THE JULIETTE SOCIETY 3 page

A brothel.

He even gives her the address. And so she visits the brothel and she’s given a new name, to disguise her identity. Something that sounds exotic. Not Séverine. Something that will entice the clients.

Belle de jour .

A cute French phrase that sounds like nonsense in English any way you cut it, which is probably why no one bothered to translate the title of the movie for the foreign market.

Belle de jour .

Literally, beauty of the day. Or, today’s beauty.

Makes me think, ‘today’s special’.

Maybe that’s how Buñuel meant it too. The woman who has everything and wants for nothing, reduced to the dish of the day on the menu in a whorehouse. Buñuel’s little joke. His little humiliation. She’s always dish of the day, every single day. The special that never ever changes, that’s not really special at all.

The only thing special about her is her beauty which, although divine and transcendent, is ultimately worthless, because the only purpose it serves is to ease her passage into whoredom, to cheapen her.

She’s liver and mashed potatoes. Every single day.

And pretty soon, in that brothel, marked‑down and cheapened, Séverine submits to her desires, every single one of them; her dreams now superimposed on reality. And pretty soon, her dreams supersede her reality.

And that’s where I come in.

I’m sitting in the theater watching the movie, and I recognize myself.

I have no ambition to be a whore. Not even in secret. That’s not what I meant.

What I mean is that I recognize something inside Séverine, as unlikely as it seems, that’s also inside me; as far apart as we are in background, temperament and character, there is something that connects us.

I’m not a prude. And I’m not a masochist – at least, I don’t think I am – but Séverine’s fantasies touch a nerve. Her reality, less so.

I’m sitting in the theater and my imagination takes over. I’m watching the movie and filling in the gaps. And pretty soon I’ve lost track of where the film ends and my fantasies begin.

When the movie’s over and I emerge from the dark into the mid‑afternoon sun, I feel like I’m walking a high‑wire. Teetering on the edge of a precipice, struggling to maintain my balance. I’m shaking inside. I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’m so confused. I can’t work out whether I’ve been overcome by delirium or have given in to mania. I only know that I don’t want the fantasy to stop. I’ve never imagined myself being pleasured in this way, and now that I have, I want more.

I walk home in a trance, navigating on autopilot, running the scenes back in my mind. I forget where I am and I realize I’m back in the movie.

I’m underneath the sweeping branches of a pine, held there against my will by the man I adore. Restrained, beaten and brutalized on his order by two savage men, while he watches, indifferent to my suffering.

My hands are hitched together with coarse rope and hauled so high above my head that the muscles in my arms stretch and burn. My feet claw at the ground as it swings beneath me. My dress has been ripped at the seams and sags from my waist like a wilted petal. My bra hangs loose from my shoulders, the underwire clipping against the nipples and hardening them.

Leather whips bear down upon my back, biting into the flesh, one and then another in quick succession, beating out a vicious rhythm that holds me in its thrall. I hear the crack of the lash, and then… the sting. The crack. And then the sting. As inevitably as lightning follows thunder, so pleasure follows pain. The intensity ratchets up and up and up with every stroke, until both, the pleasure and the pain, are all too much to bear. Adrenaline courses through my body.

I turn a corner.

I’m not even halfway home and I’m horny as hell.

I turn another corner and I’m back in the movie, now in the brothel, preparing to be inculcated into the pleasures of criminal desire by a ruffian with a cane and gold teeth who carries himself with a rough, primal swagger.

If clothes make the man, then this man is a study in contradictions. He has fashionable patent leather Chelsea boots worn down to a dull luster and socks that are threadbare, with large, ragged holes where the heels once were. A metal signet ring inset with a huge, finely cut diamond. And those gold teeth that gleam when he bares them and push his top lip up into a sneer. His hair, his leather overcoat, his trousers, his shoes, all black as night. Everything else, mismatched and fanciful. A purple waistcoat and a loud and lurid patterned tie.

When he takes off his shirt – a white shirt, the only thing pure and uncomplicated about him – there is a lean, hairless torso, as delicately contoured as a marble statue. Skin that’s pale and unblemished; until he turns around.

