14 comments/ 25711 views/ 17 favorites Julia and Mr. Page By: Serafina1210 This story is an entry for the Valentine's Day contest. I've posted it in the BDSM category, though it might also have gone in Mature. While the action begins at Christmas, please be patient: it reaches its climax on the appropriate day. Tags: Straight sex, Oral sex, Anal sex, Group sex, Rimming, Gangbang, Lesbian, Objectification. 1. The ad Julia Lindstrom dropped her suitcase and coat just inside the door of her apartment and paused, looking lost, as if not sure she was in the right place. On most days you would have said Julia was a beauty. Her face was perhaps a little rounder and her nose shorter than the laws of beauty, strictly constructed, permit, but the care she took with herself - regulating her diet to keep her body trim, skillfully shaping her eyebrows, maintaining her fair and unblemished skin with the best (not to mention the most expensive) makeup and skin care products - was more than enough to nudge her over the line that separates "cute" and "beautiful." And of course there was her fabulous cascade of light blond hair that gave the impression of falling perfectly without having been tended, belying the time and labor she devoted to it. At this moment, however, Julia's hair was lifeless and her makeup sloppy; her face was puffy and shadowed, her eyes red. Her outfit was fashionable, a loose-fitting knitted mocha top over tight bluejeans (showing just the right amount of wear) and high leather boots. She had decided against mourning. Black wasn't her color; she wouldn't wear it for that shithead. But her expensive clothing gave the impression of untidiness, and her light top was, if you looked carefully, a bit smudged. Having gotten her bearings, she kicked off her boots, pulled her phone out of her bag, which she dropped beside the suitcase, and flopped onto the sofa. She tapped the screen a few times and waited impatiently. "Julie," said a solicitous male voice. "How are you? Where are you?" "Back at my place." "I thought you'd be spending Christmas with your stepmother." "Rachel and I aren't all that close." There was an awkward pause, and Julia said, "I wish I were with you in L.A. At least it's warm there." There was another pause - just long enough that Julia felt an ominous weight in her stomach. "Um, listen, Julie. I was meaning to have a serious talk with you, you know, about us. But then your father died, and obviously it wasn't a good time. But now the funeral's behind you, and you're back . . ." "What do you want to talk about, Alan?" The weight in her stomach got heavier, and butterflies fluttered above it. "I've been thinking . . . things aren't working all that well between us," he said. "I think maybe it's time for us to, like, go our separate ways." "How are we not working, Alan?" she asked. "You're beautiful and fun to be with," he said, "but I don't see us as intellectually simpatico." This was such bullshit. "What do you mean, 'intellectually simpatico'?" "Well . . . you don't take things seriously." "I take lots of things seriously!" Her voice, normally high and soft, had gone up an octave and was taking on a screechy edge. "Sure. Fashion, status, being admired, having lots of money . . ." "Well, I don't have any money now." "But not having money isn't going to change your essential self, Julie. There you are majoring in creative writing, and you write competent stories, but they're shallow. You're just marking time, not trying to create things of lasting value." "My stories are fine. My teachers love them." "They're great technically: vivid characters, competent plots. But they're all about having the best stuff and the handsomest boyfriends. You're not creating art, Julie." "Jane Austen wrote about that kind of thing, and she did all right." "When you start writing like Jane Austen, show it to me, and we'll talk." "I don't think so, Alan. Because what you're really telling me is you think I'm a brainless bimbo, and you were willing to put up with me as long as I was rich and respectable, but now that I'm poor and not a trophy anymore, you don't want anything to do with me. To quote J. D. Salinger, fuck you." "That's not it, and you know it. I'm not into money and status." "Keep fooling yourself, Alan. Maybe someday you'll find a girl who's as big a fool as you are. Fuck you." He sighed. "Okay, Julie, have it your way. Fuck me. I hope everything turns out well for you." "I'll be fine." "What are you going to do with yourself now?" "Get on with my life." "I mean, how are you going to live?" "I don't know yet. I'll find a job." "That's the spirit. Pick yourself up and all that." "Fuck you, Alan," said Julia, and ended the call. With a few petulant jabs of a manicured finger, she deleted him from her contact list. That done, she sat on the sofa and thought about the conversation she'd just had. If she felt a sense of loss, it was the loss of a resource: she'd been assuming she could move in with Alan when she was evicted from her apartment. She wouldn't miss him, though. There had been a time when she'd thought she might come to love him, and on the strength of that feeling she'd given him her virginity; but the relationship hadn't taken off. Truth to tell, she'd come to think of him as a pretentious bore, and she'd been planning to break up with him as soon as she had someone better lined up. What really hurt was his disrespect. To his way of thinking, Madonna might have sung "Material Girl" about her. Sure, Julia liked nice things. Why shouldn't she, since she could afford them - until a few days ago, anyway? Those nice things had found their way into her fiction, and why shouldn't they? Her teachers said, "Write what you know," and she'd done that. Well, soon she'd be qualified to write about poverty. She had enough money for one month's food and rent: after that she'd be living on the street and dumpster diving. She was a college junior: how would she come up with the tuition for her senior year? Last week's long phone call with the financial aid officer had been discouraging. Julia's father, an alumnus, had been a major donor to the university, and because of that they'd let her in as a legacy admit, though her high school grades had