Juliana Ch. 10

In her life there had hardly been places where Juliana could escape the iron conditioning of her upbringing. There had been secret nooks at the farm where she could dream up a world of her own. It was a world without shape, just clouds to float on. She saw no concrete images of freedom or beauty – she just felt... feelings. Later on she realized that the main (or maybe the only) attraction had been the secret privacy; that there had been no one to correct her thoughts or confine her dreams.

When she fled to the city, her idea of freedom was firmly linked with privacy. Maybe she found incidental sparks of it in her room at Jack and Aimée's, or when she walked alone through the streets of Chicago. She wondered if she ever found it in Alec's embrace – or anyone's company.

Amazingly, she found that same floating freedom now, at this most exposed moment.

Burying her face in the crotch of a man who considered her just another object, set her free. Maybe it was the anonymity, maybe it was the sheer effacing of her personality, but she didn't care anymore. She had no thoughts, she only had needs. She had no mind, she was a body.

Juliana sank her mouth over the stiff cock until her nose touched the man's curly pubes. His hard, pulsing flesh pressed down her tongue; his blunt glans just penetrated the entrance to her throat as his hands forced her down. She was caught and held and gagged, but she never felt as free as she did right then. It was crazy and she knew it. It was too insane to admit; too pathetic to ever confess to anyone... but it was what she felt.

Dr. Charrier's villa was a prison. The way he forced her was sheer blackmail. And yet it was the place where she felt more freedom than she'd ever experienced. Juliana gasped and let go of the cock, drenching it with her saliva. The hands pushed her down again and she felt a rush of happiness.

***

Lying in bed later, Juliana didn't regret the physical consequences of the crazy night she'd spent at the penthouse – her aching muscles and the throbbing of every entrance to her body. It was part of the deal, wasn't it? She had sucked cocks and even pushed her tongue into anuses. She had been fucked in her ass and she had licked vaginas that tasted and smelled of latex. She had felt hands tear the rubber off her body – and felt the same hard hands slapping her ass and her breasts.

The evening had turned into an orgy, where bodies became just lumps of flesh around gaping holes; knots of screaming nerves and a soft, sweet smelling quagmire of pinkish marshmallow. Juliana drowned in it until she was beyond the point of caring – beyond even knowing who she was or why she was here.

But now, much later, in the darkness of her room, Juliana knew again. And knowledge brought consciousness. And consciousness brought fear.

Lying on her bed, Juliana felt fear creep into her mind. It entered like a thief, but a thief she knew quite well. It made no noise whatsoever. Dressed in black it cast a silent shadow over her little pink paradise of make-belief freedom. He seemed to know very well where to go and what to steal.

'Freedom' had been her last conscious thought before she'd allowed herself to drown in the mindless orgy. She'd lost her shame and guilt and fear – and what was left she'd called freedom. There was this old song of the woman with the raw voice... 'freedom's just another word for nothing left to loose.'

Now she lay here, alone, and good old fear returned to tear up that illusion. Impotence invaded her body; she couldn't even lift a hand. Fear brought his twin brother panic, who threw a hot, choking blanket over her. Juliana gasped for breath, arching her body. She knew she had to fight, and she fought. She struggled against the fear and the horror and the utter injustice of it all.

And she won – didn't she?

She was free. Maybe it wasn't real freedom, but should she care? If reality was a life in prison, a life lived in shame and fear... who needed reality?

Lying on her bed, Juliana felt exhausted. She explored her abused body. Her fingertips found aching nipples and a swollen vagina that still leaked semen. She slowly spread the slime over her sensitive, shaven folds. An agitated feeling started spreading with it. Saving Alec was an act of virtue, she thought –heract, her virtue. Why should such an unselfish deed be punished and considered the act of a whore – just because her body loved it? Could one only be virtuous by denying their body its pleasure?

A finger slipped into the swamp between her vagina's lips. Her clitoris was slippery and over-sensitive. She moaned when she touched it.

No, she thought, rolling her head left and right on her pillow. No, the blame wasn't hers. Others had woven the net of dilemmas she'd been caught in – the doctors, of course, and her parents who had never prepared her for a life like this. Even her poor husband's share had been bigger than hers, so why should she be the one to feel guilty? Everybody was profiting from her sacrifice – and she should be the only one to pay for it with misery? No...

Juliana rose from her bed and took a long, scalding shower. She scrubbed the ruined make-up off her face and rubbed her sore body with healing, sweet-smelling oil. Then she slept for ten hours straight.

***

Is what I call 'red' the same color you call 'red?' When we smell a rose, do you smell the same scent I do? And what about love?

Juliana sat next to the hospital bed. The man in it was her husband. He sat up straight, looking pale, but alive and healthy. A number of cables and tubes still connected him to an array of machines.

"You look so... different, Jules," he said, reaching for her hand. It lay on the sheets, red fingernails like bloody pearls on the snowy white linen.

Juliana wore a thin jersey top that hugged her chest, showing the outlines of her nipples. Her legs were sheathed in black, shining leggings that left her ankles bare. Narrow straps held up stiletto-heeled sandals. Her hair was slicked back from her made up face. She smiled, looking clean and fresh.

"Don't you like it?" she asked. He frowned.

"What happened, Jules? They tell me I have been in a coma for weeks. How did you cope?"

Juliana saw the worry in his eyes. She'd crossed a river he didn't even know existed, but he saw the change it had caused in her. She was also sure he wouldn't agree. He would be hurt if he knew – disappointed and mad. That irritated her. If he knew, he would judge her. He already judged her now with his soft, innocent eyes.

