Hotelles (20 page)

As I felt my clitoris, which gleamed between my nymphae and pressed proudly into the lace of my panties, I saw the man bury his face between the petite brunette's thighs. With each lick, she shook frenetically and her backside raised over the bed. Her breasts dangled toward him. They were small, but they seemed to become bigger and more extended with each wave of pleasure. Despite the woman's small build, the man's head suddenly disappeared between her legs. He melted into her sex, his nose getting lost in her dark earthiness. He was hungry for her. He sucked, bit, and tasted every fold of her throbbing flesh. Her sighs became more strident, more frequent, and I supposed he must have introduced his tongue—a natural and effective sex toy—into her.

The orgasm took her by surprise. She arched her back in an improbable curve, throwing her head behind her and contracting each one of her muscles. Then she collapsed as though she'd been electrocuted.

When he withdrew his face from her sweet underworld, he contemplated her for a moment, like a painter before a masterpiece.
He
had made her come, and he alone. His tongue was his paintbrush, his dash of genius. But this triumph must not have been enough since he then reopened the woman's thighs and introduced his member, which seemed even bigger than when it had been in the girl's mouth.

The man cried out strongly as he penetrated her. They were facing each other. His legs were planted into the ground. The girl was now lying across a small table in a corner of the room. She sighed in pleasure, and he turned her around and felt her backside with his penis, looking for her soaking vulva. He moved in and out of her as he stimulated her engorged button, his hand resting on the young woman's pubis.

“Yes . . . yes, don't stop,” she begged.

Her voice was breathy. Given the camera angle and the mask, I couldn't see all of her face, but I was able to make out her parted mouth—it was probably as wet as her vulva—striped with a few stray hairs. She moaned, in shorter and shorter intervals, at higher and higher decibels.

The synchronous stimulation of her most sensitive areas seemed to have gotten the better of her. Each time the man entered her, she projected her palpitating flesh to meet her assailant. She groaned now, yes, she let out a primitive, husky, animalistic growl. She hiccuped pleasure that seeped through her whole body. I watched as her limbs and nape of the neck shook uncontrollably.

Her second orgasm hit her like an uppercut. Her head tipped to the side, and after a long spasm ran up her spine, she grew still.

I was equally shattered. I felt moisture in the hollow between my legs, which started shaking suddenly, bringing me back to earth. I was no longer floating. I was one year old, I was a thousand years old, I was crippled with unfulfilled desire that had been contained for too long. I rested against the wall, then got on all fours, a rather grotesque position, thanks to which I was able to crawl to the sofa. I buried my nose in the red velour and noticed the metallic egg sitting on the soft fabric. It was looking at me. It was provoking me. It was waiting for me to react.

Behind me on the screen, the action hadn't stopped. Satisfied that he had made his partner come—he patted her backside and improvised a few words, like “nice little ass for my cock” and other rather degrading phrases—but not yet satiated, he started riding her again, furiously thrusting himself into her open lips that still shimmered from her first orgasms. What had preceded seemed more like a warm-up, what with his show of energy—some might call it roughness or even violence. He crushed his victim with pleasure. The woman was practically screaming. It was impossible to tell if they were cries of encouragement or for help. If they were expressing pleasure or pain.

I pushed aside the small stretch of embroidered cloth that contained my vulva. A translucent liquid stippled my inner thighs. I considered the fact that no man had ever put me in such a situation before: I wanted more, but I also wished it would end, in happiness, all at once. Contradictory impulses such as only occur in the unique pleasure that thrills and exhausts us.

Or maybe yes . . . Maybe right now, this egg, this capitulation of my body to the mercy of a triumphant Louie, who was witnessing every last detail somewhere backstage . . . maybe I was about to experience my first sublime undoing.

When at last I introduced the oblong object into my dripping vagina, the girl on the screen was orgasming again. I quickly pushed the thing deeply inside me, as though I were in a hurry to join her. My sex contracted around the cold object, surprised by the intruder's unexpected visit, then adopted it. After I clenched my buttocks and perineum a few times, it even started playing with it, swallowing it whole, sucking it into an abyss from which my fingers could not retrieve it. A new king in my kingdom.

At last I found the strength to sit up on the sofa, which welcomed my abandon with that smooth softness of old upholstered furniture, worn by other bodies that had lost themselves here. I spread my legs wide, showing my sex to the screen. I felt as though I were being penetrated by the two protagonists. As though their pleasure could be communicated through the screen and touch me, giving me their surplus of delight.

