The Blue Guide (6 page)

I look at him. I'm a bit pissed, he's a bit pissed. More than a bit, in fact. In the light of his last statement and what he's just told me about his first time with Carlotta, I don't think he's going to make a move on me. But do I trust myself? Horny as I am right now, how am I going to stop myself jumping on him and making a complete fool of myself? No, far better to just hop in a cab and get the hell out of here, to my own bed and the friction of my own fingers on my yearning clit, or better still the pulsing of the big pink vibrator that's currently
nestling in my bedside drawer, ready for moments like this.

But as these thoughts spin through my brain, already we're outside on the pavement and Paco is flagging down a cab. We're inside before I can say another word, and within minutes we're racing along Goodge Street and then Mortimer Street, just off which the driver swings us into the forecourt of Paco's hotel and a waiting doorman helps us out.

Once up the front steps and inside the hotel, Paco ushers me into a lift and we ascend to the Infinity Suite, which I happen to know is just about the most expensive in London. I've been itching to know what it is like since Fenella mentioned that he was booked in here.

He passes his card through the swipe and pushes the door open for me, revealing a dramatic vestibule with walls sheathed in sumptous aubergine silk. At the end of it, an abstract sculpture made from optical glass seems both to reflect the light and capture it within itself. I'd thought I'd seen some swank in London, but this place is in its own league.

We walk down the hallway towards the drawing room, where a strange fluffy modern chandlier twinkles above a dining table, beside two huge armchairs swathed in purplish velvet and a gently curving cream sofa. I plump myself down in one of the former, marvelling at its softness, and gaze around me.

‘Some suite,' I say.

‘Isn't it just?' smiles Paco. ‘I'll get us those drinks.' He presses a button on the phone and within minutes a butler appears to take care of our needs.

‘I used to stay in the Hempel in Bayswater,' he says, ‘but last time I decided that whole Eastern minimalist vibe is getting rather tired. And the area is a bit of a
dump. This suits my mood perfectly – a grand old hotel but contemporary decor, and about as central as you can get. Shall I show you around?'

I nod, unceasingly curious about London's most exclusive nooks and crannies, and keen not to waste any opportunity my job grants me to have a peek at them.

As we are about to set forth, the butler reappears with a tray bearing two brandy glasses and a whole decanter full of the rich amber liquid. Setting it down on the enormous square coffee table, beside a ceramic bowl filled – rather pointlessly, I think to myself – with outsized ceramic eggs, he pours us two generous measures and, bowing slightly, slips away, leaving us alone again.

Paco hands me a glass then gestures towards a door. ‘The master bedroom,' he declares. I walk in ahead of him and am confronted by a massive mahoghany four-poster bed dressed in velvet of the deepest burgundy and black and white toile de Jouy. Paco points out to me the separate dressing rooms, then we go back through the entrance hall and he shows me the ‘guest bedroom' with its two queen-size beds clad in eau-de-Nil fabrics, followed by the small pantry kitchen from which the butler operates. All in all, I'm pretty impressed, and I say so.

‘Well, that's not all,' says Paco with a smile. ‘I've saved the best until last. Come this way.'

I follow him, and he leads the way back through the master bedroom and into its ensuite bathroom, in the middle of which stands a huge, deep bath. Paco steps forward and presses a button, and the bath begins to project colours, running through a spectrum from red to white.

‘Chromatherapy,' explains Paco. ‘You hit the button
to stop it on the colour that best suits your mood, or the mood that you would like to be in – red is stimulating, indigo is sedating, green is harmonising and so on. Your eyes and your skin absorb the colour, apparently, and you get happy, or sleepy, or whatever you want to be.'

‘Why don't you try it?' he says, leaning forwards to start the bath filling. ‘It also has a hydrotherapy option, basically lots of fizzy bubbles. Please, be my guest. I'll get my man to bring up an extra bathrobe.'

I umm and err, sipping at my cognac. I'd be an absolute fool to pass up on an opportunity like this, but I feel so cheeky taking him up on the offer. My mind turns to young Carlotta: Paco may be offering his bath in all innocence, but how would it look if she were to walk in on the scene? Wouldn't she freak out?

