vi
The sun had set, and by the time we got back onto the freeway the twilight line was moving west across the sky, chasing the oranges and purples toward the horizon. Jane fished a moist towelette out of her purse, and I wiped down my face. Though the road was empty, she slid over to the fast lane and turned on the cruise control.
She rested her hand at the bottom of the wheel and began fitting her makeup back into her purse. She was a professional now, not a schoolgirl; she’d remade her face even before we got up to speed. “You’re awfully quiet.”
I was watching the lane lines flash by, running my thumb around the rim of the empty malt cup. It had been crushed by her boot during a moment of passionate leveraging.
“I would have thought you’d be all grins and giggles after that.” She shifted in her seat. “I know I enjoyed it, anyway.”
I glanced over to see her smirk and watched her for a moment.
“What is it?” she asked, quirking a brow. “Go ahead and ask.”
“Do you always…” I furrowed my brows and retacked. “Was that just your job?” I winced. That came out even worse. I shouldn’t have said anything.
She chuckled. “Don’t worry. I know what you mean.” She pushed her purse back behind the seat and squeezed my knee. “And relax, please!” She took her hand back and rested it in her lap, between her thighs. “To answer your question: Yes, but not ‘just’. It’s a job I love; that’s why I do it. I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”
The road was straight, so she stared at me for a long moment. I couldn’t meet her gaze, so I made a study of the geography in the creases on the cup. “But that’s not what you meant, is it? It’s normal to have feelings for me – in fact, I’d be hurt if you didn’t. But don’t forget why you’re here, where you’re going with me. I want you to enjoy yourself, but don’t go forming attachments.”
*
I made an effort to relax, and the next thing I knew she was nudging me awake. We were deep into the city, in the old downtown. We were off the freeway and gliding along the twisting downtown streets. The ghostly blue of the streetlights flashed over the car like a slow-motion strobe. This wasn’t a classic neighborhood, so there wasn’t any neon, and I could easily see the illuminated shapes of the skyline. Jane was pointing to a pre-war tiered sandstone-block building nestled between several glass towers. It looked out of place there; a piece of the past that refused to move on with the rest of the neighborhood. “That’s us,” she said. “It used to be the Old Continental. We bought it a few years back and renovated. Wait until you see the inside.”
Minutes later we were following the ramp down into the garage beneath the old hotel. The lights here were orangish, and flickered oddly now and again. We passed rows and rows of vehicles, all immaculately clean, and all worth more than the four years of my education. Jane pulled us smoothly into a numbered spot between a convertible Jag and some oversized SUV. As a classic, her car was fairly wide as well, but the lines were painted far enough apart that I could push the long car door all the way open. By the time I stood and shut my door, Jane was already bending over behind the popped trunk and slinging the strap of my bag over her shoulder. “Hey…” I began to protest, and I reached for the bag.
She smiled and slammed the trunk closed. The sound echoed through the garage. “From here on, you’re my guest. You get to take it easy, and I get to run the show. Now come with me.” I swallowed my chivalry and joined in beside her as she led me through the garage, toward the golden light oozing out of the doors in a far corner. Her heels clopped along the way, and the tops of her boots squelched again with each step. The night air in the city was chill – I could feel the hairs on my arm stretch out to ward off the cold. Jane draped her free arm over my shoulder as we reached the edge of the garage, then let it slip down my back. She grabbed my ass just before the wide brass doors slid open for us.
A rush of warm air pushed past us as we stepped inside and into a long hallway. Like the doors, the accents in the hallway were brass; the rest, except for the black-and-white checkered marble floor, was painted an antiqued white. Staggered down both walls gilded, oversized picture frames reflected in the murky shadows of the black floor tiles.
The hall itself was jarringly long, as least a couple hundred feet, and apparently doorless. It had that museum feeling – the one that makes you want to fold your hands behind your back to convince the docents you wouldn’t touch anything. The portraits in the frames captured my attention just as they were meant to, and Jane slowed so I had time to look. They were paintings actually – though they were nearly photo-realistic – of women in various states of undress, in lingerie, or in costume, each seducing the painter in their own way. They reminded me of Olivia’s cheesecake. Some of the costumes, too, ran toward the fantastic or the fetishistic. “Do you see anyone you like?” Jane murmured in my ear.
