Suite Encounters

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  He rocked his hips up, catching the rhythm of the couple next door, who’d sped up considerably. For a moment, Sam thought of the last time he’d been in a hotel, a weekend away with a friend with benefits who’d taken forever to get her first orgasm, then gone off with almost nothing for three or four after.

  Inviting a mutual friend to join them had been a great idea; Sam would give them a call when he got back to London, see if they wanted to hook up.

  He wasn’t entirely surprised to blink his eyes open for a moment, and find, when he closed them again, that the anonymous couple had turned into Wei and Jess. Jess didn’t have the perfect tan and toned body of his hypothetical girl, but watching her, half memory, half fantasy, made Sam’s cock jerk in his hand.

  He could hear himself breathing, too loud, too fast, almost panting, a sharp burst of sound coming from his throat on every exhalation. Next door, the girl was gasping out sharp, “Ah, ah, ah,” noises in time with the headboard knocking at the wall, and then said, “Put your—touch me,” and Sam thought for a second that he’d come just from that, from imagining Wei’s hand between Jess’s legs, his own hand between the anonymous girl’s legs; how she’d feel, slick and wet on his fingers as he rubbed at her, how her voice would—did—go high pitched, sharp and loud, too loud, god, she sounded—

  “Not yet, not yet, I’m close, don’t,” the guy said. Sam worked his own cock hard, fucking up into his own fist, twisting a little over the head, his thumb on that spot that felt so good. He brought his free hand down to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, damp with sweat, desperate to get there before they did.

  “Oh, fuck,” the girl shouted, “oh, fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop don’t stop, don’t—”

  Her shout of pleasure couldn’t really be misinterpreted, even if it hadn’t been followed by a cessation of all thumping and squeaking. Sam kept up his own rhythm for a handful of strokes, reaching for his climax, but it was already starting to back off, the intensity he’d felt a moment ago dissipating.

  He slowed down, catching his breath. He’d kicked the covers off at some point, and the sheet under his back was damp with his own sweat. From the room next door, he could hear murmuring voices—great, the exchange of sweet nothings part of the evening.

  The last thing he was expecting was the thump-squeak of bodies changing position, followed by the girl’s voice moaning and the guy’s dragging low in a long exhalation of pure pleasure. Surely they couldn’t be—she’d sounded totally done with that orgasm—but the man’s voice sounded questioning, followed by hers assenting.

  Jess, sprawled naked on her back, Wei sliding into her, her hands curled tight around the headboard, his on her shoulders holding her in place as he fucked her, driving toward his orgasm.

  Sam moaned, speeding up the strokes to his own cock, his heartbeat picking up as he got his climax back in sight. Distantly, he was aware that he was moaning again, too loud, that his own bedsprings were squeaking as he jerked his hips up into his own hand. None of it mattered—he was pretty sure he couldn’t have stopped for anything short of a fire alarm, and then only if it was accompanied by an actual fire.

  The guy cried out, “Yes, yes, yes, oh, god,” and Sam slammed his hand down on his cock as he shoved his hips up one more time, and came all over himself.

  He slept through breakfast the next morning, and woke up too hot, skin grubby with dried sweat and come, thigh muscles aching. Totally worth it. He hadn’t passed out after coming since he was a teenager getting sucked off for the first time.

  He wasn’t going to make the fishing trip he’d idly thought about joining. Standing in the shower, he decided he could still go out on the pier, where he’d seen fishermen the day before. A day doing nothing much would be good after the night before.

  He should have expected it, but his life, the night before notwithstanding, wasn’t a sitcom or a farce. Upon opening his door to find his next door neighbor—the woman, who was shorter than he’d imagined her, and a little older, dark hair cut short around her ears—stepping out of hers, he immediately felt his face go bright red.

  “Good morning,” he said, hoping she’d attribute the rasp in his voice to—well, anything really, anything that wasn’t, I’m embarrassed because I listened to you fuck last night and I’d totally do you now that I’ve seen you.

