I was shocked, and aroused, at the thought.
‘Oh my God, JD, I couldn’t! What if someone from work came in?’
‘You only live once honey. Dream it or live it.’
The thought played on my mind as we walked back through the café, watching the girls going about their dirty business. It played on my mind as JD fucked me on the sofa when we got home, when I went to the gym that weekend, and when I sat at my desk on Monday morning beavering away at a PR campaign proposal for a new line of beauty boosting vitamin supplements, in fact I though about little else until I found myself walking in to meet the manager to talk about a job.
The manager was a smart American-Japanese woman in her forties. She openly told me about her days as a waitress at Johnny, the original no pan kissa in Tokyo, and how she thought it was time, in the current climate of extremely graphic porn, to bring back a bit of tease, and a hint of the forbidden. It was doing so well, she said, that she needed new girls all the time, and that I could start that same night. If I’d had time to go away and think about it I’d have more than likely chickened out, but I was delirious with excitement at being one of those fantasy girls.
A French girl in her late twenties, Dionne, was assigned to show me the ropes and she led me into a back room lined with mirrors and stacked with costumes. Clip in hair extensions of all colours and lengths hung on the mirrors, and boxes of MAC makeup and bottles of Issay Miyake perfume sat on the counters, all free to use. Books of Harajuku fashion lay around, as inspiration, she told me, and a TV played cheesy Para Para disco dance videos on a loop. I selected an outfit from a huge rack of clothes, a tiny blue kilt and matching top, with white over the knee socks and platform shoes, and Dionne fashioned my hair into ostentatious pigtails while she talked me through how it all worked.
‘You’re on commission on top of your basic wage, for any sushi or sake you sell. There’s a private room where you can entertain the high rollers, it’s just like being a geisha, but without panties! You put on special clothes then and make a lot of money, I’ll show you later.’
She winked at me in the mirror, and I barely recognised myself. The PR girl had given way to a porno princess, a waitress pretending to be unaware of her sexual power over the men she serves, except this time that’s the name of the game, and everyone’s in on it. A perfect post-modernisation of the centuries-old dynamic.
I walked out onto the floor and approached my first table, a group of students, my legs shaking with nerves. Dionne had told me that tea was just a little flash, so when I returned with their bowls from the bar, I curtsied briefly, pulling the folds of my kilt apart at the front. Their eyes glued to my pussy, their faces falling when I let go and covered myself with the tiny skirt. I was hooked, and so horny I had to nip into the toilets and play with myself.
I flaunted myself shamelessly, enjoying every second of it, lapping up the adoration without any fear of reprisal from the men about being teased, or from other women about acting slutty. I had full permission and, crazily, was getting paid handsomely for the privilege.
Around midnight Dionne came over to me and said some regular customers, big spenders, had come in and wanted a back room party with two hostesses.
‘I’ll tell you all about it while we change. Come on, it’s great fun and you can earn a packet in tips. You’re sexy, I want to do a party with you’.
We went into the back room and she handed me a hanger with a tiny red skirt made of flippy, flimsy fabric, and a matching bikini top.
‘We wear these for the first drink and food, then we change for the dessert and drinks. The guys sit around and we serve them three courses, plus sake and tea, and chat with them. They pay a fortune for it and we get £500 each. If they tip you, give them a little flash. Sometimes they like to pull your skirt up themselves, they should give you £100 for it, and always act a bit embarrassed, like you didn’t realise he was going to do it. Also there are fans in the floor and they have buttons they can press which make your skirt blow up. It’s best to pretend like it’s a shock and you’re shy about having no panties on though. I know you’re not though. You love it.’
I stammered something but she just smiled at me. Looks like I wasn’t the only one not doing it for the money.
She led me to the bar where we collected trays of sake-bombs, tall pint glasses of beer with chopsticks balanced on the top holding a shot glass of sake. Dionne led the way into the private room, which was a more understated and traditional Japanese dining room with a low table and bamboo screen.
Eight suited men were sat around on cushions and I quickly realised that, as well as a nod to tradition, this was also a device for the best view of our cunts as we walked around serving, and I wasn’t complaining one little bit. The men, obviously very rich and powerful, were transfixed by trying to glimpse my pussy as I moved carefully around, struggling a little with the bondage of the tall drinks and the high heels.
