Sasha Grey - The Juliette Society

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.