But me being me, and they being them, my resolution didn’t last long. Once I’d cottoned on that they aimed to drink their way down Park Lane, stopping at every hotel bar en route, I perked up. It was my lifelong dream to even be here at all, never mind with two rich bitches who wouldn’t even hear of me paying my way. And we were sure to meet at least a few interesting people in the course of the evening. Some of them would be sufficiently interesting that I’d be inspired to make a break for it and lose Tatiana and Alice. In the meantime, and on the promise of another drink at The Hilton bar towards the end of our tour, I was happy to go with the flow.
Luckily, the women didn’t seem to want me to talk to them. I’d expected a barrage of questions about myself and my life in Paris, but they didn’t appear that interested in me as an actual person with a life beyond the scope of their own existences, and I was grateful for that. All they really seemed to want to do was lech after the staff at each hotel that we visited, giggle, and spend their husbands’ money at an obscene rate.
Next up was Grosvenor House, now owned by the same multi-national chain as 140 Park Lane but with a much more traditional ambiance. As a Park Lane geek, I also knew some of its interesting history: that, for instance, it opened as a hotel in the 1920s and was the first in London to have a bathroom in every bedroom; that it once had an ice-rink where the Queen learnt to skate as a girl; that in 1943 it served as the world’s largest US officers’ mess; and that in the 60s the Beatles once played there. I relayed all these facts to Tatiana and Alice as we supped another cocktail in its Bourbon Bar, but beyond surprise that a Parisian should know more about an historical hotel in their city than they did, they showed very little interest in this too.
We moved on to The Dorchester, which I’d been particularly looking forward too. Though this time I kept my nerdy facts to myself, I knew that this hotel opened just two years after its close neighbour Grosvenor House and that it was here that Prince Philip hosted his stag night. Other famous guests and visitors over the decades had included Marlene Dietrich, Louis Armstrong, Maria Callas and Brigitte Bardot. To Liz Taylor it became virtually a second home from her days as a child star – indeed, she’d even had a pink marble bathroom installed in one of the suites, and she and her husband Richard Burton were rumoured to have carved ‘RB xxx ET’ into the marble one night. They’d also spent one of their honeymoons in the hotel. Sylvester Stallone had married here, while Brad Pitt was rumoured to have split from Jennifer Aniston at the hotel.
Walking past the hotel’s famous fairy-lit tree towards the uniformed doormen, I felt my heart flutter in anticipation. This, for me, was what Park Lane was all about – glamour, history and romance. Though I did get turned on by sleaze and darkness, I thought that sometimes I was a romantic at heart. Perhaps I just needed the right man to bring that side of me to the fore? Or maybe it was a case of growing up. It struck me that I was twenty-two years of age but had been living much as a teenager.
Like The Grosvenor, The Dorchester has more than one bar, but The Bar at The Dorchester is the best of them, with rich colours – black, browns and aubergine – combined with lacquered mahogany, mirrored glass and velvet. We headed for the long curved bar and I studied the cocktail menu in an attempt to distract myself from the by-now extremely tedious flirtations that the others were engaging in. They were like schoolgirls, I thought. Elsewhere, it might have been funny. Here, in this opulent setting, it was tragic.
I was pleased to see that, in celebration of its eightieth birthday, The Bar had reintroduced an original 1930s cocktail, ‘Dorchester of London’, which, my inner hotel geek noted, had been created by the world-famous bartender Harry Craddock. After ordering one, I found a seat and waited for Tatiana and Alice to join me from the bar. When the concoction was placed in front of me on a coaster, I picked it up carefully and inhaled its heady scent. The Dorchester’s interpretation of Forbidden Fruit, a liqueur the recipe for which disappeared in the 1950s, was an intoxicating blend of cognac, pomelo fruit, citrus and honey. I took a sip. Though the honey was predominant in the smell, the flavour was more like liquorice and grapefruit combined, and it had a powerful kick to it.
The others, meanwhile, had a Vesper martini and a Brooklyn. This was our third cocktail, but we were taking our time. By now I was managing to virtually screen out Tatiana and Alice from my consciousness, so unless they were actually talking to me or paying me direct attention, I was able to just sit and take in the surroundings and the fascinating mix of people.
