'Thanks, but no thanks,' I told him, buttoning my jacket. 'You know where to find me if you fancy another go. And you know what it will cost.'
'How can I go downstairs with this?' he beseeched me, staring disconsolately at his treacherous stiffness.
'Good afternoon.' I smiled, opened the door and sailed off down the corridor, surging with wicked glee.
The lift door opened and I crossed the lobby, feeling every eye upon me, X-raying through to the semen stain on my camisole, the wet spot on my silky knickers, the traces of salty spunk on my tongue. They all know I'm a whore, I thought, swinging my hips and letting my heels click on the polished floor.
When I got home, I had to bring myself off again.
After that, the hunger was upon me. It became a game as addictive as any of those online fantasies; truly a second life.
At least once a week I strutted my stuff, maximally tarty and overdone amid the minimalist décor of the bar, lacking only a flashing beacon on my head to proclaim my shamelessness.
The men came in all shapes, sizes, ages, degrees of attractiveness and intelligence; the rule was, I could only say no in the most extreme of situations.
My juices stained dozens of pristine bedsheets; I took it lying down, standing up, on all fours, on chairs and desks and over windowsills; between my tits, in my mouth, cunt, arse; three ways, four ways, six ways till Sunday; with women, with an audience, with a camera, with a blindfold, with a webcam, with a whip, with a will.
There came a time when I could rely on three or four regular 'clients' being in the bar at any one session; sometimes I would only take up the first to offer; on other occasions, I would treat them all, one at a time or as a group. About six weeks into my new 'career', logistics were careering out of hand. The number of men waiting for their free ride every time I entered the bar was becoming unmanageable.
I pitched up one day at a new and unpopular time – half past three in the afternoon – and was relieved to find just me, the waiter and the barman in attendance.
I ordered a strawberry daiquiri and gave my creepy friend a dazzling smile. Perhaps today his luck could be in after all. For once, he smiled back instead of tossing his fringe sulkily.
'Have you heard? We've got a new manager. He wants a word with you.'
My fingers tensed around the stem of my glass. 'Why? How would he know me? What have you said?'
The barman simply shrugged and leered at me. 'His office is behind Reception. Go on and find out what he wants.'
I cannot say no. So I went.
I noticed that the severe-looking middle-aged woman I was used to had been replaced by a young girl with a pierced nose and an antipodean accent; a temp, I guessed. She smiled brightly at me and pointed to the door at the back of the area when I told her the manager wanted to see me.
I had no idea what to expect, but obeyed the terse instruction from the other side of the door to enter, and pushed my way into a huge windowless office. The manager sat behind a massive desk, about half a mile away, or so it seemed.
'Ah,' he said, and crooked a long finger. I made the epic journey across the carpet, my knees already weak, concentrating on keeping atop my heels and avoiding any humiliating wobbling. He did not stand or attempt to shake my hand, but simply looked me up and down through gold-framed spectacles, neither approvingly nor disapprovingly. Eventually he sat back and said, 'I'm new here.'
'So I've heard,' I replied, hoping for a swift cut to the chase.
'But you aren't. Are you?'
'I'm . . . a fairly frequent patron . . . of the bar.'
'You've been inside a few of the bedrooms too, I gather.'
So what? It's not a crime. But I bit my tongue.
'Anyway, that's by the by,' he said, waving a hand. 'I've been studying the books. Bar takings have taken quite a turn for the better in the past six weeks. We have many rebookings for rooms, especially in the traditionally unpopular midweek slots. A little business-minded bird told me you might have something to do with that.'
He really had the gimlet-stare off pat. It was quite disconcerting, but I faced down the blue-grey gleam and shrugged. 'Not for me to say.'
Finally his lips twisted from rigid to relaxed and a half-chuckle leaked out. 'You needn't be defensive. I'm not about to ban you from the premises. The hooker in the bar is a fact of luxury hotel life; I'm inclined to turn a blind eye.'
'I'm not a hooker,' I blurted.
He frowned. 'It's all right; I've told you where I stand. There's no need to deny it . . .'
'Really. I'm not a hooker. I just . . . it's . . . kind of like . . . a hobby . . .' I broke off, realising that there was nowhere to go with this statement. He would probably prefer a prostitute; somebody with a sharp business mind. A slut, on the other hand . . .
'Now that's very interesting,' he remarked, leaning forward. 'That would explain why these men are spending so much in the bar and on room service, as well as going for the more expensive suites. They aren't paying for . . . anything extra.'
I scowled at him, then looked away.
'Look at me,' he said, and his tone woke me up; a visceral lurch in my stomach. I had never heard anything so commanding. 'I have a proposition for you.'
