Julia was hot all over as she bent down again and gave her instep a tentative lick.
“All over,” said Mistress Ai. “Why don’t you begin at the ankle and work down towards the toes?”
Julia had to shuffle forward a few more inches to reach her ankle. She worked back and forth, making switchbacks down her foot. It took a couple of minutes to get to the toes, which Mistress Ai spread, saying, “Don’t forget to clean in between.”
Julia licked between Mistress Ai’s toes, grateful that they were already scrupulously clean. When Julia was finished with that task, and relieved it was done, Mistress Ai raised her big toe and said, “Suck my toe, Julia.”
How long would this humiliation go on? Julia stared at Mistress Ai’s shapely toe with trepidation.
“Go ahead, Julia,” said Mistress Ai in a soft, kind voice. “Just pretend it’s a cock. I’m sure you must be an enthusiastic cocksucker.”
Mistress Ai’s words stung. Julia felt the humiliation in her body—her hot face, her breasts, belly, and down below, where she was suddenly aware of her bottom high behind her and her sex exposed to everyone’s view. She wondered how she’d feel if Mr. Page thrust into her from behind. It would be horrible—but wasn’t that the kind of thing she’d signed on for? If it was inevitable, she wished he’d go ahead and do it.
This toe was as flawless as the rest of Mistress Ai—the skin white and without calluses, the nail delicately painted. Julia was shaken by its beauty. She could do it: she moved forward, her lips closed around Mistress Ai’s toe, and she sucked.
“Ah!” said Mistress Ai, and wiggled her toe ever so slightly.
Julia took stock of her feelings. Though she couldn’t see them, she knew all the people in the room were watching avidly and enjoying the sight of her crouching naked on the floor before this goddess—hands cuffed behind her, a degraded thing. Degraded, yes, but alive—more alive than she’d ever been before.
Did they want her to be miserable? If so, this submissive was defying them: her heart was singing with happiness, and every cell in her body seemed alight with arousal. She could suck Mistress Ai’s toe all evening, if they wanted her to.
But after a short while Mistress Ai said, “That’s enough, Julia. You may kiss my foot again, and see if it’s more to your liking.”
Julia loved Mistress Ai’s foot now—she kissed it with feeling, at the tender spot where the toes joined the instep. Then she sat up and waited for the next humiliation.
Mistress Ai said, “What more would you like to do? What would give you pleasure? Would you like to give me cunnilingus?”
Julia didn’t want to do that. She admired the beauty of other women—she’d been sneaking glances at Mistress Ai all through dinner—but the idea of kissing and licking her there filled her with horror. And yet she realized that she’d do it without hesitation if told to do so. Why was that?
“I would like to obey your command,” she said.
“That is an excellent answer, Julia,” said Mistress Ai. “In obeying me, you obey your dominant. Stand up.”
She managed to get to her feet without falling over, and, she thought, with a reasonable amount of grace. Mistress Ai stepped towards her, put her hands on her shoulders, and kissed her—a long, soft kiss that filled her with heat.
Mistress Ai stepped back, bent down, picked up her shoes, and returned to her seat.
“Is that all?” Teddy exclaimed, incredulous. “I thought we were going to be treated to some cunt-licking. Now look here, Arty. We’ve got three fine subs here, and my cock is throbbing: let’s take ‘em downstairs and play a while.”
“Another day,” said Mr. Page, stepping behind Julia to unlock her cuffs. “I’m afraid I must call it an early night.”
“All right,” said Teddy, grinning knowingly. “I get it. Well, thanks for the grub, and have a lovely night.”
They all said their good nights to Mr. Page. Teddy, Christopher, and Eric glanced at Julia without saying good night, Ms. Kim and Noye hugged her, Inkei shook her hand, and Mistress Ai gave her a warm smile.
And then she was alone with her new dominant. He said, “Pick up your clothing and come with me,” and led her upstairs.
“You may sleep in that room,” he said, pointing to a door. “You’ll find everything you need in there, and it has an adjoining bathroom. “My room is here,” he added, pointing to a door on the other side of the hall.
