by JS Taylor
Slowly, I pull open the top drawer and take it out. I hold up the panties thoughtfully, letting the perfect pearls hang down in a line. They’re larger than I might imagine would be a good choice for the area they’re designed to fit.
Then something else occurs to me. The second drawer is for underwear. The third drawer is for what I would refer to as bondage items. The top drawer is filled with sex toys.
Does this mean these panties are some kind of sex toy?
I stare at them thoughtfully. The pearls seem to go around a little further than where the buttock line would end. Do they go underneath as well?
I pause for a moment before deciding that there’s only one way to find out.
I slide off my panties and tug on the G-string under my denim skirt.
Oh!
I was right about one thing. The pearls fit right around, underneath. And they’re far from uncomfortable. The silken spheres gently press against me, with a subtle tantalising pressure.
I’m still adjusting to the unfamiliar sensation of the pearls when my phone rings.
I move to answer it and the pearls slide over me, sending a pulse of pleasure through my body.
Wow! It feels as though I’m being softly stroked.
I pick up the phone and click to answer.
“Are you wearing it?” the question comes deep and low.
“I… Um. Yes. Is that any way to greet a girl on the phone?” I add, collecting myself.
I hear him laugh.
“Probably not. But as I remember, I’m still owed a favour from you, Ms. Green. You took your punishment for running off into that alley beautifully. But, we still have the little matter of your mistrust.”
“My mistrust?” Combined with the pearls, the sound of his voice is sending lightning bolts of lust through me.
“You assumed I had checked into rehab,” he reminds me.
“An easy mistake to make,” I counter.
“Oh no, Isabella. You’re not getting off that lightly. How are you finding the pearls?”
“They’re… having an effect,” I admit.
“You’ll find that effect will be greatly pronounced when you move around,” he says.
“I’ve already discovered that,” I agree, “when I answered the phone to you.”
He gives another deep chuckle. “Oh, Isabella. You haven’t discovered the half of it.” He pauses for a moment. “The thought of you wearing those pearls… It’s already had a strong enough effect on me. You can’t expect me to show you any mercy.”
Desire for him sweeps through me.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“Cross over the bedroom,” he says, “and open the wardrobe.”
I do as he asks, and the pearls work over me like expert fingers.
I’m weak at the knees as I open the wardrobe door.
Inside I see he has slid a single violet rose into one of the dresses.
“Can you see the dress?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Take it out.”
I reach into the wardrobe and take out a black clinging dress. It looks short.
“You want me to wear it?” I guess.
“Correct.”
“With the pearls underneath?”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
“It looks short,” I protest. “You’re not planning on taking me out anywhere in this dress, are you?”
“That is exactly what I’m planning. And I might remind you that your earlier lack of faith in me calls for your obedience. Now put the dress on, before I come inside and spank you with something harder than my hand.”
His words charge me with an instant surge of lust.
How does he do that? He says the worst things, and they have me panting with desire.
I put the phone on the bed and take off my clothes, gasping as the movement causes the pearls to hitch a little higher.
Then I slide into the dress and turn to regard myself in the mirror.
It really is short. I turn experimentally to see whether my indecent underwear is on show. It’s not, I decide, but if I bend forward a little, the string of pearls is on clear display. I swallow. No walking up staircases then.
I pick up the phone again.
“I’m wearing the dress,” I say.
“Good. Now put on a pair of shoes and come downstairs.”
“Ok.” Did I detect something in his voice? What’s going to happen when I walk downstairs?
I select a pair of heels and slide them on.
Then I step slowly out of the bedroom, every movement bringing a fresh surge of teasing pressure to my already highly stimulated underside.
Then, as I take the first step down the stairs, I realise the reason for the edge to his voice.
The downward movement causes an extra layer of friction to rise up through the pearls.
“Ahhh,” I murmur into the phone as the pearls take me to a new level of pleasure.
“Take your time on the stairs,” says James. I can hear by his voice how pleased he is by my reaction.
“You’d better be ready to finish what you’ve started,” I mutter into the phone. “Where are you?”
I move downwards again. Each step is a beautiful, arousing agony.
“I’m outside,” he says with a little laugh. “But I don’t think I’ll be ready to finish what I’ve started for a long time yet. Having you in this state of arousal is giving me great pleasure.”
I emit a little half-groan of frustration.
“I hope that wasn’t a swearword, Isabella,” says James. “I think from now on, any bad language will require an extra hour wearing those pearls.”
An extra hour? He can’t mean for me to be wearing these for more than an hour at most. I resolve to keep silent, just in case.
I’ve made it off the bottom step now, and walking over flat ground is less testing. The pearls slide teasingly underneath me, but the feeling is softer, less intense.
I make it to the front door and open it to see James grinning widely on the other side. He is wearing a mid-grey suit, with a dark grey shirt and black tie. His brown hair is styled slightly upwards, making his dark brows look even more devilish than usual.
