Pearl on Cherry

by Chanse Lowell

  She let her lips part and then when he came at her, she unhinged her jaw, opening as wide as she could go.

  “Yes, ma chérie, that is the way. Light teasing licks and sucks at the head, then take it deeper. All the way back.” He jutted his hips forward. “Taste you on me. Know why I adore having my Frenchman’s tongue on your very wet hole and cleft.”

  She took him as far as she could, but he was so large, and she had but a tiny rosebud mouth.

  A thought flitted through her head. Sing!

  She imagined hitting a particularly high note and her throat automatically opened to allow the air to flow, only no air was coming out—his cock was going in.

  It was suffocating and made her panic for a moment to feel this fullness at the back of her throat, but she looked at him and the man positively beamed at her with tears in his eyes.

  “You like this—pleasing me—I know you do. And it’s everything.” He pleaded with her, his voice urgent. “Allez plus loin—suce plus fort comme ma pute favorite. Montrez moi que vous êtes excitée par ma bite enveloppée dans votre bouche. Vous détenez tout le pouvoir dans cette position. Je suis complètement à votre merci et à votre commande, ma petite Cherry.”

  She couldn’t believe how insatiable those words made her, even though the salty tang on her tongue was less than favorable.

  He liked this flavor of hers? It was odious.

  Maybe once she sucked her own juices off him, it would be better?

  She swallowed, and he made this husky grunting sound as her throat encased him snugly.

  “Oh Christ—swallow it, will you? I have to place my come in you now. I cannot allow it in your puss, but you can swallow it, yes, ma petite?”

  She tried to nod, but he was already flooding her mouth and she . . . Well, she was already swallowing it down as his cock backed off so she could do precisely that.

  “Fuck—that is beautiful, and you drive me to ruin.” He panted, swaying in place, his hips tightening and still flexing at the joints.

  It was mesmerizing—all his tiny, grooved muscles so different from her own, tensing and releasing.

  His chest even twitched as he choked on the humid air surrounding them.

  When he pulled out of her mouth, she whispered, “C'était un moment bénit de clareté.”

  “What did you say?” he barked. “Say that again.”

  “I said it was a blessed moment of clarity,” she repeated in English.

  “No—en Français.”

  She sputtered out several sentences. “J'aime consommer votre virilité et la laver avec ma langue. Il y a rien de plus gratifiant que de vous nettoyer de cette façon. Je ne m'en fatiguerai jamais.”

  He dropped to his knees and held her to his chest, rocking back and forth a little. “God, you do speak French. All this time, I thought I’d imagined it that first time I’d danced with you at the Vanderbilts’. I had thought you were ignorant of the crass things I said.”

  “I heard every word, Will.”

  “Jesus.” He pulled back, then plowed forward, melting his lips over hers.

  He took her down to his lap and kissed with leisurely licks and tugging teeth.

  When he had apparently had enough, he grabbed her and stood her up, then soaped her from top to bottom.

  His shampoo smelled like him—cedar and masculine.

  She failed to mind.

  Until his fingers snagged at the roots above her brow.

  She flinched.

  “Did I hurt you? I did not mean to pull.” His eyes searched hers.

  She smiled and glanced at his sudsy fingers. “It’s just that I have very thick curly hair and the water weighs it down, making it unbearably heavy. Your hands are much bigger than mine, so it’s difficult to deal with the tangles the wetness creates.”

  “Here”—he crouched down on the floor—“bend at the waist. It’ll spill your hair free and then I can get at the roots easier.”

  Her eyes welled up. “How have I not thought of this before?”

  “I daresay because you were rushing to get out of the cold water.” He frowned.

  “Yes, that’s true.” She did as he asked, doubling over.

  While he was down there, he soaped her hair up well, and she was once more releasing appreciative moans.

  Those hands—by God, they were created to torture her.

  “Stand up, but stay away from the water. I want to get it all out for you.”

  Her heart flooded with warmth that surpassed the heated spray, drenching her body.

  His painstaking way of caring for her was . . . Good Lord, she could barely breathe.

  It was melting her in place, the tender looks and soft caresses as he took care to be gentler this time while he rinsed her hair.

  A few tears were shed, but they blended with the droplets raining down on her, so she thought he was oblivious of them.

  When he was done, he was holding her once more, cooing in her ear, “My beautiful clean girl.”

  She whispered back, “Mon homme parfumé et diabolique qui aime me laver.”

  He chuckled, turned off the water and fetched her a towel from the hook on the wall outside the shower.

  “That was incredible,” she sighed as he toweled her off. “You enjoy this amenity daily?”

  “Sometimes more often than that. It depends, but, yes, I adore my shower, too. Even more so now that I’ve experienced it with you.”

  She daren’t share her most errant thought rooted in her brain right now. If you wanted to guarantee I stay with you—your best move would’ve been to deposit me in your warm shower, sir.

  She bit back a giggle.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing of import.” She pretended to yawn to hide her giddiness.

  He dropped down onto his toilet seat, took her over his knee, dropped her towel off of her and played with her by spanking her bottom several times until she squirmed. She was uncertain why this should be, but it made her laugh.

