Suite Encounters

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “I’ve got a game,” Owen said, his tone sly.

  Chris and I both turned to stare at Owen who gave a casual shrug—completely at odds with the tension causing his cock to stiffen against his belly. “Depends on how flexible you are, Kelsey. And whether you’re any good at…multitasking.”

  I don’t know what made me laugh so hard—the fact he’d actually used the word “multitasking” with his thick Southern drawl or the shot of adrenaline that spiked my blood. However, when I quieted, I let him drape me sideways on the bed, my head hanging over the edge for Chris to take my mouth while Owen knelt, my thighs draped over his shoulders for him to prove to me just how diligent a country boy could be.

  I drifted in a happy sensual haze. This was so much better than the lazy orgasm I’d been willing to settle for. A brilliant send-off to the next chapter of my life. Rather than entering it with my shoulders drooping with disappointment, I felt sure the rosy blush of excitement would linger for a long time—a secret I’d keep to myself and savor for its delicious naughtiness.

  Owen slid a tongue between my folds and lapped like a dog from just beneath my pussy to my clit. My heels dug into his back.

  Chris leaned over me, his dick down my throat, his body braced on his arms as he moved in smooth shallow motions across my tongue to the back of my throat.

  I felt like one of those blow-up dolls, not expected to do anything but provide a convenient hole or two for the two men to use. Not that I really minded. Lying helpless, feeling overwhelmed by all the testosterone and male musk stinking up the room. I was really quite content.

  I knew with feminine surety that we’d be fucking until dawn. When I rolled out of the parking lot, I’d ache from head to toe and would have some bruises in intimate places. I also knew that even though I’d give them a casual good-bye, I’d find a way to slip my cell phone number into one of their pockets. Not that I expected this to develop into something more than what it really was.

  I might have begun this trip thinking the life I entered was a last resort, but I had options. Two of them at the moment. I reached around Chris’s buttocks and slid a finger between his cheeks.

  “God damn,” he whispered.

  My mouth stretched as I smiled around his cock. Yeah, I wasn’t in Iowa anymore.

  STILETTO’S BIG SCORE

  Michael A. Gonzales

  Excited by life, cinema and men, forty-five-year-old former blaxploitation icon Miki Jamison glanced at her smooth cinnamon-hued face in the movie-trailer bathroom mirror and remembered when she was still a young B-movie actress trying to make her way in Hollywood without playing maids or whores.

  Of course, while the ever-rotating planet had changed the world plenty in those two decades since her career fizzled and flopped after a few movies, Miki was glad she’d agreed to make the comeback film Savage Holiday. It was the smartest decision she had made in years, and Miki had no problem reviving her 1975 part as female action hero and custom shoe designer, Sharon Stiletto.

  In addition, she dug working with the energetic director Alex Reid. As the auteur behind two critically acclaimed, post-Tarantino crime flicks with lots of witty dialogue and graphic violence, Alex was brilliant, though sometimes he ranted like a coked-out madman.

  After shooting their first flashback scene that Monday morning, Miki returned to her deluxe trailer parked in front of Cortes’s Bar on 125th Street and St. Nicolas Avenue. Sitting on the small bed, she took off her high heels and flung them across the room. Silently massaging her sore feet, she wished she could just grab her fine costar and head back to her suite at the Sutton Hotel.

  Located on 110th and Fifth Avenue, the Sutton was the first five-star hotel in Harlem. A fifty-story sky palace, it was designed by Blake Parks, a premier architect in the nineties who was once a mentor to Frank Gehry. While some of the less refined tastes of the community thought the towering building was nothing more than an eyesore of twisted titanium and sparkling glass, architectural writers raved that the Sutton was a breakthrough in postmodernism.

  “Stimulating, beautiful and full of light,” wrote the New York Times critic. “From wherever one stands in the changing community, all one has to do is look up to see the gleaming metal and glass building.” Truthfully, like the exterior of the few Parks structures Miki had seen in her adopted hometown of San Francisco, it was in her opinion one of the ugliest buildings she had ever seen, but at least her suite was stunning.

  However, instead of lounging on the bedroom terrace catching an autumnal penthouse breeze or standing in the plush living room pouring another glass of champagne, Miki was working in the heart of the hood.

