Hotel Rouge was everything its website promised - intimate, discreet and luxurious. There was no check-in desk, just a table in the richly decorated hall, where the young woman who materialised as soon as I came in noted my name, took a tasseled key from a drawer and picked up my bag. I couldn't help watching the seductive rotation of her marvellously rounded bottom on the way upstairs - the tight skirt showed it off to perfection, and I got the impression that the woman was more than aware of the view she was presenting.
When I stepped into my room she laid my case on the bed and withdrew. She paused at the door.
'If there's anything you desire, madam, just pull the cord by the bed. I or one of my colleagues will attend.' A smile and she started to close the door.
'One moment please.' She stopped, fixed her gaze on me. Her eyes were a seductive green. 'My husband should be here in about an hour. Please show him up as soon as he arrives.'
'Very good madam.' The door closed softly. I turned the lock on the handle, and surveyed the room. It was heaven. Soft lighting, deep carpets, heavy curtains framing floor to ceiling windows looking on to one of London's most exclusive squares. Following the name of the hotel - The Rouge - the fabrics and furnishings followed a red theme, a dark, sensuous, sexy red. For this was a specialist hotel, couples only, and only couples who were seeking a specialist kind of pleasure.
The room was large, and featured a long, low couch, a serious, heavy looking armchair, a long, low chest of drawers, a walnut writing desk with a chair in front of it. And the bed. The mattress was about waist height, velvet fabric draped over the four poster frame, a rich, sumptuous bedspread, the corner turned back just so, offering a glimpse of cream satin sheets. The top drawer in the chest of drawers was only about six inches deep. I slid it open. Well, well. A selection of paddles, belts and crops, laid out ever so nicely on padded velvet. The drawer beneath contained a fine selection of bamboo canes, of differing weights, from the thin and whippy to the serious, knobbled old school, complete with hooked handle. I took one out, swished it around a little. It sounded loud in the stillness of the room. Then I found the piece de resistance: a bundle of birch rods, tied together at one end with a red ribbon, which was twined round to form a handle. We'd never tried one of these before. I replaced it, pushing it to the back of the cane drawer. I wanted it to be my surprise, if possible. Mainly because I wanted to try if out on Jeff before I felt it on my own backside. All this made me feel quite aroused.
Through a panelled door into a dressing room lined with mirrors, behind which were wardrobes. A few minutes and my clothes were neatly stowed away. I opened the door at the other end of the dressing room, to find a large, square bathroom with a claw foot bath at its centre. I couldn't resist. In a few minutes the room was filled with fragrant steam, and I was lowering myself into blissful bubbles. My hands crept down, through the warm, scented water, to my vagina, and I gave myself to onanism. Afterwards I allowed myself ten minutes' relaxation, then wrapped myself in a towel so thick I thought at first I had picked up two. Hanging behind the door were two towelling bathrobes, one a dusky pink and one a deep red. How very sexist. A canvas bag hung behind each one. Inside, a pair of mule slippers in matching tones, a cut above the usual hotel wear, these had thick, soft leather soles, and were the last word in comfort.
I padded through to the dressing room. I had chosen tonight's costume with care: black, lacy basque, dark, sheer stockings, the briefest of suspenders, black with red trimmings, and white, sheer silk knickers. Jeff was 33 tomorrow and I was determined to make this birthday treat one he would remember. The hotel was ruinously expensive, and from what I'd seen so far it was living up to expectations. We would find out, together, if the hidden extras were as good as the visible ones.
Suitably clad, I appraised myself in the mirror on the wall opposite the bed. I looked good. Hell, I looked fantastic. I turned, and appraised the view from behind. My generous curves had never, I thought, looked quite as good as they did on that night. My waist was trim, and my hips flared gently. My bottom was rounded. My legs were smooth; I privately thought them a bit muscly, but Jeff swore he adored them. As he should. The basque uplifted my breasts, making the most of them. As I turned, I thought I heard a noise and looked towards the door, which remained as closed, and locked, as I had left it. I pulled on the dressing gown, unlocked the door, and climbed on to the bed.
A remote lay on the bedside table, but there was no ubiquitous flat screen in evidence. Intrigued, I pressed the red button. Part of the mirror that faced the bottom of the bed flickered, and a grid of small screens appeared. Three rows of ten. One for every room. This wasn't a television, it was a voyeur's paradise. I found that scrolling along, one by one, gave a full screen, high definition image. I flicked through them quickly, pausing when I saw an attractive dark-haired woman dressed just like me. Oh. I raised my right leg, lowered it, did the same with my left. The image on the screen did the same. The robe looked a bit bulky on me, so I slipped out of it, arranged the cushions into an attractive shape and reclined gracefully.
A few screens along, I paused again. A young couple were having a very .. interesting.. time together. He was tied to the bed, blindfolded, and his impressive cock was getting a lot of attention from a young woman who had an intersting pattern of weals on her bottom. I lay back on my throne of cushions, enthralled. As the action on the screen hotted up so did I. My hand crept down, slipped inside my knickers, and my probing fingers stroked, then pushed past the moist lips of my vagina. The possibility that someone else might be watching me enhanced my solo pleasure, and I found myself coming at the same time as the young woman on the screen.
Ten minutes later, utterly relaxed, I was reclining seductively against my pile of cushions when the door opened and the birthday boy was shown in. He was smiling at the young woman who had shown me to the room. Just a little too much. I enjoyed his reaction when he caught my disapproving look. And the young woman's open, appraising gaze when she saw me.
'That's fine, Rayanne, thanks. I'll manage from here.' He closed the door behind her retreating, pert bottom, and turned to me.
I raised an eyebrow. 'Rayanne? She didn't tell me her name.