  She smiled, showing crooked teeth. “I was hoping I might run into you. Um.” She looked both ways down the corridor like she was hoping for salvation, then met his eyes again when it failed to materialize. “I don’t want to, um, police your sexuality or anything, and I think it’s great that you’re so…open…about sex, especially when you’re, you know, on your own—not that there’s anything wrong with masturbating, I mean, everyone does it… Right. It’s just—you were kind of loud? Last night?” She giggled a little. “Walls are thin, you know, and don’t get me wrong, it sounded like you were having a great time, but we’d just sort of prefer not to be, you know, part of it.”

  Sam closed his mouth, which he was pretty sure had fallen open when she started talking about masturbation. Tempting as it was to point out that he’d never have started anything if she and her partner had kept it down to a dull roar, it was clear that she had no idea he’d been able to hear them (how was that even possible, what, they thought they were quiet? Maybe they fucked with earplugs in). “I’ll try,” he promised, hoping he wasn’t still blushing. Actually, what the hell, if he was going to be uncomfortable, she could be as well. “Maybe I’ll dig out that gag.”

  She blinked, her eyes hot. “That always works for me,” she said. “Anyway, Jake’s waiting for me; nice to meet you. In person, as it were.”

  “You, too,” Sam said automatically, and waited until she’d turned the corner before he thumped his head back against his own door. He was so screwed, and totally not in the good way.

  Well, unless he could persuade her that gags could work for the three of them together. Sam headed toward the lifts, already plotting out the coming night’s entertainment.

  AN INSPECTOR COMES

  Suzanne Fox

  The Art Nouveau decor of the country house whisked me back to 1930s England, an era of decadent sophistication. Why was I here? I had asked myself this question all the way to the hotel. After all, I was about to spend the next two days in the company of strangers while trying to solve a pretend murder.

  It was Gavin’s fault. He’s the brother of one of my friends and he loves murder mysteries, trying to convert everyone he meets into becoming an amateur sleuth. After months of his enthusiastic tales, I finally submitted to his sales pitch and booked a place on the Manor Hotel’s murder weekend. I suppose I was intrigued and even looking forward to dressing up in the clothing of the period, imagining what it was like to be one of the privileged few who behaved badly without responsibility.

  I was shown to my room by Robert, dressed in the maroon uniform of a 1930s bellhop. There the decor continued with beautiful, carved oak furniture and sumptuous, deep red, soft furnishings. It was a luxurious change from my minimalist apartment.

  After unpacking, I studied the itinerary that I’d received earlier. The instructions were brief. I was Coco Devine, a wealthy socialite, and I was to dress accordingly. The party would consist of a mixture of paying guests, plus a number of actors who would mingle with the party. Drinks and introductions were at seven o’clock, followed by dinner and “entertainment” in the dining room. More information would be revealed as necessary. There was one rule. We must stay in character and costume for the entire weekend.

  With a couple of hours to kill before meeting my fellow sleuths, I decided to immerse myself in my character.

  With a gin and tonic from the minibar, I wandered into the en suite bathroom. A roll-top bath dominated the ornately tiled room. I drew a deep, steaming bath, adding a splash of one of the luxury oils provided by the hotel. The aroma rising with the steam was exquisite.

  Clipping my hair into a knot, I kicked off my sh
oes and unzipped my dress, letting it fall to the floor. I abandoned my underwear to the same messy pile and stepped into the tub. The water enveloped my body in a warm, fluid caress that reached my breasts. My dark nipples poked clear of the surface.

  I sipped the drink, feeling the gin trace a warm path down my throat. The alcohol and the warm water relaxed me completely.

  Using a large sponge, I started to soap myself along the length of my arms, up over my shoulders and across my breasts. As the sponge slid over my nipples, they started to tingle and I concentrated my soaping there, rubbing the sponge round and around. Each time it brushed my nipples, a shiver radiated down my stomach and between my legs. I moved the sponge faster, building up a delicious friction while my free hand stroked down my belly, over my shaved mound, to slip between my thighs. I buried my hand deeper, raising my knees and resting them against the sides of the bath.

