by Sasha Grey
I turn to look at the interrupter. He’s good looking, in his late fifties or early sixties, and obviously takes care of himself. He’s got the physique of someone who used to lift a lot of weights, or participate in a sport on a professional level, but gave it all up to get into business and now only plays on the weekends and takes it a little too seriously.
Something in the frown lines between his eyes supports that, like he could never have a friendly game of racketball or golf. He’d be working out the angles instead of trying to bond with you while on the course. The way he looks at me sends a spiral up my spine.
Not quite fear, but an alert awareness that tells every instinct in my body, every single nerve ending to quiver and be ready because things could get seriously bad in a hurry.
He’s Mr. X. I know it.
“Catherine. What do you think of the place?” He spreads his hands proudly, heavily implying it’s all his or that he’s a major player. Maybe he means the compound, maybe just the club, I don’t know.
But he acts oblivious to the fact that I’ve got another guy’s cock in my hand, and that’s strange. I also notice he doesn’t ask how I got here, or seem at all surprised to find me in one of the back rooms at his club and he should, unless he’s been watching me. Of course he has been.
I release the stranger’s dick and surreptitiously wipe my hand on the cushion next to me. “I ran into Penelope at my hotel on the mainland. She invited me here. Can’t say that it’s been a terrible imposition, but…” I grin, going for humor about the situation.
He raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you and Penelope are friends.”
He seems put out. Have I screwed up? But why would he care? Do he and Penelope have issues, or is it that he had wanted to be the one initiating me into this, bringing me to the compound himself? I’ve never gotten a sexual vibe off him, so it can’t be jealousy, can it?
Mr. X jerks his head toward the door and the guy I came with walks out of the room, leaving Mr. X and me all alone.
“I’m glad you’re fitting in so well among our members, but this place isn’t without…dangers.”
I frown. “I’m not sure what you mean. Everyone’s been so nice.” I’ll play dumb and see where this goes.
“There’s a reason I brought you down here to cover the conference. You may hear,” he waves his hands as though thinking about his words, “some things.”
“What kind of things?” I ask, my curiosity rearing up and taking notice. Finally, we get to his real agenda.
His eyes get a flat, dead look to them and he steps into my space. “It doesn’t matter. I brought you here to write the story I want you to write.”
“And if I don’t?”
His smile shows perfect teeth but doesn’t reach his eyes. “This is my world. And in my world, people who cause trouble have a funny little habit of going missing. Women who give me grief have this thing in common where they disappear and are either found later… or not at all. You don’t want to be one of the women whose stories you tell, Catherine.”
Is he saying he killed Inana? That he killed Anna as well? The bastard smiles as though we’ve just shared a laugh. His eyes fucking twinkle with mirth. I’ve known men who were bastards and men who were powerful. But I’ve never before spoken to someone who I believe could whistle over my corpse as he stepped over it and moved on to his next victim.
My body breaks out in goosebumps when he taps beneath my chin in an almost grandfatherly gesture before walking out of the room, leaving me alone with his threats and too many questions.
I don’t think he’s bluffing, but I wonder if he was the guy Anna was seeing and if he’s the reason Anna went missing as well. But vague threats don’t necessarily mean real danger, and I highly doubt Anna ever would have tried to expose anyone for kink when she was neck deep in it herself.
I stand rigidly, still not sure if I’m being watched or filmed, as my mind races as fast as my pulse. After a few deep breaths rationality gradually comes back into the picture. He’s not going to kill me. I’ve got powerful friends of my own. I’m in a safe place. I’ve earned my place here.
So what is it about Mr. X? What does he get out of relationships with people? I’m trying to wrap my head around this guy. Why he is so absent and mysterious, but wanting to be involved, though not romantically, with me and my career. He seems annoyed not that I’m here, but that Penny—or anyone other than himself—brought me here. Does he want me to feel like I owe him?
Having someone in your debt means you’ve got a certain amount of control over them. There’s an imbalance there that needs to be settled at some point. That must be it. The only thing I can deduce is that he has a fetish for power. He thinks I’m his toy, his prize pawn. He enjoys feeling as though he’s “made me” in some way. Maybe he’d provided the opportunity, but I’d done the work myself and he couldn’t take that from me. But what’s worse, he enjoyed putting my reputation at risk, especially with others who hold respectable positions in the industry, by releasing that private video. It definitely wasn’t sexual. He’s like rich guys or musicians who meet a girl, develop a crush, and fly her all over the world on tour with them, just so they can conveniently fuck them while they go from venue to venue. This guy has the money and resources to do anything he wants, and this is the path he chooses.
He wanted to feel like he’d made me so it was more satisfying when he tried to break my career—and me when he released that tape.
This is how he gets off.
It’s a power fetish.
It was never Dominick I needed to blame or worry about. It was always X.
And until I know what to do, the best thing to do isn’t to let him think he’s won, but to let him think this doesn’t bother me. That will keep me in his thoughts.
If the cat thinks the mouse is dead, it finds another mouse to play with. I need him to stay close for now.