One of the men pressed a button on the table and a huge gust of wind blew up from the floor, effortlessly throwing the tiny skirt way above my waist. I squirmed with pleasure as the men made approving noises and made a theatrical attempt to cover myself, and acted flustered when the gust died down and my skirt returned to offering a hint of modesty. Dionne smiled at me.
We served hand-prepared sushi while the men peeped up our skirts and pressed the fans, and after the main course one of them handed me two fifty pound notes. I smiled shyly, wondering if he would ever imagine that I was enjoying this as much as he was, and he grasped the front of my skirt and yanked it up, exposing my cunt clearly to the room. The men gasped and I writhed, pretending to try to get away, feeling like throwing myself into their collective arms to be ravished.
Dionne and I cleared the dishes and she led me back into the changing rooms.
‘We change now for the final courses’, she said, handing me a see through plastic apron trimmed with white PVC and a tiny pink bra. As she changed into hers my heart leapt as I realised there were no bottoms, just the transparent aprons which had little coverage at the front and none at all from the back! My pussy looked so rude through a window of clear PVC and my nipples were peaking out of the top of the tiny bra. We walked to the now crowded bar to collect trays of sweets, fruit and sorbet and all eyes were on us and our pussies. Dionne walked ahead of me and I felt a surge of lust for a woman so confident that she can walk through a crowded room wearing just a few scraps of transparent PVC and flimsy lace.
The men cheered as we entered the room with the desserts, and money began flying in our direction. Dionne pulled me up onto the table with her and I followed her lead as she picked up sweets and hand fed them to the men, always bending over slowly and deeply, showing off her gorgeous cunt to the men behind her. Piles of money were amassing at our feet. I bent over the let one of the men lick a glob of lemon sorbet off my finger and felt an icy slither down my back. I turned sharply and Dionne was grinning at me, her hand full of ice cream. I wasted no time and picked up a handful of strawberries, mashed them in my hand and smeared them on her tits, pulling them out of her bra as I did. The men went wild, throwing more money and banging on the table.
Dionne picked up a huge bowl of sorbet and I wrestled her for it, falling to our knees. She grabbed a handful of it and pushed it in my face, then leaned in to lick it off and we were kissing lasciviously. Her hands were all over me and she pushed me back onto the table and licked the sorbet and fruit off my tummy and pulled my little apron to one side. Dionne lapped at my pussy and slid a finger gently inside me and I cried out with pleasure. I opened my eyes and all the men were staring in awe as her gorgeous dark hair settled on my thighs, stuck with sticky fruit and sorbet, our bodies moving together, my hands curled in her hair. Her tongue wriggled relentlessly and I came hard, thrashing around in the wrecked desserts, the men clapping and cheering.
One night working at No Pan Kissa was enough for me, I fulfilled the fantasy, there was no need to push my luck and get caught by my increasin
gly curious work colleagues who were laughing and joking about the place while I kept my head down, prim in my office clothes pretending to be engrossed in the latest book release or exhibition opening.
I kept in touch with Dionne though. Very close touch in fact. One day we might even treat JD to a dinner party. I never did thank him properly for encouraging me to live out my fantasy.
Room Service
by Alcamia
‘Darling, you really must loosen up.’ Henrietta urged. ‘You’re far too sexually tight. Let me take you on a nice little shopping trip to New York and we’ll stay at the Hotel Delice. In no time at all, you’ll feel like a new woman.’
I loved Henrietta because she was so unconventional. She smoked offensive strong black cigarillos and drank tequila like a man, besides which she had an unquenchable and unorthodox appetite for sex.
Henrietta always stayed at the Hotel Delice since she said it offered unique room service. As I stepped inside I was struck by the hotel’s curious ambiance and its air of studied decadence. My room itself, was stylish with heavy flocked wallpaper and period deco furniture. Henrietta assured me the Delice was once the haunt of movie starlets and politicians. I could certainly imagine Marlene Dietrich stereotypes swooning and fucking on the furniture.