She sat straighter; it would cause her nipples to show more prominently. She wanted them to. She should have been given more blatantly sluttish things to wear today, she thought. She should have painted her face more obviously. And then she sighed.

"All is well, Alec," she said, patting his hand with hers. "You'll be leaving soon and all will be as it was."

A big part of Juliana's attraction to Alec had been the promise she'd seen in him – a promise to climb on each other's shoulders and grow. In their first weeks he'd felt like an open door into the dynamics of city life. He took her out; they went dancing, dining, clubbing and shopping. But she'd misread him; he wasn't as adventurous as she'd thought. Soon they went out less and less, going to the movies or to the same old boring pizzerias. Going shopping for clothes became a chore for him. Instead of stimulating her to be brave, he encouraged her to make the cheapest and most conservative choices.

Juliana realized that a big part of her disappointment was her own fault – she couldn't blame it all on him. She also discovered that Alec wasn't the self-assured man she'd seen in him at all. He was like her. He grew up on a farm in Nebraska and had only come to Chicago two years ago, living with relatives until he found a small rental apartment on the edge of town. He'd been stood up a few times, in the end finding just enough courage to date shy and innocent girls like Juliana. He didn't make much money, but still saved most of it. After their first few dates he told her they would have to go Dutch.

Disappointment can be the result of a very slow process when you're in love for the first time. For Juliana true love was a reckless rush, built on the unlimited confidence of two lovers. It allows you to surrender all your fears and reservations to plunge head-on into the unknown – together. When you do that for the very first time in your totally shielded life and it doesn't work out, it is hard to admit failure. When your lover starts to let you down with small discouragements, little signs of critique, you loose steam – and soon you start doubting yourself. You lower your expectations and keep opinions to yourself. In the end you feel like a fool; nobody wants to be a fool.

So they went on going out, making out, being the loving couple. But every date ended up being just a trifle less exciting, just a bit more of the same. The rush of love slowed down, allowing old feelings to slip back in. Fear returned – the fear of failure.

So when Alec asked her to marry him, half a year into their dating, she didn't say no, but she begged him to allow her a bit of time to think it over. His eyes had clouded up and he'd fumbled with the cheap little ring before putting it back in its box.

Juliana talked with Aimée. She knew the woman liked Alec; maybe not because she found him exciting, but for the exact opposite reason: he seemed a safe choice for a girl as vulnerable as Juliana. It irritated Juliana that Aimée saw her like that, but in the end her timidity made her agree. Maybe it was the sweet memory of her infatuation, or maybe the stubborn sense of loyalty that had been ingrained in her. Or in the end it might have been just fear of being alone again, but she accepted the ring and half a year later they were married.

The woman sitting at her husband's bedside, however, was no longer the girl that said 'I do' in front of a priest in a shabby little chapel while hardly two-dozen people attended. These last weeks had pounded the shyness and reservations out of her and removed the baggage of her youth. With it she also lost her awe for the man she married, seeing him now as the exact replica of her own intimidated persona – dragging her down. Could she still love him?Hadshe ever loved him? What was love anyway?

"All will be as it was," she said, looking up at him, smiling. Was she lying? Would it ever be as it was again? Would she want it to?

She felt his hand close over hers; it wasn't a strong hand – and it wasn't a strong face she was looking into. It was a timid face. Juliana knew she was done with timidity.

"I have to go," she whispered, pulling her hand away and rising. Then she bent to kiss his cheek. As she turned and walked out, she was very much aware of the sound her heels made on the tiled floor. She also felt how the same heels pushed up her buttocks in the tight leggings. Without thinking she gave in to the rolling movement.

***

We think it's cruel to dump our lovers. So we invent this new feeling. And even crueler than ever: we hand them our pity.

The rest of that week Juliana was busy paying off her husband's debt. Some of the men she dated were repeats from earlier encounters; others were new. There were two dinner parties at the villa, one of them turning into a regular orgy. But some of her lovers took her out into the city, to their hotel rooms or apartments.

Her wardrobe was still strictly regulated, varying from bare but highly stylish evening gowns to almost- nothing outfits when she was taken out clubbing.

There had always been a tiny, nagging sting of embarrassment in the back of her mind as she picked up the flimsy pieces of fabric from her bed. But more and more its little voice was blown away by sheer curiosity – and the growing certainty that whatever she wore would arouse her men.

Juliana knew she should visit her husband at least every day – it was expected of her. Oh, there was feeling left, but she was pretty sure it wasn't love. Even if she had a hard time understanding what true love was, she knew this wasn't it. There was an urge to provoke, a need to intimidate him. Sashaying into his room in yet another tight, short-skirted outfit, flashing a bright smile, she knew there was malice in her thoughts. She'd started playing with him – with his jealousy and his growing frustration. It thrilled her to see how easy it was for her to manipulate him. Until she realized she was just plain cruel.

After two visits of flashing bare skin, showing off the edges of her stockings and her see-through tops, the remnants of an almost forgotten feeling surfaced: embarrassment. Teasing Alec wasn't just too easy, it was a cruel thing to do – it hurt him, and he'd done nothing to deserve that, had he? He was just this bewildered creature, returning from a coma into a world that had taken away the very foundations of his existence.

He'd asked her why she dressed like a whore and she had struck a sexy pose and touched the tip of his nose, laughing.

"Maybe because Iamone?" she'd said. "Would that excite you, honey?" And by God, he'd blushed.

On her next visit Juliana wore a bathrobe over her sluttish outfit, and her streak of cruelty was flooded by a brand new feeling – pity.