Pearl on Cherry Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Afterword

  More Works

  Author Bio

  PEARL ON CHERRY

  Chanse Lowell

  Mayhem Erotica Publishing

  Copyright © December 2013 by Chanse Lowell

  All rights reserved.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and you did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CONTENT WARNING — This story contains scenes of an explicit, erotic nature and is intended for adults, 18+. Story includes anal sex (use of implements in the anus as makeshift butt plug toys), bondage, crude language, dubious consent and a primitive type of Dom/sub arrangement involving consensual sex. There is mention of rape and abortion—both more than once, but it is not shown. There is an attempted, unsuccessful rape scene that is thwarted. There are also punishment scenes with whipping and spanking some might find offensive, along with violence with fist fights. Characters portrayed are 18 or older.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are created solely from the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, locations and businesses, along with events, are entirely coincidental.

  Published by Mayhem Erotica Publishing

  Cover illustration by Mayhem Cover Creations © 2013

  Acknowledgments

  Edited by: Lynda Kimpel, Marti Lynch

  Prereaders: Sarra Benaissa, Angela Bohr, Connie Lema, Robin Parrish, Tricia Lockwood-Smith, Mary "MzPeaches" Smith

  French translator: Sarra Benaissa

  Chapter 1

  January 4th, 1907

  When ere we meet like parted souls, drifting in the night.

  Me in my suit, and you with your skirts, all shadows against the light.

  But perchance we dance, or speak a word,

  And all is not lost or forbidden.

  But you shall sing a lovely note that may hold me and give me will to fight.

  I very much look forward to meeting with you today . . .

  William Berling Ferrismore III

  Clarissa Stone brushed the note aside as she dusted the great Lenora Cheri’s traveling chest.

  First Koster, and now this. Being in Bial’s Music Hall was a nightmare. There were so many protesters outside, giving her a headache and making it difficult to get in and out of the building, that she almost wished she was anywhere but here.

  “Don’t forget to have my dress ready, Clary,” Lenora said in passing as she left for the final act.

  “I won’t, miss. I’ll have it done before you’re back,” Clarissa said. She turned, and once Lenora was gone, she kicked the infuriating woman’s trunk. “And don’t call me Clary.” She squared her shoulders and pulled out the sparkling beaded dress. There were two of them in the case—one was powder blue and the other silver.

  Lenora looked ghostly in silver, so Clarissa arranged that one in the corner, out of the way.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Clarissa rolled her eyes and went to the door.

  She knew what was happening. It was the same with all these starlets.

  And Lenora was the worst.

  She answered the knock, and in bounded none other than Ferrismore, the tall, dark, dashing, obscenely wealthy man who’d sent that absurd love note.

  “Where is she?” he asked, out of breath, glancing around the room and right past her.

  Clarissa curtsied, but only enough to be polite. “She’s on stage, sir. She’ll be back in about ten minutes.”

  He roamed around the room, his greedy fingers sampling everything around him.

  She cringed when he yanked a bead off Lenora’s dress she’d be wearing to the Vanderbilt party taking place in less than an hour.

  “This is unacceptable. I told her when I’d arrive to collect her. We can’t be late,” he said, rounding on her and then bearing down, looming.

  His face was mere inches from Clarissa’s. With him being this close, she was able to determine his eye color—sage green, ringed around the edge with an almost black warning of natural danger. It was captivating and frightening at the same time.

  She wanted to avert her gaze, but she refused. If she looked away, he’d trample all over her, taking advantage.

  “Do you think I should be made to wait?” he asked, his warm breath fanning over her face.

  She blinked, held her breath and shook her head in tiny increments. He stepped closer, and she lost her balance, falling back onto Lenora’s trunk. She clutched the edges of it as she forced herself to keep her eyes on him.

  “And so, why am I waiting for her?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  Her mind went blank.

  “Go and fetch her immediately!” he barked.

  “No,” she managed to squeak.

  “No?”

  “No.” She swallowed and found her voice. “It will ruin the production, and Lenora’s the star of the show.”

  “Well, then . . . Take her place. Undoubtedly, you know all her lines, and all those men out there are probably inebriated by now anyway. They wouldn’t notice the difference. I’m certain you’ll do . . .” He leaned down, gripped her chin and examined her face.

  “She’s a great deal leaner and longer than I am,” she pointed out.

  “And you have blue eyes. Hers are light green—even lighter than mine. So?”

  “Don’t you think the audience will be aware of these changes?” She blinked several times, trying to gather her wits back. He’d disarmed her with his breathtakingly rugged good looks.

  “You have an adequate bosom from where I’m standing.” His eyes drifted down to her chest. “And you obviously know how to play the part of a wanton, wealthy woman.”

  He pulled a necklace out of her dress that she had purposefully hidden from view, bouncing the end of it and sampling the weight in his palm.

  She gasped.