'Oh?'
He picked up a pen and wrote something with a flourish on some documents ranged on his blotter. He was signing his name, I thought.
'I'm offering you a job, if you're interested. I need a receptionist – somebody like you: smart, sexy, dressed to kill, with a bit of a come-hither behind the professional veneer. Take a look at the details and tell me what you think.'
I skim-read the contract; the terms and conditions seemed fair, the work easy and the money good. I needed good money.
'I . . . think it looks like something I might consider,' I said cautiously.
'And for how long might you consider it?' he asked sternly, his brows creasing at me. He was, I realised in that moment, exceptionally attractive.
Caution scattered into the four winds. 'For a few seconds,' I said, breathing hard and flushing. 'OK. I'll take it. Thanks.'
It was only then that he stood to shake my hand. He had a firm grip, his skin warm and smooth, his hand comfortingly large.
'Good,' he said. 'I'm Christopher Chase; Mr Chase to you. Or Sir.'
'Yes, Sir,' I breathed, feeling funny in a squirmy sort of way at the use of the honorific. 'Oh, yeah, I'm Sophie Martin.'
'I'm very glad to have you on board, Sophie,' he said, and for a millisecond an image of him lying on top of me on the deck of a ship, thrusting manfully, distracted me from the matter at hand.
'You will be friendly but professional behind the desk,' he reminded me. 'What you get up to when you're off-duty, however, is entirely your own . . . affair.'
He perched on the edge of his desk, curling a flirtatious lip at me. Basically, he was encouraging me to carry on my bar-based shaggery for as long as I liked.
I could not say no.
Conference Facilities
Flipcharts. Water jugs. Overhead projectors. Name tags.
None of these are sexy in themselves, and yet there seems to be something about a conference in a hotel that unleashes the sexual beings behind the drab grey flannel. My friend Maddie, herself a wonderful photographer, has paid the rent since graduation by working in sales for a large software company. Her peers from all points of the region convene annually in our largest conference suite and spend four days being hectored by people with the demeanour of hellfire preachers. One can almost hear the hallelujahs filtering out from the double doors and into Reception. Sales is a scary world, it seems.
Despite, or perhaps because of, the fervour and fever in the air, Maddie always looks forward to these extravaganzas. Partly for the hotel room and free food, partly for the sex. Soberly single for the rest of the year, Maddie treats the conference as her annual binge; a chance for some string-free exploration of her sexuality. She does not really care about the career consequences, because it isn't t
he job she wants to be doing for life anyway – and so far, I gather, it has worked out as a brilliant networking scheme.
Last year was her fifth and wildest conference. With her permission, I shall relate the tale.
She knew that Phil was going to be there, and she was looking out for him from the moment they were all herded together in the meeting room. He had been last year's memorable conquest; Salesman of the Year for the Thames Valley region, all charm and sincerity and Hugo Boss. Maddie was not surprised he sold so much software – it was him that the punters bought, not his product. He was expert at the art of drawing you in, making you feel important and special, crinkling those spaniel-brown eyes in sympathy and understanding, then, wham, sucker punch, you had signed up for twenty thousand grand's worth of indifferently coded programs. Or sex, in Maddie's case. Great sex, new sex, sexy things she had never done before – in the shower, and over the windowsill with the window open. He had let her photograph him naked and she in return had made him the gift of her virgin backside. It had been amazing, like a full relationship in frantic fast-forward mode, but without the dilemma of whether to keep it going at the end.
He had given her his phone number, but she had not called him. Phil, for her, existed in this hotel, along with her sexual self. Outside in the streets, in their homes and offices, they greyed into ghostlike versions of those Technicolor lovers. Reality would spoil it, thought Maddie. But the conference was not reality, and Phil's name had been on the mailing list.
Waiting for his grand entrance, she amused herself by casting her eye over the male delegates as they trickled in, consigning them to the categories of Definitely, Possibly and Not.
Novelty tie: Not. Nice suit but badly trimmed moustache: Possibly. Horrible shiny suit, ferret eyes: Not. Lanky, square-framed spectacles, beautiful olive skin: Definitely. Barking into a mobile phone and glaring round the room to make sure everybody understands how important he is: Not. Phil: oh God, definitely, definitely.
He was even more handsome than she remembered, with his sweep of honey-blond hair, his warm melty eyes and his broad white smile. His lightweight jacket was slung across a shoulder, his crisp white shirt open at the neck, inviting foraging female hands. He cast his eyes around the room and Maddie almost jumped up from her seat to signal herself, but before he saw her he lit on the good-looking olive-skinned man, gave him a thumbs-up and went to sit beside him.