The man's face, which only occasionally emerged from the shadows during their position changes, was softer or more hollow depending on the light. At first he looked like David, smiling, reassuring, his young face between my thighs.

At that precise moment, I felt the egg's first vibrations inside of me. They were so strong that they radiated throughout my vulva, touching my lips as well as the incandescent point of my clitoris, which had grown too sensitive to touch. Pleasure came in waves that were being controlled by an anonymous hand.

Then, when I saw him again, as he withdrew his head from between my legs, my virtual lover looked like Louie, with his tense face and sunken, burning eyes. He was a predator, a wolf who would tear me apart with his teeth. The spasms emanating from my vagina felt as though I'd been fanged. As though the most powerful jaw I'd ever encountered had my vagina in its mouth and was ripping me apart, devouring me. Deep down, I felt an explosion inside. A mute and strangely slow-moving explosion, as if I were being reconfigured from the inside out. Each quiet wave chipped away at the terror in which I had been submerged just a moment before. Now
I
was being undone. My head jerked back suddenly. I let out a long, silent cry, my mouth the shape of an O. I savored every second of pleasure, the delicious present tense. I never wanted it to end.

I fell back onto the sofa, my body heavy. It felt dismembered. A puzzle of exhausted flesh. I noticed the screen had gone black. The egg had also been turned off, and was now rolling around outside my gaping hole.

He had not touched me at all. He had not even come into the room. And yet, I admitted to myself with a happy sob, an ecstatic and bitter smile on my lips: Louie had made me come. Louie Barlet had possessed me.

And I hadn't held back.

17

June 9, 2009

N
othing on the console in the entry. Nothing in the mailbox at Duchesnois House. The following day was devoid of anonymous missives. I refrained from asking the ever-diligent Armand since I figured he would have made sure I received any new messages.

I could have taken this epistolary silence as good news. I could have interpreted it as a contented withdrawal, an armistice. Filled with images from the night before, my predator, whoever he was, was perhaps releasing his prey. Maybe he was loosening his grip for a moment.

But I didn't believe it. The absence seemed even more menacing than the web he had been weaving before.

 

I SPENT MORE THAN A
half hour getting dressed. I wanted to make a good impression on my first day at BTV. I knew everyone was going to be looking at me, and that all the Alices of the station would start casting perfidious looks in my direction as soon as I arrived. I owed it to myself—and to David—to be without reproach, despite my round curves, which were too voluptuous to be as chic as I would have wished. I finished the outfit with my Louboutins. I remembered trying them on in front of a beaming David, in that boutique in the Galerie Vivienne, and feeling torn between girlish delight and the distinct sensation that such accessories were leading me into a world of artifice. Mom was dying of cancer, and I was slack-jawed at a pair of thousand-euro high heels  . . .

 

“HELLO, ANNABELLE.”

“Hello, Chlo—”

“It's eight twenty-eight,” interrupted the young blonde in her tight suit. “David will be waiting for you in the main conference room at eight thirty-five with the whole team. If you would like, that leaves you with just enough time for coffee.”

She had been looking out for me in the lobby of Barlet Tower, undoubtedly for a while. Her arms were filled to the max with a pile of shirts, a stack of magazines, and a bunch of stamped envelopes. It was all probably meant for her employer: my man.

“That's okay, thanks.”

She looked relieved.

“Okay, great. Let's go, then.”

Teetering anxiously, she led me to the elevators. Her heels, which were much too high for her, clopped through the lobby. Once we were in the brushed steel box, she reeled off my schedule—as devised by David, I imagined—in a nervous voice:

“After the official introductions, you have a meeting with Albane Leclerc at nine thirty, for at least two hours. Then I will take you to your office. You'll see, it's really nicely situated, with a southern-facing view, and between David and Louie's offices.”

Why wasn't I surprised?

I stopped her and asked about something she'd said two sentences before.

“Albane Leclerc?”

“David hasn't talked about her?”

“No . . .”

“She's the editor in chief of your show. She will help you with the content of your first episodes of
Culture Mix
. She'll also help brief your team on how to film the different topics.”

Anticipating my questions, she continued:

“Young, but really professional. Her father directed
The Ocean
for the group for twenty years. She works closely with Luc.”

 

LUC DORÉ, THE DIRECTOR OF
the station. I'd met him at the dinner David had hosted for me.

“In other words, she followed in her father's footsteps.”

