The Juliette Society, Book III

by Sasha Grey

  As I head deeper into the house, the clothes get skimpier and people are engaging in obviously sexual activities. A woman with a hat that looks like three sets of hands caressing her face, but their nails look more like eagle talons and leave indentations in her skin. Her black cat suit has the breasts and crotch cut out, and a man in a tight black leotard with one of those creepy plague masks over his penis sucks on one of her nipples. He’s clearly embellishing the size of his penis with that mask, but it makes me smile as well.

  A woman is painted up to look like the keys of a piano with giant gorilla hands “playing” her breasts and vagina to cover them, but she’s on her knees in front of a woman, lifting up her filthy potato sack loincloth and going to town licking her pussy. The woman receiving her attention is painted completely blue with gemstones, probably real, over her features, making a mask of wealth, to go with the plain potato sack clothes.

  I’m not sure if they came together, pun intended, but if their costumes have a complementary theme, I’m not getting it. Something deep and dramatic about wealth and taste, or culture and waste? Then again, I went with something easy to pull off that would still fit in on short notice. Maybe they did exactly the same.

  Inside another room, this one with strange foam geometric shapes as furniture, I see a man in a black corset and fishnet stockings with a bowler hat over of his flawless bob. His moustache is perfectly coiffed and doesn’t move at all as another man with a perfectly tailored suit, normal except for his upside down moustache—and the way two large fish are swallowing his feet, all the way up to his knees—fucks him from behind with brutal thrusts.

  Huh. This must be the orgy room of the house, as nearly everyone in it has a hand or a mouth full of someone else.

  It makes me feel like skipping, but I head through another door. No sense settling for door number one before I get to see what’s behind doors two and three, right?

  The next room is less surreal but has a more nautical theme, and is about ten degrees colder, maybe meant to represent the ocean?

  A woman with a mermaid tail and tiny dragon wings, her hair a wig made of coins that look like fish scales and tinkle when she moves, lies on a bench seat near a wall. I wonder if she’s mobile, or if she’s stuck in that spot for the duration unless someone carries her wherever she wants to go, like a maharaja.

  A man in brown satin lederhosen with two large white dildos as walrus tusks rubs the fake teeth against the crotch of a woman, naked except for a mask like a giant, blue seahorse.

  I slip through a small door I notice behind a curtain, the door-jamb just peeking through it as though it’s more private and whoever is inside doesn’t quite want to be noticed or joined.

  Inside a completely black room, men and women in black and white cavort beneath a black light, nothing showing up except the white bits that glow so bright they almost hurt my eyes. I’m not sure if the fluids on their skins are paint or bodily fluids, actually, but they rub up against each other and writhe on the floor, spreading liquid light wherever they touch.

  I skirt the edge of the room, interested in the ocean of bodies moving together, but not drawn to it enough to make this where I want to spend the rest of my night.

  I pass through a thick curtain and walk down a hallway into an S&M club I’d expect to see in a Gaspar Noe film. Now this is more like it. A large fountain in the middle of the room is the only sound, other than the slaps of crops and whips against skin.

  I stick out like a surreal thumb, the only one not dressed in strappy leather and vinyl numbers, but I don’t mind. We aren’t in a Berlin sex club; the rules are different here. I take a seat at a table in the corner, intent on observing before joining in. What do I feel like tonight? The tall woman, built like an Amazon? The slender man, barely more than a boy? The elegant older woman with corkscrew curls? Dominant, submissive…switch?

  I turn toward a small glimmer of light that catches my eye from a few feet away. A mirror. I move my hand to fix my hair and realize it’s not a mirror but a window.

  I think we have a winner.

  I head towards it, certain that this is where I’m meant to be tonight.

  I shimmy past a table where two muscled men, Dominants, are fucking a man, mouth and ass. His black lipstick is smeared all over his face, but his eyes roll back in his head as the man at his ass hits the spot.

