The Juliette Society

18

During the journey up to the DeVilles, it feels like Jack and I are driving away from all our troubles and heading towards a new horizon, and I want to put everything behind me and start afresh. A few times, I even catch him glancing over at me when he thinks I’m not looking.

Bob DeVille and his wife Gena live in this magnificent open plan, split-level ranch house built onto a hillside, with a terraced garden, acres and acres of land, a deck and a swimming pool that overlook a long, lush valley with a river running along the bottom and mountains in the distance. All you can see from the deck is this vast landscape that seems to stretch on uninterrupted for miles with just a handful of other houses visible to the naked eye.

When Bob takes us out on the deck to show us the view, soon after we’ve arrived, I’m overwhelmed.

‘I want to live here,’ I whisper to Jack.

‘Here?’ he says.

‘A place just like it,’ I say. ‘Just you and me, isolated by beauty.’

‘I guess I need to make something of myself, then,’ he smiles.

I don’t doubt he will and I want to be with him when he does.

‘This place is incredible,’ I add. ‘I knew Bob was wealthy but I didn’t realize he was that wealthy.’

‘He’s good at his job,’ says Jack. ‘One of the best. He litigates for oil companies.’

This is the first time I’ve actually met Bob in person. The closest I’ve ever got to him before are those photos of him on the giant campaign placards that plaster the front of the office. Posters that look like commercials for a hygiene product. Airbrushed to perfection. And Bob, he looks rugged and handsome and slick – as if the Marlboro Man was advertising Crest – but it’s all image, because he’s not at all like that in person. He’s so stiff that he’s kind of goofy and he’s a bit of a klutz as well and it makes me warm to him a little bit more.

Gena is a Southern Belle with a gentle grace and bearing that could only have been the product of a private education. She looks like a relic of ’60s glamour; her blonde hair is styled in a flip, as if it never went out of fashion. She’s wearing a turquoise pantsuit, the kind of thing you always see Hilary Clinton wear, a look that’s distinguished and stylish at the same time.

Just before we sit down for lunch, I’m scanning the photos arranged on the mantle and I’m drawn to one old black-and-white photo of Gena.

I figure she must have been about my age when that photo was taken. She looks like Ingrid Bergman in Voyage to Italy. That beautiful, that sophisticated. But it’s her eyes that draw me in, filled with a mesmerizing yearning and warmth.

‘What beautiful eyes,’ I say aloud as I pick up the picture, to no one in particular, not realizing that Gena is standing behind me.

‘Why, thank you,’ she says. ‘Bob always tells me, it was my eyes that stole his heart and he had to marry me to win it back.’

And as she says it, I look from the photo into her eyes, and realize that they’re not the same eyes. Gena’s eyes are clouded, as if she’s on too many conflicting prescription meds, and her mouth is bent out of shape at the corners, the way a nail kinks if you don’t hit it straight on the head with the hammer when it’s already halfway in the wall.

And I wonder what it was that hit Gena that way to bend her out of shape. I look at her now and she looks kind of crazy and lost. But, I have to say, she’s putting on a good front.

Jack doesn’t see any of this. He doesn’t see the little cracks. He’s not ready to look past the facade that Bob and Gena are putting out. He’s too wrapped up in the Bob thing.

Jack’s a smart guy, perceptive. But sometimes I despair. It’s not that he can’t see through people. He just doesn’t want to. He needs to believe in them too much, to reinforce his idea of who he is and what his place is in the world. In Jack’s eyes, Bob can do no wrong.

Now I see them together, I get the feeling that Bob sees Jack in a similar way, as the kind of guy who’s got a great future ahead of him. The kind of guy he could use, and more. That’s the other thing I realize now that I see them together: Bob sees Jack as the son he never had.

They don’t have children of their own, Bob and Gena, which is kind of odd when I think about it because I can’t think of a politician that doesn’t. Even the ones that are still in the closet, who eventually get caught with their pants around their ankles, having their asses reamed in their office on Capitol Hill by some hot piece of male fluff they picked up in a gay bar and then bent the rules to employ as their private secretary. Even those guys have a wife and kids at home.

