****** The Pearl by ClairMatin@aol.com and DMGPoet@aol.com ******
===============================================================================

The Pearl


She mused as she frosted the birthday cake she was preparing for herself. It
was the final task she had to perform for the day, and she rushed through it,
anxious to move her attention to more pleasurable things. Her thoughts returned
to earlier, when he argued that he did not want to leave tonight. They had the
same discussion every year, and every year he relented. He never understood her
demand that she celebrate her birthday alone, and she did not understand why he
would not willingly grant her this one night of freedom. Oh, he was a fine
partner in many ways, a "good catch" her mother had called him. But, with times
comes familiarity, and with familiarity comes boredom. She gave herself one
night a year...her birthday to refresh her spirit.

She knew that the cornerstone to this evening's pleasure lay in an old cedar
box, locked and tucked away far in the back of her night stand. Its key dangled
from a chain around her neck, brushing insistently against her skin, tempting
her to use it, open the box. Inside she had placed the book of blank pages,
hand-bound in leather and edged in gold, that she had found in a French Quarter
bookstore on her 21st birthday. On that day, over twenty years ago now, she
began her annual ritual. Each year's fantasy she recorded in detail... for her
eyes, her use, her pleasure.

Her ritual was to reread what she had written before and then to write this
year's installment. Most years, she derived pleasure as much from the reading
as from the writing. But she had been thinking about this particular fantasy
for over a month...and she was aroused merely by the idea of fleshing out the
details and seeing how it would turn out.

Her daily tasks behind her now, she took a deep breath, smiled to herself, and
stepped into her long-awaited evening. She went to the living room, locked the
door, and lowered the shades. She selected her favorite CDs and placed them on
the player. The lights were out, the house was quiet, and she was all alone.

Next to the bathroom. She turned on the faucets, adjusted the water
temperature, reached for the bubble bath and poured it into the tub... She
collected the candles from the closet, lit them and arranged them so the
flickering light would be reflected by the mirror.

Preparations completed, she moved into the bedroom and began to undress. She
removed each article of clothing slowly, sensuously, as though for a lover. She
felt the air as it caressed each newly exposed area of her body, and the
sensation heightened her arousal.

She fingered the gold filament that suspended the key between her breasts. She
slipped it over her head, as she had done last year and years before, and slid
the key into the lock. It was too soon to open the hand-bound volume, though
she was tempted to forgo the ritual and begin writing. She positioned it
carefully on the pillow next to hers and smiled inwardly at the fantasy taking
shape in her mind. She poured a glass of wine and, hugging the towel close to
her, went to take her bath.

She winced at the sight of his sandy blond hair on the basin; she wanted no
reminder of him tonight. Too impatient now to wipe the sink, she opted for the
black silk mask that he had worn on that long-ago night of velvet ribbons. She
closed the door, lit the candle, took a sip of wine, dropped her towel, fit the
mask over her eyes, and stepped into the snow bank of bubbles and steaming
water.

The heat enveloped her. She felt it lapping at her firm nipples, swirling
between her toes and caressing between her legs. Lost in her mental
meanderings, she did not hear the door knob turn.

Her subconscious registered the change in air temperature only a second before
she heard the protest of the squeaky hinge. Alarmed, she reached to remove the
mask and cover herself with the towel. Strong hands stopped her, and an unknown
voice spoke.

"No. I'm not here to hurt you. I am your fantasy."

He brought her hands toward his face and let her stroke his beard and lips,
feeling his smile beneath her fingertips. He turned her hand and kissed her
wrist, then the warm flesh inside her elbow. He scooped her from her bath, and
holding her close to his chest, carried her to the bedroom. He could feel her
trembling from fear, cold and excitement. He laid her gently on top of the
bedcovers and pulled the mask from her eyes.

Their eyes met, and she was lost in dark pools that reflected the warm
candlelight. It seemed hours before he spoke, "I have a gift for you."

He held out a small, flat box, wrapped in fragile tissue and held together with
a single silver strand. Her mind formed a million questions that her heart
would not let her ask.

