Julia and Mr. Page

by Serafina Conti

  And her orgasm, when it came, was a thunderous, crashing thing like nothing she’d ever felt before. She screamed and screamed, she had no idea how long, till it was done, and then she lay exhausted, bare feet dangling, wondering vaguely when she’d recover the strength to move.

  Mr. Page stood and left the room without a word. He returned less than a minute later carrying a large plaid bathrobe, which he laid on the bed beside her.

  “Put this on,” he said, “and come to the kitchen. I’ll make some fresh coffee, and you can find yourself something for breakfast.”

  Yes, she thought. She’d like some breakfast.

  6. The limits of punishment

  She ate at the kitchen table; he sat with her and drank coffee. There were many things Julia wanted to ask him, but his demeanor did not invite conversation.

  As they were finishing up and Julia was wondering what would come next, Mr. Page said, “I have made an appointment for you at J. Sisters for eleven o’clock. The afternoon will be yours to do with as you like.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said.

  “Take some Advil now,” he said. “That will make the waxing less painful. You’ll find it in the cabinet to the right of the stove.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” she said, and went to the cabinet he’d pointed to. It took her a few seconds to spot the Advil behind another pill bottle labeled “Gleevec 400 mg.” She shook two pills out of the Advil bottle and carried them back to the table, where she washed them down with coffee.

  It was around ten. “You’d better get dressed and go,” he said. “It won’t hurt to be early. Be back here for dinner by six.”

  “Am I going to serve?” she asked.

  He smiled for the fourth time in their acquaintance and said, “No, Julia. This time you’ll be the main course.”

  At J. Sisters they didn’t quite approve of her getting a Hollywood wax when she’d never been waxed before, but she insisted they go ahead, since that’s what she’d been told to do. She nearly fainted from the pain of the procedure and was warned that her skin would be sensitive for several days.

  After her appointment, she walked to Rockefeller Plaza and had lunch at Just Salad. She spent the afternoon drifting among the Midtown stores, paying little attention to the clothing and accessories that she usually found so fascinating. She was preoccupied with thoughts of her strange dominant and the activities of the last twenty-four hours. She was fascinated by the paradox that she loved the things that had been done to her precisely because she didn’t like them and had been forced to do them. Amid these meditations, she lost track of the time and had to run for the Lexington Avenue train. It was about six-fifteen when a frowning Mr. Page opened the door of the Gramercy Park house.

  He said, “You have come to this house twice, and you’ve been late both times. Come with me.”

  More than a little apprehensive, Julia followed him to the back of the house, where he unlocked a door that led down to a finished basement room containing a variety of equipment that she’d read about and seen online: a St. Andrew’s cross, a cage, a bondage table, and more. It was one thing to look at pictures of those things and another thing to be in a room full of them. It was scary.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Page,” she said. “I won’t let it happen again.”

  “Strip,” he said, not looking at her.

  She quickly shed her clothing.

  “Over here,” he said, and led her to the cross, where he fastened her hands and feet, facing the wall, and tightened her cuffs till she was suspended and couldn’t touch the floor even with her toes.

  She watched as he went to a closet, reached in, and pulled out a black whip with multiple tails about two feet long, each one terminating in a knot. He turned towards her, face expressionless as always.

  As he approached, the whole universe seemed to rearrange itself with the whip at its center. Images rushed into her mind of the horrible welts on the backs of slaves in old photos. She couldn’t bear it: she’d die if that were done to her! Her heart hammered inside her, and her breath got fast and shallow. Energy flooded into her body, and she yanked at her cuffs, frantically trying to pull free.

  “No,” she wheezed between gasps. “No!”

  Mr. Page stopped and stared as Julia writhed on the cross, staring wildly like a fox in a snare, trying to shy away from him. He took one more step, and she screamed.

  Her chest felt like it would crack open. “No! No! No!” she screamed—and then “Please, No!” and “No!” Her body twisted on the cross, and then she couldn’t say anything more because she couldn’t get any air, but made a horrible sucking sound as she struggled to breathe.

