On Demand

by Justine Elyot

  Mr Gregg felt luxuriously wicked, like a melodrama baronet with a twirly moustache, pounding his cornered lust object into ultimate submission; while Mrs Ross felt wickedly luxurious, like the favoured concubine of a powerful ruler, offering the final bastion of her virtue to her master.

  The fantasy saw them fly into an enormous stew of an orgasm: Gregg pumping in a frenzy, Mrs Ross shredded by the combination of climax and filled arse, lifted for a few seconds beyond her body and into an otherworld of pure sensation.

  'Take it,' growled Gregg. 'Just . . . take it.'

  She took it, and gladly, and she would have taken much more, although it was starting to sting again back there, and besides, time was pressing.

  'How was it?' asked Gregg, withdrawing in a way that made her face crumple and reaching for the tissues on the bedside table.

  'God. Just. Thank you. It was . . . more than I even thought. You were great.'

  'Yes, wasn't I?' he preened. 'So were you. I'm glad you enjoyed it.'

  'I did.' Mrs Ross lay down flat, meekly allowing him to dab at her widespread arsehole with the tissue.

  'You'll feel that for a while,' he advised. 'But it'll be fine in a day or so. Just don't go ramming any large foreign objects up there. Or if you do, give me a call and I'll come and watch you.'

  Mrs Ross snorted. 'Pervert.'

  'Yes.' There was a short pause while he zipped himself back up. 'You know, I'd be more than happy to do this again, Lynnie.'

  'No,' she said, rolling over and scanning the room for her skirt. 'It can't happen again. It's a one-off; a glorious one-off. I'll never forget it.'

  'I understand,' said Gregg with a rueful smile. 'And neither will I.'

  Mrs Ross has still not managed to convince her husband of the benefits of backdoor love, but she has some excellent toys, and a very good memory. And a lot of spare time.

  On Demand

  A smart man with shiny shoes, a briefcase and a golf bag crosses the lobby. A businessman, you might think, staying for a few nights to negotiate a deal. And while he is here, he will relax with a few rounds of golf before breakfast, perhaps, or talk over some of the finer points of the contract while teeing off with his colleagues. Except I know for a fact that there are no golf clubs in that bag.

  How do I know?

  Dr Lassiter and his golf bag make an appearance here roughly every six weeks. He hires a room for the night, but never stays until morning; he usually checks in at two and leaves around dinnertime. Between two and two thirty, a shy-looking blonde woman comes to Reception and asks for Dr Lassiter; I always ring the room and tell him she is here; he always asks me to send her up.

  At first glance, nothing more to it than that most common of scenarios here, an illicit tryst between otherwise attached lovers. But what's with the golf bag?

  I found out on the occasion of their fourth liaison.

  The hotel was very busy that week; three conferences and an international film festival in town. Dr Lassiter and his friend would have to make do with one of our lowlier rooms at the back of the building, a set of small double suites with (locked, of course) interconnecting doors. I sent the blonde up as usual and settled in to an afternoon of flirting with obscure European actors at the desk. A particularly mouthwatering Croatian chap was asking me about local restaurants and bars when I was interrupted by a peremptory ring of the bell.

  'Ahem, excuse me, young lady,' said an elderly man in a safari suit. 'I wonder if you could help me with a delicate situation.'

  I smiled regretfully at Mr TDH and turned to the customer.

  'Delicate?'

  'Yes. I think so. I'm in Room 209, trying to sleep in advance of a very important meeting this evening, but there is a terrible racket coming from the room next door.'

  'Next door? To your left or your right?'

  'Right.'

  So that would be Dr Lassiter and his friend. Interesting.

  'What sort of racket is it?' I asked, expecting creaky bedsprings and shouts of 'Yes! Yes!' as per.

  'Well, it's rather a worry. It sounds as if there is some kind of assault taking place.'

  'Assault?' Perhaps they liked it rough.

  'Yes, it sounds rather as if a woman is being beaten in there.'

  'Oh.' I dithered for a few seconds. Dr Lassiter did not seem the violent type, but then, that is not necessarily relevant. He was probably engaging in some kind of consensual role-play with his friend. All the same . . .

  'Come up and listen for yourself,' invited the elderly gentleman. 'You can hear it all quite plainly through the connecting door.'

  'All right,' I said, retrieving my set of skeleton keys from beneath the desk. 'Though you realise I will not be able to disturb them unless there is a crime taking place. If they are just . . . noisy people . . . I will have to leave them to it. Within reason. You will find a set of earplugs in the top drawer of the bedside table.'