I could have stayed in The Dorchester all night, getting drunk on the glamour and the atmosphere as well as the alcohol. But the rule was ‘one bar, one drink’, so soon it was time to move on.
We carried on down the road, bobbing into the new hotel whose opening I’d attended with Tatiana and Morgan, and then heading to another recent addition to the scene, 45 Park Lane, where I enjoyed a Show Me Love with vodka, Saint Germain, lychee juice and lime, lining my stomach with some of the mini Kobe sliders and tempura onion rings that Tatiana ordered, telling us that we needed to ‘line our stomachs’. For the first time that evening, I thought she was probably right.
We tripped down the street, and even I was giggling at nothing now. Perhaps it was the excitement of seeing the horny barman at The Hilton again, but I was in for a disappointment: he wasn’t working that night. Trying not to feel too deflated, I resolved to come back another time.
It was 11 p.m. and we were very drunk when we left Windows at The Hilton and wobbled a few doors down to the Met Bar at The Metropolitan. I was still lucid enough to know that it really was time to call a halt to proceedings, that we were going too far and would regret it, but I also knew that Tatiana and Alice wouldn’t hear of dropping out of our ‘challenge’ early. So I hung on in there. After this there were only two bars to go, and then I would jump into a cab and get myself home to bed, whatever their intentions. For once in my life, I’d have an early night. I promised myself I’d be home by 1 a.m.
The Met was no longer in its heyday as a celebrity magnet, but newly refurbished it was busy and buzzing. Intent on not getting too much drunker, I insisted on ordering some more food – some kedgeree cakes and crab cakes. The potato in each would help me soak up the booze – which this time took the form of a Park Lane cocktail of elderberry purée, cloudy apple juice and gin, served with elderberry and gin caviar on an apple, vanilla and cardamom foam. It was lush. My mood brightened again. If only, I thought, Konrad was here to enjoy this with me. Or any of my Paris crowd. We’d burn the place up. Still, just being here was in many ways enough, at least for the time being.
The potent alcohol certainly left me feeling too drunk and disorderly for the Four Seasons, which had also been newly refurbished and now housed a clubby Italian bar, Amaranto, with smouldering red velvet chairs and sumptuously padded walls. There was something provocative and even a little devilish about it, something of the bordello. I felt at home and, as at The Dorchester, could have stayed there all night.
It must have made me come over all sinful, for suddenly I cast off all thoughts of being restrained and of making it home by 1 a.m. and, smiling wickedly at my companions, ordered a Hamilton Place Gold Martini. They didn’t bat an eyelid. I tried to mentally tot up how much this high-class bar crawl was costing them, but I was too drunk. Maths wasn’t my strong point even when I was sober.
I was glad I’d ordered it when the cocktail craftsman appeared at our table with a special Martini trolley and a gold cocktail shaker, and proceeded to mix Roberto Cavalli vodka infused with edible gold with some Dolce & Gabbana Martini Gold vermouth and a twist of bitter orange. Carrie Bradshaw and co, I thought, would love it. I took a sip – it was strong and straight-up. I took another, and I knew I was lost.
When we got to The Intercontinental, I was like a lamb to the slaughter – or rather, I wasn’t ignorant of my fate, like lambs are, I was consenting and calm, if not exactly happy. Nor did it bother me that, after The Four Seasons, the modern Intercontinental
was a bit of a comedown. I really was past caring about anything.
And of course I wasn’t surprised to find Morgan and Jeremy awaiting us in the hotel’s Theo Randall Bar, nursing whiskeys. Three Rossinis – pressed strawberries and Prosecco – sat on a tray on the table in front of them, indicating that either Tatiana or Alice had tipped them off that our arrival was imminent. I looked at the women, and they looked back triumphant.
Fuck it, I thought, and I grabbed the drink and downed it in one before I’d even sat down. Smiling wickedly, Morgan clicked his fingers at a passing barman and ordered me another.
‘Sit,’ he purred, patting the seat beside me. ‘I want to hear all about your evening.’ As I sat down, he put his hand on my shoulder and let it remain there.
