Julia on Loan

This novella, like several of my other stories ("Julia and Mr. Page," "Slave Girl Emily," "Pipit," and "Kitten and the Wolf," to put them in chronological order) is set in a fictional circle of BDSM practitioners in New York. It is

not

necessary to read the other stories to enjoy this one, which is designed to stand on its own. If you like this and decide to read more, you should probably start with "Julia and Mr. Page."

Length:

21,863 words.

Tags:

Obedience, Objectification, Whipping, Group sex, Anal sex, Straight sex, Lesbian sex, Oral sex, Toys, Mature.

*****

1. In the lobby

"There's Arthur Page and his trophy wife," sniffed Mrs. Woodruff to her husband as Julia entered the theater lobby on Mr. Page's arm. "She's the daughter of that hedge fund operator Lindstrom. You remember - it was quite the scandal about three years ago when they found out his fund was a Ponzi scheme à la Madoff, and he committed suicide. He left her broke, desperate, and an orphan, just twenty-one years old. Page scraped her out of the gutter and married her."

"No need to ask what he saw in her," observed Mr. Woodruff, who fancied himself a connoisseur of willowy young blondes.

"Or what she saw in him," said Mrs. Woodruff. "They say he's worth a hundred million."

"So I've heard," said Mr. Woodruff, carefully concealing his envy of Mr. Page from his wife. "Something of an aging playboy."

"Aging and ailing," said Mrs. Woodruff. "She can look forward to a big payoff when he dies."

His envy abating somewhat, Mr. Page said, "That explains her smile."

He was wrong about that. The correct explanation of Julia's smile - and Mr. Page's too, for that matter - was that they'd just spotted the friend they'd arranged to meet here.

The Woodruffs were wrong about a good bit else, too. In the first place, Julia wasn't looking forward to Mr. Page's death. On the contrary, his dying was the thing she feared most in the world, though she worried about it less now than she had when their relationship was new. Then, his leukemia had been accelerating; now, with careful management and a change of medication, it was under control and his symptoms were mild.

But "under control" and "cured" were very different things. She imagined the disease as a lion crouching in the brush, waiting for its moment to pounce. When it did, she'd be devastated, because - and here was another subject on which the Woodruffs were way off the mark - she loved Mr. Page with a passion so profound that she could scarcely fathom it herself. Sometimes, when she looked at her husband, she felt herself growing faint, heartbeat slowing, blood pressure dropping, her soul dimming within her, and she wanted her personhood to disappear, entirely subsumed in his, so that she could become a thing he owned, like his house or furniture.

Julia knew Mr. Page loved her as much as she loved him, but his love was different from hers, as two interlocking puzzle pieces are different. She wanted to be possessed, he to possess; she wanted to be his thing, and his pleasure was to treat her like a thing. Here the Woodruffs were at least somewhere in the neighborhood of correct about the Pages: she was his fuck-toy. But that respectable if somewhat catty couple would have been surprised, and probably shocked, too, to learn what Julia's being a fuck-toy meant to the two of them, and how Mr. Page played with his toy.

At this moment Julia was kissing Mistress Ai's cheek and glancing curiously at the young woman standing beside her, whom she had never met. All of them were making a show of being more or less conventional people. If Julia absolutely had to call Mr. Page by name while in public, she would call him "Arthur" - a thing she'd never presume to do at home - and Mr. Page would refrain from referring to her as "slut" or "slag." They would not talk in public about their private games. But after they'd watched the play, Mr. Page would say to Mistress, "Why not come back to our place for coffee, Ai?" Or maybe she'd invite them to her place. And when they got there, well, something interesting would happen.

The last time they'd been out with friends, it had been with two men of Mr. Page's generation - college pals, in fact. One was a man she didn't know well named Daniel, beside whose vast wealth Mr. Page's fortune was a child's piggy bank savings. The other was a heavy, coarse investment banker named Teddy, whom she'd met all too often. They'd gone to Masa, where she'd sat silent for the whole meal, stunned by the amount of money they were spending and nervous about what would come after.

As she'd known he would, Mr. Page had invited both men home after their dinner. No sooner had he closed the front door behind them than Mr. Page had seized Julia by the throat and shoved her up against a wall of the foyer. Pushing his scowling face within an inch of hers, he snarled, "What are you? Tell us what you are!"

