Alessandra steadied my shaking shoulders. “Pearl, what the hell is wrong?”
And it all came gushing out; the whole story from beginning to end. I revealed everything to her. I was in tears, the memories of what happened to me thick with sordid details. The faces of the guys, how they held me down, how their repulsive penises poked and prodded as if I were nothing more than a bunch of orifices.
“The one with the fat, flaccid walnut of a penis couldn’t even get it up . . . it made him angry,” I wailed in between sobs. “I remember him shaking me, pushing me around.”
Alessandra held me in her arms. “That’s right, Pearl, let it all out.”
“He felt humiliated in front of his friends. There were more. I can’t remember how many . . . but there were more. I puked—that’s when they finally left me alone. They left me there covered in vomit and semen and—”
She hugged my trembling body close against her. “Now, now, my beautiful Pearl, they can’t hurt you anymore.”
Room service arrived and I picked at the food, hardly being able to swallow. Telling Alessandra all this had been the last thing I wanted to do. So unprofessional, mixing my private life with a work situation. I should never have agreed to allow her into my hotel room, letting her look into my heart and soul. I’ve been an idiot.
I sat up straight and tried to compose myself, but I felt exhausted, spent, all my energy sucked out of me.
I didn’t protest when she took control and said, “I’m going to run you a bath, Pearl, and you can just lie back and relax. Think of lovely things. Any time you have a nasty image in your mind, replace it with this bunch of pink roses.”
The bath was just what I needed. I reclined my head back, unwinding in the hot bubbly water and did as Alessandra suggested. I pictured the pink roses climbing up the stone walls at Alexandre’s house in Provence, and the scent of lavender, the intense purple-blue of the fields, the white butterflies fluttering about like confetti. I remembered the buttery croissant I ate for breakfast, the taste of homemade cherry preserve from the cherry trees in his garden.
Alessandra put on some music: Woman by Neneh Cherry—a powerful song. I closed my eyes. It was healthy that all the bad memories had resurfaced, but now they could go right back to where they came from, six feet under, where they belonged. It had been done. It was over now. I didn’t want the past taking over my perfect world, screwing up my life.
My lids were shut tight when I felt the bath water ripple. I opened my eyes and saw two smooth golden legs in the tub. Alessandra was joining me. This is not what I planned!
“Scoot over,” she said, slipping herself behind me before I had a chance to object. She eased her slim body to the back of the tub and maneuvered around me so I had no choice but to lean on her, my back pressed against her breasts, her legs splayed open on either side of me. Double déjà-vu! But this time with her, not Alexandre.
“Use me as a cushion. Just relax,” she said soothingly, pulling my shoulders back.
I was too tired to disagree. I leaned against her. She began to lather my back with a delicious-smelling body wash as she sang along to the song about being a woman’s world. Her hands were firm but soft as she massaged my shoulders with her fingertips, kneading out the knots . . . the stress.
“This feels good,” I told her, realizing it was past the point of protesting. Anyway, who cared? What was the worst that could happen? Alexandre had said himself he wouldn’t mind. She was a woman—she couldn’t hurt me. A little rubdown wouldn’t be a bad thing.
She continued with this wonderful massage for a good ten minutes. I was like putty in her agile hands. Then her fingers ran themselves from my shoulders to my front and tantalizingly across my breasts. She wasn’t touching the nipples, just circling around and around—all part of her skillful massage. But my body was doing things my conscience couldn’t control: my nipples puckered and, to my surprise, I was silently begging for her to tweak them . . . the massage had gotten me really turned on. I didn’t want her to know, but she sensed something as her hands grazed across each nipple. I felt a shooting desire connect the pulse with my core, and my clit started to throb. She began to flutter her fingers on my nipples and I couldn’t help it, a little moan escaped my lips and I leant back closer against her. Uh oh, that had done it.
“I thought you’d like that,” she whispered, her lips grazing my ear. I shuddered with secret, quiet desire. “Your tits are beautiful, Pearl. People pay thousands to get their breasts to look just like yours.”
