Hotelles (29 page)

“This piece is called ‘Forever Without End' . . . ,” he murmured.

That's what I wanted from his riding crop, which seemed to know in painful detail my most sensitive erogenous zones. It only targeted the best, lingering over the ones that sent the sweetest, longest, and most visible shivers through me. The base of my neck trembled approvingly. The tops of my shoulders responded with an irrepressible tremor, a blend of pain and pleasure. Even the nameless triangle between my ear and nape of the neck expressed contented pleasure. And my breasts, my middle, my ecstatic inner thighs, which opened wider with every stroke. They quivered in anticipation of what might come next.

An avid, impatient tension ran through my whole body. It wanted to learn and, more than anything, feel more. Harder?

“I love this . . .” I sighed, without knowing if I meant his touch or the music.

I twittered at the sudden intrusion of the leather rod between my labia. He rubbed my cleft several times, with just enough pressure to torture me. My back arched, projecting my pubis as far as possible in his direction.

“Ow!”

He'd given no warning before the switch smacked my middle. It was light but biting.

“You're not supposed to beat me!”

I sat up, furious. He pushed me back onto the bed with one hand. I could not escape his weight.

“Whipping is not beating.”

“Really? Well, you explain the difference to my skin!”

“Don't get caught up on words . . . Feel it.”

My anger had actually amplified the sensations in my body. With each lash of the whip, I wanted more, was suspended in anticipation, wondering how hard the next one would be and which part of my body it would touch. He striped my breasts in turn, then my thighs, the sides of my buttocks. He was careful to avoid my face, which twisted in pain and desire.

Still, I felt a wave of panic when he straddled me and pinned his knees to my arms. Crushed under his weight, they could not make the slightest movement. I knew what he would do next: the icy feel of metal on my wrist, the pinch of the cuff as it closed, then the same thing on the other side.

Handcuffed.

I opened my eyes to see what he had in store for me, his willing martyr, and discovered that everything had disappeared: the night-lights had been dimmed, and the room was pitch-black. Now, the only way I could situate him in the room was by listening to his breath or feeling the subtle heat of his latex-sheathed body.

He must have read this last thought because I heard the squeak of latex and understood that he was at last undressing. This freed not only his body but also his oh-so-familiar fragrance, which the latex suit had been holding prisoner.

Vanilla. Lavender. In a word: Louie. Or a man wearing his cologne?

My doubts evaporated when I heard his voice, now in its natural state:

“No darkness could hide you.”

Was he talking about . . . my beauty?

The riding crop was not the only replica he had with him that night.

“Oh, no!”

The metallic egg he had just plunged into my sex with authority was identical to the one he had already used to transport me.

“Oh, yes,” he confirmed.

I did not know what to expect next. I heard his feet rubbing across the carpet, then the door click twice as it opened and closed.

Had he really left?

I did not have time to think of another hypothesis. The little seed of pleasure he'd planted in me was sprouting. The egg had spontaneously come to life, moved by what I imagined was a distant order. My hands were bound. I had no control over its strength, its movement inside me, the duration of its vibrations. Nothing.

The first orgasm hit my innermost depths like an implosion. It wasn't like being broken into a million pieces; rather, it was as though I had been collected into a ball of fire and pleasure. I was as compact as a modern sculpture, from which only the sex and a stunned vulva emerged.

“Not that . . . You . . . ,” I wept, ecstatic and frustrated.

I wanted it to be over. Or, rather, I wanted to begin. I was done with these games and this mechanized pleasure. I wanted him. In me. Posthaste. Only the time it took for us to make each other come.

And just as he was crossing the threshold, I added, desperately and plaintively, with gratitude and abandon:

“Come . . .”

Without saying a word, he melted over me and withdrew the egg from my vagina. Fluid trickled between my legs, sending a wave of relief through me, even up into my chest. I felt submerged. Sucked into the whirlwind of my orgasm. Drowned, and happy to be.

“Take me . . . Take me,” I begged.

He ignored my request. Instead, he kneeled between my legs, brusquely pulling my backside to the edge of the bed. He started licking my soaking sex like a man who has just left the desert.

The contrast with David's method was striking. Where my future husband excelled at metronomic regularity, Louie licked haphazardly, with plenty of interruptions and changes in rhythm. He did not have to introduce himself inside me to mine my depths. And what should have delayed my pleasure—don't they say that cunnilingus only works if it is long-lasting and ardent?—aroused my desire, engorged my nymphae and lips, made my clitoris stand more erect than ever before.