  “Tell me. You are to have no secrets from me.” He chuckled as she called him a nasty name in French.

  He gripped one cheek hard, his claws digging in.

  “All right, but sit me up first. This is undignified.” She laughed as he righted her on his lap.

  “Share it now, or I shall loose a few choice words on you as well, you foul-mouthed little vixen.”

  Her cheeks flamed at the memory of what she’d just called him. Motherfucker—but it sounded so much better in French. “I was only thinking that if you wanted to keep me, you should have shown me your shower first and let me feel that, rather than strapping me to your whipping table in your dark room.”

  His nose wrinkled and then she was ass up, head down, over his knee once more.

  Slaaaap. Slaaaap. Slaaaap.

  The moisture of her buttocks made it sound horrifyingly loud, but it didn’t hurt that bad.

  At least not afterward when he would massage her cheeks, then spread them.

  This time she failed to laugh. Instead she was moaning and wiggling on his lap, her puss clenching rhythmically with her cheeks in time during each connection of his hand. Oh, but it felt good . . .

  “This couillon—as you have dubbed me—will tell you now—you have a lovely asshole.” His fingers drifted down to her puckered anus, and she squealed.

  “But, sir, I . . .”

  “I warn you now, Cherry, I shall take it. You may bet on that. I love everything about you, including this.” He licked his finger and then prodded there.

  She wriggled on his lap, and her puss rippled with pleasure at the sound of his dark words.

  “’Twill be soon, so you are warned. I will prepare you, though.”

  “How?” she chirped.

  “With implements that are meant to spread and relax your ass open for me.” He chuckled, then she was upright again.

  She gulped. Implements? Spreading?

  What could those be?

  Was he teasing?

  She turned
and gave him a questioning brow.

  He replied with a smirk.

  Oh hell. He was serious.

  Her butt cheeks clenched in response.

  He laughed, kissed her, then stood her up with a resounding, final smack on her backside.

  “Love the way everything’s so new and”—he groped her bottom once more—“exciting.”

  She failed to see how any of it could be dull with him in charge.

  He toweled himself finally, after leaving several puddles all over the washroom floor.

  “I have never been in a water closet that has both a way to bathe and use the toilet,” she murmured, still stunned as she took it all in.

  “It is yours to drip on—at least with my come. The rest is debatable and negotiable. I rather like the idea of making you earn the right to shower.”

  She faced him, and her eyes narrowed. “That will not take place.”

  “Oh, it will not? We shall see.” He smirked with a small hiccup of a laugh.

  She hung up her towel and wandered into his bedroom, shrieking when she found one of his servants making the bed.

  The slim, short, balding man seemed ignorant of her presence, or paid her no heed as he went about his duties, unruffled.

  With naked limbs and a flare in her chest of utter embarrassment, she flew back at William and ducked behind him, ripping her towel back down off the hook she’d placed it on.

  He covered her with his as well so she’d be even more modest.

  “It’s only Davis. He’s my head butler. He would not have looked. He knows better than that.” He smiled.

  “Tu es vraiment le plus gros des couillons.”

  When he tipped his head back with a roaring laugh at the way she told him in French he was the biggest motherfucker ever, she tucked her chin down to her chest and stifled the ninniest girlie giggle ever.

  “Come—we get dressed and face a new day. I shall find a way to repay Leo for taking you in, and you, lovely one, shall be at my side all the day long.”

  She stood stock-still. “If you mean to make me face Lenora, then, no. I stay right here. I would much rather face the recriminating looks your household gives me than face that harlot woman that thinks she has talent.”

  “Very well. Then no clothes for you. Stay here if you like.” He shrugged and went about dressing himself in a freshly starched button up white shirt hanging from the edge of his bureau.

  She watched him from her spot by the entrance to the washroom with her feet shifting weight back and forth and shuffling beneath her.

  He would not leave her bared like this, would he?

  William ignored her until after he’d sprayed his throat with some deliciously potent cologne.

  He approached her with what was clearly a bottle of eau de toilette.

  “Look up and lift your chin,” he said in that deep, raspy tenor of his that had her legs squishing together at the height of her thighs.

  She did as he bade.

  “I purchased this for you—had it shipped along with your very feminine, enchanting underclothing. This one you have already earned for sucking me so well in the shower.” He spritzed her neck, then patted the side of her thigh. “Drop your head now and thank me with a kiss.”

  She leaned forward, puckering slightly.

  He gripped the back of her head with his free hand and tugged her forward. “You smell like something I want to devour once more.”

  “Flower water is most winsome indeed,” she said, mocking him with a very formal way of speaking.

  He kissed her, tucked the bottle of diluted perfume into her hand and then he took her to the wall.

  His legs pinioned hers in place, and while he was fully clothed and she naked, he did unspeakable things to her.

  He pinched her nipples and tugged at them until she was almost to her knees.

  Her cunny throbbed violently. “Please . . . Please . . .”

  He panted in her face. “Please what? You want clothing now? You want to be at my side as my lovely cherry girl all day so I can rest easy that you are safe and will not flee from here the second I turn my back on you?”