Wide-eyed, she whispered, "A cunt, Sir."

"Louder. My friends can't hear you."

She forced herself to say "A cunt, Sir!" in a loud, clear voice as Daniel looked on with interest and Teddy leered obscenely.

"Not just any cunt," Mr. Page said, holding her tighter and lifting so she had to stand on tiptoe.

"I'm Mr. Page's cunt," she whined in a strangled voice.

Within seconds, he'd torn her dress off. He plunged his fingers into her and, fucking her with his hand, said, "What are you good for, cunt?"

"Being fucked, Sir." It was what he always wanted her to say.

He took his fingers out of her and, whipping off his belt for a makeshift collar and leash, hauled her into the elegant living room, where he threw her down onto the oriental carpet among the Federal period antiques. They all took her there - a brutal, impersonal fuck that you'd call a gang rape if you didn't know the men were meeting Julia's needs as much as she was satisfying their appetites.

You see, just as some people are into pain, others into humiliation, and still others into excreta and other kinks, Julia was into objectification. She was never more alive and aroused than when her sexual partners treated her like an insentient thing designed only to give them physical pleasure. She needed to believe that they cared nothing at all about her, and as they exploited her passive body, she wanted no shows of affection or kindness or respect to break the illusion that she wasn't there for them as a human being entitled to be treated with human dignity.

Don't make the mistake of thinking she enjoyed this gangbang - she didn't, at least not in the ordinary sense of the word "enjoy." She was fastidious: she found both the male and the female genitalia distasteful, and she didn't like getting her hair and makeup mussed. What she did enjoy - this was the flip side of her kink - was obeying Mr. Page, and if what he demanded of her was difficult, so much the better. That Daniel was a near-stranger and Teddy repugnant made obedience that much sweeter. She was Mr. Page's thing, and when it was time for them to play, his pleasure always became her urgent need. On this night, his pleasure was to share her body with a couple of old friends - and so she needed them to fuck her.

That's what they did, Mr. Page and Daniel and the vile Teddy: they took turns fucking her mouth, pussy, and ass, sometimes all three at once, and after a half hour of this they one by one jerked off into her open mouth, and she choked down their semen. Afterwards they left her to lie on the rug, an abandoned toy, curled up and whimpering, belt still loose around her graceful neck, while they poured themselves drinks and chatted about business, politics, and sports over her naked body.

After Mr. Page had seen Daniel and Teddy out, he came to her, seized a forelock to lift her face to his, and growled, "Fucking slut."

This was her moment, the best moment, when she was a thing for him alone. Impossibly aroused, she wept, "I love you, Mr. Page."

"I know that," he snapped. He unzipped his pants and pulled himself out; then, taking his wife's head in his hands, he turned her face downwards and pushed her into his lap with greater force and ferocity than he ever allowed his friends to use with her. This was one of the games they reserved for themselves, a face-fuck so extreme they were flirting with the loss of a seven-hundred-dollar dinner despite Julia's expertise as a cocksucker, cultivated over three years. She choked and drooled and made a mess of his pants, and by the time he'd come deep inside her, it was unbearable, how her body was ablaze with desire.

He raised her face to his with two hands, kissed her, and told her he loved her. He swung her round so her head was on the carpet and her bottom in his lap, grasped her thighs, raised her pussy to his lips, and brought her to orgasm with his mouth. Deep in subspace, she rested in his arms till bedtime.

Julia was as sure of Mr. Page's love as she was of anything in the world. Mr. and Mrs. Woodruff were ill-equipped to understand such a love, which was founded, to be sure, on Mr. Page's lust for Julia's lithe, youthful body and her blond good looks, but also on some indefinable thing in her that filled him with a far greater and more savage joy, when she became his fuck-toy and complied with his demands, than he'd ever felt in the company of any other woman.

The Woodruffs would have found it even more incomprehensible that Mr. Page's respect for his wife was as great as his lust and his need to dominate her. He loved her wit and her intelligence, and he believed fiercely that there was greatness in her. She was a writer, and a dedicated one, though as yet unpublished.

When Mr. Page hurled her to the floor or bound her in some obscene posture and took his pleasure with her body or shared her with his friends as he would an after-dinner port, he had no wish to subdue or crush her. In fact, he saw her as a free spirit, considered it his mission in life to nurture that spirit of freedom in her, and believed, as she did, that their play - even sex with Teddy, which she hated - liberated her and deepened both her emotional and intellectual responses.