 

I don't remember what Sophia and I could have said that would have made one of our professors in college think it was appropriate to provide an example of an erotic book of photography:
Born from the Wave
, by Lucien Clergue. After our conversation, I was curious to see the photographs and did an Internet search. I found the pictures of nude beauties both fascinating and unsettling. Most of them were headless, surrounded by waves and foam.

Seeing them reminded me of an aspect of my vagina that I had always found off-putting, though it was the very same thing that drove me wild in men: the scent of
my
pussy
my sex. It would have been easy to tuck my obsession away in a secret corner and chalk it up to one of my complexes, except that, in spite of my perfume, I smelled it delicately emanating from me several times a day. At my desk in high school, then in college, at the movies or on the metro. Anytime life put me in contact with strangers, I was convinced they could catch a whiff of the odorous, musky fragrance of
my pussy
my crotch. Like my vagina, the pages of Lucien Clergue's book also seemed to smell of the sea.

 

Handwritten note by me, 6/11/2009

 

HE SLIPPED HIS TONGUE UNDER
the folds of my vagina and played for a long moment with my button, erasing this final barrier and my remaining scruples. For a second it was almost painful, but then lightning shot through the room and struck the tiny organ of happiness, ripping open my middle, burning my innards with a shower of flames. I was blinded, deprived of my senses.

“Oh, yessssss!”

I was devastated. Scorched. I was no longer a woman who screamed
no
, but
yes.

This time, I did not hear him leave. I moved my arms and realized he had unbound my hands.

But even without the cuffs, even though I had been freed, I knew one thing for certain: I belonged to him now. I could marry whomever I pleased. Including his brother. I could make a comfortable life for myself.

From here on out, I only had one master. And that was Louie.

He was the one.

24

June 12, 2009

W
henever I had a personal issue or, worse, a dilemma, I always handled it in the same way, which is to say, by following the least journalistic and professional method possible: rather than ask my friends for edifying examples or points of comparison, I watched movies that dealt with more or less the same problem. In many ways, when it came to personal questions, I trusted filmmakers more than other newspeople or experts, psychologists, or sociologists. For instance, when I first learned Mom had cancer, I rewatched Nanni Moretti's
Dear Diary
several times. Of all the movies on the subject, his is the most apt to cheer you up.

On sibling love, you can't do better than Woody Allen's
Hannah and Her Sisters
or this other Italian film,
The Best of Youth
, with the sublime Jasmine Trinca, whose pout and wide eyes I was always trying to imitate as a teenager.

Unlike Hannah's Elliot, who has a passionate affair with the fiery Lee only to return to conjugal life, I rejected bourgeois fatality, its morality and conformism. Not making a choice is already a kind of choice. I tried to convince myself of this maxim the following night as I tossed and turned beside an inert David.

After all, couldn't I live somewhere between the two, divided among brothers? Wasn't I myself split between desire and reason, body and heart; between the one who had conquered me through ruses and force, and the other side of myself, where the days went by without passion or pain, lulled by the soothing music of comfort, tenderness, and ease?

“Hello, Elle. I have finished the final version of the contract. It's on the console, as promised. If you could please give it one last glance and sign . . .”

Armand had appeared in the kitchen at breakfast as discreetly as a ghost. The closer we got to the wedding date, the worse he looked. Was it stress? Too much drink?

“Yes, thank you, Armand. I am sure it will be perfect.”

Where Louie's commandments were deviant, searing, exciting, the imperatives laid out in David's prenup were a list of rules meant to make our common life a drive on cruise control. No conflict, no accidents. A calm stupor in which the good days would not vary much from the bad ones. Life cushioned by the air bag of his money and my concessions. I could even close my eyes. Everything would remain under control.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he exclaimed before returning to the day's urgent tasks. “I picked up the ring from the jeweler. It's on your bedside table.”

Next to the contract, I found another, slimmer pile, which was surer to have an effect on me: tucked inside a plastic folder, a stack of blank perforated papers, identical to the one I had received before. Apparently, my purveyor of stationery did not doubt for a second that I would need more space in my Ten-Times-a-Day. Better still, he'd made a comeback. On the very last page, I found his unmistakable handwriting and the following words:

When I lay at your feet an eternal homage,

Shall you ever wish me to change my visage?

