“See where you belong—on my table, spread out like a feast of ripe cherries for a famished man.”
She made this dying moan as her puss quivered at the mere inching of his mouth toward her.
Oh, yes, her body remembered what it felt like to have his tongue down there.
She was already puddling for him.
How much longer ‘til she made a mess on his shiny surface?
To cover her embarrassment as he drew her knickers down, she said, “Am I here merely to amuse you, Ferrismore?”
“You are here for my pulsing pleasure and for the betterment of society.” He nipped at the back of her right thigh as he dragged her clothing down.
“Betterment? Society?” Her voice broke on the final word.
“Yes, precisely. You are here so I do not have to subject others less able to deal with my consuming need to control and conquer.” He pulled her knickers free, then went after her garters and stockings.
“I am not something you can toss around at a whim.”
Slaaaap.
His hand came down on her posterior.
“You are mine to toss onto my table, whip and fuck at my whim. That is what slakes both our heated, throbbing lusts in our bodies.”
She hissed for a moment when he stroked the heated flesh he’d accosted.
“Your pink derriere calls to me, as you do, ma petite.” His voice deepened. “Je vous désire, et rien ne peut plus m’arrêter maintenant . . .”
He hungered for her? Good God . . .
She soaked up every word, every syllable. It sounded even naughtier in French when he said these types of things—damn this man.
“I love your pussy—the way it trembles around my fingers and tastes of you,” he said, taking her in his mouth.
She spilled a moan out of her tight lungs on contact.
His tongue moved over every inch of her and explored every small space.
“Oh, William, please . . .”
“Please, what? Ruin you the way you’ve ruined me? Take your prized virginity so you no longer have it to gift to a future husband?”
Her head went fuzzy. She should say, yes, he was right. She needed to retain her maidenhead, but he was, oh Christ!
His fingers were inside her as he also pinched at the pinnacle of her ultimate spot—the place of pleasure.
Her hips bucked back, thrusting her bottom at him.
Slaaaaap.
“Tell me what your choice is? Ruin you? Penetrate the heart of you—make your cherry bleed for me? Hmm . . . ?” He massaged, kneaded, pinched, kissed and parted the cheeks of her behind, taking his time as if to savor each grope.
“Yes, oh God . . . Please!”
Her senses were obliterated as he made her come undone once more like he had back at the dressing room.
“If I do this, you are mine completely. You come to me when I ask, and you let me fuck you at will,” he responded.
“Please . . .”
“Yes or no. Please is not an answer.”
She panted and whimpered a loud, “Yes, take me.”
“With pleasure, ma chérie. Vous êtes encore plus délicieuse qu’imaginable, and je suis affamé de vous. J’ai l’intention de dévorer chaque centimètre de votre corps—vous savourer avec ma langue. Je suis mort d’envie pour vous, et ce moment est tout ce que j’ai désiré avec passion. Ma vie a culminé vers ce point—pour que soyez mienne, sous moi et dans mes mains.”
She failed to reply. What was she to say? That she felt the same—that he was more delicious than she could have ever dreamed, that she craved him incessantly and was dying to be his? Even if that was true, there was no possible way to voice such a thing, because he was yanking her hands out of the holes in the table, flipping her over and pulling her knees back.
“When I surge inside you, hold onto my shoulders. It should help.”
“Help with what?”
“The tearing of your hymen,” he said, then his mouth was on hers, his tongue pushing inside as something lower down, hot, thick and rounded, edged its way inside her.
He circled his hips slowly.
Her breath pounded out of her nostrils, and her chest heaved as he toyed at her entrance.
There was something just out of grasp. She was unsure what it was.
This burning in her chest had her breathless.
“Please . . .” she said through her teeth once more, tipping her head back, gasping for air.
“You shall have all of me in due time. Stretch and accommodate me, ma sweet cherry. Take a large man into your tight, little body—allow your hole to swallow me up at its own pace.”
His words made her insides ripple along the tip of him, and then his breath hitched. “Fuck—I . . . You will force me to harm you if you do that again. Hold still. Inside and out.”
“Yes,” she breathed out on a tiny exhalation.
Oh, it was starting to pinch and burn a little as he inched inside a little more.
She was suffocating beneath him now as his full weight pressed into her.
“Please . . . Oh God, you are . . . It singes me.”
“It does not. It bites but a moment. Trust me. You will love this when it fades.” He pulled back a little, then circled his hips once more, edging further in.
It was too tight. Too full. “No, no, it is . . . I did not expect this to invade me this way.”
“What do you want me to do? Leave you wanting more—frustrated because I did not push you past the pain? I will not do that to you. I want you to see what awaits you on the other side.”
“There is nothing worse than this—it tears at me,” she whimpered.
“I will stop then.” He began to pull out, but she yelped.
“No! Do not leave me!” She gripped his shoulders.
“Continue then?” His eyes were on hers.
“Yes.” Her lips parted, and her eyes pleaded for more.