  Dressed to impress in a red and black flowing Pucci maxi-dress for the flashback scenes, she had worn a similar outfit in her 1975 magnum opus Foxy Stiletto. Flashing her full breasts to the world, the movie had transformed Miki Jamison from a nice New York City girl into a ripe sex symbol.

  A generation of young boys had flocked to the theater back when Pam Grier, Tamara Dobson and Miki Jamison were kicking ass with sass; for many of those fans she became the first object of their adolescent desire. With her perfect Afro that was sexy and seductive, she rolled around naked in their wet dreams as her hairy snatch and hardened nipples caused many sticky pajama bottoms come morning.

  Yet for the last twenty years, she had lived like a normal person, owning a string of beauty shops in the Bay Area and staying out of the limelight. Married briefly in the eighties, she was divorced and childless and had somehow managed, despite her drinking, to look ten years younger than her age.

  By some strange pop-culture circumstances a few years before, her name began popping up in random places and fame rediscovered her by accident. “Who is Miki Jamison?” a contestant answered correctly on “Jeopardy!” one night as the real Miki finished her Lean Cuisine.

  Days after the “Jeopardy!” name-drop, an Entertainment Weekly reporter wrote a profile on Jamison’s brief career, calling her “the Bettie Page of blaxploitation.” Smiling to herself as she read the article, Miki recalled her once-upon-a-time, crazy Hollywood years.

  A few weeks later, wunderkind director Alex Reid tracked her down and invited Miki to lunch in hopes of begging her to come out of retirement.

  With him dressed in a vintage pin-striped suit that gave him the aura of a Runyon character, they ate at the Chateau Marmont. “You were the godmother of them all,” Reid declared; spittle sprayed when he talked. “Coffy, Cleopatra Jones, you were the best.” Fattening her ego with champagne and compliments, he spoke passionately about her old grindhouse reels.

  With a beaming grin that would shame the Cheshire cat, one would have thought the hyperactive director was about to have a heart attack. “None of them bitches had what Stiletto had. You were the shit with a capital S.”

  “You were a fan, huh?” Miki coyly asked.

  “A fan? The way you used to pull out your blade and say, ‘Don’t make me slice ya, baby.’ Fuck a fan, I was in love.”

  After revealing the inner fan boy beneath his Hollywood snark, Reid snapped his fingers at a passing waitress and ordered two bottles of champagne. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he stage-whispered, dramatically leaning across the table, “but I wanted to be you. I wanted to be the bad Black chick that sliced first and asked questions later. I wanted to be that ebony bombshell with bazooka breasts and dynamite in her kisses. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be a six-foot-tall, bad mamma jamma with sharp knives and an attitude?

  “And don’t even let me get started on the shoes. Stiletto heels, damn. I went from puppy love to full-fledged foot fetish after seeing those heels. That’s why I feel obligated to make Savage Holiday as my own Stiletto movie. Let’s just say it’ll be one white boy’s way of giving back to the cinematic soul sisters who raised me.”

  Swayed by the director’s passion, a million-dollar paycheck and the best script she’d read in years, Miki signed on the dotted line. Although she thought things couldn’t get any more perfect, wh
en Reid told her that Lockhart Williams had agreed to play the notorious drug dealer King Johnson, they did.

  Back when Miki Jamison was still a young actress working in American International Pictures, making movies like Prison Sisters (1972), Beige Bomber (1973), Baby Go-Go (1974) and her most famous film, Foxy Stiletto (1975), she had sworn never to fuck her costars. Especially pretty boys with names like Billy Dee or Roundtree, dudes who dressed like pimps and thought their non-stinkable shit was precious as gold. With their egos the size of stadiums, it was easy to avoid the obvious train wrecks and overly macho former football players known for putting their broads in the hospital.

  However, shining star Lockhart Williams, with his hazel eyes and solid build, was the exception to the rule. Indeed, since Miki first saw him playing a Black Panther in the film Prophets of Rage (1972) opposite Ron O’Neal as Huey Newton, the man caused her clit to twitch.