  The window swings forward, part of a well-concealed door, and I step inside even though it’s dark and I can’t see the room nor its inhabitants.

  It clicks closed behind me when I take a few steps inside.

  The lights come up slowly, theatrically, and I blink and turn to see whose hand is on the dimmer switch.

  My skin crawls.

  Mr. X. But of course.

  The bastard smiles, smugly, and it occurs to me that I should have asked whose party this was before attending. It’s embarrassing how rookie of a mistake this was and I should have known, especially after the conference, that he’d be waiting for one last chance to intimidate me. Well, if this is another of his attempts to scare me, it’s still not going to happen—though I have decided on a gentler approach: the good old, “tell them what they want to hear, then do exactly as you want.” Sort of like how it’s easier to ask for forgiveness instead of permission, only I’m not going to ask for either.

  It’s not as though I have any real dirt on him, so I don’t know what his preoccupation with my article is about. He’s the one who put me onto it, for fuck’s sake.

  “Mr. X. I should have known this was your party.”

  “You really should have,” he practically purrs, happy I’m in his trap. “Who else could throw a party the way I can?”

  I incline my head, unable to argue with the quality I’ve seen tonight, though my instincts keep telling me to run far and fast from this room. Privacy is not my friend when it comes to this man. “Interesting theme, though it isn’t carried all through the house. Are your parties always like this?”

  “You tell me.” His gaze narrows and he takes a step closer.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you remember when we first met?”

  “Yes, it was—”

  “No. It wasn’t. The first time I saw you, you were being set on a chair by a man in a mask. I’d seen you wandering through the mansion that night at my party, and thought nothing of you…until you came to life, ravenous for cock as though you lived on come. That’s when I first saw you.”

  If he saw that, then that means—

  “I knew I was right to film you that night. I had no idea our paths would cross again, but you made a name for yourself, and I heard you come up in certain circles. Naturally, I grew curious as to what you’d gotten up to in the years that had passed since last I’d seen your face.”

  My heart stutters in my chest at his confession. “You were willing to ruin my career just to get me to come here. You knew I’d do anything to prove myself after the scandal…the one you caused.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows as though we’re sharing a delightful joke.

  Clearly, he doesn’t care that I know everything. Why is he telling me this? Why now? And yet, I should have known it was him from the beginning. “My wealthy benefactor, giving me leads on stories. Why? We’d never met before, you owed me nothing. Was it just about power, so you could pretend that you’re the reason I have a career—which is ridiculous, by the way. You can’t undercut my accomplishments. Or was this your plan all along—to get me to write what you wanted to give yourself a thin veneer of morality to whomever you were trying to impress? Only, that’s the part I don’t understand in all of this. Why use me and not someone else who actually gives a damn or is on your payroll? We didn’t even know each other before your little friend Dominick gave me your message.”

  “Dominick was hired for a purpose. I wouldn’t call us friends.” He grins. “Oh, you and I had met before that, Catherine. It’s been a while and you were a little out of it that night, so I’m not surpris
ed your memories of me are hazy.”

  “I have no memories of you at all.” I grit my teeth at the smugness in his voice. “Whatever you think you saw the night we allegedly met—”

  “Oh, we more than met, my darling. It piqued my interest to see you again and to be perfectly honest, I liked knowing I’d had my hands in your cunt, that you’d gotten me off, and you hadn’t known it was me, hadn’t known we’d been close enough for me to come on you. You chatted about the most banal shit, trying to present yourself as a young professional career woman when all along I knew what a little cock gobbler you truly are. Do you know, sometimes we’d be texting, and I’d be watching the video of you sucking my cock?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Of course you didn’t know that. Well, you know now. Doesn’t that feel good? I certainly feel as though a weight has been lifted. The truth shall set you free!”

