He watched her as she spoke; then, as if in a trance, he stared into a corner of the room. He was silent for a long time before he spoke in a mechanical voice. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said slowly. “I was divorced, parents long dead, brother dead, daughter estranged. I had no one to answer to and plenty of money to buy a girl to fuck. I wasn’t supposed to get involved.”
He looked at Julia as if he’d forgotten she was there and had just now noticed her.
“You seemed perfect—everything I wanted. You were clever, of course, I don’t take idiots. But you were vain, and I believed you were shallow and hollow, with nothing much inside for the affections to catch hold of. I didn’t see the danger in you—what you were going to do to me, with your stories, your looks, and your needs.”
Julia said, “You want me, then, Sir? You’ll keep me?”
“I’m not right for you, Julia. You deserve someone young and strong. I’m doing this for you, and on generous terms.”
She stood up and faced him, fists clenched at her sides. “How do I convince you, Sir, that the only thing I want in the world is for you to command me. I need you to make me do something difficult, Sir, so it will be significant when I obey!”
She reached down, seized the hem of her mesh dress, and with one smooth movement pulled it over her head. Standing naked before him, she said, “I’m your slut, Mr. Page. Use me.”
Mistress Ai said, “You’re making this too complicated, Arthur.”
“How so?” he snapped.
“Eric is a lovely man,” she said, “and he’ll make someone a good dominant. But you and Julia love each other, and your kinks and hers mesh as perfectly as gears in a clock. Has any of your girls ever had a genuine objectification fetish, or have they all just gone along with what you wanted? This girl,” she said, gesturing at Julia, “is the real thing.”
He didn’t answer, but stared at Julia’s naked body as she glared at him, hands on her hips. A minute passed, and then he straightened in his chair. He stood up slowly, and slowly crossed the room to face Julia. He lifted a hand and gently stroked her cheek, then petted her blond hair. How tender he was, and loving! Maybe he’d keep her after all.
Abruptly, his mouth twisted into a scowl; he seized a fistful of her hair and yanked her towards him.
“Ow, Sir!” she cried.
He said nothing, but hauled her out of the room, to the back of the house, and down the stairs to his dungeon. Mistress Ai, Inkei, and Eric followed behind and were just entering the room as he was forcing her to her knees on a mat in the center of the room. He picked up a coil of rope that lay on the floor and tied her hands securely behind her.
He walked slowly around to stand in front of her. He loosened his tie and pulled it off. With deliberate movements, he removed his jacket and laid it, neatly folded, on the floor. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled the tail out of his waistband, and removed his cufflinks, which he dropped into his pants pocket. He took off his shirt, folded it, and laid it on top of the jacket.
Julia saw the bulge in his pants: it was right in front of her eyes. She watched with hypnotic fascination as he stepped out of his shoes and unbuckled his belt. He pushed his pants down, folded them, and added them to the pile of clothing on the floor. He raised each foot and slid off his socks.
Finally Mr. Page lowered his briefs. His body was pale, his arms and legs thin, his ribs visible. And yet he was well proportioned and fit, not emaciated: disease had not robbed him of his strength. His cock was hard, not enormous but thick and upward curving. He was beautiful, just as she’d known he’d be.
Julia sighed, “Oh, Sir—”
She wanted to tell him she loved him, but that was all she had time to say, because with quick, decisive movements he put one hand behind her blond head, took himself in the other, and pulled her to him so suddenly and roughly that in a second he was in her throat balls deep and holding her tight to him with her nose smashed into his pubic hair as she made obscene gargling noises.
He’d never been half so rough with her before: their sex had been child’s play compared to this tonsil-battering face-fuck. Panicking, she tried to twist away, but he seized two handfuls of her hair and held her to him firmly, fucking her violently as her saliva roped down to puddle on the floor.
She couldn’t resist him—she let her body relax, let him control her, and in that moment of surrender pleasure thundered through her body, arousing every nerve ending, every part of her, and she was all submission, all desire for him to use her body more and rougher, to take his savage pleasure with her.
