Incident in Room 232

Mike arrived at the hotel an hour before the scheduled meeting time. As he was checking in, he studied his reflection in a mirror at the back of the reception desk. Just another middle-aged, middle management drone in transit -- paunch, greying hair, suit by Autograph, laptop bag over the shoulder. He had performed this particular drill countless times in four star hotels all over Britain. An onlooker would have had no reason to suspect that there was anything out of the ordinary taking place. But this time was different. He was here on business all right but not of the usual kind.

Once in his room he took a shower, putting on afterwards the black silk robe he had purchased for the occasion. He swallowed an aspirin and a Viagra, washing them down with tap-water, and picked up his mobile. 'Room 232 -- where are you?' read the text he sent. He then checked the time and rang Gillian.

'How's Southend?' she said.

'As low rent as I remember,' he said. His phone vibrated, indicating a received message. 'How's things there?'

'I'm up the walls with this bloody fundraiser,' she said. 'Mandy couldn't have picked a worse time to go awol.'

Mike checked the message he had received: 'In traffic. Might be late.' Typical. She was always late.

'Where's she gone then?' he said.

'Manchester,' said Gillian. 'Some family emergency. She didn't go into specifics.'

Mandy was the doyenne of the circle of neighbourhood wives of which Gillian was also a member. A former model of some description, her first husband, a showbiz agent some thirty years her senior, had died in murky circumstances in the Czech Republic some years previously, and had left her a very comfortably off young widow. Now she was married to Greg, the owner of a company specializing in corporate leisure -- whatever that was. He was also a councillor, a rising star in local political circles and someone widely tipped for higher office at some stage in the future...

'Keep your powder dry,' he said. 'I shouldn't be too late tomorrow.'

'Buzz me when you're on the way,' she said. 'I'll knock some grub together for you.'

'Bye.'

'Bye.'

Mike reached for his laptop and navigated to the video whose discovery by him had set in motion the chain of events that had led him to this very room. It had been shot on tape and the quality was poor. A time code in the corner read May 2000. 01.43. The camera was trained on a black leather sofa in the nicely decorated front room of what looked like a converted barn. There was nobody present but there was the sound of northern accents nearby. Now a blonde woman, her hair in braids, wearing a sluttily modified school uniform -- blouse knotted below her breasts, skirt barely covering the tops of her black-stockinged thighs -- entered and sat down on the sofa.

'What's your name then?' a voice off screen asked her.

'Tiffaneh,' she said in a heavy Lancashire accent. She smiled and twirled the end of her tie. One of her slate blue eyes was a touch off centre.

'And why are you here today Tiffany?'

'To suck cock and get fucked in the arse,' she said. The camera zoomed in on her shining, lip-bitten mouth.

'Show me those tits,' said her interrogator. She undid the knot of her blouse and pushed her enhanced breasts together and free from a PVC bra.

Now a heavily tattooed man, shaven headed to disguise male pattern baldness and naked to the waist, entered the frame. She affected girlishness, crooking a baby finger at the corner of her mouth.

'Fuck me, Daddeh.' As he squeezed and slapped her breasts -- his other hand pinching her face into a fishmouth -- she unzipped his jeans and started to work the enormous cock she drew forth.

'Suck the fucking cock,' he said, pushing it into her mouth. He gathered her hair in his fist and started to fuck her drooling face, pausing occasionally to kiss her mouth and breasts.

'Look at' fuckin mess all over the cock,' he said. 'Come here.'

He scooped a tendril of saliva from her chin and, pulling her thong aside, rubbed it into her cunt.

'Open your pussy. Open.'

There was a close up of the splayed pink meat above dark brown between her legs, dripping with spit and lube. The man's fingers worried her viciously while she cried out in hysterical arousal.

'Lick my balls,' he breathed, pushing her face between his thighs. 'Get in there. Lick my fucking arsehole. That's it.' There was a close up of his outraged face before the scene changed abruptly. She was lying on her back on the sofa, holding back her legs while he plunged two fingers in and out of her arsehole.

'Open your mouth.' He brought the same fingers to her lips. 'Taste it...that's it, good girl.'