  Mr. Page stood frozen to the spot for a few seconds, and then dropped the whip, rushed to the cross, and released her feet and hands. She collapsed to the floor, taking huge noisy gulps of air; she buried her face in her trembling hands, and as soon as she could breathe again, started to weep uncontrollably, shoulders heaving, shivering all over as if she were crouching naked in a snowdrift instead of on the floor of a warm basement.

  She tried to say “No,” but the word wouldn’t come.

  She felt a hand in the middle of her back, light and tentative, and heard a voice like Mr. Page’s but without the hard edge.

  “Julia!” said the voice. “Julia! It’s over.”

  There was a blanket over her—where had it come from?—and now the hand was stroking her back and the voice was saying, “It’s over Julia. It’s done.”

  Conscious thought returned to her slowly, along with control of her body. Panic gave way to simple fear, and finally the safeword came to her, and she whispered, “Red!”

  “I know, Julia. I know,” said Mr. Page.

  “I’m sorry,” she wept. “I won’t be late anymore.”

  “I know that, Julia,” he said.

  When she was able, he let her dress. He took her up to the kitchen and made her tea, and when she was settled at the kitchen table he went and got the contract. She watched as he took out his gold fountain pen, crossed out “flogging” in the soft limits section, and added it to the “hard limits” section.

  He initialed both places in the margin, and passed her the contract and the pen. She initialed with a hand now only a little shaky.

  Mr. Page said, “Did you have any inkling that you’d react like that to the sight of a whip?”

  “No, Sir,” she said. “Only, I guess I don’t handle pain very well. I almost fainted today when they were waxing me.”

  “Would you rather not do the waxing again?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll think about it, Sir.”

  “This is why I have to ask you how you feel now and then,” he said. “I have no wish to torture you. In fact, we don’t have to go on with our arrangement at all, if you’d rather not. Tell me: do you want to go on?”

  Julia stared into her mug, at the steaming tea. She was silent for a minute, gathering her thoughts while Mr. Page waited patiently.

  At last she said, “The things you did to me last night and this morning, Sir—was I supposed to dislike them?”

  He said, “If I judged you correctly, and you’re truly a submissive, not just a girl in need of money, you should have felt a certain amount of dislike, but a great deal more pleasure.”

  “Do you think you can be happy without . . . without whipping me, Sir?”

  “For me,” he said, “this is all about control. It’s a head game, and the activities themselves don’t matter all that much. Other dominants feel differently. But we could lock up my dungeon and never go there, and I’d be perfectly happy.”

  “I liked the cuffs, Sir. I might like the cross and the other things, if they can be used for something besides whipping.”

  “They have many uses,” he said with a chilly smile that made her shiver—but pleasantly this time.

  “What’s for dinner, Sir?” asked Julia with a smile.

  As it happened, he had several containers of Chinese food in his refriger
ator: they heated it up and sat in the kitchen.

  “Tell me about your writing,” said Mr. Page.

  “I’ve mostly written like these high school romances, Sir,” she said. “My ex-boyfriend thought they were trivial, and maybe he was right. I was following that advice to write about what you know.”

  “Do you think that’s good advice?” asked Mr. Page. “After all, most detective novelists haven’t been detectives, and damned few science fiction writers have been to Tau Ceti. Chaucer wrote some of the greatest love stories ever told, but he insisted he was incapable of love.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Sir,” said Julia. “I’ve been getting bored with my stories anyway, even though my teachers like them. Maybe it’s time to move on. I’m not sure where I’m going to find inspiration, though.”

  “Books, newspapers, life,” said Mr. Page, “there’s inspiration all around you. What do you like to read?”

  They talked about books far into the night. Mr. Page had never tried his hand at writing, but he was an enthusiastic reader. Despite his dry manner, talking to him was exciting and encouraging: he made her feel she really was capable of writing a new kind of story. He made her promise to email him some of her work.