‘You’re right, it has a certain dilapidated charm and a fabulous vibe.’ Draping my coat over a chair, I pushed open the bathroom door. The bathroom was luxurious with gold taps and an extensive provision of fragrant soaps and oils.
‘I knew you’d like it.’ Henrietta enthused. ‘But it has more charms than you may at first think. This hotel has quite a reputation and it has some very special members of staff. Staff, who go out of their way to make you feel good. But one thing darling. You mustn’t be shocked or scandalised by what transpires here and more importantly, you mustn’t complain to management.’
‘Whatever are you on about?’ I laughed. ‘Why would I want to complain?’
‘Well Carla. One of the specialities of this hotel is its unique brand of room service which has been delighting women of a certain age, for decades. A woman must always avail herself of room service at the Hotel Delice, it’s the hotel’s one truly unforgettable experience.’
‘Is this one of your jokes Henrietta?’
She winked suggestively. ‘Definitely not. I just want you to share in my delightful little find. Just never on any account, spill the beans.’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything at all.’
Henrietta was insufferable. I had given up trying to analyse her ages ago. She had a flair for the dramatic and an extremely crude and filthy imagination.
When she left me, I sat in a chair for a moment. I really ought to have ordered some soothing champagne to relax me, as I could never sleep in a strange bed. Champagne was my one small concession in life.
So, I dialled room service.
When I opened the door, room service stepped inside. He was the most amazing man I had ever encountered, exuding such a potent sexual charisma he made my skin tingle. I stared mesmerised, into his acutely golden eyes which were already mentally undressing me. ‘You ordered champagne madam. Shall I uncork and pour?’
‘That would be nice?’ I watched him with interest as he opened the bottle with only the merest hint of a pop. ‘If you don’t mind me making an observation madam. You have exquisite hair. It reminds me of the colours of autumn, and your eyes are so intensely green.’
It was rather impertinent of room service to make such personal remarks but the flattery made me feel instantly warm. ‘Oh!’ I stretched up self-consciously, to touch my riot of red curls. ‘My brother calls my hair an explosion in a fireworks factory.’
His eyes roamed impudently over my face. ‘I can imagine if someone carefully lit your fuse, you’d explode very well yourself.’
I experienced a sharp intake of breath. ‘Goodness you’re daring for room service. Do you speak to all your clients like this?’
He shrugged. ‘Not all of them!’
I sipped the champagne. He was flirting with me.
‘You look rather tense.’ Stepping forward room service stroked a tendril of hair away from my cheek and then dug his fingers into the tight muscles around my shoulders.
‘Oh do I? How astute of you.’ I forced a watery smile. ‘I’m still a bit spun out from the flight. You see, I hate flying. However it’s an unnecessary evil in this day and age.’
‘You need to relax. You’re like a bundle of knotty string.’
‘And you’re rather cheeky.’
Room service shrugged. ‘I just say it, like it is. You’re also beautiful, that hair’s a potent aphrodisiac for me. I bet your snatch is the same fiery red?’
‘I ought to slap you. You’re so rude.’
‘All you have to do is say the word and I’ll leave. But I don’t think you really want me to.’ He raised an eyebrow
‘No don’t go yet.’ I heard myself say. ‘I’m curious. My friend tells me, the room service here, is second to none.’
‘Oh it is. I’m at your service and I aim to provide an unforgettable experience.’
‘Henrietta made the staff at this hotel sound so fabulously mysterious.’
‘There’s nothing mysterious about me, I can assure you. I’m just the straightforward room service boy.’
‘You seem very cultured.’ I insisted. ‘Couldn’t you find something better to do?’
‘Why find something better? This is the perfect job for me. I adore it and I’m an expert at it. I meet many fascinating women and I enjoy flattering them, making them feel good.’
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were an undercover gigolo.’
He laughed, shaking his head. ‘Oh I’m neither of those.’
One shirt button was open, exposing a smooth tanned chest. I couldn’t remember seeing that open button before. I was sexually attracted to him; it was hard not to be. He had that tousled easiness about him which was so appealing to my senses. He was the kind of man who would enjoy the outdoors. Yachting, horse back riding. He was a wild, untamed creature squeezed into a suit. Now that was fascinating. And he could easily draw you out. He reminded me of a good journalist I’d once met. I’d said I would not talk, yet before I knew it he had mesmerised me and the words tumbled. It is a gift to be able to do that and not many people have it. I felt a surge of eroticism race through me, a sexual torrent which moistened my sex.