Bob and Gena don’t have kids, they have a dog instead. Some kind of terrier. And they’ve given it the name of the child they never had. They’ve named it Sebastian. And they treat it like a child too. Because this is a special occasion and they have guests, Gena has dressed it up in a doggie bow tie and tux.

Some people are cat people, some are dog people. I’m both. I love dogs. But not small dogs. And definitely not this small dog.

This dog thinks it’s cute. When it really isn’t. It’s just a compulsive attention-seeker. Its favorite toy is a plastic dog. Same breed, same coloring, just smaller. Like a replica of itself rendered as a cartoon character. A plastic dog that squeaks. And its favorite pastime is to trot around the house like it owns it, carrying the plastic dog in its mouth and biting down every few seconds so it squeaks. It drops the drool-covered plastic version of itself at my feet and waits there expectantly until I pick it up and throw it. I throw it and within ten seconds it’s come back for more and the plastic toy is back at my feet again, covered in even more drool.

Bob and Jack are sitting on the couch having a man-to-man talk about politics and the state of the world, Gena’s in the kitchen and I’m left playing fetch with this stupid dog and its plastic doppelgänger. After three or four rounds of this, I’m already bored. The toy is a ball of drool with plastic inside and I’m loath to pick it up because I don’t know where this dog has been. Thankfully, at that point, Gena calls us all in for lunch.

We’re sitting at a beautiful turn of the century antique oak dining table with lion’s paws for feet. It’s far too big for four people. Bob sits at one end, Gena at the other, Jack and I opposite each other in the middle, and it feels like there’s a yawning space between us.

The table is laid with china plates and sterling silver cutlery, and laden with pewter dishes that have been in Bob’s family for generations. We’re about to tuck into a traditional Columbus Day meal that Gena’s prepared for us. Salted cod, sardines, anchovies, rice and beans. I never even knew there was traditional meal for Columbus Day, except meatballs and spaghetti, but apparently there is – fisherman’s food, the way they ate on the Santa Maria.

Bob is saying grace at the head of the table with his hands clasped in front of him and his head bowed in prayer. I have my head bowed too, but I’m peeking above my hands, like you do as a kid when you go through the motions but you don’t really get it and you don’t really believe. It’s a habit, I’ve never grown out of that habit. Pretending to say grace.

My family are Catholic so it’s not like I didn’t have plenty of practice, but I always felt like such fraud at family dinners for faking and not believing. I’d bow my head but mumble the words so I didn’t feel like I had to commit to them and sneak a peek at everyone else at the table to see if I could catch them out doing the same. My brother always did it right. But my elder sister was just like me, rebellious, and while everyone else was giving thanks to the Lord, we’d compete to see who could stick out their tongue the furthest and for the longest without getting caught. And later, when we were old enough to work out what it meant, we’d flash each other the finger as well.

I look up and around the table. Bob is saying grace the way he speaks in those TV commercials of his. Gena has her head bent in supplication, her eyes tightly shut, and this strange pained expression on her face as she repeats after Bob. And Jack, he’s doing the same as me and when our eyes meet across the table, he grins.

While we’re eating, the dog, who’s already been fed, is trotting around and around the table with the squeaky toy in its mouth, stopping off at each place around the table, dropping the toy and looking up expectantly, waiting for playtime. When one person doesn’t show any interest, it moves onto the next. At some point, it decides it’s not getting the attention it deserves and the toy isn’t having the desired effect.

So instead, this dog, Sebastian, it takes a dump on the edge of the dining room. It leaves a perfect little turd sitting right in the middle of this beautiful imported Moroccan rug, so that it almost looks like part of the design and it’s virtually invisible.