Then I saw we were passing a painting of her reclining in a leather armchair, nude beneath a speckled fur coat thrown wide open. She held a cigar in one gloved hand and a glass of red wine in the other. The expression painted onto her face was as blatant an invitation as her posture. “They’re all beautiful, but one catches my eye.” My wit earned me a chuckle.
We continued to the end of the hallway, where an elevator was open and waiting for us. The ceiling of the elevator was mirrored, and the lettering on the “Stop” button been worn nearly out of the plastic. Beneath that particular button was a placard reading, “Please be considerate.”
The ride to the lobby was brief, punctuated with a kiss and an explanation. “There’s just a little more paperwork,” she said, “then it’s up to my room.”
I started as the door opened – I was shocked out of a stupor. Right up to her room, and then that’s it?
She led me out through the doors and into the lobby, which was simply enormous. It must have filled most of the first and second stories of the building. The same black-and-white checkered marble expanded out across the vast floor, broken by islands of sandstone planters and columns that reached up into a rosicruse vaulted ceiling. Elevator doors like the one we’d just exited appeared in niches and corners around the room, but none of them were marked. Grand marble stair conveyors loomed against the far wall, curving out into the lobby like two arms; the old hotel’s front desk sat nestled between them. That’s where Jane was leading me. Behind the counter, a pair of older gentlemen in traditional black suits calmly tabbed through hidden keypads. The sounds of a string quartet playing a muzak’d pop classic filtered between the titters and whispers of scores of elegant women scattered around the room in singles and pairs, leading conversations with clusters of citizens and women each jockeying to impress their hosts for the pleasure of a laugh or caress or perhaps just a glance of cleavage.
Despite the evening gowns and tuxedos around us, neither Jane’s attire nor my own poverty-casual fashion statement attracted any attention. That was fine with me; I turned my eyes back to Jane before my staring drew a return glance and let my view wander down to her ass. After the ride in the car, I didn’t think she’d mind my impolite leer, and the skirt did roll nicely over her cheeks as she walked.
One of the clerks looked up before we reached him. “Good evening, Jane.” They exchanged pleasantries while I peered around the lobby again, and she gave him my name. Then he was asking for my attention. He gestured to a copper plaque he had slid onto the countertop. “Sir, you will find that the agreement printed here is congruent to the one forwarded to you last week. You need only press both thumbs into the circle at the bottom to ratify it. If, at any time before the contract is completed, you wish to cancel the agreement, you may do so by returning here and placing both thumbs in the revoke circle, there. Any cancellation of the contract will be subject to fees in accordance with the scale you signed to last week. Is this clear? Please say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ into the dot.”
I said yes, and he advised me to read the agreement carefully before thumbprinting, but I was already picking through it. I never trusted a written contract. Old habits only die with you, they say.
The first four clauses were fairly standard for a check-out hotel, and the last indicated that I’d waived the fee schedule and agreed to leave all of my non-sanctified holdings to the company. I pressed both thumbs to the circle, and the ionizing wave tingled as it trapped a few skin cells against the surface.
The man flashed a gracious smile as he pressed a sterile pad to the thumbcircle and slid the contract off the desk. “I hope you enjoy your stay, Sir. Jane, there are messages for you. Will you take them now, or shall I send them up?”
“I’ll call for them later,” she said over her shoulder as she was leading me to the stair conveyor. In silence we ascended to the grand balcony and the bank of elevators there. From this height I could see the whole lobby. One of the groups was breaking up – the hostess had chosen a suit and a skirt over the other three and was leading them to a dark corner. The remainders casually attempted to insinuate themselves into nearby groups without showing the stigma of rejection. Behind me, an elevator chimed, but we let it go so as not to share it with a group of businessmen already inside. I appreciated the privacy.
Once they were gone I leaned toward Jane. “Is tonight it?” I asked in a low voice. “I mean, is it up to your room, and then it’s over with?”
“Are you anxious?” she asked back, her face showing uncertainty for the first time. “I could arrange it, if that’s what you want, but I’ll need to call back to the desk.”
“No, no… That’s not what I meant. I just didn’t know what was typical.” I continued after a moment. “I don’t think I’m ready quite yet. I don’t think I’m in the mood, if that makes sense.”
