Chapter 2: Royal York

I hesitated before I pushed through the revolving door into the high-ceilinged opulent lobby of the Royal York. The hotel was formerly the tallest building in the British empire, and had hosted movie stars and queens. I was neither tall nor famous. Well-dressed guests peppered the lobby, most engaged in quiet and civilized conversation. As I stepped across the threshold from street squalor to luxury, all eyes turned to the interloping girl sporting loose red hair, an April Wine concert t-shirt that emphasized her breasts, coarse Levis and Converse sneakers, all tucked under a loose common black trench coat. Perhaps not all eyes stared at me, but I felt underdressed and self-conscious. This was a mistake in so many ways.

Taking a deep breath, I strode purposefully to the front desk where a uniformed clerk eyed my approach warily, as if a street vagrant had appeared in his lobby. Unfailingly polite, he asked: “Can I be of assistance, Madam?”

For a moment, I nearly checked over my shoulder for a woman of culture perhaps standing behind me.

“Madam?” he repeated.

I cleared my throat. “I was told that there would be a package for me at the front desk,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady and dignified.

“Certainly, Madam, under what name?”

Like with Charlotte a week ago, I nearly gave the clerk my birth name, but I checked myself. No package would be present for her.

“Crimson.” He eyed me for a moment, unsure if he was being punked. I returned his stare without elaborating.

After deciding I was essentially harmless, despite my attire, he turned smartly, rummaging beneath the enormous marble counter, finally emerging with an envelope with Crimson scrawled neatly across it in flowing feminine script. So my train trip downtown hadn’t been a complete waste of time. My thoughts split: half of me, the rational part, wanted to return to my own quiet warm bed, finish what I had started the previous evening prior to a very cold shower; the other half, galvanized by my aroused and starved nerves, wanted to experience this adventure, regardless of the recklessness of it. The envelope sided with my vagina.

“Room 1123,” he offered helpfully as he handed the envelope to me. In my hand, it burned.

“Stairs?”

“To the left of the elevators, Madam. Over there,” he pointed. “Have a wonderful evening.”

I felt his eyes blazing into my back as I strode quickly over to the stairs, opened the door and began to climb.

I was reasonably fit and toned; even so, my breathing laboured as I stood in front of room 1123 after climbing eleven flights. Silence, but for my ragged breathing, filled the hallway; not even the muted voice of a television through a closed door hinted at other occupation. The envelope in my hand undoubtedly wrapped a key for the room; I could easily open the door and enter, but I didn’t. Eternity passed as I stood in front of the door.

“Cameron, what the fuck did you get me into?” I whispered to the uncaring door.

The door didn’t answer me, but it mocked me with its presence. Destiny unraveled in front of me. It remained an option to turn on my heel, walk back to the deserted stairwell, pass through the palatial lobby and forget this evening forever.

I knocked lightly and waited.

My knuckles had raised to rap on the door again, part of me relieved that she wasn’t there, or was unwilling to answer. Before I could knock again, I sensed movement, and the door swung open.

Charlotte wore a sheer black evening gown descending to her knees; I didn’t immediately recognize the designer. Her blonde hair lay loose about her bare shoulders. Expensive black stockings encased her toned legs. High heels clinched her feet. She wore a minimum of make-up, not that she needed any. She seemed softer and more feminine, contrasting the professional food court demeanour when last I’d seen her. Her blue eyes pierced through me as if I were an adversary across a large conference table. All in all, her current dress and presence suited the hotel but belied her desires.

She glanced back into the suite, but instead of motioning me inside, she stepped out into the hallway, allowing the door to close behind her. Quizzically, I looked at her.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” Charlotte said breathlessly.

“I wasn’t sure until I knocked,” I replied as steadily as I could. I glanced at my watch. I was late, but only by a few minutes. Most of the delay was accountable to my hesitation to touch the hotel room door.

“I’m glad you did,” she said, a flush rising into her exposed neck and cheeks.

A door three suites north opened suddenly and a well-dressed couple, a man in a suit and the woman in a red cocktail dress, emerged, glancing at us in quiet curiosity as they passed heading to the elevators. Charlotte paused until they disappeared into a lift.

“I did exactly as you asked. I’m pretty sure Mark did, too. At least he said he did,” she said.

The faint aroma of an expensive perfume touched my nostrils. Also the faint scent of peaches reached me, perhaps her shampoo.