Because I am not done with Mr. X yet. And he needs to know that he can’t scare me away. Men like that feed off of fear, they crave it like a drug. If you give it to them, they want more and more and will do whatever it takes for an even bigger, better reaction the next time when the novelty’s worn off. No one is feasting upon me unless I want them to.
And if there are other people watching me right now, I’m going to give them something to watch, other than my knees knocking together in fear. Whatever will be, will be, whether I’m terrified or not.
Might as well enjoy myself.
The guy whose cock I had in my hand is back at the bar, and I grab him by the hand and pull him to another room, hoping no one’s already in it.
I need to use him to feel better, to feel back in control of something, even if only for a moment. And sometimes the best way to lose control is by giving yours up.
The room has a shiny black harness in it, hooked up to a few hooks in the ceiling ready to go. My partner strips my clothes from my body and puts me in the harness, strapping me in like a pony ready to pull a wagon. I’d better get plowed or I’m going to whip this motherfucker.
I spread my legs, inserting them through the loops so they land around the tops of my thighs and spread my legs wide open, baring my pussy, making me dangle in the air. He raises my hands above my head, looping more leather straps around my wrists and elbows so I’m fastened tightly to the harness, ready to be swung however he wants me to be. I see everything in the reflection in front of me—and know it’s a two-way mirror.
It’s not just so we can watch ourselves. It’s never that prosaic, is it?
From my lower vantage point, I can see his cock straining at his pants again, and my mouth waters at the sight of it. It feels like it’s been forever since I fucked.
He strips for me, taking his time, rubbing that cock up the inside of my thigh and down the other, not letting it touch my pussy lips. He slips behind me and I watch us in the mirror as he teases my nipples, jutting out from the way my arms are above my head, and I get wetter and wetter, watching the way my l
abia start to glisten with longing.
Watching yourself do something like fucking is always a surprise the first few times. Catching sight of your own face when you come is enough to make you want to practice in the mirror for a while before the next time. Most of us are weird-looking when we peak. Sometimes people look shocked, like the orgasm hit them by surprise even though they felt it building for however long they were fucking—and that was the goal the whole time. Others smile, looking so damned happy to be there getting their genitals wet that their faces stretch into goofy grins that seem so out of place. Mostly people seem angry. Sex isn’t pretty. But it’s hot.
Same with musicians. Have you ever seen a guitar player when he’s really into his playing? Lip biting, face scrunched, head shaking. Singers can make the silliest faces of all, contorting their muscles like it’s a contest. Double chins form when aiming for a low note, eyes widened as far as they’ll go when straining for the high ones. Blues singers make faces like they smell something terrible, but we love it.
But it’s art. Art isn’t always pretty, but it’s profound and sexy and powerful.
Then he surprises me by crouching and licking my pussy with one long stroke of his flattened tongue. I jump at the way his mouth almost burns me after the air has cooled my vulva down, even as I was wet and spread and ready for whatever he wanted to give me.
Held like this, the only part of him touching me is his mouth. His hot tongue poking around my clit like a micro phallus with good intentions but bad aim. Yet, it feels good. The straps dig into the skin where my thighs meet my ass. It’s strange being suspended this way, untethered to the world, to a bed, to everything but the licking and sucking of this stranger who’s trying to make me feel good.
There’s a big difference between having sex with someone you’re attracted to and making love to someone you love and trust. Sometimes you’re more willing to take risks with someone when you don’t think the sex act will have ramifications in regards to the equilibrium of the relationship going forward. Power shifts in the bedroom can have changes when outside it. They shouldn’t, and probably wouldn’t, but it’s all about perception.
Men, if you wanted to be pegged, would you ask your girlfriend, or would you be worried she might think you wanted to bottom and have sex with a man?
Ladies, would you ask him to fuck you in his little sister’s bed, or would you worry he might think you were into something a little kinkier than you were going for and would look at you differently?
Asking a stranger you’re never going to see again to do those things can be much easier because you don’t care. You can fuck their brains out and then happily move on without worrying about the fallout. You don’t have to think, If I tell him I want him to choke me and make me call him daddy, that it’s only this one time and only in the bedroom, I don’t want to submit to him any other time.
Funny how sometimes it’s easier to be real with strangers.
Then again, the depth of connection that comes only when we know and love and trust our partners is something to experience as well. Having the person who knows what you love without having to ask, you know you’re totally safe letting go with. The one who you know won’t ever let you get hurt, and would never do anything to put you in harm’s way. That comfort that feels like coming home, that transcends the physical into something closer to spiritual and emotional when your bodies join together.
When you’re not fucking, but making love.
Not much can touch the intensity of that.
But, the heightened awareness of being tied up and at a stranger’s mercy while on a compound on an island in Central America comes close.
I can’t even squeeze his head between my thighs as I thrash around against his mouth, desperate to come, craning my neck so I can see my wetness coating his face as he buries it between my thighs.
