The House of Elyot

Sophie Pulls It Off

Posted on: April 28, 2016

For your reading pleasure, here is an extended excerpt from On Demand.

Welcome to the Hotel.


All baggage is to be left at the door.


Please sign in, under whichever name you have chosen, at Reception.


You are now free to explore.  Enjoy your stay!




I have always been drawn to hotels.


Call me commitment-phobic, but I love their eternal temporariness, their anonymity, their fluidity and flux.  They seduce you without expecting your heart and soul; your home expects time and attention, but your hotel only wants your money, and only for as long as you care to give it.  You can walk up the steps as plain Jane Smith and enter the lobby as Lady Furcoat-Noknickers; the hotel does not care what you do, or with whom.


A luxuriously-appointed building full of people escaping reality can brew a heady atmosphere – I should know; I’ve worked here for four years now.   Few of the comings and goings here pass me by.  Especially the comings.




It all started so innocently.


A delayed train, an hour to kill.  I was halfway to the queue for styrofoam flavour sludge before I stopped myself and the idea sparked.  I could spend my dead minutes on a spit-drenched platform staring at time ticking by on the ‘Next Arrival’ screen.  Or I could spend them in the hotel across the road, drinking half decent coffee and reading a complimentary magazine.


It was almost one o’clock, so I wouldn’t stand out too much amidst the lunchtime rush – if I could find a comfortable chair in a quiet corner, I could pretend to be a bona fide businesswoman meeting a client or something.  It would be fun; a tiny masquerade to enliven a dull wait.


This particular hotel was of the swankier variety; a row of international flags flapped above the plate glass and uniformed doormen stood on sentry duty either side of the revolving entrance.  I wondered if they had to remain impassive and still, like beefeaters, but one of them unbent and smiled at me when I trotted past, intent on getting through the revolving door without a pratfall of some kind.


Sophie Martin, bored office drone and unsuccessful photographer, pushed her hand against the glass.


Sophie Martin, supercharged business bitch, stepped out on the other side.


Not that there was any telephone-box-whirlwind style action going on in the revolving doors – all it took to turn from drab to diva was exposure to the seductive particles of the hotel lobby air, all weighted with possibility and chance and choice and an undertone of wickedness.


My heels click-click-clicked on the marble lobby floor, passing the curved Reception desk, catching a haughty lip-curl from its pointy nosed custodian.  She wouldn’t be looking askance at me once she knew exactly who I was, I told myself grandly.  I would have her lilac-rinsed head on a platter.


I strutted into the bar, carpeted now so that my heels were muffled, found a corner with an armchair and a copy of some style glossy and sashayed straight over.


Within seconds, a waistcoated waiter was taking my order, hovering and fawning in a manner I could imagine myself getting quite used to.  The prices were steep, but when you considered that a morale-boost came with your cappuccino, perhaps they were worth paying.


He was a few years younger than me, maybe twenty or so; the rude whiff of barely post-adolescent testosterone clung to his white shirtsleeves and poorly-shaved chin.  I wondered what he would do if I flirted with him.


“Do I get anything extra with my cappuccino?” I asked him, dropping the level of my voice a notch or two and hoping it would make me sound like Lauren Bacall.  I raised one eyebrow, a forefinger tapping my lower lip to pull it down to a pout.


He coughed slightly.  “A biscotti, Madam,” he said, the tips of his ears reddening.  “And chocolate or cinnamon sprinkles.”


“Oh, cinnamon, I think,” I drawled, striving to keep my voice on the sexy side of forty-fags-a-day.  “I always prefer spicy to sweet, don’t you?”


I almost laughed at my own cartoon vampishness, but it seemed to be doing the trick for him.  He flushed beautifully and scurried away, leaving me to terrorise him with my eyes over the rim of my magazine until the coffee was ready.


The room was filling up with conference attendees on a lunch break; lots of men in suits talking loudly into mobile phones and gesturing over to whoever was getting the round in at the bar.  Mmm, I thought, stretching a leg beneath my table and rotating my ankle slowly.  I do like a good suit.  Some of these were very well-cut indeed; I wondered what the conference was about.  Were they bankers?  IT consultants?  Estate agents even?


My question was met with a question.


“What did you think of that session?  Not enough statistical evidence I thought; bit too much reliance on the anecdotal.”


A man slid into the armchair opposite mine, placing a plastic wallet of papers on the table between us.  Through the green shade of the cover, I could just about make out the words ‘Probate Law’.  Ooh, a lawyer, I thought; I’ve never met one of those before.  Though if this one is anything to judge by, I should get myself arrested more often.


Everything about him was top-of-the-range, from the haircut down to the polished Italian leather that peeked from the crossed trouser-leg.  The voice was warm and smooth; an asset if he was a barrister.  Even as I looked up and smiled back, I tried to picture him in one of those horsehair wigs and a black cloak; it proved to be a surprisingly sexy image.