“How are you feeling? You sure you want to do this?” I asked her.

She pondered that for a moment, then slowly nodded. “We did as you asked,” she repeated quietly, “I haven’t climaxed in a week, and as far as I know, neither has Mark. It wasn’t easy. I feel aroused, frustrated, nervous and achy, as if the slightest breeze will send me into a screaming orgasm.” I knew exactly what she meant. “We didn’t sleep in the same bed all week. That was probably the most difficult. I tied him into a chair in there like you asked, zip tied. That’s the most I touched him all week. Before I showered, I lay on the bed, while he watched tied to that chair, and touched myself, just like you asked. I didn’t climax. I really wanted to. Then, I showered. The shower here is really nice. The handheld nearly made me climax, too.” She sighed. “He watched me dress and I’ve been reading until you knocked.”

“Reading?”

“The Silent Patient.”

I hadn’t read it, myself.

“Psychological thriller,” Charlotte offered. “It’s really much better than I’d assumed it would be.”

She paused, then continued.

“When you knocked, I put the blackout goggles on him. He didn’t seem to mind.”

I nodded.

“We’re really going to do this?” I asked.

Charlotte looked at me, her blue eyes softening.

“We’ve come this far,” she remarked, her eyebrows lifting. “I guess I’m yours for the night.”

I used my fingernail to slit open the envelope, extracting the key. The light turned green. I held the door open for Charlotte. She only hesitated a moment before she strode back into the suite. I followed.

The suite sprawled with a much larger footprint than any hotel room I’d ever stayed in previously. A large sitting area opened from the marbled entrance. Charlotte strode into the sitting area as if plunging off a cliff, her high heels clicking against the marble tile. She halted about two metres from a sturdy desk chair situated near the centre of the room; a muscular man sat in the chair. Like Charlotte, he had blonde hair, but it was cropped much closer to his head. He wore a full tuxedo, matching Charlotte’s dress. His wrists and elbows were securely zip tied to the arms of the chair. Further ties encircled his ankles. I couldn’t see his eyes; a pair of black painted swim goggles blocked his vision very effectively. This was the husband, he of needing to feel helpless. To me, he seemed reasonably helpless.

Charlotte turned to face me, her arms hanging limply at her side. Her eyes still held her fire, but softened somewhat. Uncertainty seemed like a foreign concept to her, but her body language understandably screamed her insecurity. She fixed me with a questioning gaze.

“How do you want me?” she asked directly.

I thought for a moment.

“Put your hands behind your head, Charlotte.”

She hesitated for only a moment, but did as I’d asked, interlocking her fingers under her hair. Her breasts lifted under her dress as she did, the effect of which she would be acutely aware.

Instead of advancing to her, I walked slowly over to an overstuffed chair. I settled into the chair, resting my elbows on my knees. The three of us formed an equal triangle; a glass topped, very expensive looking coffee table rested in the middle of us. I held up a finger to my lips, to indicate silence from Charlotte. She complied, pressing her lips together tightly.

I turned to the restrained male sitting across from me, addressing him, not Charlotte.

“The husband, Mark, I presume?”

The man hesitated, as if unsure if he was being addressed. After a moment, he processed the sound of my voice, turning his head reasonably accurately towards where I perched.

“Yes, Mistress,” he said uncertainly. “But you can call me slave.”

I nearly laughed, but checked myself.

“First of all,” I said, perhaps more sharply than I meant, “my name is Crimson. I am nobody’s Mistress, and you are certainly nobody’s slave, certainly not mine. We’ve never spoken, and it’s vital to me to ensure that everyone is consenting here. So I’m going to ask you a question, Mark, and I want you to answer it honestly.” I paused. “Why are you here?”

He seemed very confused by the question and my words in general. I don’t think he expected to be addressed this evening. I had been very clear with Charlotte that I wouldn’t indulge in satisfying Mark, his was a passive role at most, so I doubt if Charlotte expected me to speak to him either. I had no obligation to share all my intentions with Charlotte.

“Charlotte told you what I want, didn’t she?” He sounded confused.

“She did,” I said as firmly as I could under the circumstances, “but I want to hear from you what you hope to gain from this evening?”

Mark thought for a moment. Charlotte stood by herself, hands behind her head, lips pressed together, listening intently. Mark sighed softly, a flush rising to his cheeks.

