Room 621

"Who the hell are you?" I asked, pulling the hotel's Etro robe around me. The stranger standing in the doorway looked confused and surprised.

"621, right?" she said in perfect boarding school English while consulting her room key. This being a hotel that still used real brass keys instead of those plastic credit card facsimiles. A charming place in the Seventh Arrondissment where the sheets were Pratesi, soaps Rogers & Gallet, the tub chin-deep and the bed's comforter airy Hungarian goose down.

I had just drifted off into a lovely post steaming-hot bath and Remy XO haze. Thirteen time zones, four in-flight movies and a nasty breakup with a boyfriend of seven years will do that to you. For a moment, I imagined the key I heard in the lock was the room service dinner I hadn't yet ordered.

My big city alarm bells should have had me making a desperate lunge for the pepper spray buried somewhere deep in the confines of that Fendi baguette bag that was just so perfect last season. But the sight of this delicate Asian beauty in a skintight Helmut Lang little black something or other set me at ease.

"Sri Lanka."

"Pardon me," I asked.

"You were wondering where I was from, right?" she responded without a trace of annoyance, pushing an errant strand of stylishly cut jet black hair behind her ear.

I began to stammer a denial. "My father was Sri Lankan, my mother Phillipino, I grew up in Singapore, live in Hong Kong, work in Rome and I've had a standing reservation for this suite every Friday night for last four months.

"621."

Confirming that even if we had nothing else in common, certainly not my tall angular body with too little on top, nor my light blue eyes with their heavy eyebrows that one diplomatic lover likened to a pair of rococo picture frames. And certainly not my skin, pale from far too many months in London's perpetual gloom. Especially compared to hers', so smooth and lusciously light cocoa that it reminded me of the foil-wrapped treat the chambermaid would leave on the pillow right before bedtime. No, the only thing she and I shared was the key to this room.

"621."

Now I was beginning to feel like I was the one who had trespassed. Or at least, that was how I was feeling 45 minutes ago, before we'd worked our way through a bottle of the hotel's house champagne, Pommery, a plate of Moroccan figs and a wedge of perfectly ripe Camembert.

And I learned that her standing reservation for this suite -- my suite, had to do with a certain married Swedish industrialist. And that the hotel was completely booked. As was, apparently, every other decent hotel in Paris. And that her relationship with him was both intimate, complicated and involved certain financial considerations. It was that last detail that piqued my journalistic interest and got me out of bed. Although not necessarily in that order.

"Look, do you want to freshen up or something? Take a shower, maybe."

Her utterly composed demeanor deflated into a look of complete gratitude that touched my heart. "I took my knickers off somewhere over the Sahara" pulling something insubstantially sheer and lacy from her oversized Bottega Veneta carry-on as a proof offering. "That flight from Capetown takes forever and I just couldn't stand it anymore."

In a girlish gesture of camaraderie, she left the bathroom door ajar so we could continue chatting. Without even a trace of inhibition as I heard musical tinkling in the toilet and the Zen garden sounds of the bidet afterwards.

"Sorry, I just need a clip for my hair." The bath towel was wrapped low around her waist, sarong-style as she rummaged around in one of her bags. Her breasts were perfectly round and taut. High on her chest. And not a trace of tan lines. In her dress I'd thought "implants for sure." But I was wrong. Or if they were, they were the best set of fakes I'd ever seen.

Which leads me to a moment of explanation as I'm not usually in the habit of staring at other women's breasts. But through the boyfriend I had just broken up with, I'd discovered that I possessed a taste for the kind of hardcore porn where a woman with natural breasts was a rare bird indeed. Raunchy porn, pizza and a poke -- our standing Friday night date.

Momentarily alone while she showered, I cupped my own breasts, barely able to fill my small hands and wondered how breasts the size of hers' would feel. The weight of them. Unlike mine which made a bra more of a frilly accessory than a true supporting cast member. How fun it would be to wake up and match what the world was going to see to my mood du jour. Soft curves hinted at under a high neck. Naked sexuality exposed through something daringly plunging. Or you won't know anything at all until you get me home and unwrap me.