A city council member reputed to have mob ties drew the Woodruffs' jaundiced eyes away from the Pages just as Mistress Ai was saying, "Arthur and Julia, this is my friend Emily Burnham."

Julia sized Emily up quickly and decided she didn't like her. She was about the same height as Julia and more generously proportioned, with lively green eyes and a sunny smile. She was, indeed, altogether too pretty to suit Julia, who was more than a little vain and competitive, at least with women she judged to be like herself in age and status.

And then, Julia and Emily had very different ideas about personal presentation. Emily's hair was dyed black with a purple streak, and she was made up to be pale, with dark eyes and dark red lipstick. She had a silver ring in her right nostril and wore black pants, a black and purple top, and black boots with purple laces. Where Julia carefully cultivated a natural, untended look, Emily flaunted her artificiality.

Even worse, Mistress Ai had introduced Emily as a "friend," a word that, to Julia's way of thinking, conveyed that Emily was much more than a slave or sub to her. Mistress Ai had never, in almost three years of acquaintance, introduced Julia as a friend, but always as "Arthur's sub."

Finally, and perhaps worst of all, Emily compounded the sin of being Mistress Ai's friend by losing interest in Julia after a desultory greeting.

And so Julia's first reactions to Emily were envy, jealousy, and wounded pride. She concealed her hostility until Mr. Page and Mistress Ai were deep in conversation, then stepped closer to her and said, "I thought I'd met all Mistress Ai's slaves."

Emily was startled. She'd been lost in her own thoughts and paying little attention to Julia. You could hardly blame her for some deficiency in sociability, for her life was rather a mess at the moment, and she spent much of her free time brooding about the complexities of her situation. Little more than a week ago, she'd gone through a cataclysmic breakup with her master, and together with her friend, lover and slave Amanda, had moved in with the billionaire Daniel and his wife Karen, a grand lady with a toilet kink. Soon after that move, Emily had been approached by Frederick Sullivan, another master from her past, who swore he loved her and wanted her back. He was gorgeous, and masterful, and so sexy, but she wasn't sure she could trust him.

She'd had dinner with him a few days ago, with Karen and Daniel as chaperones, and he'd seemed genuine enough. She hadn't played with him, though: she'd believed, no doubt correctly, that she'd be unable to make a rational decision about him if she did. It was hard enough to think clearly with memories crowding in of the way he used to tie her in some painful pose, whip her for some minor infraction, but really just because he wanted to, and finally fuck her silly. Thinking about it made her wet.

Emily looked at Julia and smiled. She was quick to take a liking to people, and she saw no reason not to like Julia, who seemed brittle somehow, but very pretty and with a sweet smile. She said, "Oh, I'm not Mistress Ai's slave, just a friend. I am a slave, though - sometimes."

Some predatory instinct in Julia saw an opening in that. "Not right now?" she asked.

"I guess you could say I'm between masters," Emily replied, still smiling.

"It must be frustrating," said Julia. "Good dominants can be hard to find. A lot of would-be subs never manage to impress a dominant who's the real thing."

Emily looked at Julia warily: perhaps this girl wasn't as sweet and harmless as she'd thought. "I have one or two possibilities I'm thinking about," she said.

"Maybe a change of style would help," said Julia. "Emo seems kind of . . . I don't know, yesterday."

Emily flushed with anger and searched for something to say, but she was often maddeningly tongue-tied when she most needed a clever response. Meanwhile Julia, by way of twisting the knife, said, "I'd be glad to help you with that. I love doing makeovers."

Then the words Emily wanted popped into her head. "If I decide to go for the dumb blond look, I'll get in touch."

The lights blinked, Mistress Ai and Mr. Page turned towards them, and they had to behave.

They entered the theater together, Mr. Page and Mistress leading the way followed by a fuming Julia and a smiling Emily.

2. After the play

The play was about a woman who abandons her family to go on a cross-country trip. It was funny and sad, and it left Julia in a fragile mood. She didn't want to be an abandoned toy tonight: she wanted to go home, cuddle with Mr. Page, and talk about the play.

But Mistress Ai said, "Why don't we go to my place for refreshments and play? My slaves have been too idle: they'll be glad for something to do."