She lost track of time; she couldn’t count the minutes till he pushed her away, turned her around, and shoved her down, on her knees, cheek pressed against the mat, ass high up in the air. He thrust into her and fucked her, one hand on the back of her neck, holding her down as if she weren’t already helpless. He pounded her pussy as hard as he had her throat, shaking her whole body, her sensations spiraling so far past arousal that she had no words for what she was feeling.
“Inkei!” Mr. Page rasped. “Come here!” Mr. Page reached under her, found her clit, and rubbed so hard, she could scarcely focus on Inkei sitting down with legs spread on either side of her, lifting her head with two hands, and . . . dear God, what was that? She’d never imagined a penis could be that size, and Inkei was pushing her down onto it, impaling her, then lifting her, again and again, his monster cock forcing her mouth impossibly wide . . .
It was unthinkable, what he was doing to her: she thought her jaw would come unhinged. He had to be halfway to her stomach, and he was cutting off her breath, so she had to gasp in as much air as she could when he lifted her, making a wet sucking noise that disturbed and excited her.
On some signal she didn’t catch, both Mr. Page and Inkei pulled out of her, and she saw that both Mistress Ai and Eric were naked and Eric was rolling on a condom. He took Mr. Page’s place, thrusting into her pussy, and Mistress Ai took Inkei’s place, not sitting as he had, but lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbow and looking behind her with a sweet smile to watch as Inkei pushed Julia’s face into her crack.
“Lick me!” Mistress commanded, and Julia heard Mr. Page’s authority in her soft, musical voice and obeyed with a shiver of revulsion and pleasure. They were all Mr. Page. It was him fucking her right now with three cocks and a cunt, and if there were ten of them they’d all be Mr. Page, and it would be all right because they’d be more of him. Julia’s mouth watered as she tongued Mistress Ai’s anus, wetting everywhere she could reach and trying and failing to penetrate her tight sphincter with the tip of her tongue.
“Nice,” Mistress murmured, bottom twitching as Julia licked. “She’s a good slut; she knows her place.”
Yes, this was Julia’s place: lowly, meek, servile, licking Mistress’s ass—Mr. Page’s ass, really—relishing the indignity of it, the humiliation . . .
They moved on wordless cues, as if choreographed. Eric withdrew from her, Mr. Page untied her hands, and Mistress Ai rolled away. Julia, on hands and knees, was trying to gather her wits when Mr. Page scooped her up. She had just a glimpse of Eric lying on the floor and Mistress Ai beside him before Mr. Page lowered her onto him facing his feet as Mistress guided his cock into her ass.
She could support herself with her hands now, leaning back as Mr. Page stood over her, cock in hand, watching silently as Eric thrust from below and she squirmed on top of him, uncomfortably full of him but so hot! She was breathing hard, body damp with exertion, gazing into Mr. Page’s flat eyes, full of desire—for what? She knew only that he somehow had what she needed.
“Please, Sir,” she whispered.
He lowered himself slowly till he was squatting between her legs. He pushed into her, just inches from where Eric was thrusting below.
“Ow! Oh!” she cried, too full of cock, too stimulated as both men fucked her, picking up speed and force, shaking her body. She fell back back to lie on Eric’s chest and just let them fuck her, whimpering softly wi
th pain and arousal.
Mistress Ai beside her reached in to massage her clitoris, stroking herself with her other hand. “Inkei!” she said. “Julia needs another penis.”
Long-legged Inkei stepped over her, straddling her body and Eric’s; he seized her head as he’d done before and drove that huge cock into her again.
It wasn’t possible, what the four of them were doing to her, but it was happening, and it fucking hurt, and joy was welling inside her because they were all Mr. Page using her body, indifferent to her pain but drinking it in, caring nothing and everything about her happiness, denying her agency and dignity and giving her everything she yearned for.