She took the package and read the note, which looked to have been written with
an ancient hand. "From Paris. For passion." Slowly, she untied the silver
strand and removed the outer wrapping. She opened the box, folded back the
lining, and found an exquisite pair of white French lace panties. She knew
instinctively that they would fit her like a second skin.

"What...?" she gathered the courage to speak, but he placed his finger over her
lips.

"These are our intimate pleasure, but we must obey two rules. The first rule is
that you must ask no questions but simply accept the gift you have been given.
Tonight, your lips are made for passion, not words. I will tell you all you
need to know. Will you obey this rule?"

She nodded, her eyes locked into his.

"Take them out of the box." It was at once a command and a plea.

She complied, powerless to do otherwise. "Touch them. Feel the softness of the
lace."

She held them to her cheek; they felt cool against her flaming skin. She traced
the intricate design of the lace, but stopped when she discovered the secret
hidden within. She looked at him, and he answered the question she dared not
ask.

"It's a black pearl. Very old and very rare. It has been passed down, mother to
daughter, through a family of seamstresses," he explained.

The pearl had been stitched with silken thread into the undergarment in the
spot at the center of a woman's heat.

"May I put these on you?" he asked.

She said nothing, so he repeated, "May I put these on you?"

The words rang in her ears. Again she nodded, afraid to speak, unable to say
no.

"Before I do, you must know the second rule. If you accept this gift, and allow
me to dress you in them, I will show you secret delights you have never known.
But I cannot touch you unless you accept the gift. And, most regrettably, I am
not permitted to enter you to consummate our passion. I will please you, and
you will please me, but we must not cross the boundary of the lace and black
pearl. Do you understand what I have told you?"

She was less sure of herself now, aware of the aching desire she already felt
for him. Her eyes clearly communicated her doubt, because he continued, "I will
tell you one thing more about this gift. If we defy these conditions, we will
have but one night together. If we comply, you will be able to summon me
whenever you want. I'll feel your desire through the black pearl and come to
you. Will you obey?"

She nodded again, slowly, her gaze never leaving his. He smiled and kissed her
lightly, his lips barely brushing hers. He took the panties from her and
reached for her feet. First one foot, then the other, slipped into the panties.
He drew them slowly up her legs, past her knees and thighs. He slid his hand
beneath her, raised her toward him, and tenderly drew them up around her hips.
His fingers adjusted the fabric on her burning skin, and he positioned the
black pearl at the center of her universe.

At the first brush of the small, hard, black sea-gem against her vaginal lips
she felt a strange tingle wash through her, welling up from the midst of her
sex, ripples of quivering darting up the muscles of her stomach and into her
breasts. Her hips tensed involuntarily and she heard, rather than felt, herself
moan deeply.

"Shhh," he crooned quietly, and she could feel his hands gently take either
side of her hips and gently press them down, silently instructing her to relax.
She let her hips settle to the bed and began to direct her muscles to loosen,
to calm themselves, to ride these waves of new sensations wherever they might
carry her drifting body and mind.

She lay with her eyes closed, luxuriating in the moment, almost feeling
herself, the bed and the very air of the room begin to float, like some soft
skiff upon a gently lapping lake. Then she felt the brush of his fingertips as
they lightly contacted and began to stroke her stomach, causing it to twitch
and tingle beneath each soft, teasing point of flesh on flesh.

"This gift," she heard him begin softly, "is very precious; very unique. There
is not another like it in the world, and you must be careful to respect it's
value."

She nodded, only half listening, as she concentrated on the wondrous tickling
of the black pearl nestled lightly between her now moistening vaginal lips. It
barely moved, scraping her only the merest fraction of an inch with the soft,
slight undulations of her breathing, barely perceptible. But those infinitely
small pressures were producing a stimulation almost equal to that which many of
her lovers had only managed to hint at with all their harsh groping and
thrashing at and within her sex. It was almost as if this tiny object, by it's
mere contact with her most secret places, was stepping through her flesh and
stroking her very imagination, caressing her mind, sending needle sharp points
of erotic focus deep into her soul.