been towards the low end of what they considered acceptable. But now that he was dead and disgraced, and all his money gone, reminding them of his generosity just annoyed them. Her college record was okay: she had gotten all A's in English, but in other subjects she'd done just passably. With a record like that, she might qualify for a partial aid package. That wouldn't get her through. It likely wouldn't get her through even if she maxed out her federal student loan eligibility and moved into a smaller place with several roommates - an unpleasant prospect, but not unthinkable. Tuition at an elite university had seemed a small matter only a short time ago, and so had rent on this Upper West Side apartment: her rich father had provided. But now the amounts seemed astronomical. Outside it was cold and dark. She heated up a can of soup, a meager Christmas dinner. She carried it to the dining table, opened her laptop, and browsed the job listings in the Times and on Craigslist while she ate. She started with editorial and writing jobs, but everyone wanted college degrees and experience - either that or they were offering unpaid internships. A job in food or retail would be a help, but that wouldn't bring in enough to pay both tuition and living expenses. Any way she looked at it, she was screwed. To cheer herself up, she clicked into the "personals" section of Craigslist, which was sometimes good for a laugh. She smiled at the lame attempts to charm in fifty words, the penis pictures, the sad yearning evident in nearly every post. Maybe Alan had dropped her, but she had a long way to go before she was as desperate for love as these people. Money was another matter, though. Her eye fell on a link that simply read, "Mature gentleman seeks student." The age tag was sixty-two. She clicked. The ad was short: Julia and Mr. Page "Power, Julia, is fundamentally about getting people to do what you want rather than what they'd do if left on their own. If I command you to do something that you were going to do anyway to please yourself - read a novel or order your favorite white wine - that would be an empty gesture, not an exercise of power." The waiter came and Mr. Page said, "We'll both begin with the squash ravioli, and for the main course we'll have the duo of beef." "I'll enjoy those things, Sir," she said. "I hope you're not disappointed." "Not at all," he said. "I'm glad you approve of my choice, though I'd be just as happy if you did not." She said, "Either way, Sir, I suppose you'd have the pleasure that comes from being in tune with another person's feelings." "Not exactly," he said. "Have a sip of your wine." She raised her glass, keeping an eye on him as she did so. His face remained immobile, but a liveliness in his eye signaled clearly that he enjoyed watching Julia sip a wine she didn't like. "When you swallowed your boyfriend's semen," he said as she was lowering her glass, "did you pretend to like it?" "Yes, Sir." "Just as you pretended at first to like the wine. Was it because you thought our pleasure would be greater if we thought you enjoyed those things - the semen and the wine?" "That's right, Sir." "That's a difference between me and what you assumed of your boyfriend. I can't say that I care much whether or not you enjoy your dinner - my pleasure comes from my satisfaction in having guessed right about your taste in food. But I derive even more pleasure from being obeyed, especially when obedience is at its most significant - when it is difficult for you. You needn't pretend to like things to please me, Julia. Take another sip of your wine - it will be as if you were swallowing my semen." The glass seemed heavy as Julia lifted it, but the closer she brought it to her lips the more sensuous the act of drinking seemed: as she sipped she was pretty sure she was wet down below. "How do you feel?" he asked. "Be honest." "A little turned on, Sir," she said. He smiled for the first time since she'd met him. "Good," he said. "Now think carefully: your arousal can't very well come from my comparison of this wine and semen, since you don't like either of them. So where does it come from?" "I don't know, Sir," she said, feeling like one of Socrates' students. "Perhaps if I rephrase it as a multiple choice question. Choice one would be that you liked those things - but we've ruled that out. Two would be that you enjoyed swallowing the semen and wine because doing so gave pleasure to someone else. Three would be that you found pleasure in obedience itself." "Two definitely, Sir. I don't know about three. My boyfriend didn't give commands - he asked." "I also gave you a command when I instructed you to address me as Sir or Mr. Page. Have you been taking any pleasure in obeying that command?" Julia paused to assess her feelings. The desire to flee this situation had left her: she had to admit that she was enjoying herself, and a large part of her enjoyment was in the kind of relationship Mr. Page had established, with its extreme imbalance of power. She had enjoyed obeying his commands even if they were arbitrary - perhaps because they were. It was a thrilling game they were playing: she had never felt like this before. "I've enjoyed obeying, Sir," she said. "Excellent," he said, and smiled again. "You may be suitable for my purpose." "What is your purpose, Sir, if you don't mind my asking?" "I am looking for a submissive," he said. "A submissive, Sir? As in Fifty Shades of Grey? Limits, contracts, whippings?" He waved his hand. "We would have a contract that specified limits, but in most respects that book is a poor representation of my lifestyle. Let's just say that I am looking for someone who will accept the submissive role in a relationship. I advertised for a college student because I value youth, beauty, and intelligence, but my most important requirement is that a woman bend to my will." "And that will sometimes involve your commanding me to do things I don't like," she said. "You've again forgotten the correct form of address," he said. "Does that mean you have reservations?" "I'm sorry, Sir. But what if I accept your terms, and it turns out that what you want me to submit to is unbearable? If you're going to pay my tuition and living