The Juliette Society, Book III

by Sasha Grey

  There are a lot of us who like both. Who like it all. Sometimes to see how much you can take, and sometimes to see how much you can get. Some are just voracious for a taste of everything on their tongues and when the experience is gone they need more to replace it.

  I’m thinking about what Inana’s journey was, and the way she dominated and submitted. I don’t think she had a true preference. But it’s like Janus. Looking forward and back. Being on top looking down, and on the bottom looking up—assuming it’s missionary position, of course.

  We’ve got to choose to look back at the past and miss out on the things coming our way, or face the new things in life head on. We can’t do both at the same time. We have to pick up the severed pieces of our past and become new again.

  FIFTEEN

  PENNY TOLD ME TO DRESS for dancing, and is leading me to a corner of the compound. The buildings are larger like a classic French chalet, and farther apart. I realize the paths and each home like mine are connected. I hear music but the grand door we stop in front of gives me no indication of what might lie behind it; it seems to show age though I know this place has to be new. Beige metal siding, brownish roof, flat top. The windows have coverings on them and no light escapes them to give me a hint of tonight’s activity.

  We walk into a large room which resembles the inside of a warehouse, but it’s not empty. Instead, there’s a club inside, pulsing with sound and heat and people. I can hear them but they’re still out of sight behind two large closed doors.

  “Welcome, Catherine, to the island,” Penny says with a pleased smile.

  “Did you make me a party?” I ask.

  “Of course.” She shouldn’t have, but that’s Penelope’s style.

  There’s a quote on the door, and she waits until I read it and smile. “Rabelais,” I identify it. It’s a quote from Rabelais’ bawdy epic Gargantua and Pantagruel, a story I fell in love with while over in Paris with Penelope.

  She inclines her head. “Precisely.”

  It’s a story we used to discuss at length. Some people bond over a song, or a film. We bonded over the epic tale, and would discuss it at length over wine and cheese and bread, as it was meant to be, like everything French.

  The language used was interesting, Rabelais actually inventing some of the words, much like Shakespeare used to do. Gargantua and Pantagruel is no Shakespeare, but it’s a fairly irreverent journey through decadence and scathing social commentary, especially about the Catholic Church and Catholicism. While that may not sound like much of anything now, at the time it was risqué, and stirred up quite the controversy, even couched in the ridiculous as it was.

  It was different from anything I’d ever read before, and I was delighted by the whole tale, particularly the section about the Abbey of Theleme, a utopian society dreamed up by Rabelais that organized itself under the motto “Do What Thou Wilt” and inspired a real-life secret sex society, the Hellfire Club, which Benjamin Franklin was said to be a member of during the time he lived in England. Other clubs have tried to take its place, one rather blatantly using the motto uno avulso non defecit alter—when one is torn away another succeeds. But there’s great deviation from the exploits of the modern clubs and those of the predecessors.

  Penelope swings the doors open, and the music changes from techno to pumped up classical on steroids, more like electric violins and harpsichords, as smoke billows out of the darkness. I recognize parts of the story in the décor of the room.

  We walk inside the doors, past large white stalactites and stalagmites, and it takes me a second to realize they’re supposed to be Pantagruel’s teeth. We all enter the club like the natives who lived inside his mouth. There’s a world inside a mouth. We’re inside his mouth. No wonder it’s hot and muggy.

  The men and women are all dressed as characters from the story. Lots of loincloths, likely because of the ease of removal, judging by the amount of oral sex that’s already happening in dark corners of the room.

  There are beds made up of large models of body parts, like a giant in repose, for those who wish to use them. A giant’s foot houses a king sized bed on the top, a bent man embraces the big toe while another man takes him from behind as the first licks between a woman’s toes, worshipping them with his tongue as she reclines on the bed eating grapes. For someone with a foot fetish, that would be heaven.

  There’s part of a massive ship, sawn in half and attached to the wall like it’s sailing into the horizon. The sea monster they slay is even there, lurking in the water around the ship’s hull. The wall around it has been painted with an elaborate sunset to further enhance the fantasy. It must have taken days to create and execute, but there’s no scent of fresh paint, only pleasing herbs and a gentle perfume of flowers and salt to enhance the illusion of being at sea as if we were Fellini’s audience. Men dressed as pirates fuck women and men dressed as mermaids, complete with tails, writhing around in the water, making the water splash over the sides of the area it’s contained in onto the sand where two grown men make sandcastles together as though they’re children.

  I always wondered if people who thought mermaids were hot had fish fetishes. Because if you look, mermaids have nothing to fuck. There’d be a cold, slimy hole at best, and nothing on the men—unless their penises would go from innies to outies, but if that’s the case, they’re probably more like a button than a nice, big cock. Sure the girls have nice, long hair and good tits, but I don’t know about the fin situation. To each his own, I guess.

  Penelope’s even included the women so fat they cut into their own skin to let the fat out, only they’re wearing suits filled with liquor and people get to stab the suit and suckle as much as they want from them. Penny offers me a short knife, and I head to one of the women, sliding the tip of the blade in before letting the slowly oozing liquid coat my tongue. It’s sweet and spicy and thicker than I expected, more like spiced liquid honey than wine, but it’s delicious and I suck and lick at it until the place I stabbed dries up.