As if standing to the side, she saw the whole picture in her mind’s eye—all of them crowded around her, penetrating, abusing, and stimulating her. She was the center of their universe, an invisible black hole; she was everything and nothing to them—and with the thought, she came with an orgasm that surely had to blow her apart: they’d be mopping up bits of her when this was done.
“You may come now, Inkei,” said Mistress Ai. He pulled out of her mouth and stood above her, jerking off inches from her nose as he held her up with one hand behind her head. Suddenly her blood was racing and she was hyperventilating, knowing what was coming—God, wouldn’t her makeup be a mess! She stared into Inkei’s slit as he pumped, and with a groan he came as she’d never imagined a man could come, splash after huge warm splash drenching her face and oozing down her cheeks and her lips.
Inkei stepped away, letting her fall, and Julia became aware of Eric and Mr. Page still fucking her below, filling her painfully and deliciously, till Eric panted, “I’m gonna—” and Mr. Page pulled out of her, pulled her off of Eric, and set her on her knees on the mat. Eric scrambled upright, rolled off his condom, and delivered six or seven powerful spurts of cum onto her forehead.
It ran into Julia’s eyes and she wiped it away so she could see Mr. Page standing in front of her, face stony and expressionless, cock still erect. He stepped forward, put a hand behind her head, and once again drove into her; again he fucked her throat with savage force, holding her head in his hands; she made her body limp and let him control her, finding agency in her passivity and arousal in her pain. Finally he pulled out of her and jerked off, one hand on top of her head, cock aimed right at the middle of her face, till a jet of his cum struck her nose. She blinked but made herself keep her eyes open so she could see the white goo stream from the end of him, splashing on her cheeks, her lips, and forehead.
She fell back and lay on the mat, tired, sore, and spent. She wondered what she looked like—sweaty, cum oozing down her cheeks, a pitiful, crumpled thing. Before, she’d had cars, and clothes, and a big house; she’s had been a father who had no time for her, a stepmother who avoided her, a boyfriend she didn’t like. Now what was she? A degraded thing, a toy for these people . . . and impossibly happy—if only Mr. Page would keep her.
“Mr. Page?” she said.
“Yes, Julia?” He was standing over her, cock wilting.
“Are you going to make me leave, Sir?”
“No, Julia. I’ve never wanted you to leave.”
“I love you, Mr. Page.”
He sat down beside her and took one hand in his. “I love you, too, Julia,” he said. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He gathered her into his arms and kissed her damp lips—and she didn’t think it all that strange that their first kiss was happening only now, when he’d already penetrated her in every possible way and shared her with his friends. The strange world he had introduced her to, in which romance could proceed in that way, was coming to seem normal.
Mr. Page and the others dressed while Julia ran to the bathroom for a towel. She took a few seconds to stare at herself in the mirror: her makeup was a mess, hair tangled, milky cum oozing down her cheeks. She smiled at her reflection: yes, this was the best day of her life. As she ran to rejoin the others, she toweled herself off, not caring that she was smearing her makeup even more. She went with them all to the foyer, where everyone kissed and hugged her before taking their leave—as warm now as they’d been cool before.
It was nearly eight o’clock. Julia and Mr. Page went to the kitchen and heated up some things Suzy had made before going home to celebrate this day with her own fuck-toy. Julia was still naked because Mr. Page hadn’t told her to dress.
When they were seated at the kitchen table with their dinners, Mr. Page said, “I’d like you to move in with me, Julia. Are you willing to do that?”
“Thank you, Mr. Page. I’d like to,” she said, struggling to keep her manner as serious as his though her insides were doing somersaults.
“You’ll be my submissive at all times,” he continued, “but I don’t intend to objectify you full time. That would be wearing for both of us. I propose to treat you with respect except when we’re playing and having sex. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Yes, Mr. Page,” she said. “As long as we play and have sex frequently.”
“Very frequently,” he said with a smile. “One more thing: I’d like you to sleep in my bed tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Page,” said Julia. She felt like doing cartwheels, but settled for returning his smile.
