The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  She’d tried so hard to make it work. She had assumed from the start that Michael was the one, and even after he’d disappointed her time and again she’d refused to give up hope. In the end it had turned ugly and even degrading, and Dominique had clung to him, terrified of being alone after having given so much of herself.

  Her clinging had gained her nothing, and the more she gave, the less she had left of herself. Finally she lost Michael, all she had given, and a great deal more as well. She’d lost parts of herself she didn’t think he’d even had access to, parts she had thought were safe.

  She takes off her robe and hangs it behind the door, then eases herself into the tub, enjoying the sting of the hot water against her skin. She scrubs the grime of travel from her body and then soaks in the fragrant warmth, trying to think of nothing.

  She’s lost so much that sometimes the integrity of her body surprises her. It’s as if she expects to see a missing limb or vast scar running between her breasts, but no: her body remains surprisingly healthy in spite of all she’s been through.

  She emerges from the tub and takes a warm towel from the heater and dries herself, then wraps her robe around her body and walks into her sitting room, drying her hair.

  From her make-up case she takes three bottles of sleeping pills and puts them on the bedside table, next to the phone, lining them up like soldiers.

  Three prescriptions from three different doctors.

  No matter how bad things get or what happens to her, she always has these three, more than enough. As long as she has them, every day – every minute – is the result of her decision, and she likes knowing that. She no longer pours them into her hand and fondles them as she once did, toying with the feeling of her own mortality, but still, she thinks of them as her freedom.

  She walks over to the flower arrangement on the table and takes a tiger lily blossom in her hands, inhaling the fragrance. She looks at the blossom, so beautiful and yet so blatantly, almost comically sexual, the open and welcoming calyx of the petals, the quivering male anthers dotted with pollen.

  She smiles briefly and is aware of it, of how unfamiliar it feels, and she feels encouraged. Maybe this place will work for her. She replaces the flower, then walks out on to the terrace again, into the warm summer night where her eyes are caught by that same lighted window, open now, with a figure in it, sharply silhouetted against the shade.

  A man, apparently shirtless, his arms held above his head. He’s turned in three-quarters profile, and Dominique can see the dim shadow of another figure behind the shade as well.

  Dominique stops towelling her hair and stands transfixed as a woman enters the picture. The woman is wearing a corset, it’s obvious from her silhouette, and she’s holding a doubled over cord or strap in her hands, bringing her hands together and then pulling them apart with enough force that Dominique can hear the snap from across the way.

  She sees the woman bring her arm back, the strap dangling, and bring it down on the man’s behind. She hears the slap and sees his body jerk in whatever it is that holds him. Dominique stands as still as a statue as the woman hits him again, and again, and then she slowly backs up into her room and sits down on the bed.

  She knows what kind of place this is, of course, and why people come here. The reputation of sex and sexuality hangs heavily over the entire hotel, and the reputation is the reason she came. But the Arensen is also known for its exclusivity and sense of discretion. She hadn’t expected to be confronted with such a flagrant and lurid display.

  She plugs in her drier and finishes her hair, standing inside her room where she’s safe. The clock says seven ten, and she’s hungry, but she takes a moment to inspect her room. There’s an antique French armoire that holds a courtesy bar and a large television set. The television seems jarringly out of place in this eighteenth-century setting, and she’s offended at first, but then she takes the remote control and turns it on.

  There is a channel guide atop the set, and she picks it up and looks at it.

  Everything is apparently closed circuit.

  Channels are grouped together and marked:

  Male Escorts

  Female Escorts

  Dungeon

  Exhibitionist

  Exhibitionist/Voyeur

  Commercial Entertainment

  She selects the Male Escorts channel and finds herself watching videos featuring virile young men, all apparently hotel employees – little snatches of them riding horses, or emerging dripping from the lake, strolling through the gardens and smiling for the camera.

  She smiles. She wonders if her bellman is in there. Probably, but she’s not interested in finding out.