  At around midnight Mr. Page said, “It’s time for bed, Julia.”

  She hoped he would take her to his room, tie her up and fuck her. But once again he sent Julia to the room across the hall from his, and again she was disappointed: he seemed to have forgotten his promise that she’d be the main course at dinner.

  “I’ll wake you at eight, if you’re not already up,” he said.

  She looked at him, wondering if there was anything she could do to make him want her, and saw the same fatigue in his face that she’d seen the night before, as if he’d aged ten years in a single hour.

  “Are you all right, Sir?” she asked.

  “Get some sleep,” he said.

  She woke at seven in the morning, dressed, showered, and went down to the kitchen, which she explored till she had found what she needed for coffee and a simple breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs. She had everything ready when he appeared around eight. It was difficult to tell whether he was pleased with her initiative, but he ate some of the breakfast she’d made.

  When they were finished, he said, “You can go home now. Come back on Friday at six o’clock, and bring enough clothing for the weekend.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said.

  He saw her to the foyer. There was a tote bag by the door, which he picked up and handed to her.

  “There are instructions inside,” he said. “Follow them exactly before you return.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said.

  “Do you have taxi fare?” he asked.

  She hesitated, calculating what she needed for food against the amount remaining in her bank account. “I’ll take the subway, Sir,” she said.

  “Here,” he said, reached into his pocket, and pulled out some bills, folded and clipped. He extracted two twenties and handed them to her. It felt strange and wrong, somehow, to take money from him, but she took it anyway.

  An embrace or a kiss—on the cheek at least—would have made her feel better, but he made no such gesture, and she didn’t think it her place to initiate that kind of contact. She glanced at him once more, left the house, and walked to Park Avenue to hail a cab.

  Back in her apartment, she opened the tote bag. Inside was a leather pouch containing three silicone butt plugs in different sizes, and another containing a blue silicone dildo shaped like a penis. There was a bottle of lubricant and an envelope, which she opened to find a note written in a careful hand—she supposed with Mr. Page’s gold fountain pen:

  Practice oral sex with the dildo until you can insert it all the way. You can find guidance on the internet. To train your anus, begin with the smallest plug (you must use the lubricant), and when you are comfortable with that move to the next size. Your goal is to be able to wear the largest one for an hour at a time.

  Curious, she carried all this to her bedroom along with her laptop. She stripped, lubricated the smallest butt plug, and eased it into herself. She was pleased that it didn’t hurt at all, but felt good.

  Wearing the plug, she opened her laptop and Googled “practice deep throat.” She watched a couple of videos, read several web pages with interest, and then set to work. She lubricated the dildo (water-based, unflavored, non-toxic), tipped her head back, stuck out her tongue, and eased the dildo in until she felt her gag reflex start to engage. She paused, waited, got control of herself, and tried again. She soon realized that Mr. Page hadn’t penetrated her all that deeply in the morning: she had a lot to learn before she could deep throat like the women in the videos.

  She lay on her back with her head over the edge of the mattress so her mouth and throat were aligned. She imagined Mr. Page was leaning over her, thrusting into her, and soon found herself very turned on. She paused and inserted the next size butt plug. It hurt, but not nearly as badly as the waxing had hurt that morning.

  She lay down again, inserted the dildo, and enjoyed the dual sensations of the dildo and plug. If Mr. Page’s cock was in her throat, maybe that was Eric, the handsome young architect, in her ass, and they were using her body together. She massaged her sex with an open hand and after a few minutes inserted two fingers.

  It was Mistress Ai now, with a strap-on dildo in her pussy, Mr. Page in her ass, Eric’s cock in her throat, all using her body, caring nothing for her shame or her dignity, but just pleasuring themselves in her gaping holes. The idea, without all the sweat and splashing fluids that would go along with the real thing, was romantic.

  She came hard with an orgasm that left her trembly and spent.

