The Juliette Society (12 page)

He takes his cock in his hands, guides it towards my pussy, towards the hole, where the wetness gathers. He pushes into it, just enough to wet the tip. Pulls out and slides the head up the pussy, making me slick with my own juices.

He pushes into me again, just enough to bury the tip. And holds it there. Not in, not out. Just waiting. Teasing.

And my finger probes around the hole, scooping up my juice and spreading it up towards my clit, wetting it, brushing it, feeling it throb.

He pushes into me.

I push a finger into me. And moan.

His cock stretches my hole. And I feel my pussy close around the head.

Two fingers now.

And he slides his length in slowly. Teasing. He slides in all the way until he’s pressing against my pelvis. I can feel him hard, pressing against my wall. And he holds it there. Teasing.

I’m up to the joint now, and moving towards the knuckle, sinking my fingers as deep as they will go. My fingers are slick with juice, thick and sticky, and white as snow.

He shifts his weight, rotates his hips slightly, like he’s piloting a ship, inching the wheel around so the rudder shifts. And I can feel his cock move inside me, brushing ever so slightly against the soft fleshy wall.

And suddenly I can feel that I’m about to come. I can feel a surge building up inside me and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to. I want to be overwhelmed. I can feel him inside me and I want to come.

I’m going to come.

And as I come, I call out his name. Because I want him to hear, even though he’s not there.

Jack. I’m going to come.

Jack, I’m coming.

I’m coming, Jack.

Jack…

And I judder and buck as the orgasm shocks through me. My pussy tightens its grip on my fingers and I can feel the sheets, wet underneath me. But I’m not finished yet. I’m not satisfied.

My pussy is like a cat that’s hungry all the time. A cat that doesn’t know when to stop eating. My pussy is hungry all the time. And I can’t stop myself from feeding it. So another scenario.

This time, Jack comes home, still roiling with anger. And I just want this to end, I want this to be over.

Now.

So I wade in, I give him an excuse and let the waves crash over me. And when it’s over we both feel cleansed, we both feel raw and emotional and connected again. We both want to fuck.

Because there’s nothing like make-up sex to fill the void and heal the wounds. Rough, angry and frantic, like it’s the first time you ever fucked. And might be the last.

Not in the bed, anywhere but the bed. Maybe up against the wall. Me facing the wall, hands above my head like I’m holding it up, trying to stop it from falling on top of us, my skirt bunched up over my ass, my panties around my knees, standing on my tiptoes. Jack slamming into me from behind. And all I can think is, Fuck me harder.

And he must have heard me, because he does. I raise myself up higher on my toes so he can hit me deeper, and it feels so good that my legs almost buckle underneath me.

I’m bent over the coffee table and Jack’s fucking me from behind again. Not doggy style, but froggy style, resting on his haunches, with his hands pressing against my lower back to support himself, fucking me deep and hard. And it feels as if his cock is going to bore through my pussy, right into the table, like a human drilldo. And we’ll be stuck there. Screwing and screwed to the table.

We’re fucking on the kitchen counter. My knees are hooked over Jack’s shoulders. And he’s standing on tiptoes now so he can get just the right angle. I’m sliding back and forth on the counter as he thrusts into me and I’m afraid I’m going to fall off. I sweep my hands behind me for something to grab onto. My hands find the wall, they find the spice rack attached to it, and I think, that’ll do. But it cracks off almost immediately and comes away in my hands and the spices spill all over the counter. Jack’s fucking me and my ass is being rubbed in cumin, ginger, garlic, salt and pepper. I’m marinating in my own juices and my ass is ready to be cooked, but I come multiple times before he’s ready to leave his yeast in my oven. And as I come, my asshole puckers and snorts a pinch of chili. The pain is excruciating. My asshole is burning and my pussy’s on fire. And the flames consume my body and lick at my brain. We’re both burning up in the heat of our love.

I’m lying on the hard floor, on my back, and my arms and legs are wrapped around his, like a baby monkey clinging to the underneath of its parent. And Jack’s pounding into me so hard that I want to scream, but instead I dig my nails deep into his back and draw them all the way up until I reach his shoulders. I feel like I might have drawn blood and he must be into it because he slams into me with thrusts that are even more powerful. And by the time we both come, we’ve moved the length of the entire hallway, from the front door all the way to the bathroom, and I have friction burns all along my back.

I fast forward through all these scenarios in my head, as if I’m flicking through hotel porn channels, trying to get off on the previews alone. And I switch back and forth between them while I frig myself into a stupor. I stuff myself until my fingers ache and my pussy’s sore. Until I can’t take any more pleasure. Until I feel broken.

I’m lying there, sprawled on the bed, all tangled up in soaking wet sheets, my body exhausted, my mind floating somewhere between half-sleep and unconsciousness. And I remember that, last night, I had the strangest dream. At least, I think it was a dream. But I can’t be sure and have no way of knowing. All I have is the memory, the sensation of knowing.

I remember that just before I fell asleep, I heard a drum. The beat of a big bass drum; slow, insistent, reverberating like the sound of the ocean. I hear it far away, then closer, and closer, until it’s on top of me, moving across my body, from my feet up to my head.

Vibrations pass through me in waves, leaving in their wake a warm, tingling feeling. In my fingers and my toes, along my arms and legs, whirling around my belly.

And then the drum is inside me, a steady throb at my crotch, a pounding in my head that gets louder and louder and louder, until a galaxy of stars explodes in front of my eyes. And I’m flying through them, spinning like a gyroscope, jerking in one direction then another. Or they’re flying through me, because I’m fixed to the spot. I can’t move. I’m inside my body and out of it at the same time. I am a galaxy of stars.