  Entering the lift, he told me, 'I can't abide earplugs. I can't sleep with them in at all.'

  I shrugged and we remained silent until reaching the obscure back corridor where his room was situated. A low cry travelled along the corridor towards us, eerily disembodied. It sounded like a woman's voice.

  'Is that her?' I whispered.

  'Yes. Come in.' He ushered me into the room and we made for the interconnecting door, where we crouched down with toothglasses at our ears.

  At first all was silent. Then there was the rumble of a man's voice, his words indistinguishable. A short reply from the woman, something like 'Yes', maybe. More silence. Then I staggered back at a sudden cracking sound and a shuddering 'ooh' from the woman.

  'What was that?' I whispered to my companion.

  'I don't know. It sounds like he's hitting her, don't you think?'

  I listened again. It sounded like a cowboy cracking his whip in a Western film, though perhaps a bit less sharp. The cries of the woman increased in volume until it became obvious that she was saying 'No, please, no.'

  I stood up, staring at the elderly guest in consternation.

  'Oh my God, it does sound as if she wants him to stop whatever he's doing. Damn! What the hell can I do?'

  'Can't you go in there on some pretext?'

  'I'm afraid to. Perhaps I should get the manager?' But if it should turn out to be innocent fun . . . I didn't want to risk incurring Chase's wrath. At least, not in this context. Maybe in the bedroom . . . 'OK.' I strengthened my resolve. I would sort this out as quickly and simply as possible.

  I marched round to the room next door and rapped at the door. There was a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the handle but, for once, I ignored it.

  The whipcracking and crying stopped dead.

  'Who is there?'

  'Reception. Could I have a quick word, please?'

  'Don't you see the sign on the door?' Lassiter's tone was autocratic, but there was a touch of something nervous behind it.

  'Yes, but it's important. Please can I speak to you?'

  'I specifically asked for no interruptions. Leave us alone, please, or I shall have to call the manager to complain.'

  Fuck! Now what? I made a pained face at my elderly whistleblower, who shook his head. 'What if he is killing her?' he whispered.

  He was right. It was a risk I was not prepared to take. I put my bunch of skeleton keys up to my lips for an indecisive moment, then I opened the door. I was confronted by a scream and a pair of rather red thighs leaping away from me out of eyeshot, while Dr Lassiter, wearing a long black cloak and mortarboard, spun round furiously, throwing a leather strappy thing on to the bed in the process.

  My eyes popped. Oh no! This was a miscalculation after all! Or was it?

  'I'm so sorry,' I squawked, feeling as if there was a hand around my throat. 'But the lady sounded as if . . . she was suffering. I just wanted to make sure she was all right.'

  The blonde peeped around from the bathroom door. Her hair was in pigtails, I noticed. 'I'm absolutely fine,' she said hysterically. 'Please go away.
'

  I spun around, noticing an array of fierce-looking implements on the bed, including a whippy item with a number of purple tails. Very striking. Ha.

  Anyway. This was a good old-fashioned headmaster/ naughty schoolgirl role-play and there was no way I was sticking around to incur Dr Lassiter's displeasure, judging by the state of that girl's backside. A bit of slap and tickle is one thing, but not being able to sit down for a week is quite another.

  I made my excuses and left. And spent the rest of the afternoon pondering.

  Although the scene I had found had unsettled me, I was also intrigued. I felt the need to know more. What did the girl get out of it? What was Dr Lassiter's motivation? Were they lovers, or was it Strictly Come Caning? How did that strap feel? What about the cane – was it as painful as I imagined? If so, what was the payoff? I imagined myself, bent at the waist, clutching my ankles while my pale and vulnerable bottom awaited the first cut. I had to admit, my curiosity was piqued, and that was always dangerous. If I was a cat, I'd be dead by now, for sure.

  So when Blondie emerged from the lift and glanced over at the desk in a panic, intent on getting out without being seen, I had to stop her. I rushed out across the lobby.

  'Madam! Excuse me, Madam!'

  She turned and thrust out her lip at me. 'Haven't you done enough damage for one day?' she hissed. 'Dr Lassiter is furious; I don't suppose we'll be able to use this place again.'

  'I know. I'm so sorry about that,' I replied quietly. 'I hope you will come back. I'll put you somewhere soundproofed next time. Please accept my apologies!'

  She sniffed. 'Well, it isn't up to me. It'll be Dr Lassiter's decision.'

  'I suppose it will. I'm going to apologise to him too. Listen, do you have a minute? Can I get you a drink?'

