Free Forty Shades of Pearl by Arianne Richmonde Page A

feel one finger slip inside me.
    “So, so wet,” he murmurs, biting his lower lip. “You’re making me rock-hard, chérie. I’m going to have to do something about that. You’re really asking for it, aren’t you, Pearl? So soon? And I haven’t even started yet.”
    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.