Go: A Surrender (3 page)

“Good,” came
his
voice from the shadows, “You can
go.”

Hurriedly and without so much as a thank-you the man left.
Leaving me on the bed, naked and desperately wet.

But
he
didn’t move.

So I stood and walked to him. I reached down and flipped the
switch for the light on the table beside him. Then stood there, straddling his
leg, my pink, swollen lips and the wet mass of my public hair on display in the
halo of light. He looked at me—I knew he could smell me. I could smell myself.

“Look what you did,” I said.

“Did I?” he asked, amused.

“You have to help me now,” I said, and I meant it. I’d never
in my life been so desperate for a cock plunging into me. It was the only
thought in my head.

“Do I,” he said then, and lifted his eyes from my pussy to
my face. He reached a hand up, cupped my breast gently, brushed across the
nipple ever so lightly with his thumb. I moaned, deeply now, hungrily.

“You don’t seem bored anymore,” he said then, teasingly.

“Please,” I said.

“No,” he said, “not yet. You don’t want me right now,
really—you want anyone. I could send you back down to the lobby and point and I
think you’d fuck whatever male specimen was the shortest distance away.”

He wasn’t quite wrong, but I didn’t want that. I wanted him.
“Please,” I repeated.

“Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, but I want you more.”

“Only because you know me a little. And because you know I
can see the way you are.”

What better reason to want anyone? “Yes,” I murmured

“But suppose I send you down to the lobby.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You’d feel so much better. You need to be fucked.”

“Then fuck me. I know you want to. I’ll come so hard for
you.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “I think you will. But not tonight.” He
scooted his chair back, stood. “I have to go.”

“You don’t want to see me come?”

“I’m giving you the opportunity to come for me with any
willing man in this hotel.”

I was silent. I really didn’t want that. Wasn’t ready—was
too wet, too open, too far gone. I wasn’t even sure I could walk any distance.

“All right, then,” he said, looking at me gently. “You
should stay here—spend the night. You don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, do
you?”

Tomorrow was Saturday. I shook my head. “Do you have to
leave?”

“I’ll leave you instructions,” he said, “and I’ll see you
tomorrow.”

Tears swam to my eyes again. What had just happened? If I
couldn’t be fucked I at least wanted to be held.

“Oh, no,” he said, “Don’t worry. I promise. Rest here.”

And with that he walked to the door. “Sleep well,” he said.
“You were perfect.”

“Wait,” I said, but he didn’t.

And then he was gone, and I still didn’t know his name.

After the door closed I went to it and bolted it and then
returned to the bed. Still naked, I turned down the comforter and then climbed
onto the bed and laid back on the clean white sheets, letting the tears just
roll down my cheeks. A sob or two escaped—but I’ve never been good at crying
for long on my own.

I placed my hand between my legs—truly I was astonishingly
wet—and even as I touched myself I knew that the orgasm I’d soon have was
nothing near the one that would actually take care of this giant hunger.

You could still go down to the lobby
, suggested my
brain, but I couldn’t. Just couldn’t. I got up and quickly searched around the
room for anything I might place in service to fill my soaking, insatiable cunt,
even lingering for awhile over the possibilities of the champagne bottle in the
mini-fridge—but that hard glass scared me, and I thought better of it.

So I returned to the bed and slipped my small fingers over
my hard, swollen clit, and pinched my nipples, and then pushed my fingers as
deep inside myself as I could, grinding my clit against the hollow of my palm,
and in a minute or two I had a quick, hard little orgasm and I felt my insides
clamping themselves around my hand, and then, profoundly, enormously
unsatisfied, I wiped my sticky fingers on the sheets and rolled over and went
to sleep.

I woke to a knocking on the door and, still naked, quickly
went to it and looked out the peephole, hoping it might be
him
. But it
was just a young man from room service, delivering trays.

Suddenly feeling brazen and unashamed, I opened the door
still in the nude and bent to pick my tray up from the floor where he had left
it. He glanced back and for a moment we locked eyes, and then I let the door
slip shut again. If it had been the night before, maybe I would have tried to
entice him in, made him fuck me. It aroused me now to think about it, but not
quite enough. Besides, I needed to eat.

On the tray was a French press coffee and some dainty rolls
and fruit. And an envelope, bearing my name. I tried to think how he could have
known my name but I’d never learned his. It gave me a chill that quickly turned
into a distinctly sick feeling. Was he a stalker? A serial killer? My hands
shook as I drove the plunger down in the coffee pot and then tipped it to pour
myself a cup.

I stirred in cream and sugar and waited for my heartbeat to
slow before I picked up the envelope and slit it open with the knife.

Inside there was a note.

I’m sorry if the name thing startled you
, it began,

I availed myself of your drivers’ license last night
while you were otherwise engaged. I hope it wasn’t too much of a violation. So
we’re even, here’s mine: Jack Simeon. I do have something of a public profile
so I would ask for your discretion as regards our little game.

Speaking of which, if you’re still playing, enclosed
you’ll find my next move. You’ll need your passport, and I imagine you’ll want a
change of clothes, so there’s a driver outside to take you home, or anywhere
else you might need to go today. It’s just for a night. I’m afraid I have
meetings to attend to, so I’ll have to meet you this evening, at the other end.

If you have questions, here’s my cell number. But in the
spirit of the game, I urge you not to call unless there’s anything you
absolutely need to know.

Affectionately,

Jack.

Nobody’s name is Jack, I thought then, or is it? On a second
page was a sheet of paper with a confirmation code and the name of an airline.
Departs 4:35, it said, but it didn’t say where to.

