What She Needs

by Lacey Alexander

  Of course, maybe a waiter here was only a waiter, and a . . . sexual partner was a sexual partner. But now, suddenly, she remembered the couple she’d seen on the beach last night—while Brent was inside her, touching her, making her come. Had the couple been living out a fantasy—of one, or the other, or both of them? Or were they just . . . fucking, as Brent would have called it, on their own, no fantasy attached?

  And . . . what sorts of ways would Brent concoct to fix whatever problems he thought she had? What kinds of fantasies was he perhaps creating for her this very moment? To her distress, she got a little wet just thinking about him planning sex for her.

  Of course, it still irked her that he thought there was something wrong with her. Just because she wasn’t wild or kinky, he thought she’d been damaged by her parents’ prudish attitudes and those other negative incidents in her youth. But what was wrong with not being wild and kinky? She supposed in his world wild and kinky were normal, but in hers, normal was . . . in the eye of the beholder. And she thought she was normal.

  Even if she tended to close her eyes through most of sex.

  Even if she sometimes had a hard time admitting she wanted sex, even to a guy she wanted it with.

  She was just . . . well, maybe a little more shy about sex than she’d been willing to confess to Shannon and Kevin—or even to herself, up to now.

  She bit her lip, remembering an instance last night when Brent had been behind her, touching her, and she’d had the urge to reach back and touch him, too—his thigh, or his butt. But as soon as she’d thought about it, she couldn’t do it. Even though she’d been responding to his advances, she’d been unable to . . . advance things any further herself. She’d been unable to be bold—even when that simply meant reciprocating a little.

  God, what if there was something wrong with her?

  Well, even if there was, Brent Powers couldn’t fix it with a bunch of kinky sex in two short weeks.

  So no matter how she looked at it, the smart thing was to write that note as planned. And she was going to do it early—she would return to the room by one, write and send the letter, then exit again quickly so that she’d be gone when his “further instructions” arrived. Even if she still remained curious about what exactly those instructions would be.

  And then she gasped. Oh dear—what if they were instructions she might actually like? Maybe he’d plan some sort of softer, gentler sex—something romantic or beachy perhaps. Or even a little wilder and beachy, like the naked couple last night. Either way, what if it turned out to be a fantasy she might honestly concoct on her own, as he’d said was often the case?

  She couldn’t deny having enjoyed last night—although enjoyed was a mild way to put it. She’d never had sex like that before, sex so utterly steamy and mind-numbing. And what she’d admitted afterward was true—the stark intimacy had made her comfortable with him. And he was undeniably a sex god in the flesh—the most gorgeous man to ever look her way. So . . . maybe the whole reason she’d begun entertaining the notion of going through with the fantasies was simply . . . because she wanted to be with him again. And that had seemed like the only way.

  Well, if that was the case, all the more reason to write that note and put an end to this once and for all. She couldn’t have sex with God knew how many people just because she might have gotten a little attached to Brent Powers last night. The very idea sounded insanely . . . destructive. And this just proved her point anyway—she wasn’t cut out for casual sex; she couldn’t take it casually.

  So even if she might risk losing out on some perfect beach fantasy with her perfect, hunky fantasy guy—too bad. No more sex for her at the Hotel Erotique.

  She’d just reopened her book, finally ready to resume being normal Jenna, when her waiter returned, colorful umbrella drink in hand.

  “Here you go,” he said with a grin.

  Before she could take it from him, a large drop of moisture dripped from the glass to plop wetly on the exposed ridge of her breast, making her flinch from the cold.

  “Oops, sorry.”

  “No biggie,” she assured Ryan, taking the drink from him. “I was kind of hot anyway.”

  “You can say that again,” he replied with another sexy wink. “Anything else you need? Just say the word and I’m your guy.”

  She swallowed. At the compliment and that word again—need. It was everywhere lately, it seemed. Was there anything else she needed?

  A strange, reckless part of her was almost tempted to ask him if he ever took part in guests’ fantasies—but then she came back to her senses, despite the wetness now also surging between her thighs. “I’m good for now, thanks,” she finally replied.

  And as he walked away, she promised herself she’d stay good. She really didn’t need anything here, no matter what Brent Powers said.

  After a light lunch on the beach—courtesy of cute jock waiter Ryan—Jenna made her way back to her lavish room ahead of her self-imposed one o’clock deadline. She spent the walk back composing her note to Brent in her head and keeping an eye out for any random sexual activity she might spot from the path along the way. She saw nothing, but as usual, her chest still tightened and something in her sizzled when she wondered what sorts of naughty activities might be taking place all around her.

  She dug her room key from her straw beach bag, thinking: All right, get in the room, find some paper, write the letter, then head back to the beach—dropping the note at the front desk on the way, with strict instructions that it must be delivered to Brent Powers immediately.

  Then she pushed through the door and—oh, hell. Damn it. He’d already been here. Or someone had anyway—and not just the maid. A pink envelope sat atop the freshly made bed, and next to it rested a small pink shopping bag with pink tissue paper billowing up from inside.

  Of course, she could just ignore that and write her letter as planned.

