The Juliette Society, Book III

by Sasha Grey

  Bits of conversations filter through the din of the meeting, but nothing that makes me sit up and take notice. It’s mostly bullshitting and schmoozing at this stage. There will be a few presentations later—maybe that’s when I’ll learn something new.

  I’ve often wondered how differently events like these would be if I came in flawless drag, dressed as a man. Would conversations halt when I approached a circle then as they do now? Would I be able to engage and be taken seriously instead of patronized and spoken over? Maybe that could be a good social commentary piece. Then again, it’s not like it’s anything new. Women already know all about this and men would continue to reject the premise that in certain circles we get treated way differently simply for our gender.

  I circulate, trying to keep moving, but not so I seem to be zinging around the place or have an agenda, when I stop in my tracks.

  Mr. X.

  I recognize the half-profile I see of him and part of me wants to turn him by the shoulders so I can check out his nametag and see what it says instead of the mysterious initial he’s shared with me. More likely, he’s not even wearing a nametag. The egos of pompous, self-important men like him couldn’t bear to dream that someone may not know exactly who they are. It’s unlikely he’d cause a scene, but he’d want to talk to me, to press the issue for sure. And if people see me with him, that will naturally taint the way they see me—and then I’ll be unable to go unnoticed.

  Think about it: if you see a stranger smiling and chatting with someone you don’t get along with, you automatically treat them a little more warily than you would have if you’d first met them in the same situation but with a group of your friends. Birds of a feather, and all that. It’s not fair, but it is what it is, as they say. Besides, people may recognize me as a reporter and be wary of speaking to him as freely, choosing to relegate their communications with him to emails and phone calls to avoid me seeing their connections.

  I’m invisible now, able to get close enough to overhear conversations because I’m just an unassuming, sweet little thing. All that will change if one of the men condescends to speak to me. Because then the rest of them might think I’m somebody too and realize that I am. You’re damn right I am.

  Every question I ask from that point on might as well be coming from Mr. X’s mouth. I can’t let that happen. I need unbiased information, but my face is flushed and I can’t seem to focus. I walk on the balls of my feet to keep my heels from clacking on the floor as I head down a hallway around the corner. There were smaller offices over here—perfect for incognito deals and private handshakes.

  Mr. X seems to be upping his intimidation factor, maybe thinking that because I’m in a foreign place I will be helpless. Or, maybe he’s just getting more desperate since I haven’t been playing the part of intimidated girl, ready to write everything he says the way he wants it to be read.

  It only proves he’s got a scandalous skeleton deep inside his closet that he wants to keep there. I need to find out what he’s hiding. Maybe there’s sealed documents I’ll get access to that show people have already been murdered for speaking out about new developments in the country. Maybe Penny knows something specific, or could at least point me in the direction of another businessman here who would talk to me, someone with a grudge of their own against Mr. X. Why didn’t I think of this before? I need to call her.

  The first door in the hall I try is unlocked, and I push inside, ducking through to formulate my next move when a man rushes in with me, firmly closing the door behind us, leaving us in the dark. Alone. My pulse kicks up.

  I needed to get away to think, to call Penelope to see if she knows anything specific, and here he is inside the room with me. Mr. X saw me and is here. Now what?

  I flick on the light, wanting to not feel so vulnerable in the dark, wanting to let him see the determination on my face when I confront him…only it’s not Mr. X.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask in surprise.

  Deville smiles.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “I’M HERE TO GET SOME real work done while my double is on vacation with Geena in the states.”

  At least he’s honest. Strange to think he’s got a double out there, taking boring holiday snaps with the wife while he’s really out here. And somehow no one notices. Was he on the compound too with the rest of The Juliette Society members? Is this what happens? Does he get away from it all to refill on debauchery to spare his precious, fragile, suitable-as-First-Lady wife the attention she’d never know what to do with?

  I really don’t want to know the finer details of their sex life.