‘
Go on
,' urges Paco. ‘You only live once. Look, I know it's late and you're thinking about all the hassle of drying your hair, getting dressed, going back out into the cold. But I'll give you some money for a taxi door to door, or better still, why don't you stay in the spare room?'

That decides it for me. Carlotta's not here and isn't coming back tonight, and I'm not one to turn my nose up at a bit of unadulterated luxury without a damn good reason.

‘Thanks, Paco,' I say, and he smiles.

‘Just shout if you need something,' he says. ‘I'm going to make a few calls. I'll have the butler leave the robe on the bed.'

He takes my empty glass and exits the room, leaving me standing there looking around in wonder at the walls covered in indigo, purple and brown gilt and glass tiles, at the flatscreen TV set into the mirror above the two vanity units, and lastly back at the bath. I shrug off my blouse, unzip my skirt and step out of it, then peel
off my underwear. I step up to one of the mirrors. They're the expensive distressed silver-leaf glass-panelled kind that, combined with sensitive lighting, make your skin look young and soft and peachy. I touch my breasts with both hands, look down at my flat stomach and freshly waxed bush. I know I look great. I like to take care of myself. Not for anybody else, but for the pleasure of feeling toned and clean and smooth. Even, or especially, when I'm feeling a little low. I masturbate a lot, probably more than the average girl, but my body is a source of great pleasure to me, and nobody knows what I like better than I do, though Daniel seemed to be getting the hang of things pretty quickly.

Daniel's face in my mind, I slide one finger between my fanny lips, rub my clitoris a little; I'm wet and need no further lubrication. I look back at the bath, just in time to see it begin to overflow. I sprint over to turn it off, but water continues to slide over the edge.

I panic, sling a towel around me and run out of the bathroom in search of Paco. I find him lying on the sofa watching a flatscreen TV that has materialised from behind a screen in the drawing room, talking into a cordless phone. Worried that he's speaking to Carlotta and not wanting her to hear my voice, I gesture wildly at him.

‘I'll call you back in a minute,' he says and kills the line.

‘What's wrong?' he says. ‘There a giant spider in there or something? The butler creep in on you? You women . . .'

‘It's not that,' I squeal. ‘Paco, the bloody bath's overflowing. I don't know how to switch it off. The whole place is going to be flooded and you'll be . . .'

I stop. Paco is laughing hard, his hand on my forearm.

‘What is it?' I say testily.

‘Alicia, it's
supposed
to do that,' he says. ‘Sorry, I should have said – it's also an infinity-edge pool, which means that it's set to overflow the whole time.'

I stare at him. ‘Right,' I say at last. ‘Silly of me not to realise.'

He rubs my arm where he still holds it. ‘Go back and have a proper look,' he says. ‘You'll see that the water is actually going into a recirculating channel. Now just get back in there and enjoy it while it's still hot.'

I trot off, wondering why I'm feeling so stupid. How could I have guessed? I didn't know such a thing exists, although if I hadn't lost my head I would have noticed that the overflow wasn't going onto the floor. I tut under my breath, shake my head. Boys and their toys, I think. Gadgets and gizmos. Whatever's wrong with a good old soak in a normal bath?

Still, I slide in, allowing the bubbles to caress my skin, trying to decide on the right colour for me. I finally opt for white; I don't know what it means, but I guess it has something to do with purity, and pure thoughts are what I most need if I'm going to spend a night in this seductive suite within a few steps of one of the world's sexiest men.

Immediately I'm in, the air jets beneath the surface of the water begin to work their magic, loosening my muscles, and the sound of the water cascading from the rim of the bath is strangely soothing. I lean my head back and start to drift away, a little sleepy now from the cognac. Then Carlotta pops into my mind again: I imagine her face if she walked in here and saw me languishing naked in their extraordinary bath. From there it's only a small step to me imagining her in here herself, as she undoubtedly has been, all fleshy and pink from the force of the jets, scrubbing up after a
wild session with Paco on that huge bed in there. She's got the colour set to red: relaxation is not on her mind. The minute she's out of the bath she'll be back in the bedroom, rousing him from a post-coital doze, clambering onto him like a pantheress, insatiable.