There’s a flicker of movement behind the two-way mirror—or maybe it’s a blood vessel pulsing in the corner of my vision in time with my pulse, quickening as my partner does a spiral and a thrust of his fingers. Someone could be watching. Watching this man eat me, watching the expression on my face as he does. I lick my lips as he licks mine.
I like being able to see my face. Seeing what they see as they watch, possibly getting themselves off to this.
Pressure builds inside me, and my head tips back.
But a part of me is unable to relax as Mr. X’s words echo in my mind. Not quite a boast but a threat.
SEVENTEEN
I’M SITTING AT THE BAR of a club sipping a heavily limed soda water through a tiny black straw. I was walking home after a training session with Penelope when I passed this place.
The music drew me in, but when I got inside I saw it was a live orchestra, only they play electronic instruments instead of the acoustic and it’s over a pulsating beat. Sort of like Dvorak Drum N Bass. Modern and classical all at once, and it’s insistent and impossible to tune out once you hear it. They’re interesting to see as well, dressed up like undead Victorian fops complete with wigs and buckles on their shoes.
I like it here.
It’s not huge. The walls are black and the ceiling and floor are blinding white, almost glossy enough to see yourself in. It gives the impression of being a limitless space, never ending, with motion above and below from the ceiling and floor, as though there are crowds of spirits teeming beneath the surface of both, unable to break through. It brings to mind purgatory, for obvious reasons. We in the bar are waiting to see our final destination.
Above or below.
It smells like sweat and smoke and something else, as though aromatic oils have been left burning for ten minutes too long. Sweet, but scorched. A hint of spoil through the freshness only adds to the atmosphere.
There’s a young woman laid out on a platform off to the side but not against the wall. She’s surrounded by about ten people, the star of the semi-private show, but she seems terrified. I move closer for a better look. Her arms shake and she makes these pathetic little mewling sounds that grate up and down my spine.
I want her to get over whatever this is and relax into the experience, relax into her deepest desires. This place isn’t for everyone, it’s a hard won privilege to be here, and she’s squandering it. It’s not like anyone here is going to murder her. I’ve seen the darkest side of this society, and everything is consensual. The only victims in this place are willing ones, going along with the illusion, but everyone has a safeword.
This compound gives the illusion of danger, but no one here really wishes harm on anyone else…other than Mr. X. But this place is safe, though not private, and she needs to get over her fears if she’s going to get anywhere in life.
Honestly, who even brought this little neophyte here? I creep closer, annoyed with her lack of gratitude which doesn’t seem like part of a scene.
The murmurs of the people standing around her register. They’re berating her, asking how she dares to think she deserves to be here with them, insulting her—insulting everything from her appearance to her past and obvious present inexperience. I find myself leaning over her as well, joining in. It’s not to break her down, it’s for her to break her own limits down. Sometimes you need someone else to throw that first punch at the wall, though.
The mood suddenly shifts at a nod from a tall man with a crimson tie who is the obvious leader of this group. He begins stroking her shoulders and she relaxes at his touch, relaxes as the rest of us begin softly stroking her naked flesh in soothing motions.
I’d thought her being dramatic, but the goosebumps prove her fear is real. My scorn softens a little, gentling my touch with real care.
“What are your deepest fears?” he asks, leaning close to her. “Other than humiliation?”
“Losing control,” she replies, blinking back tears.
He motions at a woman near her feet, and she ties the girl’s feet apart while he ties her wrists above her head.
Interesting.
There’s a giant cylin
drical funnel filled with something nearby—urine—that takes me a second to realize what it is, until the girl almost pukes at the sight of it. I wonder if everyone here took a turn pissing into the top, or if one person collected urine for a few days, saving it for just this purpose. Everyone takes a handful of urine from the spigot and pours it over the woman until she’s reeking with the pungent fluid and sobbing.
A few men and women have mini vibrator eggs in various bright colors, attached to strings in a bucket, and we each take a couple and drag them across her body as she shivers.
I let one hang over her neck, the weight of the vibrating egg putting pressure on her throat, but not enough to choke her, only enough to bring the potential of that to her mind. She closes her eyes and breathes more slowly, forcing herself to remain calm. Part of me wants to press harder to increase the panic, to make her confront it on a deeper level, but I don’t. She’s doing enough for now.
The brightly colored eggs slide all over her body, relaxing muscles, teasing flesh before we insert them inside her. We pack the tiny eggs inside her pussy and ass, tugging on the strings to jiggle them to drive her wild.
Now that she’s turned on, writhing, wet inside and out, we whisper the same insults at her, blending the humiliation with the pleasure, claiming all the things we call her with a giant smile and moans.
So many moans.
We lavish attention over her, petting, rubbing, stimulating. The man who is her Master takes the vibrators from her pussy and fists her until she’s writhing and screaming…and then goes beyond it into subspace with a completely blank, happy expression on her face. I smile, proud of her, seeing she’s in complete bliss and no longer the scared recruit she was.
It didn’t take long, but only because she finally chose to accept the experience for what it was. A gift. If she’d resisted, who knows how long we’d have stayed there. Maybe she’d have given up completely. But she broke through the fear and indecision to the pleasure and devoured it.