Suite Encounters

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I’m paid handsomely for the job—as I should be, considering it involves crazy hours and traversing all the hidden nooks and crannies of Los Angeles, and sometimes other parts of California—but that’s not what I love best about it. I love it because I’m a people person, and there’s no better job for meeting new people every day than catering to the demands of a high-end hotel’s ritziest, most demanding customers. I graduated with a degree in sociology but quickly learned the best way of studying human beings isn’t by studying them, but by interacting with them and being privy to their secrets. I was like a special combination of therapist and magician, ready to listen to the oddest of requests and produce the desired results, while sparing my clients any of the tedium of decision-making. All they had to do was decide they wanted something, and I made it happen.

  I’d been doing the job for five years, on a lucky break fresh out of college after applying for the job and being sent on what amounted to a scavenger hunt. I received a hefty bonus each year and was treated as a key part of the team. I was at every important meeting, and while my name didn’t appear in the hotel’s literature or press releases, the fact that we offered every amenity one could imagine was clearly stated. My existence was a little bit under-the-radar, but word got around, and often I’d be requested by name by clients who wouldn’t part with the information about their needs unless we were in a locked room and they’d made sure nobody else was listening. Basically, I’m paid to be discreet, discerning, direct and thorough, to listen without judgment. As long as the client can pay our fees, they can have anything flown in from anywhere; they can buy goods, services, and even sex—for the right price. I’d even signed a noncompete, and while I knew I hadn’t seen everything, I thought I’d come pretty damn close—but nothing had prepared me for Claudine.

  Usually the people making the requests were men. Rich men, sometimes Hollywood stars, since we’re located in Beverly Hills; sometimes athletes, sometimes politicians or princes or just your average millionaire or even wild-card billionaire who wants the fluffiest towels, a new designer bathrobe every day, private access to the hot tub, and a pretty woman to fluff the towels, not to mention fluff him if desired. I don’t mind even the most obscure requests, since at the end of the day, I know I’m helping brighten someone’s visit, and giving them the kind of full service no other hotel can match.

  Sometimes it’s a couple desiring my services, the husband busy with meetings while the wife wants a guided tour of the best shops and spas, or a partner to hike mountains with. Maybe she’ll be dripping with diamonds, and ask for her food to be steamed and spiced to perfection, but with no fat. I’d sought out tattoo artists, feng shui specialists for long-term guests, nutritionists, manicurists, Japanese hair-straightening specialists, and more. But Claudine wanted something entirely different. “This is all confidential, right? You don’t have the room bugged or anything, do you?” she asked as I sat in a chair and watched her, my face professional but utterly curious. She was clearly not a lady who lunched—at least, not at any of the high-end see-and-be-seen restaurants my clients usually requested. Her elegance wasn’t about designer labels, but an air of both entitlement and sexual power; she radiated her body heat across the room, so I knew it was going to be one of the racier requests I’d handled even before she spoke.

  “Of course not. Your privacy and satisfaction are of the utmost importance to us. To me.” I was surprised at her cautiousness. She was younger than I’d expected, not a wealthy widow or CEO, but a girl, really, who looked close to my age, twenty-eight. Her clothes were simple enough on the surface, though the jeans were designer, the white blouse clearly silk, the lacy white bra beneath it sturdily sculpted, showcasing her beautiful breasts, and the five-inch leopard-print heels were fierce, proclaiming her a woman not to mess with. There were no flowers in her hair or on her clothing; she was a woman who meant business, even though her business was of a kind only a woman like me could provide.

  “So I booked this room because I’d heard from a friend that you will do anything to fulfill your clients’ wishes. I’ve been unable to find anyone who could meet my exact specifications, but you look like you’ll know where to find what I need. And my wish is for, well, an orgy. Tomorrow night. I want a room full of hot men and women to pleasure me and each other. Not professionals, just regular sexy people looking to have a good time. And I want you to join us. That’s a must. As a guest, off the clock. Confidentially of course—I must make sure not a word of this gets out,” Claudine finished with a Cheshire cat–like smile.

