Hooked Up: Book 3 (20 page)

I felt relieved that the family business hadn’t broken up because of me, after all. I thought back to our other conversation, fondled his cock and said, “If you spanked me, Alexandre, tell me how you’d do it.”

He stroked his thumb languidly over my lower lip and I sucked on it, letting my teeth graze across the ball of his thumb, flickering my tongue on his shiny square nail. He took my other hand and pressed it against his erection.

“See how hard you get me, Pearl, lying against me with your pregnant tits, those nipples like silk bullets? But you’re wrong if you think I’d spank a woman with my child inside her.”

“Please, just humor me. Just pretend. Tell me how you’d do it.” I walked my fingers under his PJ’s and squeezed his penis, feeling the throb of it in my fisted hand.

“I’d bend you over my knee with my arm over your shoulder so you were locked into position and couldn’t wriggle away. With my right hand I’d stroke your hot little pussy-pearlette, tickle it, tease it until it was glistening wet. Until it was begging me for more.”

I ran my tongue along my lips and stroked the length of his smooth erection, softly. He bucked his hips up a little so I could roll his pajamas down, and I heard his quiet moan.

He talked on in his deep voice, “Once you were really aroused, I’d bring my flat palm down hard on your ass with a stinging slap. It would shock you, might even hurt you a little, but it would also make you want more. Then I’d tap your hot, juicy little pussy so gently, letting my fingers dip inside.”

I gripped him harder and begin to jack his cock up and down, concentrating on the crown of it, teasing the bulbous tip.

“Then I’d slap you again, this time the tips of my fingers would land on your clit. You’d be moaning for more. I’d plunge my fingers inside you. Then slap you again with my other hand. Then stroke you softly. You’d be going crazy because my rhythm would change. You wouldn’t know if you’d get the tease or the slap. Then I’d throw you on the bed and fuck you so hard from behind while your own fingers played with your clit. I’d ravage you like an animal. Bad boy style. Play the ruthless, selfish bastard. Girls like that. Pump your pussy until it was numb. I’d fuck your ass off, thrusting in and out till I came really hard deep inside you, emptying all my seed. Then I’d pull out before you had a chance to come.”

He was really rock solid now and I was soaked hearing him describe this particular brand of torture, my clit pounding with arousal.

He was grinning, enjoying this game. “You’d be confused, chérie. Almost in pain, but wanting more. I’d leave you there for a few minutes. You’d spread your legs begging for me to come back.”

I licked my lips. “Yes, I would.”

“I’d spank you once more, just so you’d know who was boss. Then I’d turn you over. I’d fuck your clit with the tip of my cock till you screamed. Then I’d enter you again. You in the missionary position. But really slowly and gently this time. I’d cup your ass with my hands tightly so it was all mine, bringing it as close to me as possible. I’d start a slow fuck, hauling your peachy ass up towards me with each thrust. My pubic bone would be rubbing on your clit, or I’d change my position so the root of my dick would massage your clit, and my cock would be pressing against your secret places, those places that drive you wild. I’d keep my motions as rhythmical as a metronome, the thing musicians use to keep the beat . . . ”

I felt like I was about to come just listening to his description.

“Come here, Pearl.” Alexandre grabbed me around my waist and maneuvered me so I was above him, my pussy on his face, my butt in the air, doggy style. He flickered his tongue up beneath me, lapping at my opening—he was groaning. “Fuck you’re wet,” he murmured.

We commenced our 69. I wrapped my lips around his steel rod and sucked the tip and then put as much as I could into my mouth, sucking in like a vacuum, riding my head up and down, letting my mouth fuck him as if I were mounting him. It was hard to concentrate because his tongue was doing magical things to me, also sucking in a vacuum, drawing out my juices.