This is this dog’s idea of being cute. Leaving a turd in the middle of the room as a conversation piece. Like the canine Marquis de Sade. It takes a dump, without making a fuss or a scene, while we’re eating – Jack and Bob and Gena and I – not five feet away, and not one of us notices. Not until Bob gets up to refill our drinks, steps right in it, skids like he stepped on a banana skin and falls flat on his ass. And it’s so comical that I almost burst into hysterics, were it not for the fact that Bob explodes in a such a rage that Gena has to take him off to another part of the house to calm him down. And Jack and I are left to finish the meal on our own, feeling awkward and embarrassed as if we’ve seen a part of him that we weren’t really meant to see. Eventually Gena reappears.

‘Bob’s just having a rest,’ she says, explaining that the campaign has really pushed Bob to the limit, because he’s given it his all. ‘That’s really not like him at all,’ she says, apologetically.

We don’t see Bob again until the early evening when he and Gena come down ready to go out for an evening commitment – a charity fundraiser he just can’t get out of.

Jack and I have been sitting out on the deck all afternoon, sunning ourselves on the loungers and taking in the view. And at one point, he leaned into me and whispered, ‘Bob and Gena are going out.’

I smiled and gave him a look that said, and what are you saying?

But I already knew exactly what he meant. We were going to have the run of the place to ourselves. And we could do what any young couple would do when left to their own devices in a stranger’s house.

Jack’s really thrown me for a loop now and I can’t work out what’s got into him, because he’s not just into it, he initiates it. We’ve been on this break and, even before that, I haven’t been able to rouse his interest for weeks and suddenly it’s like he’s a new man. It’s like the first time we got together, the first time anyone gets together, and we fucked like bunnies anywhere and everywhere we could.

Jack’s not without daring but spontaneity, it’s not really his strong suit. He always likes to be organized, he always likes a plan – even if it’s concerning surreptitious sex in the boss’ house – unless someone else is making the decision for him, unless it’s me.

We wave Bob and Gena goodbye as they drive off in Bob’s car, a beautifully kept 1968 cherry-red Cadillac DeVille convertible – what else. As they circle around the drive, Gena waves back, calling out over the sound of the engine, ‘Now, you kids be good and don’t wreck the place.’

Little does she know.

We watch them disappear around the curve of the road and the second they’re out of sight Jack starts running through the house, tearing his clothes off, and the last thing to come off are his shorts, which he drops just as he reaches the edge of the pool and dives in.

I get rid of the dog by hurling the squeaky toy into the garage and then locking the door after it races inside. Just to give it a reality check and make it realize it’s not as smart or cute as it thinks. I can already hear it start to whimper as I walk off.

I get to the pool to find Jack treading water in the middle. It’s a lovely warm evening and golden hour is fast approaching. Jack’s hair is wet, his face is shining, he looks so beautiful, and happy, and I can’t wait to join him.

I start to take off my clothes but not quickly enough for Jack, because he calls out to me from the pool, ‘C’mon, what you waiting for? It’s beautiful.’

I walk along the diving board, stand right at the end, and balance myself as I feel it give underneath my weight. I’m still in my bra and panties, because I want to tease him and take them off ever so slowly, in full view of him. I start to unhook my bra and then decide I’m going to peel off my panties first instead and then change my mind again and reach up to my bra. And, as I do, I have déjà vu.

Whenever that happens to me, it almost feels like a mystical experience. Like I’ve suddenly and inexplicably been made aware of a dream that’s mapped out my entire life before I’ve even lived it. That somehow the barrier between my dream life and my real life has broken down, and I’m able to see what happens on both sides of the mirror at the same time. Real life feels like a dream and the dream feels absolutely real. And I feel like I’ve grasped a fundamental secret about reality that no one’s ever expressed before. Then, just as quickly as it arrived, it’s snatched away again, and I’m left with that horrible nagging feeling of not being able to place how or why I even felt that way in the first place.

This time it’s not a memory at all, it’s a scene in a movie I love that I’ve made my own. I’m Cybill Shepherd in The Last Picture Show, preparing to skinny dip at the pool party while everyone’s watching her, turning her embarrassment at getting naked into a cruel sport.