  I stand and thank the woman, but her eyes are closed and her lips move as though in prayer or meditation.

  A sign above the bar says, Trincs, to mirror the fifth book, which I’m not sure was actually written by Rabelais himself, or cobbled together from bits of first draft ideas and smoothing from the publisher, or if it was truly original material. There were some solid ideas in there, nonetheless. But it’s like the more controversial speeches by Hecate in Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Some of the language is different enough that there are some who say it had to have been penned by someone else and sandwiched in.

  I ask Penelope about this. She shrugs. “Regardless of whether or not the parts were written by the author or someone else, they’re part of the story now.”

  I agree. And yet, if I was able to get my hands on a time machine, I’d go back to Shakespeare’s time to see if he was a singular man, or a shared pen name many of the most successful writers of the era used.

  He was certainly prolific enough for me to buy that theory. It almost beggars belief to think of all the amazing things he wrote in one lifetime—and that’s not even including the pieces he wrote and discarded, or all the time it took to polish his plays and sonnets into the way we know them today. One person undertaking all of that in one lifetime seems impossible.

  But I’d rather he was one amazing person who gave us all those beautiful works. I love the idea of one person being that important to the world, even if they’re not around to see it happen. Maybe it’s better if you don’t know how important you are to the world, only that people in it loved and cared about you, because if you knew everything you did was going to be recorded, you’d start being more careful, taking fewer risks.

  Penelope parades me through the center of the room, up a path inlaid with words written in what appears to be Latin, but I can’t quite see in the dim lighting and we’re moving too fast for me to stop and check.

  Besides, there are more interesting things happening here than what some words on the
flood say. I can always ask Penny later if I want.

  Everyone smiles at me as I pass, but the party doesn’t stop because I’ve walked in, which I prefer. If everyone’s watching my every move, it’s not going to be possible to fully relax and enjoy myself without feeling like I’m performing. It’s a party for me, not about me, and that’s the key difference that dulls the self-consciousness a few notches, which is good when things suddenly flip and men and women lie on the floor in front of me, exposing their backs.

  I don’t question it. I simply walk across them, trying not to let my heels dig in too badly, but not tiptoeing either. I mean, they did this for a reason. Everyone else crowds closer, standing at the heads and feet of the people on the floor, literally building a fleshy corridor with their bodies for me to head down. People moan when I step on them, and more than a few backs crack.

  I wonder if this is how chiropractors started.

  But walking on top of them, feeling their skin slip around on top of their bones, makes me feel powerful. It makes me feel revered.

  My corridor ends with a throne of sorts. Red velvet cushions the oversized dark wooden chair, chocolate in color. It takes me a moment to realize the engraving at the top is the letter C.

  C for Catherine?

  My throne.

  I practically run across the last bodies and head up the shiny black steps and touch the seat of power with trembling fingertips.

  I’m not sure what’s making me so emotional in this moment, only that it feels like I’ve been waiting for it for too long and my brain can’t process that this is all real.

  I’m not the prettiest, or the smartest, or most successful in the room. I’m not the wealthiest, or most talented. But they’re all going out of their way to elevate me. They’re all letting me into their fantasies, stripping away everything except our desires. They’re putting on a show for me.

  A man crawls up to me, taking his position like he’s my ottoman and I asked to put my feet up, though my lips have never parted.

  As though we do this every day.

  He shudders when I move him into a slightly better position using only my feet.

  The people who let me walk on them now stand, and reveal a chessboard on the floor. Penelope stands on a dais above one side, a woman I’ve never met on the other.

  They put on a chess match, acting out the moves with their bodies and large painted squares on the floor, like they’re the part of the Queendom of Whims.

  If they are, that makes me the queen, I suppose, seeing as how I’m the one on the throne, being entertained. I should feel awkward about the fuss being made, but I don’t.

  The losing pieces of the chess match are made to sit on the sidelines on benches with the seats cut out while other party guests come up behind them and slick whichever hole they want with lube, and stick whatever they want into those holes, not that the guests mind.

  Fingers, toes, cocks, I even see a banana employed into a man’s asshole while he arches along with the bend in the fruit as it disappears into his ass.

  It’s hot to watch people who love getting used get what they want.

  Someone rings a bell, and everyone pauses as people walk onto the chessboard and place vibrators inside the remaining pawns on both sides, fixing them in place before tying the pawns’ hands behind their necks so they can’t touch the vibrators to remove them or use them.

  The game continues, Penny and her opponent calling out moves and the players following their instructions. Eyes roll back into heads and hips buck, thighs clench, trying to get relief from the stimulation, but they’re not allowed to move from their places.

  It makes the game a little more interesting when people fall to their knees with tears dripping down their faces. Semen spurts out onto the floor. Moans fill the air. Still, the game continues. One of the Bishops from the white side starts fucking a pawn in the ass and she smiles back at him, so grateful for his cock.

