Of Sugar, Pearls and Heels

+

His hand touched my cheek and I awoke, A few candles still burned.

"Thank you, Leah," he whispered.

I rolled into his arms, clung to him like a dream fulfilled.

This would work.

.

Pearls

After three years, I thought I understood the man, knew his mind. So often, of course, I was wrong.

The long strands of pearls seemed to whisper to me as my fingertips drifted over them.

"They're beautiful," I breathed. I looked up at him, saw the amused, kind smile on his face and fell in love with him all over again. I was still puzzled, though.

"You said a 'costume party', Greg, but these are for a formal gown. What kind of costume...?"

"Do you trust me, Leah?"

Now that   was a change in direction! I looked at him, puzzled and silent.

He took my hand in his, squeezed gently, a gesture of comfort.

"Have I ever shamed you, Leah? Asked you to do something you couldn't face yourself in the mirror over?"

I thought about that.

"No," I whispered.

Which was true.

Without ever being domineering or pushy or selfishly demanding, Greg had brought me further than I had thought possible, expanded my borders and thinking far beyond my imaginings. I'd been mildly embarrassed on occasion, but never humiliated and there was a big difference.

.

Sugar

We had been together for no more than a few months when he'd asked me if I had a passport.

"Yes."

"Ever been to France, Leah?"

"Um, no."

"We're going this summer."

"Oh." It was phrased in a way I wasn't sure of, then I remembered - three weeks traveling...

"When?"

"Late spring, early summer. I haven't finalized it yet. After your exams."

"What will we be doing?"

"Touring, sight-seeing." He paused, thought for a moment. "I think the Opéra national  will still be running in late June."

I was very excited by that.

We did the tourist thing in Paris. The Eiffel Tower, of course. A day-long personal guided tour of the Louvre, where I was surprised at how small the Mona Lisa is in real life. A boat trip down the Seine. A country picnic. The Rodin Museum. Bridges, fountains, parks and yes, the opera. Twice, bless the man, for I liked opera far more than he did.

Rather than a big hotel, Greg had chosen an intimate pension  for us, like a B&B. The small building looked ancient from the street; the stone steps were well worn with the passage of tens of thousands of feet over the centuries. Inside however was light and comfort and a smiling hostess who could make anything out of nothing. And hot water, endless hot water, in Paris, something not to be underestimated. And it was now our sixth afternoon.

"Where are we going for dinner?"

"Le Crazy Horse."

"'Crazy Horse?' Wait. Isn't that...?"

"It's a cabaret, Leah. And we're in Paris, a different culture. I really don't think you'll be offended."

And I wasn't. No, I had never before been entertained by a dozen topless (and sometimes bottomless) dancers, but after my initial blush had faded, I realized that here was nothing objectionable. The girls were talented performers and supremely pretty. And boobs were, in the end, just boobs. I'd seen boobs before. I had a couple of them myself. I relaxed, allowed myself to enjoy the show, enjoy the champagne and canapés, enjoy Greg's company. I found I could even enjoy the boobs.

I thought about it on the way home. It would've been considered scandalous in my small, stuffy hometown, but it was in reality just lovely women using their beauty to entertain others at no cost to themselves and to everybody's mutual benefit. Where was the harm and why then had Leah blushed? It had been sexy, of course. How not? Had it been... erotic? I wasn't sure and wasn't about to ask Greg.

I knew that it had been fun and that I'd enjoyed myself.

Greg held the door open when we returned to the pension  and followed me up the stairs to our room.

"Did you have a good evening, Leah?"

I laughed and twirled in front of him, hands high above my head like one of the girls on the stage, lowering my arms as I fell into his, my lips pointed up at him.

"I think I did, sir." I licked my lips, the tip of my tongue just visible, and watched his eyes shift to follow. "Thank you for insisting."

"You're very welcome, ma'am."

His hands caught me by the waist, slid lower to cup my bum, pulling us together as he lowered his lips to mine.

I'd learned a lot about kisses from Greg and was always eager to please a good teacher. I reached up, caught his head in my arms and pulled him down harder against me, tongue against his now, teasing and being teased.

He broke away. I could see the desire in his eyes.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Greg?"

His hands began to slowly rise up, off my bum, over my waist.