Then everything goes black. Pitch black. Like someone turned the lights out on the universe. I am in a space with no beginning and no end. No light. No sound. I am numb. I am immobile.

And I can feel someone tugging at my pajamas. I don’t struggle, I don’t feel afraid. I let them fall away from my body.

I am being carried, naked, in the arms of a man. Being carried like a baby in arms so large they seem to wrap themselves around me completely. Arms so hairy it feels like I’m swaddled in a coat of feathers. In these arms, I am pitching and rolling like a boat on the ocean, but I feel safe – safer than I’ve ever felt before – and warm.

And the warmth, I realize is not the warmth of the hair on his arms, not the warmth of feeling safe and secure, but the warmth of the sun. A brilliant, late afternoon sun, still burning bright, and bearing down on me. A white light, blinding me. A white heat, enveloping me.

And I can feel the steady throb at my crotch again, but my head is clear. Absolutely clear and alert and aware. I can hear voices all around me. Voices taunting and mocking me. And I suddenly feel utterly exposed and ashamed of my nakedness. I desperately want to cover myself and disappear. But there’s nothing at hand, nothing except the sun. So I grab it and wrap it around me like a towel. Everything goes black again and I shiver.

I woke up with a start from the dream and Jack wasn’t there and I felt terribly sad and alone and anxious. And I touched myself.

Jack doesn’t come home until near midnight. I’m sure it’s just to spite me. I run to greet him when I hear the door open. I try to throw my arms around him but he brushes me off.

‘Catherine, we need to talk,’ he says, impassively.

A wave of dread washes over me. He’s still angry and I don’t know what’s coming next.

He walks into the living room and sits over on one end of the couch, leaning forward with his hands clasped in front of him. I sit at the other end, like a child waiting to be scolded.

‘I think we should take some time off,’ he says.

He won’t even look me in the eye.

I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. Like my world’s collapsed around me.

I don’t understand, I say, and I can hear my voice crumbling. ‘Why?’

‘You’ve been acting weirdly,’ he says.

‘What do you mean?’ I say.

‘You know what I mean,’ he says.

I really don’t know what he’s talking about. I’m starting to panic because he’s cut me off cold and I know there’s no way to get through to him.

‘What did I do?’

‘If you don’t know, there’s nothing more I can say,’ he says.

‘Please, Jack. Don’t be like this,’ I say.

Tears are welling up in my eyes but I’m trying to keep it together.

‘Can’t we just talk about it? What have I done wrong?’

‘I’m going to be away a lot for the next few weeks,’ he says. ‘It’s a good time to put a little distance between us.’

And he says it because he’s already made up his mind and doesn’t want to give me an opportunity to reason with him.

‘Jack, please…’

I’m crying now and pleading with him through my tears.

He doesn’t move.

‘I’m going away tomorrow,’ he says.

It’s the first I’ve heard of it.

For how long, I sob.

‘A few days,’ he says.

That’s all he’s going to tell me.

‘We’re not splitting up,’ he says. ‘I just need some space.’

‘OK… ’ I mumble. I don’t like it but I don’t have a choice. And I don’t want to push him and make things worse than they already are.

‘I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight,’ he says.

I don’t want to sleep alone but I know there’s no way to persuade him not to.

I cry myself to sleep and, when I wake up, Jack’s gone.

And the apartment feels so empty without him.

12

If you’ve never heard of the Fuck Factory, you probably wouldn’t know that it, or even a place like it, existed.

And even if you’ve already guessed from the name what kind of place it is – which, let’s face it, probably isn’t too hard – you likely wouldn’t have any idea what goes on inside.

Not in your wildest imagination.

If you never knew it existed, you had no idea what went on there, you’re probably better off not knowing. But you got this far so, what the hell, I’m going to tell you anyway.

It’s a sex club. The most notorious underground sex club of its time.

If, by some slim chance, you have heard of the Fuck Factory and wanted to go, but don’t know where it is, don’t try looking for it because you will never ever find it.

Anna and I are standing outside an abandoned, half-demolished warehouse in a section of the city that I’ve never been to before. That I had no reason to ever come to. That no one has any reason to come to.

Even the cab driver who brought us here had no idea where he was going and drove around in circles for twenty minutes trying to find exactly the right derelict warehouse, when there’s nothing else but warehouses, rows and rows of them. For some reason, the streets around here don’t have names. No streets or avenues, no North, West, East or South. Just a string of numbers, like the girls on Anna’s website.

But we’re here now. The moon is hanging low in the sky, there’s a chill in the air that’s pretty unusual for this time of year and I’m freezing my ass off in a denim shirt, knotted in the front across my midriff, Daisy Dukes that are riding so far up the crack of my ass I might as well be wearing chaps, bare legs and stiletto heels that make it next to impossible to maintain a steady footing on the rubble under my feet. I’m standing on a street corner, looking like a hooker, and feeling pretty damn exposed.

Jack and I are on hiatus. To me, that just sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘we’re breaking up.’ But it’s worse. It hurts like a break-up but without the closure.

Anna calls and asks if I want to come with her to the Fuck Factory and there’s no one to stop me. What does Jack expect me to do? Sit at home and feel sorry for myself? That’s not me.

The Fuck Factory is Anna’s favorite club. The only place where she says she really feels at home, at peace and among her own kind. She says she wants to take me there so that I’ll understand her a little better and why she does the things she does.

Tonight, it’s Black and Blue Night, which Anna had to assure me three or four times wasn’t the way our bodies would look by the time we walked out of there.

She told me, ‘It’s a dress code, silly.’

Leather and denim. And strictly nothing else. No cotton, no rayon, no polyester or spandex.

But I cheated.

I put on a bra and panties underneath the denim.

And Anna doesn’t know. Or if she does, she’s not letting on.