  I suppress a shudder at the things he’s saying and the implications of his confession. Conversations I’d thought innocent suddenly take on a more sinister air. He was never a friend or colleague. He was a predator, and the thought of him talking to me, the knowledge that he got into my apartment, laid out a dress—that I actually wore—and watched me that night after the interview chills me. Not that I’ll let him know that. I cock a hip and feign nonchalance I definitely don’t feel.

  This is a man I need to tread carefully around. He’s deranged and dangerous and not above…anything. And yet, I refuse to show any fear to let him think he’s gotten to me. “So what, I jerked a lot of people off that night. Your dick wasn’t anything special.”

  He shrugs. “You’re a whore.”

  “And you want to fuck me. That’s it, isn’t it?” I step closer, noting his chest heaving, the way he squirms on his feet, turned on. “You were mad that DeVille was the one who got to fuck me and you didn’t. Is that why it had to be me all along? Revenge against Bob? Revenge against me not magically remembering you when I heard your voice? When you saw me in the dress, did you jerk off, wishing you could touch my skin like it was touching me? Did you curse Dominick for getting to stick his cock inside me, to lick my asshole and eat me out? To be the one on top of me?” Something dawns on me and I change tactics. “To be the one underneath me?”

  His pupils dilate and I smile. “I’ve got to say, X, that this long game you were going for is impressive. You were willing to build me up so I’d crash so hard that nothing would survive that fall. You were willing to fuck up my life to get what you wanted.”

  “I was,” he hisses.

  I lick my lips, noticing the bondage gear in the room. “And what is it you truly want?”

  “You know what I want, Catherine.”

  I smile. “Well, guess what? Tonight’s your lucky night. You’re finally going to get fucked.”

  He grins as I grab his wrists and haul him to the bench, pushing him down onto it with a thud. I straddle him and reach above his head to a table while he runs his hands over my hips and ass, hard, greedily like a little inexperienced boy.

  I put the big, red ball gag I grab from the table in his mouth, tying the straps behind his head, hard, and kiss the ball like it’s his mouth. His lids get heavy and I can feel his cock swelling against me. Now my heart starts to pound.

  Men who crave power feel their most vulnerable when you take it away from them.

  I want him to know how that feels.

  I stand and strip him from the waist down then guide him to turn around, surprised when he goes with it. He must think I’m going to spank him, like I have some kind of interest in his salt and pepper pubes and twisted little rat brain.

  I use the restraints on the bench to cuff his wrists above his head. The bench isn’t just a bench—it’s got handy hydraulics that lift one end up, so his toes barely touch the floor and his hands are stretched above his head. Mr. X spares no expense with his kink. I eschew the ankle cuffs—they’ve got too much give for what I have in mind, so I turn him around and fasten a spreader bar in between his ankles before locking them into place with the metal rings on the bottom of the bench. Perfect for what I’ve got in mind for him.

  I walk around to look him in the eyes and smile, crouching in front of him so we’re eye to eye. “You’re a pathetic piece of shit. Whatever power you’ve managed to buy for yourself with your daddy’s money has rotted your mind. Men like you have to buy people, or bribe them into being with you because at the core of it all, you’re weak little nothings. There’s no heart, no soul, nothing interesting or creative to be drawn to. All you are is a bank account and”—I look down between us—“a disappointing cock. No wonder I didn’t remember you. You’re utterly forgettable.”

  He squirms hard, but that’s the glorious thing about bondage. I pat the gag he’s chomping on, trying to talk around to no avail. “Shh. You’ll hurt yourself, flailing around like that. You’ve done enough talking. My turn. Listen carefully, X. See, I’m not the sweet young thing I was back when we first met. I’m not even the same woman I was last week. I’ve learned so much and had time to cram a few aces up my sleeve. You’d do well to remember that before threatening me again. You have no idea what I’m capable of, and I’ll write whatever the fuck I want.”

  I stand, but the flicker of scorn in his eyes irritates me to the point of fury. He doesn’t think I can do anything to him. Here is a man who truly believes he is untouchable. This man has burned my life to the ground for nothing more than sport, and killed people I loved. Who else could have killed Inana and Anna? What other skeletons are in his closet?