  She selects the Exhibitionist channel and find herself staring into a room much like her own, apparently empty, though she can see towels still lying over the back of a chair.

  She chooses another Exhibitionist channel and is shocked to see a young man sitting on the side of his bed masturbating. He looks up at the camera with a lascivious leer, his face distorted by his proximity to the wide-angle lens. She quickly changes the channel.

  Dominique clicks rapidly through the Exhibitionist channels, and suddenly finds herself looking down at herself in her own room. Her blood runs cold.

  “This is room 331,” she snaps into the phone, her hand shaking with rage. “Why is there a camera in my room? What’s the meaning of this?”

  The desk clerk is terribly apologetic. Wasn’t madam aware that she’d requested an Exhibitionist room? There it was on her reservation; she’s even been charged extra for it. He was looking at her reservation now. The request box had been checked.

  “No,” she said trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m sorry, but no. There’s been some mistake. I want this camera turned off immediately. No. I want it removed. I want it removed or I want a new room.”

  “At once, madam. I’ll have a man sent up immediately. I do so regret the error. Of course you won’t be billed for the camera. I’m so terribly sorry. I can’t imagine how this happened . . .”

  His tone is so contrite and profusely apologetic that Dominique finds herself consoling him. Possibly she had checked that box when she’d filled out her reservation. She’d been quite intoxicated that night. “That’s quite all right. Just see that it’s turned off. No, there’s nothing else. Thank you, that’s very considerate. Yes, everything else is quite satisfactory.”

  She hangs up the phone and, as she does so, she sees the TV screen go blank as her camera is turned off, but now she can’t help but wonder.

  She aims the remote control at the TV and selects another channel in the Exhibitionist group and finds herself looking down into another empty room. She clicks again and gets yet another empty room, though she can hear voices.

  On the third try she finds what she is looking for: a man and a woman making love.

  Now that her suspicions are confirmed, her reflex is to turn away and switch it off, but she forces herself to watch. The camera is above and to the right of the foot of the bed, as is the camera in Dominique’s room.

  She can’t see their faces.

  The man is between the woman’s thighs, his pale ass rising and falling with thrusts so powerful that the woman’s legs shake. He’s panting, while she gives a little yelp or grunt whenever he thrusts into her.

  The camera stares blandly down on them, and though Dominique knows that both of them are aware they’re being watched and must even enjoy it, she feels contaminated, as if she’s been drawn into their perversion.

  But no, it’s not the voyeuristic aspects or even the act itself that strikes her as obscene. It’s the couple’s painful need; a need that makes them eschew their dignity and privacy in exchange for some brief satisfaction. What keeps her watching is her recognition that she shares the same need. It’s as if she’s watching people suffering from the same disease she knows she has.

  It’s the woman’s hands that seem to hold her attention. With their faces invisible, it’s the woman’s
fingers that seem to be the most human. They spread out and press down urgently on the man’s back, or curl into claws to rake his skin.

  They leave his body and grab at the sheet, as if she’s afraid she’ll be swept away, then, in moments of extremity, they reach down as she digs her nails into his buttocks, her knees spreading wide, pulling him into her, beside herself with lust.

  Pleasure, pain, love, hatred: Dominique sees them all in the woman’s hands.

  The hands come up and grab the man’s hair, and Dominique sees the woman’s face for an instant: a flash of eyes tightly closed and an open, hungry mouth, nothing more.

  Both voices rise, his to a low, threatening growl, hers to a shrill and gasping wail that peaks as she throws her head back in a sudden choked silence, a scream locked in her throat. Dominique realizes with a weird thrill that they’re both climaxing. Even as she watches, the man’s cock must be already jumping inside the woman and spitting out his lust.

  The woman’s hands ball into fists, then fall back on the bed in helpless surrender as the man’s hips lunge at her in angry insistence. It’s too much. Dominique can’t watch any more. She switches off the TV and puts down the remote. She’s breathing deep, her face is flushed.