  I am curious, though, as to how often people like DeVille make use of the private community. Is it a once a year thing, or do some permanently live there? Do they stop by whenever they’re in the area? I was going to ask Penelope but it slipped my mind.

  Instead, I ask him how often he comes down here and he smirks. “Is that a pickup line?”

  The energy between us shifts, suddenly, like the charge that fills the air before a thunderstorm. It’s electric and intense.

  Remembering how it was the last time I saw him with the double—and fueled by the fear and tension now, I find myself moving forward into his space. When we were fucking, I still don’t know which Bob was actually him. I don’t know who I kissed, who fucked my pussy, who fucked my ass. They touched me the same way, looked at me the same way.

  The same way he’s looking at me now.

  He’s always had this charisma that politicians and movie stars have. The kind that makes you focus on their best features and forget about their less than perfect ones. It helps them charm their way into pants and out of trouble.

  Our mouths meet, all rough tongue and sharp teeth and pent-up aggression. I kiss him, turned on at us getting hot and heavy in someone’s office while some of the most influential men in the world are outside this door. While Mr. X is outside this door.

  I sink into the comfort of having this powerful man putting his hands on me out of desire, knowing his weaknesses, his strengths. Knowing that right now, I’m the one in the position of power because I know his secrets.

  And never told them.

  He trusts me.

  He shouldn’t.

  He’s literally fucked me and fucked me over, and yet here we are, pressed up against each other, hands roving over clothes and curves and edges like young lovers five minutes until curfew.

  Strangely, the first thing that floods my mind isn’t how he felt inside me the last time I saw him. “I used to have a fantasy about Jack and me in your office.”

  Bob’s teeth lightly abrade my neck. “Oh? What was it?”

  I tip my head back, grinning at what I thought was a real fantasy—but that was before I’d kicked my imagination’s limits in the ass. “I’d have worn something under a trench coat. Heels. Stockings and garters. Sometimes I was naked beneath it, wearing nothing but red lipstick.”

  “A lot of windows in that office.”

  “I know.”

  Deville grinds his hard cock against me. “Then what?”

  “I’d push him backwards into your leather swivel chair, and we’d fuck right there.”

  “That’s the fantasy? I have to say, Catherine, that’s a little disappointing.” He bites my shoulder and I press harder against his mouth, liking the way it feels. “I thought you had a better imagination than that.”

  I smile. “I was going to boss him around a little first. To be a good boy and watch as I stripped.”

  His cock is bulging, tenting out the fabric of his boxer briefs when he unbuttons his pants and pushes them slightly down. He turns me around so my breasts press against the mahogany paneled wall and the scent of orange oil fills my nostrils. I spread my legs as far as my skirt will allow. It’s not far enough.

  Stiff fabric is a real mood killer.

  He slides it up to my waist and runs his fingers over the pantyhose, up and down my seam where my thong dips between my ass cheeks before reaching insi
de the tights and tugging my thong to the side.

  I expect his cock to spear my soaking little hole, but instead, I feel his warm breath on my inner thigh, then his tongue lapping at my cunt from behind.

  The movements of his tongue are slightly abrasive through the fabric of the hosiery, but in a good way, dulling the direct contact but also turning the experience into something slightly unfamiliar and rough, making my nerve endings snap into awareness. I spread my legs, greedy for more.

  His neck must be craned at a frightening angle to cup my clit with the tip of his tongue the way it is. I turn to see, but his face is buried in my crack, so I grab a handful of his hair and grind my hips to let him know I like what he’s doing.

  He works the seam of the crotch against me like a pleasant little speedbump, back and forth, before jamming his fingers up inside me, the fabric scratching at the inside of my pussy for a few thrusts before his fingers tear through. Suddenly freed, they pop up and his fingertips hit the mouth of my cervix and make me jump with their unexpected depth.