  I peruse the other items on the table, selecting and sliding a black cloth mask over his face—the type kidnappers use that completely cover their victims’ heads.

  I tighten the ribbon a little too tightly around his neck, glorying in the way he thrashes harder and makes little gagging sounds. “You’re pathetic. You with your cartoon villain name, trying to garner an air of mystery. But for all of your riches, when it comes down to it, you are just as fragile as any of us are.”

  I imagine tightening the ribbon even more until he stops breathing and moving completely. I’m sure no one would kick up too much a fuss over this waste of skin.

  But no matter what we can get away with when no one’s looking and our friends can cover the truth, we still have to look ourselves in the mirror every day. And as much as I hate this man, I let go of the ribbon. His breathing slowly returns to normal inside the bag, though he’s still bound, gagged, and stuck in the fabric.

  “I’m better than you are, X. I could do the most evil things to you and not feel bad because of the way you care so little for those around you.” But I refuse to kill him. That would make me just as bad as he is.

  I head back out of the room to the little table with the Dominants and whisper in their ears, giving them a gift.

  An open door, a huge tube of lube, and a man who wanted to be fucked by a few anonymous strangers all night long.

  Hard.

  They promise to oblige and take very good care of my slave.

  I walk out of the room, leaving him with his ass in the air and his legs spread, waiting for the two men he doesn’t know are coming. What a perfect party. That’s for Anna and Inana. That’s for my life you tried to take as well.

  TWENTY-THREE

  A WHITE, HORSE-DRAWN CARRIAGE pulls up to my house and I climb onto it, careful not to get the hem of my gown caught in the wheels. The dress twinkles in the light, brilliant gemstones reflecting back the sun and sending prisms out from where I stand.

  I sit and the driver, decked out in a plum tuxedo and top hat, moves us forward down the road with a flick of the reins. The horses’ hooves clack against the road, marking the time of our journey, only I can’t quite remember where it is we’re meant to be going. Am I late for something, or years too early?

  I’ve left my gloves at home, and I dig inside my small clutch to see if I brought a spare pair. I did not. I open my mouth to tell the driver to halt and turn around, but a shimmering cloud on the road ahea
d draws my attention. It’s pretty and the air seems to hum the closer we get to it.

  I reach my hand over the side of the carriage as we touch the cloud. But it’s not glitter, or sparkles. Not magical at all. It’s a swarm of bugs. So many mosquitoes.

  I’m covered by them from head to toe. I open my mouth to tell the driver to go back, but they fill my mouth, biting my tongue as well.

  Every inch of my skin is coated with the tiny pricks of pain as they stab into me and feed. My hand itches, worse than anywhere else, and I scratch at it, flinching when it comes back wet. I look down, surprised at all the blood. Where is it coming from?

  I dig with my fingers, trying to move the redness aside so I can find where the injury is, but it’s too thick. And yet, I can’t find a puncture wound or a cut. I look around to see if it’s been dripped onto me, but it’s as though it’s seeping through my skin through a million tiny bites.

  I can’t stop it—there’s no way I can keep my blood in my body when every inch of me is squeezing the vital fluid from my body through the pores of my skin and I’m terrified but the carriage goes forward at its sedate pace, a contrast to my growing panic.

  I grab my gown and wrap the top of it over my head like a hood, trying to use it as a tourniquet or a shield for my arms and face, now dripping with blood as well. But the fabric starts billowing like there’s too much of it, or the dress is growing, or I’m shrinking, and I fall, drowning in fabric and blood and it’s so hard to breathe.

  I wake up tangled in the sheets, my sweat coating me in the sheen I’d mistaken for blood in my sleep. I forgot to turn the air conditioning on before getting into bed.

  I kick the covers off, get a glass of water, and strip my soaking tank top and panties off before slipping back into bed.