“Yes. Yes. Yes . . .” He sighed. “That is the best word I have ever heard. You want me, and you want more?”
“Yes.” She nodded, then sucked in a tight breath.
His mouth went back on her—slow, assaulting and overwhelming.
He pulsed his tongue in and out and then his hips matched the rhythm with slow increments. A little further each time.
The pain receded and this new pain took hold, only she liked this pain. It was a burn she wanted to feed.
Her throat emitted this closed off, low moan.
He echoed that sound. “Christ—fucking you is all I know from this point on,” he said into her mouth. He took hold of her bottom lip, nibbling at it.
She made a soft cooing sound—the likes she’d never heard or made before.
“That’s it . . . You are wet and inviting for me—my soft, treasured girl. Like a juicy cherry—dripping when pierced, then laid over the tongue.”
“Please, I . . .” Her puss convulsed once more at his dark, seductive tone.
“If I miss a day of having you like this, I shall never forgive you.” His tone was urgent as his hips sped up.
“How shall you . . .” She wanted to ask how he would have her daily, but there was this pressure building, closing off her throat.
She gripped his shoulders harder.
“That’s it . . . I know you cannot get enough of how deep I am in you now. Touch it. Touch the head of my cock with your pussy muscles. Clamp down around the tip. Feel it press and massage your deepest, most cherished spots.” He went back to kissing her, and he wrapped his arms around her head, holding her in place as he pushed and pulled back. Surged and receded—taking her sanity with him.
How would she go on after this?
How could she pretend the world would still appear the same?
She was alive—bursting with energy from her fingertips to her toes.
“Feel it, lovely cherry. Feel how I own you and possess you completely. Let go. Take me with you when you do,” he whispered in her ear, then tickled his tongue at the sensitive spot b
elow it.
His fingers unwound around her, then went to her breasts.
Oh, oh, oh!
Her lower back arched into him, forcing his length to slip out.
He wrapped his tongue around her right nipple. His hands were back inside her, torturing her release right out of her.
Her toes curled to the point of pain, and her legs bent, then flexed.
“Deeper. You need me. You cannot get me deep enough inside you. Say it, Clarissa. Tell me this has you bound completely to me.”
“Yes, oh, God!” She shattered at her admission, thrashing below him.
And then he was up on his knees, pumping his cock with his right hand and spilling his come all over her belly.
She choked on her breath at the sight as her orgasm hit its peak and then wound down.
He grunted, stared straight in her eyes and kept thrusting in his fist. One of his hands played with her private curls and her swollen womanly flesh, then drifted through the milky white cream he left on her skin.
“I’ve painted my cherry into a pearl now,” he said, his voice hoarse and cracking.
“But I am still a pit.” She giggled.
He did not.
His body dropped over hers, and he kissed her even more hungrily than he had before, sucking at her tongue and inhaling as if she was feeding him the air he needed to survive.
Her arms wound around his back, and she stroked at his nape.
“You are ruined . . . You are ruined,” she chanted, when he let her mouth go.
He nodded, wore this broken expression and tucked his head up under her chin and laid his cheek at her breast. “But you already knew that.”
“Not to this extent.” She sighed.
“So, fix me. Make this never-ending ache in my chest go away like you just did when I was inside you.”
“William—you are not an old rag I can mend, and I have no power over you.”
“Like hell you don’t. I search for you when you are not near. I cannot abide it when you flee.” He sighed. “So, I say again. Fix. Me.”
“How? I mend clothes and wash items. You cannot be cleansed by me.”
“But I can.” He gripped her tight, nuzzling his nose into her neck.
“You are not a torn, broken rag,” she repeated.
“No—I am your lover—the powerful man you’ve broken and taken to his knees.”
She didn’t know what to say—she held him back and cried quietly, letting her tears find their way into his hair.
No one had ever burrowed so deeply inside her in every way like this man had.
His ache inside his chest could not possibly rival her own for him.
* * *
Clarissa was sore. Oh how it hurt to walk.
That man had bent her over, curving her body around the edge of that table and taken her from behind before he would allow her to go to sleep.
And after she woke in his bed, unaware of how she got there, she arose and snuck out of his home.
She had debated cleaning up the mess she had left on his whipping table, but she was too worried he would wake and discover her leaving.
And there was no way she could stay there.
What did they think? She would be his secret mistress?
She would be lucky if her friend Elizabeth did not kick her out for being an inconstant roommate.
From now on, she would be more reliable.
Servants liked to gossip, and these people that worked for him—they lived where she did, or knew other people that did. Oh, yes, they would talk about what a whore Clarissa turned out to be, and how she had been bedded by Ferrismore, moaning like a cat in heat, caterwauling in the night.
She shook her head and straightened her shoulders as she crept out his back door.
This was right. She would go back to auditioning and sweep her fears under her laundry pile.
It was her only focus now—to sing and perform.
Her night with William was a moment of insanity and nothing more.