“Enjoying your penalty?” he asks innocently.
“I don’t know whether to hit you or kiss you,” I say, stepping out of the chalet.
“Kiss me then,” he says. “I’d love to see you get even more worked up.”
I nod to the car parked behind him. It’s not the convertible BMW this time. This is a sleek Mercedes. “Are we driving somewhere?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’d better let me get inside.”
“No kiss?” He feigns disappointment.
“Trust me, you couldn’t handle it.”
He raises a heavy eyebrow and then walks ahead of me to open the car door.
I slide inside, hitching the pearls to another delicious roll between my legs.
I moan as James slides into the car beside me, starting the engine.
He turns to look at me and then pulls off his tie.
“Just in case you get any ideas,” he says, reaching over and binding my hands. “I wouldn’t like you to afford yourself any relief whilst we’re driving. That wouldn’t be a fair punishment at all.” As an afterthought, he slips the seat belt over me and buckles it up.
“There,” he says, giving me an appreciative look up and down. “I don’t think I have ever seen you look so fuck-able, Ms. Green. But you’ll be pleased to know I can control myself.”
“How long for?” I plead as he pops the gear and puts the car into motion.
“Patience, Isabella,” he says. “We have an entire dinner to get through before I’m finished with you. Then I might have you in the backseat. If you can offer a suitable amount of begging,” he adds.
Now that I’m sat still, the motion of the pearls has eased considerably. But they slide over me with every sharp corner or bump in the ro
ad.
Clearly aware of this, James takes delight in throwing the car around corners and racing over uneven back roads.
“You’re not playing fair,” I plead, as a muddy pass has me gasping with frustrated pleasure.
“I’ve told you before, Ms. Green,” he says. “I have no intention of playing fair.”
We turn another gasp-inducing corner, and suddenly the car pulls to a halt.
I look outside in surprise. We’re at a train station.
“Where are we going?” I am genuinely baffled.
“We’re going to be spending a lot of time holed up in the studio,” explains James. “I thought you might like to see something different before we get down to work.”
Instead of explaining further, he unbuckles his seat belt and gets out of the car, walking around to my side to let me out.
Where are we going by train? I have no idea, and my underwear is making it impossible to think straight.
James opens the door and leans in solicitously to unbuckle my seat belt.
“Think you can make it onto the platform?” he asks, unbinding my hands and refastening his tie.
I nod. “I’ve got used to the pearls now,” I lie. “They’re having no effect on me whatsoever.”
James laughs in response and leans down to lift me out of the car.
He carries me for a few steps before setting me on my feet. “I think you can walk from here,” he says, letting his hand slide up my skirt.
His fingers lightly trace the shape of the pearls, and I let out a stifled moan.
“I’m going to have such fun with you,” he says, before taking my arm and leading me to the platform.
The few steps to the train are exquisite torture, and the sensation is so intense that I only just notice the Eurostar motif on the train.
“Eurostar?” I ask. “We’re going to Paris?”
James nods. “I have a favourite restaurant I’d like to take you to.”
“You want to take me there, like this?”
He laughs and leans forward to whisper in my ear. “I can’t think of any better way for you to be.”
He hands me through the open door of the train, and the pearls force a sudden delicious hitch upwards, making me catch my breath.
The first-class carriage where he’s handed me is virtually empty, and I breathe a slight sigh of relief. At least I won’t have to mask my feelings from other passengers.
“Here,” says James, coming into the carriage behind me. “Our seats are just by the door.”
He points them out and I slide gratefully down. Any more walking would have brought me to the edge.
James seats himself opposite me.
He’s silent for a moment, as the train starts into life. Then his expression turns serious.
“This is more difficult for me than it is for you,” he says. “You have no idea how sexy your expressions are, wearing those panties. Not to mention that I know what a lovely view is under the table. I only need to duck my head.”
I give a half smile, turning my head to look out the window. The movement of the pearls is a subtle pressure now, keeping the sensation alive rather than threatening to send me over the brink.
A waiter arrives to serve us Champagne, and I accept a glass with relief. James sips his glass in silence, looking knowingly at me.
“How long does it take to get to Paris?” I ask.
“Under two hours,” he replies. “It’s remarkably fast by train. Although you may be counting the minutes,” he adds.
I ignore him, choosing to watch the shimmering green countryside as it slides into dusk outside the window.
Soon we’re in the black tunnel, which divides England and France. And then, in a flash of streetlights, we’re out the other side and speeding though the French landscape.
We hit a bumpy part of track, and suddenly the sensation of the pearls is back to supercharged. They move with the motion of the train, rolling and circling. I force myself not to make a noise.
James is eyeing me carefully.
“They have a bathroom on the train, you know,” he warns. “If you don’t take that expression off your face, I’m going to take you back there and fuck you right now.”
“Then stop the train from rocking,” I reply, stifling a gasp as the carriage makes another shudder.