‘Oh, I’m not here for the conference,’ I said, flicking the page of my magazine.


‘Really?  Meeting someone?  Am I intruding?’


‘No, no.’  I waved him back down to his sitting position.  ‘Just taking a breather,’ I told him.


‘Right.  I thought I hadn’t seen you in the meeting room.  My attention was wandering a bit from the flipchart, and I’m sure it would have rested on you.’


Wow!  He was flirting with me.  A man who knows how to wash and earns a wage flirting with me!  Unheard of in the annals of my experience.  I had to wonder what all that pure new wool would smell like.  Not to mention that subtly-tanned skin, from which a hint of expensive aftershave was drifting over, activating my saliva glands.


He had beautiful hands as well; I could picture them gesturing in court.   I could also picture them on my hip, my belly, my thigh.  All in all, the effect he had on me was instant and acute.  I found myself leaning forward, crossing my legs so that my skirt rode a little higher, just to the point where the elasticated part of my hold-up stocking might be a teensy bit visible.


‘What’s the conference?’  I asked.  ‘Charm school headmasters?’


He laughed, throwing his head back, oh, adam’s apple, oh, deep, rich laugh, oh.  I took advantage of his moment’s lapse in eye contact to slip open my top button and put aside my magazine.  I wanted him in the most sudden and violent way.  I wanted to touch the fine cotton of his shirt, open it wide and see if what lay within was as luxurious as its cladding.


‘No,’ he said eventually, his bright blue eyes damp with mirth and…something else.  ‘Solicitors.  I specialise in soliciting.’


Now it was my turn to laugh.  ‘Clearly,’ I purred.


Some form of conversation followed, of the kind you might hear between Mae West and Sid James, predicated entirely on smutty innuendo.  I don’t remember what we said, but I do remember the feeling of being involved in a dirty-minded game of verbal tennis: serve, volley, lob, smash, grunt, new balls please.  Just like our more athletic fellows, we were getting sweatier and hotter with each point scored.


Much as we pretended to wit and sophistication, the real gist of what was said was:


Him:  Get your kit off.

Me:  Work for it.

Him:  Look at me like that and I’ll have you up against the wall before you can say ‘No win no fee’.

Me:  Sounds good; prove it.


Before the cinnamon sprinkles of my cappuccino had melted into the froth, he had a proposition for me.


‘Listen,’ he said, eyes now piercing blue laserbeams of seduction, body wide open in a pose at once relaxed and predatory.  ‘How long do you have?  Do you have to rush back to work?’


I bit my lip and smiled inscrutably.


‘Come on, help me out,’ he said.  ‘Do I have to issue a summons?’


This made me laugh again.  I can’t resist a man with a sense of humour.  I also can’t resist a man who looks as if he could be in the running for the next James Bond.


‘What do you have in mind?’ I asked.  If he was James Bond, I was pretty close to Pussy Galore at this stage.  ‘Does it involve handcuffs?’


‘Would you like it to?’


My mouth watered.


‘You’ve got me on a technicality,’ I told him, standing and taking his proffered pinstriped arm.  The warmth and scent of him tripped my switches; I wanted that, just that, just for now.


‘What’s your room number?’ he murmured, sweeping me past the potted plants into the lobby.




‘Can’t we go to yours?’


He stopped smartly, frowning down at me.  ‘I’m afraid not; the conference finishes today.’  He shook his head.  ‘You aren’t staying here?’


I chewed the inside of my cheek, blushing.  ‘Well, no.  Just came in for a coffee.’


‘Just a coffee?  You aren’t another kind of solicitor, are you?’


I breathed in sharply.  ‘Fuck, no!’


He breathed out for me.  ‘I’m sorry.  I didn’t think you… OK.  “Fuck, no”, you say, but I’m still thinking, “Fuck?  Yes!”  If you’re with me.  Still with me?’


I giggled, a little bit hysterically.  It wasn’t the first time I’d been taken for a member of the oldest profession, but certainly the least opportune.


‘We don’t have a room,’ I pointed out.


He manouevred me behind one of the substantial palms, pulling me against him and patting a hand on the seat of my skirt.  ‘I do have a car,’ he growled.


The feel of him, hard chest, taut shoulder, large crotch-bulge, was enough to chase away my doubts.   I wanted that, on me, above me, in me.


‘Reclining seats?’ I asked.


‘Of course.’






In the underground car park, he bent me backwards over the bonnet and mashed his lips into mine.  That well-cut cloth was covering my feeble manmade fibres, rubbing them up and down, sparking them into static cling.  My nylon stockings nudged at his trousers, slinking up beneath his jacket and around his hips, wrapping around his back and clamping that central hardness right into the open maw of my skirt.