  “Those are mine! I didn’t steal them if that’s what you’re inferring.” She pushed off the trunk and slithered her way up to standing, barely keeping from contacting him.

  God above, he smelled divine—a mixture of cedar, musk, mint and tobacco along with something that was very inherently male and hinted at naughtiness. It was a clean, crisp smell and she couldn’t help but inhale it deeply.

  It smelled like a man with money and nothing better to do than primp and preen more than any woman did.

  Her head went fuzzy for a moment until she was standing completely erect.

  “Just because I am the help does not mean you can do what you like with me,” she said, her voice holding firm.

  He smirked. “I think it means exactly that.”

  His fingertip ran around the long strand of pink pearls he’d freed from her bodice.

  “Warm . . .”


  “I work hard, sir, and my body heat is well earned.” She refused to blink—refused to move from this spot. He could not ruffle her.

  “Yes, I’m certain it is, and what would it take to taste of this heat?” His eyes were piercing as he gazed into hers.

  “Nothing. It is not for sale.” She swallowed hard now. Lying. Again.

  “Everything is for sale, ma chérie,” he said, smirking.

  “That’s Lenora’s name—not mine.”

  “And what, pray tell, is your name, ma petite?”

  “Call me Cherry if you wish.”

  “Cherry? You said that was not your name.” He blinked and then his damned exotic green eyes roamed over her body again.

  “For all you are aware, I live on Cherry Street.”

  He laughed. “Yes, I daresay you probably do.” He fisted her lengthy necklace, held it up to his nostrils and took a deep whiff. “Smells like violets and lavender aromatic waters.” After another sniff, he slipped into French and said, “J'aime votre senteur terreuse—et la façon dont je peux vous croquer et vous dévorer entière. C’est plein de sensualité et je peux voir dans vos yeux que vous voulez être possédé et appartenir à un homme exactement comme moi.”

  Why was he talking about how he liked the earthy scent of her and how it was filled with sensuality?

  What could that possibly even mean?

  She was perplexed by the things he’d said, but she was squirming nonetheless, because the way he said it all was very lewd.

  Her spine stiffened. “And you smell like a rake.” A rake with too much money.

  She ripped her necklace back out of his hands, but his grip was so tight, the strand broke and pink pearls went flying everywhere.

  She gasped, and her eyes stung. All she saw was money flying out the door. Money she could not afford to lose.

  “You bastard! I needed that—I was going to sell it,” she blurted.

  “You said they weren’t for sale.” He chuckled and bent over, grabbing a pearl on the loose.

  He pocketed it.

  “That’s mine,” she growled.

  “It’s mine now.” He extended his palm. “Give me your hand.”

  “How foolish of me to think you might actually be an honest gentleman and give me what is already mine.” Her eyes narrowed, and she set out her foot to stop a rolling bead, keeping her hand far away from the likes of him.

  “Slippers? Hardly a servant’s attire,” he said, his right brow and cheek arching so high, he looked like a wolf, baring its teeth with hackles raised.

  She pulled her shoulders back and tipped her head up. “When did a magnate such as yourself worry about something as mundane as a maid’s shoes?”

  “Ma chérie, I worry about anyone that touches what belongs to me.” He roamed back over to Lenora’s dress, and a smug grin took over what she would’ve said was a fine-featured face when he’d first arrived here.

  Now? Well, now he was anything but tempting no matter how solidly built this man was with broad shoulders, large chest and towering height. His dark slick-backed hair made his mossy eyes look like tools of entrapment. He was a cad of obscene measure.

  “Go back to Pearl Street where you belong, and take your French aristocratic ass with you,” she said, turning around and grabbing a broom. She swept up as many of the scattered pink beads as possible.

  Her eyes stung once more, but she’d be damned if she’d let a single tear loose in his presence.

  “Such language. You most definitely come from the lower east side,” he said, tsking at her.

  “If I offend your ears, maybe it’s best you leave.” She glanced at him over her shoulder.

  He pulled out his pocket watch, but it came out of his coat pocket at an odd angle. “Ten minutes in your presence is enough to send me running, that is for certain.” He huffed. “But I am not leaving without what I came for.”

  “Miss Cheri will be here soon.”

  “Then I suggest you shut your mouth and make sure her things are ready to go. She’ll be leaving this flea-infested rat hole forthwith.”

  She chuckled. “I thought the Ferrismore family was a patron of the arts.” She set a fist on her hip. “Isn’t your money what pays to keep this flea-infested rat hole running?”

  “And what would a cherry girl like you know about what my family is invested in?” Once more, he approached her, but this time, he didn’t stop until he was flush up against her. He ran his fingertip down the bridge of her nose.

  When he got to the dip above her lip, she snapped at him and bit his finger.

  Then she pushed him off. “Don’t you touch me again, or I’ll be forced to draw a knife on you.”