The fingertips continued to play lightly across her stomach, and she barely
realized that he had shifted his position, moving off the side of the bed and
then kneeling beside her reclining body, his touch never departing from nor
slackening on the soft, smooth skin of her belly. Then she felt the pressure of
a fingertip upon her already tight nipple, and when it began to swirl slowly
around the hardened point, she moaned once again.

"Let me tell you why this gift is so very special, and how you may properly use
it," he whispered from somewhere above her.

She found her head lulling over at the sensation and a small tight whimper
caught in her throat. The waves of feeling were delicious, powerful and gently
possessing, and she knew that, if she only abandoned herself to them, she would
slowly soar upon them to a rippling climax, with no more that this slight
stimulation. But she dragged a part of her mind away from the distraction,
reluctantly, and turned somewhere within herself to find and focus on his
words...

"This pearl, as I said, was once owned by a family of seamstresses," he began,
"and the women of that line passed it down from generation to generation, each
holding it as a secret from everyone but the one to which, in their own time,
they bequeathed it, when they understood that the time to do so had arrived.
Don't wonder how it came into my possession. That is for me to know. Only know
this.... the very first of that line of women was much more than a mere crafter
of garments.... she was, in fact.... a witch..."

Suddenly she felt his fingertips clamp around her nipple, pressing it tightly
and the gentle stroking on her stomach became a scrap of fingernails, and with
a rush her mind tumbled back, as if falling through the bed, down into a
depthless well. She felt herself falling, her body rippling as if stroked and
caressed, loved, by gentle gusts of wind, drifting down, end over end, and in
the blackness of her fall, she saw drifting flashes of images, dreamy fragments
of some raven-haired beauty by candlelight, grinding at a mortar, muttering a
deep, focused chant to herself. She could smell the sulferous reek of forbidden
magic in the air, here the bubbling of catalyzing heat. A flashing image of the
very pearl that now contacted her own soft flesh stirred in some deeply
bubbling liquid... the raven-haired woman carefully plucking it forth, still
warm... Her fingers rapidly groping to raise her tumbling skirts to expose her
eager sex and then, as if her face was pressed against the startling scene, she
saw long, lithe fingers quickly place the pearl against those lips, already
glistening with the moisture of desire and drive it deeply inside. She raven-
haired woman erupted in a scream of orgasm, and then she, too, felt it, roaring
through her, exploding, as if the pearl had drawn all her hidden lusts into
itself and now burst with them, radiating them back into the very pit of her
belly and her sex.

She cried out and her own moisture flowed as the waves of climax, shared with
that strange, distant woman washed through and over her, casting her against
the hard unyielding rocks of her own mind.

Slowly the feeling drifted away, the images faded, she felt herself once more
firmly upon the bed, eyes closed, body lightly beading with sweat, and his
voice hissing from somewhere above her... "shhhh"..... And the gentle caresses
upon her nipple and stomach were as they were before.... soft, soothing,
loving....

"After that," she heard him continue quietly, as if knowing what she had just
experienced, "she never wanted for love or pleasure again. And when her own
daughter was grown to age, she made the pearl a gift to her. And she in turn to
her own daughter... And so it has come down the years, the generations... and
now it is yours. But..."

He paused and she could feel him shifting slightly above her, leaning over, the
fingertips leaving her nipple and trailing lightly up, along her arm, until
they came in contact with her wrist, and carefully grasped it, beginning to
raise it gently, slowly, as if in fear that it would shatter were it moved too
rapidly.

"...you must understand that this pearl is now a living thing... and it has a
memory..."

Slowly, the hand gripping her wrist directed her own arm to move, until her
hand, palm downwards, lightly contacted her own nipple. She moaned at the
familiar, comfortable sensation. But the hand on her wrist did not allow it to
linger there, rather urged it slowly onwards, languidly drawing it down, across
her stomach, inch by slow, delicate inch, as the voice droned on above her...

"...and it will share those memories with you, if you will allow it. They are
the experiences of a dozen lifetimes, a dozen wanton souls, thousands of
copulations, acts beyond your imagination. The pearl knows you now, my love.
And will give you one of it's fragments each time you wear this garment... each
time you lay upon your bed, and cast your mind outwards..."

