Suite Encounters

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I wondered who Dalton was seeing tonight and what they would do. I knew most of his clients were men, though he saw couples and the occasional woman, too. He was open with me about what he did—once he’d figured out that I didn’t care about his doing business in the hotel, we’d fallen into the habit of chatting after his dates. But he never shared too many details. I wished he would. I wanted to picture it; wanted to know how he took off his clothes, if he did it slowly with a boyish smile, or if his clients preferred to unwrap him like a gift. I wanted to know his techniques for pleasing clients; if he was better at being forcefully passionate or tender and sensitive. I wanted to know if he preferred men or women.

  I wanted to know what it would be like if I hired him. If he would stammer and get uncomfortable, or if he would shrug and go to work. I wanted to know how I would feel paying for sex from someone who wasn’t attracted to me. If feeling his hard warm body against mine, his cock mine to command, would compensate for his lack of interest.

  And I really wanted to know what it was like to be so hot that people paid money to fuck you. I wasn’t homely, but I was invisible—the girl who got overlooked, the girl for whom the friend zone was invented. At twenty-six, I’d long since made my peace with this. But Dalton’s frequent nocturnal visits to the hotel made me aware that sexual magnetism and money were just different kinds of currency, and that I had little of either.

  One hour went by and then another. Dalton was still up there. That was unusual. He rarely spent the night with anyone and worked mostly in one- or two-hour shifts.

  Almost three hours after his arrival, the soft ping of the elevator sounded. He walked into the lobby looking defeated and annoyed. To my delight, he came straight for the desk.

  “Bad night?” I asked.

  “Horrible,” he said. “I hate clients like her. They don’t know what they want and no matter what you do, it’s never enough.”

  Her. A small spurt of jealousy went through me for that woman who’d just had three naked hours with Dalton. “Nothing you can do about that, I guess.”

  “Well…” He hesitated and gave me a disturbed look. “Okay, I’m just going to ask. When a woman says she wants to be dominated, what the hell is she expecting?”

  It was all I could do not to laugh. “Hasn’t anyone requested that before?”

  “Yeah, all the time. And they love it. I hold their arms down over their head, pull their hair, tell them what a dirty girl they are… I’ve even spanked them before.” He looked defiant.

  Sometimes I forgot how young he was. “Dalton, that’s how vanilla women like to be dominated. Submissive women are a different story. I’m guessing your client was a sub.”

  A frown creased his brow. Apparently even professional sex workers weren’t always versed in BDSM. “Okay, so what do subs want?”

  “Some want you to degrade them. Some want you to control them or punish them, or just bind and tease them with sensation. They’re all different. But mostly they want you to take over.”

  “And how do you know so much about it?”

  I leaned back in my chair, locked eyes with him and smiled. He got it.

  “Wow.” He looked away from me, embarrassed. I wondered if it made him uncomfortable to think about me sexually, his front-desk pal.

  “Okay.” He pushed his disheveled hair back. “So tell me what to do. I tried everything and she just laughed at me.”

  Poor Dalton. “There isn’t a secret formula. Like I said, everyone’s got different triggers.”

  “Nina, this is my job,” he said with real anguish. “I can’t be laughed at. Help me out.”

  “I …I can’t. Seriously, it’s something you have to feel.”

  He leaned his arms on the desk and looked in my eyes. “My whole job is about faking things I don’t feel,” he said pointedly.

  True. But I still didn’t want to propose the obvious. “You could try watching some domination porn.”

  “Or you could teach me.” He looked hesitant.

  Something fluttered deep in my gut. He had suggested it. It was his idea.

  “Okay,” I said. My voice was weak. I was always afraid of jinxing it when I was about to get what I wanted.

  The next night I met Dalton at the hotel two hours before my shift. I’d already gotten the key for the room and taken it offline so it couldn’t be assigned to a guest. Initially, he’d suggested my apartment, but the thought made me a little squirmy. I didn’t know if I could transition from seeing him naked in my bed to casually greeting him at work again. And the truth was that the idea of conducting a kinky lesson upstairs in the hotel while none of my coworkers knew I was on the premises was kind of exciting. So we met at a side door and took the back elevators up to the third floor.