  I sought my pussy, tracing the fleshy folds surrounding my tight opening. Parting the folds, I slipped a finger inside me, slowly circling to find my G-spot. I rubbed, feeling the tension rise, and within moments I could feel myself edging closer and closer to coming. But wanting to savor it for a little longer, I slowed down my fingering and let my juice-coated finger slip from me.

  I started to glide my fingers along the length of my slit, creeping closer to my clit with each stroke, knowing the moment I reached it I would come. Finally, I allowed myself to reach the nub of swollen flesh between my legs. I stroked and pinched it, gasping until my orgasm jolted through my body like a bolt of electricity. I thrashed about, creating a tidal wave of bathwater that spilled over the roll top and onto the floor. Shuddering, I drew back my hand and lay in the water, letting my breathing and heart rate slow down while enjoying the feeling of warmth spreading from my sex.

  After recovering, I stepped from the bath and patted myself dry with big, soft towels, dropping them to the floor afterward to soak up some of the splashed water.

  I walked naked into the bedroom, my body aglow from its recent exertions. I smoothed a heavily scented body lotion over my limbs and torso, adding a spritz of perfume between my breasts. I reapplied my makeup and at last it was time for me, Lisa Carter, to become Coco for the weekend.

  I pulled on a pair of black French knickers, the smooth silk molding itself to my curves. I added a matching bra, suspenders and seamed stockings, taking my time to ensure that the seams running the length of my legs lay straight. I looked in the mirror, happy with my reflection. For the first evening I had chosen an emerald-green, vintage evening gown epitomizing my glamorous character. A pearl necklace and earrings, black Mary Janes and a beaded evening bag completed the look. I unclipped my hair, letting my dark curls fall onto my shoulders. A final slick of red lipstick and Coco was ready to face the world.

  On entering the bar, I accepted a glass of champagne from a waitress carrying a large silver tray of flutes. I reveled in the lustful looks I was getting from the men and the envious glances of the women in the room. It boosted my confidence and I knew I would enjoy myself. The men were wearing dinner suits and the women were in evening gowns. It was truly a glamorous affair.

  For the next half hour I (Coco?) mingled with the others. I flirted with the men, touching their arms when we spoke, my gaze lingering a little longer than was necessary, and swaying my hips whenever I walked, knowing full well how the dress hugged my body. I embraced Coco with vigor. I loved being her. And everyone else embraced his or her character, too. I couldn’t tell who was a guest and who was an actor, everyone played his part so well.

  Soon a footman ushered us into the dining room, where we took our places at an elaborately set dining table. The silverware gleamed, the crystal sparkled and huge candelabra bathed the room in a flickering mantle of light.

  The general chatter was continuing through the first course when a scream brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. The waitress who had served the champagne ran into the room sobbing, “He’s dead, he’s dead,” again and again. A distinguished-looking gentleman, introducing himself as Sir George Montague, rose from the table. He hurried over to the distressed waitress, ordering her to show him what had happened. We followed them into the adjacent billiard room, where a man lay facedown on the floor, a knife protruding from his bloodstained back. Things were getting exciting.

  Sir George took charge, ushering everyone back to the dining room and requesting that a waiter call the police. He encouraged us to enjoy our meal while we awaited their arrival. The conversation had stepped up a notch now. One or two people dropped nuggets of information into the chatter. The dead man, Frederick Deville, who had earlier enjoyed champagne in the bar with the rest of us, had been seen leaving the bedroom of a prominent and married lady. Another guest complained that she had had some jewelry stolen and had seen Frederick in the vicinity of her room. Gradually, a picture of the victim began to emerge, along with a number of motives for his slaying.

  As the last spoonful of Belgian chocolate torte slipped down my throat, the doors to the dining room burst open and two men strode in. The first was tall, powerfully built, with an authoritative air. The second man was also tall but slighter, with dark eyes that immediately scanned the room, noticing everyone present.

