel me more. Remember, go as slow or as fast as you want. You dictate the rhythm, chérie.”

  The cushion under him has his pubic bone pushing on my clitoris every time I come back down. I’m pulling out almost completely so that only his tip is at my entrance. My clit brushes against his taut stomach, the hard points of my nipples graze against the muscles on his pecs. I take another pillow and push it under his head so he’s closer. He starts sucking my tits like they were fruits, rimming his tongue around them, nibbling them. I launch back down again so I’m all filled up, swollen and hot with his size. Then I pull up, slowly. Aah, this is bliss. I’m squirming about on him making little circles and then coming hard back down. It’s making him groan and he grabs my hips so I can’t move.

  “I thought you said I was in charge,” I scold, lightly biting his neck.

  “Baby, if you do that one more time I’m going to come. Easy, you sexy rider.”

  I’m loving this; even more, knowing that it is just me and my movements that are turning him on so much.

  “Suck my tits again,” I whisper. He does.

  I lie there languidly on top, his throbbing cock only an inch inside me. The pleasure from his nibbling and sucking is immense. I start moving now, just a little bit, and can feel myself building up to it. I circle some more and he’s got his hands tight on my ass.