  “Y-yes, please, sir. I want all of that.”

  “Very good.” He released her breasts, then licked and blew across them, chilling them.

  Her stomach tightened. She threaded her fingers into his hair. “Vous êtes si beau et fort.”

  He blinked and peered into her eyes. Those moss green eyes had her transfixed. “No, ‘tis you that are the beautiful, strong one. Not I.”

  She whimpered as he latched his mouth onto hers and tucked her into his chest.

  It was so easy to mold into his iron hold. Like snuggling into his comfortable downy bed.

  “Aaaahhhhuuuuhhh,” she sighed and her shoulders dropped as she lost all elasticity in her muscles.

  He was holding her up.

  “My Will—my temptation,” she said.

  He laughed and released her. She knew he loved it when she called him Will, instead of using his full name, so she was taking full advantage right now.

  “I like your laugh,” she said, pretending to pout as he walked away from her.

  “Good. I cannot live without yours, so I am pleased to hear it.”

  “Where are you going?” She backed toward his washroom.

  “To get your clothing. I presume you meant it when you said yes to clothing, and that you did not beg in vain?” He gave her that rakish brow.

  She nodded and sucked her lips in.

  He chuckled, then shut the door behind him as he exited into the hallway, barefoot.

  She cowered in the corner, ducking down in case he meant to teach her a lesson and leave her behind.

  Perhaps she should put on some more of his clothes just in case.

  His shirt and trousers he’d ruined earlier that she had put on where gone now.

  Most likely Davis removed those, along with the excess of food she had not finished.

  What a waste. She had wasted food. How dare she.

  Oh, what must his household think of her?

  She worked on suppressing a moan of disgust at herself.

  Instead, she opened his drawers, rummaging through them once more.

  She pulled out a folded up undershirt and placed it against her body to check the size, when William came back through, holding three boxes.

  “Put that down at once, madam,” he said, placing the parcels on the bed.

  Her eyes roamed over his happy visage first before raking over his beautiful bed.

  The counterpane was an icy blue silk with embroidered straight lines stitched up the bottom.

  That was the sumptuous fabric she had slept under last night.

  Once more guilt rifled through her.

  She was ungrateful for so much.

  Last night she had almost slept in Miller’s filthy bed, but instead wound up in what a king could comfortably settle down in for a night’s slumber.

  “I should leave,” she said under her breath.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Only I am privileged enough to see you in this state.” He smirked like he did so often.

  She clasped her hands in front of her belly and let her eyes linger on his finely tailored clothes he wore.

  How had she wound up here?

  “Open these, and then you will allow me to dress you.” He patted the smallest box.

  She drifted over to him and removed the soft pink wrappings.

  Her heart convulsed like mad when she opened it and saw something so lacy and exquisite, it could not possibly be meant for her body.

  She gripped the box and fought for air and for some way to keep steady. “This cannot be for me.”

  “It is. I created it with such a creature as you in mind. You are the only woman I will allow to don it.”

  She swayed in spot, feeling suffocated. “I need a . . . a moment please.” She stepped away and went back to her naked corner from before, turned toward the wall, set her palms and forehead on the
wall.

  “This is not real. This does not happen to me. I am just a girl from grimy Cherry Street,” she muttered to herself.

  Warm hands were placed on her shoulders, then squeezed the life back into her. “I want you to have these things, and I will be greatly aggrieved if you refuse them. Please, ma chérie. Let me dote on you, dear heart.” His voice was soft, so ragged with his pleading that she found herself nodding and shuffling back over with numb limbs to his gift she was unfit to accept.

  “Unwrap the other two,” he instructed.

  She did so, barely blinking.

  It got worse.

  They looked more expensive with exotic fabrics and unheard of colors.

  The slippery feel of the gauzy fabric for her garters in her fingers had her hyperventilating.

  “I shall dress you. Relax into my touch—you are so tense,” he said, massaging her shoulders for a moment, then he began.

  It was a blur of “step here,” and “move there,” along with “lift your right foot, Cherry.”

  Her mind went hazy as his calloused fingers gentled along her breasts, down her torso and at her lower back.

  The fabrics glided over her and she refused to look at any of it, but only soak up the sounds of his quiet, riveted, thrilled gasps.

  She was ridiculous. This was preposterous. She could not make these clothes be presented the way he meant.

  “A masterpiece, my darling cherry girl is.” He stepped away and his eyes raked over her. “Sssfffff,” he sucked in his saliva.

  Was his mouth watering over her?

  Yes, it was, for he was gripping his cock and stroking it. Over her?

  Did she not look like a silly little girl, playacting as a sensual woman to be worshiped?

  “If I make it out of this room alive with you at my side, knowing you wear my lingerie under that bodice and that skirt, I will feel most accomplished indeed.”

  She swallowed and tried to move the lump in her throat. “I feel . . .”

  “Yes, you do. My own favored slut.”

  She shook her head. “Unworthy.”

  He picked her up and set her on the bed. “Do you need a sound lashing on your ass?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what is the problem here? You are delectable and the most enchanting woman ever.”