  I hate that I can’t finger fuck myself this deeply. Women don’t have the leverage to do this to ourselves the way others can do it to us. Maybe circus contortionists or gymnasts can do it, but the average woman is at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to this aspect of masturbation.

  I wonder if anyone will notice the scent of orange oil and come on me when I go back outside.

  If anyone walked in right now would they recognize Bob, recognize me? Or would they assume I was another brainless little intern trying to screw her way to the top, not realizing that it would never work because I’m not ruthless enough to stay up there even if I managed to stick around for ten minutes? No, whoever opened the door would close it, not surprised this was happening, except for one key difference: I’m the one on top getting head and he’s the one on his knees getting me off like it’s his joie de vivre.

  There’s something to be said for standing and receiving oral. It sends the blood pumping in new and interesting ways than when you’re on your back in a bed.

  I lock my knees against his motions.

  His fingers move faster, stroke that perfect place inside that makes me throw my head back and gasp. He spins somehow, because now his teeth press above and below my clit as he sucks it and licks and I press harder against him, wanting his neck to hurt for days after this so he remembers who it was that made it hurt while she was fucking his face like he was nothing but a toy I used and discarded.

  I come hard, selfishly, not caring if he got off or gets off, only thrashing my hips harder against his face to prolong my own orgasm. He mumbles something, or maybe he can’t breathe and is trying to tell me. I don’t really know or care. I lean against the wall shuddering and finally release his hair.

  It’s glorious.

  I come back to myself a moment later, blotting my lip to take care of the sweat. I take a few steps away from him. He’s cleaning himself up with a handkerchief, so he must have been jerking himself off while eating me out.

  Good. I don’t particularly feel like getting him, or anyone, off right now. I run my fingers through my hair and rub beneath my eyes to get rid of any smudges.

  Bob stands and tucks himself back into his pants. “What is it you’re doing here at the conference? Were you following me? Keeping tabs?”

  I snort and strip out of my panties and hose, discarding them in a wastepaper basket nearby. The cold wetness is off-putting now that I’ve come and come back to reality. Besides, the men here wouldn’t notice them missing anyways. If they do, that could work in my favor. “Be still, your ego.”

  He raises his eyebrows and I relent. “Mr. X wanted me here, told me about the conference. He’s actually demanding that I write an article about it. One very biased one in his favor, of course.”

  He sighs. “I thought as much. Don’t underestimate him.”

  I shrug. “I have powerful allies of my own.” And I’m not an idiot.

  He picks up on it anyways. “Catherine, you’ve always been a smart woman. It’s one of the things I’m come to admire most about you. Don’t think I’m trying to insult your intelligence by telling you to stay away from Mr. X. Trust me when I say it’s not in your best interest to go against him.”

  That stops me in my tracks. DeVille is hesitant when it comes to this man as well? DeVille, who’s in the running to be the next President of the United States, the most powerful position in our country, is wary of Mr. X? “What is it about him that has everyone so worried? No one’s telling me anything.” Maybe it’s not something about him so much as what he’s got. “What’s he got on you, Bob?” I ask softly.

  Bob bites the inside of his cheek and hands me a business card. “Here’s my personal number in case you get into trouble.”

  “You’re not going to the compound?” I ask, surprisingly let down at the thought of him leaving.

  He smiles. “I’ve some other things to attend to, but shall be there in a few days.”

  I take the card, hoping I’ll never need to use it.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE CANDLES ALL BURN WITH EERIE, almost artificially red flames, no doubt achieved from placing certain chemicals in the wax that make them flicker with the unnatural hue. Fireworks are made the same way; different chemicals glow a certain shade when burned. Manganese, sulfur, barium. Beautiful, controlled explosions. Now, the monochromatic aspect gives a surreal quality to the night, painting the familiar in a strange, bloody light.

  It’s not dark, and yet the crimson glow makes things slightly harder to see, making the shadows deeper, more plentiful. With the masks and partygoers in such strange costumes tucked into the nooks and crevices of the mansion, it’s like being in another world. I love it.

