The Juliette Society, Book III

by Sasha Grey

  Mr. X.

  I suck in a deep breath, but before I can scream out at the man holding my hands down, another presses his hand over my mouth. His fingers don’t cover my nostrils but they smell of lime like he just squeezed a wedge of it into a drink. Maybe he did; his breath is sweet like cola.

  I struggle. It’s futile. Adrenaline courses through my body, more effective than any drug I could have taken to bring clarity and awareness and fear, heightening my senses.

  On a normal day it would take a good hour and three cups of coffee to bring me to this level of alertness. Fear is the great equalizer: I’m as awake as my assailants who tug me from the bed and onto my feet. I stumble, but they hold me tightly.

  I shouldn’t have underestimated Mr. X. But I never thought he’d try to hit me on the island where I have friends. In my own home. So soon, before I had the chance to betray him, disobey his bullshit orders, but then again that’s the definition of the best time to strike—before your opponent has the chance to sink your ship.

  I pull hard, using my bodyweight to try and fall and catch them off guard, frantic to escape the men’s grasp, and the one covering my mouth moves to take my other arm, sandwiching me at their sides as they manhandle me down the hallway.

  It takes me a moment to process that my mouth is now uncovered.

  “Who the hell are you?” I demand.

  “Javier.”

  “Paul.”

  Their direct answers surprise me, and I stop struggling for a moment and let them march me down the hallway. “Why are you here?”

  “We cannot say,” they reply in unison.

  But why are they answering me at all? “Let me go,” I try.

  They comply, releasing my arms but staying close, not moving from my side. I scramble away a few steps, trying to integrate this.

  How very fucking strange. It’s as though they’re obeying me.

  I cross my arms, still unsure and vulnerable and not enjoying the feeling in the slightest. I point at the one who called himself Paul. “Stand over there.” I gesture down the hallway.

  He strides to the place I indicated without asking why.

  “You too,” I tell Javier.

  And he does.

  I quickly rub the sleep from my eyes, wondering if this is a bizarre dream, but I know it isn’t.

  They stand there, fifteen feet from me, and my heart finally slows down so it no longer throbs in my ears. I flip on the light to get a better look at their faces.

  It’s then I notice how young—and attractive—they are, and also the fact that they’re wearing nothing but little black shorts. Not quite boxer briefs. Bare feet.

  What kind of kidnappers don’t wear shoes?

  Paul bites his lip and Javier appears to be suppressing a smile. These guys are either the weirdest fucking rapists or murderers ever…or that’s not why they’re here at all. They’re here for a reason, though.

  I stand taller, growing more certain who actually sent these boys my way. They’re no older than twenty-five, but I’d say they’re twenty-one or twenty-two. They seem like they’re waiting…for me. Penelope had to have sent them, but for what purpose? Why would they wake me up that way? “Are you here to fuck me?”

  They shrug.

  Interesting.

  “What is it that you’re here to do?” I ask. They look at each other then back at me and shrug again.

  This reeks of a test. They’re here for something and answer direct questions…for the most part. They obeyed when I told them to…is that it?

  They’re here to do whatever I say, like, what, personal sex slaves? I must admit, I find the idea sexy. That must be it. They’ve done everything I’ve told them to do. Nothing more and nothing less.

  And instead of submitting, I realize I am meant to take the power back and dominate the hell out of these two men.

  I thought Penny was teaching me to sub and what to expect from each toy when really it was about learning to dominate. But she had to frame it like that because you can’t order someone to be a Domi-nant—they have to know that’s what they are, what they want, and want it badly enough to latch onto it from within before they can take the crop in hand. I looked at it as something I’d done a few times and thoroughly enjoyed, but never really internalized it as part of my identity. Is it what I want?

  I think back, remembering. I remember a room in Max’s hotel, with a young man whose lips were a little too red. I remember his beautiful vulnerability when he let me tie him to the bedposts and mark him with a rod—arms, thighs, belly. He’d wanted me to hurt him, and so I had.