“They’re real,” I told her, trying to feign a normal conversation.
She flickered her pinkie seductively on one erect, rosy nipple. “Yes, I know, I can always tell.”
Her hands had moved back to my shoulders and neck as she continued her soft touch. She ran the very tips of her fingers along the base of my hairline—my hair was pinned up in a messy bun. Shivers tingled through my entire body.
“I’m not gay you know, Alessandra,” I blurted out, trying to convince myself that this had nothing to do with me. I am an innocent bystander in all this!
“No,” she murmured, “course not, but who’s going to arrest you, huh? Just relax, I’m just giving you a little massage, that’s all. You’re holding in a lot of tension.”
She brushed my neck with her lips—whispery kisses—and then her fingers were back on my nipples again. I felt the need build up inside me. Being with Alexandre had awoken my sexual appetite, a yearning for orgasms, and now was no exception. She was getting me worked up. Her hand moved under the water, searching between my thighs. My breath gasped in anticipation. I don’t want her to stop . . . yet this is . . . wrong!
My conscious mind wanted to tell her to leave me be, but I couldn’t, I was simply too turned-on. Her finger tapped my clit gently, making me flex my hips. I wanted more and she could sense that. Oh yes, she could sense it alright. She pressed her palm flat on my pussy and the pressure of it had me moving up against her hand. She made circular motions almost imperceptibly, but it was just enough to feel myself throb, as if my heartbeat were right down there. With the other hand she tugged at my nipple, kneading it softly between her fingers. She slipped her index finger from her right hand inside my slick opening, continuing with the pressure on my clit.
“I’m not gay,” I repeated, sensations unspooling, my hips grinding on her hand in a ripple of carnal desire, “but this does . . . aah . . . oh yeah . . . feel . . . so . . . good.”
“Doesn’t it? Your pussy’s so sweet, Pearl, I’d like to flicker my tongue against your clit.” She pressed her hand harder, and I felt myself come in a thunderous pound. My back arched as I rocked my hips forward pushing on her hand. The orgasm pulsated deep inside me, her finger still there exploring my G-spot, making the double-sensation linger and flutter in waves of orgasmic bliss.
“The best way to relieve tension is through climax,” she said quietly. “If you ever have a migraine you know what to do.”
Sensations of shameful bliss were still pulsing through me, my clit tingling with aftershocks, the base of me beautifully released. I am not a lesbian! How has this happened? “Alessandra, this was a one time thing. I can’t let this happen again.”
But she just laughed. “Don’t be so serious, Pearl. It’s just a release, that’s all. Your body needed it.”
“I’m not going to reciprocate,” I warned her. I couldn’t see her expression because she was behind me, but I could imagine it. I had a picture in my mind’s eye of a cool smirk etched across her beautiful face.
And it scared me.
No woman had touched me like this. Ever.
And I was shocked at how I responded with so much desire.
DUPED
PEARL
I AWOKE TO the sound of the Skype ring on my iPad and hazily turned on my side. I hadn’t had any nightmares during the night, I’d had night mares, or should I say, a night of mares. No stallions. I dreamt about females: beautiful breasts, slender long legs. This was crazy! St
ill, I guessed it was better that visions of women erased the grotesque, panting images of what had been there before.
Ugh, I couldn’t even think about it.
I unlocked my tablet. It was Alexandre.
I quietly recounted my yesterday evening’s adventure. I wondered if he’d be as delighted as he said he’d be. Perhaps he might get jealous?
But no . . . jealousy didn’t seem to hold a place with him when a woman was involved. He responded huskily, “If my plane wasn’t about to take off right now, I’d want a full recount of every single, tiny, sexy detail, and I’d get myself off while you recounted each horny moment. I swear to God you’ve got me all worked up thinking about it.”
I could hear the jet’s engines roaring in the background. “I’m not proud of what I did,” I said tentatively. “It just sort of . . . unfolded. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
“Pearl, have some fun, don’t take it all so seriously.”
I froze. Isn’t that exactly what she had said? “I have something really important to tell you. Something that’s been responsible for my bad dreams . . . hello? . . . Alexandre?”
The line went dead. I called him back on both Skype and his cell number. Nothing.
I rolled out of bed and ambled to the bathroom. I missed Alexandre. It struck me that all I really wanted to do was be with him and Rex, cozy together, watching a movie or enjoying a walk in the park. Work had been too important to me in the past, but now less so. I mulled over the “lady of leisure” fantasy he had sold me yesterday, lying by the beach reading novels. Or the pair of us escaping to Thailand and living in a tree house—leaving the “real” world behind. Usually when you cook up a fantasy it’s unattainable, but for us it was a reality. A sweet thought. But the Devil makes work for idle hands, doesn’t he?
With this in mind, I showered quickly, got myself ready, and set off for work in my outrageous low and vast, powder blue Cadillac that felt like a ship. I swung by my favorite smoothie stall, feeling cruel that I’d blamed it for my “food poisoning.” In a few hours I’d be able to speak to Alexandre and we could have a long talk. I wanted to get those nightmares off my chest and lay it all out in the open. I was sick of harboring this secret.
As I cruised along Pacific Coast Highway, sipping my strawberry smoothie, I wondered if I’d be able to adapt to this city . . . smoothies, the ocean, palm trees swaying in a warm breeze, beautiful people everywhere—what wasn’t there to love?
This was my last day with Alessandra—our last day working on the script. I had to admit that it had been fun, but right now the last thing I needed was the possibility of more complications. It had been a highly pleasurable once in a lifetime experience in the bathtub, but I knew I mustn’t let her have her seductive way again. Watch out Pearl, be on your guard.
It was cooler today so we wrote inside, settling in the living room, which was an extension of her open-plan kitchen. The place was decorated with Navajo hand-woven rugs and an eclectic mix of oil paintings that were copies of Klimt and Frida Kahlo. There was a wood-burning stove in the corner, with a brick surround, and bookcases stuffed with self-help books and . . . Russian novels. Spooky—a woman after my own heart.
“You have the same reading taste as me,” I remarked, setting down my bag and sitting on a big armchair.
“I knew we’d think alike, Pearl. We’re mirrors of each other.”
I wanted to tell her she was the female image of Alexandre, not me, but I said nothing. The less we talked about my fiancé, the better.
She pulled back her long, dark hair into a ponytail, settled cross-legged on the sofa and said, “I told you so much about my life, my family in Italy and stuff, but you’ve revealed nothing about yourself.”
Only the most personal thing ever. “Oh, my life has been very normal,” I hedged. “You know, school in New York, college, jobs, marriage, divorce, and now I’m engaged.”
“Engaged to one of the richest men in the world.”
“Well, I don’t focus on that aspect. Money doesn’t motivate me.”
“What does motivate you, Pearl?”
“Passion. In work. In love. In ideas. I think you have to really believe in what you do on every level. You know, morally and spiritually speaking.”
“Do you believe in Stone Trooper?”
Her question grabbed me by the throat. Did I believe in this Hollywood blockbuster? Was it important on the grand scale of things? Or was what Natalie was doing so much more significant? “Of course I do,” I replied with a half lie. “I mean, I think the fact that your character Sunny is gay is important. A movie with a message. So many people are homophobic.”
“Are you homophobic, Pearl?”
“No! Of course not. I believe in gay rights, I believe in same-sex marriage, I believe in—”
“You kept trying to convince me last night that you weren’t gay. Why is it okay with you that others are gay but not yourself?”
“But I—”
“Why label things? Why is it so important for you to limit yourself, to pigeon-hole yourself?”
“I—I . . . ” I stammered, “I guess I’ve never thought of myself as being locked in some pigeon-hole.” For some strange reason I felt hurt by her accusation. I am liberal-minded!
Her voice softened at my injured expression. “You’re so tender, Pearl. So vulnerable. I hope your husband-to-be realizes how lucky he is.”
“He tells me every day.”
She locked her eyes with mine and said quietly, “When you came, by my hand, yesterday in the bath, I could feel you tremble, feel your beautiful little pussy quiver—you know, just the thrill of it, the excitement gave me an orgasm too.”
But how? You didn’t even touch yourself.
She went on in her husky voice, “All I had to do was give myself a tight clench and I felt little ripples of pleasure. Not a bumper-big, mind-blowing orgasm but, you know . . . a little thrill. Touching your hard nipples and those beautiful breasts of yours—seeing how turned on I got you . . . well . . . you got me horny, Pearl.” She bit her lower lip. “My pussy flutters a little when you look at me with your big blue eyes. But you know that, don’t you? You know you penetrate me with your intense, come-on stare, don’t you?”
“Alessandra! I’m not trying to seduce you!”
She chortled with laughter. “Just kidding. Where’s your sense of humor? Lighten up.”
I sighed with relief, but was alarmed when I could sense my panties had got a little damp after what she’d just said. I shuffled my position on the couch and sat up straight. “We need to finish this script,” I said assertively. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
She pouted her full red lips. “Such a shame. We’ve had so much fun together.”
I spent the next twenty minutes with my legs firmly crossed, listening to what Alessandra had to say about Stone Trooper and the ideas she had for the love scenes. Somehow she had convinced Sam that a full-on sex scene between her and her onscreen girlfriend in the film was a must. “To titillate the audience,” she explained.
I had Lucifer purring away on my knees, while I was also trying to type on my laptop. I looked up. “Alessandra, there’s no way our kind of audience will be up for that.”
“Oh, stop being so backward-thinking. People are more open-minded these days. Mid-American housewives are reading about bondage and sex toys, for God’s sake—hell, they’re even experimenting with it all.”
“Yes, but gay sex in a mainstream movie? A blockbuster, buddy movie?”
“Why not?”
“Because, because . . . ”
“It hasn’t been done before?”
“No, I don’t think it has. This is not some French or Italian art-house film. This will be screened in shopping malls across the USA.”
“Then give them something to talk about with their popcorn and soda.”
I put my laptop aside and gently unhooked Lucifer’s claws from my skirt. I got off the couch and stretched my arms. “I’m
going to have to talk to Sam about this, Alessandra. Personally, I don’t think it will work. I mean, I know that gay characters in movies are either marginalized or made the punch-line for degrading jokes a lot of the time, and so having your character being gay, and you yourself being gay, is already a big leap forward. We can hint at sex, show a kiss or something, but a full-on lesbian love scene?”
“I thought a little light BDSM.”
I laughed. “Okay, now I know you’re kidding me. It’s that crazy Italian sense of humor. You Europeans . . . really. Alexandre does the same thing to me . . . you know, that poker face thing? Which is what you’re doing now. Very funny. You guys are expert at getting us Americans all worked up for nothing.”
I thought back to that time when Alexandre tied my ankles to the bedpost when he said I’d been disrespectful and needed to be punished—his wacky sense of humor had me fooled at first.
As if reading my mind, Alessandra said, “I think we should play it out. Do a little improv acting—we thespians love that.”
I burst out laughing at her unintentional (or perhaps intentional) onomatopoeia with the word, thespian. “Lesbian bondage?”
She still donned her poker face. “Yes, why not?”
“Not even my fiancé would approve of that.”
She widened her eyes innocently. “He’s not into a little dominance play? A little S&M? He looks the type. So manly . . . so controlling, alpha male.”
“No way. He won’t come near me with a whip. Personally, it’s something I wouldn’t mind experimenting with, but him? Not a chance.”
She rolled her eyes. “My ex girlfriend’s like that. Can’t play Dom and Sub with her ever—she has an aversion to any kind of physical power play. Except, I think in the past she got pretty tough with men. You know, when she was kinda straight. But she would never lay a hand on me.”
Hooked Up: Book 2 Page 30