  7. Friday night

  Julia spent the next week practicing with her dildo and butt plugs and reading and writing. After she’d sent Mr. Page a little selection of her stories, she got an idea for one unlike any she’d written before, about a young couple who live by panhandling in the subways. The man deserts the girl, and she has to make decisions about how to survive. Julia wasn’t sure how the story would go, but she liked the premise and worked hard on a catchy opening scene. She sent it to Mr. Page, but he didn’t reply.

  By Friday, January 16, she could take the dildo all the way up to the flared base without much effort, and she had succeeded in wearing the biggest butt plug for an hour. She allowed herself plenty of time to get to Gramercy Park, and she walked around the neighborhood, overnight bag on her shoulder, until a few minutes before six, when she rang the doorbell of Mr. Page’s house.

  The door was opened by a striking woman in her forties, dressed in black pants, a black blouse, black boots, and a black leather jacket with steel studs. She had multiple ear piercings and a pierced eyebrow with a stainless steel ring in it. For a moment she seemed startled; then she recovered and said, “Mr. Page has outdone himself this time.”

  Julia, who was used to compliments, smiled and said “Thank you.”

  “Well, you’d better come in,” said the woman, and when Julia was safely in the foyer and the door closed, she said, “I’m Suzy Lombardi. Mr. Page calls me Mrs. Lombardi because he’s like that, but I’d rather you called me Suzy. I’m his housekeeper, and no, I’ve never fucked him. I’ve got a fuck-toy of my own at home.”

  “Please call me Julie,” said Julia, who was already taking a liking to Suzy.

  “Mr. Page wants you to undress here in the foyer,” said Suzy. “I’ll take your clothes and bag for you.”

  Wondering if she’d ever get over her self-consciousness about being naked, Julia took off her dress (in obedience to Mr. Page’s instructions, she had worn no underwear) and her shoes.

  Suzy said, “He wants you to wear this,” gesturing towards a small table where, Julia saw, there was a metal butt plug with a jeweled end, a small bottle of lubricant, and a hand towel. The plug was the same size as the biggest one Mr. Page had given her.

  “Okay,” said Julia, sure now that she was in
for a good bit of humiliation.

  “You don’t want me to watch you putting it in,” said Suzy. “I’ll wait just the other side of that door.” She disappeared into the hallway beyond the foyer.

  Julia squatted, lubricated her anus and the plug, and inserted it, wincing at the momentary chill of the metal. She dried her hands and joined Suzy on the other side of the doorway.

  “Do you know what he’s going to do with me?” she whispered.

  “Sorry, no,” she whispered back, and led her into the living room, where Mr. Page was sitting with Mistress Ai and Eric. The men both wore suits, Mr. Page’s charcoal and Eric’s a light gray that went well with his scrumptious deep brown skin. Mistress Ai was wearing a magnificent white silk kimono with pink flowers.

  Julia stood in the middle of the room, tingling with excitement but unsure what was expected of her.

  Eric stared and said nothing. Mistress Ai tilted her head, smiled, and said, “No hello kiss for me, after we were so intimate last week?”

  Julia glanced at Mr. Page, who was looking on with interest.

  She said, “If Mr. Page permits it.”

  “You may kiss Mistress Ai,” he said.

  Julia approached the Japanese beauty, raising her arms for an embrace, but Mistress Ai raised her hands and said, “Wait, Julia! You’re being presumptuous. There are many kinds of kiss, after all.”

  Something was coiling and uncoiling in Julia’s stomach. She said, “How would Mistress Ai like to be kissed?”

  “What kind of kiss do you like best, Julia?” asked Mistress Ai.

  Julia thought about this. It had been exquisitely pleasurable when Mistress had kissed her on the lips and more exciting, if upsetting, to kiss her feet. Mistress had hinted at another kind of kiss, more intimate and far more frightening. She had her preferences, but it wasn’t for her to state them.

  “I like the kisses that Mistress takes for herself,” said Julia.