They hadn’t seen each other for a month. He had a cold, she had heaps of work on, he had family visiting, the usual. She suggested they meet midway in a hotel for an afternoon. No sleepover. They must have hotels in London where you can pay by the hour. You know, like those Japanese love hotels?
But London, she discovered, is not Tokyo. She complained she felt like a whore, contacting hotels to enquire about hourly rates. "Well, don’t bank on not being treated like one," he said, making her try a little harder.
Eventually, she found somewhere, booked a room for an afternoon. "So seedy," she said excitedly.
The night before she could barely sleep. Fifty miles away, neither could he. In the morning, she took extra care over her appearance. It had been six weeks. That deserved lip liner, at least. He selected underwear she liked, jeans his arse looked good in, the jacket she’d once admired. He shaved his head because she found it hot when he looked nasty and mean. He glared at himself in the mirror, turning his swag on. He was dom, but he liked to please. She’d told him it wasn’t unusual.
She arrived first, checked in, dumped her bag of kit in the room. They met downstairs in the hotel bar, a warm but spacious area with leather sofas the color of good cigars, open fires, bare boards, and red brickwork. Firelight rested on thin metal sculptures and glossed the floor with amber puddles. Behind the bar, rows of tawny-hued spirits gleamed as they might in a country pub, a dangerous enchantment of nectars. It didn’t feel like noon.
"See?" she said. "I’m a high-class hooker."
"We’ll see about that," he replied, grinning.
They drank brandy, smirking secretively but saying little because there was too much to say and not enough time. Before long, he said, "I want you to go up to the room, strip to your underwear and kneel. I’ll follow you in five."
She took her brandy, feeling it was important to carry the magic of the bar to the privacy of their room. He watched her arse as she walked away, wanting to slap it. Upstairs, she drew the curtains, blocking out the rarely glimpsed underside of the city, the back ends of shabby buildings, delivery doors, and fire escapes. The room, like the bar, was warmly minimalist, a cocoon of cream, browns, and aubergine. She turned up the dimmer switch, stripped and knelt, pleased that the thread of ribbon in her black bra was a near-perfect match for the bruise-purple stripe on the bed linen. Not that he would notice. Not that she cared. This was a sex thing, not a matching-bra-and-bed thing.
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On the dressing table, the brandy glowed like a tiny fireplace. I could be anyone, she thought.
When he entered, he glanced at her as if she were nothing but furniture before he turned to hang his jacket in the wardrobe.
"Clasp your hands behind your head," he said, removing his shirt.
She did. She felt nervous and stupid, playing this game of make-believe because it aroused them. Children play games, not adults.
He removed all his clothes, aimed the TV remote, then flicked through screens of information. Naked in the dimness, he was glorious, his cock erect, vulgar and shameless, his arms sculpted with light and shadow, his butt taut and lean. Colors from the TV shimmered on his chest.
She recalled him once telling her about a program he’d watched, something involving Romans and their servants, and how it had turned him on. This was months ago when they’d first started seeing each other (if you could call it "seeing"). She’d treasured the snippet because he never revealed much about his day-to-day life. Then again, neither did she. Distance.
But this was cheeky: six weeks apart and he switches on the TV first? She was aching for the warmth of his skin, the scent of him and the wild thrust of his cock, and knew he was equally hot for her. She admired him for being such a cool bastard. The more he ignored her, the more humiliated and horny she grew. She liked to claim she wasn’t ashamed of her kinks, but when she was in the thick of it, compliant, needy, and submissive, she felt embarrassed by the enormity of her lust. She wanted satisfaction and didn’t like to dwell on how low she might go to achieve it. But it was a tricky business, this game playing, because going low was part of her pleasure. She loved what she hated, hated what she loved.
He didn’t have that problem. He loved it all.
He set down the remote and addressed her. "Hey, what’s this? Free whore?"
She winced at his jaunty tone, hated it.
He approached. He had a pen in his hand, a Sharpie. "Now this is what I call room service," he said.
"What are you?"
Her voice was soft. "A whore."
"What sort of a whore?"
She closed her eyes. "A free whore."
"That’s right. Likes getting used so much she doesn’t even want paying."
He wrote the words across her chest in black ink: free whore. She held still, swaying only slightly.
"Arms folded behind your back," he said. He pushed her bra straps down, lifted her breasts free, and grabbed her by the hair. Holding her head firm, he drove into her mouth, increasing his reach until her throat was opening to clasp the last inch of him, so warm and tight. She gazed up obediently, her lips around his root, her eyes watering. Her makeup ran, making her tears as black as the words on her chest.
When she needed air, she tapped his thigh and he withdrew. "Aw," he said, thumbing away a tear, "such a good submissive." She thought he was taunting her; then, in a gentle voice, he added, "You’re beautiful when you cry, you know?"
She thought he was being sincere. (He was.)
"I’m not crying," she said.
"You will be soon," he warned.
He was right, of course.
In her bag of kit, she had rope, cuffs, flogger, blindfold, ball gag, bit gag, butt plug, vibe, condoms, lube, Wet Wipes. The crop had been too long to pack, so she’d left that at home rather than have its handle poking out of the zip on the Underground, letting everyone know she was a pervert. She should have left the whole bag at home. All he used were the condoms plus the pen that he’d brought himself. It was testament to his dark imagination he could reduce her to a sobbing wreck with so little equipment.
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