“Yes, in a way.”

There were limits to David's trust in me. He may have introduced me to his little army as his secret weapon, but I had a chaperone to guide me through this unknown world so that if I made the slightest gaffe, it could be corrected immediately and its impact mitigated.

A discreet beep announced our arrival on the nineteenth floor—the top floor. Chloe rushed out of the elevator, her eyes scanning an illegible scrawl on her notepad.

“This afternoon,” she began rattling off again, “at two thirty, you have your first production meeting with Luc Doré; Philippe Di Tomaso, the executive producer; and Christopher Haynes, our artistic director. The order of the day is visual design. Chris has already done some mock-ups. In theory, all you have to do is come to a decision with Luc.”

Everything was going so fast! And there was no emergency button on hand to stop it . . . What could I say? That it was all one big misunderstanding? That I didn't belong here? That a crowd of people more competent than I was waiting downstairs?

I recognized the windowed room where I had been introduced to Louie. Instinctively, I looked for his silhouette—the scrawny, birdlike shadow—among the group of people already waiting for us. There were about twenty, all holding cups. To my great surprise, I did not see him. Apparently, the director of communication didn't think it was worth his time.

David appeared at the same time, beaming in a pearl-gray suit I'd never seen before (I had given up on exploring his closet, a veritable Ali Baba's cavern of male elegance).

“Everyone is here. Perfect!”

“Eight thirty.” Chloe nodded. “Should we wait another couple of minutes?”

“No, let's get started. I have a conference call with Seoul in fifteen minutes.”

During the quarter hour dedicated to my induction, in which David blended light humor with more intense references to “the high stakes of Thursday night prime time, which has to capture our audience's attention so they'll stay with us over the weekend,” I kept expecting to see his brother appear. But no one else came to join us. The windows on the corridor were only darkened by journalists in white shirts and Chloe clones.

Sitting at a corner of the table, half hidden by a row of politely scrutinizing heads, Alice, the tall blonde, was silently screaming with boredom over the speech, its orator, and especially its subject. She was playing with her smartphone and resolutely ignoring everything being said, so much so that I was surprised to see a disdainful smile cross her face when my man expressed his faith in me to revamp the time slot.

When David finally announced the end of recess, initiating a small round of flaccid applause, Chloe crept toward my rival and whispered I don't know what kind of reprimand into her ear. The beautiful creature, with her fake breasts and formfitting dress, quickly straightened and exclaimed, visibly irritated:

“Now? What does he want?”

It sounded like she was in trouble. But I couldn't help thinking that a boss trying to seduce one of his employees would behave exactly the same way, if he wanted to lay her in his office without awakening suspicion.

The assistant took her by the arm, signaling that she should be discreet, and led her to the hall. She was like a little tugboat towing a majestic liner, whose swaying hips captivated all the men's gazes. I noticed more than one head turn, even though her colleagues had known her for years.

 

“HI, I'M ALBANE. YOU'RE ELLE,
right?”

In the office's stuffy atmosphere, which was tightly controlled by the all-powerful, debonair David, I immediately took a liking to this young and pretty brunette, this tomboy with a charming smile and a direct tone of voice. She was wearing an open shirt, worn canvas pants, and walking shoes that looked more adapted to a hiking trail than thick office carpeting. Her only accessory was a simple silver chain around her neck . . . She was nothing like all the fashionistas at BTV.

She emerged from behind a wall of people and held out a willowy but energetic hand.

“Yes. I mean, it's Annabelle . . . but everyone calls me Elle.”

“The powers that be have decided that at the station you shall be Elle . . . So if you don't mind, let's keep it that way.”

“Not a problem. It suits me.”

Bossy. But open, and much more pedagogical than her frankness would suggest. She spent a good part of the morning explaining the nuts and bolts of the job, and took the time to go over all the jargon she had herself been using for years. She was patient, but she did not hesitate to scold me if I wasn't being reactive enough. The fact that I was soon to be the big boss's wife did not impress her. And she did not mince words. I realized that the professional friendship between her family and the Barlets put her above the fray . . . or maybe it was just that her obvious ability meant she could easily go elsewhere in case of friction.

“I have to go,” she said at twelve on the dot. “But we'll see each other really soon. You can't get me off your back that easily!”

It sounded more like a promise than a real threat. Albane was going to be an ally, I could tell already.