  It’s so remarkable what sex does to people: how they need it so much, that terrible intimacy of release in another’s arms. With her own ardour quenched and battered by the pain of her break-up, she’s been able to look at it more objectively, as an outsider, and it seems so strange. In the past months she’s come to realize how hard it is to maintain one’s existence in the world, to keep one’s ego intact in the face of all that tears at it and attempts to grind it down, and now it seems so strange to see how people fight and contend to give themselves away, to throw themselves at one another and lose themselves in their lover’s embrace.

  She feels a sudden urge to masturbate that takes her quite by surprise. Since she broke up with Michael she has had no sex, and absolutely no desire for sex. That’s why she’s come to this place, to try to rekindle that spark, and yet she lives in fear that she might be permanently damaged, that she may have lost the capacity to respond to that kind of intimacy.

  She worries that she might be the victim of some form of hysterical frigidity brought about by the trauma of her separation, and that it might be permanent. She’s afraid to push herself beyond the level of mild interest she feels now, afraid that she won’t respond

  She makes herself behave, letting herself feel the subtle tension in her body that she recognizes with welcome relief as the beginnings of sexual arousal. She feels as though some energy within her is being renewed, as if the mainspring of a watch is being wound and tightened. It’s a good sign, but it makes her nervous.

  She sits at her dressing table and does her face: nothing too elaborate, some eyeliner and shadow, some blush, her lipstick. She brushes her hair and studies herself in the mirror: the large, expressive brown eyes, the fine features. She’s lost her girlish sparkle, but perhaps she’s gained a degree of depth and maturity.

  Michael used to call her his princess for the fineness of her features and the regal way she carried herself, and she wonders now whether her carriage has changed: whether she still walks with her back straight and her head erect. It’s something she hasn’t even thought to notice before.

  It would be easier to stay in tonight, she thinks. She could order in from room service and go to bed early. She wouldn’t have to dress, she wouldn’t have to see anyone.

  She’s made a promise to herself and she intends to keep it.

  She doesn’t have long in the hotel.

  II.

  She goes to her bag and finds a new package of nylons, opens it, and takes out one of the gauzy stockings. She rolls it up, then inserts her foot and extends her leg, unrolling the stocking as she goes, then running her hands up its length, over her calf, her knee, her thigh, smoothing out the thin fabric. The way it embraces her leg feels good, and the band of material around the top of her thigh feels very erotic. It’s good to feel this way again.

  She puts on the other stocking, looks through the underthings she’s unpacked but doesn’t find anything she likes. Impulsively, she pushes them aside and takes out a suspender belt which she fastens around her waist and tugs into place around her hips. She purposely ignores her panties and clips the garters to her stockings, then goes to her closet and selects her black dress; black crêpe, with tiny thin straps that go over her flawless shoulders. It’s unlined, but Dominique doesn’t hesitate. She leaves her bras in the drawer and slips the dress on over her head, naked beneath it, and looks at herself in the mirror.

  The feel of the fabric on her bare nipples and her shaved mound feels very good, very wicked and erotic.

  So far, so good.

  The dress comes with a black jacket. She puts it on, fastens a gold chain around her neck, and threads the matching earrings through her ears. She puts on her watch and a gold bracelet, takes her bag and checks herself once more. She had hoped she would feel irresistible, but the best she can manage is a kind of stubborn pride and naughtiness. Well, that’s close enough. She turns off the lights and exits the room, slipping her key into her purse.

  The hotel is bewildering, with hallways that jog and branch off, small sitting rooms that emerge unexpectedly, and stairways that appear in puzzling places, seeming to make no sense. Dominique is quite lost. She was certain she was headed for the main desk, but now she’s disorientated and there seems to be no one about to ask for directions.

