Julia and Mr. Page

She opened her eyes and looked. Mr. Page, wearing a white shirt and dark slacks, had fastened a soft leather cuff around her right wrist and tied it to a bedpost. Now he was fastening a cuff to her left wrist.

"Mr. Page?" she said. "Sir?"

"Speak only when you're spoken to," he said, fastening her left wrist to the other bedpost.

He must have noticed the fear in her eyes, because he said, "I'm not going to hurt you, Julia," as he caught her left ankle, pulled it wide, cuffed it, and secured it somewhere underneath the bed-frame. He walked around the bed and did the same with her right ankle.

Now her legs were spread wide, like a ballerina's split. He lifted the hem of her nighty and looked underneath.

"You're wearing panties," he said. "From now on you will wear no underwear in this house. You may speak to acknowledge what I say."

"I understand, Sir," she said.

He took a folding knife from his pocket, opened it, sliced her panties on each side, and pulled them off. He dropped the remains on the floor and stood contemplating his work. Then he sliced her nighty up the front and opened it like a jacket. He did all this with quick, dexterous movements - there was no hesitation or shyness in him, but rather the sureness that comes from the conviction that you have an absolute right to do what you want with what is yours.

A thrill of fear ran through her and she closed her eyes tight as he worked.

He retreated to an upholstered chair. Julia lifted her head and saw him seated below her left foot, relaxed, legs crossed, with a mug of coffee on a small table beside him. His eyes met hers briefly and then strayed over her body - not a hungry look, but appreciative and satisfied, as if she were a painting he'd just won at auction.

"Sir?" she said.

"Quiet, Julia," he said.

She let her head fall back. She would have liked to visit the bathroom, both to relieve herself and to brush her morning breath away - what if he wanted to kiss her? - but those things would have to wait.

Minutes passed. Every now and then she heard the sound of his mug being set down on the wooden tabletop. She wondered what he might have in mind besides sex. The list of things he was permitted to do with her body was long, and some of them would be painful.

She was warm down below with awareness of his gaze - not a creepy gaze, sneaky and ashamed, but candid and proprietary. She wondered whether he liked looking at one part of her more than others - breasts, face, hair, sex . . .

She glanced at him again. As if that were a cue, he rose from his chair, took two steps to the side of the bed and, holding her gaze, put a hand on her sex and probed into her cleft with his middle finger.

"You're wet, Julia," he said.

Yes, she was wet. "Mmm," she said, trusting she could get away with inarticulate sounds.

He slipped his finger inside and stimulated her gently, slowly increasing tempo and force till she could hear the liquid slopping of his finger. "Oh," she moaned as he put another finger into her and thrust harder and faster till the stimulation was almost too much, pleasure morphing into pain - and it was painful, the way his fingers were pounding her full bladder.

"Oh, please," she whined, and tried to squirm away from his hand, but she couldn't move much; and he was relentless: her whole body shook with the force of him. She could hardly think for the overwhelming sensation, her pleas gave way to a shrill keening, and she thrashed on the bed, thinking surely she could tear loose somehow if she just pulled hard enough against her cuffs.

Finally she remembered the safeword: she was just about to scream "Red!" when he stopped. He leaned over her and released her right wrist and ankle, then seized her arm and half pulled, half rolled her towards him till she was lying on her side at the edge of the mattress, still tethered to the bed-frame by one hand and foot.

She was shocked: she'd never been handled so roughly before. But before she could react, his hand caught her eye, unhurriedly moving towards his zipper, grasping the tab with two fingers, pulling it down slowly . . . he reached into his pants and pulled out his penis, which he stroked languidly just a foot from her eyes, making himself hard.

She knew what he was going to do, knew what he wanted from her, knew she didn't want to, knew she'd do it anyway because she had to. But oh, she did want to, and she always had. She'd known from the start, below the level of conscious thought, that this would be the opening act, the first thing he'd want, and he'd want it often because he knew she didn't like it; and she'd love it and need it because . . . because . . .

Holding himself with his right hand, he put his left hand behind her head, fingers sunk deep in her luxuriant hair, and pulled her towards him. She opened her mouth to receive him and let him push into her - deep, too deep! She coughed and spluttered, and when he drew back she spat out a mouthful of drool.