  I adjust my mask—an ornate lace affair that’s as light as air—careful not to touch the makeup on the lower left side of my face that makes my skin look like it’s been peeled back to reveal a bright blue sky with fluffy white clouds inside, as though I’m made of sunny skies…the opposite of how I feel. My torso is also bare except for the makeup, giving the same illusion in strategic places.

  I’m only a woman on the outside tonight.

  An ornate handwritten invitation was fixed to my door when I got back from the conference—a surrealist ball. The perfect distraction for me after the letdown the conference turned out to be. Other than from DeVille, I got no substantial information out of anyone. Anything I did manage to glean from overheard snatches of conversation was insubstantial or irrelevant, or boring. Perhaps they were speaking in some dull code I wasn’t able to decipher. Penelope didn’t answer her phone, and part of me is hoping to find her here tonight as much as I’m looking forward to the diversion from the worries that have gone through my head on an endless loop for the past twenty-four hours. I needed a mental break to ground myself so I could focus and think clearly about my next moves.

  I’m not certain if this mansion is someone’s permanent residence or if it’s always this decked out for impromptu parties—I expect that a few members have more than one residence here—but it’s beautiful and haunting all at once, like a spectacular crystal chandelier covered with the dust and spider webs of neglect. Part classical mansion, part creepy fantasy, the aesthetic brings to mind haunted houses and palaces where ghosts would cavort with Gods of old. Shakespeare would have given his eyeteeth to have lived in a place such as this, and to have had his muse tickled by the decor.

  Stairs that lead to the ceiling. Doors that open into random rooms that are impractically small. Bookcases that are ladders leading to new rooms. It’s more like Acid in Wonderland meets M.C. Escher. Maybe that’s redundant; I can’t decide. I’m having a hard time pegging exactly what the house’s motif is—which is probably the exact thing the host was going for. They likely care more about the guests anyways.

  One thing is for sure, the guests have gone all out when it comes to their costume choices—and the execution thereof. There are no duds among us.

  Near
a fountain made of mermaids in reverse—the legs and shapely asses of women and the heads of fish—there’s a guy painted up like Michelangelo’s David, but instead of a penis, there’s a bright green apple dangling between his legs, no doubt meant to represent the original sin. I wonder if there’s an Eve around here who came as his date.

  Standing by the bar is a woman whose gown is a melted clock, dripping time, with her face painted up as a pretty skull, and even though it doesn’t quite fit the motif, it works. She’s speaking to a man with a tiny top hat and a suit that’s too small, wearing the mask of a baby, so he looks like a giant infant in fancy dress. The effect is unnerving, for sure.

  A woman in a fancy tuxedo with a fuzzy moth’s head and antenna leans against the mantelpiece, talking to a man with a scorpion for a head.

  There’s the ubiquitous rabbit and horse head masks, ornate and stiff affairs that must make the wearers sweat like crazy beneath them, but they must not mind since they’re on the dance floor, shaking their asses like the drunk uncle at a wedding.

  The music is interesting, and creepy, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s the Beatles being played backwards over Wagner, but there’s an underlying bassline tying them together into something that curiously works.

  A woman walks around with a frame over an ornate skirt, but instead of fabric there are hundreds of glasses of champagne and wine in metal holders. An interesting way of serving us while ignoring us as she sedately strolls around, taking her skirt for a walk, almost as though she’s not at the party, but at the house in another time where it’s not filled with guests and sounds and life.

  A lady’s got on a blonde wig to go with her plain black dress, and I’m disappointed that she hasn’t even tried. Then she turns and I see that she’s painted her face exactly as Dali’s painting, Mae West’s Face Which May Be Used As A Surrealist Apartment, complete with tiny wooden picture frames around her eyes, and I smile at her. She nods and turns back to her conversation with a man who’s got a lobster claw as a hand and a cage over his head and shoulders. Impractical, but interesting.