On his back is a large scar that curves underneath the shoulder blade; a ridged crescent of damaged tissue, even paler than the rest of his skin, although that doesn’t seem possible; an intimation of terrible violence.

He looks at me with an affected aristocratic aloofness. I look at him and I think of Marcus; but younger and rougher and more disheveled; dangerous and unpredictable where Marcus is soft and diffident. I look at him and I think of how I want Marcus to be, of how I want him to treat me.

With disdain.

I start to take off my underwear. He looks me hard in the eyes and says, ‘Leave your stockings on.’

An order, not a request. He unzips his trousers, still looking at me, and adds, ‘A girl tried to strangle me once.’

I wonder if maybe this is a warning. I wonder if this is what he intends for me. A chill runs through me.

But it’s too late for second thoughts because he’s already taking off his underpants, which are white like his shirt and his naked torso.

I lie on the bed, on my front, and turn my head to look at him over my shoulder.

I think of Marcus and his cock, snaking along the leg of his too‑tight brown suit pants. And then I don’t have to wonder any more because it’s there, right in front of me, long and thin and majestic, curling upwards in a perfect curve; like a crescent moon at the end of its cycle, like the scar on his back and the blade of the dagger that made it. And he crawls up onto the bed, his long limbs craning over me, a spider closing in on the fly. He kicks my legs apart and lowers himself down between them. I can feel the swell of his cock resting against the crack of my ass. I can feel him raise himself up in a sawing motion.

His hand is flat against my neck, his fingers curving around it, the span between them so broad that he can almost reach all the way around. He squeezes slightly and the pressure feels so good. I wait for him to slide it down and hit all the pressure points on my neck and along my back. Instead, he tightens his grip and puts all his weight behind it, slamming my head down into the mattress.

I cry out, more in surprise than in pain.

I feel him pry open the cheeks of my ass with his one free hand and I prepare to cry out again, this time in pain more than in surprise. Because I know what’s coming. And it’s too late for second thoughts.

Then there’s a horn blaring in my ear. The squeal of brakes from a cab that’s come to a hard stop not six inches from my body, which is not two paces from the curb, where I’ve stepped off the sidewalk and into the street on a green light.

I’m shaking. Shocked out of my stupor. Thrown out of the screen and back to reality. And I do know the difference. I do know which is worse and which will cause more damage – being fucked up the ass by a thug, or fucked up the ass by a yellow cab.

I turn the key to the apartment, and the door’s not even halfway open before I call out,

‘Jack… Jack?’

He steps out into the hallway and I don’t say, ‘I love you. I missed you. How was your day?’

I say, ‘I want to fuck you so bad.’

And I’m on him in an instant and have him pinned up against the wall before he even knows what’s hit him. My mouth on his, kissing him hard and deep before he can say a word, before he can even catch a breath.

My hands are up inside his shirt and all over his chest. Running my nails down his torso. Pinching the nipples till he moans. And I don’t hear it, I feel it; the gasp of a low moan that escapes from his mouth into mine.

I’m a woman possessed. And all I can think about is holding his cock inside me and never letting go. I want to be controlled by his cock. I’ve never felt this way, I couldn’t be more certain, and I’ve never been this turned on.

I reach down and feel his crotch. And this is what I love about Jack. I never have to wait for him to get hard. Never have to waste time teasing a limp cock into action. As soon as I make a move, it’s always there, ready and waiting and willing, as if through auto‑suggestion, and so fucking hard.

I yank off his trousers and underwear in one frenzied motion. I have it in my hand now and I disengage my mouth from his, but only so I can look him in the eyes and say, ‘I want your cock. I want to fuck your cock with my mouth.’

And I’m not seeking his permission.

I’m not asking, I’m telling.

I’m not begging, I’m taking.

And he doesn’t have a choice.

I slide down his body, still holding him, only letting go to change my grip. I’m on my knees in front of him and I pull his penis down firmly, like a lever, so it’s at a perfect right angle with his body, and perfectly level with my mouth.