“I like to feel helpless. It arouses me. I know men aren’t supposed to feel that, but...” his voice trailed off. Eventually, his voice returned. “Charlotte wants things from me that I can’t give her. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it turns me on to know that someone else is giving her what she wants and I can’t do a damn thing about it. And that she’ll enjoy herself, even if I don’t fully understand it all.”

“Are you turned on, now?”

“Very.”

“You are aware that I’m here for Charlotte. I won’t touch you, even if you ask me to, even if she asks me to. You won’t be able to see me. Ever. You will wear the goggles until I’ve left. I may direct Charlotte to touch you, maybe gag you if you’re overly vocal, and it is unlikely that you’ll find any physical satisfaction or release tonight. This is not a threesome. I’ve been involved in threesomes before, and while it was pleasant, it’s not my thing. I’m just trying to be clear, for the both of you.” I chose to be brutally blunt. In my experience, males often overestimated their appeal and expected to win me over. “I don’t care how big your cock is, or how well you think you use it. I won’t change my mind on this. I’m here solely for Charlotte.” I paused to let that percolate. “Do you still want to be involved in tonight? There is no shame in backing out.” I almost hoped he would retreat for everyone’s sake, but he didn’t, as I knew he wouldn’t. Perhaps he couldn’t, being a slave to his desires as much as Charlotte and I were.

Mark slowly nodded his head. “This is where I want to be. I fully understand the nature of tonight, what will and won’t happen and what my involvement will be.” He settled back into his chair, only lightly testing his bonds.

I chewed at my lower lip, considering.

“Charlotte wants rougher playing for tonight.” I stated. I watched Mark tense as I spoke. I needed to get through this before I could proceed. This represented Mark’s fear. I couldn’t help him with that. All he could do was listen. “I promise that I won’t take her further than she can handle, Mark,” I said as gently as I could. It would never reassure him; the fear was undoubtedly ingrained and beyond my very limited abilities. He was understandably frightened for his wife and he sat completely impotent in that chair in front of us both satisfying his own ingrained needs. It all integrated into his fantasy for tonight. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”

Mark nodded slowly. “I know. I still want to be here.”

Given my previous conversation with Charlotte, none of Mark’s words surprised me. Charlotte also seemed unsurprised.

“Okay, then,” I said.

We’d passed the point of no return.

I left them to think silently as my own thoughts raced through my mind. My own body betrayed me, as I was certain both Charlotte and Mark’s bodies were betraying them. I wanted nothing but to strip away my clothes and bury my fingers into my own pleasure. Or ravish Charlotte. Neither option seemed appropriate yet.

After a few minutes, Charlotte began to shift her weight, her arms perhaps fatigued from being raised above her head.

I turned to Charlotte who was intently watching me, waiting.

“I want you to walk over to your husband,” I said quietly. “Kiss him.”

Charlotte looked confused, but didn’t question me. She allowed her hands to fall from behind her head, and she walked slowly over to Mark tied into his chair, her shoes clicking against tile. She leaned down and pecked his cheek, then turned her face to me, blue eyes questioning.

“Is that how you kiss your husband?” My brow furrowed.

“In front of others, yes,” she replied.

“Pretend I’m not here,” I said. I settled back into the comfortable chair, crossing my arms under my breasts.

“Why am I doing this?” she asked.

“Because I want you to.” I didn’t add that Charlotte herself also wanted this. I couldn’t fully explain this, even if I’d wanted. True, I wanted to see her kiss her husband. There was an overt element of power involved, that Charlotte was touching her husband only because I demanded it. Admittedly, this fuelled my own private needs. I could sense in Mark’s tense anticipation that he understood. I wasn’t as certain that Charlotte comprehended consciously, but something primal in her almost certainly understood, and she obeyed without further questioning.

She looked skeptically at me, then faced her husband. She bent down again and began to kiss Mark as a wife kisses her husband, her fingers trailing along his face, through his short hair, lips locked passionately. Mark kissed her back, lightly moaning. The kiss was tender and intimate beyond anything I might have expected with an audience. Despite the circumstance, it was purely a loving expression. Maddeningly, my body reacted despite my brain struggling for balance.

After a moment, Charlotte broke the kiss. Mark tried to follow her soft lips, but the ties held him back. He grunted in frustration.

“Press your chest against his face,” I said, nearly whispering. In the quiet room, the words rang clear.