Hotel Pavane Ch. 01

Yes, the feel of the fabric on her bare nipples and her shaved mound feels very good, very wicked and erotic. So far, so good.

The dress comes with a black jacket. She puts it on, fastens a gold chain around her neck, and threads the matching earrings through her ears. She puts on her watch and a gold bracelet, takes her bag and checks herself once more. She had hoped she would feel irresistible, but the best she can manage is kind of stubborn pride and naughtiness. Well, that's close enough. She turns off the lights and exits the room, slipping her key into her purse.

The hotel is bewildering, with hallways that jog and branch off, small sitting rooms that emerge unexpectedly, and stairways that appear in puzzling places, seeming to make no sense. Marija is quite lost. She was certain she was headed for the main desk, but now she's disoriented and there seems to be no one about to ask for directions. Finally she hears the murmur of voices, and a few turns later, she's in the lobby again, or rather, a different lobby, and it occurs to her that there must be more than one check-in desk, and she's apparently stumbled upon an alternate.

"Excuse me, but how do I get to the dining room?" she asks the young woman at the desk.

"Which dining room are you looking for?" the girl asks. "There are several. The Ladies', the Gentlemen's, the Versailles, The Savoy, The New York Grille, The Tea House..."

Marija holds up her hand. "Please. I'm just looking for a place for a quiet meal."

"Is Madame alone?"

"Yes."

"If Madame would like to choose her own companionship or just dine alone, I'd suggest the Ladies' Salon. If you seek to meet some gentlemen looking for companionship, I'd recommend the Gentlemen's Room or the New York. Perhaps the Savoy if you're looking for more mature company..."

Marija looks at her in confusion. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

The girl smiles and slides a brochure across the marble counter. "The Ladies' Salon is of course for women. We cater to female tastes there, and hotel escorts are available, or, if you prefer, you may dine alone without being bothered. The Gentlemen's room caters to male tastes, but female patrons often go there to be seen and 'socialize'," she gives the word an odd emphasis. "That's where most of the unattached men go to eat."

The girl gives Marija a knowing smile, but seeing her confusion, leans over the counter and whispers, "It's very much like a pick-up bar. They'll be all over you there, if that's what you want."

Marija feels a slight chill run up the back of her neck as the import of what the girl is saying sinks in.

"Other rooms are available too," the girl adds helpfully, "However, you might feel out of place there dining alone. They cater to couples, mostly."

"I see. Yes, I think perhaps the Ladies' Salon would be best." She just could not see herself walking into a room filled with leering men, like a piece of meat on a stick thrust into a den of lions. She isn't ready for that.

The girl traces a path on the map with a marker and hands it to her. She picks up the phone and says, "I'll call ahead and tell them to see that you get a good table, Ms..."

"Dumanoir. And thank you for your help."

The path she takes now avoids the labyrinthine hallways and stays to the main corridors. Marija has no trouble finding the Ladies' Salon, and in fact can't quite understand how she became so turned around before.

She was afraid that the room would be embarrassingly feminine, but that's not the case at all. The room is done in cream, dusky rose and moss green, the fixtures and place settings pure and elegant, the lighting subdued but not dark. There's a mirrored bar set against one wall, and Marija's somewhat surprised to see that there are some men sitting there, some with women, some alone. Apparently the Ladies' Salon isn't just for women. Despite her misgivings, that lifts her spirits. Although she doesn't want to be stared at by men, neither had she worn this dress for the benefit of women.

A hostess meets Marija at the entrance and addresses her by name. She leads her to a table towards the edge of the room, hands her a menu and asks her if the table is satisfactory. Marija nods. From where she sits she can see most of the room, but she herself is unobtrusive.

She studies the menu hungrily. She's suddenly ravenous, and everything looks good. A very handsome young waiter comes and takes her order, and it's only after he has gone that Marija picks up the leather-bound booklet on her table. She had assumed it was a wine list, but looking at it now, she sees it is filled with more pictures of young men, all of them apparently employees of the hotel, and all of them available for a fee.