I sink the head into my mouth, ever so slowly; the whole head, closing my lips around it, tight. I withdraw and tease him with my tongue. Then take him into me again, a little deeper this time, advancing along the shaft. Then withdraw. Teasing.

And I tell him what he wants to hear.

I tell him, ‘Your hard cock feels so good in my tight little mouth. It tastes so good. It feels so fucking good, doesn’t it?’

And I don’t wait for an answer.

I push his cock up flat against his belly and hold it in place as I lick from the bottom of his balls, all around the sack, flicking his balls with my tongue, sucking one and then the other, then lapping along the shaft, like a brush stroking a canvas, until I get to the tip. And I lick it, and spit on it and pump it with my hand, looking him right in the eye. I can see that he’s overwhelmed and I know that he’s at my mercy.

I open my mouth, wide, so I can take him all the way, drawing in enough air to fill my lungs, as if I’m about to dive underwater, drawing his length into me slowly, curling my tongue around to cradle the head, stroking the underside of his cock as it slips inside. As I do, I can feel myself getting wet.

I hold him there until I feel him quiver, and then withdraw. He’s still connected to me by a thick pearly string of sputum that hangs between us and coats the tip of his cock like a snow‑capped mountain. I look at the spit that joins us and imagine my pussy opening like a flower and the sticky white juices adhering to the lips.

I come up gasping for air and pump my hand hard and fast along his shaft, sheathing it with a film of spit while I catch my breath, and I prepare to go under again.

I bob forward in rapid little movements, open my throat and spear myself on his cock, feeling his engorged fleshy head press against the back of my throat, his cock filling my mouth. I imagine it deep inside my hot wet pussy and I can feel that my panties are soaked all the way through.

I feel his hands slip through my hair and I wait for him to clasp the back of my skull, holding it steady as he thrusts – one short, sharp, final thrust – deeper into me. This is what I want to happen. This is what I imagine ahead of time.

I’ll hear him groan as he unloads into the back of my throat. And he’ll be at a loss for words.

Except, ‘fuck’.

And, ‘yeah’.

I’ll take hit after hit after hit, hot and thick and sugar‑sweet, sliding down my throat. And his come, it won’t stop. I’ll feel like I’m going to drown.

This is how I have it all planned out in my head. But that’s not what happens.

He slips his hands through my hair but he doesn’t push into me. He pushes me off him. It’s as if I’ve been woken abruptly. Jerked out of a dream.

I look up at him and say, ‘what’s wrong?’

I’m confused and hurt. I don’t try to hide it. He can hear it in my voice.

‘What’s wrong with me ? What’s wrong with you?’ he says.

Throwing it back in my face like that just makes it worse.

‘What’s gotten into you, Catherine?’

He only calls me Catherine when he’s really pissed.

Nothing’s gotten into me. Nothing that all. That’s the problem. Can’t he see how horny I am?

He’s made me feel stupid and cheap.

‘I’m working,’ he pleads. ‘I don’t have time for this now. Maybe later.’

And when he says that I know there won’t be a later. I know he’ll work late and keep me waiting.

And that’s exactly what happens. I’m in bed, ready and waiting and willing. And I can hear him outside but he doesn’t come in. And I’m left with only my hand for company, my fantasies for comfort, and all these strange images from the movie swirling around in my head.

I am tied to a tree that’s sheathed in ivy. My arms are bent back around the trunk and held in place by a thick coarse rope that’s crisscrossed over my body and binds me tight.

I’m in the middle of a wood but my head is filled with the sound of the ocean. It’s broad daylight. My body is bathed in the warmth of the sun. I hear only the sound of the crickets that sing in the night.

There is blood at my temple. But no wound. It has streamed down my cheek like a drip of paint, oily and thick. Like a tear that shows the color of pain.

And I don’t feel afraid because my lover is with me, standing in front of me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and I feel comforted. He caresses my body with his eyes and I feel desired. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t make a sound, but I am bathed in the warmth of his love. He kisses me tenderly, with lips so soft. He glances up at the blood, traces a finger through my pain and kisses me again. And his kisses are sweet, but that’s all.

This is what I’ve always wanted to know, pretty much since the first time I ever had sex:

Why do they call it ‘cum’?

