I heard myself actually panting. “That’ll be the doorman on the phone telling you that a rapist is on his way up to fuck you,” I blurted out, not even thinking how crass I sounded.
She looked fucking beautiful, all poised in her business outfit: white shirt and navy blue pencil skirt and high heels. She must have just gotten home from work. My eyes raked her up and down and I even rearranged my crotch—that obvious—I had a hard rod in my pants. She looked down at my groin and bit her bottom lip. Right, that’s it—she wants to get fucked, alright. My foot was wedged in the doorway so she couldn’t kick me out. I pushed the door open further.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in,” I said, moving forward. She didn’t have much choice.
“I don’t know.” Oh yes you do know, you cock-teaser.
“I have to fuck you, Pearl,” was my answer.
I pushed my way inside and pressed her against the wall. Sex Machine pumping away was making me even hornier. I start kissing her, my erection pressed hard up against her, my hand fisting her hair so she couldn’t move and had no choice but to get devoured by me. My tongue was licking her mouth and she started moaning quietly. I could see her nipples harden even though it was hot. No bra. I had to have those tits in my mouth. I pushed her arms up and pulled her shirt over her head with ravenous intent. I nipped her hard buds between my teeth, one and then the other, my hand up her skirt, the other cupping her round ass. I slipped my finger inside her saturated folds and surprise, surprise, her body was begging me to do anything I wanted to it. And I intended to. You bloody bet.
“You want to get fucked, Pearl? The way you fucked me over? The way you fuck men over to further your career?”
“No,” she moaned, her eyelids fluttering in carnal stupor.
“No, you don’t want to get fucked? I think you do. So. Horny. And. Wet. So ready for me to fuck you senseless, aren’t you?”
I rammed my fingers up her higher, and she gasped. Her skirt was in the way so I unzipped it and ripped it down her thighs. The little harlot was wearing scarlet panties that screamed out, fuck-me. How fitting. I unbuttoned my fly opening. My cock was throbbing to get inside her. I got down on my knees. I had to taste that hot pussy. Had to stick my tongue inside her. I took those moistened panties between my teeth and peeled them aside, my teeth gripping them with lustful ardor. I could smell her, smell her sweet, fruity odor. My tongue darted inside her wet cunt.
“You want to fuck, Pearl? Because you’re so much better at fucking than you pretend. Fucking people over, especially.”
I so nearly didn’t bother with sheathing myself with a condom. My instinct—like one of those soldiers using rape as a war weapon—was to impregnate her. Make her mine, even if it was against her will, and feel every juicy cell in her pussy without any barrier between us, but I relented, reminded myself how fucked-up that was, and rolled the condom reluctantly on my raging-hard erection. I didn’t even take off my jacket, let alone my pants.
I pushed her red panties to one side and rammed myself into her ruthlessly, fucking her against the wall. I was half expecting her to try and stop me, but she was groaning with pleasure, relishing being ‘raped’ by me.
God, she felt good. I realized that this was something I couldn’t do without. I had to have Pearl Robinson on a regular basis even if she was using me. By now, I didn’t even care.
“I love. Fucking. You.” I was growling, pounding her so hard I could feel myself ripping her open. She’d never had so much of me inside her before. I was holding nothing back this time.
She was loving every second, though.
“You like to get used, Pearl, or you just like using!” I said in a deep, angry voice, my mouth all over hers.
“I wanted to get to know you, Alexandre. I want to get to know you. All of you….every…beautiful…inch of you,” she said, flexing her hips at me. “All…oh God…oh wow…oh God…” She could hardly speak as I thrust into her over and over, slamming her against that kitchen wall. She was clawing me, her mouth on mine, greedy for my lust.
“Is this what you want to get to know?” And I grabbed her ass in both hands so I could bring her closer, fuck her harder. “So. Tight. This. Tight. Pussy. Clenching. My. Hard. Cock.” I felt her contractions like a pair of skin-tight gloves pressuring my erection. The red panties were also grazing back and forth against it, adding to my arousal.