She blinked slowly, in a daze and whispered her fingers over her still-tingling lips. The way that man held and kissed her . . . It was like he would die if he did not have more of her, and it set her very bones on fire.
God, she was ruined—and more than just losing her virginity. How could she ever think of being with another man after all that she had seen, heard and done with him? She would never want to be with another, for it would surely pale in comparison to the night of sin and pleasure she experienced in his home.
She took a fortifying breath and quickened her pace as she skulked down Pearl Street, making sure to duck her head down so no one would see her face.
He would wake soon and be glad she was gone.
This was right.
This was right.
Her fingers flexed, and her legs threatened to buckle, then turn around on her, taking her back to him for more.
He would most likely give her more if she asked.
You can’t ask for that! For shame, Clarissa!
She pressed her lips together into a cold, frozen line.
No more kissing. No more whoring for him.
Her lips still tingled and buzzed no matter how hard she smashed them together.
Was he awake already?
She walked as briskly as she could.
Yes, he was probably an early riser and would be rousing now.
He’d be pleased she had the sense to depart before he had to shuttle her out the door.
A man of his caliber did not want a clingy, poor beggar woman to wake up to.
Her eyes stung, and her heart tore a little at the thought of him being happy she was gone.
She went back to imagining him smiling at her absence, otherwise she would most certainly turn back around.
Keep going. Head home. He does not want you for anything more than what you already did for him.
In fact, he would most likely be ashamed he had ever touched her in such an intimate fashion.
Her heart cinched down harder at that thought.
She patted her chest and walked, walked, walked, walked on.
Once home, she waited for her turn to use the washroom.
It was sticky between her legs and still really wet in her creases and folds.
The water closet was tiny, and all four of these ladies had to take turns.
When someone exited, the next shuffled in.
She hoped she did not reek of William enough they would notice.
Oh God, it would be three days until it was women’s free wash day at the floating baths. Could she wait that long? Would sponge baths suffice to remove his scent from off her?
She cringed, knowing damned well it would not be enough.
Nothing would ever get his wonderful, comforting, exotic scent out of her head. There was no disinfectant strong enough to do that.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the dark, dank hallway.
William had windows. What must that be like to wake up to natural light? What of opening the sashes and throwing the panes opened as well?
Visions dashed at her senses, and she imagined staring out into his lush gardens from inside his home and feeling a gentle breeze dance past her. Her arms erupted in goose bumps. She crossed her arms over her chest to hide her reaction.
One of her roommates stopped and looked her over. “Ain’t you the new girl staying wit us now?”
“Yes, hi—I’m Clarissa.”
“You sounds like you gots money, and lots of it.” The red-haired woman sniffed. She was tiny, but had a waspy attitude to go with the plethora of freckles covering most of her face and the tops of her very large breasts pushed up under her chin.
“No, I don’t.”
“Can you afford to be here wit us then?” The woman grinned.
“I believe so, yes. If I lack the funds, then I shall move elsewhere.” Clarissa backed way.
The woman followed. “I’m Suzie.”
“Nice to meet you.” Clar
issa was almost backed up against a wall.
“You smell like you been with a man. An expensive man. Did he pay ya?”
“No! God in Heaven—no!” She wanted to blurt out she wasn’t a prostitute, but then she thought better of it. This woman might be a streetwalker for all Clarissa knew.
“Good.” That was all Suzie said, then she stepped outside and immediately flew into a tirade at the Italian grocer, lobbing rotten fruit her way.
“Tramp! We don’ts want no trollops round here!” He flung more and more.
Clarissa raced out, ignoring the fact her instincts were probably correct. This woman was a paid whore.
Oh mercy. What if William had been with this woman?
She’d heard about how he used to pay for his wicked pleasures.
All at once, Clarissa felt dirtier than ever, but she helped Suzie cross the street, taking the brunt of the bruised fruit on the back of her own dress.
What did it matter? She needed to burn this thing anyway. There was no way she could ever wear it again—it would only serve to remind her of the wonderful wicked things William had done to her.
Her chest throbbed, and so did her puss.
“Thanks,” Suzie said, then she blazed down the street, running very fast for someone so short.
Clarissa stalked back over to the grocer with the thick, wiry black mustache and black mop of curly hair on top of his squarish head.
“Look here—it is unacceptable for you to do that to that poor woman!”
“Poor? Woman? She’s a monster! She took my son’s innocence, and he—”
“Did he pay her for it?” she asked.
Swaaaack!
A mushy tomato was slopped in her face. “You shut your mouth, you little tramp, or I treat you worse than her. Huh? You wants some more? I will run you out of here! Decent folk live here. Families!”
The old, worn lines of his face crinkled so hard she could barely see his black beady eyes.
“I am sorry she caused you pain. I am not a slut, and I—” she cut herself off because, yes, she was. She was William’s slut last night, and she had not been paid and had lost all she was.
Her shoulders fell forward.
“Please, just . . . We want peace. We won’t cause any trouble here. Can you allow us that much?” she implored.
Pearl on Cherry Page 8