So there would be no sex tonight. She was disappointed. She hadn’t exactly been looking forward to sex with Mr. Page, but she was reconciled to the necessity of doing it, and she was resolved to do it well and with conviction, giving him a good experience. And having spent the evening naked, being stared at by strangers and near strangers, and finally sucking a beautiful woman’s toe, she was keyed up. In short, she was ready for sex, and she didn’t like it that her readiness was being wasted.
But she said, “Yes, Mr. Page,” and started towards the door.
“Julia,” he said.
She turned back towards him.
“Don’t make any plans for tomorrow morning or evening,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Page,” she said. She hesitated a moment and then said, “May I ask a question, Sir?”
“You may always ask questions,” he said, “and I will decide whether to answer.”
She looked at him. His thin face was pale and strained, skin stretched tight over the bone. “The game you had them play tonight,” she said, “about rewarding me. I was wondering how far you would have let them go.”
“It was head play, Julia,” he said. “Mistress Ai and I decided in advance that would be best tonight. Later on there will be body play.”
“So when they drew straws, that was rigged so Mistress Ai would win, Sir?” She smiled: the idea pleased her for some reason.
He was silent for a few seconds, as if gathering strength to speak. The fatigue in his eyes was almost alarming. “Every game you play with me will be rigged, Julia,” he finally said. “Now get some sleep.”
5. In Julia’s room
The room Mr. Page had directed Julia to was a sort of guest room, furnished with plain but good quality furniture, with few signs of personality anywhere and inoffensive artwork on the walls. She laid her clothing on the bed and explored. In the closet she found a simple white cotton nighty. The bathroom was well supplied with new toothbrushes and a few common brands of toothpaste, soaps, and shampoos: not the brands she used, but good enough. The towels were white and fluffy.
She showered, put on her panties and the nighty, and went to bed, but sleep didn’t come easily. She couldn’t help imagining Mr. Page naked. What would he look like, being so thin and more than sixty years old? She wondered what he’d want from her. Would he lie back and demand that she service him, or would he be more active? Would he be as reserved in bed as he was at other times? She tried to drive the images and speculations out of her mind, but couldn’t do it. She considered masturbating to help her fall asleep, but decided against it. Somewhere in the small hours, sleep stole over her.
She dreamed she was sunning herself out behind the family house. Her father, tanned and fit, was doing stretches by the edge of the pool while Rachel read on a chaise nearby. Julia said to him, “Am I doing the right thing, Dad?” He replied, “Microsoft 27.97, up thirty-seven cents, GM 38.02, down six cents, Bank of America 978.00, down eight dollars, DuPont 21.78 . . .” Rage roared up inside her. “Motherfucker!” she screamed, rushed at him, and shoved him into the pool. He flailed in the water, and she reached in to push him under, but he kept getting away from her. “Here, try this,” said Rachel, and handed her a leaf skimmer with a long handle, which she used to poke him under.
A firm hand gripped her wrist. “No!” she cried, “he fucking deserves it!” She tried to shake the hand off, but it was clasping something around her wrist, fastening it somehow . . .
She opened her eyes and looked. Mr. Page, wearing a white shirt and dark slacks, had fastened a soft leather cuff around her right wrist and
tied it to a bedpost. Now he was fastening a cuff to her left wrist.
“Mr. Page?” she said. “Sir?”
“Speak only when you’re spoken to,” he said, fastening her left wrist to the other bedpost.
He must have noticed the fear in her eyes, because he said, “I’m not going to hurt you, Julia,” as he caught her left ankle, pulled it wide, cuffed it, and secured it somewhere underneath the bed-frame. He walked around the bed and did the same with her right ankle.
Now her legs were spread wide, like a ballerina’s split. He lifted the hem of her nighty and looked underneath.
“You’re wearing panties,” he said. “From now on you will wear no underwear in this house. You may speak to acknowledge what I say.”
“I understand, Sir,” she said.