  Standing over six feet, he was the first contemporary actor she ever had a serious crush on. Like a cocoa version of Burt Reynolds, Williams was playful and tough and had an onscreen persona that was cool as ice.

  A Shakespearean-trained actor forced to do B-movies to survive in Hollywood, he and Miki had met once at the Playboy mansion years ago. After an hour of heavy conversation, Williams excused himself from the room and Miki never saw him in person again.

  On that October afternoon, the entire production of Savage Holiday checked into the glam Sutton Hotel. Miki soon fell in love with the black and green Italian marble walls inside the bathroom. Standing under the soothing warm water of the shower, she lathered herself with L’Occitane body gel, washing away the grit of her five-hour flight to LaGuardia Airport.

  Twenty minutes later, stepping out of the tub that was deep enough to swim in, Miki dried herself thoroughly, lotioned her body and slipped on one of the thick bathrobes hanging on the back of the door. After combing and styling her long, kinky hair, she put on a pair of high-heeled mules and walked across the lush beige carpet to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, Miki popped the cork on one of the bottles of Veuve Clicquot stocked on the bottom shelf.

  Standing in front of the panoramic window view of Central Park, she gulped her champagne while admiring the changing leaves on the trees. After so many years away from the city of her birth, Miki loved being in New York in the fall.

  The sudden ringing of the doorbell startled her. “Delivery,” a thirtysomething Black man stuttered, obviously recognizing her from the movies of his youth. Sometimes when guys met their old jerk-off/pinup material in the flesh, they were flustered.

  Rolling a fancy platinum cart containing a few wardrobe bags and shoeboxes, the hotel staffer walked into the massive suite, opened the closet and hung them up. There was also a manila envelope on the cart that he handed to her.

  “Thank you very much,” she said, giving him a ten-dollar tip. She learned long ago that if you treated the hotel staff well, they looked out for you.

  “No problem, Miss Jamison.” The bellhop pushed the cart back outside. “If you need anything, just ask.” Minutes later, she opened the envelope, pulling out a CD and a folded letter.

  Scribbled on nice hotel stationery was a note from her director. I trust you’re happy with your suite. In the wardrobe bags, you’ll find costume samples, including dresses and shoes. On the CD are some rough drafts for the soundtrack done by a group called The Feelgoods. After putting on the funky music, Miki poured herself another drink and decided to go inspect the bags of clothing samples.

  There were all kinds of outfits she might have worn back in the day, but not even the biggest freak wanted to see her sporting red rhinestone hot pants or a rainbow-hued miniskirt. However, opening the second bag, Miki knew she had found a friend in the wardrobe department when the beautiful maxi-dresses spilled out.

  Instantly, an ocean-blue one caught her eye. With sexy slits on the side and a plunging neckline that highlighted her attractive cleavage, the dress fit perfectly. Discarding her mules, she found a pair of gold Versace shoes with pretty straps. Drinking more champagne, a slightly tipsy Miki modeled and danced in front of the mirror.

  A few minutes later, there was another knock at her door. Thinking it was the bellhop again, she flung open the door and was shocked to see her costar, Lockhart Williams, standing in the hallway wearing clunky platform shoes, gray double-knit pants, a black mock neck and black leather jacket with the collar and sleeves trimmed in white fur. On his head, he wore a wide-brimmed hat tilted to the side.

  “Look at us, both dressed in character like it was Halloween. I’m not sure we should play ourselves in these damn flashback scenes,” she smiled.

  “Do you think we can get your boy Alex to delete the flashbacks altogether?” Lockhart blurted and busted out laughing. Despite being weary, Miki also cracked up. “I mean, I haven’t dressed in these clown clothes since Nixon was in the White House,” Lockhart added.

  “For some reason, the flashbacks seemed like such a good idea in the script, but you might be right. Unless he shoots us in either smoke or shadows, we’re both going to look crazy.”

  Lockhart looked her up and down and smiled. “Well, at least you look good in your vintage gear. Mine, on the other hand, looks like I’m one of those delusional dudes hanging out in the club, stuck in time and can’t let go of the past.”

  “We might have to change your name to Goldie, like that pimp in The Mack,” she chuckled as invisible cartoon champagne bubbles floated out of her mouth, drifted toward the ceiling and softly burst. “Can I pour you a drink?”

