Pearl on Cherry

by Chanse Lowell

  He sucked in a breath. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

  “You’re welcome.” She released his hand, and he pulled the pearl necklace off her and set it aside.

  “Now, the objects in the bag.” He pointed with his chin at the reticule.

  She blinked in rapid succession and stopped breathing. “You’re going to drink champagne out of my new bag along with the slipper and ruin it?”

  Her eyes lingered over the white satin purse with the fine draw strings and tassels.

  “Not champagne, no—and you’ll be drinking it.” He smirked.

  Her shoulders dropped. “Riddles hardly become you. Tell me what you’re planning.”

  “Give me the slipper and the reticule, and I will show you.” He extended his palm.

  She handed him the slipper first. He filled it with the champagne, drank it with five large gulps and once it was swallowed down, he set the shoe and bottle aside.

  “Now, the purse,” he said, eyeing her.

  She gave him another questioning look and did as he requested.

  “You’re to touch me—elongate my shaft and milk my come out of me,” he said, holding the reticule aloft and fully open to catch what she released from his cock.

  She bit her lower lip, her eyes looked unfocused and then she huffed. “Will, I don’t think—”

  “Good. I don’t want you to. Yank it, love—hard.” He shoved his dick closer to her mouth. “Now.”

  “All right, but I . . .” She trailed off, wrapped her hands around his length and pumped him.

  He leaned over, braced his hands on either side of her thighs on the bed with the reticule tucked under one of his palms. His face was in front of hers. “Do you like the way that feels? The dirty way I glide in your hands, Cherry girl?”

  “Yes.” Her breath hitched.

  “What do you like about it?” He nipped at her lower lip.

  She made this soft plaintive moan that made his stones tighten.

  “It makes me wet,” she said, her voice going soft and airy. “And very trembly about the tummy and knees.”

  “Wet enough you need new knickers or panties? Wet enough you seep through onto your garters? Hmm . . . When you use the washroom, does it get on your hands?”

  “God, William.” She groaned, and her eyes slid up into her head.

  “Wet enough you are close to releasing your own orgasm without my ever touching you?”

  “I . . . How would I . . .”

  “You would think about how much I want you, and how I die to have you—your puss would clench tight and ripple within you, awakening your womb, preparing it for my come.” He ran his nose alongside hers. His breath pelted her lips.

  She parted hers in response, barely releasing any breath at all.

  “Breathe, little girl, or you’ll pass out, and I can’t have that. Not on my wedding night—the night you’ll toast to me by drinking my come out of your reticule.” He thrust his cock more vigorously into her hands. “Tighter.”

  Her hands clamped down.

  “Faster.” His breathing went ragged.

  She nodded and upped her speed.

  “Ready? Ready to be wet with me and come at the same time?” His eyelids went heavy.

  “But I . . .”

  He moved back to standing upright, holding the bag open at his tip, ready to spurt inside it in dirty, hot waves of come.

  “You have permission to touch yourself with one hand. That’s all I’ll give you right now. But I want to see you needy for me, fingers wet with what I’ve already provided for you between your sensual thighs.”

  She fought off a visible shiver, rummaged under her skirts with her right hand and delved inside her tiny panties he had her wear for their wedding.

  “Let me see,” he said, still having her playact sex with her hand on his cock.

  She pulled her hand back out, produced her shiny, very wet fingers.

  He bent his head down, licked and sucked until they were clean.

  She moaned, bent her head back and then he was choking on a hoarse cry as his come was spurting into her bag.

  “Oh God—that was . . . Sweet Jesus, Clary, I love you!” he whimpered, his voice high pitched.

  She kept tugging at his foreskin until he yanked his hips back.

  Before his vision cleared, she tipped the bag up and was gulping the contents down.

  “My God in Heaven,” he said, leaning his wobbling legs into the bed and gripping her shoulders for support.

  When she had drunk it all, she licked her lips, set the bag aside and wiped the back of her mouth with the panties he’d gifted her with.

  “Fuck—that was more erotic than I could have imagined.” He slipped down to his knees, pulled her shoes off and then put the slippers on her.

  “Am I to dance for you now?”

  “Yes, on my cock. In a few moments. I’ll strip you of your clothing, you sing to me and I’ll be stone hard again in no time.”

  She ran her fingers back and forth over his brow and into his hair.

  “So romantic, sir.” She giggled as he stood up and pushed his trousers the rest of the way off.

  “If romance means you drinking my come and me wanting you more than ever as my lovely, seductive wife, then yes—this night is the epitome of romance.”

  When she was down to nothing but her bra and slippers, he draped her over the bed, blindfolded her with the scarf and grabbed an ice cube.

  “Now the romance really begins,” he said, dripping it over her right breast.

  She gasped. “Yes, sir. It begins, because this cherry girl is ripe and yours.”

  He reached inside the bag she had drunk from, grabbed the last few drops left behind, and dribbled his come around her navel. “This cherry looks very good in my homemade pearls. And now she will see what it means to have a pearl on her cherry.”

  He tugged at his cock, moving it from semi-erect to fully stiffened and he pushed his way inside her, sighing her name as he found his release once more.