expenses, that gives you a lot of power. I won't be in a position to refuse you anything at all." "I have to admit," he said, "your indigence is an attraction. Your total dependence on me would give me real, as opposed to imaginary power. But our contract will limit my power. If I violate the terms of the contract, you will have the right to terminate our arrangement." "And what would happen to me if I did that, Sir? I'd be out of money, out of my apartment, out of school, and possibly out on the street. You'll be just as powerful with a contract as without one." He smiled again. "You've got a head on your shoulders. I will place one hundred thousand dollars in escrow with a third party acceptable to both of us. If you feel compelled to terminate the contract for cause, and that person agrees you have cause, the money will be paid to you - in a lump, if you like, or in installments." She said, "That sounds fair, Sir, if we can find such a person." "One of your professors, perhaps. I know a number of people at the university." "Your ad said 'part-time companionship,'" she said. "How much time is part-time, Sir?" "Probably one or two days and nights a week. You'll be on call, but I won't interfere with your class schedule, and I'll leave you plenty of time for study." "We would have sex, Sir?" This had been understood, but Julia wanted to hear him say it. "Yes - of course. You would cede to me the use of your body for sexual purposes - and it's only fair to add that my sexual appetites include a good bit more variety than what you've experienced so far in your life." She decided this was not the time to pursue the subject of his sexual appetites. "I'd be a whore, Sir." "'Kept woman' is the term, I believe, when your arrangement is with only one man, but I suppose the distinction is largely quantitative. If you have serious moral reservations about that, then this is not an arrangement for you." Julia's reservations were not moral, exactly. Or rather, morality for her was less an internalized sense of right and wrong than a reflex of her fastidiousness. If Mr. Page had been physically repellent, she would have said no to him on the spot. But though she didn't find him attractive, she didn't find the idea of sex with him repulsive: she could do it with him more or less as easily as she'd done it with Alan. She said, "If I agree . . ." He interrupted and said, "The only possible agreement right now is to begin contract negotiations, which may succeed or fail. We'll allow two weeks for that, till, let's see, January ninth, during which time we will both be tested for sexually transmitted diseases. I dislike condoms, and I want to be able to play without them when the term of the contract begins. Do you use birth control? I'm not keen to litter the planet with brats." "Yes, Sir." "Good. Oh, yes, and from the moment we agree to work on a contract, you will have sexual relations with no one but me, except as I direct you. Your body will be for my pleasure alone." "Not for mine either, it seems," she said, and added, "Sir." He said, "You're catching on. I will be paying for my own pleasure; yours, if you have any, will be incidental." The waiter brought the appetizers, and Mr. Page paid little attention to Julia as they ate. She didn't mind: it gave her a chance to think about him and what he was proposing. She didn't like the man: he had no sense of humor and little sympathy for other human beings - or at least for her. He was willing to pay a great deal of money for sex, much of which she was all but certain not to like - she supposed that was the going rate for the exclusive use of a young and pretty woman who was not a whore - yet. Their bargain would be commercial and legalistic - nothing like what she'd been raised to believe a relationship should be. But she had known most of that before she'd ever laid eyes on Mr. Page. His ad had made it clear enough that he wasn't searching for his true love. She reminded herself what she was doing here: she was broke and desperate. If there was another way to pay for her senior year of college, it was all but certain to be worse than this: maybe working as an out-and-out prostitute or a drug mule. And she had to admit that something about this cold man and his soulless proposal aroused her. His idea of the submissive had stirred a thing inside that she'd never known was there. But who was this Mr. Page? After the waiter had cleared away their plates (Mr. Page had eaten only a little of his), she said, "Can I ask some questions about you, Sir?" "Of course," he said. "In fact, I'll anticipate some of them. I've made promises, and naturally you want to know if I can deliver. I work as a financial consultant for wealthy clients, but that is in the nature of a hobby. Most of my income is from inherited wealth - it comes to one to two million per year, depending on the performance of the markets. I am, in effect, one of the idle rich. You'd probably also like to know if I've made this kind of arrangement before. I have, five times over the ten years since my divorce. Three of the young women I've made use of in that way emerged from the experience in good condition - that is to say, leading more or less conventional lives and successful, as far as I could see. One broke off our arrangement after a week, and one is now working as a very expensive prostitute." "Do you keep in touch with any of them, Sir?" she asked. "I keep tabs on them from a discreet distance. Two of them - the prostitute and one other - send me cards from time to time. I read them but do not answer." "You've insisted that I shouldn't have sex with anyone else, Sir: does the same go for you?" "That's not precisely what I said. You will not have sex with others except as I direct. For my part, if I have sex with others it will be no secret from you: indeed, you will probably be present." "You're into group sex, Sir?" "Sometimes, with friends and their submissives. We take pains to ensure everyone's safety, of course, and how much of that kind of activity you're willing to engage in will be governed by our contract. You will have veto power over everything." Could she do this? Mr. Page's proposal frightened her, as did becoming a kept woman or engaging in group