She smiled, and another elevator chimed. A buxom Latina stepped out with a rather pale but broadly smiling older woman, who hooked her arm in the crook of the other’s. They didn’t mind us as we filled the car behind them, closing the doors so no one else would try to catch the ride. “Two to three days is probably normal, but it’s your party. Escrow usually takes two days to clear, but if you’d like to hurry, we can convert you to fee. But that’s just business. You strike me as someone who needs some attention, and I’m the kind of girl who enjoys a little anticipation and expectation. I’m guessing three nights, at least, for you. If you don’t have a strong preference, maybe I’ll just surprise you. I think you’ve already had to do enough planning and worrying.” She looked me square in the eye. “If you will just give yourself over to me entirely – if you trust me to be your personal Fate – you won’t be disappointed.”
I nodded. Her confidence was infectious. For the first time in a long time, I think I really relaxed.
She took my bag and me directly to her room – her schedule was free through the night, she confided, and my room wasn’t yet ready. I couldn’t be certain how many floors we ascended in the elevator, since only the door controls were labeled, and the level indicator was dark. When the chime announced that we’d arrived and the elevator stopped, a door opened on our right that led only to a short hallway with three sets of double doors branching off from it. The hotel was beginning to feel like a maze, so by force of habit I began a mental map – I marked in my mind that we crossed to the middle set of doors.
I held my bag while she confirmed her ID at the doorpad and walked into the dark room beyond. Beyond her, far beyond her into the room, stretched a swath of city lights. The windows on that wall – the windows practically were the wall – extended at least twenty meters from right to left. Jane turned a knob by the door, and the overhead lights glowed to life.
The room was huge. It was divided by bench-walls, furniture, and a sunken area into various functional regions, each of which had its own style. The main stretch of the room was clad all in stark white marble, and simple, modern furniture provided places for sitting, eating, and webbing. To the right, a tall hearth loomed out of a brick wall; two rich wood and fur-patterned chairs suitable for recounting safari stories sat in front of it. Beyond, dark wooden doors discretely hinted at another room. On the far side of the room, fitted into a curve of the window wall, three steps led down into a wide, sunken circle. A dark metal frame draped with crimson and satin hung from the ceiling above. In the center, dominating the reverse dais, crouched a huge four-posted bed swathed in heavy, sensuous materials. It was clearly a ‘fucking bed’.
She came back and took my duffel from me, then deposited it offhandedly just inside the door. Taking me by the finger, she led me into the room, and the door flished shut behind us, clicking to a locked position as it stopped. She took me toward the left wall, toward a disguised white marble door that opened with a gentle press and a tap.
A hidden room appeared, revealing a large glass shower standing at the center of an unusual bathroom. The room was focused on the round shower – like a Greek theater – while the rest of the services hugged the outside wall. The shower itself was large enough for two or three, even more if they were cozy. The sink was an afterthought in an alcove in the wall, and the small door on the other side of the room probably led to a toilet. A pair of wooden benches sat to either side of the door like waiting areas for the shower; towels and toiletries were stacked beneath them. A plush white leather chair lounged to one side – the side with the best viewing angle, and nearest the external shower controls.
Jane chatted as she turned the knobs beside the chair, and showerheads a dozen feet above the stone-tile floor began pouring a steady, pattering stream. Once steam began to rise from the tiles, Jane sank down into the leather chair and crossed her legs. “Go ahead.”
I hesitated.
“There’s no room for shyness in there, and you do need to clean up. Unless you want to get dirty again, schoolboy.” She uncrossed her legs and spread her knees, reminding me that her panties were still in my pocket. Her brows arched suggestively.
I began instinctually toward her, but she lifted a boot and crossed her legs again, smoothing her short skirt over her upper thigh with a smirking chortle. “I’m such a tease. Now go ahead and take off your clothes. Shirt first, please. And don’t rush it.”
Uncertainty made my hands waver, but I forced myself to pull my shirt off over my head. I had no reason to hold on to modesty now, but, like I said, old habits don’t die by themselves. I leaned against the glass wall of the shower to tug off each shoe and sock, and watched her closely from beneath my brows.