He stood up, sticking his whole hand into her mouth while guiding his cock towards her arse with the other. Her face was just visible beyond her breasts, wide mouthed as if in astonishment. She whimpered, mauling her cunt desperately as the tentativeness of his insertion gave way to a furious vigour. He slammed his cock into her anus, stopping after each particular assault to display the increasingly distended hole to the camera.

'Look at that...fuck yes...'

He pulled her forward with her tie and thrust his cock into her mouth before shoving her face down into the sofa and renewing his anal assault. Similar ass to mouth business made up the remainder of the scene, which concluded with him masturbating noisily and voluminously to orgasm all over her upturned face. In spite of the going over she had received at the man's hands, her expression was one of malicious glee. Mike paused the scene at a point where the screen was entirely taken up with her come smothered face. He slipped his achingly hard cock through the vent of his shorts and brandished it in front of the screen. A few moments later, there was a knock at the door. He covered himself up and crossed the room, opening the door to find himself looking on the same face that was freeze-framed on his laptop.

Not exactly the same. As he stood aside to let her enter, he considered the modifications Mandy had undergone in the years since the video had been shot. Her hair, now coloured dark mahogany brown and worn that evening in a tight ponytail, was pulled back from a botox-smooth forehead, the tightened flesh making her eyes appear larger and drawing attention to the slight off-centeredness of the left one. Her lips had also been touched up, fattened with collagen, the top one as pink and swollen as the labium of an aroused cunt. As he had requested, she had put on a full face of make-up and the volume of bronzer she wore accentuated the hollowness of her cheeks, sunken like shallow graves within the stark bones forming their hinterland. But it was unmistakably the same woman from the video. Older, but definitely her. There was no mistaking the long, slender incline of that Greek nose or the natural irritability in the set of that mouth.

She walked to the far side of the room and set down her outsize fake designer handbag -- a monstrous thing decorated with a huge golden padlock -- on an armchair before turning to face him.

'Where you tell Greg you were going?' he said. He returned to the bed and sat down, leaning back and propping himself up with his arms.

'None of your business. Lying doesn't come so easily to some of us.'

'Oh, well I'd say you were quite a tidy little liar,' he said, jerking his head at the laptop. 'Tiffaneh.'

She backed up against the wall with her arms folded.

'Southend is such a toilet,' she said. 'Wall to wall turds. You'd be right at home here.'

'What happened that hot Manc accent?' he said. 'Where did the Cheshire snoot come from? I always knew you were nothing but a fraud.'

'Are you listening to yourself?' She shook her head in disbelief. 'Can we get this over with?'

The disgusted curl of her upper lip reminded him of a similar look she had given him the afternoon he had first confronted her with the video. He had been working from home that day. Gillian had not yet returned from an alcoholic lunch date with some friends. Mandy had called around to drop off a dinner service that Gillian was borrowing for a party. She greeted him with her habitual air of vague amusement.

'She's not back,' he said, secretly thanking a God he no longer believed in for the act of providence that had brought her there. 'I thought you were with her.'

'Something came up at work,' she said. 'Will she be much longer?'

'Shouldn't be. D'you fancy a coffee? It's just brewed.'

'Oh, go on then.'

She followed him into the kitchen.

'Do you know Tiffany?' He handed her her mug. Not a flinch.

'Who?'

'Oh... a school friend of Gill's. Doesn't matter. Come on through into the lounge.'

'So this is where you waste your days away.' She looked around condescendingly. 'Nice work.'

'I wish,' he said.

'Gill was telling me you were snowed.'

'With the bloody appraisals. On top of the rest. The office is like a snakepit at the moment. Here's the only place I can get any real work done.'

She picked at her lip with a plum acrylic fingernail, utterly indifferent to such petty matters of industry. Mike struggled to maintain his composure. His heart was pounding dangerously from a mixture of repressed hatred, excitement and lust. The fan in his laptop roared along with the inrushing tide in his ears. Finally, he could resist no longer.

'Have you seen this?' he said. He ran his finger over the computer's touchpad.

'Oh for Christ's sake, Mike...' She turned away in haste from the image on the screen, a brute cock cleaving a pair of slapped raw arse cheeks. 'Does Gill know you look at that stuff?'

'Does Greg know you appear in that stuff?'

She turned slowly and stared blankly at the screen, her cheeks blanching beneath her make-up.

'Your silver screen debut was it?'

'The bastard.' She sounded winded, like she had been punched in the stomach.