sex. Still, though she thought of herself as a person who didn't get turned on easily, she was more aroused at this moment than she'd ever gotten with actual sex. Their conversation had eroticized an act as ordinary as sipping some wine. Even her dislike of him was sexy, as was her fear. What she'd earlier felt as a stirring inside her had now become an insistent buzz. Maybe she had to do this, but she also wanted to. "All right, then," she said. "Let's begin contract negotiations." He smiled for the third time that evening, raised his glass, and said, "Here's to a mutually beneficial arrangement. I believe we have made a good beginning." She returned his smile, raised her glass, and said, "Of course we have, Mr. Page. Didn't I swallow your semen just a few minutes ago?" Still smiling, and meeting his eye, she took another sip of her wine. 3. Contract signing Mr. Page insisted that they choose their impartial third party and that Julia have a talk with that person before committing herself any further. He offered her a choice of several professors who were in the lifestyle, and after some deliberation she chose Ms. Kim, an English professor whom she had taken a class with and liked. A kind and pleasant woman in her forties, scarcely five feet tall, she invited Julia to dinner at her apartment on 71st Street. Julia was greeted at the door not by Ms. Kim, but by an attractive, thickset woman in her thirties, with blue hair done in a braid. Aside from black shoes with stiletto heels and a circlet of some dark metal around her neck, she was entirely naked. "You must be Julie," she said pleasantly as Julia struggled to recover her composure. "I am Noye. Please come in." She showed Julia into a living room, where Ms. Kim, dressed casually in jeans and a gray sweater, rose from a chair and greeted her cordially. After Noye had brought a glass of chardonnay, Ms. Kim said, "Arthur has told me very little. He suggested that you yourself explain your situation and the arrangement you're contemplating with him." She listened to Julia's story attentively behind steepled fingers, and when it was done she said, "The life of a submissive is strenuous. It can be one of great joy if you are suited to it; if not, it will bring you much misery. The difficulty is figuring out whether you're suited to it before you commit yourself." Glancing at Noye, who, wearing an apron now, was in the dining area setting the table, Julia asked, "Are you a dominant," Ms. Kim? Ms. Kim called, "Noye!" The woman came to the living room and said, "Yes, Soyuja?" "Tell Julie about yourself." "I am Mistress Jang-mi's slave," said the woman, who seemed pleased to have been asked. "Her slave?" Noye nodded and said, "Yes, Julie." "The dominant/submissive relationship can take many forms," said Ms. Kim. "Noye regards herself as my property, and she chooses to yield to my authority at all times and in all things." "But she's not really a slave," said Julia. "Slavery is illegal in this country," said Ms. Kim with a smile, "and as a Korean, I am, for historical reasons, very sensitive to the issue of sexual slavery. Noye is a consensual slave: that is the way our love for each other expresses itself. Thank you, Noye. You may return to work." She bowed and retreated to the dining area. "Mr. Page isn't into love," said Julia. "What he has in mind is a purely commercial transaction, without emotional content." "Does that bother you?" "Of course it does. It feels like I'm selling myself. But I'm not sure I have much choice in the matter." "You have a number of choices. You could take a leave of absence and apply again for financial aid on your return. You could transfer to a less expensive school and work your way through. You could withdraw from the university and see what success you could achieve with three years of college behind you - you might be surprised. The fact that you're thinking about Arthur's proposal at all suggests to me that you find it more attractive than the alternatives." Julia stared at her. Of course she was right: she wouldn't die in the street if she didn't do this. She decided to be forthright about what she was thinking and feeling. "Mr. Page and I talked a lot about power and sex," she said, "and as we talked, I felt like he was peeling back layers of me to reveal a truer self underneath. By the end of the evening, I still didn't like him much, but I was . . . aroused. I answered his ad as a kind of joke, but by the end of the evening I'd have gone home with him if he'd asked." "He'd never ask, though, without a signed contract in hand. He's a most scrupulous man." "What else can you tell me about him?" Julia asked. "He has a good reputation in our community," said Ms. Kim. "He honors the terms of his contracts and respects the limits of his subs. He's strict, but a fair disciplinarian." Julia wanted to ask more about discipline. She had rarely been disciplined as a child, and the prospect of having the threat of punishment hanging over her head made her nervous. But at that moment Noye returned and said, "Dinner is ready, Soyuja." Ms. Kim led Julia to the dining room, where Noye had set out a Korean feast - bean sprout soup, salmon, noodles, vegetables, and of course kimchi. Noye disappeared briefly and returned to join the other two women at the table wearing a purple housecoat with gold embroidery, which Julia thought went nicely with her hair. At dinner they talked of writers and literature, life at the university, and the New York book scene. Julia noticed that Ms. Kim often cast warm looks at Noye, whose return glances were shy and deferential, but no less warm. After dinner they returned to the living room, where Noye, naked again, sat at Ms. Kim's feet and rested her head on her mistress's knee. Ms. Kim absently stroked Noye's hair as they talked. Julia thought them beautiful together and wondered if she would ever have such tender moments with Mr. Page - probably not. Strangely, the thought came without a pang. Alan had been tender and sweet, but their relationship had never generated much heat. Julia had liked making love with him, and even giving him oral sex - for the reasons her conversation with Mr. Page had brought out. But liking a thing is different from