  The first man moved to the head of the table, commanding everyone’s attention. “Good evening,” he said, his voice as strong as his body. “I am Inspector Harry Winchester. And this man,” he waved a hand toward his colleague, “is Sergeant Price. We are investigating the murder of Frederick Deville, the unfortunate chap found dead in the billiard room.” He paused and looked around the table. “Sergeant Price and myself will be talking to each of you to try and establish who killed Mr. Deville. I must warn you that you’re all under suspicion and it’s in your own interests to assist in unmasking the murderer. I assure you that by tomorrow evening at the latest I will have made an arrest and one of you will be facing trial and the hangman’s noose.”

  A middle-aged woman turned to me and whispered, “He’s very good, isn‘t he? I wouldn’t mind being interrogated by him.”

  I smiled and replied, “Who knows, you may get your chance.” She giggled and raised her glass.

  The two policemen split up to interview us in turn. Meanwhile we formed little groups to discuss the murder. Over the next couple of hours theories abounded, accusations were made and tears and tantrums occurred. Sergeant Price quizzed me for a while. His questions were clever and I realized that the game had started the moment we arrived at the hotel. He asked about people I had seen, what they had been doing, and suddenly, I was suspicious of my fellow diners. Was the lady I passed in the corridor really waiting for her husband? Was the man who stepped outside only in need of a cigarette? Innocuous events took on sinister meanings. I was having a good time, though, almost believing I had stepped back in time and my real name was Coco. I’m sure I wouldn’t have replied if anyone had called me by my real name.

  The evening flew by and Inspector Winchester announced that he would continue his investigation the following day and no one was to leave the hotel. We all wished each other good night like we had known each other for years and the room emptied as, one by one, we headed to our rooms.

  I had reached the staircase when a firm hand took hold of my arm. I spun around and looked up into the face of Inspector Winchester.

  “I don’t think I’ve had the chance to ask you any questions yet, Miss,” he said.

  “Well, I was about to retire for the night. Maybe your questions can wait until the morning?” I replied.

  “I don’t think so. I’ll come with you. We’ll talk in your room.”

  “I hardly think that’s appropriate. I have my reputation to think about.”

  “A man’s been murdered tonight. Your reputation is not high on my list of priorities.” He tightened his grip and started to mount the stairs. I had no choice but to go with him. As we made our way, a tremor of excitement worked its way along my spine and I was conscious of his hand gripping my arm.
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  When we entered my room, he let go of my arm and I walked over to the minibar. “I’m having a gin and tonic,” I said. “Can I tempt you?”

  “A whisky would be good.”

  “Even though you’re on duty? Shame on you.” I poured the drinks and handed one to the inspector. He drank it in one gulp.

  “So can you tell me where you were before dinner?” he asked.

  “I was in my room the whole time from arriving until I went down for dinner.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “No, I was alone.” My heart rate quickened as I sensed we were playing a dangerous game. “I took a bath and spent my time preparing for the evening.”

  The inspector walked around the room. He opened the bathroom door, observing the wet towels on the floor. He also noticed the puddle of water that the towels had failed to fully absorb. “It seems as though there was an awful lot of splashing for just one person.” He turned to face me and I felt the heat rise in my face at the memory of my bath time.

  He closed the door and continued around the room, opening and closing drawers as he went. He pulled a red velvet bag from the third drawer he opened. “What’s this?” He held the bag toward me.

  “Nothing,” I gasped. By now the blood had pumped to my face and I could feel myself burning. I could only squirm with embarrassment as Harry spilled its contents onto the bed. A large, beautifully crafted glass dildo slid out along with a bottle of lube. I had not been expecting company this weekend.

  Harry picked up the dildo and held it toward me. “Is this some kind of weapon?” he demanded.

  My throat dried up. “No,” I whispered. “It’s a toy.” I had never felt so embarrassed in my life but I was getting incredibly turned on at the same time. I could feel the silk of my panties getting damper by the minute. There was excitement in this man’s almost aggressive questioning.

  “A toy? It looks threatening to me. Let’s put it away for now.” He walked to the fridge of the minibar and placed it inside. “I think you’re hiding something from me.” Harry took off his jacket and placed it over the back of a chair. He sat down and leaned back, crossing an ankle over his knee. “I should search you for any weapons.”