So much for being purified. I twist my hips a little, so that my pussy is in front of one of the air jets, and feel the tiny champagne-like bubbles whirling around my lips, the pressure prising them open slightly. With my fingers I rub at the bead of my clitoris, excitement mounting to the point where I
have
to satisfy myself now. I don't care where I am: it's an imperative. I roll back but find that this bath's too deep and its edges are too wide to assume my normal position for bathtime wanks: legs looped over the edges. Nor can I turn over and do it on my knees: it's too slippery. After trying out a few angles, I give up and climb out.

I lie down on the bath mat and assume the missionary position. It may sound staid, but it's my favourite both for fucking and for masturbating. I'm willing to try anything, and generally have, but I've never found anything that affords me as much pleasure. I think it's partly to do with how wide I can open my legs: my cunt positively gapes, and that arouses me no end. There must be something of the exhibitionist in me. And then, when I'm with a man, it allows the most powerful combination of vaginal and clitoral stimulation, virtually guaranteeing an orgasm – in me, at least.

I'm going at it hell for leather now, finger-fucking myself with four digits of one hand, while the thumb of it works at my clit. With the other hand I'm palpating my breasts. Then a little extra something is required down below, and I bring my second hand to my pussy and vibrate my clitoris wildly with the heel of my hand. I'm exploding now, rocking and bucking on the
bathmat, trying hard not to cry out as stars dance behind my closed eyes.

The climax is still ripping through me when I hear a voice and open my eyes just in time to see Paco's head appear in the doorway. In his hand he's holding up my cognac glass: I guess he's come to offer me a refill and I didn't hear him tap at the door.

We're looking into each other's eyes, unembarrassed. I'm surprised I'm not mortified, but Paco's gaze is so frank, so curious, that I don't feel at all ashamed of myself. It's natural, after all; everybody does it, even – or perhaps especially – in the four-thousand-pound-a-night suites of international superstars. Who can blame me?

Paco clearly doesn't. Nor does he do what I expect him to do and back slowly out of the room and close the door behind him. No, he's still there, still looking at me – not at my sopping cunt, mind, or my breasts, but into my eyes as before. I sit up, smile at him.

‘That was beautiful,' he says. ‘Really fucking beautiful. I wish I'd come in a little earlier.'

I raise my eyebrows, emboldened. ‘I could do it again,' I say. ‘If you wanted.'

His face lights up. ‘You bet,' he breathes, and he steps into the room and scoops me up in his arms, carries me through into his bedroom like a new bride. Through his trousers I can feel the head of his dick pressing into my hip, urgent for me.

‘Do you need a rest?' he says. ‘You were really going for it in there? I've never seen anything like it.'

‘I'm fine,' I say. I don't tell him I can keep coming and coming like a train, with the right partner. Or by myself.

He sets me down and I look around, assessing the room. There are two richly upholstered sage-green and
red chairs either side of an oval silver chest of drawers, and I pull one over to the bed, lower myself onto it. He sits down on the bed and I place one foot on either side of him, knees slightly bent. I'm on full display, giving this virtual stranger the most intimate of views, and I'm loving it. I'm loving the look on his face as he watches me bring my hand to myself and spark myself off again. The numbness succeeding my first orgasm has faded, and I'm electric again.

I start with my arsehole, licking my fingers and then running them around the tender rosebud of my rim. I often do this in front of the mirror at home: it gives me a big kick. Next I part my lips and hole with my hands, wide as they will go. I stay like that for a few moments, letting Paco enjoy the scene. I can tell by the play of his hands on the top of his thighs that he's fighting the urge to get his dick out and start going at himself. There's nothing, in many ways, that I'd like better than to see his undoubtedly beautiful member spring forth from his Calvin Kleins and come to life in his hands, especially for me. But I also want to prolong this: he'll come really quickly, I think, and then I will too and it will all be over. I'll retrieve my clothes from the bathroom, get dressed and take a taxi home. Carlotta will be back tomorrow, and I'll hardly see anything of Mr Bigshot Dancer. That's if he doesn't dispense with my touristic services after this little adventure. There's a boundary, and we've overstepped it.