loving it, being passionate about it, needing it to complete your sense of self. Long walks in the park and candlelight dinners hadn't done a lot more for her either, though she'd been aware that she was supposed to like such things. Thinking about it now, she recognized that the conventional kind of affection Alan had shown her had been a bore. Ms. Kim said, rather sharply, "What do you think, Julie?" "I'm sorry?" she said, looking up at her. "I'm afraid my attention wandered." Noye's eyes were closed; Ms. Kim, who was gently massaging one of her nipples, said, "Are you going forward with this scheme of yours, or have we talked you out of it?" Julia took a deep breath and said, "I'm going forward with it." Conversation turned to Ms. Kim's role as impartial third party. She proposed that she and Noye should share the responsibility, and Julia readily agreed to this. She trusted Ms. Kim but recognized that the older woman saw things as a dominant: it would be best if a submissive's point of view was represented too. "Noye and I will be equals when we discuss your affairs," said Ms. Kim. They went over a number of details. And then the evening was over. Ms. Kim and Noye showed Julia to the door, and both embraced her (it was strange being hugged by a naked blue-haired woman). When Julia got home, she sent Mr. Page an email that simply read, "We're still on, Sir." Then she drew a bath and had a long soak, after which she went to bed and slept soundly. * * * Julia's contract negotiations with Mr. Page, which they conducted in terse emails, were amicable enough; what made them difficult was her relative innocence. How could she decide on limits when she had so little experience? From a list of activities she found on a website, she could rule out a few things easily enough: watersports, scat, bloodplay and other really horrifying forms of edgeplay - things that, coincidentally, Mr. Page assured her he didn't care for either. But how could she decide about, say, anal sex when she'd never done it? She might love it or hate it. And what about flogging? She'd never even been spanked as a child. As a result, the contract was full of soft limits - things that scared but didn't terrify Julia, things that she thought she might or might not like but wasn't sure about, things that sounded kind of icky - but you never know for sure until you've tried them. Not only anal sex, but also multiple penetration, flogging, all kinds of bondage, confinement in cages, sensory deprivation, candle wax, and much more ended up in this category. Otherwise, the contract simply stated what Julia had already agreed to orally: she must be available at stated times to serve Mr. Page's sexual pleasure and in all ways do his bidding; she must show him the respect due to a dominant from a submissive; she must reserve her person for his exclusive use. For his part, he would support her, preserve her from harm, and in general look after her. The financial parts of their arrangement were laid out in a codicil which specified the amount of Julia's rent and the remaining two semesters of tuition, along with a stipend for food, clothing, and entertainment. It added up to quite a bit. Julia and Mr. Page Mr. Page and Julia had their medical tests, and of course they proved to have no STDs. She renewed her prescription for birth control pills and wondered what sex would be like with a sixty-two-year-old man. The contract was ready by Mr. Page's deadline, Friday, January 9. Mr. Page instructed her to come to his house in Gramercy Park at six o'clock to sign it. The house proved to be a three-story brownstone that took her breath away. If he owned that house, he was indeed filthy rich. She double-checked the address, not quite believing she had it right. She rang the bell, and he answered the door himself, dressed elegantly in a tuxedo. She had only seen him once before, seated in the restaurant, and it hadn't quite registered how thin he was. He glanced at his watch and said, "Two minutes late. You'll have to do better than that. Well, come in." He led her through a foyer into a spacious, neat, and bright living room with simple but elegant furniture, colorful and cheerful paintings and prints, and shelves full of books. She liked this room. Sitting on a sofa and chairs were six people - Ms. Kim and Noye (fully clothed for the occasion), three men, and one other woman. Julia was taken aback to see so many people here and stood in the doorway with her mouth open. Her arms and legs felt heavy and numb. She was more than a little afraid that Mr. Page would make her have sex with all these people. But he said, "A contract like ours is not legally binding, Julia. It can't be enforced by appeal to the law, but only by a community of like-minded people. These people are here to witness and celebrate our contract." Reassured, she smiled at the people. One of the men was about Mr. Page's age and rather heavy, one was probably in his forties, thin and elegant with prematurely gray hair, and a third was much younger, probably late twenties, and black, with a muscular build, a strong, handsome face, and dreadlocks pulled into a ponytail behind. Julia found herself briefly wishing this man could be her dominant instead of dry old Mr. Page. The third woman was Asian - Japanese, Julia guessed - only a few years older than herself and breathtakingly beautiful. Mr. Page didn't introduce any of them. He said, "Everyone here knows that I am not fond of ceremony. I will sign the contract first, then Julia, and finally the witnesses. You understand, Julia, that when this is done you will be under my rule." "Yes, Mr. Page," she said, feeling more than a little fluttery inside. "Good," he said, reached into his jacket, and took out a gold fountain pen, which he uncapped. The contract, printed on plain paper, lay on a table in the middle of the room. It was open to the last page, which had spaces for the signatures of the dominant and submissive and those of the witnesses. Mr. Page approached the table, bent over, and signed the contract. He turned and handed Julia the pen, and she signed. Finally the five witnesses rose, gathered around the table, and passed the pen among themselves until all had signed. The last of