What’s wrong with ‘come’? Isn’t that sexy enough?

Cum just sounds silly, cheap and disposable. It sounds like a brand name.

Spam, Tampax, Alpo and Cum.

Or a branded additive in another product.

Porn – now with added Cum.

If you ask me, cum is a perversion of the English language. One I just can’t abide. Call me curmudgeonly if you like, but it just doesn’t sound right.

While we’re on the subject, if you feel the need to splooge, jizz, spunk, nut or cream, do so by all means, but not in my face, or anywhere near, but if you’re going to skeet skeet or shoot your wad then I’m your girl.

And I’d rather have a cock than a prick any day. Wouldn’t you? I’m no size queen but prick just makes me think, ‘pin‑prick’ or a ‘just a little prick’ – which really doesn’t turn me on.

Boast all you like about your wang, your schlong, or your dong, just keep it right where it belongs. In your pants. Because it’s not coming anywhere near my pussy. And whenever I hear a guy talk about Dick, Willy, Johnson and Peter, it just makes me think of a bunch of dudes circle‑jerking in a men’s bathroom.

I don’t want a cock with a name. I want a man with a cock.

It doesn’t have to be big, but it definitely has to be hard and operated by someone with a license to drive. Because there’s no point in banging hard on the accelerator if you don’t know how to apply the brakes, turn the wheel or shift gears. And that gear stick? If you want to put it in my box, you better know how to use it.

You see, a penis is all well and good, but a cock feels so much dirtier and more poetic. Cock makes me think of a cockerel. And a cock struts and crows. You can cock your head, your arm or your bat. Or you might be the cock of the walk. And that all sounds like sex to me.

Don’t think I’m a prude, because I’m really not. And I don’t mean to be reductive or prescriptive because I guess everyone has their own personal preference if we’re talking sexual vocabulary. So let’s not argue over semantics. I’m just going to state this here for the record. For me, it’s ‘come’ over ‘cum’ all the way.

You’d think an educated young woman might have more profound things to spend her time thinking about than the most satisfying way to articulate ejaculate. I’m not so sure about that.

I mean, you can search all you want for the deeper meaning of existence, you can look for the physical proof of God. You can read as many books as you like on the subject, on any subject – books on religion, on science, on philosophy, on nature – but I guarantee you will never, ever find an answer that satisfies you. That really satisfies you, deep down, giving you a sense of well‑being that you finally know your place and purpose in the world.

Why?

Because the answer is already right there, in front of you.

Come.

You don’t believe me?

I’ll prove it to you.

Let’s start with a statement we can all agree on:

Sex is the engine of life.

Because without sex there is no life. And equally, without life there is no sex. They are inextricably linked, like the chicken and the egg. Likewise, sex without come is like a Big Mac without the special sauce. It’s the magical essence from which we all, well, come. Because every single thing that exists in this world needs to reproduce to survive. Even the common cold. Existence itself relies on the reproductive process.

From the birds to the bees, the flowers and the seeds, the same exact process is repeated over and over and over – from micro to macro. I don’t really need to say this. It’s all basic science and biology. But maybe it bears repeating, because I think we forget.

The Big Bang created a universal body made up of solar systems – giant wombs, incubators for the planets, which are cosmic eggs waiting to be fertilized with the seed of life, which is:

Come.

And that, in essence, is my sexual theory of life, the universe and everything. The only string theory I’ll ever need.

And for all you people that are more spiritually inclined, all I can say is, you weren’t paying enough attention in bible class, or reading the good book closely enough, because if there’s something that the Bible is not short of, it’s sex. You can barely turn a page without finding someone wondering when God will come, when Jesus is coming, when salvation cometh.

You say, don’t be silly.

I say, we’re taught to take the Bible literally, I’m doing exactly that.

If the Bible really was intended as a guide for life, why would the people who wrote it want to play semantic tricks with language and hide its meaning?

Isn’t the Bible meant to make people feel good about themselves?

What can make people feel better about themselves than sex?

Let’s take a random passage. Say, Luke 17:20–21. The Pharisees ask Jesus when the Kingdom of God is coming. And what does he tell them? He says, ‘the Kingdom of God is within’.