Nothing else that had ever happened to me in my life had
been this exciting, this mysterious and glossy. Think about it, and tell me you’d
resist.

The car took me home where I attempted to pack for anywhere.
Truthfully, I needed to do laundry. But I decided to simply believe we wouldn’t
be gone too long. I selected a new dress to wear, and carefully folded another.
Packed jeans and a sweater just in case, filled a cosmetic case with the
essentials.

Then I settled on the couch to do my homework.

I opened my laptop and typed in Jack’s name. He wasn’t
kidding about the public profile: he had pages and pages of results. Expert
commentaries on oil futures. Op-eds on sugarcane ethanol, or on why
such-and-such a fuel cell wasn’t ready for the consumer market. He’d gone to
three Ivy League schools and received honorary degrees from the rest. I dug
backwards. He attended things. There were shots of him at premieres of this and
galas for that. The recent ones showed an assortment of women on his arm, but
then I traveled farther back in time and there was only one woman, the same
woman: a sleek, serious-looking brunette who always smiled as if she wished the
photo weren’t being taken. Finally I found her name, Rebekah, in the wedding
announcement from nearly 15 years before. They sounded like insufferable
up-and-comers. She ran an art gallery. He was a researcher turned trader turned
consultant for BP. But then she disappeared from the record. Her gallery had
since closed, I discovered, but I couldn’t seem to learn anything more.

However, he was who he was, and in that I found comfort.

I went for a run, showered, changed, and was at the airport
in plenty of time for my flight, which it turned out was not to Paris or
Istanbul but to Edmonton, Alberta—which, I supposed, made infinitely more sense
for a single-evening engagement.

Except, like an idiot, I hadn’t thought to pack a coat. I
considered calling—it was obvious Jack had money to burn, and I was sure he’d
readily let me charge something to him at the duty-free. But that seemed crass.
I’d never been a woman who expected spoiling, and while I didn’t mind learning
he was rich, I hated giving the impression I might try to take his generosity
for granted. Besides, it was unlikely we’d be spending time outside, and it
wasn’t like we were leaving civilization forever. I could hop from hotel to cab
to restaurant sans outerwear, clearly. So I settled in at my gate and kept my
mouth shut.

At the Edmonton airport a driver held a sign with my name on
it—another first, albeit a more mundane one. I noted with apprehension his
heavy wool coat, and braced myself for the air outside—fifty degrees!

But I’d been right. It was endurable. Not thirty seconds
later we were ensconced in the warmth of his car.

The back seat was empty, which disappointed me some. I’d
hoped Jack would meet me at the airport. I realized I was lonely and scared and
truly not a bit prepared to be in a totally unknown city—I wasn’t even sure I
could use my cell phone up here, or if I could, whether it would cost me a
fortune.

Still, it was cozy in the car, and I did my best to simply
relax and appreciate it for what it was. Through the tinted glass I watched
people hurrying through the cold outside, hailing cabs, throwing luggage into
trunks, until after a long pause the driver pulled out into traffic.

We drove into Edmonton’s downtown, a charming stretch of Old World architecture. Glorious facades, twinkle lights in the trees. The driver came to a
gentle stop outside what I was guessing was a restaurant.

“Mr. Simeon’s running late,” he said, “would you like me to
walk you in?”

I told him I thought I’d be fine, then made a second mad
dash from car to door. Inside was warm and bustling and delicious-smelling. I
stepped up to the hostess podium.

“I’m meeting Jack Simeon?” I quietly reprimanded myself for
sounding so timid. “I think he’s running a little late, I don’t—”

“This way,” she said, and indicated I should follow her
deeper into the dining room.

As we walked I noted with trepidation that my fellow diners
looked posh indeed. I looked passable, considering the trip, but I felt my
edges needed buffing, my shoes a polish.

The building was long and somewhat narrow but after weaving
through the length of the room the hostess finally beckoned me into a
semi-private enclave at the back. The pervert in me felt a little thrill at the
possibility Jack had made arrangements to have his way with me half in public.

I settled into the rich upholstery of the bench seat, and in
an instant a waiter had arrived. I hadn’t even opened my mouth to order a
martini before he was opening a bottle of champagne. I laughed a little at
this, Jack’s opulent stubbornness with regards to my drink of choice.

The waiter poured me a glass and then left me alone.
Outside, the diners clinked and laughed and murmured with the noisy, glittery
confidence of the rich. Where
was
I? It felt Disney-princess-level
unreal.

I was pouring my second glass when Jack arrived.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, “Something came up I
needed to address.”

As he sat the waiter hastened over to fill his glass,
glancing briefly, disapprovingly at my glass and deducing that I’d re-filled it
un-aided. I tried to give him a subtly defiant look back. Jack didn’t miss it.
He raised his glass, a bemused smirk spreading across his face.

“That’s what happens when you invite peasants to dine at the
castle,” I joked, as we clinked glasses.

“Come now,” he scolded, “you’re hardly that.”

“I reserve the right to use the wrong fork,” I countered.

“I think what you mean is you reserve the
privilege
.”

 I laughed; I liked his wit. It was nice to see some people
got rich using their brains, even if it made me feel like a lazy schlub by
contrast.

“Have you looked at the menu?” he asked.

“Wait,” I said, “Can we back up just a beat? I just, um—you
know, can we do the niceties? Our names, where we’re from…”

“But you know my name,” he said.

“I know, I just—I need to get used to it, or something.”

“Well, you’re welcome to use it as much as you like. Try
it.”

I clammed up, feeling foolish. So he smilingly demonstrated:
“Jack.”