My eyelids fluttered, I was entering another realm. “Alexandre . . . ”

His hands were clamped on my thighs so I couldn’t escape. Not that I wanted to. He pulled my groin closer to his face and took me whole, fucking me now with his tongue. Then with his right palm, he brought it up between my legs and cupped my mound, keeping the flatness of his hand hard against my clit and rubbing in small circles. His tongue lashed at me from behind as I relished the pressure of his hand on my clit . . . aah . . . incredible.

I compressed my lips around his broad length and fisted my hands on the root—there was too much of him to fit in my already stretched mouth. I could feel him thicken . . .

“Jesus, your wet, sweet-tasting pussy is driving me wild,” he groaned. The throbbing expansion of him inside my mouth gave me all the clues I needed . . . he was going to come any second.

I grabbed his hand and pushed it even harder against my clit and started coming in a powerful rush. His hand was damp from my oozing, and I slapped my groin into his palm, my mouth trying not to leave his cock—I had to keep the pressure up. He needed me, but my orgasm was making me selfish. “Aah, baby, I’m coming so hard,” I cried, releasing my own hand from his.

Whorls of bright colors spiraled in my brain as intense spasms crashed through my core. I tightened my lips around him and he was coming too, spurting inside my mouth. I swallowed eagerly, sucking it all in.

“Je t’aime, Pearl,” he groaned.
I love you.

“Moi, non plus,” I screamed out, aware I was quoting Jane Birkin in the song, and what I said was mad nonsense . . . ‘me, neither’ being the translation.

He pushed my legs farther apart, holding his tongue flat against me as my aftershocks faded slowly, my orgasm riding on its vibrating plateau. Alexandre could read my body like a memorized book—he always knew what to do, always sensed when I needed extra pressure or when I needed stillness. It was as if he had studied the art of lovemaking somewhere along the line. He knew when to fuck hard and when to be gentle. When to be a pirate, and when to be a gentleman. Right now, his tongue was motionless: just what I desired. As my climax shimmered like the glistening pearl he told me that I was, I collapsed my face into his crotch, licking all the droplets of cum from there and from his solid thighs. Whoever imagined that carnal lust could be so beautiful . . .

I was totally spent.

T
WO DAYS HAD passed, and I still hadn’t been back to my apartment. It felt good to be at work knowing that “home” was at Alexandre’s place, with him. That, at the end of the day, I had my partner waiting for me. Finally I could concentrate when I was at work, doing something else other than obsess over lost love. Although, he and I still had a lot of making up to do for lost time, or better said, “making out” to do. Like teenagers freshly fallen in love, we couldn’t get enough of each other.

I thought back again to the way I’d behaved, crawling out of that toilet window at Van Nuys Airport, and it felt as if it was someone else, not me. I had not fully appreciated the toll that the rape had had on me; the memory flooding back in such detail: gang rape, being abused, used and made to feel like trash, as if I had no importance in the world whatsoever. People imagine it’s the physical violation that is so devastating, and although it’s true, it is nothing to what goes on inside your brain. I had hidden it deep in my subconscious, but it was still there: the feeling of worthlessness that ate into my psyche every single day for eighteen years. And whatever anybody says, however hard they try to assure you, deep down inside is that feeling of culpability, even if you know, logically, that it’s nonsense.

No, I don’t think I’d taken it all on board and the effect it had on me. Remembering everything had brought me back to that moment, that night. It had made me vulnerable, a pawn for Laura. Had I not been in such a sorry state, I don’t believe that I would have been so naïve, so blind; making rash, foolish choices based on nothing but fear. I had always prided myself on being astute and on the ball, but I was like a helpless beetle that had been flipped over, flailing my weak legs in the air. My armor was on my back, not on my underbelly, where I needed it most.

Or perhaps the way I handled things with Alexandre was a subconscious desire to continue punishing myself because I didn’t believe I deserved better. Alexandre had said so at the time; that I was using Sophie as an excuse to run from him. It was only when I felt I’d lost him completely that I could see the situation for what it was. Me: all alone for the rest of my life. Back in The Desert. Thirsty for love. For sex. For self-worth. I’d lost the one thing that was true: Alexandre.