I am a man with captured heart,

Make sure to read the first word of each verse from the start.

Love is the thing for which you were created,

With you, my dear, my pen is never sated.

You inspire me, love, to write these words I dare not speak,

Darling, only you are the remedy that I seek.

I was stunned by the chosen form—since when did he write in verse?—and even more so by his meaning. To declare himself so openly and, despite the rhymes, without varnish, did not seem like him at all.

I grabbed the tablet that never leaves the living room coffee table and typed the first words of his poem into a search engine. The reference was at once clear: “Alfred de Musset's reply to George Sand.” But though I was familiar with Sand's coded poem, this was the first I'd heard of her lover's response. The key turned out to be simpler, especially since it was explicitly stated in the middle of the poem, in the fourth verse: “Make sure to read the first word of each verse from the start.” Following his instructions, I pieced together the following question: “When shall I make love with you, darling?”

I clicked on a link to learn George Sand's answer in the literary game that she herself had initiated: “This favor that your heart so desires I fight / For it may plunge my reputation into the darkness of Night.” The message was clear: “This Night.”

A smile blossomed inside me: Was that his plan? For us to write each other letters like the ones exchanged between those great writers?

I dug my Ten-Times-a-Day out of my bag and penned George Sand's two last verses. Even if Louie never read them, at least our dialogue would not be broken.

I wonder if I have ever taken the initiative, even fleetingly, since I've been sexually active. I don't think so, and I'm not particularly proud of it. I'm not ashamed, but I regret it, since today I think that the person to express his or her desires first in a couple gets a kind of bonus. Would I have known more pleasure or been a better mistress of their fantasies if I had thrown myself occasionally on my previous lovers? I'll never know. My sex, my entire body, will forever be the orphan of such missed opportunities.

 

Handwritten note by me, 6/12/2009

 

GOADED BY THIS NEW GAME,
I dressed in haste, cheerful and light. The time was passing like lightning, and after two consecutive absences, I could not be late. I did not want to be the object of more gossip. I figured people were already talking about me and that the whole of Barlet Tower was abuzz with how ridiculous I was.

 

“PHEW! I WAS SCARED YOU
wouldn't be coming back!”

As usual, Chloe threw herself on me as soon as I stepped through the sliding doors. She seemed more stressed now than two days before. Had my absence caused that much trouble with the personnel? I remembered what David had said about the unions.

“Why wouldn't I?” I defended myself.

She looked at me like I was a crazy person or a hermit who had just come out of hiding after ten years of isolation.

“David didn't mention anything to you?”

Mention what? Had he buckled under all the various pressures and sacrificed me on the altar of social peace?

“Should he have mentioned something in particular?” I asked, unsettled.

“Alice!”

I recalled an image of David consoling the tall blonde.

“Alice and Chris!”

Alice-and-Chris
. . . It sounded like the beginning of a playground song. But I didn't think now was the time for childhood jokes.

“I'm sorry, Chloe, but I have no clue what—”

“Chris Haynes, the artistic director, and Alice Simoncini . . . Somebody walked in on them in a special meeting, if you know what I mean. In her office!”

Had the ravishing director of marketing given herself to that pretentious oaf out of spite?

“I'm sorry,” I said, pretending to be above office gossip, “but I don't see what that has to do with me.”

“Well, they were both fired! On your first day. No severance package, no unemployment, not even a farewell party . . . Nothing.”

I could not believe my ears.

“It's all anyone is talking about. I guess Yves, in IT, used the network to activate her laptop and film the whole thing. But there's no way I'll watch it. It's disgusting!”

The lascivious way in which she adjusted the bun on her head said otherwise.

I kept playing the scene I'd witnessed between my man and the woman who had been fired. So it hadn't been the end of a liaison, as I had initially imagined. She had been sacked. Though his gestures had been empathetic and almost tender, his decision had been one of an unwavering boss. One evening, he had invited her to dine at his home. The next day, or almost, he threw her out like a pariah.

This thought made me freeze with doubt and fear. And what if he found out about his brother and my strange relationship with him? Would I face the same fate? Thrown out, repudiated . . . cast off!

Our arrival on the nineteenth floor proved that the turmoil had not died down. People scrutinized me from behind the bay windows as I made my way down the hall. But it was not because I was marching to the scaffold. They simply wanted to read how I was reacting to the news. Whether I liked it or not, I was now one of the people at the station whose opinion ricocheted from ear to ear. It mattered.