With a mixture of embarrassment and fascination she turns the pages. She recognizes some from the video she'd seen in her room, but there are many more. Apparently everyone who works in the hotel is indeed available. This one dresses as a cowboy, in boots and leather chaps. Another affects the manner of a rock star. A third dresses like a motorcycle outlaw in leather and chains. There are princes and businessmen, priests and barbarians, and at the end, a series of pictures of young men who apparently prefer to appear as themselves.

Flipping back towards the front, she finds instructions on how the book is to be used. Forms are available from her waitress upon which she can write her choices. Availability of escorts cannot be guaranteed, so she's urged to make her reservations as early as possible. Fees may be charged to her rooms. Gratuities are customary...

She is startled by her waitress bringing the first course, and Marija's aware that she's been staring at the book. She puts it down and looks at the other women dining around her to see if she's been noticed. Apparently not. Most of them are alone, but some are in pairs or groups of three or four. How many of them, she wonders, will be asking their waitresses for forms and filling them out?

As she places her napkin in her lap and squeezes lemon over her calamari, she's aware of someone's eyes on her. Looking up, she sees a man at the bar regarding her with calm and open interest, and Marija finds herself staring right back at him before she realizes the implications of what she's doing. The man turns away to let her eat in peace, and she feels a sudden flush of excitement. How could she have stared at him like that? She'd never done anything like that before. It must be this place, something about this place. He's very handsome, distinguished actually, and his maturity is welcome after all the smiling youths she's seen so far.

The calamari are excellent and Marija eagerly attacks her main course – medallions of veal in Madeira with baby potatoes and fresh peas – keeping one eye on the man at the bar. He's considerably older than she is, and his black hair and beard are flecked with gray. And yet it's impossible to look at his back as he sits at the bar and not think of a man at the height of his powers: knowledgeable and sophisticated. The word "virile" comes to mind, and makes her smile. He's everything that the boys in the catalog are not, and for the first time since her arrival, Marija find her sexual curiosity rising in a personal way. She's not above engaging in a little erotic speculation.

"Ms. Dumanoir?" Again the waitress catches Marija unawares as she lays down a beautifully arranged tray of cheese, nuts, and fruit, accompanied by a cut glass decanter of wine.

"What's this?" Marija asks. "I didn't order this."

"Vintage port," the waitress says. "From the gentleman."

Marija looks up to see the man at the bar looking at her again, nodding in greeting.

Before she can think to say anything, the waitress has poured a glass of port and handed it to her, and there's nothing she can do but take a sip. The wine is thick and rich, its sweetness aged to an earthy maturity, while the alcoholic bouquet hints at the intoxication to come. The sensual complexity of the wine takes her by surprise. She's never had good port before.

As she takes another sip, the man leaves his stool and approaches the table. He stops some distance away, not wanting to impose himself. "It's satisfactory?".

"Yes," she says. "Quite good. Extraordinary."

She stops short of thanking him outright, enjoying this slight bit of rudeness on her part, just as she enjoys making him stand there as she takes another sip. After all, she didn't ask for this, and she's quite aware this is an opening ploy, and she's curious to see how he'll play his hand.

"Allow me," he says. He takes a knife from the tray, and cuts a thin slice of yellow-gold cheese, slides it onto a plate and sets it down before her. "Use your fingers. We don't stand on ceremony here. It's meant to be enjoyed."

Marija is slightly taken aback by his gesture, but she picks up the piece of cheese and bites into it. It is as firm as flesh at first, then yields to the pressure of her teeth, and her mouth is filled with a rich, sunny flavor, buttery and smooth with an almost citrusy tang..

"The port," he says.

She sips her wine and he smiles as he watches her face.

"Sun in a garden, isn't it? What do you think?"

It's just as he says. The cheese is warm and sunny, the wine cool, fruity and dark: the combination is wonderfully sensual and intimate. But at the same time it's such an obvious pick-up routine that she has to smile, which is just what he expects. His smile in return tells her he knows it's a clumsy approach.

He's very good; perfectly charming, and yet when he looks at her she can see something warm and slightly dangerous in his eyes that brings a welcome flush of heat to her face and chest. She notices that none of the other men have chosen to approach any tables, and she takes that as a compliment.

"Please," she says. "Won't you sit?"