I opened my mouth to speak but found that I couldn’t. It didn’t matter – Tatiana was more than happy to fill him in in my place, detailing all the bars we’d been in, what we’d had to drink and all the minor celebs and famous businesspeople and politicians that we’d seen. She made it all sound more interesting than it had been – or maybe the prism of the alcohol was making it seem more so to me now. Either way, I sat and let her talk, woozily nodding from time to time, acutely aware of Morgan’s proprietorial hand on my shoulder.
When we’d all downed our drinks, Morgan stood up, taking my arm and helping me up too. Against my better judgement but unable to stop myself, I leant into him. He took the opportunity to put one arm around me, and as he did so he gave it a cheeky squeeze. He must have felt me flinch, for he brought his head to my ear and said, in a low but commanding voice:
‘I’m going to fuck you senseless, you horny little bitch. I’m going to fuck you ’til you scream.’
He steered me out of the room as the others followed. ‘I’ve booked the Presidential Suite,’ he said to the others over his shoulder, ‘as usual.’
‘Fab,’ said Alice.
We filed into the lift, but as soon as the door had shut and we’d begun to move, he halted it and turned to me, pushing me up roughly against the mirrored wall.
‘Strip, you slut,’ he said, and though a thrill ran up through me, for a moment I was scared too. ‘That’s what you do for a living, isn’t it?’
I couldn’t be bothered to argue the finer points with him when it came to the differences between being an exotic or erotic dancer and a stripper. I didn’t think he was interested anyway.
Reaching behind me, I unzipped my dress – a black Top Shop number that reminded me of a classic Vivienne Westwood pannier design inspired by 17th-century Spanish court dresses, with a button-down front and ruched skirt fitted with side-hoops – and let it fall to the floor. As I watched four pairs of eyes widen in admiration and lust, I felt a momentary surge of power through my veins. But then I reminded myself that I was basically their prisoner in a stopped lift, and that it wasn’t me who was holding the reins this time.
I was now just in my black basque, panties and stockings, and my black patent platforms. With my short blonde curls, I knew I looked awesome. All along Park Lane I had turned heads, even more so than normal – although I’m sure at least some of the people were wondering how the hell I fitted in with the conservative if stupidly giggly and flirtatious women I was with.
‘Turn around,’ said Morgan, and I could tell how much he was getting off being the ring-leader as well as bossing me around. I did so, leaning forward against the mirrored glass, my hands outstretched. As I did so, I caught my own eye in the reflection and there was that familiar glint in them – for all my shock, this was a huge thrill for me too, on many levels.
‘Have you been a good girl tonight?’ said Morgan gruffly, and I smiled wryly and bit my lip.
‘No, I haven’t,’ I said. I knew what was coming, and I wanted it. I wanted it badly. I might not have misbehaved during our bar tour, but I was a naughty girl through and through, and I deserved to be punished. Everything had been leading to this moment.
I tipped myself forward and, leaning my knees into the cold glass of the mirror, tended my arse upwards towards Morgan. In my mind’s eye I could see it: white in its pallor, slim but rounded, peachy-soft. I had a beautiful arse.
‘Do you have it?’ Morgan asked, and I heard Tatiana unzipping her capacious handbag.
‘Here,’ she said.
He took it without saying thanks, and I wondered what it was: A crop? A paddle? A whip?
The first lash had me arch my back and cry out. It was sublimely painful, and I wanted it to stop and I wanted more – more and harder. There was something cleansing about it. It was like a blood-letting – there was that same sense of blissful, warm release. I loved the way it focused the mind and blocked out all other thoughts.
He whacked me again, and while he did, I felt a hand – Tatiana’s, I guessed – pull the gusset of my thong aside and one finger dip into my juices. Then there was a mouth, drinking at me greedily. Between strikes, I glanced down. It was Tatiana, her face buried in my muff. She in turn had her black and white pinstripe skirt pulled around her waist and Alice, one hand holding Tatiana’s panties aside too, was going down on her.