“Don't pay attention to them,” David's assistant whispered. “They're wondering who will be next. They're worried . . .”

Me, too!

“ . . . but deep down they're not mean.”

When we arrived in front of my office—at first glance, I did not notice any silver envelopes—Chloe ran off to attend to her regimented schedule:

“Eight forty-eight . . . I'm already six minutes late in my day. I'll leave you. But don't hesitate to call if you need something. Anything at all.”

That, I supposed, like her meeting me in the lobby, was part of her duties, as prescribed by the boss. One of the little privileges that my peculiar status afforded me. I found a note from Albane on my otherwise empty desk. I was expected downstairs at nine for my first camera test. That meant I only had time for a foul cup of coffee from the asthmatic machine. Then it was time to get back in the arena.

 

THE JOURNALIST WAS WEARING HER
combat clothes: a shapeless sweatshirt and khakis. She welcomed me with a smile and two loud kisses on my cheeks before I even had time to extend my hand.

“Hey! Feeling better?”

“Yeah . . . I'm okay.” I faked the voice of someone who had been suffering.

“Okay. Great. Because the fun and games are over. Today, we have serious work to do. Today, you're going to step into the light!”

“I saw that . . .”

“Follow me. I'm going to introduce you to the technical crew.”

This is how you have the spotlight thrown on you in the darkness of a soundstage, in front of a dozen pairs of scrutinizing eyes, a judgmental bubble of condescension that no amount of smiling can pop.

“Hello . . .”

But it was not their number nor the fact that they looked like old, tattooed truckers that left me speechless after my timid greeting. I was stunned to see  . . .

“Fred!”

He detached himself from the group and took a few steps in my direction, as cool as though we were meeting for brunch.

“Hello, my Elle.”

“
My
Elle,” he had stressed, so that everyone could hear the possessive pronoun.

I caught his sleeve and led him away from the group, toward the dark and empty stage.

“What are you doing here? Wasn't it enough to create a scandal in front of my house?”

“First, you should say hello, then calm down. I'm on a six-month contract. And, FYI, everyone is looking at us.”

 

Sometimes I think it's stupid and even a bit unfair that the things we learn about our own sexuality, or what our former lovers were able to discover about us, cannot be transmitted to our current partner. We have medical files—why can't we have sexuality files, to be filled out not by our doctors but by anyone with whom we've ever shared our bed? That way, whenever we find ourselves between the sheets for the first time with a new conquest, that new person can review it and immediately proceed with the things that please us, as opposed to spending days, months, the entirety of a relationship, trying to figure it out.

What would Fred have written on the Elle he used to know? Maybe that he hadn't been able to find a way to make me come with his tongue?
Or maybe that I gave
a mediocre and timid blow job? That I was incapable
of swallowing him as deeply as he would have liked?
That the idea of having his semen in my mouth
disgusted me and I continually refused to do it?

 

Handwritten note by me, 6/12/2009

 

A SIDELONG GLANCE THROUGH THE
thick, windowed partition confirmed that the gang of technicians was enjoying our heated reunion. The boss's girl comes face-to-face with her ex. Now that broke the routine.

“You were hired on
my
show?”

“Yeah. They were looking for a competent and available sound guy. And here I am!”

“Surprise, surprise!” I railed quietly. “Are you fucking with me?”

“Does it look like it?”

 

HE TOLD ME ABOUT HOW,
after he'd left Duchesnois House, Louie had found his number and contacted him. The two men went out for beers one night, after which a slightly tipsy Louie offered him a job at his brother's broadcasting company “to make up for things.”

“He said what?” I shrieked, furious. “ ‘
To make up for things
'?”

“Yeah, that's what he said. It seemed like a fair deal to both of us: his bro steals my girl, he finds me a job.”

The worst part of this story was not that Louie had taken advantage of Fred's distress and desperate need for a job. No, what was even more humiliating than everything else he had put me through so far was how he had relegated me to the debased status of an object to be traded on the job market.

“I'm guessing that David knows nothing of your little arrangement.”

“Oh, no . . . I don't see why. It's between Louie and me.”

The longer our discussion went on, the more the crew laughed at us. Some of them must have worked with Fred before. I noticed two or three scowling at him or making inappropriate gestures.

In the end, what could I say? And what could I tell David without sounding like I still had feelings for my ex-boyfriend or suspicious friction with his brother?