  I’d just finished telling her I could get her anything she wanted, so I couldn’t refuse—not if I wanted to keep my job, not to mention my pride. Instead, I just stared at her, agog. I’d brought in ladies of the night, fetish specialists, pro subs and dominatrices. I’d had people ask me to personally pour them baths full of champagne, and I’d even sipped a little as a recent Oscar winner had extended his gorgeous body into his suite’s sumptuous tub while I’d popped cork after cork until he was fully submerged. He’d asked me to join him and while I was very, very tempted, I declined save for the luxury of pouring the chilled bubbly over his shoulders, then splashing the last few drops onto his face and indulging in one of the hottest kisses of my life. I was pretty sure he had a cell phone full of numbers of women who’d be more than willing to slip into his tub, so I’d left him to them.

  I did, in fact, have the numbers of plenty of escorts and dominatrices handy, friends who specialized in high-end clients who I trusted implicitly for their discretion and ability to do their job well. But Claudine wanted real people, not professionals—except for, well, me. She wanted people who weren’t acting like they wanted to share her bed, but who would be overjoyed to worship her leopard-print heels, not to mention the rest of her. I could tell that she wasn’t so much a voyeur or exhibitionist as used to being the centerpiece of any encounter, erotic or otherwise; she’d never be so crass as to say “gang bang” but she wasn’t going to be satisfied unless all those hands and mouths were focused on her at some point in the night. I wasn’t sure if I was doing my job or relegating my duties when an image of Claudine with men nibbling on her toes and a woman buried between her legs flashed in my mind.

  “Now, if we understand each other, I’m going to slip into a bath. I need to soak my feet.” Claudine smiled at me, her glistening red lips curving upward, her brown eyes dancing over my surprised face. She unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it on the bed, then casually reached behind her to unhook her bra, letting her large, clearly natural breasts hang heavily against her, before pausing to finish her instructions.

  “I’d love a couple, and maybe some college kids, a girl with some tattoos, a man with a huge cock. A boy I can tie up. With you as my dessert,” Claudine added with a laugh before stepping toward me, placing her hand at the back of my head, and giving me a full, passionate kiss, as if that were something she were used to doing with her minions. Her mouth tasted minty and sweet, and her tongue was as possessive as the rest of her. It was the kind of kiss I was used to from men, not women. Her breasts pressed against me, begging me touch them. I was still in shock, but my pussy clearly wasn’t, because it responded to her touch, to her tongue darting against mine. She pulled away, then slithered out of her jeans and panties, before waving good-bye and sliding into the bathroom, where the sound of rushing water greeted me. I rubbed at my lips, hoping to remove the lipstick as quickly as I could.

  I left and went to my office, opening up my notebook and writing her name at the top. I couldn’t believe this. Why would a woman like her come here? I mean, yes, we promised full service, but she was taking that slogan to its grandest possible conclusion, aside from requesting a mountain of coke to roll around in or a chauffeur-driven Lamborghini Aventador. I would’ve been well within my rights to refuse, or to simply refer her to someone better suited to meeting her needs, yet I didn’t want to. It wasn’t just the challenge of Claudine’s request, or the probable tip, or anything of
a professional nature; I wanted to be there, as me, Francine, the woman who’d just been kissed by a woman who went after exactly what she desired. I wanted to see, feel, taste, smell and simply luxuriate in being at such a hedonistic event, at my workplace.

  This task was naughty yet dutiful, and being either of those was a surefire way to turn me on; combining them was already sending my libido through the roof. I’m not submissive in real life, and barely call myself a sub in the bedroom, but I do like serving, pleasing, providing. It makes me good at my job, and adds a frisson of sexual energy to my day, not to mention making me glad I contributed to the world. No, I’m not off lobbying Congress or anything, but I like to feel that what I put out into the universe is positive, that my existence feeds others, sometimes literally. Plus, there was the mystery factor. I wanted to find out, up close and personal, why Claudine was so eager for this, since she was clearly a woman who could probably walk into any bar, smile, snap her fingers and produce a round of admirers.

