Read Online Forty Shades of Pearl by Arianne Richmonde - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Arianne Richmonde
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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 –
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 –
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