Mr. Page agreed, of course: Julia had never known him to turn down an invitation from Mistress Ai. One may well wonder what Mr. and Mrs. Woodruff would have thought of the scene that ensued within the hour, in Mistress Ai's playroom, as Julia lay at the others' feet, wrists and ankles tethered with soft ropes to rings inset in the floor. She was naked except for a harness that consisted of a leather belt and, attached to it, two straps holding in place a wand vibrator which rested lightly against her pussy, so close to her clitoris that the slightest movement would make the vibrator bump her there, and she'd scream with the sudden stimulation. Julia whined and struggled not to squirm as Mr. Page looked on with pleasure. This was his work: the vision had come to him during the taxi ride from the theater, and he had stripped and tied Julia minutes after they'd arrived.

Meanwhile, the others were discussing how they should proceed with their play. Three of Mistress's slaves, two men and a woman, squatted by a wall, looking on with interest and ready to serve if required.

"There are so many of us," said Mistress Ai, "we almost make a play party. Emily, you're our switch: what role would you like tonight?

With a tight little smile whose precise meaning was lost on everyone but an anxious and overstimulated Julia, Emily said, "If it's all right with Arthur, I think I'd like to top with Julia. We've only known each other a few hours, but I feel like we're already becoming good friends."

Julia now regretted the way she'd needled Emily. She didn't have to let this happen, of course, but it would be awkward to say no: she'd probably have to own up to her bad behavior in the theater and risk punishment. Whipping was one of her hard limits: Mr. Page would never do that. But he'd been known to confine her in a cage, restrict her diet to bread and water, or make her sleep alone. These punishments were unpleasant, and so, all in all, she thought it best (though thinking was hard with a vibrator buzzing between her legs) to put up with whatever Emily had in mind. The bitch! She must have known perfectly well that Julia wouldn't be in a position to refuse.

Emily studied Julia with amusement as Mr. Page recited her limits. When he was finished, she unsnapped her pants. Holding Julia's eye, she undressed. She liked undressing, being naked, and being looked at, and despite everything, she liked Julia, who looked magnificent spreadeagled at her feet, a slender Viking goddess trying so hard not to squirm, but unable to hold still. Oh, Emily had been there herself - she could sympathize.

As her arousal mounted, Julia was having trouble keeping Emily in focus, but she could make out a colorful rose vine, complete with thorns, that crept around from her back above her waist and up between her breasts; another climbed over her right shoulder and dangled above her right breast. She had a ring in her left nipple and one in her clitoral hood. Julia liked body modifications, but Mr. Page didn't; that's why she didn't have any of her own. She envied Emily's tattoos and piercings.

Emily said, "I'm so looking forward to getting to know you better, Julia." She stepped over her head, parted her bare labia with black-nailed fingers, and sat down, completely covering Julia's pert nose and pink mouth with her pussy and ass. She wriggled to settle herself more firmly and rested much of her weight on Julia's face.

Emily was not the first person ever to do this to Julia - it was one of Mistress Ai's favorite things. Anuses didn't bother her a lot either: she'd often rimmed Mr. Page and his friends. She didn't like the acts themselves - the slipperiness, the smell, the closeness and heat between the cheeks of an ass - but she loved Mr. Page making her do them, or having the acts forced from her when restrained, as she was now.

But this felt different. She could sense hostility radiating from Emily as she rocked heavily on her face, stimulating herself. And that wasn't all. Emily had skillfully positioned herself so that her pussy covered Julia's nose, and her anus was tight against her mouth. Julia could draw a little air as Emily moved, but not nearly enough. This was revenge sex, to be sure: she tried to turn her head, but Emily reached down to hold her in place and punished her for struggling by pulling her hair hard. Meanwhile, the vibrator was splintering the world around her, and she couldn't form a coherent thought.

Emily wasn't really feeling hostile, though: she was capable of anger, but it tended to die away quickly, like a match that flares and burns out. She was having fun. The sensations of Julia's lips on her anus and her nose pressing against her clitoris were divine: she often did this to Amanda, and neither of them ever got tired of it. Emily had sometimes bottomed with Mistress Ai just this way, and she loved it - the loss of control, the vague sense of being punished for something you couldn't remember doing . . . she was sure Julia would like it too.