  My nipples tighten and I close my eyes. Line after line, I enjoyed the redness that sprang up until he was like a tiger or a zebra I’d created, one slap of the rod at a time, as he’d cried tears of joy and relief.

  I open my eyes now and look at my boys who want the same thing. It felt strange to be the one giving orders and yet I’d taken to it, because something about it was strangely comforting. Yet I abandoned it so quickly afterwards. Why?

  I’d want to discover what his limits are.

  The lines I made on his skin were warm on my tongue.

  I lost myself in the surrealism of the scene, in the sadistic person that man wanted me to be, taking joy in causing him pain. I turned into claws and hurt and teeth and sharpness, and I was a razor’s edge away from flaying the meat of us both from our bones just to see if we were the same inside when Max stepped into the room and pulled me off the man.

  I impressed the shit out of him that night by losing myself.

  Is that it? If I gave in fully to the Catherine that came out to play that night, does that mean I’d forever be altered? Could it be that I wasn’t ready at the time?

  Am I ready now?

  Is it that I’ve been shrinking away from this side of myself because I’m scared of what I’ll become? Scared of being selfish and doing exactly what I want to do without waiting for someone to do it first? Being the action instead of the reaction?

  I’m understanding now that this is basically Penny’s way of provoking me into realizing that. But now, it’s deeper. Now it’s not just sex, it’s about controlling a room with nothing more than my will and imagination.

  “Follow me,” I direct them, heading to my playroom where all the toys I could dream up are at my disposal. Their feet make eager little slaps on the tile floors as they hurry to do what they’re told.

  I flip on the light and survey the room. So many toys and so little time.

  But what should I have these two men do to me?

  Maybe the best thing isn’t what they can do to me.

  “Paul, give me the purple vibrator from that cupboard.” I point to it. He grabs it and gives it to me, his eyes lighting up as I strip my panties off and take a seat on a bench a few feet away where I can better enjoy the show they’re going to give me.

  “Take your shorts off, boys.”

  They do. I rev up the vibrator, touching my nipples with it before bringing it to my clit, rubbing it between my legs for a moment while watching their eyes grow hungry and their cocks swell with interest.

  “I know you’re here for my enjoyment. For my pleasure. And I want you two to have a great time too.” I work the tip against my clit. “But I think I’ve got something a little different in mind than whoever sent you. See, I don’t want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck each other,” I say, enjoying the matching looks of realization that hit their faces.

  Something profound sings inside my blood, making my veins hum with an energy I can barely contain. This is what I’ve been missing out on the past few years and not just the bedroom. I’ve been waiting for external things to shape my life when all along I should have molded it more into what I wanted. In business and in pleasure.

  I could make these men do anything to each other, I bet. Maybe not maim or kill, but things could get delightfully indecent if I choose.

  I practically purr at the thought—or rather, the vibrator does my purring for me
.

  I arch my brows at them both. “Kiss.”

  The single syllable reverberates through my playroom like thunder, and they obey, lips meeting with such force I know it’s got to hurt, but they bury their hands in the other’s hair and keep going. Men kiss each other differently than women do. It’s never as soft, never as self-conscious.

  I smile, an idea skipping around my head. “I want you two to fuck like you hate each other.”

  The energy in the room shifts as their hands find places to grab and hold, roughly, contemptuously claiming each other. They glare into each other’s eyes as they furiously stroke their cocks, close enough that their balls rub together. It’s heady and hot, making them do whatever I want.

  I plunge the vibrator deep inside my soaking pussy and hold it there. “Paul, eat Javier’s asshole. Javier, let me hear how good it feels.”

  They drop to their knees on the floor and Javier spreads, letting out a string of curses and sighs when Paul’s tongue finds his puckered hole.

  “Javier, suck Paul’s cock. And drag your teeth just a little.” Javier grins and complies, and soon Paul is gasping and his hips are bucking.