Now grasping the back of her neck, he plunged in again, and she gagged, and her stomach gave a lurch as he drew back just before she would have lost her breakfast if she'd had any. She spat out more thick saliva and opened up again for the next onslaught.

Oh, this wasn't the oral sex she'd talked to Mr. Page about doing for Alan, the vaguely unpleasant cocksucking followed by a little spurt. This was an assault - he was using her head as a sex-toy, caring no more how she felt about it than if she were made of plastic. She put her free hand on his belt buckle to push him away . . .

But, no! She saw now that she'd craved this all along, even back at Daniel where she'd wet her panties sipping her wine: not the sensation, the stimulation of a mouthful of warm flesh and the churning stomach, but being used this way: without sweet words or a kiss on the neck or a tender caress - without acknowledgment of her human dignity even, but with a primal sexuality that knows what it wants, is sure of what is due to it, and takes it by force.

She was made to be ravished like this: why had she never known it before? Her hand slipped away from his buckle, down to her breast, where she twisted a nipple hard as he attacked again, deeper now, pulling her roughly into him, forcing her wide open - and somehow she was adjusting to this treatment, not gagging so much or so afraid of throwing up, but focused on her raw emotions, her impossible arousal, her hand sliding down her belly to her sex, where she found her clitoris, fingers stoking the fire inside higher and higher . . .

Until he took two handfuls of her hair and held her still as he withdrew just an inch and pumped her mouth full of his warm, sticky semen.

He withdrew from her and pulled her head back by the hair so he could watch with flat eyes what he knew she would do without his commanding her - what she dreaded doing and needed to do. She swallowed hard, forcing it down, rolled onto her back, and looked at him, waiting for what would come next.

Mr. Page put himself away, zipped up his pants, and retreated to his chair. He picked up his coffee cup, glanced into it, and set it down again. He sat silently watching her. At length he said, "What's in your head, Julia?"

She paused, surprised by the question, and said, "I'm thinking it's strange, Sir, that a man who doesn't care whether or not I enjoy my dinner wants to know what's on my mind right now."

"Careful, Julia," he said. "Insolence will not be rewarded."

"I'm not being insolent, Mr. Page," she said, voice high and quavery. "I'm being honest, the way you told me to. I really want to know this. Do you care what's in my head, or not?"

He said, "I am interested, Julia. Now answer my question."

She said, "How are you interested, Sir? Are you hoping I'll say it was horrible so you can get off on my misery?" She saw him stiffen a little, growing annoyed, and added, "This is what's in my head, Sir." Unfamiliar, unidentifiable emotions were boiling inside her; she was tearing up.

He said, "I don't want you to be miserable, Julia."

"Thank you, Mr. Page."

"I want to know . . . how you feel," he said.

"I need to pee, Sir," she said, sniffling.

Looking weary, he got up and undid her cuffs. "Come back right afterwards," he said.

She ran to the bathroom, sat down gratefully, and peed for a long time, breathing deeply to calm herself. When she was finished, she rinsed her mouth with water, went back to the bedroom, and stood by the bed.

"Are you going to tie me up again, Sir?"

"Not right now."

She sat on the edge of the bed facing him. Her breasts and sex were warm, all her body aglow; she waited for him to speak.

"Well?" he demanded.

"I'm very turned on, Mr. Page, and I haven't had an orgasm."

"Masturbate," he said.

She stared at him. He didn't stir in his chair.

"Are you going to stay here, Sir?" she asked.

"Yes. Surely you've figured out that you have no right to privacy while in this house."

"Maybe I'll just wait till later, Sir," she said.

"It was a command," he said. "Masturbate."

She hesitated; then, without moving from where she sat, she parted her legs and touched herself. Fingers together and flat, she massaged her labia, gently stimulating the half-hidden clitoris.

It felt good, very good - but was it her hand that was stimulating her or his eyes fixed on her hand and sex? Hand and eyes together, surely, and her left hand too, which had found its way somehow to her right nipple and was squeezing and twisting it.

She stared at Mr. Page as she worked, mouth a little open, breath coming in gasps; his features (a strong face, the lines of age just starting to appear) were fixed, but his eyes were alive, his arousal roaring back already. He sat upright, body tense, a coiled spring . . .