I’d say that’s pretty self‑explanatory. No real mystery there. I’d say he could only be talking about one thing.

Come.

And what is that if not a synonym for God.

Here’s another thing I’m going to state for the record:

I’m a true believer. I worship come.

But I’m a relatively new convert to the cause. I wasn’t always this way. In fact, precisely the opposite.

If I think of the word ‘cum’, and visualize it, it shouldn’t be any great surprise why even the thought of letting a guy ‘cum’ anywhere near me, or on me, used to be one huge turn off. It’s just not sexy at all. It doesn’t speak to me of the transcendent rapture experienced during the human orgasm, whether female or male. It sounds like what’s left over when a man’s done using you. Or the used rubber you drop in the trash afterwards. So, to me, ‘cum’ was always something dirty and obscene. It disgusted me. I didn’t want to see it, I didn’t want to feel it and I definitely didn’t want to taste it.

Right out of high school, I had a boyfriend who was constantly trying to finish on my face. That was his thing and he wanted it be my thing too, so he’d have an excuse to do it whenever he chose to. One second we’d be fucking, the next I knew he’d pull out and would be scrabbling up my body, trying to straddle my face, like a puppy trying to paw at a door and then pouncing into its owner’s arms when it’s been left alone for too long. Except, he was just a pathetic boy who’d watched way too much porn and didn’t have the slightest clue how to please a real live girl. I’d bat him away, like a puppy that won’t stop humping your leg, and the closest he ever got was my belly. But even that didn’t feel right. Not the texture, the temperature. It just didn’t make me feel good inside. Just the idea of it made me feel sick to my stomach.

After him, I dated a college football player. All‑star body and a face to match. But when the lights went out, so did our sex life. His personality was as non‑existent as his imagination in the sack. I always tried to climax before him, because once he did, it just killed the mood for me. When he reached orgasm he would whine like a little boy on the verge of crying. I always wondered if he was on steroids and never could tell if he had any real desire to fuck me or was just faking it.

Then something changed. You could say I had a revelation, whether through the call of love, or lust, or maybe a combination of both. But I remember it vividly, as if it happened this morning.

It was the eighth time Jack and I had sex. And it felt so special. Jack was really the first guy who even made me feel comfortable being naked around him. I was on top, riding him, we kissed passionately, and just as he was about to come, he looked me right in the eyes and asked… he actually asked me if he could come in my mouth.

I panicked at just the thought of it, but was so overwhelmed with this new love‑lust that all I could do, all I wanted to do, was smile and nod my approval and give my permission. He asked. I was in control. He cared to ask, and that alone made me want it.

From that time on, I lost all fear of the sticky substance associated with that dirty word. I was no longer even afraid of what it might taste like. I just wanted it. It turned me on. I loved it. I was fascinated by it. I craved it, just as I craved Jack’s tender arms wrapping themselves around me, his lips giving me soft, sweet kisses. Sex was just one big disappointment before I met Jack. I guess it was all down to finding the right person, the one who would open me up, show me the way and teach me how to find pleasure in sex.

You know that line by William Blake about ‘the world in a grain of sand’? Well, I can see the universe in a grain of Jack’s come. When I think of Jack’s come, I think of how it got there, how great the sex was and how I never wanted it to end. When I think of Jack’s come, he’s always with me and it’s like we’re never apart.

I like to feel his come. I like to feel it shoot into my mouth. I like when he shoots it into my hair and makes it thick and sticky and matted, the way you feel when you walk into a cobweb.

I like to tell him to come on my tits so I can smear it around in messy circles, the way a painter mixes paint on his palette. He is the paint. I am the painter and the canvas too. I like to paint with his come on my body so I can feel it dry, harden and contract, pinching the skin as it does. I like the way it flakes away in scales as I brush it. I like to hold a flake of his dried come on my finger and look at it the way you look at a snowflake, trying to discern the crystalline pattern of nature within.

I like to look down and see come gush from the head of his cock. First spurting in long, gloopy arcs of ever‑decreasing reach and volume. Then pouring slowly, inexorably, like foam from a can of beer that was shaken too much just before it was opened.