Her nails were digging into my back—she didn’t want to let me go. “You’re so huge. Oh my…so enormous! I love you, Alexandre. I love you…fucking me.”
“You love me, Pearl Robinson? Is that what you’re saying?” I asked with irony. I was going to come any second. That love word went straight to my dick, even if it was a bold-faced lie. I burst inside her, my giant orgasm ripping through my center, and hers, with abandon, breaking my golden rule—not caring that I was coming first. I was moaning like a child, not a grown man. I felt weakened by my desire for her. She had me hooked—her smell, her pussy, like an exotic fruit. Her taste. Everything was driving me wild and had me spellbound.
The pulse of my orgasm faded to a tingle and I pulled out, but seconds later, literally seconds, I felt myself flex again. I had a flashback of our Skype sex phone call the week before—when I was in the limo on my way to Mumbai Airport—and I got her to fuck the sofa. Pearl and her sweet pearlette pressed up against the arm of the couch as she rocked back and forth in her white, schoolgirl panties. I wanted more of that, and I was going to get more. You bet. But with me ‘live,’ this time, not just us on screen.
I grabbed a cushion off a kitchen chair and pressed it onto the corner of the table. “Fuck the table,” I told her. I peeled her red panties down her thighs so I could see her moistness, hot between her legs, and pressed my erection against the soft flesh of her round butt. “Push that hot little pussy up against that cushion,” I ordered.
She did as she was told. The visual made a wave of desire shoot through my whole torso. “Press harder,” I said, putting on a fresh condom in haste. “Massage your clit back and forth against that table.”
She obeyed me. Telling her what to do gave me a thrill and I gloated, Eat your heart out you Russian cocksucker; this girl’s mine! I pushed the tip of my cock against her entrance—I could see her glistening gate to Heaven with my eyes. Every time she moved back, her wet slit bumped up against the crown of my cock. I was letting her tease me as it dipped in an out of her a couple of centimeters on each movement. She was moaning on every thrust.
“Gotta love this pussy,” I growled like the horny lion I was. “It’s warm and wet and shiny pink—like a beautiful shell. No wonder the Spanish call it a concha. Little sexy conchita.”
Her ass was high in the air as she was bent over, her torso flat on the table. I cupped her ass with one hand and with the other, took my cock in my closed fist and teased her, up and down, up and down her butt crack, then sometimes plunging all the way into the wet warmth of her folds, then pulling almost all the way out. She was writhing before me, her arms steadying her torso, flat-out on the table.
“Please Alexandre. Oh God. This feels incredible. Oh God!”
Then I started thrusting. I reminded myself that, this time, I didn’t have to go easy on her. I had to remember that she was a selfish, career-getting operator out to use me. So I drove into her hard again, to remind her that two could play at the using game.
“Little. Career-getting. Pussy. Using. Me. And. Getting. Off. On. It.” On each word I thrust into her and held myself still for a second. Pulled most of the way out then thrust back inside her. But this was no punishment for her, I soon realized. No, she started coming, moaning like the little tigress she was, her tight velvet glove contracting around me, which tipped me over the edge. I could feel myself thicken and I slowed way down, letting my climax surge through me in a blissful, throbbing rush. I moved languidly inside her, both of us coming simultaneously, something we seemed to do with ease. I was like a switch with her. Her gratification aroused me instantly, so w
hen she climaxed, I did, too. Hard.
I collapsed on top of her, my body blanketing her smooth back, her glorious ass. “Pearl, baby, what am I going to do? I just can’t keep away from you. I have to keep fucking you. Over and over. I just have to, I can’t stop.”
The problem was, that however much I tried to stay furious with her, I couldn’t. When I spun her around to face me, she had tears in her eyes. A look of love. A look that said, We are meant to be together, you and I. Please don’t hurt me.
And I melted.
The Russian flashed through my mind again. I couldn’t risk it. I knew his playboy reputation, his bulldozer mentality. I had to get Pearl out of New York City for a few days. Just in case he came sniffing about.
Make her irrevocably mine.
If any other man even thought of coming near her, I’d fucking flatten him.