No with me, it was push ups, gel pads, miracles, wonders, divine intervention and the holy grail. Although somewhere along the way I'd gotten in the habit of mixing sheer fabrics with a good firm pinch of the nipples just to show that I wasn't completely boyish.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am," she said emerging from the steamy confines of a marble clad bathroom nearly bigger than my entire flat back home.

"So this boyfriend of yours?" I asked, taking in the sight of her in the shorter version of the hotel robe I was wearing. I guess I'd taken the man's version off the brass peg without thinking. Her legs was long, sleek and muscular. Particularly her calves. How the hell does one have a busy career and stay that fit, I wondered.

"Erik. We should probably leave it at that," she said.

No, I'm long past the point of deluding myself into thinking, boyfriend." They'd met at a conference in Cairo. He offered to drop her off in Rome on his way back to Stockholm. There were no scheduling problems when you own the G-V and the flight crew's uniforms are embroidered with your initials.

"No, once I came to terms with our relationship -- high priced call girl by circumstance, still allows me some measure of respect when I look in the mirror."

"I'm not judging but can I ask, why" thinking back to a live-in relationship with a well-off financial type that wasn't going to work out. I smiled and moaned at all the right times, patiently waiting for the pay increase that would allow me to leave him and move to a nicer flat in a better neighborhood. "I love the way you taste," I'd say, wiping my mouth and batting my intense blue eyes at him.

"A nice watch, earrings after a long weekend in Scotland" pushing back her hair to reveal a pair of simple stones. Fuck, at least a two carats each!

"I mentioned once that I was saving up to buy a new car. By that point, cash on the dresser didn't seem like much of a leap," she said as she settled into the Louis XVI couch and drew her legs up underneath herself. I walked over to the balcony doors and took in early evening view of the city. Not on a floor high enough to provide a true panorama, but still unmistakably Parisian.

"Are you sure you don't mind me being here? I could take an overnight train back to Rome. He's not going to show up anyway. It's happened before"

In truth I was glad for the company. And what else was I going to do tonight. Wander the streets and break down into pathetic sobs every time I saw a couple who looked happy. The rest of the weekend was packed with interviews, but tonight was going to be tough.

"So you two would meet here once a week. Then what?" I'd always been fascinated with other people's sex lives. Which probably explained the porn fascination.

"If you could call we did making love. The thing about men who seem very powerful in public is that..." she hesitated for a moment. "Well, often, they're just the opposite in private."

"You mean, he couldn't, you know," I asked, having had a more than a few of those "you knows" in my lifetime. Not surprising since alcoholics and journalists often seemed to ride the same trams.

"No, not that. But once he developed a certain level of comfort with me. It's just that his tastes were unconventional."

"What do you mean," now thoroughly intrigued. Did I mention that her name was Chakira. Hindu for golden light. Laughing, she got up off the couch and walked over to her suitcase. The back of her robe stuck a little to her damp skin. No tan lines on her bottom either.

"What's that for?" I knew what she was holding but hadn't quite figured out how it entered into their lovemaking. A complicated black harness with lots of dangling straps and buckles.

A huge translucent pink dildo answered my question. "You mean, you'd use that on him?" I asked incredulously. "Wouldn't it hurt?" It was at least nine inches long, veiny and a lot thicker than anything I'd ever seen before. Not that I hadn't hoped.

"That's the idea," Chakira answered. "Or maybe it was just the humiliation of being fucked up the arse by a woman. Who knows? Anyway, he seemed to like it."

"How does this thing work?" I asked.

"Stand up and I'll show you."

It was at this moment that I felt like we'd taken a step into unsettled territory. And unexplored, save a few giggly experiments at boarding school. Despite a momentary reluctance, I stood obediently and passively in front of her while she loosened the tie to my robe.

"Pretty, pretty" she said commenting on the way I'd trimmed my pubic hair. Shaved, in the manner of a porn girl, all but for a little light brown strip in front. What does one say when another women comments favorably on your pubic hair style?

"Thanks, I think."

"Open your legs a little wider." An order. Hands and buckles and straps being cinched. Reaching around my waist and through my legs. Close but not quite. And a little shiver as I felt a warm breath at the very top of my leg.

"Is that too tight?"

I let out an embarrassed giggle when I finally looked down.

"Take your robe off so you can really see it" she said enthusiastically. Her hands deftly found their way inside my opened robe, pushing it off my shoulders. I stepped out of the crumpled heap on the floor, nude but for this strange apparatus floating about my hips.