  Oddly, he seemed more nervous than I was. I couldn’t imagine why, given that he met strangers for sex for a living. Hotels were as much his workplace as mine.

  He tapped my bag. “What’s in there?”

  “Tools.” I hadn’t brought anything too advanced, but I was curious how he’d react to them. “Just basic stuff.”

  The elevator stopped and we got out and walked down the green-and-gold-patterned corridor. Next to me, Dalton seemed even taller than I’d thought.

  “So am I going to need a whole kit for this kind of job?”

  “I would think the clients would provide their own toys, but you’d know that better than me.” I opened the door.

  The thrill of erotic anticipation flooded me as I took in the dual queen beds, oak bureau and matching table. The generic blandness and sterility seemed as always like a sanctum of anonymity, a promise that any sex here meant nothing as soon as the door closed at checkout time. It was why I loved hotel rooms. The utter lack of history and context seemed to make it possible to transform into the woman I wanted to be.

  My hands were shaking. To keep him from noticing, I tossed the bag on the bed and began to unpack it. Out came the nipple clamps, the spreader bar, the paddle and the cuffs. Dalton watched with fascination. “Christ, look at all this kinky stuff.”

  I couldn’t hold back. “Dalton, you’re a pro. How can you be shocked by all this? Don’t you see freaky stuff all the time?”

  “Not really,” he said. “Most of my clients want your basic suck and fuck. You’d be surprised how boring escorting can be.”

  He was right—I was surprised. “But what about your regular sex life?” I asked curiously. “What kind of sex are you into?”

  Dalton looked startled, then blushed and sat on the other bed. “Nothing. I mean, just regular stuff.”

  It sounded like I’d found a sensitive spot. Interesting. But I didn’t probe. Instead I pulled my T-shirt over my head and unsnapped my bra, letting it fall to the floor.

  I sat down topless on the bed, facing him. He looked at my nipples, then quickly looked away again. It was incredible how shy he was being, unless this was an act.

  I held out the clamps. “Put these on me.”

  “They look like they’d hurt.”

  “Dalton, just put them on me.”

  As he fumbled with the clamps, I began our first lesson. “It’s a myth that BDSM is all about hard-core pain. Some people are into that, but for most of us it’s about sensation and power exchange. Here, screw it a little tighter…it’s okay…right, like that.”

  He stared at my nipples. They were flushing a darker pink now. “How does that feel?”

  “It’s more about how it will feel later. When you take them off, my nipples will be so sensitive you can make me come just touching them.”

  He laughed awkwardly and ducked his head.

  “Dominate me,” I ordered him.

  “What?”

  “Just give it your best shot. Tell me what to do, order me around.”

  He got to his feet. For one comical moment, he raised his index finger as if he were going to scold me. “Take off your pants.”

  His tone wasn’t exactly masterful. I got up and stepped out of my je
ans and panties, then sat back down. He loomed over me as if thinking about what to do next. “Now what?”

  I suppressed a sigh. “Look, Dalton, I know you don’t actually want me, but pretend that you do. Tell me to spread my legs and show you my pussy. Tell me to finger myself, or get on all fours. Grope me. Tell me you’re going to do whatever you want to me because I’m just a little slut and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

  The color in his face deepened and he began to laugh nervously. “I would feel ridiculous saying all that. I mean, when you say it, it sounds good but…”

  Then I understood the problem. I stood up and took off the nipple clamps.

  “We’re doing this wrong,” I told him. “A lot of people believe you have to submit before you can dominate. So I’m going to show you, okay?”

  He ran a hand through his hair and laughed again. Was I imagining the relief in his voice? “Okay.”

  “Take off your clothes. All of them.”