She was watching me too, but not my eyes – her gaze flitted over my body. It wasn’t ogling – it was measuring. I imagined she was counting my imperfections. She stretched out beckoning hands once my shoes were on the bench, and I crossed back to her so she could slide out my belt, then slip off my jeans and shorts and steal an unsubtle grope. She waved me back, and said with a wink, “Put your shoulders back and turn for me. I’d like to know what I’m having for dinner.”
I was no spectacle of manhood, I knew. I was average, with a small post-college belly and thinning hair. Still, I turned for her, lifted my arms as her fingers roamed beneath my arms, and stiffened as she squeezed my ass and my inner thigh. It wasn’t foreplay, really – it was more like a grocer checking for freshness. As I completed the turn to face her, she nodded appreciatively.
“I thought so. The jerks are always muscle-bound, or try to flex and tighten so I’ll think they are. They always have something to prove – even to me. But you’re just right, aren’t you? Not a jock … a spectacle of manhood.”
I blinked and gave her a funny look.
She gave it right back.
She chatted with me while I showered – telling me how and where and when to wash while sharing short anecdotes that didn’t really expose any personal details but painted a picture of a carefree, adventuresome, mysterious life. She had been an ambitious girl, often working several jobs a night or traveling cross-country for big clients when she first started. She was more discriminating now, and she only picked up enders – check-out types like myself – every so often, when one caught her attention. She liked to give them her attention, her full attention. She would, after all, be the only one to know their whole life story. Though she spoke with conviction and confidence, I could tell she’d said the same thing dozens of times before. It was a speech designed to make me feel special, to relax me, to lower my guard. It worked, too.
She told me that there was a plan, a technique that most of the girls would use with an ender like me – someone young and still healthy, and thus a flight risk – especially if the girl didn’t want to be tied up too long after escrow cleared. The night the ender arrived, he’d be lavished with attention – public attention, if he would allow it. He’d be taken downtown, shown off in a couple of name-brand clubs, have his neck nibbled on at the bar by the girl and a couple of her friends, maybe even fucked on the table in the back corner where they would be seen by just the right people. This was advertising, and the girl would make sure everyone saw what a good time their ender was having. They’d get drunk, but definitely not high, and they’d stay up late, all night. A few hours past midnight, once the party crowd had thinned, the girl would start withdrawing, just a little bit at a time, leaving the ender alone while she just had to talk to (or kiss, or eat) someone else, and she might forget to come back for half an hour. Or two. The ender, if played properly, would become uncomfortable, but not demanding – he’d crave attention like a lonely dog, and feel somehow that it was his fault when it was increasingly denied to him. In his drunken solitude, he’d remember all of the reasons that drove him to his decision to suicide.
Later, after his girl disappeared altogether, probably to an hourly job, one of the hotel’s cars would come by to pick him up. He’d be taken back to his cell of a room for a gourmet but stale breakfast delivered by another girl, but again he’d be left to eat alone. His own girl would come by to look in on him later, and if he wasn’t asleep, she might give him a quickie before promising to meet him right after lunch. Whatever kept him on her hook. But she’d leave him in his room or an upstairs hotel lobby until evening, after escrow had cleared. By now he’d begun to despair, and probably think about canceling, but then, in grand gesture of benevolence, she’d call him up to her suite or swoop down to finish him off, ending his misery for good.
The point of all this was, of course, to weed out the jerks who were too narcissistic to follow through, and to keep any of the real enders depressed enough that they wouldn’t flake out and cause a whole mess of paperwork. It was risk management. The details varied from girl to girl to whim to mood, but the results were pretty much the same, and they were reliable.
Jane was toweling me off with a terry-cloth robe as she told me that this was not at all like her plan for me. She had already decided I wasn’t a jerk or a flake, and she’d agreed to take me because she thought I’d be interesting to know. She had nearly cleared her schedule, and we were going to be spending time together. We could do whatever I wanted… as long as she liked it too. There would be no bowling or miniature golf, and no card games unless it was strip poker. No going out again to advertise, unless she’d seriously misread me and I had an exhibitionist streak. And since my own room wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow morning, I’d be sleeping here with her tonight and every night I wished.
I told her that I had put myself completely in her hands, and I would be happy to do whatever she thought would be fun. Her mischievous grin clearly told me that I’d given the right answer.