11
I took Pearl to my house in Provence. The ultimate test. Does it travel well?
It did travel well, very well indeed.
In fact, she traveled so well that we both joined, for the first time ever, the Mile High Club. We hitchhiked a ride on a French government jet—they owed me a few favors and I thought I’d cash in on one. No point contributing to global warming by taking a private jet ourselves—cadging a lift seemed like a good option.
Sex on a plane (there should be a cocktail named after that) was better than I had ever imagined. Of course, most mere mortals have to suffice with doing it in the toilet. Not us. We did it in full view, so to speak. Now Pearl and I were fully-fledged members. Not only that, but I found myself coming inside her without using a condom, without even consulting her first. What was that all about? A stake to claim? My dick acting as if it had a brain of its own, again? A mixture of the two, I guessed. I felt such relief to have her back in my arms after that week of lonely torture without her, that claiming her as mine in every way I possibly could, felt natural. The beast in me. The instinct to mark her as my property took over. Making her pregnant was the surest way, I supposed. Although, I truly was acting on instinct. The logical side of my brain was AWOL.
Did I forgive Pearl for not having come clean with me when we first met? Yes, I did. We spoke about it briefly on this flight. She told me that before she met me, she had imagined that I was a computer-nerd-geek. So when she bumped into me in the coffee shop, she was taken off guard—surprised by her beating heart and the powerful physical attraction we shared within the first few seconds of setting eyes on one another. She didn’t want to blow it (that sounds like a bad joke, doesn’t it?) She didn’t want to jeopardize a possible romantic liaison because of a work project (which Sophie and I never would have agreed to anyway—and I think Haslit Films had cottoned on our reluctance by that point). So Pearl kept quiet about who she was. I understood. She presented herself, not as Pearl Robinson-documentary-producer, but as Pearl Robinson-look-into-my-eyes-and-tell-me-what-you-see. And what I saw was a woman needing attention. Lots of attention.
Besides, I wasn’t the type of person to milk a grudge with a woman. I realized that during the week I hadn’t seen her, I’d been climbing the walls.
Yes, I was falling in love with Pearl Robinson, despite her faults. Maybe even for her faults.
Although it was obvious that Pearl was in control when it came to her career, she certainly wasn’t when it came to her heart. I had captured her heart and that thrilled me. It was instantaneous for both of us. Cupid was in a good mood that day in the coffee shop and decided to zap us with his arrow. I had her tongue-tied, confused, disarmed.
It was evident that neither of us could keep away from each other.
Love is not logical. If it were, we would all be able to follow the rules and live in a nice, neat, square box. Love is a hurricane or a tsunami. It hits you when you least expect it. And what you have to work out…is how to survive it.
With Pearl, I had a premonition that I was up for a roller coaster ride with her, but I also had a very strong feeling, even then, that if I tried to get off, I’d fall flat on my face.
I knew that when Pearl woke up the following day in our bedroom in Provence (note how I say our bedroom—yes, it was getting that serious), she would be enchanted. The lavender fields were in full bloom, the scent of jasmine was also wafting through the French doors that looked out onto the stunning view below.
Who wouldn’t fall in love with an old stone farmhouse in the middle of the French countryside? In the olden days in the South of France, people built their own houses stone by stone, getting friends and family to help them. A far cry from the multi-million dollar properties they have become nowadays. When I restored my house, I wanted to pay attention to each stone, bring out the beauty and detail of the workmanship—the sheer labor of what they had achieved by hand (no machines), all that time ago. I left it exactly the way it was originally; crooked walls, wobbly oak beams, wonky floors. I kept all of its charm, just added a swimming pool. Not a Hollywood-style pool—no bright blue or anything. I wanted it to look as if it had always been there and blend in with the landscape, organically.
I woke up early that morning as I had house business to attend to—I wanted to ensure that the elderly couple (who look after it when I’m away) had everything under control, and that the garden was in order. I wanted to let Pearl rise and shine on her own— soak up her new surroundings. I’d instructed Madame Menager to take her up some breakfast, while I took care of a few business and personal phone calls.