  Now he was on familiar ground. Dalton backed up and began to pull off his shirt. He looked at the wall with this weird smile and I realized just how embarrassed he really was. I was the one whose presence had been requested tonight and he was the one who had done the requesting. He didn’t know who was the client here, him or me, and the ambiguity had robbed him of his usual confidence.

  His body was my idea of perfect—lean and sinewy, with a nicely sculpted chest and hard stomach. I held my breath as he pushed down his jeans. Good Christ, his cock was big: long and thick and a bit veiny, outsized in comparison to his narrow hips.

  “Good boy.” I tried not to let my voice betray the excitement rampaging through me. “Now stand still.”

  I stood up and walked a slow circle around him. I was dying to know when he’d gotten hard: when I got naked or when I began to dominate him. I supposed it didn’t matter, though the first would have been a nice compliment. “Lock your hands on the back of your neck.”

  His long back arched as he obeyed. I ran one fingertip down his spine, then cupped his ass. He had surprisingly round cheeks given his sinewy build and—oh, yes—they were virgin pale. He’d never been spanked, not recently at least, and I suspected not ever.

  My heart raced. I reminded myself to play this out properly.

  I stroked his thighs. He shivered. We hadn’t negotiated limits or talked about safewords; in fact, we hadn’t even talked about how much sex this instruction would actually involve, but his stiff cock was dark with engorgement, his balls were tight, and a pearly web of precome gleamed in the hotel lamplight. He was aching for this. It was written in his shaking thighs and the dazed mix of hope and entreaty in his eyes.

  I slid my fingers over his balls and our gazes locked.

  “Don’t look me in the eye.” I snapped my fingers near his face. “Look at the floor.”

  He obeyed. What a good boy. Even so, I pushed him down on the bed and hit his thighs lightly with the crop. “Open.”

  Dalton didn’t even wince, suggesting he might enjoy a little sting on his skin, and spread his legs like he was showing off his big cock for a photo shoot.

  I ran a light fingertip over his eyelids to close them. “Some subs like to be blindfolded,” I explained, “and that might be something for you to consider with your clients. It’s a form of sensory deprivation and it lets them pretend you’re whoever they want.”

  “Okay…” He sounded confused by this sudden insertion of instruction.

  I scratched my fingernails down his chest. He twitched. “And if you don’t know how much pain they can take, find out by doing some tests on a scale of one to ten.”

  “Nina.” His voice was hoarse. It sounded as if he was afraid I was going to retreat into professor mode and never deliver on this physical journey we’d started.

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Excellent question. I cropped him once more. “What I want is for you to lie there like my obedient pet boy and shut up. You don’t move, you don’t talk. You just lie there like a toy and let me use you, understand?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Mistress! We hadn’t even discussed how he should address me and here he was sliding into sub space on his own. I was sure now that Dalton was passionately submissive by nature, good at pleasing his clients and obeying their requests, but no doubt dreaming of a sterner hand. I wondered how often he fantasized about this: sex where he was no longer responsible for the delivery but could lie back and be delivered to.

  I got to work, locking his feet into the spreader bar and cuffing his wrists over his head. My stiff nipples were hot and my cheeks were flushed, and I could feel my wetness on the top of my thighs. All of my dreams about Dalton had been explicit, but in none of them had I even dared to hope for this much.

  I sat on the bed and pulled him over my knee. That pale, sumptuous ass was trembling. I lightly smacked his right cheek with the paddle and he jumped. “Oh, come on now, that was nothing,” I said. “You can take more than that.”

  I gave him a second smack on the left and he groaned. “I—oh, my god…” He clawed at the bedspread. So this was the fire at the heart of his secret fantasies: being spanked. I kept up a steady rhythm on those firm cheeks, the slap of the paddle in rhythm with his squirming on my lap. His erection was wedged between my bare thighs and as the spanking went on, he groaned harder, struggling to rub his cock against my skin.

  Much as I enjoyed it, that just wouldn’t do. I pushed him onto the bed.