the witnesses handed the pen to Mr. Page, who returned it to his jacket pocket. He turned to Julia and said, "Take off your clothing." Her evening with Ms. Kim and Noye had led her to expect something like this, though not so soon, or in front of so many people. Heat flooded her face. She said, "Mr. Page, I . . ." "I do not advise beginning the term of our contract with an act of disobedience," he said. "Take off your clothing." She was wearing a modest coral dress with sheer pantyhose, plain beige pumps, and a white bra and panties. She reached behind her and unzipped the dress; she pulled it off over her head and laid it on the table, on top of the contract. Mr. Page watched with a blank expression: she reached down to remove her shoes, one by one, and rolled down the pantyhose. Standing by the table wearing only bra and panties, she gave him a pleading look, but he was implacable. "Continue," he said. She reached behind her again, unsnapped the bra, and removed it. Trying not to look at the people in the room, who seemed a vast crowd, she pushed down her panties and stepped out of them. "Turn," said Mr. Page. "Everyone wants to see what I have acquired. And look up: let us see your face." She had no choice but to see the people as she turned slowly. Since she had to be aware of them anyway, she forced herself to look at them. Ms. Kim's smile was warm and reassuring, and the Japanese woman's look was appraising. The three men looked at her with frank desire - you would have said the youngest one undressed her with his eyes, if she hadn't been already naked. "What do you think?" said Mr. Page to his guests. "Well-formed," said the Japanese woman, whose speech was just faintly accented, "attractive shape and medium height. Her modesty is becoming: it makes her nakedness all the more appealing." "Her hair is magnificent," said the young man. "Smooth, beautiful skin," said the gray-haired man. "I would have one or both nipples pierced, but in a relationship of limited duration I don't suppose you can require that, or tattoos." Julia hoped that was the case. "I like her pubic hair," said the Japanese woman. "It's almost silky." "I agree that her pubic hair is attractive, but I believe I'll have it waxed," said Mr. Page. "Have you gotten a look at her cunt yet?" asked the older man. She flushed at his choice of words, with a mix of embarrassment and anger, but made herself stay silent. "I have not," said Mr. Page. "Let's see then," said the man. "Make her spread for us." "Perhaps another day," said Mr. Page, to Julia's great relief. "Dinner will be ready soon," he said. "Run along to the kitchen and help Inkei." 4. Dinner is served "Yes, Sir," said Julia. She reached for her clothing, but Mr. Page said, "I haven't given you permission to dress." "May I dress, Sir?" she asked. "No," he said. "Now run along to the kitchen, there's a good girl." She wasn't sure where the kitchen was, but it was easy enough to guess. She headed towards the back of the house and soon found it. A man was standing at a counter shredding lettuce. He was young, tall, rather pale, and entirely bald; looking more closely, she noticed that he had no eyebrows either. He was wearing only an apron, sandals, and a black collar. He turned around, smiled, and said, "You must be Julia. I'm Inkei, one of Mistress Ai's slaves." She said, "Mistress Ai is the Japanese woman?" "Yes," he said. "She's beautiful," said Julia. "Yes," he said. "I'm very lucky to have the privilege to serve her." "I'm not sure what Mr. Page wants me to do," she said. "This dinner party is in your honor," said Inkei. "The submissives are always the center of attention at gatherings like this. But you won't sit at the table; you'll serve the dinner." "But a server at a dinner party is supposed to be invisible," she said. Inkei said, "You're not just a server, but a naked server. And I imagine your Mr. Page has more in mind for you than just serving." "Like what?" she asked, wondering if begging on the street might have been a better idea than signing on as Mr. Page's sub. "Hard to say," he said. "Page's reputation among subs is that he's a control freak: he's always finding ways to remind his subs who's in charge. Since he's got guests, I'd expect some display of his ability to control you. But I can't guess how he'll do it." "So not all dominants are control freaks?" she asked. "My mistress isn't," he said. "Don't get me wrong: she gives commands, and I love to obey her. But she gives commands to get things done - getting dinner cooked or having an orgasm - and not just for the pleasure of being obeyed. And instead of backing up her commands with threats of punishment, she relies on our desire to please her." "And that works?" "It does for me. If she enjoys this meal I'm preparing, she may reward me later. You've seen her: that will give you some idea of what it means to be rewarded by her." "I can imagine," said Julia, though she wasn't entirely sure she could. "If she decides to take me to her playroom tonight, or even her bed . . ." He sighed. Julia didn't think she'd ever sigh about sex with Mr. Page. Serving dinner kept her busy for the next hour. Five of the guests sat at a big dining table while Noye knelt beside her mistress, who fed her from her own plate and occasionally gave her a sip from her wineglass. What they were doing seemed sexy and intimate. Inkei had been right: she felt like the center of attention, almost as if she were dancing in the middle of the table. Everyone looked at her as she brought them food and drink, and some of them gave her encouraging smiles. She was afraid at first that they'd fondle her as she served them, but no one did. Overhearing their conversation, she learned the names she didn't already know. The older man was named Freddy, the gray-haired man Christopher, and the young black man Eric. She listened carefully to find out more about him and learned that he was an architect. She and Inkei stole bites in the kitchen. He told her that his mistress gave all her slaves Japanese words as names: his meant "penis." she wondered what he was concealing beneath his apron, to earn such a name. After she had served coffee, they called her into the dining room along with Inkei. "Dinner