Last but not least, Laura, my ex. As I stood by the pool, white butterflies darting by me, the gentle sound of water tinkling from the fountain, I called her on my cell.
As I expected, she was not too thrilled.
“Laura,” I began, “how are things?”
She had ears like a bat. “Is that your fountain I hear by the pool? Are you in Provence?”
“Yes, I am,” I replied evenly.
“Alex, you promised!”
“No, actually, I didn’t.”
“I said you should wait for me! How long are you there for? I’ll get on a flight today.”
“Laura. No.” I walked slowly from the pool area into the house and sat down on the sofa in the living room, where coffee, fresh-baked brioche and croissants awaited me. I spread some homemade jam I’d concocted myself (from my very own cherry trees) onto a croissant and took a large bite. I was half listening to Laura and her protestations and wondering what Pearl’s reaction would be when she woke up here, in this beautiful, peaceful haven.
Laura droned on, “What do you mean, no? I told you I was planning a visit, I told you—”
I cut her short. “I’ve met someone, Laura, and I wanted to tell you directly.”
Why I even felt I owed Laura an explanation, I have no idea. But I did. I suppose it was the whole wheelchair thing, the guilt I felt about her having suffered for so long. As silence rang in the air, my eyes strayed to the bookshelves where several of Laura’s hardback books still lined the shelves. I needed to return them to her. Now that I had met Pearl, it didn’t seem right to have my ex’s belongings in my house. There was something else in those shelves I needed to deal with, too. Something Top Secret, hidden inside a multi-volume encyclopedia. I had cut out the middle and buried the incriminating evidence inside. Now that we had Wikipedia online, nobody used encyclopedias anymore—the stuff was safe, I decided.
Laura’s silence still echoed down the line. I knew that the words, I’ve met someone would be a blow to her, even though she was married.
“Who is she?” she finally asked.
“I’ll tell you when we’re really serious.” Damn, that came out wrong.
I didn’t feel inclined to tell Laura Pearl’s name because I didn’t want her sniffing about my personal affairs. But at the same time, I wanted to nip any fantasy Laura might have had about rekindling our relationship…in the bud. Inferring that my relationship with Pearl wasn’t yet serious was a mistake. It gave Laura false hope.
“Well, I’m sure you’re havi
ng great fun but it won’t last.” She tittered knowingly. “Is she a local French girl from the village?”
“No, she’s American.” Shit, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?
Laura’s lighthearted tone changed several octaves. “So you brought her over specially? Imported her from America?”
“Listen, Laura, I have to dash. Take care. Send my best to James. You’re both welcome to come for your vacation in a couple of weeks, when I’m not here. Bye.”
Pearl and I spent the day by the pool, wandering about my lavender fields, lingering over a long lunch and drinking too much chilled rosé wine, pale as rainwater; the grapes from my own vineyard. I took her to visit my local villages, or rather, she took me. I let her drive my electric blue, 1964 Porsche Coupé, sunroof open, as we soaked up the sun and Nina Simone singing a song that reflected our moods, Feeling Good, as we sped by open lavender fields, and rolling hills of wheat and sunflowers—the summer landscape dotted with farmhouses and hilltop villages.
I can’t remember the order of things that day, or exactly where and when each conversation took place, but we discussed a few important issues; namely the pregnancy topic. Knowing that Pearl was forty put our relationship on a sort of fast-forward. At least in my mind—there wasn’t time to dither about. I’m a practical man. I’m also impatient for outcomes. I’d met Pearl, I couldn’t bear to be without her, and she was forty. We didn’t have the luxury of waiting around to find out if we were a hundred percent perfect for each other—we simply had to get on with it.
She didn’t know that I knew she was forty. I was brought up to never ask a woman her age or discuss it with her. I was told it was bad manners. Pearl, however, berated me for having come inside her when we had sex on the plane. I guess she felt her freedom of choice had been tampered with. I didn’t blame her. Talk about bad manners! The bulldozer had momentarily taken me over—I couldn’t help it. But the upshot of it was (I know…upshot…does sound crude) that she admitted she did want a family.
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