  Opening the door wider, she heard a voice in the back of her head trying to warn her to behave, but she simply ignored it.

  “Don’t mind if I do, baby girl,” he said, slowly stepping into the room. “But first you have to let me step out of these damn platforms.” Flopping on the couch, he slipped the shoes off. “Man, I didn’t even wear kicks like those when they were in style.”

  Once the shoes were off, Miki handed him a flute of champagne. Gentlemanly, he bowed his head and raised his glass. “To the most beautiful woman on the production,” he said. “Thank you for coming out of retirement, so we could all get jobs. If I had to sign autographs at one more comic book convention, I might’ve hurt somebody.”

  The two gulped their drinks and Miki refilled them immediately. As though hearing the music for the first time, Lockhart nodded to the beat. “What you listening to?”

  “Some songs Alex sent over, stuff he might use for the soundtrack. Got a bunch of young white guys who play and sing like a bunch of old black guys. These kids today have the best musical technology in the world, but they all want to sound low-fi and dusty like Al Green, Curtis Mayfield or Isaac Hayes.”

  “Can’t say that I blame them,” Lockhart joked as he drank the champagne. After they’d listened to a few short musical pieces that were obviously for the theme song and action scenes, the pace slowed down and a haunting Hammond organ blared from the speakers like a midnight train.

  Slowly working her way toward the stereo, Miki pressed the repeat button. Assured that the same soulful song would play all night long, she said, “Let’s go outside on the terrace.” Lockhart held out his hand and Miki grabbed it as though holding on to a life preserver.

  Walking through the bedroom, Miki pressed a button and the glass door slid open. “Now that’s style,” Williams said. As they gazed toward the clear sky, the quarter moon and the shining stars looked as though one could touch them. “With a view like this, I should get to the fiftieth floor more often.”

  Sweetly, he held her around the waist as they swayed to the beat. As a haunting saxophone and jazzy guitar gently wept, she was reminded of waterfalls. After the dance, they leaned against the terrace railing and Miki gasped as Lockhart grabbed her ass firmly, pulling her closer.

  While she closed her eyes as they made out like horny high school kids, he firmly rubbed his fingers against her sex. Breathing heavy, her scream momentarily drowned out the drums and salsa
percussion as the falsetto-singing soul boy on the track moaned lyrics about “autumn rains,” “forever” and “don’t go away.”

  Sung in a tone that was sexy and sweet, it made Miki think of warm honey dripping down her belly, sticking to her pubic hair and glazing her clit. “Turn around,” Lockhart whispered in her ear; letting go briefly, Miki followed his orders and listened as he unfastened his belt buckle.

  Taking a side glance at Lockhart, she saw that he was now completely naked while she was still fully dressed. “Didn’t I say turn around?” Lockhart grunted, as he slowly slid the maxi-dress up Miki’s tingling body, loving the feel of the silky qiana material on her skin.

  Grabbing her by the back of her hair, Lockhart rubbed his cock between her buttcheeks as Miki bent over slightly, anticipating the moment his hardness would enter her. Staring blindly into the lights of the city twinkling in the distance, she squealed and moaned as Lockhart finally blew her mind.

  After shooting the final flashback scene of the day, the hyperactive director stood in front of the cast and showered “returning star Miki Jamison” with compliments about her performance. “I could really feel your hatred for King Johnson,” Reid observed. “So much energy and passion.”

  After Reid invited her to watch the rushes, Miki caught Lockhart’s eyes and smiled. Dressed in his character’s pimp clothes and platform shoes, he returned her goodwill. Grinning back, Williams shrugged his shoulders and nodded toward the direction leading to their hotel. Having already given him the extra key to her suite, Miki could barely wait to get back to the Sutton.

  SPECIAL REQUEST

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I love my job as a hotel concierge, because every day is utterly different from the last. One day I might be called upon to have a treadmill, exercise bike, yoga instructor or Reiki healer sent to a room, another day it might be a pet snake or exotic foodstuff. My hotel specializes in offering anything a customer wants, for a price, and I’m the go-to person, the professional procurer.