As I stood in front of the room's ornate full-length mirror, slightly oxidized with age, I couldn't help but want to take it in two hands and start waving it around. It was at once, sexy and funny and powerful. "You'd use this on him?" I asked again.

"Well, not that exact one. We only use them once. This one is new."

Chakira came up behind me and put her hands on my hips. Admiring the sight in the mirror with me. Out of heels she was maybe an inch or two shorter than I was.

"Do you like it?" she asked. What? The dildo? Her proximity? Her hands on my hips? Or now, not on my hips. But gliding up, cupping my breasts. Her full lips? Or the soft kiss she just planted on the nape of my neck. Do I like it? The goose pimples answering more eloquently than I ever could. Chakira's short robe also open. I could feels her full breasts pressing into my back. I wanted to touch them. This was all very strange. Do I like it? Her hands, like a musical whisper of silk, floating everywhere at once. I instinctively pressed back into her.

And when our mouths finally found each other. After we'd sorted out where that over-sized dildo would go. She, on her tiptoes, the hard cock pressed between our bellies like a shared secret, I was taken by how small her mouth was. Soft. Warm. But smaller than what I was used to. A man. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing.

And those breasts. God, they felt good in my hands. The breasts I'd always wished I'd had. It's no wonder men were breast obsessed. I wanted to keep playing with them but Chakira slid down on her knees. Taking my false appendage in her mouth. First, just the head. And then a little more. And then a lot more.

"How do you do that without gagging," I asked amazed.

"A minor talent," she said with a matter-of-factness, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

I tried to pretend as she sucked the pink dildo, obviously enjoying herself. But then didn't have to when she worked her thumb under the base of the harness and found my clit. Aching for attention. My knees buckled a little at just how right it felt. And after that, I didn't have to pretend. And when two slender fingers worked their way inside. No, worked is wrong. My insides were so slippery, it was if I drew her inside me, I knew I was going to lose it. Or give it up. I didn't care. The sight of this magnificent woman, put together far better than I ever could be on my best day, sucking a cock -- my cock, pushed me over the edge.

And that guttural voice, "suck me, right there, oh god," where was it coming from? I wasn't sure. Nor was I sure how I ended up on the floor, legs in the air spread wide apart. The dildo doubled back on itself. Chakira fucking me with my own penis. Hard. Deep. God this thing is thick. Would an average sized one ever feel as good? And then harder still. A manic piston driven to a furious blur. Over and over again until the power of it shattered into a sweetness that made my jaw ache. And finally the last of my ragged cries subsided into a lip biting whimper. Pain. Joy. Relief.

After I'd rested a few minutes, Chakira finally, slowly pulled the glistening dildo out of my pussy and took it into her own mouth. Staring at me with a feral quality, as if to say, "I was hers."

It was at this point where thing took a strange turn. Not that the evening hadn't been strange enough. But as I pushed her down and put my lips over hers, the normal sequence of events, the give and take, reciprocation. I mean, it was my turn after all. Not that I didn't want to. But that's when everything got jumbled.

Chakira wriggled out from under me and with perhaps a degree of defiance, pulled out a black leather paddle from her bag. Actually it looked like a long hair brush but without the bristles.

"You would have to use this on him?" I asked, taking it from her and testing it lightly against my own thigh. Ouch! "Oh no. Not at all. This was for me."

Which led to a long reminiscence of the strict Catholic girl's school that Chakira attended at her mother's insistence. A minor rule infraction might solicit an impromptu swat. But for severe infractions there was a strict procedure that had to be followed. The offending school girl would be called to the front of the classroom and ordered to bend over the desk. Bum displayed for her all classmates to see.

"Remember, the point was to inflict pain AND humiliate," she reminisced.

Hem of the plaid uniform skirt lifted up and held with two hands at waist level. A second teacher, always female, usually a nun, would be called in to pull down the miscreants white cotton knickers just so, exposing the entire buttock but heaven forbid, nothing more. The punishing teacher was then free to administer the appropriate number of strokes with a wooden paddle kept handy for just such occasions. Three for obstinance. Six for note passing. An even dozen for swearing or taking the Lord's name in vain. And heaven save the girl whose hands fell to protect her tender white backside in mid-beating. The count would return back to zero. Same for squirming about.