Alexandre
gave
me that sense of self worth. Having a man be so intimate with you, telling you that your private parts are “sweet” and “delicious” was a real gift. Few men can do that. Few men can make a woman feel really special and treasured. Yes, I was hooked on the orgasms he fed me every day, but it was the intimacy, the connection that gave me those orgasms in the first place. He accepted every part of me, even the “dirty” bits that he thought beautiful. He found my vagina so beautiful he called it his “pearlette” –a little part of me—a little part that was like a jewel. Yet for me those “bits” caused such inner turmoil for so many years, making me feel I was bad and unworthy. Alexandre restored the faith I once had in myself before that dreaded event.

As he’d once told me, “the biggest sexual organ is your brain,” and he was, little by little, convincing me that I was precious, that I counted in this world. Being sexy is all about self-confidence. It’s all a question of how you feel inside. Alexandre took my dull nub of a diamond and he polished it until it began to shine.

I had even given nicknames to my vagina: V, V-8, and the sweet sounding “pussy” – that’s how confused I was about sex and my own sexuality. Like a little girl not being able to call it by its real name. Both ashamed and amused, all in one. Tittering about its naughtiness like a child in the classroom with a secret joke. Too fearful to come out and say the real word. Vagina. There, I said it. Was that so difficult? God gave females vaginas, yet I was subconsciously shameful of having one because of what it had attracted. That rape left me ashamed of having a vagina, of being a woman.

Sex is not everything, but it is, literally, the core of us. We are born from sex. The world lives on through sex. We can feel ecstasy through sex.

Or misery.

And I never wanted to return to that place again.

IT WAS ALL ABUZZ at HookedUp Enterprises that day. Natalie was putting the final touches to our documentary,
Child Traffick – Red Light
Alert –
(a double entendre on traffic lights and the red light districts in the sex industry). It looked great. Well, “great” is not exactly the best word to use with such a heartbreaking topic—better said, the film was brilliantly put together. We had already sold the rights in ten countries, and it had been entered into several competitions. I had high hopes for this film.

I was in my office sorting through paperwork when Jeanine our receptionist buzzed me.

“Hi Pearl, Natalie wants to come and see you, are you free right now?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, curious as to why she was paying me a visit—usually we met in the editing room.

Ten minutes later, she burst through the door, looking stunning, as usual, yet with a girlish restlessness about her that I hadn’t noticed before. Natalie was usually so composed.

“Hi Natalie. You look amazing, like ten years younger or something.” I raked my eyes over her outfit: tight jeans; not Natalie’s usual attire.

“Or something,” she said with a laugh. “Do you want to hear the good news first, or the good news second?”

“The good news second.”

She set her tablet on my desk and plunked herself in my swivel chair giving it, and herself, a little spin. Boy, was she in a good mood. “Actually, I can’t make up my mind which is better,” she gushed.

“Tell me either way, the suspense is killing me.”

“Okay. Firstly, your fiancé has started this foundation for us—a charity.

“Oh yes?” I asked with curiosity.
How come he never mentioned this?

Natalie went on, “It’s called the Jane Doe Foundation. It has been set up for sexually abused girls and young women. Because of all our research and experience with the girls we’ve met through our project, he thinks HookedUp Enterprises is the perfect vehicle, although I have been sworn that HookedUp Enterprises will never be mentioned at any time. The Foundation is financially independent.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s rich; he can afford to give money away to worthy causes . . . good for him.”

She nibbled on a pen. “No, that’s what’s so cool. This isn’t his money but has come in from four other private sources.”

“Jane Doe, you say?”

“That’s right. Because abused girls are handled like Jane Does, identities unknown, or treated like they haven’t got a name; they’re victims, not just because they’ve been abused but because so many people don’t even know who they are. Or worse, they don’t care.”