It’s not like I have anything to be embarrassed about because Bob and Gena’s nearest neighbor is all the way on the other side of the valley. They’d have to have binoculars trained on the place to be able to see us. But there’s just something about getting naked in the open air that I’ve always found intimidating. Getting naked in public, no problem. I don’t mind people looking at me. It’s the eyes I can’t see that drive me crazy.

And like Cybill Shepherd, I eventually throw caution to the wind, drop my panties and dive in. And as the cool water sheathes my skin, I forget all my silly hang-ups. I open my eyes and I see Jack’s body hanging there underneath the water and swim towards it. Jack is a body without a head. Shimmers of sunlight refracted from the surface of the pool are dancing across his torso. And, as he treads water, his cock and balls are bouncing up and down like he’s in zero gravity.

I reach out to grab his cock, and he must have seen me, because he darts away, swimming on his back and kicking water. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the other side and then he rests his arms over the edge of the pool and just hangs there. I come up for air right in front of him and he looks so pleased with himself that he was able to out-smart me.

I put my hands on his shoulders, plant a kiss on his lips. His lips are so warm and mine so cold that I just let them linger there because it feels so good and we nuzzle. And I let my body bob up and down with the water as it laps against the side of the pool so that it’s brushing up and down against his.

I hang as low as I can in the water so my crotch is touching his, and the shaft of his penis is nestled in my pussy hair. When I feel him get hard, which doesn’t take long, I reach down and grab his cock and say, I got you now.

And he laughs.

I give his cock a few pumps with my hand and then I take a really deep breath and fill my lungs so full of air it feels like they’re fit to burst. He looks at me as if it say, what are you doing? And I duck my head underwater, still holding his cock.

Have you ever tried giving a blow job underwater? It’s not easy, but pretty incredible at the same time. As I open my mouth to take in Jack’s cock, bubbles of air pour out of it and I watch as one tiny little bubble slowly rolls down the shaft of his penis and lodges in his pubic hair. I clasp my lips around the head of his cock as quickly as I can so that my mouth doesn’t fill with water and suck.

Now it’s like everything’s happening in slow motion. My hair is swimming around me like seaweed and wraps itself around my head like a scarf until I can’t see Jack any more, I can only feel his cool hard cock as I work it in and out of my hot mouth.

I have one hand working the shaft of his penis and the other pressed against his chest to stop myself from floating away. He reaches down to fondle my breasts and I feel them wobble and bounce. Then he takes my nipples between his fingers and thumbs, holds them firmly and gently pulls them towards him. I feel the slight tug on my breasts as they shift their centre of gravity and gently bump back and forth, like a moored dinghy, while the rest of my body works his cock.

It feels so good down here, and I feel so safe, that I don’t want it to end, even as I can feel the oxygen in my lungs depleting and my head starting to get dizzy.

I’m working Jack’s cock with my mouth, taking him in a little deeper each time and I take him in just a little too deep, because the head of his cock hits the back of my throat and I gag and choke. Bubbles pour from my nose. Water rushes into my mouth. And I come up gasping for air.

I get my breath back and we swim over to the shallow end of the pool. I sit on the second step, my upper body out of the water, my arms over the edge of the pool. Jack gently parts my legs and I wrap them around his back as he puts himself inside me and starts fucking me, slow and steady, so I can feel him draw all the way in and all the way out. And as he does so, the water laps against the bottom of my breasts. I squeeze my legs tighter around his back, to tell him I want him to go deeper.

The sun is disappearing behind the hills and casting this brilliant burnt orange glow into the sky. All I can hear is the evening song of the birds in the trees, the water lapping against the side of the pool, my moans and Jack’s moans. It feels like the perfect moment, and it seems like all of our problems have melted away: Jack’s unwillingness to have sex, the barrier between us. I wish it could always be this way.