was excellent, Inkei," said Mistress Ai. "I will reward you well for it later." Inkei responded with a solemn bow, but Julia could tell the sun was shining inside him. "And Julia has done well on her first evening as a submissive," said Mr. Page. "She deserves a reward for that. Come here, Julia." He rose from the table, and she went to stand in front of him. He walked around behind her. She heard the clink of something metal. He seized one of her wrists, pulled it behind her, and snapped what she supposed were handcuffs onto it. Then he did the same with her other wrist: the whole operation took no more than a couple of seconds. "On your knees, Julia," he said, walking around to the front of her again and watching as she carefully lowered herself to the floor. She was relieved that she managed to do this without falling over. Mr. Page reached into his pocket and produced a handful of wooden sticks. He said, "The dominants will draw straws, and the winner will give Julia her reward." "What will the reward be?" asked Eric. "You must decide," said Mr. Page. "Perhaps you'll permit her to give you a blowjob. Perhaps you'll flog her or fuck her. As long as it's not among her hard limits, I'll permit it." Julia's heart was beating hard and fast as she watched him move around the table, allowing each guest to draw. When they were done, they all held up their straws - Mistress Ai's was the longest. The Japanese beauty studied Julia carefully. She said, "Have you ever had sex with a woman, Julia?" "No, ma'am," she said, shaking her head. "You may say, 'No, Mistress,'" said Mistress Ai. "I'm sorry, Mistress," said Julia. "It's a simple matter to give pleasure to a woman," said Mistress Ai, rising from her chair. "You simply do as she commands." She came to stand in front of Julia, wearing an elegant wraparound blue dress and black heels, which she stepped out of with far more grace than Julia thought herself capable of. Mistress Ai slid one foot forward: her nail polish was black, and each toenail had a delicate pink cherry blossom painted on it. She said, "You may kiss my foot." By sitting back on her heels, Julia could bend over without losing her balance. But Mistress Ai's foot was about six inches out of reach. She had to shuffle forward on her knees, very awkwardly, before she could reach it. Intensely aware of everyone's stares, she briefly kissed Mistress Ai's instep and then sat up. "You didn't show much enthusiasm," said Mistress Ai. "Perhaps my foot is not clean enough. Clean it for me; then you may find kissing it more agreeable." Julia looked at her in confusion. How could she clean her foot with her hands cuffed behind her? "With your tongue, Julia," she said. Julia was hot all over as she bent down again and gave her instep a tentative lick. "All over," said Mistress Ai. "Why don't you begin at the ankle and work down towards the toes?" Julia had to shuffle forward a few more inches to reach her ankle. She worked back and forth, making switchbacks down her foot. It took a couple of minutes to get to the toes, which Mistress Ai spread, saying, "Don't forget to clean in between." Julia licked between Mistress Ai's toes, grateful that they were scrupulously clean. When Julia was finished with that task, and relieved it was done, Mistress Ai raised her big toe and said, "Suck my toe, Julia." How long would this humiliation go on? Julia stared at Mistress Ai's shapely toe with trepidation. "Go ahead, Julia," said Mistress Ai in a soft, kind voice. "Just pretend it's a cock. I'm sure you must be an enthusiastic cocksucker." Mistress Ai's words stung. Julia felt the humiliation in her body - her hot face, her breasts, belly, and down below, where she was suddenly aware of her bottom high behind her and her sex exposed to everyone's view. She wondered if Mr. Page would thrust into her from behind, and to her surprise found the prospect not unappealing. This toe was as flawless as the rest of Mistress Ai - the skin white and without calluses, the nail delicately painted. Julia was shaken by its beauty. With a high whine, she moved forward, her mouth closed over Mistress Ai's toe, and she sucked. With Mistress Ai's toe in her mouth, Julia took stock of her feelings. Though she couldn't see them, she knew all the people in the room were watching avidly and enjoying the sight of her crouching naked on the floor, hands cuffed behind her, a degraded thing worshiping a superior being. Did they want her to be miserable? If so, this submissive was defying them: her heart was singing with happiness, and every cell in her body seemed alight with arousal. She could suck Mistress Ai's toe all evening, if she were allowed. But after a short while Mistress Ai said, "That's enough, Julia. You may kiss my foot again, and see if it's more to your liking." Julia loved Mistress Ai's foot now - she kissed it with feeling, at the tender spot where the toes joined the instep. Then she sat up and waited for the next humiliation. Mistress Ai said, "What more would you like to do? What would give you pleasure? Would you like to give me cunnilingus?" Julia didn't want to do that. She admired the beauty of other women - she'd been sneaking glances at Mistress Ai all through dinner - but the idea of kissing and licking her sex filled her with horror. And yet she realized that she'd do it without hesitation, happily. Why was that? "I would like to obey your command," she said. "That is an excellent answer, Julia," said Mistress Ai. "In obeying me, you obey your dominant. Stand up." She managed to get to her feet without falling over, and, she thought, with a reasonable amount of grace. Mistress Ai stepped towards her, put her hands on her shoulders, and kissed her - a long, soft kiss that filled her with heat. Mistress Ai stepped back, bent down, picked up her shoes, and returned to her seat. "Is that all?" Freddy exclaimed, incredulous. "I thought we were going to be treated to some cunt-licking. Now look here, Arty. We've got three fine subs here, and my cock is throbbing: let's take 'em downstairs and play a while." "Another day," said Mr. Page, stepping behind Julia to unlock her cuffs. "I'm afraid I must call it an early night." "All right," said Freddy, grinning knowingly. "I