  I fuck myself hard with the vibrator. “I want to see my favorite number. Sixty-nine!”

  They scramble into position, heads bobbing up and down, tongues dancing over heads, and it’s fucking gorgeous. I pull the vibrator out just before I come.

  “Paul, come fuck my pussy.” I know I said they were going to fuck each other—and they are. But I want in on this action too.

  Paul strides over and slams his cock home inside my wet hole, primed from the vibrator. Javier watches and I smile at him. “What are you waiting for? Paul’s ass isn’t going to fuck itself, darling.” I reach between Paul and me, wetting my hand with my come, and turning him around to slather my arousal between his cheeks.

  Javier uses it for lube, pushing into Paul as Paul pushes back inside of me. Javier sets a punishing pace that sets the tone for Paul’s thrusts and soon I’m coming with a scream, pussy rippling around his cock like a jazz pianist’s fingers dancing up and down the keys. I push Paul’s chest. “Off.”

  He pulls out of me with a wet slap. “Javier, come.”

  He grips Paul’s hips hard and pulls him back, sheathing himself completely and coming in about four deep thrusts as Paul’s cock gets harder, his prostate being pummeled.

  I give him a second before ordering Paul to fuck Javier as hard as he can.

  Paul smiles and does, semen dripping from his ass as he fills Javier with hot spurts of cream. Now they both have slippery cheeks.

  “Lick each other clean,” I order, wanting to see them eat their own come, getting even wetter when they actually do it.

  Fuck me, that’s sexy. I don’t know why straight guys are so dainty about it. “Now kiss.”

  They do, and this time it’s with more passion, more tenderness.

  I’m filled with power, but exhaustion has started to creep into the afterglow. Besides, they did so well. “Carry me to the bathroom.” They make a cradle from their arms, and carry me upstairs to the master bath. I look at the tub. “Well?”

  Paul runs the water while Javier pours in some rosewater he finds in the cupboard. When it’s prepared, they help me into it.

  I wave a hand at them. “Off you go. You’re dismissed. Lock the door on the way out, boys. And tell whoever it was that sent you that I am very pleased.”

  They kiss my hands and smile softly at me before obeying.

  Spent, I lie back in the tub, wet and satisfied and feeling more powerful than I have in a long time.

  I feel ready for anything.

  TWENTY

  REPORTERS GET INVITED ALONG TO conferences so they can see firsthand what’s happening to the indigenous people in the area. Honduras isn’t without its share of issues. I’m aware there are political issues surrounding environmental and humanitarian issues with the new development I’m here to investigate….but with the way Mr. X has been threatening me, it’s got to be something bigger and darker than this.

  The hotel has done the best it could with what it had, but you can tell the grand ballroom here gets used next to never by the way the staff have matching expressions that are slightly pinched with exhaustion. Also, sometimes they have to look around for a minute before directing you to A or B, as though they only learned the layout of the rooms ten minutes ago themselves. As “barely suitable” as this place is for men like these, it’s good enough, and the way they swell with self-import bothers me. I swear, if I hear the words “tacky” or “backwater” one more time… If they hate this place so much, they should have chosen somewhere else.

  Still, it’s not like the attendees could build their own venue just for a place they’re meeting at one time.

  They could, but they won’t. That would leave something behind for the people of the region, and the only time people like this give anything to others is when there’s a photo op involved to make them look good. Besides, their wives are usually the ones in charge of the charitable donations. It gives them something to do, other than cultivating their pill-popping and shoe collections.

  The rooms are slightly too cold to allow for the expensive suits because God forbid one of these powerful men be seen in even slightly casual clothing—or seen breaking a sweat. They’re worse than women wearing a full face of waterproof makeup to the pools, scared of sweating or washing it off, so they keep their faces above the water while having “fun” with the kids in the terrified off-chance that someone snaps a casual photo of the family.