  Happy all the way to the floor as they tumble down, rutting and fucking, barely noticing as they’re herded off the board and their team loses two pieces just like that.

  Penelope’s winning.

  I tap my ottoman with my toe. “What’s your name?”

  “Whatever you want it to be, Mistress.”

  I spread my legs and gesture him closer.

  And like the good piece of furniture he is, he shuts up and does his job, pushing up my skirt, moving my panties to the side, and burying his face between my legs, eating me out with an enthusiasm that would be embarrassing if it wasn’t making me wet as hell. He licks and sucks at me while I watch other people lick and suck at each other, getting off at my party.

  Being here is like crawling inside a well-loved story and living inside it for a while. Everything is warm and comforting, even though some things should be startling or scary. They’re familiar like old friends. It’s perfect as a welcome party because it’s like coming home.

  And there’s nothing more welcoming than that.

  Well, except for the tongue between my legs.

  SIXTEEN

  CLUBS ON THE ISLAND ARE pretty much the same as in America.

  Except that here, you can trust everyone because they’ve been vetted, and they’re more about sex than music.

  Here, you don’t face the disappointment of expectations not being met by reality when you take someone home, hoping they’re into the same things you are.

  Sure, they may not be into all of the same things either, but it’s not because they’re going to judge you for wanting something they don’t. It just might mean you’ve picked up a submissive instead of a dominant. There’s less of a danger here and more of a thrill.

  Or maybe that’s my way of letting my guard down because tonight I want to be thoroughly fucked.

  The man staring at me from across the bar won’t leave my gaze. His hair is a little long, but he’s clean-shaven, the smoothness revealing the strong lines of his jaw and the slight dimple in his chin. Beards have become trendy in the last couple of years, but I’ve seen quite a few “with” versus “without” shots of guys with beards, and while I tend to prefer a clean-shaven guy, beards truly can hide a multitude of sins.

  This guy doesn’t seem to have any.

  He sips his scotch, neat, and the bevels in the crystal glass kick back an amber refraction against the dark bar from the overhead lights. I make a little show of sipping my vodka soda slowly, letting the tip of my tongue linger on the tip of the straw, letting him get my hint.

  He watches for a moment, head slightly bowed, before standing and moving to stand in front of me. His dark eyes remind me of the perfect sensation of bittersweet chocolate melting on my tongue, and when he offers his hand, I accept it. I want to taste the places he’s going to take me. Instead of leading me, he actually picks me up, carrying my body like I’m a damsel in distress. I laugh inside.

  Down a hallway with sloping arches and dark purple walls, I let him carry me away, as though floating inside a current, past other doorways hung with brightly hued floating fabric. We get to a room at the back, separated from the rest with a gauzy orange curtain. Purple and gold wallpaper done in a Moroccan-style pattern adorns the walls of the small, round room.

  It’s warm inside and almost muggy. Or maybe it only feels that way because I expect to be awash with a jasmine-scented fog as soon as the fabric swishes to cover the door behind us, giving us privacy but not security, which makes me think someone’s waiting to watch us—or already here watching. The thought isn’t offensive, though it’s something I’ve done before and doesn’t give me the buzz of novelty.

  About a year ago now, I was dating a voyeur, and picked up a couple guys at a strip club to bone. He was hiding in the closet and I was trying to get them both to fuck me at once but they were chicken, and both acting like they were so macho that seeing each other naked wasn’t within the realm of possibility. That just meant they’d already fooled around after having a few beers, but whatever. The guy I was dating was still
hiding in the closet. I was going to take the friends one at a time in the bedroom—and by one at a time I mean they wouldn’t even bone me with each other in the same room, like it was going to make them gay or something. I fucked one guy, then he left, and his friend came in. But before we fucked, I left the room. To grab a drink? To pee? I forget. But as I was coming back, the second guy went to the living room and was frantically telling the first guy that there was someone in the closet. And the first guy was like, “What are you talking about? There is no guy in the closet.”

  I managed to convince the first dude that the second one was just super wasted and not making sense so he should take his friend home. The second guy was giving me daggers the whole time, but was also too freaked out to say more.

  In that case it wasn’t hot, because the one guy ruined it. You’d think he’d have realized it was a bit of harmless fun when nothing bad happened to his friend who went first. It was a bust but not the first—or last—time I did something like that for the guy I was dating. I always wondered if Marcus might have done something similar with Anna.

  This guy sets me on my feet but keeps me close, hauled right up against him to feel his hard cock against my hip. I rub him through his pants, knowing the fabric takes the edge off the pleasure, making it duller, making it less satisfying, making him want more.

  I want to take it slow to give anyone watching a better show. I reach down the front of his pants, circling his girthy cock between my fingers and giving it a little clench as the fabric around it doesn’t allow me enough room to stroke it like I want to, the way he’d like.

  He’s warm and smooth and his hands squeeze my ass and he bends slightly to kiss me, but before our lips meet, someone behind me clears their throat in that annoying “hem hem” way people do when they’re obviously trying to get your attention without actually using their words.