  She hears the murmur of voices and, a few turns later, she’s in the lobby again, or rather, a different lobby, and it occurs to her that there must be more than one check-in desk, and she’s apparently stumbled upon an alternate.

  “Excuse me, but how do I get to the dining room?” she asks the young woman at the desk.

  “Which dining room are you looking for?” the girl says. “There are several. The Ladies’, the Gentlemen’s, the Versailles, the Savoy, the New York Grille, the Tea House.”

  Dominique holds up her hand and says, “Please. I’m just looking for a place for a quiet meal.”

  “Is madam alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “If madam would like to choose her own companionship or just dine alone, I’d suggest the Ladies’ salon. If you seek to meet some gentlemen looking for companionship, I’d recommend the Gentlemen’s room or the New York. Perhaps the Savoy if you’re looking for more mature company …”

  Dominique looks at her in confusion. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  The girl smiles and slides a brochure across the marble counter. “The Ladies’ salon is of course for women. We cater to female tastes there, and hotel escorts are available, or, if you prefer, you may dine alone without being bothered. The Gentlemen’s room caters to male tastes, but female patrons often go there to be seen and socialize.” She gives the word an odd emphasis. “That’s where most of the unattached men go to eat.”

  The girl gives Dominique a knowing smile, but, seeing her confusion, leans over the counter and whispers, “It’s very much like a pick-up bar. They’ll be all over you there, if that’s what you want.”

  Dominique feels a slight chill run up the back of her neck as the import of what the girl is saying sinks in.

  “Other rooms are available too,” the girl adds helpfully. “However, you might feel out of place there dining alone. They cater to couples, mostly.”

  “I see. Yes, I think perhaps the Ladies’ salon would be best.” She just could not see herself walking into a room filled with leering men, like a piece of meat on a stick thrust into a den of lions. She isn’t ready for that.

  The girl traces a path on the map with a marker and hands it to her. She picks up the phone and says, “I’ll call ahead and tell them to see that you get a good table, Ms …?”

  “Béry. And thank you for your help.”

  The path she takes now avoids the labyrinthine hallways and stays to the main corridors. Dominique h
as no trouble finding the Ladies’ salon, and in fact can’t quite understand how she became so turned around before.

  She was afraid that the room would be embarrasingly feminine, but that’s not the case at all. The room is done in cream, dusky rose and moss green, the fixtures and place settings pure and elegant, the lighting subdued but not dark. There’s a mirrored bar set against one wall, and Dominique’s somewhat surprised to see that there are some men sitting there, some with women, some alone. Apparently the Ladies’ Salon isn’t just for women. Despite her misgivings, that lifts her spirits. Although she doesn’t want to be stared at by men, neither had she worn this dress for the benefit of women.

  A hostess meets Dominique at the entrance and addresses her by name. She leads her to a table towards the edge of the room, hands her a menu and asks her if the table is satisfactory. Dominique nods. From where she sits she can see most of the room, but she herself is unobtrusive.

  She studies the menu.

  She’s ravenous, and everything looks good. A very handsome young waiter comes and takes her order, and it’s only after he has gone that Dominique picks up the leather-bound booklet on her table. She had assumed it was a wine list, but looking at it now, she sees it is filled with more pictures of young men, all of them apparently employees of the hotel, and all of them available for a fee.

  She turns the pages. She recognizes some from the video she’d seen in her room, but there are many more. Apparently everyone who works in the hotel is indeed available. This one dresses as a cowboy, in boots and leather chaps. Another affects the manner of a rock star. A third dresses like a motorcycle outlaw in leather and chains.

  There are princes and businessmen, priests and barbarians and, at the end, a series of pictures of young men who apparently prefer to appear as themselves.

  Flipping back towards the front, she finds instructions on how the book is to be used. Forms are available from her waitress upon which she can write her choices. Availability of escorts cannot be guaranteed, so she’s urged to make her reservations as early as possible. Fees may be charged to her rooms. Gratuities are customary …