He took a folding knife from his pocket, opened it, sliced her panties on each side, and pulled them off. He dropped the remains on the floor and stood contemplating his work. Then he sliced her nighty up the front and opened it like a jacket. He did all this with quick, dexterous movements—there was no hesitation or shyness in him, but rather the sureness that comes from the conviction that you have an absolute right to do what you want with what is yours.
A thrill of fear ran through her and she closed her eyes tight as he worked.
He retreated to an upholstered chair. Julia lifted her head and saw him seated below her left foot, relaxed, legs crossed, with a mug of coffee on a small table beside him. His eyes met hers briefly and then strayed over her body—not a hungry look, but appreciative and satisfied, as if she were a painting he’d just won at auction.
“Sir?” she said.
“Quiet, Julia,” he said.
She let her head fall back. She would have liked to visit the bathroom, both to relieve herself and to brush her morning breath away—what if he wanted to kiss her?—but those things would have to wait.
Minutes passed. Every now and then she heard the sound of his mug being set down on the wooden tabletop. She wondered what he might have in mind besides sex. The list of things he was permitted to do with her body was long, and some of them might be painful.
She was warm down below with awareness of his gaze—not a creepy gaze, sneaky and ashamed, but candid and proprietary. She wondered whether he liked looking at one part of her more than others—breasts, face, hair, sex . . .
She glanced at him again. As if that were a cue, he rose from his chair, took two steps to the side of the bed and, holding her gaze, put a hand on her sex and probed into her cleft with his middle finger.
“You’re wet, Julia,” he said.
Yes, she was wet. “Mmm,” she said, trusting she could get away with inarticulate sounds.
He slipped his finger inside and stimulated her gently, slowly increasing tempo and force till she could hear the liquid slopping of his finger. “Oh,” she moaned as he put another finger into her and thrust harder and faster till the stimulation was almost too much, pleasure morphing into pain—and it was painful, the way his fingers were pounding her full bladder.
“Oh, please,” she whined, and tried to squirm away from his hand, but she couldn’t move much; and he was relentless: her whole body shook with the force of him. She could hardly think for the overwhelming sensation, her pleas gave way to a shrill keening, and she thrashed on the bed, thinking surely she could tear loose somehow if she just pulled hard enough against her cuffs.
Finally she remembered the safeword: she was just about to scream “Red!” when he stopped. He leaned over her and released her right wrist and ankle, then seized her arm and half pulled, half rolled her towards him till she was lying on her side at the edge of the mattress, still tethered to the bed-frame by one hand and foot.
She was shocked: she’d never been handled so roughly before. But before she could react, his hand caught her eye, unhurriedly moving towards his zipper, grasping the tab with two fingers, pulling it down slowly . . . he reached into his pants and pulled out his penis, which he stroked languidly just a foot from her eyes, making himself hard.
She knew what he was going to do, knew what he wanted from her, knew she didn’t want to, knew she’d do it anyway because she had to. But oh, she did want to, and she always had. She’d known from the start, below the level of conscious thought, that this would be the opening act, the first thing he’d want, and he’d want it often because he knew she didn’t like it; and she’d love it and need it because . . . because . . .
Holding himself with his right hand, he put his left hand behind her head, fingers sunk deep in her luxuriant hair, and pulled her towards him. She opened her mouth to receive him and let him push into her—deep, too deep! She coughed and spluttered, and when he drew back she spat out a mouthful of drool.
Now grasping the back of her neck, he plunged in again, and she gagged, and her stomach lurched as he drew back just before she would have lost her breakfast if she’d had any. She spat out more thick saliva and opened up again for the next onslaught.
Oh, this wasn’t the oral sex she’d talked to Mr. Page about doing for Alan, the vaguely unpleasant cocksucking followed by a little spurt. This was an assault—he was using her head as a sex-toy, caring no more how she felt about it than if she were made of plastic. She put her free hand on his belt buckle to push him away . . .
But, no! She saw now that she’d craved this all along, even back at Daniel where she’d wet her panties sipping her wine: not the sensation, the stimulation of a mouthful of warm flesh and the churning stomach, but being used this way: without sweet words or a kiss on the neck or a tender caress—without acknowledgment of her human dignity even, but with a primal sexuality that knows what it wants, is sure of its due, and takes it by force.