  It’s probably also a sign of wealth or prestige that they can keep the air conditioning going at full clip when in a country as sweltering with poverty as with the heat and humidity. Hopefully the hotel is getting paid a little extra for this luxury. I should look into that.

  I don’t know every person in attendance, although there are quite a few I’m familiar with. Then again, businessmen tend to blend together with their similarly expensive suits, haircuts, and accessories. Even their behaviors and mannerisms paint them with a similar brush and blur the lines of individuality.

  I’m hoping that the whiskey in their glasses will encourage loose lips a little later on—not that any of these men are lightweights when it comes to liquor. Building up tolerances is what politicians and businessmen do best. Tolerance to the suffering of others, to the needs of others as well as to alcohol.

  They speak in hushed voices, controlled so passersby can’t hear conversations—though undoubtedly want to—except for when they’re laughing too loud. You only hear what they want you to hear. It’s so annoyingly political and utterly bland, but innately sinister, gatherings like this one. It’s the kind of event where you’d inevitably come across a rock star fist-bumping the world’s power elite as they plan new wars and solidify strategies to rape the world of its riches and natural resources.

  Of course, nothing that interesting actually happens at conferences. Not that I’ve seen, anyways.

  I see a representative, one of the partners at that corporation—you know, the big one everyone freaks out about when it comes to genetically modified foods. I was in an elevator with him once, and he was actually one of the nicest men I’ve encountered at a conference. Polite, well-mannered, didn’t hit on me or try to intimidate me. There’s a lot of fear mongering when it comes to what we put into our bodies.

  I think it’s a distraction and that company is a scapegoat to misdirect us from what’s really happening. There’s always a darker picture if you flip the painting around.

  About ten companies own nearly one hundred percent of the world’s food brands. Everything from the generic store brands to the luxury items you find in your grocery store. It’s insane. Go look in your cupboard right now and look at all the “different” brands you buy on a regular basis, showing support with your hard-earned cash.

  X brand is cheaper, but Y doesn’t use hormones. Brand X is more expensive, but brand Y isn’t made from concentrat
e—and that’s better, right?

  You think you’re buying from a smaller company with higher standards for the products and more ethical beliefs and practices when really they’ve been swallowed up by one of the bigger brands years ago and you’re still ultimately supporting one of the bad guys with your wallet regardless of your choice. More like the illusion of choice because sometimes they’ll even pit their own brands against each other to see which the consumers choose regionally.

  But the same water that makes a Coke or a Pepsi also makes the juice you drink in the morning—unless you’re freshly squeezing the fruit from your own back yard. Your healthy choices may not be as healthy as you think, or as “natural.” Big companies aren’t innately evil, though there’s more opportunity for corruption on a large scale. At the top of those ten companies are boards or committees. And at the head of that board or committee is one person. You go high up enough and there’s always one person calling the shots. Everyone knows that.

  So, basically, ten people control what we’re all consuming. I think that’s too much power for someone to have. But you rarely hear about this. All we’re, pardon the pun, fed are the buzzwords we’ve been taught. Avoid Genetically Modified. Gravitate to organic, or grain fed. Free-range. Gluten-free. All natural! But some of the worst substances are organic and all natural. Buzzwords don’t make things less dangerous to put inside our bodies.

  I’m not saying organic is bad. It’s a business, like any other. I’m just saying to educate yourself about where things come from. “Organic” doesn’t mean “pesticide-free,” but that’s one of those truths that we’ve all come to believe as fact even though it’s misinformation. Those ten companies are banking on our ignorance, but it’s not malevolent. It’s business.

  And, sadly, business is the most impersonal thing of all. We’re taught to grant latitude to those who stab us in the backs in the name of business deals. It’s only business. It’s competition. You’d have done the same thing if the tables were turned.

  But would you?

  I wander around, invisible to the men here except for my legs and breasts which they stare at. No one makes eye contact, which is sort of hilarious to me while being offensive as well. Clearly, I am not even the sum of my parts to these guys—I’m just…my parts.