‘I shouldn’t be keeping you talking room service, you must be busy.’
‘On the contrary.’ He poured me more champagne. ‘Drink up. The champagne makes your eyes sparkle.’
I sat down and unbuckling my shoes I began to massage my feet. ‘Here let me do that.’ Before I could stop him, he was kneeling with my feet on his lap and he was kneading them. The kneading felt very good. He was a magician in the use of thumb and finger. Instantly the rhythmical motions relaxed me and the tension ebbed from my shoulders and back. ‘I could run you a bath. You look tired?’
‘You have to be kidding.’
‘Not at all. I offer a unique and personal service. I’ll pull the drapes, turn down the bed and draw your bath. Whatever you wish? And the best part is. There’s no charge and I don’t accept tips or gratuities.
‘There must be a reward of some kind?’
‘Yes, yes there is.’ His eyes glittered. ‘I have the satisfaction of making a beautiful woman happy.’
I should have told him to leave but I could not. If you had met him yourself, you would know what I mean. I did not ask him to leave the room, because it seemed right that he was there. I later discovered all women felt the same about room service and that is why he had kept his job at the Delice for so many years. He was very special, and he had the unique gift of being able to extract the sex out of women. You could immediately fall in love with him and I could imagine him on my arm as the perfect companion. Flirtatious, gracious and indulgent, he made you feel as if you possessed a power over him, like y
ou had some ingredient he desired. I could not for the life of me think what that ingredient was, but it made me feel as if I were the most desirable woman on the planet.
He strolled into the bathroom.
I watched him through the crack in the door, as he stirred the water with his hand, tested it for heat with his elbow, and added generous splashes of expensive oil, before laying out the fluffy white towels. ‘What’s your name?’ He said when he returned. ‘I cannot forever be thinking of you as Madame X.’
‘My name’s Carla and what’s yours?’
‘Just call me RS. Do you have a bath robe or a nightdress, Carla?’
I motioned towards the wardrobe. ‘Yes, inside there. I never wear a nightdress. I sleep nude.’ I studied his face to see if I had elicited a reaction, but his expression remained implacable. I was fascinated, wondering where all this sexual flirtatiousness would lead.
He brought me the robe and then he helped me to my feet. ‘Thank you.’ I said unsteadily.
‘You must have jet lag. I expect you’re tired?’
‘Yes very. I shall be going straight to bed after my bath, but I doubt I’ll sleep.’
‘I’ll make you a sandwich. I’ll go down to the kitchen this instant. ‘What would you like? Let me guess. Caviar, salmon?’ RS grinned.
‘You really are extraordinary. However there’s no need.’
‘There’s a great need.’ He replied, smiling at me as he clicked the door shut.
I sank into the bath water, allowing the warm comforting ocean to engulf me and soon I was drifting in a satisfyingly serene vacuum. I heard the door open and when I opened my eyes, RS was sitting on the side of the bath tub. ‘I brought your sandwich it’s in the other room. Do you want me to soap your back now?’
‘Do you always follow women into their bathrooms? Are you a pervert? Is this how you get your kicks?’
‘Of course not. I just enjoy providing an enhanced service.’
‘I see.’ I handed him the soap. I was enjoying the thought of his hands on my naked flesh. I closed my eyes as RS’s fingers explored my wet skin. He had wonderfully sensual hands, which followed each line and contour of my nakedness as if he were fashioning me out of clay. He kneaded the tenseness out of my neck with his knuckles and then he washed my hair, massaging my scalp with delicious circular movements. I awakened, my skin tingling with a million sensations, my nipples firming and my sex softening. He lathered his hands and impudently caressed my breast and I allowed him to. Then, taking a little of the soap on his finger he palpated and circled the swollen globe, moving closer and closer to my erect nipple, before pinching it between thumb and forefinger. I wanted to orgasm as the arousal from his touch ignited my sex, but I felt inhibited.
Temptations--Three Book Bundle Page 13