In a tarot spread, the Seven of Cups sometimes signifies fantasies — each cup holds a vision. So when I agreed to write this book for eXstasy’s Tarot series, my first thought was a baker’s half-dozen dreams and wishes. But seven? I imagined seven cups, each belonging to a miner in a boarding house in Colorado, at the heyday of the great mines. Seven cups, seven miners, seven dreams.
Passions of Pearl is a long novella that tells the story of pretty orphan Pearl Frost working in a boarding house a few years before the turn of the 20th century and what happens to her when she falls under the spell of a wicked silver queen.
Here’s how it starts:
Lily Regis could not get enough of her own beauty.
Justin Prince watched her face, a perfect oval, ivory, skin as smooth as if a girl of twenty, only the shadow of a line here and there to show the passage of years.
And even those lines only graced the perfection of her features, eyes wide and blue as mountain skies, the delicate turn of her nose and lips that framed a mouth inviting ecstasy and ruin. Lily’s face hung in the mirror and reflected a hundred times in the faceted walls and ceilings of her boudoir.
Those perfect, crimson lips parted in a wild scream as Justin Prince thrust deep inside her. He mounted her from behind, his finger on her clit acted like the trigger of love’s own pistol.
Lily’s scream echoed and danced endlessly in the glass.
Justin thought of a white bird in a cage of reflective crystal, cascading around the walls and across a shining, depthless ceiling. She closed her eyes and moved with him, clenching her pussy to milk the last of his restraint, undeniable in the sweet pull and pulse. He clutched her breast and came, long and wet and deep inside the cunt of the most powerful woman in Colorado.
Fucking her was the kind of thing a man might lose his license over, Justin thought, or at least the contract with her husband, if old man Regis wasn’t way past caring.
“I’m gaining her confidence,” Justin told himself, even while he remembered that lying to a liar is even harder when you’re lying to yourself.
His spent dick shrank out of her and he gave her clit a last touch then stroked the ivory curve of her hip with deferential tenderness. She made a noise like a panther and collapsed onto the bed. The pale paradise of her back and bottom mesmerized him like a land where a man might live forever, a white island in the sea of red silk sheets.
Justin straddled her, his cock hanging in the cleft of her butt and she shifted beneath him, propping herself on her arms, staring into the depthless silver mirror beside the bed. He reached down between her legs and massaged the open lips of her cunt, smearing her, rousing her clit to slow stiffness.
Lily ground against his hand and tightened her ass around his lengthening cock. She spoke, but so softly he hardly heard her.
Then he realized she had not been talking to him at all.
“Tell me,” she whispered. “Am I still the most beautiful woman in the world?”
In last age of the great mines, there was a girl named Pearl Frost, who lived in the town of Eternity Springs, in the central mountains of Colorado. Pearl’s life had been very hard, but she had kept her virtue and, in time, had found a good job as the housekeeper and cook at Bighorn’s rooming house on Pike Road at the edge of town, between the curving breasts of two mountains.
In only twenty years, Pearl had already learned many valuable lessons. She had learned that most men were gentlemen regardless of their station, but that many of them, when offered a quiet moment, would whisper fevered endearments and attempt liberties.
Life in Bighorn’s rooming house was a constant education.
The spring had started damp and dreary, but on the first true warm day, a young man named Mr. Prince who said he was a poet, came to stay at Bighorn’s. Hardly settled in his small, windowed bedroom, he smiled at Pearl as she brought fresh linens to him and, when he approached her, his heat and fine smell sent strange shivers of excitement through her.
He smiled at her and, when he spoke, his voice was like thick honey.
“Young Miss Pearl, your skin is as light as whipped cream, and such hair—I’ve not seen such luster save that found in ripe blackberries fresh upon the vine. Lips, my dearest, your lips are like sweet, crushed cherries, and your eyes shine blue as the delftware found in fine parlors.” And as he spoke, his hands crawled up her skirt, gathering the rough wool so that his fingers brushed the cotton frills of her bloomers.
Pearl, not an innocent to such flattery, resisted, though she later wondered what might have befallen if she had not pulled away.
Don’t let the cover fool you either. It may feature a Chippendale dwarf, but the hot parts in this book are equal opportunity!
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