"I did," he said. His fingers were now under my arms, his thumbs had found my nipples. Even through my clothes, they felt wonderful, and Greg knew how to make it even better.

One of his hands stayed on my bosom; the other found the zipper tab for my dress and slowly pulled it down to my bum. I broke away from him, let it fall off my arms, slither to the floor around me. I kicked it aside with a toe. My slip followed.

Again his eyes examined me, his gaze like rose petals drifting over my skin. I had taken him lingerie shopping, which had made choosing more interesting and more difficult at the same time. The bra and panties I had on now were from that expedition. I'd been surprised at how a bra so pretty, so apparently insubstantial, could be more comfortable than any I'd worn before, but one gets what one pays for, in every way.

My hands reached behind my back, found the hooks and I tossed the filmy thing onto my dress.

Clad now in a barely-there thong, I snapped to attention like one of the dancers, saluted briskly and spun again in front of him. When I stopped suddenly, facing him, stomped my foot to the ground and saluted again, my boobs wobbled a bit, rather more than any of the dancers' had during their routines. Well, I had a little more to wobble with. My hands slid along my flanks, over my waist, thumbs catching the thong, pushing it down over my hips to fall around my ankles.

Greg grinned, again pulled me into his arms, His hands caressed me, running over my back and bottom. I could feel my body react. A minute or twelve later, I pushed away from him, my eyes glowing with arousal. I tugged on his lapel with thumb and forefinger.

"Your turn."

He grinned; his hands flew to his tie, his shirt buttons. I helped. In less than a minute, we were again in another hug, this one bare-skin magic. His talented fingers flowed over my skin, lifted and squeezed my boobs. I could feel his length, hard now, pressing against my tummy. I shifted, allowing my hands to move between us. One grasped his shaft, the other gently cupped his balls, ticked behind his sac. I laughed when he hissed in pleasure, laughed again when I felt it twitch in my hand.

One of his hands left my boobs, moved lower. Palm against my bare mound, he dragged it, shifted it; that in turn pulled on and dragged my sex. I moaned happily at the sensation.

Stretching his sac away from his body with one hand, I began to stroke his length with the other. My rhythm got mixed up and my eyes almost crossed as a long finger traced its way along my labia, spreading my ladydew as it moved. Catching my breath, I began to slide velvet-soft skin over his shaft, pumping it lightly but quickly. His finger paused on my sex as I did that, then it slid in further, began to circle my pearl.

I shivered, clung to him a moment. I suddenly felt it was unfair of me to be given so much while being unable to give more. Pulling out of his arms, I knelt, inhaled and felt my pussy quiver in response to his musk.

I had learned what pleased Greg Finn and ran a broad tongue up his shaft, sucked his crown into my mouth long enough to circle it with my tongue tip, then, my cheeks hollow with suction, pulled back off him with a low pop!

His hands stroked my head; I looked up at him, met his eyes and smiled. I kept watching, saw his gaze become misty as I continued to tongue his organ, fondle his twins.

His hands came off my head then, clutched my shoulders. I managed to get in one last, long, lingering lick along him, balls to plum, as his hands lifted me off the floor.

I squealed as he dropped me on my back on the edge of the bed, my legs falling down towards the floor. He seized my ankles, lifted my legs up and apart, stepped forward.

I felt his tip searching, reached down and aimed him at my entrance. I gave a soft cry of delight as a slow, strong push of the man's hips sent him between my lips and into my waiting emptiness, deeper and deeper. It took far too long; it was over far too soon, but then he was fully home. His eyes blinked and he smiled down at me. I smiled back and, knowing how much this wonderful man enjoyed watching, moved my hands to my breasts.

He grinned and began to slide back out of me, pushed forward again. I grasped my rigid nipples between fingers and thumbs; my body shuddered as his cock and my hands sent waves of pleasure through my body, pushing me again up that sublime height.

His eyes were fixed on my boobs, my nipples, my hands on them, fondling and teasing. I squeezed his hardness inside me, caught his attention and, smiling happily, licked my lips for him. He began to lunge more forcefully in response, hammering me down, my legs still widespread in his hands.

I felt it start, yelped ecstatically, then fell silent as I was crushed under wave upon wave of a seething, all-possessing orgasm.