He looks as though he might be considering this as a viable possibility, and then sinks back into his chair.
“We’re nearly in Paris,” he decides. “I’ll reserve fucking you in a bathroom for another time.”
The train rolls into the bright lights of Paris, and we exit the train into the Gare du Nord station.
“Do we have far to walk?” I whimper. Every movement brings a heightened spasm of pleasure. I am concerned I might reach orgasm, right here in the station.
“No,” he says. “The restaurant is just across the street.”
I somehow manage to make the journey across the concourse and over the double-lane road.
I have just enough time to be awestruck that we’re actually in Paris. I’ve been before, but never on a romantic dinner date, and at such short notice.
I try to push aside the sensation of the pearls, to revel in the sudden influx of French language and beautiful architecture. And then we’re outside a small door with frosted glass windows.
“In France, the best restaurants are often very understated,” murmurs James, “but I did have an ulterior motive for bringing you to this particular location.”
“Why is that?” I ask, my voice returning to something more normal now we’ve stopped walking.
He gives me a wicked grin.
“The restaurant is entered via a staircase.”
I swallow.
“A rather steep staircase,” he adds, clearly enjoying the trepidation on my face. James leans forward and pushes open the small wooden door to the restaurant.
The first thing I see is a set of steep wood steps, with a door at the top.
“Ladies first,” says James, holding the street level door back for me.
I try to set an impassive face as I walk ahead of him and take the first step, but it’s impossible. The silken pearls slide deeper into my wetness. I moan aloud, unable to help myself.
“Careful,” growls James, “or I may take you on this stairwell.”
I might want you to, I decide as I take the next exquisite step upwards. The pearls have hitched higher, and what was a gentle stroking is now a far stronger sensation. As I move up a few more steps, the sliding movement of the pearls across my clitoris is bringing me close to the edge.
“I have a perfect view of those pearls moving against you,” says James, coming up the stairs behind me. His words come out thickly. “I think I might have to take you here and now.”
I feel his hand slide up my thigh and gasp as his fingers push the pearls to one side and enter me. Then James swings me to the side of the stairs and draws himself up level with me.
He presses his free hand over my mouth. His fingers sit tight against my lips, stifling any sound. His thumb is firm under my chin.
“If I’m going to fuck you here, then I can’t have you making all that noise,” he says. He is freeing himself from his trousers now, and hitching up my dress, rolling on a condom.
Then he presses himself against me, and I feel his hardness. With a sudden thrust, he’s inside of me, shifting the pearls aside, taking me roughly and fast.
I gasp, and he presses his hand tighter still over my mouth. Then he brings his mouth close to my ear.
“I have never met a woman who makes me lose control the way you do,” he whispers. “But you have to stay quiet, if you want me to fuck you.”
I feel myself slamming against the wall of the stairwell. The pearls have already brought me to the brink, and I feel myself close. Then he reaches down and twists the pearls back against my clitoris with a little expert flick, and I feel myself give way. My body erupts in a golden burst. James whispers a tight moaning soun
d in my ear, and he’s climaxing, murmuring my name.
He grabs me tight, pulling me close to him, breathing hard.
Then he slides out of me, pulling my skirt back down.
“You may take off the pearls now,” he says, reaching up and pulling them free with a little tug. I let them fall onto the stairs and James picks them up.
“It’s enough for me to know you have no panties on under that dress,” he mutters, placing the pearls into his pocket.
“Perhaps we’d better walk up together,” he adds. “I’m not sure we’ll ever make it to the top if I have to walk behind you again.”
He draws himself level with me and offers me his arm.
“I trust I’ve helped you work up a good appetite for dinner, Ms. Green?”
Not just for dinner, Mr. Berkeley.
I steady my breath as I take his arm and let him lead me into the bistro at the top of the stairs.
“Now,” he says, opening the door to let me go first, “we can have ourselves a professional discussion, actress and director. I want to tell you about the Berkley Method.”
Chapter 14
Inside, the bistro is warm and intimate, and the menu lists classic French dishes.
“You’re letting me choose my own food?” I say in pretend shock as James hands me a menu.
“The food changes every night here,” he says, “so in this instance, I couldn’t recommend the best dish. But I’m assuming you would prefer me to select the wine?”
I nod, having caught a glimpse of the confusing French names on the wine list, and the dizzying price tags.
James orders two glasses of Champagne, and I let my eyes slide down the menu. Escargot to start, I decide, and the steaks are likely to be amazing. We are in Paris, after all.
“I think I’ll have the escargot and the steak,” I inform him.
James raises his eyebrows slightly.
“Snails? I’m impressed.”
I shrug. “My mother is Spanish. Escargot is not so adventurous to me, as it is to most English people.”
He nods. “Of course. I had forgotten you were so exotic. Though your looks should be a constant reminder to me.”
I look away from his intent stare.
James glances back at the menu, and beckons a waiter. Then he delivers our order in French.