  He laughed so hard, he bent over to do it, bracing his hands on his knees. “Cherry girl, if that is something you can handle, then I should like very much to see that.” He pulled out the pearl. “I’ll tell you this—it would be worth one pink pearl.”

  She swiped for it, but he was so quick, he had it pocketed again, along with his pocket watch that had been hanging at an awkward angle.

  “Oh, what a horrid crowd,” Lenora said, almost flapping her way into the dressing room. She was perspiring and fanning herself, the sparkling fringe of her dress looking ridiculous as it swung about.

  “Madame, I waited, and I am spent. You are to accompany me in what you are wearing,” Mr. Ferrismore said, bowing curtly at her, clicking his heels together as he went rigid.

  “I will not,” Lenora said, smiling radiantly.

  Clarissa turned away and rolled her eyes once more. This woman had men falling at her feet, tripping to get to that coveted spot to grovel, and yet there was nothing there worthy of note in Clarissa’s shrewd assessment.

  There were other actresses more talented than her and more beautiful as well. She would never be what Maude Adams had once been, or even as sultry and charming as Camille Clifford was before the protests began.

  Lenora could barely act, lacked a decent singing voice and certainly could not dance, but she had an amazing hourglass figure, lovely auburn hair and these luminescent light green eyes that men found mesmerizing.

  “I will have one of my men secure your trunk. We are off . . . now,” Ferrismore said through his gritted teeth.

  “William”—Lenora scowled at him—“I will not be hustled out the door at your whim. I must freshen up. I need to change.” She ambled through the room, adding flare to her lumbering, lazed walk as she fanned herself animatedly.

  “I give you five minutes, and not a moment more.” He snapped his fingers at Clarissa. “You, ma petite, help her right this instant.”

  Clarissa’s stomach inexplicably flopped at his commanding tone, then she remembered who was talking to her, and why, and her chest flamed with indignation.

  She released the broom and let it drop to the ground with a clunk. No one seemed to be bothered by the loud noise.

  She turned to Lenora and began helping her out of her dress.

  Clarissa looked to Ferrismore, and her eyes went wide when she realized he was going to remain in the dressing room while Lenora exchanged clothing.

  “Shield your eyes, at least,” Lenora told him, her tone lighthearted and flirty.

  “Why should I? I shall have that dress off you within the hour anyway.” He shrugged and then leaned up against the wall, taking a spot where he had a good vantage point.

  It should have made Clarissa uncomfortable, but she wasn’t the one acting like a cat in heat like these two were.

  She was fully clothed.

  Her foot slipped on an errant pearl for a moment, but she regained her balance and managed to avoid knocking into Lenora.

  A moment later, Clarissa had unbuttoned the costume for Lenora.

  As it slid off Lenora’s milk-white shoulder, Clarissa braved a glance at Ferrismore, and instead of watching Lenora, he was watching her.

  Oh, and he wasn’t just watching—he was leering as if she was the one exposing her body.

  She swall
owed as her heart raced, and her throat constricted.

  Those eyes. They bore straight into her, and it was the most licentious thing happening in this room.

  Not Lenora’s exposed corset or her cleavage—Lord above, no. It was the melting look he gave Clarissa that had her insides on fire.

  His eyes roamed over her breasts and lingered. He bit into his bottom lip in the most indecent way, and it blanched white.

  It was a hunger the likes she’d never seen before.

  What was this man’s delusion now? Did he fantasize about fucking the help?

  Or maybe that was his favorite sport—tricking them into thinking he was unduly interested.

  Well, she would not succumb or fall for these wiles.

  At least, not in a way he would ever allow. She could beat him into submission. He needed it.

  This spoiled brat had never worked a day in his life, and it showed. Definitely not at anything as repellent as cleaning something.

  When she was done helping Lenora out of her dress, he barked, “Two minutes.”

  Clarissa startled, and when she backed up, she sent the broom skidding over to him.

  He picked it up, and the rogue fondled the handle like it was his lover.

  “Oh, thank you for polishing that up for me. After using it to kill a rodent earlier, I didn’t have time to clean it properly before the play began,” Clarissa said, fighting off a smirk.

  He gave a stiff nod, laughed, then slipped into French, mumbling offensive words about her. “Je vais te montrer comment nettoyer mon levier, ma petite. Dorénavant tu n’as plus besoin de manche à ballet pour te faire vibrer de plaisir.”

  Clarissa’s cheeks heated. Did he just say he’d show her how to clean his stick, and she’d no longer need a broomstick to pleasure herself? How could he say such words without any worry?

  Lenora seemed unconcerned and told him in her choppy French that he was being rude, rushing her like this.

  Clarissa secured the silver beaded dress onto Lenora’s voluptuous body.

  Ferrismore said something crude once more. “Je vais écarter vos jambes si amplement que demain vous ne pourrez plus vous tenir debout sur scène sans osciller.”