  'I have a train to catch. But it's not for half an hour. I suppose so.'

  I took her into the bar and ordered us a dry Martini each.

  'Take a seat,' I offered, waving my hand at the near-empty expanse of seating.

  'Thanks, I'd prefer to stand,' she deadpanned, causing me to put a hand over my mouth and stifle a giggle.

  'I suppose so,' I said, grinning at her. She returned my smile, relaxing a little. 'I suppose the train ride home might be a little uncomfortable?'

  'It usually is. What did you want to talk about?'

  'Just . . . I'm interested. Oh, my name's Sophie, by the way.'

  'Rachael.' She put out a hand, its nails square-clipped and unvarnished. I noticed that there was some ink on a couple of fingertips. She caught my frown of enquiry. 'Dr Lassiter is a great one for the little details,' she said. 'You're not shocked? You seem to be taking this in your stride.'

  'No, not shocked at all. Horses for courses,' I said with a shrug.

  'Mmm, I love a riding crop,' she said, looking at me archly for a reaction.

  'Why?' I asked her.

  'Why?'

  'Yes, why do you like it? What's the draw?'

  'Oh, Sophie, if you don't understand, you never will. It's something you get or you don't. I can't explain it. It's hardwired into me.'

  'I'm not sure I don't understand it,' I told her. 'When I caught you . . . there was something in me that couldn't look away. I felt as if I should run, but I didn't want to. I wanted to see more.'

  'Well, perhaps you're a latent submissive,' said Rachael ruminatively. 'Sometimes it can manifest a little later. Personally, I've always known I was this way.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. All my fantasies were of being dominated, tied up, disciplined. Never anything soft-focus or romantic for me. For me, the big strong arms of a protective man can't compare with the cane in the hand of an authoritarian.'

  'Wow. But what is it that appeals to you? Is it the pain?'

  'No. You're surprised, aren't you? It isn't the pain. I don't even like it that much. To be honest, I long for the caning to stop almost as soon as it starts.'

  This was confusing. If she hated the pain, why did she do this?

  'So when you called out for him to please stop . . . and he didn't . . . what was going on there?'

  'Oh, I wasn't really asking him to stop.' She was enjoying my blank-faced bewilderment, smiling impishly as she bit the cocktail cherry off the stick.

  'So . . .?'

  'If I'd wanted him to stop, I'd have used my safeword. It's ''Basingstoke''. That's where I live,' she said.

  'Oh, right, you have a safeword. Have you ever used it?'

  'So far, no. It's kind of a matter of pride for me. I've surprised myself at how much I can take. I really am much stronger than I thought.'

  'Stronger?'

  'There is strength in submission,' she said serenely. 'You could try it. You'd see.'

  'So it's all about . . . giving yourself up? Putting yourself in somebody else's hands?'

  'You're starting to get it,' she said, draining the cocktail.

  'You must trust Dr Lassiter very much,' I commented. 'How did you meet him?'

  'Oh, on the internet,' she said offhandedly. 'Slaveseeker. com.'

  Slaveseeker.com? Now I really had heard it all.

  'So you don't even know him?'

  'Sophie, sweetie, I know what I need to know. I know he can give me what I need. I don't need to know more than that, do I?'

  'You think of yourself as . . . his slave?'

  She sighed. 'No, I don't. Some submissives do, some don't. You know, not everyone who practises BDSM is this hogtied girl in PVC crawling around the place on her hands and knees. There are just as many shades of dynamic as there are in vanilla sex. Like I said. You should try it.'

  She put down her glass and checked her watch.

  'And now I really have to go. But it was nice talking to you. I forgive you for barging in on us. I'll try and persuade Dr Lassiter to give you another chance.'

  She winked at me and left the bar.

  I mooched after her minutes later, my head full of leather thongs and scarlet flesh, and bumped straight into Dr Lassiter, knocking his golf bag to the highly polished floor.

  'You again!' he spluttered. 'Were you put on this earth to plague me?'

  'I'm sorry! So sorry!' I reached for the golf bag but he swiped it jealously from the floor before I could touch its hallowed cloth.

  'You will be when I've spoken to the manager.'

  'Oh, please, don't! I mean . . .' His lips were pinched and white; he seemed hellbent on getting me fired. 'Of course, it's up to you. But if there is any other way I can make it up to you . . .'

  'I want a refund for today's fiasco,' he said.

  'No problem; I'll organise it straight away.' I hopped over to the desk and began the complicated refund process while he glowered beardily down. He would make a good headmaster in real life, I thought, at least as far as intimidating the malcontents was concerned.