  But curiosity quickly got the best of her. If the letter and bag contained information about the first fantasy he’d designed for her, how could she not at least look? Because how often did she end up at a sex resort, of all places? Even if she wasn’t into it, it still drew her attention in that morbid fashion, like a wreck on the highway: She expected to be horrified by what she saw, but still she had to peek. And unlike a wreck on the highway, this would actually serve a purpose, surely shoring up her decision not to ride the Hotel Erotique merry-go-round.

  Sliding her finger under the pink envelope flap, she drew out a card of white vellum printed in formal black script, like a wedding invitation. Only this was a different sort of invitation altogether.

  You Are Invited to a Fantasy

  Where: Room 222 (map enclosed)

  When: Today, 5:30 p.m.

  You have always been an apt student,

  but you’ve just enrolled in a tantalizing new subject.

  Wear the lingerie provided.

  Put anything you like over it to walk to the room.

  More directions await you in the bathroom—follow them exactly.

  Remember, obedience is key in the classroom.

  (Your safeword is Marie Antoinette.)

  Jenna would have smiled about him choosing the topic of one of her books as her safeword if she hadn’t been so eager to reach into the bag and see exactly what kind of lingerie Brent had selected for her. And—oh my!—she couldn’t have been more pleasantly surprised to find a sexy yet utterly classy white lace bra and thong set. It was exactly the sort of thing she would buy if planning a romantic evening that might lead to the bedroom.

  So . . . wow. Did this change things? Her decision? Because if Brent had indeed designed some sort of simple, sexy, white-lace fantasy for her, then . . . hmm, that might be nice. She wouldn’t have thought so yesterday, but given that she’d already had sex with him and that it had been freaking amazing . . . would it be so awful to indulge once more?

  Sure, it meant risking a deeper attachment to a guy with whom she had nothing in common and certainly no hope f
or a future, but . . . maybe this would be good for her. Maybe the whole experience would help her get better at casual sex. Not the kind he surely had planned for later in her stay, but . . . maybe the kind Kevin and Shannon had been pushing her toward. In one sense, it still sounded unappealing, but in another . . . well, last night had proven, if nothing else, that casual sex wouldn’t kill her. And in reality, it hadn’t even left her suffering any real regrets.

  Still holding the lacy bra in her hand, she checked the tag: 34C. Yep, right size. Just like the right wine and the right chicken.

  And, of course, if she went through with the sex tonight, Brent would surely be pissed when she announced it was the last time after all, and he’d try to cajole her into more—but the decision would remain hers. She could do what she wanted here—take none of her prize, or part of it. And if she desired one more—and only one more—night of hot, knee-weakening passion with the sex doctor himself, then that’s what she would have.

  “Wow,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing with heat. Because apparently she was doing this—entering into one of the fantasies. She’d never imagined she could be so bold, and despite lingering fears, she found herself peering down at the lace in her hands with a mischievous smile.

  Now, to get ready for her white-lace evening. Dropping the bra on the bed, she stripped off her bikini on the way to the spacious bathroom. Stepping inside, she reached to turn on the water in the marble shower—then spotted some items on the wide countertop. Again, not things the maid had left—she’d been so enraptured by the lingerie and her decision that she’d completely forgotten more instructions waited here.

  She was unsettled enough to see a feminine-looking can of shaving cream and two pink disposable razors, but she nearly fainted when she picked up the card propped next to them and read the words printed in more fancy black script:

  Shave your pussy completely smooth.

  Oh boy. Feeling light-headed, she pressed a palm to the sink top for balance and tried to catch her breath. She knew guys liked that. She knew Shannon did it for Kevin—although she got the area waxed instead, making Jenna cringe every time she thought about such pain. But she’d certainly never done it herself. No guy she’d ever dated had asked her to. And why else would a woman do that?

  She saw several choices before her. She could just ignore this part. Or she could change her mind altogether and refuse the fantasy.

  Or she could shave.

  She bit her lip, staring down at the words on the card again.

  Then she drew in a deep breath. What would be the harm? It was hair removal, not amputation. It would grow back. And if Brent was into the bare look, well . . . what did she care? She wanted to excite him again, didn’t she?

  And thus began the process, which, to her vast shock, succeeded in arousing her as she worked.

  Then again, didn’t everything arouse her here? From the waiters to the rum punch, from the co-pilot to her bikini—so what did it matter if revealing a little more of her own skin turned her on?

  Although, as she removed more and more hair, she began to think maybe she understood why it aroused guys, too. Usually, it was almost as if the vagina were hiding behind the pubic hair. This put it completely on display—she could truly see it, everything about it. Although, she didn’t shave all the hair off. She decided to leave an oval patch above the slit. She wasn’t sure why—but while she could understand the merits of baring herself, leaving a little hair somehow just felt . . . safer, or maybe more normal.

  A mere glance in the mirror after she wiped the remnants of shaving cream away made her more aware of the way she was built, of the split in the center and what it opened to. And when she ran her fingertips over the skin to either side—wow, she’d never felt anything softer. Yeah, no wonder guys liked it this way. Would Brent like hers this way? She shivered in anticipation, then oozed with moisture.

