No Better Than I Ought To Be

 

I’m not someone who has ever been concerned for status symbols.  When I choose to meet someone, to spend my time with them and share my body with them, I don’t give a toss what brand of watch they’re wearing or what income tax bracket they fall into.  I find conspicuous consumption vulgar, rather than impressive.  When someone on one of the sites I use promises to look after me it tends to make me snort laugh: I can take care of myself and I don’t think of myself as the sort of person who would sell herself for a bit of luxury.  Everyone has a price though.

Before I met B I considered staying in a hotel not advertised by Lenny Henry to be true luxury.  B was an American who flew to London frequently on business and wanted an amusing companion over dinner and a warm body in the hotel bed.  He was very open about what he wanted and what he liked, and since his preferences seemed to tally with mine it seemed a good idea to meet up.  He had some odd ideas about money, but I put a lot of it down to his being American.  The true scale of the difference in our lifestyles didn’t become obvious until I turned up at his hotel the first time.

Since B’s meetings tended to be with senior government advisers he liked hotels in and around Westminster – nothing flashy, just old world luxury and discretion.  That first weekend we were on Buckingham Palace Road, and as B’s driver handed my bag to the doorman I was swept into the hotel, where it was all dark wood panelling and black and white tiles, peaceful and serene even on a busy Friday night.  It had the feel of an old-fashioned private club and smelled heavenly, flowers and leather and brandy.

I’m not easily overwhelmed, but that hotel enveloped me in such luxury I came close to being so.  Thankfully once I reached the suite B was exactly how he’d been all the times we’d spoken, and as he took my bag from the porter and closed the door my saying “well, it’s a bit of a dump but I suppose it’s just for the weekend” made him laugh in the rasping breathy way I’d loved hearing on our calls.

I didn’t have much time to look around the suite as B had booked a table for dinner and found the idea of dining at 8 to be horrifically European, so certainly wasn’t willing to dine any later.  I can’t remember where we went or what we ate, but we had great conversation and I can remember at one point a waiter running over to take away some dishes when B slapped the table hard as he laughed, glassware wobbling and chinking on a table slightly too small for all that was piled onto it.

We walked back to the hotel, my arm in his, and I could feel tension coming from B.  As he showed us into the suite and we hung our coats in the cloakroom I was expecting to head to bed, but instead he took me into the lounge and poured me a drink.  He told me the suite had two bedrooms, and although he’d taken my bag upstairs he’d left it between the two, for me to decide where I stayed.  I just started laughing – we’d chatted long enough and had had enough skype calls for me to have agreed to meet in full knowledge that I wanted to sleep with him.  I hadn’t spent so much time de-fuzzing everything from eyebrows down just to spend the night on my own.  I told him I was going for a shower and I’d see him in whichever bedroom he wanted to use, and he was still chuckling as I headed up the stairs.

The bathroom didn’t feel as luxurious as I’d expected, but when I noticed all the toiletries were Penhaligons it was all my little Scouse heart could do to stop myself sweeping them into my bag.  I took a huge amount of time using every single product provided before wrapping myself in a very fluffy but slightly scanty towel and heading to bed.

The bed was right underneath a glass roof, and there was something so beautiful about hearing and seeing the rain pelting onto the roof while we lay underneath it all night.  B moved to sit at the edge of the bed and tugged me towards him, standing me between his knees as he pulled the towel away and rested his head between my breasts.  We stayed like that for a minute or two until his hand started exploring, gently brushing over my clit just enough to make me whimper, not enough for me to tumble into orgasm.  As he eventually eased first one finger and then two into me my knees buckled and his arm held me up while his insistent fingers were joined by his thumb on my clit, bringing me to a noisy and juddering climax.

That whole night has something of a dream-like quality to me.  I suspect it had something to do with the luxury of the hotel, the softness of the bed linens, the glass roof above us, the smell of B (B smelled of Blenheim Bouquet, pine and pepper.  The smell was beautiful, and every time I’ve smelled it since it has reminded me of him), total sensory overload when taken all at once.

B was a gentle and considerate lover, more gentle than I normally enjoy – I usually like a bit of frenzy, a bit of rough use.  Nevertheless he coaxed orgasm after orgasm from me before he let me really explore him.  His penis was no more than average, but it was a perfect size for oral and he was happy for me to spend a good amount of time licking and sucking and generally getting to know him better.

When he moaned that he was getting close I cupped his balls in one hand while I wrapped the other around the base of his cock and I focused attention on the head – something I’d noticed he particularly enjoyed.  As I moved more quickly he gripped my head in one hand and his cock in the other as he came in my mouth.  I’m in no way squeamish and I’ve never really seen the point of spitting, but as we calmed down he apologised for not pulling away and seemed really puzzled at my lack of annoyance.  I’ve no idea why, as it is something we’d discussed so he was aware of my feelings.

We spent the entire weekend in the suite, original plans to go out in the day forgotten in the pleasure of sex and laughs and mutual exploration, of watching the clouds scudding above us and wriggling around both trying to lie in the small patch of sun shining on the bed.  I can only imagine the room service bill after B ordered a bottle of champagne and a bottle of cognac to be delivered with dinner.  I half-heartedly offered to pay my share, but he waved the offer aside.  It was quite a relief – I’m not sure I had the money for those type of prices.

B had a great love of spooning.  He liked to slide into me from behind, gripping my chest and having me wriggle my bum against him.  It’s a position I’ve always considered needs a very well-endowed man, but we managed it brilliantly and it really worked for me.  He liked to kiss the back of my neck as he moved inside me, taking care to hold his head clear when I started to orgasm to prevent inadvertent head-butting or concussion!

By Sunday I was feeling the nicest achiness and was hoarse from so many orgasms.  B came with me as his driver took me back to Euston, and bought me a huge bouquet of flowers at the station with a promise that he would keep in touch.  I’m sure it was a lovely thought, but it was the thought of a man who has never had to spend a couple of hours on an overcrowded train to get home.

The next time we met up it was a different hotel, but equally luxurious.  Once again B brushed aside all my offers to contribute to cost, telling me I’d done more than my fair share by travelling down to see him.  We saw each other every couple of months for a few years, and I really looked forward to seeing B, and to spending time in that environment of total luxury.

I did occasionally take gifts when I visited – little things I thought B would enjoy.  I got us tickets to King Lear at the Donmar; a production B particularly wanted to see with Derek Jacobi.  After he told me of his interest in gems I bought him blue john cufflinks.  When I couldn’t explain what boiled sweets were I turned up to one visit carrying a jar of Yorkshire mixture.  He always seemed to get a kick out of these little surprises but would never agree to me paying for a meal or contributing to the hotel cost.

Our arrangement was always a short term thing, enjoyable as it was.  I would have fitted into his world no better then he would fit into mine.  Eventually I took a call from B one night to say he’d found someone suitable and had agreed not to see anyone else.  While I was happy for him I was gutted at the thought of my weekend escapes into luxury drawing to a close.

It’s been many years since we were in touch, although I did see him and Mrs B looking glossy and glamorous in Vanity Fair a few years ago at a charity event.  Pre-Covid I had thought about heading to London for the weekend (I’ve never done the tourist thing in London which feels a huge oversight on my part) and priced up a couple of the hotels I could remember us staying in.  A quick glance at the prices told me I’d be better off sticking with Lenny Henry – a week in that conservatory suite would pay the deposit on a house!