She was made to be ravished like this: why had she never known it before? Her hand slipped away from his buckle, down to her breast, where she twisted a nipple hard as he attacked again, deeper now, pulling her roughly into him, forcing her wide open—and somehow she was adjusting to this treatment, not gagging so much or so afraid of throwing up, but focused on her raw emotions, her impossible arousal, her hand sliding down her belly to her sex, where she found her clitoris, fingers stoking the fire inside higher and higher . . .
Until he took two handfuls of her hair and held her still as he withdrew just an inch and pumped her mouth full of his warm, sticky semen.
He withdrew from her and pulled her head back by the hair so he could watch with flat eyes what he knew she would do without his commanding her—what she dreaded doing and needed to do. She swallowed hard, forcing it down, rolled onto her back, and looked at him, waiting for what would come next.
Mr. Page put himself away, zipped up his pants, and retreated to his chair. He picked up his coffee cup, glanced into it, and set it down again. He sat silently watching her. At length he said, “What’s in your head, Julia?”
She paused, surprised by the question, and said, “I’m thinking it’s strange, Sir, that a man who doesn’t care whether or not I enjoy my dinner wants to know what’s on my mind right now.”
“Careful, Julia,” he said. “Insolence will not be rewarded.”
“I’m not being insolent, Mr. Page,” she said, voice high and quavery. “I’m being honest, the way you told me to. I really want to know this. Do you care what’s in my head, or not?”
He said, “I am interested, Julia. Now answer my question.”
She said, “How are you interested, Sir? Are you hoping I’ll say it was horrible so you can get off on my misery?” She saw him stiffen a little, growing annoyed, and added, “This is what’s in my head, Sir.” Unfamiliar, unidentifiable emotions were boiling inside her; she was tearing up.
He said, “I don’t want you to be miserable, Julia.”
“Thank you, Mr. Page.”
“I want to know . . . how you feel,” he said.
“I need to pee, Sir,” she said, sniffling.
Looking weary, he got up and undid her cuffs. “Come back right afterwards,” he s
aid.
She ran to the bathroom, sat down gratefully, and peed for a long time, breathing deeply to calm herself. When she was finished, she rinsed her mouth with water, went back to the bedroom, and stood by the bed.
“Are you going to tie me up again, Sir?”
“Not right now.”
She sat on the edge of the bed facing him. Her breasts and sex were warm, all her body aglow; she waited for him to speak.
“Well?” he demanded.
“I’m very turned on, Mr. Page, and I haven’t had an orgasm.”
“Masturbate,” he said.
She stared at him. He didn’t stir in his chair.
“Are you going to stay here, Sir?” she asked.
“Yes. Surely you’ve figured out that you have no right to privacy while in this house.”
“Maybe I’ll just wait till later, Sir,” she said.
“It was a command,” he said. “Masturbate.”
She hesitated; then, without moving from where she sat, she parted her legs and touched herself. Fingers together and flat, she massaged her labia, gently stimulating the half-hidden clitoris.
It felt good, very good—but was it her hand that was stimulating her or his eyes fixed on her hand and sex? Hand and eyes together, surely, and her left hand too, which had found its way somehow to her right nipple and was squeezing and twisting it.
She stared at Mr. Page as she worked, mouth a little open, breath coming in gasps; his features (a strong face, the lines of age just starting to appear) were fixed, but his eyes were alive, his arousal roaring back already. He sat upright, body tense, a coiled spring . . .
Suddenly he was out of his chair. He shoved her back roughly so her head hit the mattress with a bounce. He swatted her hand aside and fell to his knees as he lifted her legs—it was all one fluid movement—and his lips closed over her, his tongue, hard as a penis, probed into her wet slit, slid upwards, and jammed into her clitoris.
Again it was too much stimulation and she wanted to writhe away, but his hands were on her thighs, holding her as firmly as her bonds had before, so all she could do was whine and bite a knuckle and knead her nipple roughly, as if it weren’t enough after all, what he was doing to her.
Julia and Mr. Page Page 4