I like when it pools in my belly, drowning my belly button and spilling across my waist like cream soup spilling from a plate. When it rains down on the small of my back in big, thick drops, like hot rain, like hot milk, like hot lava. When he pulls out and shoots it all over my pussy and into my bush, where it hangs in thin strands like cotton caught on hedgerows.

I like when he shoots inside me and I feel full and satisfied and calm, as if I’ve just eaten a good, hearty meal. And then feel it slide out of my pussy, leaving a thick pearly trail that gathers in the bud of my asshole. Sometimes it will ooze out, hours later, when I’d long forgotten it was even there. When I’m walking around campus or sitting in class, or sitting on the bus, or standing in line at the checkout and, all of a sudden, the crotch of my panties is wet with slime and I remember the moment he thrust inside me, letting out that cute pained little groan a split second before he let out his load. And I relive it, as if he’s fucking me, ejaculating inside me, right then and there, on campus, in class, on the bus, in the supermarket.

I like when he comes on my face and it feels like I’m completely at his mercy, like he’s humiliating me with his come. When I close my eyes and feel it splash onto my face. When he shoots come onto come onto come and it feels heavy and slides down my face. Filling my pores, dripping down my cheek, my forehead, hanging off my chin. And it feels like my face isn’t big enough to take all his come. His endless semen.

I like to wipe it off my lips and cheek and stretch it between my finger and thumb like snot, then slurp it back into my mouth, roll it around and mix it with my saliva, into a cocktail of my fluids and his, and slurp that down like an oyster. Then I open my mouth, wide, and stick out my tongue to show him it’s all gone. That I’ve been a good girl and taken my medicine.

I like to guess what he’s had for breakfast, lunch, dinner and in‑between from the way it tastes and the way it smells. Salty, bitter, sweet, sour and smoky. Beer, coffee, asparagus, banana, pineapple, chocolate. From the texture and consistency. Sometimes it’s runny like half‑cooked egg whites, sometimes thick and lumpy like semolina, sometimes both of those at the same time. And sometimes it’s smooth like cough syrup, which is how I like it best, because it goes down so easy.

I like to lick his cock after he’s come inside me, when he pulls out and his penis is slick and shiny with his come and mine. I want to savor the flavor of him and me together, our sweat and passion. I want that taste to linger in my mouth until it starts to turn rank on my breath. I love the smell of his come when it starts to ferment on my body.

And then I like to wash his dried come off my body in the shower and feel it reconstitute itself as the water hits it, almost as if it’s come back to life from the dead. I like to watch that water, his come, swirl down the plughole, and think about the journey it’s about to embark on.

The places it has been and the place it will end up. From inside Jack’s body onto mine. From my body all the way to the sea.

Born from nature and returned to nature. The way of all things.

The way it’s meant to be.

Marcus is leaning against his desk, dissecting Belle de Jour scene by scene. He is talking about Séverine’s need to submit to her desires, completely and absolutely, until her fantasy and her reality are merged and she is unable to distinguish one from other. And I am on my knees in front of Marcus, licking his outstretched hand.

I am on my knees. I have a collar around my neck with my owner’s name on it. It tells me:

I am the teacher’s pet.

I am Marcus’ dog.

He is my master.

I’m balanced on my hind legs with my paws resting on his torso and my head buried in his crotch. I am a bitch on heat and I can smell my master’s sex. I am rubbing my nose in the crotch of his pants, snuffling his aroma, drawing it into me. The secret musk that tells me I belong to him and only to him. It fills my nostrils, fills my head. I am in a cloud of love and there is nowhere I would rather be. I pant and bark to show my delight.

I look at his crotch and cock my head as I trace a crease in his brown suit pants with my eyes. I lap at his crotch, tracing the crease with my tongue, and feel it swell and bulge against the fabric.

I am staining the crotch of Marcus’ trousers with my tongue and he pushes me off him, roughly, without warning. He pushes me away so violently that I fall hard on my side and sprawl across the floor. He barks his displeasure at me, admonishing me.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 689