In his bedroom, she waited while he brushed his teeth. When he came out of the bathroom, he said, “I expect you’d like a bath or shower. I will wait for you.” He picked up a book that lay on his bedside table.
“Yes, Sir,” she said, and went to the bathroom.
As she showered, she thought about Laura. She wouldn’t give her a rich benefactor to rescue her from prostitution. What she’d said to Mr. Page about that had been true: it wouldn’t be believable—not in this story, anyway. Maybe she’d give her a better lover than the one who’d abandoned her, though. Or maybe she’d let her be satisfied with life as a whore.
Yes, that would be best. She’d give Laura the blessing of happiness. She’d let her make peace with what she was and had to be.
She toweled off, returned to the bedroom, and crawled into bed next to Mr. Page, who placed his book on the bedside table. He lay down, kissed her, and put an arm around her. She felt safe and loved next to him.
“Sir?” she asked.
“Hm?” he answered sleepily.
“How much of all this did you plan?”
“How much of what, Julia?”
“The three weeks when you wouldn’t see me, my lunch with Eric, our play tonight. You said all the games I played with you would be rigged. Did you rig all this, Sir? Like for a Valentine’s Day present?” She wanted him to tell her he’d been in control of everything—maybe he’d even staged the whole business with Hamilton, though she couldn’t imagine how.
He didn’t answer.
“Sir?” She looked at him. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and regular.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Page,” she whispered.
Julia on Loan
1. In the lobby
“There’s Arthur Page and his trophy wife,” sniffed Mrs. Woodruff to her husband as Julia entered the theater lobby on Mr. Page’s arm. “She’s the daughter of that hedge fund operator Lindstrom. You remember—it was quite the scandal about three years ago when they found out his fund was a Ponzi scheme à la Madoff, and he committed suicide. He left her broke, desperate, and an orphan, just twenty-one years old. Page scraped her out of the gutter and married her.”
“No need to ask what he saw in her,” observed Mr. Woodruff, who fancied himself a connoisseur of willowy young blondes.
“Or what she saw in him,” said Mrs. Woodruff. “They say he’s worth a hundred million.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Mr. Woodruff, carefully concealing his envy of Mr. Page from his wife. “Something of an aging playboy.”
“Aging and ailing,” said Mrs. Woodruff. “She can look forward to a big payoff when he dies.”
His envy abating somewhat, Mr. Woodruff said, “That explains her smile.”
He was wrong about that. The co
rrect explanation of Julia’s smile—and Mr. Page’s too, for that matter—was that they’d just spotted the friend they’d arranged to meet here.
The Woodruffs were wrong about a good bit else, too. In the first place, Julia wasn’t looking forward to Mr. Page’s death. On the contrary, his dying was the thing she feared most in the world, though she worried about it less now than she had when their relationship was new. Then, his leukemia had been accelerating; now, with careful management and a change of medication, it was under control and his symptoms were mild.
But “under control” and “cured” were very different things. She imagined the disease as a lion crouching in the brush, waiting for its moment to pounce. When it did, she’d be devastated, because—and here was another subject on which the Woodruffs were way off the mark—she loved Mr. Page with a passion so profound that she could scarcely fathom it herself. Sometimes, when she looked at her husband, she felt herself growing faint, heartbeat slowing, blood pressure dropping, her soul dimming within her, and she wanted her personhood to disappear, entirely subsumed in his, so that she could become a thing he owned like his house or furniture.
Julia knew Mr. Page loved her as much as she loved him, but his love was different from hers, as two interlocking puzzle pieces are different. She wanted to be possessed, he to possess; she wanted to be his thing, and his pleasure was to treat her like a thing. Here the Woodruffs were at least somewhere in the neighborhood of correct about the Pages: she was his fuck-toy. But that respectable if somewhat catty couple would have been surprised, and probably shocked, too, to learn what Julia’s being a fuck-toy meant to the two of them and how Mr. Page played with his toy.
Julia and Mr. Page Page 9