get it. Well, thanks for the grub, and have a lovely night." They all said their good nights to Mr. Page. Freddy, Christopher, and Eric glanced at Julia without saying good night, Ms. Kim and Noye hugged her, Inkei shook her hand, and Mistress Ai gave her a warm smile. And then she was alone with her new dominant. He said, "Pick up your clothing and come with me," and led her upstairs. "You may sleep in that room," he said, pointing to a door. "You'll find everything you need in there, and it has an adjoining bathroom. "My room is here," he added, pointing to a door on the other side of the hall. So there would be no sex tonight. She was disappointed. She hadn't exactly been looking forward to sex with Mr. Page, but she was reconciled to the necessity of doing it, and she was resolved to do it well and with conviction, giving him a good experience. And having spent the evening naked, being stared at by strangers and near strangers, and finally sucking a beautiful woman's toe, she was keyed up. In short, she was ready for sex, and she didn't like it that her readiness was being wasted. But she said, "Yes, Mr. Page," and started towards the door. "Julia," he said. She turned back towards him. "Don't make any plans for tomorrow morning or evening," he said. "Yes, Mr. Page," she said. She hesitated a moment and then said, "May I ask a question, Sir?" "You may always ask questions," he said, "and I will decide whether to answer." She looked at him. His face was pale and strained, skin stretched tight over the bone. "The game you had them play tonight," she said, "about rewarding me. I was wondering how far you would have let them go." "It was head play, Julia," he said. "Mistress Ai and I decided in advance that would be best tonight. Later on there will be body play." "So when they drew straws, that was rigged so Mistress Ai would win, Sir?" She smiled: the idea pleased her for some reason. He was silent for a few seconds, as if gathering strength to speak. The fatigue in his eyes was almost alarming. "Every game you play with me will be rigged, Julia," he finally said. "Now get some sleep." 5. In Julia's room The room Mr. Page had directed Julia to was a sort of guest room, furnished with plain but good quality furniture, with few signs of personality anywhere and inoffensive artwork on the walls. She laid her clothing on the bed and explored. In the closet she found a simple white cotton nighty. The bathroom was well supplied with new toothbrushes and a few common brands of toothpaste, soaps, and shampoos: not the brands she used, but good enough. The towels were white and fluffy. She showered, put on her panties and the nighty, and went to bed, but sleep didn't come easily. She couldn't help imagining Mr. Page naked. What would he look like, being so thin and more than sixty years old? She wondered what he'd want from her. Would he lie back and demand that she service him, or would he be more active? Would he be as reserved in bed as he was at other times? She tried to drive the images and speculations out of her mind, but couldn't do it. She considered masturbating to help her fall asleep, but decided against it. Somewhere in the small hours, sleep stole over her. She dreamed she was sunning herself out behind the family house. Her father, tanned and fit, was doing stretches by the edge of the pool while Rachel read on a chaise nearby. Julia said to him, "Am I doing the right thing, Dad?" He replied, "Microsoft 27.97, up thirty-seven cents, GM 38.02, down six cents, Bank of America 978.00, down eight dollars, DuPont 21.78 . . ." Rage roared up inside her. "Motherfucker!" she screamed, rushed at him, and shoved him into the pool. He flailed in the water, and she reached in to push him under, but he kept getting away from her. "Here, try this," said Rachel, and handed her a leaf skimmer with a long handle, which she used to poke him under. A firm hand gripped her wrist. "No!" she cried, "he fucking deserves it!" She tried to shake the hand off, but it was clasping something around her wrist, fastening it somehow . . . 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. Julia and Mr. Page "I'll wake you at eight, if you're not already up," he said. She looked at him, wondering if there was anything she could do to make him want her, and saw the same fatigue in his face that she'd seen the night before, as if he'd aged ten years in a single hour. "Are you all right, Sir?" she asked. "Get some sleep," he said. She woke at seven in the morning, dressed, showered, and went down to the kitchen, which she explored till she had found what she needed for coffee and a simple breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs. She had everything ready when he appeared around eight. It was difficult to tell whether he was pleased with her initiative, but he ate some of the breakfast she'd made. When they were finished, he said, "You can go home now. Come back on Friday at six o'clock, and bring enough clothing for the weekend." "Yes, Sir," she said. He saw her to the foyer. There was a tote bag by the door, which he picked up and handed to her. "There are instructions inside," he said. "Follow them exactly before you return." "Yes, Sir," she said. "Do you have taxi fare?" he asked. She hesitated, calculating what she needed for food against the amount remaining in her bank account. "I'll take the subway, Sir," she said. "Here," he said, reached into his pocket, and pulled out some bills, folded and clipped. He extracted two twenties and handed them to her. It felt strange and wrong, somehow, to take money from him, but she took it anyway. An embrace or a kiss - on the cheek at least - would have made her feel better, but he made no such gesture, and she didn't think it her place to initiate that kind of contact. She glanced at him once more, left the house, and walked to Park Avenue to hail a cab. Back in her apartment, she opened the tote bag. Inside was a leather pouch containing three silicone butt plugs in different sizes, and another containing a blue silicone dildo shaped like a penis. There was a bottle of lubricant and an envelope, which she opened to find a note written in a careful hand - she supposed with Mr. Page's gold fountain pen: