Forty Shades of Pearl (Part One of The Pearl Trilogy)

by Arianne Richmonde

“But that doesn’t mean he finds me sexy.”

  “If you looked like the back end of a bus, believe me, Pearl, he wouldn’t have bothered. He must be interested to have invested a whole day with you. Men are basic. They don’t do favors, they do what they feel like doing.”

  “I’ll tell you something interezz- ting,” I slur, the Bloody Marys making me bold. “When he had his hand on my thigh, I thought I saw a big rock in his jeans. I assumed it must be his wallet but later, when I looked again, after he’d taken his hand away, it had gone down. Could be my imagination—”

  “You see? He had—” – she lowers her voice and looks about to check nobody is listening – “-a hard-on when he touched you.”

  “So then, why didn’t he ask to stay over? Or at least come in for a night cap? Or rather a ‘knight cap,’ ” I joke, tweaking my fingers in quotation marks.

  “I don’t know. Odd behavior for a man in his twenties. But, apart from that, it does sound as if he really fancies you.”

  Chapter Four

  Nearly a week has gone by. No news from Alexandre. Such a bullshitter, giving me hints about inviting me over for a meal, going climbing again, et cetera.

  I have thrown myself into work, re-editing some old projects I had put aside and doing massive amounts of research on all manner of controversial topics. I’m grateful that Natalie is away so I don’t have to fend off questions and nosey wonderings about why I am so quiet this week.

  When I get home from work, Dervis the doorman is back from his vacation, his large Hungarian frame looking a few pounds heavier.

  “You look relaxed, Dervis,” I tell him as he opens the door for me. “Did you have fun?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Robinson. I just stayed at home but it was very pleasant. Very pleasant indeed.” I notice a sheepish look on his face. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Robinson. There’s a package for you. The new boy put it in the store room and I’ve just discovered it.”

  “When did it arrive?”

  “It had Mrs. Meyers dry-cleaning with it which was delivered last Tuesday so it looks as if it has been there for a few days. It came by hand delivery.”

  “But it’s Friday today.”

  “I apologize. Luke has made several other mistakes and has already been dismissed. He won’t be working with us anymore.” Dervis goes to retrieve a large, gray box wrapped in a white, velvet ribbon, and hands it to me.

  “Thank you, Dervis. Oh, and by the way it’s Ms. – not Mrs.”

  “Pardon?”

  Poor Dervis can’t get his head around feminist American culture.

  “I’m not married anymore, Dervis,” I explain. “Mzz is better for me than Mrs.” I smile at him sweetly.

  I ride up in the elevator and race to my front door, but typically, I can’t find my keys. In a panic, I empty the entire contents of my handbag on the floor. I discover them. They were hiding themselves, lodged in my address book. Why I still have an address book when all my numbers are in my iPhone, I do not know, perhaps the weight of paper reassures me. Or the infallibility. I fumble with my keys and unlock the door. This package is making me nervous.

  I walk into my messy bedroom, place the box on the bed and stare at it. It is not my birthday. My heart is racing. Is it possible that….? No, surely not.

  I open the box. Inside is another one, also donning a ribbon, the box much smaller. I lift off its lid and again, another box, oblong in shape. Also, tied with a ribbon, but one made of silk.

  My hands are trembling. Another box now – in pale blue leather edged in gold, but it isn’t new. It is slightly tattered. I open it. It’s velvet-lined and has the name of a Parisian jeweler of La Place Vendôme inside – the most expensive jewelry quarter in Paris. The box is antique. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Did the young doorman make a mistake? Surely this must belong to Mrs. Meyer on the eleventh floor? I check the name on the first box again, Ms. Pearl Robinson, written in large, black letters. No mistake.

  I gaze at the stunning piece of jewelry nestled in the leather box: an exquisite double strand of pearls with a diamond and platinum, Art Deco clasp. This definitely looks vintage – they don’t make designs like this anymore. There is no way this is a copy. And the worn blue box – unquestionably antique.

  I lift the necklace out of the box, delicately. It’s a choker; the pearls perfectly round, graduating very subtly in size – fine lustrous pearls with overtones of cream, rose and hints of pale honey and bronzy gold. I hold them up to the light – the myriad colors shimmer with unfathomable depth. I cannot count the different shades; if I were an artist and had to paint them I’d need to mix at least forty hues of subtle colors to do them justice. I think of their origin, each pearl starting its life off as a grain of sand locked in an oyster shell – how each one turns into a perfect, complete jewel. Naturally iridescent, polished by nature, not man.

  I unhook the intricate clasp of the necklace and walk to the large mirror in my bathroom, terrified my fingers will fumble – please don’t let me drop this work of art on the floor! I lay the chocker about my neck, the clasp at the front so I can see what I’m doing. A perfect fit. Its beauty is breathtaking. I gasp. My namesake – Pearl. My nose starts to prickle as tears well in my eyes, now glistening like pools of water – like the pearls. I stare into the mirror in disbelief. Nobody has ever given me a gift this special. But no note? Nothing? I go back and search amongst the boxes on my bed and inside one of them I find a small envelope. I open it. A handwritten card reads:

  Pearl,

  These Pearls belonged to a unique Parisian lady called Delphine Aimée. This necklace was a wedding present from her husband, designed especially for her. She was a happy woman, a shining star — one of the greats. This choker will bring you good luck. There are precisely 88 pearls. Eight is a lucky number. Eighty-eight is an untouchable number. It is the symbol of infinity – the double directions of the infinity of the universe. It is the period of revolution, in number of days, of the planet Mercury around the sun. It is the number of constellations in the sky. It is the number of keys on a piano.

  It is your number, Pearl.

  Alexandre.

  I am suddenly aware of how embarrassing this situation is. Days have passed since the gift was delivered. Not knowing, I haven’t called to say, thank you. He must think me the rudest, most ungrateful woman that exists. I can’t believe he hasn’t called me to check I’d received the package. Surely he must be worried. How valuable is this piece of exquisite jewelry? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Where, now, did I leave his business card?

  I find it in the kitchen and call. No answer. His voice-mail picks up. I leave a message, my speech garbled, my apologies profuse with jumbled explanations as to why I haven’t called.

  I go into the bathroom, quivering from the surprise and excitement of the last fifteen minutes. I need to relax. Friday evening is my weekly personal hygiene, me-time. I check my roots. They’re fine. My pedicure still looks perfect but I need to do my legs and double-check my underarms. I strip off my work clothes, brush my teeth until they squeak, and run the bath. I need a good long soak to ease away the stress of the week and the tension of worrying if Alexandre will return my call. Perhaps he has given up on me by now, wishing he’d never given me such an extravagant gift. Maybe he’ll even demand the pearls back. Punishment for being so ill-mannered. Can I accept such an expensive gift? Perhaps he got them in a foolish moment, a hasty decision which he now regrets. I must be prepared for that, prepared to let them go.

  My beauty regime begins. I take out the cold wax strips – I can’t be bothered with salons, it takes too long, so I always do this myself in the privacy of my own home. It’s quick, painless, like ripping off a Band-Aid – I’ve been doing this since I was fifteen and proud that I’ve never let a razor near my skin. This way, the hair grows back sparse and soft, not stubbly as it does with shaving. I had my bikini line dealt with years ago – electrolysis did the trick, but I regularly give my pubic hair a neat, close
trim with a round-ended pair of small scissors. No gray down there, thank goodness. When that day comes it’ll be a full Brazilian, all the way.

  I look at myself in the long mirror – I’m naked, except for the pearl choker; I look like a vintage hand-tinted photograph of a 1920’s glamour girl, my make-up still on but my body nude. I clip my hair up and try to take off the necklace. It won’t come off. I don’t want to force it, God forbid something should happen. Can you wear pearls in hot water? Suddenly, I fear they could melt. No, that’s absurd, of course they wouldn’t. I climb into my nice, warm, bubble bath, laced with aromatherapy oils, lie back and pick up the book I’ve been reading but haven’t been able to concentrate on. As usual, I start thinking about Alexandre Chevalier but now my reflections are tempered with sweet hope. He bought me a gift! And not just a box of chocolates (which in itself would have been enough of a thrill) – but an out-of-this-world, one of a kind necklace.

  Unique. Precious. Personal. With a beautiful message -the number eighty-eight with all those meanings.

  How Romantic.

  I let my hands explore my body, massaging the oily water around my knees, my elbows. I take care of my skin in this way – it keeps me soft. I rub the heels of my feet and in between my toes and soon my fingers wander northwards. I have Alexandre’s buffed-up torso in my mind’s eye, the sexy glint in his expression, his prowess as he climbed that rock, the texture of his messy dark hair, the smell of his skin and the huge, hard bulge I could see in his pants when he touched my thigh. I sense a throbbing tingle in my groin and slip my middle finger inside myself and rub the sweet-smelling water around me, gently on my clitoris and up around my mound of Venus. I think about my anatomy and suddenly coin a new V word inspired by the number eight: the number of infinity, and eighty-eight, double infinity. V for vagina. V for Vajayjay. And now V for V – Eight.

  She is my V-8. Like a powerful car engine, she needs to be fine-tuned.

  And what about V for Venus? That’s a good one – so much prettier than just plain vagina.

  I can hear the house phone ring but I ignore it, I’m not getting out of this heavenly bath. But then my cell starts buzzing. I reach for it on the edge of the tub.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m downstairs,” a familiar voice says.

  My heart misses a beat. It’s Alexandre. It must have been Dervis calling on the land line to let me know I have a visitor. Alexandre is here in the building!

  “I’m in the bathtub,” I say.

  “Good,” Alexandre replies, “I’ll join you.”

  “Pass me onto Dervis,” I say.

  I can hear Dervis’s breathing on Alexandre’s cell. “Dervis, you can let him come up,” I tell him.

  “Okay Mrs. Robinson.”

  I scramble out of the tub and quickly dry myself. The pearl necklace is glistening, even more now, with drops of oily water. I wrap a huge white towel about me and glance into the mirror which is all steamed-up. I wipe a corner away and see my mascara is smudged, my eye-make-up dark, like coal. I swab a little away with a Q tip and let my hair down. My doorbell is buzzing. I feel my heart thud and I go to answer it.

  I open the door. He’s more striking than I remembered. He looks disheveled, his dark hair unkempt, his shirt half unbuttoned. He’s wearing flip-flops and his feet are elegant and clean. He has a huge bunch of the palest pink roses in his grip, and a bottle of chilled champagne.

  “I’ve missed you Pearl,” he says, taking a step towards me.

  I feel myself go weak.

  “You’re wearing the necklace,” he observes, running his fingers on the nape of my neck. I tingle all over.

  “It’s the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It’s normal,” he replies, which I think translated directly from the French means, ‘you’re welcome’.

  No, it’s not normal! I want to shout out. But I say, “Are you sure? I mean, I shouldn’t accept such a generous gift.”

  “You have accepted this gift, Pearl. You’re wearing it and it couldn’t suit you more. So stop protesting and come closer.” He puts the flowers and champagne on the hall table and takes me in his arms, pulling me tight to him. “You look beautiful,” he whispers, staring into my eyes. “How perfect those pearls look on you.”

  He pushes me against the wall and plants a gentle kiss on my mouth. I gasp. Then his tongue opens my lips apart and he begins to explore slowly around my mouth, licking me softly. My jaw is slack, my breath fast, hungry to be as close to him as possible, greedy for more. The points of our tongues touch and I feel a spasm of desire shoot through my body. Then our mouths are full of each other, tongues probing, locking together.

  He pulls off my towel, stands back from me as if to take in the image. “Beautiful,” he says with approval. His mouth traces itself around my throat and shoulders – then my nipples which his tongue licks deftly, flicking around each areola until both are erect. He simultaneously strokes the small of my back and buttocks with the tips of his fingers, running them lightly along the crack of my butt. I moan with pleasure. I feel how moist I am between my legs, my V-8 swelling hot. I lower my eyes and notice the huge bulge in his jeans and I gasp in anticipation.

  He sucks one nipple and then takes it gently in his teeth but without hurting me. “I’m going to have to do things to you, Pearl. I want you so much. But you know that, already, don’t you?”

  “I wasn’t sure,” I say in a thin voice.

  I reach for his crotch but he stops me. “Not yet – ladies first,” and then he moves his tongue around my breasts again. “I love your tits, they’re perfect – your skin’s so soft.”

  His hands are now firmly around my waist. He licks one nipple and lets his fingers walk down one of my thighs. His large hand cups my mound of Venus and I feel one finger slip inside me.

  “So, so wet,” he murmurs, biting his lower lip. “You’re making me rock-hard, chérie. I’m going to have to do something about that. You’re really asking for it, aren’t you, Pearl? So soon? And I haven’t even started yet.”