We get out of the water and traipse back to the house, still dripping wet and flushed with passion. Once we get inside, I bring a sheepskin rug down from the bedroom that Gena put us in and lay it down in front of the fireplace, while Jack stokes the fire Bob left burning for us, so we can dry ourselves off.

We’re sitting side by side, cross-legged, in front of the fire, and I turn to Jack and say, ‘I want you to fuck me in the ass.’

Now, that may not sound all that romantic, but maybe you had to be there because it sure felt like it at the time. Right there, right then, I couldn’t think of anything more intimate than having anal sex with my boyfriend in front of a roaring fire.

I said it on a whim, because I couldn’t think of anything more delicious and perverse than looking back on this weekend and thinking, we had anal sex in Bob DeVille’s house. Did that really happen? And I said it as a dare because I know Jack’s in the mood and I want to see how far I can push him to do something he would never suggest on his own. Not here, not now. Not in a million years.

It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy fucking me in the ass. I know he does. And especially because it’s something I won’t let him do all the time, because I don’t want him to get used to it. I want it to be special. Like eating truffles or oyster or caviar, because if you ate them all the time it would lose its thrill. It wouldn’t feel like a luxury any more. And ass-fucking is the luxury food of sexual positions.

I believe nature gave us, men and women, multiple holes for good reason. To put things in and push stuff out. And I intend to use them all because, otherwise, I wouldn’t be getting good use out of my body, and it would be such a waste.

There’s just one thing missing though from this little scenario I’d dreamt up for me and Jack.

Lubrication.

There’s no polite way to say this:

Jack’s cock is just too big for my ass.

Lubrication is not only desirable, it’s required.

Let me put it like this.

You know when you’re browsing for shoes and you’ve fallen completely head-over-heels in love, if you’ll excuse the pun, with one particular pair in a specific style and color. They’re just perfect and you feel like they’ve been waiting there all this time for you to find them. But the assistant comes back to say they’ve just sold the last pair in your size and the only ones they have left are one and a half sizes smaller.

And, size be damned, you’re determined that you’re going to try them on anyway, because you have to have this shoe and you’re not going to leave the store without them. You manage to slip it in halfway without much effort at all, but then it gets stuck just past the instep. It’s half in, half-out, and you tell yourself, it’s really not as small as you thought. That you’ve gone this far so you figure another little push will do it, another push will get it in, and then the leather will start to give. It will start to stretch and mold itself around your foot and the shoe will be yours.

So you give it another push and you manage another half-inch but now it’s really stuck and it’s super painful. And it doesn’t matter which way you move it, in or out, it sends this shooting pain all the way through your foot, all the way through your body. And you curse yourself for being so greedy and dismissing basic common sense that tells you something that big could possibly fit into a hole so small.

And if I’m not all greased-up and ready, that’s what ass-fucking feels like for me. A shoe that doesn’t fit. That doesn’t mean to say we haven’t tried.

In that scenario, the shoe is on the other foot, so to speak. Jack is the foot and I’m the shoe. And my butthole is in so much pain and his cock feels so big that he might as well be trying to put his foot up my ass. It hurts that much.

He’s determined it will fit and I’m determined it won’t. And the only thing I can do to convince him otherwise is to let out a blood-curling scream, as if he’d just stabbed me with a bread knife. Then he pulls out. Fast.

I’m sure there are women who like the pain, who see it as an endurance test. I figure Anna probably would.

Not me.

But I’ve got the idea firmly lodged in my head now. I want Jack to fuck my ass in Bob DeVille’s house, in front of his fireplace, on his sheepskin rug. It feels so deliciously wrong, and so right at the same time. And I know Jack’s game, so I’m determined to follow through.

I remember that Gena told me she was big into baking and I’m pretty sure I saw a tub of Crisco up on a shelf in the kitchen, so I tell Jack to take a look and go get some. While he’s gone, I stare into the fire and watch the embers glow and become hypnotized by the flames.