  “Is this what you want?” His green eyes looked half wild. I rubbed his cock until he was jerking and twisting on the bedspread, straining against his bonds. Okay, we were off script at this point. I wasn’t really teaching him anything so much as exploiting the situation. But Dalton was panting and pushing his cock at me like he was begging for any part of me he could get.

  I straddled his narrow hips, pushed his shaft against my thigh and spanked it. “You’re my little bitch, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  I squeezed him until a soft guttural noise escaped him. “You’re my toy to use however I please, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, yes.”

  I pulled a condom out of my bag and wrapped up his dick, stroking him up and down my wet slit. The promise of him inside me was so good that my mouth was dry and I wanted to consume every inch of him. But I eased him in slowly, bit by bit, his enormous girth stretching my pussy walls. I’d always imagined mounting him and riding my way to heaven on his cock. The reality was a little more difficult. I balanced myself on his chest so I could control the depth of penetration. When he was lodged halfway inside me, I leaned over until my nipples just barely grazed his chest.

  He gave a little grunt and tried to thrust into me deeper. I remained still, making him work for access. Even bound up, he used his hips like a pro, pushing a little deeper inside me with every thrust. It felt incredible, the sensation of his muscles twisting and straining beneath me just for the privilege of experiencing my pussy.

  Dalton looked half drunk with lust now, his blond hair darkened with sweat. I reached beneath me and lightly stroked my clit. A warm whirlpool was building inside me, an insistent demand to sit all the way down on his cock, but there was a specific response I wanted from him first.

  “Nina, please. Please just fuck me.”

  I loved being begged. A rush of euphoria shot through me and I moved back until I was completely enveloping his cock. This was the nexus of domination for me, being craved and needed so desperately that the enslaved boy at my feet lost all pride and control. A strangled noise of gratitude escaped Dalton as my pussy surrounded every inch of him, and I began to move and twist on top of him until he was bucking desperately beneath me.

  “Don’t stop,” he cried. “Please, don’t stop…”

  I might have punished a different sub for such an outburst. But I knew Dalton’s plea was born out of desperation, that we weren’t mistress and sub or teacher and student anymore but
us, Nina and Dalton, fucking our hearts out from a need that had been there all along. I leaned over and gripped his damp blond hair in my fists like the reins of a horse, and rode him with a vengeance. Our rhythm was urgent and primal now, his enormous cock ramming me into the most delicious kind of soreness. My every nerve was drowning in fire. He struggled beneath me against the cuffs and spreader bar, a spectacle of beautiful, bound helplessness, and as he groaned again, I began coming in mindless wet shudders. Dalton let go and followed suit, hips working furiously to pump out his orgasm.

  When we caught our breath, I climbed off him and looked at the clock. Time to shower and get ready for the night audit. I unlocked Dalton.

  He rolled over onto his stomach, shaking out his legs and arms. He didn’t speak at first and I wondered if I had pushed him too far. Finally he got up and began to dress without meeting my eyes.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I have to say, I would never have guessed that you were submissive.”

  “I’m not.”

  He looked confused. “You said…”

  “I didn’t say anything. I smiled and you assumed.”

  Now he gave me a wary look of suspicion, as if I had tricked him. But he nodded finally and said, “You’re hard to read, Nina… I admire that about you.”

  I knew he meant it as a compliment. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you more pointers on how to dominate your clients,” I said. “I suppose this wasn’t that helpful.”

  He avoided my eyes again. “Yeah. We should probably do it a few more times, so I can take notes or something.”

  He scurried out without saying good-bye. I didn’t let myself watch him vanish down the corridor past all those other rooms he had been inside before. Instead I fell back on the bed, reveling in my solitude in that generic hotel room, where everything was temporary and I could be anyone, and every secret wish granted was a stepping stone to transformation.

  FEEL SO DIRTY

  Andrea Dale

  In the distance, I heard thunder.

  My friends Amber and Jon had rented a vacation cottage on the beach, so the thunder was pretty much the only noise. That and the faint hum of the AC, which didn’t do much to ease the stifling heat for me.