  I’m not a quitter, but it was more than my work ethic at stake. I liked who Claudine had turned me into in those few minutes alone together, the kind of woman who gets selected and seduced, who other women wanted for real, not just for a quickie make-out session at a bar. I’m mostly into guys, but beautiful women have a seemingly magical effect on me. Plus I’d always wanted to host an orgy myself but had never had the guts to orchestrate that particular fantasy. I’d been to a few, sure, but they’d never quite lived up to my vivid imagination. I had a feeling that even if I invited total losers, Claudine would find a way to spin them into the equivalent of sex-party gold; I was just the conduit.

  Alone in my office, I immediately texted my best friend, Tracy, as well as Henry, our mostly gay but into the occasional woman pal, and a couple I knew who made documentaries for money, and documented their own wild swinging sex life for fun. All of them were free Saturday, and Tracy was planning to bring her basketball-player boyfriend, while Henry had a hot young thing he had a date with that night; at the very least, they’d provide some entertainment for the rest of us. He referred me to a queer dyke couple who were more than happy to come once I promised them a free room.

  I explained to each of them that this wasn’t my idea, but Claudine’s, and they were not only sworn to secrecy, but part of the bargain was that they’d have to be amenable to helping Claudine have the best time possible. I didn’t want to lose her as a guest, not just for the money, but because I prided myself on retaining our most demanding customers, some of whom had been staying at our hotel for over twenty years, since long before my tenure.

  I went to bed that night and deliberately didn’t masturbate, wanting to save myself for the following night. I woke up early from a feverish dream in which Claudine had wrapped a slim silver chain around my neck and was leading me around by it, taking me on a tour of the hallways I walked purposefully in my heels every day, while I simultaneously reveled in being potentially seen by customers and blushed at the thought.

  I was in full party-planning mode, and each action only made me wetter. I bought lube and gloves and condoms; nipple clamps, dildos, butt plugs. I filled a whole basket at the sex-toy store, causing even the jaded clerk to raise his eyebrows at the large bill, and my use of a corporate card to pay for it. Normally, I have little patience with nosy clerks, but this time I sized him up and decided on the spot to offer him an invitation. “I’m hosting a party. Well, my new friend is. It’s at this address, in this room. You’re invited, if you think you can handle it, Patrick,” I said as I signed the bill. He looked a little stunned, but he smiled and stammered and said he’d try to make it.

  I bought a selection of snacks and sodas and alcohol, programmed my iPod and made sure the rooms on either side of Claudine’s were free. One of them opened up to a suite, and as for the other, I didn’t want to risk someone booking it and them being subjected to what surely wouldn’t be a quiet crowd. Then it was my turn to get ready. What does a girl wear to an orgy? I sifted through my outfits, then my lingerie drawer, finally concluding that what I wore, aside from a smile, didn’t really matter. It was more about bringing the real me, the woman who wasn’t a type-A perfectionist but was a woman, one who wanted to please and be pleased, to make herself happy by hearing Claudine moan. And, yes, I wanted to see Claudine crack a little, wanted to see the cool veneer of rich-lady power crumble into a screaming orgasm, or five.

  So I simply wore a lacy black slip over a lacy hot-pink slip, with a plain black coat that covered each. My five-inch heels accentuated my calves, including the string of pearls tattooed onto the right one. The half-open oyster shell near my hip was hidden, but would soon be revealed. “Calm down, everything’s going to be fine,” I said out loud, a mantra I’d taken to repeating when my world seemed to be collapsing.

  I put everything I needed into my trunk, drove to valet parking, and told Marc to bring everything to Claudine’s room in a few minutes. Then I spoke with Gerald, the manager on duty, presenting him with a firm guest list. “No one else, including staff, is to come up to her room unless you clear it with me first. Got it?” He looked at me searchingly but didn’t ask questions. That’s what I liked about Gerald; it would’ve made him a poor detective, but he was a valuable employee to have on your side.