I moaned, afraid I was going to come just at the sight of it. What was it in me that loved debauchery so, that I was turned on by these people I neither fancied nor had any interest in? They might as well have come from another planet, for all we had in common. And yet, and yet …
Suddenly Morgan held off whipping me and cast the instrument to one side. I looked, and it was a real riding crop. I remembered Tatiana mentioning earlier that she rode regularly with friends, and I surmised that it was probably her own crop. All at once visions of stablehands and rolling and floggings in the hay flooded my brain. I let out another guttural moan as I felt my knees weaken.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ said Morgan, obviously feeling me begin to submit to the fireball of orgasm that was roaring towards me. Looping his hand around my waist, he pulled me back from the mirror – and away from Tatiana’s mouth – and lowered me to the floor in a dog-like crouch. The two women rolled away from me on the elevator floor. Tatiana was lapping greedily at Alice’s tits now, where the latter’s shirt had been pulled open. With her hand she was fisting her cunt hard and fast, as if in anger.
I felt the tip of Morgan’s cock at my sphincter and let out another moan, half of dread, half of desire. I hadn’t done anal in years, and certainly never with Konrad. I clenched my jaw, closed my eyes and hung my head down, as if in shame.
‘Let it hurt, let it hurt,’ I said through gritted teeth.
I heard Morgan laugh, then there was a splitting pain as he drove his cock into my arsehole, not easing it in gently as my previous lovers had done. My whole body seized up in a rictus of agony so intense that I couldn’t even open my mouth to scream. Afterwards, I found that I’d bitten my tongue so hard it had bled, but I felt nothing of that at the time.
Then he was in fully, and fucking me, and the pain was mixed with pleasure, especially when Tatiana appeared below me, still partly clothed, and started pinching my nipples, playfully to begin with then harder. For a moment we looked into each other’s eyes, then I saw her reach one hand between her legs and start bringing herself off. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want the emotional involvement. I wanted to be myself, at least in my head.
Morgan withdrew from me, crawling underneath me and starting to fuck his wife. I stood up. Beside me, Jeremy was fucking Alice up the arse, whipping her with the crop. Dizzy, I stumbled back against the mirror and shoved my hand into my panties. I couldn’t be cheated of my orgasm now, by whatever means. Bracing myself against the glass, I rubbed at myself frantically, slipping my other hand inside me. I closed my eyes again, and I let the sounds of the others’ mounting pleasure guide me towards my own orgasm. I was alone, after all.
***
‘Is everything OK in there?’ came a disembodied voice from somewhere outside. The two couples were strewn around me on the elevator floor, in a post-orgasmic daze. I was sitting on the floor, zipping
up my dress, wondering what the hell had hit me. The alcohol was wearing off now, and I was starting to feel a bit hungover and even nauseous. I wanted to be away from them, back home, alone not just in spirit but physically. But I knew I couldn’t get away that easily.
Morgan jumped to his feet. ‘It’s OK, it seems to be working now,’ he called, gesturing to the others to pull themselves together. Nobody had got naked, so it only took a few seconds for them to straighten themselves up. Then Morgan pressed the button to the top floor and we began to ascend.
The Penthouse was vast and stylish. I headed straight for the bathroom and filled the huge tub, then stripped and climbed in, resting my head back and closing my eyes. After a minute or two I heard someone come in and then felt a hand on my forearm where it rested on the bath edge.
‘I’ve brought you some champagne,’ came Tatiana’s voice.
‘Thanks,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure I’d be drinking any more that night.
‘Do you need any help?’ she breathed.
I opened one eye and looked at her. There was something greedy and sinister in her eyes and I accepted that I might not be able to get away from here very easily. I wasn’t frightened, but I was starting to wish I’d never said yes to their invitation to go out. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t, but I was weak. That was my problem, I thought: I was a girl who could never say no.
Tatiana must have taken my silence for acquiescence, for she began stroking my arm all along its length, then she let her arm dangle in the bath and sink below the bubbles, and soon I felt her manicured fingertips flit around my clit and lips. I moaned, leaned my head back. It was stronger than me. My lusts and pleasures controlled me. I thought of Aileen back at school, of her climbing into my bed in the dorm, of the way she had taught me to orgasm, her fingers clamped over my mouth so that the other girls wouldn’t hear. I’d cried with the intensity of those early orgasms, partly out of gratitude to Aileen, I think, for showing me the way. It was her pussy I thought of now as Tatiana brought me to another climax in the bath, my hands clamped to its edge and my head thrown back.
The Exchange (Mischief Books) Page 13