Maddie ignored the way her ribcage seemed to drop; there was plenty of time, and besides, he had probably arranged to meet up with his friend. They might work together as a sales team, though she did not recognise the other man, a new recruit perhaps. Sitting side by side they made a stunning contrast; fair and dark, lighthearted and intense, frothy mousse and bitter chocolate. She thought she would like to photograph them together.
At length they were called into the conference hall for the first session. Maddie managed to swarm up behind Phil, bumping shoulders with him as they squeezed through the doors.
'Hello,' he said effusively, that wide, bright smile dazzling down. 'It's great to see you.'
'Likewise. You're looking well,' said Maddie, then they moved to different parts of the room. Maddie always preferred to lurk on the fringes while Phil favoured high visibility. Not so high that he couldn't indulge in a bit of text-flirting, though, Maddie decided. Putting her mobile on vibrate, she began to key a message as discreetly as she could, hoping that Phil was the kind of man who could never quite bring himself to disconnect from his cellular lifeline. Most salesmen were like that, she had found.
'This brings back memories,' she jabbed.
The phone came to life under the desk within half a minute. Maddie bit her lip to avoid giggling with delight. 'Gd ones, I hope?' read the message.
'The best. Who's ur m8?'
'Meet us in the bar l8r & Ill introduce u.'
'Sounds gr8.'
Maddie, buoyed by the prospect of taking up her fling with Phil where she had left off, decided to switch off the flirtation and concentrate on the session: 'Closing the Deal: Inspirational Techniques from the US'. She tried to skim-read the densely printed handout she had been given, but her phone vibrated once more and she had to look.
'R u wearing those red knickers?'
Maddie blushed and switched off the phone. She was going to have to put Phil out of her mind for the next two hours. But judging by the slight dampness in those notorious red knickers she wore, this would not be easy.
Such was Phil's general popularity that it took him a long time to negotiate the crowded bar to the corner where Maddie sat, pretending to read over her notes. She looked up to see his pale-blue silk tie hanging in front of her as he leant over the table, grinning into her face.
'You didn't call me. You met someone else?'
Maddie coughed, intent on playing it cool but finding that the heat in her groin obstructed her purpose. 'No,' she said. 'Nobody else. I've just been busy.'
'With your camera?'
She smiled, feeling that a joke was being shared.
'Not sharing a room, are you?' asked Phil, sitting down in the bucket chair across from her.
'No, I'm in a single, though. One of the pokier rooms at the back of the building.' We'll have to use yours, she managed to avoid saying.
'Ah, really?' Phil frowned, then waved over at his tall friend, whose head was visible above the mass of unwinding sales reps. 'Thing is, Maddie, I've been put in a twin room. With Damo there.'
Maddie tried to keep her cheekbones still and her lips curved upwards. 'Oh?'
'Yeah. He's new in the team and I'm his mentor. There weren't enough singles to go round . . . so I said we could share . . .'
'Share,' echoed Maddie stupidly. 'You like to share.'
'Are you OK?' asked Phil. 'You seem a bit put out. There's no funny business going on, if that's what you think. We can still go to your room . . . it'll just be a bit friendlier than we might have expected.'
He smiled at Maddie and tried to take her hand, but she moved it swiftly down to her drink.
'Than you might have expected,' she said pointedly.
'Sorry, am I presuming too much? I'll leave you to it then . . .'
'No, look, don't go. I'm sorry. I'm just a little bit disappointed, I suppose.'
'No need to be.' And now Phil's attractive friend was at the table, saying something about the minibar in the bedroom.
'Yeah, you can't deny, this is a classy place. Damian Landers, this is Maddie Crooke from the Capital office.'
'Pleased to meet you,' said Damian formally, shaking her hand.
'Likewise. Have you ever thought of modelling?' The words were out before Maddie could process the thought; everything about Damian screamed 'Photograph me!' to her.
He laughed abruptly, startled at her opening salvo.
'Er . . . no, not really,' he said, looking over to Phil for support.
'Maddie's a photographer,' he confirmed. 'She notices people. She must think you've got what it takes. Hey, Damo, this time next year you could be in one of those aftershave ads, strutting about in a pair of Y-fronts.'
They laughed, and Maddie joined in, but somehow the air felt dry, crackling static around them. There was a tension and an expectation now.
Phil wanted Maddie; Maddie wanted Phil; Maddie found Damian attractive; Damian knew it. Was this complex or was it simple? Could it be acted on, or should it remain unacknowledged?
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