'Amazing resource the internet, all the same,' Mike said. 'I mean, as an archive. It's incredible what you can find if you know where to look.'

'Get rid of it,' she said. 'How fucking dare you.'

She made a move towards the laptop but he stepped into her path, grabbing the hand she raised to strike him.

'Let's not be hasty,' he said. 'No need for that.'

She spat in his face. He remained impassive, enjoying the disgusted incredulity of her expression as he let her saliva trickle on to his tongue.

'Get your fucking hands off me,' she said. Her eyes were murderous. 'Where did you get it? The bastard... he told me it was never released.'

'Like I say, it's amazing what shows up. Nothing can stay buried these days.'

Her fury evaporated as quickly as it had flared up, to be replaced by a fugue state as shock kicked in. It was easy for Mike to advance, to drive her stumbling backwards in front of him until their progress was halted by the fireplace.

'What are you going to do?' she said. 'Nobody can see this. Do you understand? I'm serious.'

'No, serious is what happens if you don't do exactly what the fuck I tell you.' He pushed himself against her, pressing his enraged crotch into her thigh. 'Serious is the press getting a hold of your little movie. Serious is what happens to Mr Standards and Ethics in Public Life and his glittering future.'

'Greg's got nothing to do with this,' she said. A tear formed at the corner of her bad eye. 'Please...'

'Maybe they'll see that. Maybe they won't.' He popped the uppermost button of her lilac blouse. 'Either way, it'll make for dramatic reading. What you reckon?'

His lips grazed her earlobe. Was it his imagination or did he see a momentary flicker of excitement cross her face? The desire to fuck her right there and then was irresistible. He wanted to rend her smart business suit into disarray, tie her up with her torn and soiled underwear. He wanted to put her on her knees and fuck her from behind while holding her head steady so that she couldn't look away from a continuous loop of the film of her younger self getting nailed. But Gill was due back. She was probably on her way. For an instant, an image of him fucking both of them, Gill and Mandy together, floated through his mind, as had become habitual on the infrequent nights when he was required to perform his duty on his wife's insipid cunt. But reality just about managed to assert itself.

He sighed and took a step back.

'We'll work something out,' he said. 'I'll be in touch. And thank you. I'll tell Gill that you dropped off the plates.'

After she had gone, the thought occurred to him. 'I can ruin their lives...' It tripped his final switch. He steadied himself against the fireplace, cupping a hand over the swelling at his crotch, muttering, 'Oh fuck...' Hot truant cum spurted out in the hollow behind his hand and seeped into the fabric of his shorts, the shamefulness of his lack of control somehow enhancing the white heat blitz of the climax. He ran upstairs to change his clothes before Gill got back. As he was burying his soiled boxers at the bottom of the laundry basket, he thought, 'Southend...' He was on the road in a month's time and there was an overnight in Southend. Perhaps Mandy would like a little trip to the seaside...

...And now here she was, letting her long black coat fall to the floor. The tiny red halter-neck dress beneath was v-necked to the navel, the two strips comprising its body held together over her breasts by three strings of diamante. It came to a halt at the top of her thighs at the point where the black leather of her long boots began. The clinging lycra drew attention to small rolls of flab on her haunches but the extra flesh she now carried - she had been underweight, he reckoned, when that video had been made - only made her more desirable.

'Turn around,' Mike said, pushing aside the folds of his robe. The rounded flesh of the lower rims of her arse cheeks were visible, pushed aloft by the taut bootleather circling her upper thighs.

'Show me,' he said.

He clutched his erection through his shorts. Mandy cocked a hip and bent forward slightly, revealing the white string of a thong stretched tightly over her arsehole. Her hand, its crimson tipped fingers heavy with gold and diamonds, slipped down her flank and pulled the hem of her dress up further. There was a white line -- a fake tanning oversight -- beneath the exposed arse cheek she began to knead. When she turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder, once again he couldn't say for certain whether or not the heat-haze that appeared to frame her body was a result of the onset of arousal on her part or was just another one of his wishful projections. Perhaps she was just a good actress. She turned her face to the wall again, both her hands fanned out over either of her heavy, cauliflowering buttocks, and began to sway her hips. Mike took his wallet from the bedside drawer and extracted two fifties.

'Come and get it.'

He rustled the corrupted paper of the money before his face. She sank to her knees and executed a reverse with practised grace before starting to crawl towards him like a reptile. Her eyes were somewhere between scornful and amused, coming all the while closer to the proffered banknotes. Her bootleather squeaked obscenely. He reached down and guided her up by the pony-tail, stuffing the notes into her mouth with his other hand.

'Tell me what a whore you are.'

Her reply was smothered by a combination of the money and the palm of his hand which he crushed against the lower half of her face. He took her chin, then slapped her. Took it again and slapped her again.

'What? I can't hear you.'

Now he could smell something at the rear of the warm, thick perfume she was wearing, a sourness like trapped garlic or an unwashed crotch and told himself it was the scent of her disgust curdling into horniness. The frenzy that had taken him over mounted to an unprecedented pitch.

'Pretty fucking mouth,' he breathed, pulling out the clammy banknotes. 'Tell me what a whore you are.'

'I'm a whore,' she whispered plaintively.

He crushed his mouth against hers.

'My whore,' he murmured against her sweet and sticky lips. He undid the belt of his robe and pulled it free of its loops, placing it around her neck as he offered his nipple to her tongue.

'Lick. Lick. Now down. Kiss all the way down.'

He ripped asunder the two sections at the front of her dress, twisting a nipple while her mouth slid down to the bulge in his shorts, murmuring to his cock through the taut fabric about it.

'And my balls,' he sighed.

She moved her mouth down, jerking him off through his shorts, looking up at him as he shrugged off his robe and stood up by the edge of the bed. He pinched the nipple he held, his mouth opening soundlessly as she released his cock, pulling it out from under the hem of his shorts.

'It's hard,' she said, seemingly taken aback the fact. She flicked her tongue at the glans, one hand on his stomach, the other creeping inside the back of his shorts and feeling for the cleft of his arse. Mike held the back of her head, his fingertips digging into her skull as she moved underneath, sneering as she transferred her attention to the knot at the base of his glans. She clutched his cock with an overhand grip, licking all over the tight skin of its tip, gradually working it between her lips. It was exquisite but Mike, sensing a shift in the balance of power, decided it was time for him to reestablish control. He pulled down his shorts and, seizing the root of the cock, began to thrust it into her mouth.

'Put your tongue out,' he said. 'Look at me. That's it.'

He felt his cock hitting the back of her throat, summoning up copious quantities of thick saliva, strands of liquid cotton dangling from his cock and from her chin when he let her up for air. She glanced sideways in exaggerated distress, exhaling noisily.

'More,' he said, grabbing her ponytail and pushing every inch of his cock into her face. He clamped her nostrils shut, as he had seen someone doing once in a porno and revelled in a barrage of delicious sensation -- the contrast between the silk of her hair and the hardness of the bone beneath, the scrape of teeth and the hot claustrophobia of her mouth, her gratified wheeze as he extracted his cock, inch by glistening inch, and masturbated in front of her face, massaging her drool into himself with relish.

'Better than Greg, yeah?'

She shook her head. He slapped his cock hard against her cheek and plunged it into her gurgling mouth again.

'Dirty. Little. Face-fuck. Cunt. What are you?' He pulled himself out.

'Cunt,' she gasped. 'Evil cunt.'

He bent down and kissed her viciously, his teeth savaging her lips. She crumpled, deflated, at his feet in the aftermath, looking up at him with the wary, defiant eyes of an as yet unbroken animal. Her skin gleamed, honey coloured in the dimmer switch light, smelling of heat and pliability.

'Up,' he said.

He dragged her to her feet and embraced her from behind, pulling further to the side the ripped strips of her dress. His undulating cock was smothered by the waxy flesh of a buttock.

'Now that fucking pussy...'

The slickness he touched between her legs was evidence of her thorough preparation in advance but Mike found it gratifying to imagine that she was getting off in earnest.

'Taste your pussy, lick it off.'

He mashed his fingers against her lips, his other hand slapping down on her breast.

'Come here.'

He threw her on to the bed and put her on her knees. The span of her hips from his vantage point seemed impossibly wide. She crouched forward on her flattened arms and turned her face to the side, gasping as his hand cracked upon an arse cheek.

'That make you wet, does it? Yeah...'

He repeated the dose before wrenching aside the string of her thong and reaching underneath for her cunt.