Around the tenth grade, Chakira' class suffered from a rash of discipline problems unprecedented in the school's history. Hardly a day went by without at least one or two girls getting punished. Yes, that handsome young teacher from Australia, the first faculty member ever from the laity, and a man no less, really had his hands full that year. "I was probably the worst in my class. Or at least I tried to be" she said, smiling.

Which is about all the segue I can offer for me being seated in the middle of that Louis XVI couch with a small square cushion on my lap. A Scalamandre damask in pale yellow if I wasn't mistaken. A now naked Chakira lying face down, over my knees.

Was I really going to do this? I caressed her round soft cheeks. Twelve hours on a plane and not one single pimple. Perfect. The kind of ass that men and women both made detours to follow for an extra block or two. And she knew it. I took hold of the paddle's round handle, the leather, warm and dry in my hand. I traced a slow path up her leg. Maybe I could just tease her. She parted her legs slightly and pushed her bottom up at me.

"Please."

Her lips, shaved smooth, were a meaty purplish brown. So different than mine. Pale, pink and fragile. Those full lips hiding what was going on deeper inside. I used the thin edge of the paddle to probe between them. And when I withdrew it, there was a near perfect semicircle of light-catching moisture. Lying in contrast to the impassive matte black leather.

"Please."

Smack. A single tentative stroke.

Nothing. I stared at the smooth skin. No reaction at all.

Again. A little harder. Still silence.

"Are you sure," I ask but get no response.

Raising the paddle higher, above shoulder level, I summon strength and bring it down with a solid smack. And instantly there is a crimson mark. And again and again.

And once again, but this time I pull short just before the leather cracks. I take small delight in Chakira's breath-catching apprehension. And just as she relaxes, three quick smacks in rapid succession bring an audible response. And something else. A musky odor from between her legs. Those somnambulant labia, so smooth and dry just a moment ago, are now wet and slippery.

Continuing to rain blows on her backside, I explore with my free hand. She lifts her belly a little to accommodate me between her legs. Rubbing her tiny clitoris with small delicate circles I'm confused as to what she likes more. But the combined effect is unmistakable. Her cries of pain mix with pleasure and become something else all together. Her hips are thrusting forward in a rhythm that has nothing and everything to do with the paddle and my serpentine fingers.

So aware am I of Chakira, that I'm startled when I glance up and see myself in the full length mirror. Who am I as ask, aware of the long sticky cock between my legs. Male or female. Dark or light. Good or evil. All of the above.

One more blow and a howling cry but still she doesn't come. Just as I think I need to hit her harder, Chakira rolls off me and drops to the floor on her hands and knees. She looks back at me with a sweaty brow and tear smeared eyes. Saying everything without a single word.

I join her on the floor but without real nerve endings, I'm clumsy. I push once but she squirms away. "Not there."

She reaches between her legs and guides the thick head inside. There's no resistance. That much I can feel. The wet, mucking sounds and musky scent feed my other senses.

Slowly, I slide the long shaft in. And then out. And then I'm still. Letting her find her own rhythm, as she rocks forward and back without me. Easy. But just when I think I'm going to be nothing more than a firm plinth for her pleasure, her fingers reach back and find me. I take hold of her hips and thrust. As I do, she presses three fingers, at least I think it's three, in my cunt. As I withdraw, so does she. And again. And again until we both collapse in a tangled sweaty heap.

Without raw nerve endings or an impending orgasm to deal with, the dildo performs flawlessly for hours. Our lips and tongues, too.

And much later, when the first light of the false dawn plays across Parisian rooftops, we come full circle. It's me kneeling front of her, helping to cinch the silver straps and adjustable the buckles. I open the balcony doors and rest my elbows on the cold iron railing. Not caring a bit that I'm naked for the world to see. The chilly, early morning air does nothing to soothe the burning heat I feel in my insides. Not even when I close my eyes and gasp desperately to take in deep, life giving gulps of air.

When I leave an hour later to get to my first interview I'm a picture of the composed professional I pride myself in being. Attractive in a quiet way. Intelligent. Maybe a little boring. Save for that odd dreamy smile at no one or nothing in particular. . .