He holds out his hand. "Ariel Bloom," he says. "I hope you're suitably impressed?"

"With your name? Or with the whole presentation? The wine is very good."

"Port," he says. "Vintage port. It was a terribly transparent gesture, I'm afraid. But sincere. Things move very quickly here at the Pavane, and he who hesitates is often lost." He fills her glass and looks at her. "Or she, as the case may be."

Had all this happened only a few hours earlier, Marija would have laughed in his face, but sitting here filled with exquisite food and drink, in a room whose beauty seemed to impose its own set of rules, she enjoys his attention and his outrageous flirtation. This is, after all, what the Hotel Pavane is for, and this kind of elaborate attention is something new to her. She never engages in anything like this in her normal life. There's never any time, and normally Marija prefers to get right to the point. Now, however, she finds his attention both flattering and arousing. She still has doubts about herself, however; about her ability to go through with this.

He works at the Hotel, in some capacity that isn't entirely clear to her: something with event planning, she gathers. He's terribly knowledgeable about the place and often refers to designs and scenes and programs.

"And how is it that you happen to be in the Ladies' Dining Room?" she asks him.

He shrugs. "Why not? There's no segregation, nothing like that. Anyone's free to go wherever they please. Most men are put off by the word 'Ladies' and so they stay away. This room is really intended for women who prefer to choose their own partners, free of the kind of pressure they'd feel in one of the mixed rooms. I find such women fascinating to watch."

He smiles at her. "I know, it's terrible. Very voyeuristic, but it fascinates me to observe people exercising their desires. Don't you agree?"

In the context of the Hotel, Marija can only guess what he means. "Perhaps."

"But I hope you don't feel that I'm unduly pressuring you," he says. "I don't want to insert myself where I'm not wanted."

She looks at him and sees a hint of a smile in his steady gaze. He's an intelligent man, and she decides his choice of words was deliberate. She returns his smile and holds out her glass for more wine. "Not at all."

They talk of things of no great consequence, but the words are just an excuse to keep themselves together, like the wine and the cheese. There's no hurry, and yet there's a sense that time is wasting too. Inside Marija is filled with doubt.

He's everything she's been looking for, she realizes. Older, experienced, and discreet—everything that Andre hadn't been—and extremely attractive. And since he works at the Hotel, there won't be any strings attached. When they're done, she can just walk away.

But can she do it? Is it really as easy as just saying yes? It's been months since she's thought of being with a man, and she hardly trusts her own feelings anymore. She'd be devastated if she failed.

At last the room and the decanter are almost empty, and Marija is filled with a languorous goodwill. He tries to pay her bill, citing his employee discount, but Marija won't hear of it and he doesn't insist. He's wise enough to know how things would seem if he paid for her dinner, and so he just signs the tab for the port. She's grateful for his sensitivity.

He will see her back to her room, though, and as they walk from the dining room she notices how the staff acknowledges and defers to him. Perhaps it's the port, but it seems like she's aware of everything, from the looks of the staff to the rustle of her dress against her naked skin.

He walks her outside onto a vast marble terrace overlooking the water. The lake is dark, the trees darker still, great black shadows blocking the reflection of the stars along the edges of the water. He points out the landscape to her, the various views: the arrangement of the different textures of darkness. It was all designed to be as beautiful at night as it is in the day, and indeed there is something soothing yet mysterious out there in the darkness. The moon is near full, slashed by thin clouds that cast moving shadows on the lake.

"It's all designed to create a certain aesthetic sense," he says. "Beauty provokes a type of longing in the soul, a desire for intimacy, to join with it. We've worked very hard to achieve that effect here."

The night is warm. The swans are asleep on the far bank, so the surface of the water is mirror smooth. There's nobody about.

Marija is unaccountably nervous. She knows what will happen when they reach her room, and it's something she assumed she'd wanted, but now she wonders whether she'll be up to it, whether her body will respond as it should, or whether she's just going through the motions now because she thinks this is what she needs. He seems like a lovely man and an interesting and sensitive lover, but what if he's not enough? What if what she really wants is Andre?

"You're worried," he says. "I can feel it. Your wicked past is rising to haunt you, isn't it? A man."