Suddenly he was out of his chair. He shoved her back roughly so her head hit the mattress with a bounce. He swatted her hand aside and fell to his knees as he lifted her legs - it was all one fluid movement - and his lips closed over her, his tongue, hard as a penis, probed into her wet slit, slid upwards, and jammed into her clitoris.

Again it was too much stimulation, and she wanted to writhe away, but his hands were on her thighs, holding her as firmly as her bonds had before, so all she could do was whine and bite a knuckle and knead her nipple roughly, as if it weren't enough after all, what he was doing to her.

And her orgasm, when it came, was a thunderous, crashing thing like nothing she'd ever felt before. She screamed and screamed, she had no idea how long, till it was done, and then she lay exhausted, bare feet dangling, wondering vaguely when she'd recover the strength to move.

Mr. Page stood and left the room without a word. He returned less than a minute later carrying a large plaid bathrobe, which he laid on the bed beside her.

"Put this on," he said, "and come to the kitchen. I'll make some fresh coffee, and you can find yourself something for breakfast."

Yes, she thought. She'd like some breakfast.

6. The limits of punishment

They ate silently at the kitchen table. There were many things Julia wanted to ask him, but his demeanor did not invite conversation.

As they were finishing up and Julia was wondering what would come next, Mr. Page said, "I have made an appointment for you at J. Sisters for eleven o'clock. The afternoon will be yours to do with as you like."

"Yes, Sir," she said.

"Take some Advil now," he said. "That will make the waxing less painful. You'll find it in the cabinet to the right of the stove."

"Thank you, Sir," she said, and went to the cabinet he'd pointed to. It took her a few seconds to spot the Advil, which was behind another pill bottle labeled "Gleevec 400 mg." She shook two pills out of the Advil bottle and carried them back to the table, where she washed them down with some coffee.

It was around ten. "You'd better get dressed and go," he said. "It won't hurt to be early. Be back here for dinner by six."

"Am I going to serve?" she asked.

He smiled for the fourth time in their acquaintance and said, "No, Julia. This time you'll be the main course."

At J. Sisters they didn't quite approve of her getting a Hollywood wax when she'd never been waxed before, but she insisted they go ahead, since that's what she'd been told to do. She nearly fainted from the pain of the procedure and was warned that her skin would be sensitive for several days.

After her appointment, she walked to Rockefeller Plaza and had lunch at Just Salad. She spent the afternoon drifting among the Midtown stores, paying little attention to the clothing and accessories that she usually found so fascinating. She was preoccupied with thoughts of her strange dominant and the activities of the last twenty-four hours. She was fascinated by the paradox that she loved the things that had been done to her precisely because she didn't like them and had been forced to do them. Amid these meditations, she lost track of the time and had to run for the Lexington Avenue train. It was about six-fifteen when a frowning Mr. Page opened the door of the Gramercy Park house.

He said, "You have come to this house twice, and you've been late both times. Come with me."

Feeling more than a little apprehensive, Julia followed him to the back of the house, where he unlocked a door that led down to a finished basement room containing a variety of equipment that she'd read about and seen online: a St. Andrew's cross, a cage, a bondage table, and more. It was one thing to look at pictures of those things and another thing to be in a room full of them. It was scary.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Page," she said. "I won't let it happen again."

"Strip," he said, not looking at her.

She quickly shed her clothing.

"Over here," he said, and led her to the cross, where he fastened her hands and feet, facing the wall, and tightened her cuffs till she was suspended and couldn't touch the floor even with her toes.

She watched as he went to a closet, reached in, and pulled out a black whip with multiple tails about two feet long, each one terminating in a knot. He turned towards her, face expressionless as always.

As he approached, the whole universe seemed to rearrange itself with the whip at its center. Images rushed into her mind of the horrible welts on the backs of slaves in old photos. She couldn't bear it: she'd die if that were done to her! Her heart hammered inside her, and her breath got fast and shallow. Energy flooded into her body, and she yanked at her cuffs, frantically trying to pull free.

"No," she wheezed between gasps. "No!"

Mr. Page stopped and stared as Julia writhed on the cross, staring wildly, like a fox in a snare, trying to shy away from him. He took one more step, and she screamed.