Still the man pounded into me, relentless, his eyes now slits. Then he stiffened, stopped and I could feel his cock begin to pulse deep within me. His chest rose and fell as he gasped, then he had me in his arms, had lifted us, still joined, up onto the bed, his arms around me comfort and sweetness and hope.

+

"Leah." His voice was gentle.

I stirred in the morning light, shifted my head on his shoulder.

"Mmm?"

"We've been here a week. You agreed to three weeks each year, but it'd be OK if you wanted to go home tomorrow."

"Where will you be going?"

"A small island in the Mediterranean. It might push your boundaries a bit."

"Moi?"

"Toi."

I rolled to one side so I could see his face.

"Where? What?"

"Île du Levant. It's..."

"I know what it is, Greg. It's a nudist place, an entire town."

"True. I have a reservation in Héliopolis, supposed to be quite nice."

I thought about it. Le Crazy Horse had been just watching. This would be... more.

"What does one do in Héliopolis?"

"Ever done any scuba diving?"

"No."

"You'll love it. It's the closest thing to actually flying."

"And the rest of the time?"

"Just relax. There are cafés, restaurants, nature walks and a lot of sun. Very low-key."

I don't think my voice shook when I spoke next.

"Would I have to...?"

"Generally speaking," he said, his hand stroking my hair out of my face. "one might say that it's 'strongly encouraged'."

+

I adjusted to general nudity surprisingly quickly, not that there was much choice. Le minimum  — essentially a G-string — was supposedly required in a few places and sometimes people actually wore one, but clothes were mostly frowned on just about everywhere. I spent the first half-hour by the window in our room, peering out scarlet-faced at the parade of skin outside. Greg was wise enough to let me be, let me come to the unavoidable conclusion that that much bare skin was hardly terrifying. And most people were pretty average-looking; I had nothing to be ashamed of.

I could do this.

I found a tiny bikini in my luggage, donned the bottom and, encouraged by Greg, himself bare but for sunglasses and sandals, ventured forth to find lunch. It took a while for my heart to stop thumping, but it really is a great way to dine -- warm sun, red wine, cheese, fruit, a fresh French stick and not much else. Some people, not all of them men, examined me as they passed, but it was something I could get used to. I was generally looking back in any case.

I bought a G-string for myself at a shop on the way back from lunch, wore it for a day and thereafter left it in the room. If everybody's bare, then everybody's clothed...

Our middle-aged guide on the nature walk our second day on the island wore solid shoes, a broad-brimmed hat and un minimum.  I didn't think it did a thing for her. I learned — heard — more about cacti, arid region grasses, lizards and palm trees in the first hour of our walk than I would ever care to remember. Greg seemed far more interested and I tried not to look bored.

We settled into a routine for the next ten days. Mornings were spent diving (Greg had been right - I loved it!) or hiking the nature reserve. In the afternoons, Greg generally went for another hike while I worked on an all-over tan. It's a good place to do that. In the evenings, we dined, made love, drank wine, make love, took starlit swims in the sea and made love.

The Leah getting on the plane to fly home was more confident, more easy-going than the one who had landed in Charles de Gaulle airport three weeks before.

She also had one heck  of a tan.

.

Pearls

"So, how can it be a costume party if you're wearing a tux?"

"Because, Leah, your costume is the event."

I didn't understand, tried a bit of levity.

"So, I'm supposed to go stark naked?"

"No."

I felt relieved until I saw the slight smile on his face.

"You'll have the pearls to wear."

"What?"

"The theme of the annual Hallowe'en Simply Charity Ball is — and has been for almost a century — simplicity; hence the name. The gentlemen dress in tuxedo, the ladies in heels, pearls and fur."

"Just heels, pearls and fur?" I had a momentary vision of skimpy fur bikinis or something. He couldn't be serious.

"Until we get to the ball. The furs get parked on arrival."

With that, I'd skidded two blocks beyond Confused and was out of the car and on my feet, my fists pounding on the front door of the Hell No Hotel. He saw the expression on my face and tried to reassure me.

"It's not an orgy, if that's what you were thinking, Leah. Its... hmm. Let's say it's a celebration of feminine beauty, no more and no less. There's an absolute, cast-iron rule that nobody touches anybody. Not at all. Except on the dance floor, of course."

"Dance floor? There's dancing? With no clothes?"

"Of course." His eyes sparkled as he responded. He knew how much I liked to dance.

"But..."