She handed me a pair of slippers and led me out over the marble floor, past the fucking bed, to the squared psuede couch facing the windows and overlooking the city. As directed, I lay on my stomach and folded my arms under my chin. A moment later a jack-and-coke appeared on the end table by my head. (That was no psychic act on her part – it was on the questionnaire.)
After I’d had a few sips and she’d finished whatever she was doing, I heard the clop-clop of her boots while she came around into my view. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and leaned back against the window. “So. Schoolboy. Now I’ve got you alone in my room, and just a little uninhibited. What should we do?” Her black nailed fingers tapped thoughtfully on her arm, but her grin was spoiling the act. “Hmm… I don’t really feel like homework – I’m not the studying type tonight. I’m not the cheer type, either, but I don’t mind practicing my kicks.” She set her booted heel on the end-table and nudged my drink to the side. I gaped up at a magnificent view while she peered back down with satisfaction. “Or we can sit and ‘talk’. I might even be able to teach you a few things.”
“That sounds good.”
“I thought it might.” She dropped her boot and circled the couch, coming to stand at the other end. “Roll onto your back.” As I complied, keeping the robe closed around me, she crawled up over the arm of the couch and straddled my hips. She rolled her thighs and ass to settle in, and I felt the blood rush to my groin. “There, that’s comfortable. Now what are we going to talk about?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t very good at these types of games.
“Oh, you’re still much too tense. We’ll never have a good conversation until you relax.” She pulled open the chest of the robe, then reached over the couch for a little bottle. Hot oil dribbled over my shoulders, neck, and chest, and a moment later she was kneading it into my skin with the palms of her hands.
She started by asking me about movies. I was too busy watching her, experiencing each of her movements on top of me, to give good answers – but only at first. She kept asking, kept laughing, kept massaging, and my words began to flow more freely. She flirted with her fingers and her questions. She pinched my nipples and tickled under my arms. She listened to my answers, then teasingly described how she would pornify my favorite movies and what part she’d have me play. She was feeling me out. Her questions became less frequent but more probing as my conversation began to flow.
We had graduated from movies into books and philosophy, but, remarkably, I was no less aroused. My arms were crossed behind my head and my eyes were drifting over the ceiling as I described Atlas Shrugged with a stream of multi-syllabic Latin-rooted words. I was feeling comfortably arrogant. She was only half-focused on the massage now; she’d been silent for some time and had taken to suckling my fingers as I spoke.
When I came to a break in thought, she sat up and put my hand over my mouth. “Close your eyes, schoolboy. I’ve got a surprise for you.” I obeyed, and her thighs squeezed over my hips while she turned to the side. I heard the rustling of her blouse. A moment later her hands slipped behind my hand and she lifted me from the pillow, pressing her nipple between my open lips. One hand remained cupped behind my head to hold me in place. Then she began talking.
She had thoughts of her own on the subject. Seemingly from nowhere, she delivered this critical opinion on Objectivism, and Ayn Rand in general, barely pausing mid-sentence to move my head to the other breast once I’d teased her perky and warm. Though I was understandably distracted, I listened. I was surprised – surprised and impressed. She was right – I’d never heard Ayn dissected that way before, but she was spot on. And here I’d done my thesis on Rand. She pulled my head back, and I opened my eyes to see her staring into them.
At that one moment, it was easy for me to meet her green-eyed gaze; in fact, it would have been difficult to break away. That struck me as peculiar later. I’d never been able to look someone in the eyes like that for more than a few seconds before self-evaluation defeated me.
She kissed me – urgently – then pulled herself away. Her eyes drank me in. I thought she might tug open my robe and take me inside her; instead she ran her hands through her hair and let the pigtails drop out. “I would fuck the life out of you right now if I wasn’t careful. But I have some other plans for tonight. You need an intermission, and I need a costume change. I’m done with the naughty schoolgirl role for today. At least with the schoolgirl part.” She slid off me and stood, patting the bulge beneath my robe. “Wait for me here.” She winked, then turned a knob on the remote behind the couch. One of the window panes darkened just a shade, obscuring the city lights to show a dim display screen – just so I’d know it was there.
I sighed. The clop of her boots faded across the open room and disappeared through her dark double doors in the corner. I left the display as she did – for the moment I preferred my own thoughts to public entertainment.