Her chest felt like it would crack open. "No! No! No!" she screamed - and then "Please, No!" and "No!" Her body twisted on the cross, and then she couldn't say anything more because she couldn't get any air, but made a horrible raspy sound as she struggled to breathe.

Mr. Page stood frozen to the spot for a few seconds, and then dropped the whip, rushed to the cross, and released her feet and hands. She collapsed to the floor, taking huge noisy gulps of air; she buried her face in her trembling hands, and as soon as she could breathe again, started to weep uncontrollably, shoulders heaving, shivering all over, as if she were crouching naked in a snowdrift, not on the floor of a warm basement.

She tried to say "No," but the word wouldn't come.

She felt a hand in the middle of her back, light and tentative, and heard a voice like Mr. Page's but without the hard edge.

"Julia!" said the voice. "Julia! It's over."

There was a blanket over her - where had it come from? - and now the hand was stroking her back and the voice was saying, "It's over Julia. It's done."

Conscious thought returned to her slowly, along with control of her body. Panic gave way to simple fear, and finally the safeword came to her, and she whispered, "Red!"

"I know, Julia. I know," said Mr. Page.

"I'm sorry," she wept. "I won't be late anymore."

"I know that, Julia," he said.

When she was able, he let her dress. He took her up to the kitchen and made her tea, and when she was settled at the kitchen table he went and got the contract. She watched as he took out his gold fountain pen, crossed out "flogging" in the soft limits section, and added it to the "hard limits" section.

He initialed both places in the margin, and passed her the contract and the pen. She initialed with a hand now only a little shaky.

Mr. Page said, "Did you have any inkling that you'd react like that to the sight of a whip?"

"No, Sir," she said. "Only, I guess I don't handle pain very well. I almost fainted today when they were waxing me."

"Would you rather not do the waxing again?"

"I don't know," she said. "I'll think about it, Sir."

"This is why I have to ask you how you feel now and then," he said. "I have no wish to torture you. In fact, we don't have to go on with our arrangement at all, if you'd rather not. Tell me: do you want to go on?"

Julia stared into her mug, at the steaming tea. She was silent for a minute, gathering her thoughts while Mr. Page waited patiently.

At last she said, "The things you did to me last night and this morning, Sir - was I supposed to dislike them?"

He said, "If I judged you correctly, and you're truly a submissive, not just a girl in need of money, you should have felt a certain amount of dislike, but a great deal more pleasure."

"Do you think you can be happy without . . . without whipping me, Sir?"

"For me," he said, "this is all about control. It's a head game, and the activities themselves don't matter all that much. Other dominants feel differently. But we could lock up my dungeon and never go there, and I'd be perfectly happy."

"I liked the cuffs, Sir. I might like the cross and the other things, if they can be used for something besides whipping."

"They have many uses," he said with a chilly smile that made her shiver - but pleasantly this time.

"What's for dinner, Sir?" asked Julia with a smile.

As it happened, he had several containers of Chinese food in his refrigerator: they heated it up and sat in the kitchen.

"Tell me about your writing," said Mr. Page.

"I've mostly written like these high school romances, Sir," she said. "My ex-boyfriend thought they were trivial, and maybe he was right. I was following that advice to write about what you know."

"Do you think that's good advice?" asked Mr. Page. "After all, most detective novelists haven't been detectives, and damned few science fiction writers have been to Tau Ceti. Chaucer wrote some of the greatest love stories ever told, but he insisted he was incapable of love."

"Maybe you're right, Sir," said Julia. "I've been getting bored with my stories anyway, even though my teachers like them. Maybe it's time to move on. I'm not sure where I'm going to find inspiration, though."

"Books, newspapers, life," said Mr. Page, "there's inspiration all around you. What do you like to read?"

They talked about books far into the night. Mr. Page had never tried his hand at writing, but he was an enthusiastic reader. Despite his dry manner, talking to him was exciting and encouraging: he made her feel she really was capable of writing a new kind of story. He made her promise to email him some of her work.

At around midnight Mr. Page said, "It's time for bed, Julia."

She hoped he would take her to his room and have her there. She wanted him to tie her up and fuck her. But once again he sent Julia to the room across the hall from his, and again she was disappointed: he seemed to have forgotten his promise that she'd be the main course at dinner.