I ground my mound around it, enjoying the sensation of the fabrics pressing into me, while his tongue plunged downward and his hand excavated the hidden depths behind my blouse.  His fingers plucked and sneaked under the lacy cups; there was pressing and kneading and hot breath and jammed pelvises and mock-thrusting, and all beneath the spotlit concrete ceiling of the public car park.


‘Do you want it then?’ he asked, holding my wrists pinned to the cool shiny paintwork.


‘Maybe in the car?’ I whispered, moving my head sideways to check for CCTV cameras and irate attendants.


‘My command is your wish,’ he said, pulling me up as if preparing for an energetic jitterbug and spinning me around to the side of the vehicle.  He ducked inside the door, pressed the button to recline the passenger seat and bundled me on to it.  I was a little confused when he shut the door, leaving me supine on the chilled leather, but he soon reappeared on the driver’s side, kneeling on the chair and looking ravenously down at me.


‘Get your knickers off then,’ he prompted.


Thrilled at his excellent grasp of the command tone, I wriggled them down my thighs, past my knees, bringing my still-shod feet up in the air to release them from the legholes.


My escort put a steadying hand on one of the legs, indicating that he wanted them kept up in that position, moving his other arm down for a good feel of my newly-exposed parts.


‘Now that’s wet,’ he said, impressed.  ‘A good fuck is what you need.’


I couldn’t argue with him.  The speed, the suddenness, the rudeness, the wrongness of it all was the turn-on of my life.  It was dirty and slutty, but I like dirty and slutty, and so, it seems, did he.


In his haste to mount me, he lost a button from the placket of his trousers, swearing as it pinged into the distance, then he slipped swiftly and efficiently between my knees, levering me up by the bum in order to skewer my dripping centre in one move.


We groaned in chorus as it stole inside so easily, so satisfyingly, filling the hole in perfect proportion.


‘Do you do this often?’ he wondered, beginning to thrust.


‘Mmm?’ I replied absently, lifting my hips towards his, grabbing his bottom to push him greedily as far in as I could.


‘Pick up strange men in hotels for dirty sex?  I bet you do it all the time.’


It was on the tip of my tongue to protest, to say no, that I’m not that kind of girl, but before I did, my imagination stepped in front of my indignation and I realised that I liked this idea.  I imagined him as one of a string of anonymous men, using my body, day after day, week after week, in the hotel bedrooms, the toilets, the carpark.  I’m not a whore, but I felt like one, letting this man whose name I didn’t even know slam his cock up me within quarter of an hour of meeting.


‘Yes,’ I said.  ‘I do.’


‘Thought so.’


The windows had steamed up now and I had to spare a thought for the expensive upholstery, which was getting the pounding of all time.  I pushed my hands down, clutching at his belt, the buckle end of which slapped lightly against my bottom with each forward motion.  These were becoming more frantic now, the jingling urgent, his loosened tie flapping over my face until I sank my teeth into it, irritated by the tickling effect.  I could feel the quake, shuddering seconds away, and I accidentally kicked the dashboard quite hard, so that he stopped for a second and turned around to assess any damage.  Luckily there was none.


All the same, ‘I’ll make you pay for that,’ he vowed, ratcheting up the force of his thrusts, body-slamming me into a new realm of fierce sensation.  The more I pretended to be a hooker, concentrating on servicing my client and avoiding orgasm, the more orgasmic I felt, until the wave crashed and I yelled until I was hoarse.


For a while, it was as if our bodies had melted together; the sweet glue of our exertions filled the air and stuck us to each other.  The car seat was slippery now and my thin summer blouse drenched.  He unpeeled himself shortly before I had to pass out, crouching between my sore thighs, chafed to bits by that pure new wool I had so admired in his trousers.  Thank God they hadn’t been made of cheap stuff; I would have been skinned alive.


‘Nothing like a mid-conference knee trembler,’ he opined, taking a wallet from the glove compartment and stuffing a wad of twenty pound notes into my cleavage.  ‘Get yourself something pretty.  Off you trot then.’


Eyes on stalks, I removed the money – a hundred pounds – and tried to give it back, but he simply unlocked the car door and opened it, gesturing me away impatiently.


I straightened myself up in the car park, snapping the elastic tops of my hold-ups back in place, pulling my skirt down and re-buttoning my blouse.  I would have to sort out my face and hair in the toilets.


Before leaving, I threw the money back inside the car.  Much as I could have used a hundred quid, it seemed important that I did not accept it.  To do so would have been to concede control of the encounter to him, and I did not want that.  If I behave like a trollop, it’s because I want to; the pretence is an essential part of the excitement.


Of course, I missed the train.


What happens next? Get the book and find out!

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