  As she stepped into the shower, she felt . . . new. Or maybe just different. She was a woman who shaved her intimate area, a woman who was preparing to meet a lover for an evening of hot sex. The very act of running the soap over her freshly tanned skin—over her shoulders, breasts, stomach, and lower—made her feel sexy, ready. She could be like other women. She could be like Shannon. She could surprise Brent even more—and maybe show him she didn’t need as much help with her sexuality as he thought.

  Twenty minutes later, she stood before the mirror in her sexy new lingerie—part lace, part sheer white fabric. Her nipples, clearly visible, shone darkly through, and the panties left her denuded mound noticeable as well. The bra was cut low and built to shove her breasts upward, making them look high and round.

  Usually, she thought she looked pretty in an average way. Right now, dressed for sex in a sophisticated bra and thong, with her long brown hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, with her face tanned and her eyes and lips freshly made up—she thought she looked like a knockout, like a woman any man would be lucky to be with.

  Last night, she’d thought she was lucky to be with a man as gorgeous as Brent. But tonight, she felt much more his equal.

  Smiling to herself, she slipped into a pair of shorts and a baby blue tank, then stepped into her beaded flip-flops. And by the time she walked out the door, the map to room 222 clutched in her hand, she wasn’t even nervous anymore. She couldn’t wait to see what Brent had in store for her.

  Chapter 4

  The map led Jenna along a series of winding paths across the grounds that soon felt like a maze. But each path was marked with small signs that told her she was going the right way. As she walked, she felt herself becoming more and more isolated—she heard no voices or movements other than the occasional bird in the palm and banyan trees overhead. And with each step, the lace of her thong rubbed against her, heightening her arousal.

  Finally, she emerged from a foliage-lined path to find herself face-to-face with a non-descript brick building that didn’t seem to fit the surroundings. Consulting the map, she saw it labeled simply as SCHOOL—and her fantasy was to take place inside it.

  Pulling open the heavy front door, she followed a dark hallway lined in old-fashioned green tile, passing numbered doorways, then made her way up a set of stairs to the second floor, finally reaching room 222.

  Biting her lip, her stomach churning a bit, she twisted the doorknob and stepped inside—only to find herself in a tiny room, not larger than a walk-in closet. It contained a padded bench, a row of hooks on the wall above, and a large oak wardrobe. As well as another door.

  A white card rested on the bench, so she snatched it up.

  Change into the items in the chifforobe, leaving the lingerie on underneath.

  After you’ve dressed, come inside, prepared for class.

  Don’t be afraid. Be ready.

  Jenna sucked in her breath. So there were more props here. She began to get nervous again.

  At the same time, though, the juncture of her thighs still tingled and she suffered the sense of having come too far to turn back, the sense that whatever pleasure he’d laid out for her, she owed it to herself to experience.

  Still, when she opened the wardrobe, she gasped—at the sight of a small white blouse and short plaid skirt, à la naughty Catholic schoolgirl.

  Okay. So she’d been wrong, as in ridiculously naïve. This wasn’t a soft, romantic fantasy. This was . . . kinky. And she clearly should have paid more attention to the emerging school theme. What was that about?

  Yet he’d told her there would be costumes involved and roles to play, so maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised.

  And it could be worse. He only wants you to be a sexy schoolgirl. And at least she’d been a schoolgirl before, even if not a sexy or Catholic one.

  As she reached for the skirt, she started to wonder why she wasn’t stopping this now, why she wasn’t backing out and changing her mind, screaming, “Marie Antoinette!” through the door and running like mad in the other direction.

  But she didn’t allow herself to go
there. Since something was telling her to put on the outfit.

  Lust, she decided. It was lust. It was wanting to be with Brent Powers again. It was the way her feminine mound pulsed from all the anticipation, the way desire stretched all through her now, the same as last night at dinner. And maybe, just maybe, it was . . . realizing that she’d never again in her life have this unique opportunity, at a place where no one knew her or would judge her, and maybe she actually wanted to have the experience.

  Of course, she knew what happened at the Hotel Erotique wouldn’t really stay at the Hotel Erotique—it would come with her and be a part of her for the rest of her existence. So if she ended up with regrets . . . well, she’d had very few in life so far. So if that happened, she would simply push it aside and consider it an honest mistake.

  Thus it was lust and curiosity and the invisible sense of arousal permeating everything here that had her zipping up the scandalously short skirt, which began well below her navel yet barely covered her butt, and tying the tight white, short-sleeved blouse—no buttons—under her breasts.

  Then she spied the shoes on the floor of the chifforobe—white strappy platform heels like strippers wore. Oh my. She’d never even thought about putting on such a pair of shoes before, and she questioned whether she could walk in them, but . . . she’d decided to do this, right? So she sat down on the bench and slid her feet into the ultra-sexy heels, then stood to look in the long mirror inside the wardrobe’s open door.

  Whoa.

  She blinked, studying herself from head to toe, trying to adjust to this new image of herself.

  She looked downright sinful. Naughty indeed.

  And . . . oh God, she liked it.

  She’d just become . . . every man’s dirty fantasy. Fresh moisture pooled in the area she’d so recently shaved, and she was stunned to discover she could get so hot looking at . . . herself.