Sometimes I wish it didn’t. I don't know why the journey always has me pontificating about the world, the immediate world, my family, my work, my friends, not the whole world.
I don't know why I think of Syeda today. The pretty girl on reception with that wonky smile, her olive skin that glows against the blood-red lipstick worn so well. Maybe it is because she is getting married today. To live happily ever after, amen. A loving and dutiful wife - faithful, unlike me.
The five-floor cheap hotel, with no lift, down the arse end of town. The Godiva Hotel. It was hard to imagine where they got the name, some random thought at some random time in the past, long forgotten. I noticed it taking the bus one Saturday. It made me smile as I glanced nonchalantly to my left. Half-open ragged curtains, a sideways glimpse of a naked breast gave me a tingle as I thought lustfully of what she had been doing not long before, perhaps an all night stopover, and this was the breakfast course.
Room 13 on the fourth floor. I have been in this room before, probably done them all at least twice, except 15, don’t remember being in that room. It is the same style as all the rest. Not luxurious, not even one star. The low-level light from the one ceiling hung light with cheap low watt bulb helps with the ambience. There is a faint odour, one of those smells that leaves you wondering what it is or was. I try not to dwell on it, but then again the thought of two, or maybe more having sex gives me that extra tingle.
At least the towels smell fresh as I take them from the bed into the small bathroom. The once white tiles, the once white shower curtain that barely hung from the track above catches the eye. That and the smell of urine, despite the added blue stuff that floats in the toilet bowl.
An hour I wait.
An hour left torn between loathing and excitement. A time when one moment I want to run out the door, carry on running until I get home and lock the door forever on my sordid secret life. Then a momentary thought and I am lost in anticipation of what ‘She’ will bring this afternoon.
‘She’ that is her name. I know no other. I really speak in her presence, only nods and quietly spoken yes when I am instructed, or is that commanded to doing something, usually degrading. No, is not a word allowed, not that it was said but defiance will come at a price was in a message once.
Messages… That is how this all started. One weekend alone. John had taken the children to his parents. I wanted to spring clean the house, even though it was late May and spring was nearly summer. All started with good intentions until I opened the laptop. I was soon distracted by a forum occasionally frequented. A message appeared in the mailbox.
‘You fascinate me. Your twee little comments about this subject and that subject make you out to be such a sweet innocent thing. Yet, deep down, there is a whore waiting to get out. A whore that would, if commanded, doing anything and everything. Would you like to try?’
It was from a member called Anonymous She.
It threw me. So much so that I logged off and went about my cleaning. It lingered, though. Mainly out of annoyance that anyone would think that of me.
Perhaps I should have stayed logged off, for now, I am that whore but no longer waiting to get out.
The door opens and closes gently. There are no words of greeting. I stand up from sitting on the bed. It is how I wait, sat upright, back straight and hands in my lap—a good girls posture, but once the door opens, I am to stand and wait, legs apart with arms behind my back, a sluts posture.
She unbuttons my blouse. Today it is cerise. It can be any plain colour, no flowers, no patterns, and definitely no chintz. The skirt unzipped. It too must be plain. The underwear, well panties, must be white, cotton. No bra, I paid dearly for that one mistake. Not that I need a bra, my perky tits stopped growing almost the day they started.
There is now a goosebump chill as her right-hand cups against my mound like a handshake greeting. She always does a smooth test. It feels right despite the erring thought that lingers each time I lie in the bath and shave it within an inch of its life. It took some explaining.
The case opened on the table for her to choose—an array of wonders to delight. The dark green curtains I closed on my arrival opened. It was a game.
Today she dresses me. Not always. Sometimes, like a queen, she would sit on the bed and watch as I slowly, and deliberately parade my wears with whichever garments she chooses. I am the dumb mannequin. Black seamed stockings, black lace panties, shocking pink garter belt. Equally shocking pink five-inch razor heels adorn my feet, I feel twelve feet tall. A faux leather, pink of course, breast harness entices itself around my tits.
She always does the make-up. I feel like royalty when my face is fixed. Not that I shall look anything like royalty unless of course it's Queen Harlot. Eyebrows tinted a darker shade, thick and smudged. Black lashes, heavy, to hide the eyes of a sinner. Lips, pink gloss, a not so delicate shade.
Finally a septum ring in my nose. My eyes water as it pinches soft tissue.
I know what happens when I get a hard slap on my arse. It’s time to kneel on the bed. ‘Click’, ‘click’. Like a cheap lingerie model I pose, my splayed thighs opened like a book for all to gorp at the images barely noting the accompanying words like wanton, sex, whore. It does not end there. ‘Click’, ‘click’. I do the whole repertoire, front, back, and side, each an insight to the inner working between my legs.
Then she leaves without a word.
A few candid shots will arrive by email tomorrow.
Now, I have no sense of time. No idea of how long I will wait until the door opens again. Indeed, there is no indication if anyone will. It happened before, lay alone on the bed, waiting. Finally, I went home, confused.
Finally, footsteps along the corridor.
There are two, each in a little black dress, each wearing an eye mask like it was a fancy charade party. I watch as they stand and stare back at me. One is tall, even without the black high heels, Rapunzel-like hair with plaits that flow forever. The other is petit, a sun worshiper, skinny legs shrouded in seamed stockings and sensible heels.
They whisper, even giggle lightly behind what looks like a picture. Perhaps it is of me. A little memento? Maybe a flyer advertising my wears. Woman, thirty-seven, married, mother, part-time poetry writer, part-time whore. I hear nothing of what is said.
Petit, for that, is the name my mind decides, walks over to the bed, and stands behind me. I do not move, but I am aware of where she is as I watch the other standing still watching me. I am trying to give her name, I did think of Rapunzel, but that would be too easy, maybe Heels will do.
Fingers grasp my locks. I want to squeal but refrain. Like a child, taught to keep quiet, I only speak when spoken to. The hands drag me from the bed onto the floor. I manage to kneel as Heels walks over. My face staring at the heels of Heels, a strange thought.
I am passed over like a rag doll, a toy that no longer pleases. Another hand wrenches me upwards, it hurts, but still, I make no sound.
The black dress that stretches over the upper thighs is now my vision, my cheek feeling the heat through the expensive material.
"Well, what are you waiting for?"
The husky cigarette voice.
It could be a thousand things, a new car would be nice. I know what is wanted by both her and me. The dress pushes up quickly, revealing a plethora of delight. For a brief moment, I savour it, my tongue lightly moistening my lips as the wave of sweet-tasting lust is taken deep down inside the throat. Heaven. A lightly trimmed bush, the tail almost a matching colour for the top, tickles the tip of my nose while I extend the eager tongue to lick the puffy wet lips. I repeat heaven.