He comes back carrying the whole ten-pound tub and a huge grin on his face, as if he intends to use it all. As if he’s planning on giving me a Crisco enema and sending an entire football team through my asshole. And I say, yeah, you and whose army?

He puts it down beside us and prizes off the lid and scoops a little dollop onto his two middle fingers, holds them up for me to see and says, ‘Open wide’.

I get on all fours and he kneels at my side, pulls my butt cheeks apart with one hand and smears the Crisco around my hole with the other. It feels like cold-cream and I feel my butthole pucker from the cold, then relax again as his fingers stroke and prod around it, warming me up.

I reach around and tug his cock to get him hard. And once I feel him getting stiff, I slather some grease along his shaft and pump my hand back and forth so it’s covered and we’re both good and mucky.

He positions himself behind me, one hand flat on my butt as he teases his Crisco-covered cock into my pussy. And it slides right in without any fuss or friction. He gets straight into gear, settles right into a rhythm, and he’s sliding back and forth with the precision of a piston. He has his hands wrapped around the top of my butt. He’s pulling me down as he rises up and our sex collides somewhere in the middle.

I slide my arms down to the floor and stick my butt high in the air, and he’s fucking me so deep and hard that I can’t help but let out a long, plaintive moan that emerges with such force and such volume that it echoes through the house. And even Sebastian hears it because, soon enough, he’s howling up a storm in the garage. Me and the dog are moaning together in sympathy.

Jack’s thumb is edging around my asshole while he’s fucking me, scooping up the Crisco and pushing it into my hole, testing it, stretching it, and before I know it he’s inside me up to the knuckle and I’m closing in around him, like a Venus Flytrap closes in around its prey.

Jack has his thumb up my ass and I feel him turning it back and forth, as if he’s turning a key in a lock that won’t take hold. I can feel it, turning, turning, turning. And it’s only turning in one direction now, clockwise, like someone’s winding the mechanism and that mechanism is me.

I’m ready to go to the next level so I turn my head, catch his eye and tell him, I want you to fuck my ass, Jack. Fuck it real hard.

He pulls out of my pussy and slaps his cock against it, coating the shaft with my sweet, sticky white come, so he’s all good and greasy to ease his entry into my tight little butt. He puts his hand on my ass to steady himself while he presses the head of his penis against my asshole. It puckers with anticipation. The head of his cock feels so big as he edges it inside my hole. I let out a gasp.

His greasy cock feels so big and tight in my butt and it’s moving in deep and slow.

‘Does your cock feel good in my ass?’ I say.

‘Feels good,’ he moans. ‘So tight.’

‘I want you to stretch my tight little asshole,’ I say. ‘I want your whole fucking cock inside my ass.’

Jack grunts with pleasure as he slowly slides his length all the way into me and starts to pump and swivel his hips. Jack is dancing on my ass and it feels so good.

His hands tightly grip my shoulders so he can he slam into me with sledgehammer thrusts. And his wet balls are slapping hard against my pussy.

And it feels so good to feel my ass being stretched and probed with his thick, meaty cock that he takes me all the way. I feel like I’m going to come. I feel like I’m going to explode from the inside out.

I tell him, Jack, I’m going to come. I’m going to come.

And, as I do, my body bucks underneath him and I let out a wail of pleasure.

I say, now, I want you to come in my ass, Jack. I want you to fill me up with your come. I want to feel your come dripping out of my butt.

Talking dirty to him like that seems to have the desired effect and push him over the edge. I hear him groan to signal that he’s about to deliver. He gets off one last hard thrust and his gun goes off in my chamber, his come explodes in my ass and I feel it filling me up inside. He slowly pulls his cock out of me and I feel his thick, white marshmallow come dripping out of my hole and gathering in my pussy.

We spoon in front of the fire on the soft rug, him lying behind with his arms around me.

And I think, I really don’t know how this could be any better. Me, Jack, a real live fire, anal sex and a cream pie.

It’s the perfect end to a perfect weekend.