"It's just a party, Leah, a costume party with very different costume expectations. The, um, dynamics are very different from what you seem to be thinking."

I stared at him.

"This is the first time you've mentioned this, Greg."

"Well, it's been running since 1930 or so, with just two gaps. One was during the Second World War and the other for the past two years."

"Oh, right. COVID." We'd been together for less than three.

"Precisely."

"Would I be the only woman?"

"No, not at all. Every member brings a guest."

I was having trouble wrapping my head around this. I thought of my sugar-baby status, tried to find a way to phrase the question.

"Will they all be... like me? I mean..."

He smiled. He objected to the word 'mistress', hated being called my sugar-daddy.

"It's something that's not asked, Leah, but yes, I'm sure there will be some other 'financially-supported' women there. There might even be a hired 'model' or two, but I'm virtually certain it'll be mostly wives and girlfriends present; it always have been in past."

"Wives?" I whispered. "Wives would do this?"

"Some, yes." He paused, smiled a bit more. "You'll see."

I closed my eyes, let my fingers drift over the pearls.

+

I could see Greg in the en suite,  tying his bow tie. Lean, tall, with broad shoulders, he looked very good in a tuxedo, I thought.

I turned to look at myself in the floor-length mirror in his bedroom. There was nothing there I hadn't seen, just me, Leah in the raw, so to speak. Five foot seven, 115 pounds, an almost-dancer's body (a younger me had thought of being a ballerina until adolescent boobage got in the way), good legs, blue eyes, honey blonde hair. No change from a week ago. No change from yesterday.

After all the preparation, after the mani-pedi, after the hair salon, after the waxing, the creams and the perfuming, after an hour at the makeup mirror, after all of it, it was still me, not at all the princess I might have expected. I felt vaguely surprised.

Greg had stressed 'simple elegance' and I thought my hair at least reflected that. The stylist had put some curl into it, leaving most to hang in waves down my back. A finger-thick braid came from above each temple, swept back to hold the rest, met at the back of my head, where the they had been woven together, the excess falling into the curls on my back. Simple, but elegant. His eyes had opened wide in admiring approval when I'd returned from the studio. He equally admired my pale, iridescent nails and toenails.

"Turn for me, please?" I could see his approval when I'd finished. And a tender smile.

"Perfect!"

I sat down, reached for the shoe-box on the floor beside me

The barely-there Stuart Weitzman sandals would have been my rent three years ago. With the exception of the counter, stiletto heels and the two thin straps at ankle and toe, there was very little to be seen. I'd been surprised at how comfortable they'd been when I'd tried them on at the store. They seemed to be weightless, seemed to make me feel weightless as well -- something my earlier memories of high heels didn't reflect at all. I tightened the straps, took a couple of steps, found my confidence soar as I looked in the mirror. I walked back and forth by the doorway of the en suite,  put a little attention-grabbing hip swing into my stride. I stopped, was happy to see the look on his face.

Finished with his tie, Greg brought me the case with the pearls and helped me choose. We settled on a single-strand bracelet on my left wrist, drop earrings and a very long necklace which, after some experimentation, we placed in three loops, one tight around my throat, one dangling well down into my cleavage and the third partway between. Looking at the pearls against my tanned skin, I realized why he had so strongly encouraged me to maintain my full-body tan. This would have looked much less impressive with white tan marks. As it was, the pale lustre of the gems was emphasized, highlighted by my darker skin.

I examined myself in the mirror and permitted myself to be unexpectedly impressed. I smiled, turned back and forth, watched the pearls swing, felt my breasts sway slightly. The earrings were heavier than I was used to. I lifted them in my hands, let them hang again, decided that they would work.

I was surprised when Greg handed me a mask, a domino mask of pearly lace, scarcely there, consisting chiefly of holes surrounded by thin outlines and contours. It sparkled and glowed in the ceiling lights overhead. In his other hand, he held one for himself, black and much simpler.

"Token anonymity," he smiled, pulling on his own. "Try it."

I didn't quite gasp when I looked at us through the eye-holes. Greg looked delightfully mysterious, romantically sinister, something out of a Bond movie. I licked my lips, fascinated at the sight of my tanned skin showing through the mask's wide mesh, marveling at how seductive it made me look. I felt a low tightness in my tummy, had to take a deep breath.