She smiles. "It's that obvious?"

"A beautiful young woman, alone at the Hotel Pavane. You don't have to be a genius to figure it out. About four or five months ago, I'd say. And now you're wondering if you still have it, if you still have anything left to give."

"Eight months ago," she says. She doesn't comment of the rest of what he's said.

"Eight months ago? It's worse than I thought."

The subject is uncomfortable, so she asks, "Tell me Mr. Bloom. Just what is it you do here at the Hotel?"

"Ari, please," he says. She can see his teeth in the darkness as he smiles. "You're going to hate me. I don't have a regular title, but I'm a kind of facilitator. I help plan people's activities here, the things they want to do at the Hotel."

"Volleyball games? Basket weaving? Things like that?"

He laughs. "People come to us for all sorts of reasons. Most of them are just looking for fun, but some of them come to us with real problems. Sex can be a powerful force for changing people. I facilitate that change."

"Like a therapist?"

"Not exactly. And not a surrogate either, not anymore. Those days are behind me. Now I simply recommend therapies, things that might help. Of course, for special cases..."

Marija watches one of the black swans stand up and ruffle its feathers. It beats its wings uneasily, and she can see the moonlight gleaming off the onyx feathers. Then it settles down and tucks its beak under its wing.

The thought that comes to her is an ugly one, but she has to ask. "Is that why you picked me out? Do I look like someone who needs therapy?"

He looks at her levelly. "Of course not. In any case, you'd have to request our services." He's silent for a moment, then asks, "Is that what you want?"

"What if I did?" Her eyes are on the swans across the lake. "What would you recommend?"

She knows what's going to happen, and at first she hates herself for even inviting it. He puts his hands on her shoulders and turns her to face him and she feels a surge of fear and sudden trepidation. She searches his face but his eyes are impossible to read in the dark. His lips come down on hers in a gentle kiss: tentative, as if he's examining her, and it's not the feel of his lips as much as it is the sensation of his hands on her shoulders, holding her. The kiss deepens, and he slides his arms around her back, pressing her against him, and she feels herself press back at him. The feeling of being held is delicious,

She lets herself be kissed, basking in his need for her, letting him take her where she wants to go, and thankfully her body doesn't resist him. She feels again that needful ache between her legs, that fullness in her breasts, and she realizes that she still knows how to respond. Her heart might have forgotten, but her body remembers.

He lets go of her reluctantly, as if he's afraid that he's rumpled her dress, but Marija is glowing with excitement now, her heart pounding with remembrance.

"Where's your room?" he asks.

She hardly remembers. She has to take the key from her purse and show it to him, and when she does, his eyebrows rise.

"Two forty-three? But that's an exhibitionist room number. All the three's are for exhibitionists." He looks at her with curiosity.

"It was a mistake. I booked that room by mistake. I had them take the camera out."

He smiles in the dark. "Yes. I don't think that's what you need right now, to be putting on a show for the other guests."

"Is that your professional opinion?"

"No. It's my male opinion." He takes her hand. "Now come with me."

He leads the way across the garden and into a nearly invisible service door at the base of the building. She's hardly paying attention as he finds an elevator, and as they ride to the second floor, he puts his hands around her waist and she willingly wraps her arms around his neck. They kiss, and this time Marija feels the heat rise into her face as he presses his body against hers. Her mouth is suddenly hungry, and whatever she does to him, he does again to her, harder and more insistent, so that when she bites his lip, he bites her back, and when she opens her mouth for him, he opens his, and his tongue penetrates her in a lewd and delicious imitation of the sexual act.

His hands rise to find her breasts, and once again it's the feel of his hands on her body that she finds so terribly exciting, even more arousing than these hungry kisses.

The elevator stops and he leads her down a maze of corridors until they stand outside of her door. She opens it, and her eyes go immediately to where the camera was. It's gone now, along with its concealing piece of molding.

He looks about the room, and his eyes fall on the three neatly-arranged bottles of pills. He walks over to the bedside table and picks one up, reads the label, then picks up another. She stands there uneasily. She'd forgotten she left them out. She'd forgotten all about them.