 

TWELVE OH-NINE, AS CHLOE WOULD
say. She had just finished setting up my office. She hadn't lied: the space was bright, extravagantly large for someone of my age and experience, and situated on the top floor with all the directors, an indecent privilege. The bay window had a spectacular view of the outskirts of Paris.

Twelve twelve. Before leaving for lunch, she handed me a building and cafeteria badge, with a picture I didn't remember having posed for (where had David gotten it?). A chattering herd, no doubt her colleagues, called her over, and they all made their way to the company cafeteria on the tower's second floor.

Twelve twenty-two. I was playing with the brand-new phone that sat atop my desk, the only visible decoration, in the ridiculous hope of getting an invitation to lunch. I resisted the urge to call David, who was of course unavailable. I didn't want to get my feelings hurt when he said he couldn't. As for Louie, I still hadn't seen him, and that was out of the question.

Twelve forty-five . . . I couldn't take it anymore, so I called Sophia. By chance, she picked up immediately.

 

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, WE WERE
sipping sickeningly sweet Monacos on a terrace of a nearby brasserie called Le Saint-Malo. We picked up our usual conversational thread over salads. It was reassuring after my morning in the unfamiliar and almost hostile environment of my new job.

“Whoa, your ring is really tight!” exclaimed my friend when she saw the redness of my finger. “Do you think you'll be able to take it off and put it back on, come D-day?”

“Yeah, look . . .”

With a great deal of effort, I dislodged the pink-gold ring from my finger. She took it and inspected it more closely.

Her eyes shone with envy.

“Well, hon, don't get fat . . .”

“I'll have it enlarged.”

“Be careful, though, it's not the kind of material that can stretch forever. It's pretty but fragile.”

Was she still talking about the ring?

She stared at the object for a while, taking in all its contours. She was mute with admiration, daydreaming. Then, as she brought it up to her eye:

“Whom did you say it belonged to before?”

“Hortensia. David's mother. And her mother before her. But I don't know her name. Anyway, I'm glad I got it off. Armand is supposed to have our names and the date added tomorrow.”

She nodded without taking her eyes off the ring.

“Mmm-hmm . . . What year were David's parents married?”

“I have no idea. Considering David and his brother's age, I would say sometime between the mid- to late sixties. Why?”

“Because then . . . your charming future husband must be the child of a couple of ghosts!”

“What are you talking about?”

Gravely, she pointed to the inside of the ring, which had been filed down to hide the various inscriptions.

“See for yourself.”

“I don't see anything . . .”

“Go on. If you turn the ring so the light skims the surface, you can see an old engraving. I can't make out the date, but the year is still visible: 1988.”

She was right. Scatterbrained Sophia, the cabaret dancer, the collector of men and sex toys, had deciphered a truth in the very ring I had been sporting for several days.

“You're right . . . ,” I breathed. “I can't believe I didn't see it before.”

The date had definitely been shaved down, but under the right angle, I could still make out the four numbers. One degree more or less in another direction and it disappeared. If you looked at it straight on, as most people would, and as I myself had admired it on several occasions, the ring kept its secret tightly guarded.

I was overcome.

“How old was your Prince Charming in '88?”

“Nineteen,” I said limply.

“They got engaged and then married over the course of a few weeks,” Louie had said: 1988, the year of David's first marriage. It was a slap in the face.

Why had Louie felt the need to pretend this truth, perhaps the only truth in all his stories, was a lie? Why take it back like that? Out of fear? But fear of what, of whom?

“Okay. You should tell your honey that it's not very classy to buy a ring at a flea market and pretend it's a family heirloom.”

“I'll tell him . . .”

Quick: I had to change the subject. I didn't want to break down in front of her. I forced a smile and asked a non sequitur:

“And Rebecca? Any news?”

“No, nothing. It's getting annoying. I'm broke and two months late on rent. If she doesn't call about another job, I don't know where I'll be next month.”

“Worst-case scenario, you can always stay in my old room at Mom's house,” I offered.

“Thanks, kiddo . . . But it's not exactly fun at your mom's place right now.”

She smiled apologetically.

“Have you stopped by the agency?” I asked.

“Even there she's completely AWOL. I don't know how she manages her business, but that's not how you get rich. Anyway, it doesn't concern you anymore . . .”

She wasn't criticizing me, just a little nostalgic for the days when we both engaged in the same illicit activity and belonged to the same strange and fated community. No doubt she thought the time had been too short, too fleeting. Sophia had always seen us as sisters. David's appearance in my life had changed things.