  When I knocked on her door, I got a sudden chill. I knew Claudine would like the motley crew I’d selected for our evening’s entertainment; how could she not? But what about me? Would I be a bit player or her costar? And which did I prefer? Claudine peeked around the edge of the door. “Come in, my sweet,” she said, and shut the door right after me. She was completely naked, and up close, I could see she had at least a dozen years on my twenty-seven, and in all likelihood was in her late forties, but her body was beautiful nonetheless. I was impressed that, unlike me, she hadn’t tried to adorn herself; her naked body simply said, “Here I am, ready for the taking.”

  “Let me get a good look at you,” she said, whisking off my coat when my fingers fumbled with the buttons, then instructing me to twirl around, then lift the hem of my slips. I’d no sooner bared my thong-adorned ass than there was a knock on the door. I reached for the coat, but Claudine ordered me to sit on the bed. She opened the door the same way she had with me and Marc entered, pushing a luggage cart and almost dropping the bag in his hand when he saw me nude. I winked at him, and he continued unloading everything, earning him a tip that Claudine made sure to stuff down his pants. Once the door had closed behind him, she said, “Now, where were we? Oh yes, you were showing me your outfit.” Her laugh filled the room. “Show me again.”

  Claudine stepped closer and I searched her eyes, wanting to please her. I was doing something bold, but inside I felt shy as I pulled up the slips to reveal the outline of my pussy lips, spared from view only by a small strip of fabric. “Take those off,” Claudine said, her voice huskier, and under her watchful eye, I slithered out of the thong, letting it land on the carpet. Claudine shuddered, then reached for the nightstand. As she moved toward me, I saw she had a silk blindfold heading for my face. Letting her put it on would be the ultimate test: could I be in control of my job, of the party I’d organized, while submitting to someone else’s control? The questions must’ve been written on my face, because Claudine said, “Yes. Yes. Give yourself to me, Francine.”

  I decided this was a case of something being worth doing only if you went all the way with it. Besides, I wasn’t really in charge at all; Claudine could kick out all my guests if she wanted to. She could report me for some made-up transgression. She’d been in control since that first kiss. I was immediately rewarded, because once the blindfold was on, the white noise in my head dissipated, as if by not being able to see, I couldn’t hear all the worries and fears that usually clamored for space in my psyche. Instead, all I heard and felt were Claudine’s movements. She positioned me so my head was back against the pillows, my arms above my head. Soon she was fastening cuffs around my wrists. “How does that feel?” she asked. I tugged and
smiled, because I liked that too. I was submitting, surrendering, and getting wetter by the second.

  “You probably thought I wanted to be the star of the party,” she said, once again uncannily reading my mind. “I’m much more of a voyeur, my dear, though I do plan to participate. But if anyone’s the star, it’s going to be you. I want to watch the pretty boys and girls having their way with you, touching you, taking you, filling you. I want to make sure you thoroughly enjoy this hotel room that I’m paying for. You deserve it. And so do I.” I didn’t ask why that might be the case, because I soon heard a buzzing sound, followed by the press of a vibrator against my clit. I dropped my knees wider and was so lost in the sensations of being bound and being buzzed that I barely heard the door. Claudine wrapped my hand around the vibrator and left to answer it. Voices soon filled the room, and part of me wished I could greet people in a less exposed way. But Claudine was smart: being blindfolded meant I couldn’t see the reactions the others were having to me, couldn’t assess whether my outfit, my body, measured up to theirs.

  “Sweetie!” Tracy said, rushing over to kiss me on the cheek and grant me a dusting of perfume and powder. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself.” I was, and I kept on enjoying myself, until someone took the toy from my hand, and someone else started sucking on one nipple. I knew I’d only invited nine people, but it felt like I was in the center of dozens of hungry men and women. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” I heard Claudine pronounce, as if displaying a piece of very modern art she’d sculpted herself. Perhaps she had, because this version of me, the one sprawled naked across a bed in my place of work getting filled and fondled and kissed and sucked, wasn’t someone I’d ever have produced on my own.