  Only this time, coating her with his semen meant more, because he owned this gem of a girl and would never let her go.

  This pearl was on his cherry, and nothing could ever part them again.

  Afterword

  There are times an author has to take creative license. In chapter 5, I admit to doing just that with my research. The Grand Street tenement housing disaster Leo and Clarissa refer to in which both their families perished could not have happened to them, since that occurred in 1881. It would make them far older since this story takes place in 1907. So, for the sake of the story, we will assume there were other similar tenement disasters where the entire building had rotted at the ground level and then completely collapsed, killing tenants in the process—including both Leo’s and her family.

  Since I’m on the subject of characters, I freely confess to doing little research on Tyrone Power Sr. and the other famous people’s names I used in this story. I merely looked them up, read basic facts and plugged in the holes to tell my story. So, most of what you read that has to do with Power, Maude Adams, and any others I used like J.P. Morgan are figments of my imagination completely. No offense is intended to relatives of these people. I loved the names and the brief information I found on these lively characters and let my imagination take over. I’m sure they were all lovely people. I truly apologize if my characterizations are offensive.

  I should note that in 1908, Power was at the height of his theatrical career and the Servant in the House ran for eighty performances during the first half of that year, then at the end of it, ran for forty-eight return performances. I would also like to note that if you haven’t seen pictures of him, he’s quite handsome. Google him. I was making eyes at this man. Very hot!

  My next admission has to do with the banking crisis in 1907. Obviously, I embellished it and found a way to tie the story in so William was involved. There is no record of men chanting or anyone trying to toss out money. This was purely from my i
magination. Desperate men will do anything to clear out a mob, and I could imagine some rich man thinking a few measly bucks tossed around would do the trick. I have no idea how long the thick crowd mulled around there like a pack of zombies, but I imagine it was probably for quite a length of time and very harrowing to clear out. Poor William—stuck amongst a bunch of angry bankers and ranting working men. I can’t imagine the chaos and enlarged testosterone levels going on there.

  In the same chapter, I also took some license with the ball drop. Research was a little shaky on this. In 1904 the shift of the New Year’s celebration moved from Trinity Church to the brand new, very tall and prominent Times building uptown. It was the second largest building in the city at that time. Fireworks were shot from the base of the building, but the burning ash would coat the people below as it flitted down. The city deemed it dangerous so fireworks were canceled. The city did not give up. They wanted something monumental to celebrate, so in 1907 the idea for the ball drop was created. The ball was a mammoth undertaking.

  What amazes me is how so many riotous occurrences happened in 1907—from the theater strikes at the beginning of the year, the train crash in February, the bank crisis in October that affected the entire country—and still, these people were undaunted. They knew that life went on, so they celebrated and the first ball drop ever took place. It takes my breath away at the amount of courage it must have taken to basically flip the bird at all their past heartache over the year and say, “We will not stop! We will go on!” These are the events that forged the present we now have. It is with their spirit and backbone that our country continued to thrive and bounce back. Makes me proud of my heritage since I also have roots in New York close to this time period.

  If I’d gone nuts with this story and made it even lengthier, I would have also included the new subway system being put into use this year as well, but there simply wasn’t a plausible reason to include it, so I’ll let you imagine Clarissa’s wide eyes as she takes her first ride in her foreseeable future.

  Some of the other events that really did happen was the bomb in the tenement, exploding in January. Neighbors yelled out, “It’s the black hand!” and fled.

  The police said Charles Scramger, a clerk living on the second floor, had received a number of threatening letters within the prior few weeks. The bomb thrower tried to get it through a window so it would explode in one of the rooms but was unsuccessful.

  An Italian grocery store, adjacent, was wrecked by the explosion, and the windows in the house on the opposite side of the street were blown out. The dynamite had been concealed in a rat hole. The police said this was a feud between the Italians as a result of some contract work possibly going sour.

  So, yes, I embellished and changed the reasons for the explosion at the Twenty-Fourth Street tenement, but it gave the story the impetus it needed to truly bring the cherry girl to Pearl Street where she belonged.

  Oh yes, and since the bra really was invented in 1907, you know she’s wearing one of those as well, rather than her S bend corset. Those are anything but nice on the spine and lower back, giving her a hunched over, swayed back look, although that stooped over appearance might go well with his whipping table with the two holes in it for the arms. Look up whipping tables. You might be surprised at how cool they actually look. It piqued my curiosity quite a bit.

  Thank you for taking this journey with Clarissa and William. I’ve had an obsession for months over the idea of the possible origins of a Dom and wanted to explore what a rudimentary untrained Dom might be like, and how he might get his needs met. William struggled a lot in this story because really, until he had his cherry girl, he had no support—no one to tell him he wasn’t vile or corrupted, but that his urges were okay and that it was a part of him he needed to express. I so loved learning about the type of life they would have had in that time period as well before they came together and afterward. They kept my mind working for many hours of the day, wondering where they would go next and what they would do.

  The division of the classes is mind-boggling, and bringing these two tenderhearted souls together was a delight.

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