The guiding hand pulled slowly and now her own fingertips were sliding over The
waistband of the panties, drifting over the soft, delicate material, riding
it's silkiness down, over the covered mound of her sex, until she could feel
the tip of her finger laying lightly, on top of the delicate stitching that
held the pearl in place inside the garment.

"...accept what is offered for you pleasure, allow this gift to provide what it
can best give you..."

The hand slowly released her wrist, and she felt it shifting, turning, until
it's palm was laid gently against the back of her own hand, it's fingers
covering her own.

"...and welcome it..."

One finger pressed down upon her own, which in turn pressed against the garment
and the pearl, pressing it now, slipping it between her vaginal lips, into the
heat and wetness of her, spreading her ever so slightly, until it finally,
finally brushed against her now throbbing clitoris and pressed it.

...and she was bound, her hands roped tightly behind her back, wrists lashed
together, her back pressing down along the curve of the large barrel, her raven
hair flowing down it's staves. Her head was craned back, mouth agape, the
large, blisteringly hot cock of the man stroking deep into her throat, his
hands gripping the sides of her head. She could feel the bodice of her dress
torn away, and the two pairs of lips clamped tightly to her nipples, drawing
them, milking them of passion, the soft nibbling of teeth scraping her back to
new waves of attention when the feeling seems to lag.

Hands held her down on the barrel, pressing her, preventing escape, but also
gentle, supporting. Her legs were cast wide, somewhere below her, her ankles
held tightly in firm, sweating hands, spreading her. And plunging into her sex
a fiery ramrod of a cock pistoned into her as if driven by madness, spreading
her inside to widths she could not have before imagined, drawing from her
gallons of answering moisture, explosions of feelings, tearing apart her mind
even as they brought her body to more life than ever before.

And the rape devastated her previous limits, and she was joyful inside knowing
that it was she, her magic, her lusts, her powers that was in fact raping these
poor fools, stealing from them all the power of their sex and drinking it into
herself, feeding off it, using it, pleasuring herself on it. And she felt the
cock in her throat throb hotly, felt the one deep in her sex shudder, heard the
low moaning of the men and then the gush of fluids spewed into her, filling her
throat, splattering against the inner walls of her sex and her mind shattered
with the torrent, pushing her over the edge into an abyss of exploding, waves
of climaxes obliterating her, igniting her, penetrating and possessing her,
until she felt herself crash through into that other world of pure, crystal
lust. And the little black pearl, tucked deep in her sex absorbed it all....

She slowly drifted back to herself, coming down from some unimaginable height,
settling into her body once more, and slowly opened her eyes.... She lay upon
the bed, naked, her body chilled with a glistening sheen of sweat, tingling
with the distant afterglow of a wonderful copulation. Slowly, she turned her
head, and her gaze fell upon the small box, open, on the bed beside her. Folded
neatly inside it were the panties, as if the package had only just been opened.
She slowly smiled to herself.

Yes, she thought.... a wonderful present. One that she would love and respect
and enjoy for many days and secret nights to come. Something to be tucked away
and kept secret, brought out only on occasions that called for complete
immersion in her own, now somewhat wider desires. From somewhere within
herself, she whispered a grateful thanks to her lover, whoever or whatever he
might be, and added an assurance that he would indeed see her upon her next
birthday...

When she awoke, the candle was flickering its golden light in the bathroom. The
bubbles had evaporated, and the water was cold. She rushed, still dripping, to
her bedroom and raised the book to read the lines she had written. The page was
blank. Dawn was creeping between the blinds, night was over, and it was no
longer her birthday.

He had returned with the morning. He carried a box, covered with paper
purchased at K-Mart, that screamed of toaster.

"Hi, did you enjoy your evening?" he asked casually, his eyes barely
registering her shivering naked form.

He gave her an obligatory peck on the cheek, then reached for something on the
night stand. "What's this?" he asked, holding a small, flat box, wrapped in
fragile tissue and held together with a single silver strand.

All comments deeply appreciated.

(C) DMGPoet@aol.com and ClairMatin@aol.com 1996

This story is part of White_Shadow's_Nasty_Stories.
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