  He adjusts his position so he is standing behind me, my back pressed up against his torso – I can feel his hard-on. His thumb is inside me now, his palm cupping the entirety of my vulva. He’s holding me as if I were a six-pack! It feels incredible.

  “So juicy,” he breathes, grabbing the champagne and flowers in the other hand and pulling me close behind him, thumb still inside me, his palm pressing hard against my clitoris. “Come on, let’s have a drink – you’ll need to put these flowers in water.”

  “I’m on tiptoes tottering in front of him, his hand maneuvering me, thumb still inside, slowly circling as if he is steering me. I feel him with every step I take – gently pushed ahead by him, his palm pressing my sweet spot. I lean back for a second and press my back against his torso. I feel his erection through his pants up against me – his hand still controlling me as if I were a glove puppet. So dominating! But it feels really erotic. Then he softly lets me go. I’m nude, panting, wet as an oil slick, not understanding what has just happened. I turn round to face him – he’s smiling, amused.

  “Let’s have some champagne,” he suggests.

  “Let me put something on,” I reply, confused.

  He runs his finger up my spine and feels the choker about my neck, fondling the pearls with the tips of his fingers. “You’ve already got something on.”

  “Some clothes,” I whimper. I feel vulnerable, exposed. It’s as if he has control over me. No man has ever seen me this way. Nude with a choker of Art Deco pearls about my neck like an exotic dog collar. Yes, as if I were some expensive dog on a leash to be pulled and led this way and that! To be manhandled. I’m in my own apartment yet, for some reason, I feel helpless.

  He holds me by the wrist and pulls me closer. “No clothes. Why would you want to put on clothes? You’re so sexy as you are. So beautiful.”

  “I feel—-”

  “I forbid it.”

&nb
sp; He’s French. Maybe the translation has come out wrong. The word ‘forbid’ sounds ridiculous. Like a command. So young, but evidently domineering. But then I see a humorous smirk on his face and I realize he’s teasing me.

  But before I can protest, he’s on his knees, running his tongue around my navel and down towards my wet opening. His head is underneath me now and his five o’clock shadow is brushing against my thighs and around the lips of my Venus. He starts licking me slowly, softly, as if I were an ice-cream on a sweltering day, under, over, around, up inside, running the tip of his tongue around to catch the melting bits. I’m groaning now, the pleasure is indescribable.

  “So sweet,” he murmurs. “You taste delicious. So, so ready for me. You have no idea how much I want to be inside you.”

  And then he stops.

  “Come on,” he takes my hand. “I think you need a glass of champagne.”

  I’m a wreck. I stand there, stupefied. Naked. Hot with longing. Desperate for him to lead me to the bed and fuck me. What’s he playing at? I want him inside me. Right now. But he’s talking about having a glass of champagne and putting the roses in water! Still holding my hand, he leads me to the kitchen. As if it’s his own apartment, he starts opening cupboards and looking for a vase.

  “Up there on the left, second cabinet,” I say with disbelief – my groin on fire.

  I watch him fill up the tall, glass vase with water and arrange the glorious bouquet of pink roses; pale, pale pink, like some of the highlights and shades of the pearls. Before he starts rummaging about for glasses, I climb onto a chair to locate my special, crystal, champagne glasses that I was given by my mother for a wedding present. Never used. How ironic, they, like the choker are also original Art Deco. They’re shallow coupe glasses like saucers – the sort in 1930s Hollywood movies, when champagne flowed in fountains and femme-fatales smoked with silver cigarette holders.

  Just as I’ve reached up for them, as I’m still standing on the chair, I feel Alexandre’s hand slip up between my thighs again. This yes-no tease is driving me to distraction. I nearly drop the glasses. I look down and see his head planted between my thighs, forcing them apart. I splay my legs a little. His soft hair is tickling me, brushing against my clit like silk. I close my eyes in bliss. He spins me around, his strong hands clamped on my hips. I can’t move, I’m being manhandled again. He has my backside now in his face. I can’t see him but I can feel him gently parting my buttocks with his fingers. His tongue starts licking between my crack. Up and down. Wow this feels incredible. Thank God I had a bath and I smell of sweet oils, I think to myself, as I whimper with pleasure. My hands cannot touch him, I’m still holding the champagne glasses and I don’t want to drop them. He pushes my back down a touch so I am now leaning slightly forward, bending over, still standing above him on the chair.