THE ELDERLY MAN KNOCKED THREE times on the thick oak door. Without waiting for a response, he slipped inside the quiet room. He was expected; and even if he had not been, he still would have come inside. He was one of the few people free to come and go as he pleased.
His shoes made no noise as he walked up to the edge of the elegant desk. When he got there, he stood straight ahead, stiff and somber, looking crisp in his flawless three-piece suit.
“She has arrived,” he said, his face devoid of any emotion. “The valet has already taken possession of her car. She is being shown to her room as we speak.”
“Very good,” Mr. Bentmoore replied. “Did you get a look at her? How did she seem to you?”
“Nervous. But they’re always nervous when they first arrive. She’s observant—she’s taking note of everything.”
“Interesting. What is she wearing?”
“A simple black dress, but I believe it’s designer. Her shoes look expensive, too.” He paused. “She has brought only one suitcase.”
“Now that is very interesting.” Mr. Bentmoore leaned back in his chair. “I wonder why that is.”
Mr. Bentmoore knew, just as Mr. Trowlege did, that the way a woman made her first entrance into the Hotel Bentmoore often said a lot about her. Even the smallest detail could reveal much: what she thought of herself, what she thought of those around her, and what kind of demons she was there to fight.
The new woman was taking notice of everything.
They were taking notice of her, too.
It was far from typical for a woman to bring so few things with her, especially when she knew she was going to be staying for a while. For extended visits, women often brought two suitcases, sometimes more.
This particular woman had been told to plan on staying at the hotel for at least a month. They should have needed a cart to bring down all her things.
She was proving to be an enigma…but then, she had been an interesting case from the start. It was why Mr. Bentmoore had agreed to take her on in the first place.
“Shall we confiscate the suitcase?” Mr. Trowlege asked in his bland tone.
Mr. Bentmoore gave it some thought. “No,” he replied. “Let her hold onto it.”
“And the tour?”
“Skip the tour for now. Give her half an hour to settle herself in, then send her to me. And have Lamont ready for her. If she’s as eager as she claims to be, there’s no reason for her to wait.”
Mr. Bentmoore smiled wickedly. The woman was safely trapped inside his hotel now. She had no idea what she had just gotten herself into, of that Mr. Bentmoore was sure.
Ella looked around the sparse room, frowning at what she saw. The décor was nice enough, done up in the neutral shades of a standard hotel room. The walls were painted a flat beige, but adorned with elegant white crown molding. Thick beige carpet padded the floor in every square inch. Ample recessed lighting illuminated the room in soft, hazy, yellow light.
There was a small chest of drawers sitting against one wall, with an old-style corded telephone sitting on top. Her bed sat against the opposite wall. A simple upholstered chair, padded in the same neutral beige as the walls, took up a small corner. But Ella quickly noticed that there was no television, no paintings hanging on the walls, not even a clock….
And no window.
Which made sense, Ella thought. Her room was well below ground. They had shown her into the hotel through the lobby, located on the ground floor, but the strange little butler who had escorted her onto the elevator had brought them down to her room. So the floor she was now on was subterranean.
Could this be a room on the infamous dungeon floor of the Hotel Bentmoore? She thought to herself. If so, it is nothing like what I thought it would be.
There were no lengths of rope or chain in the drawers, no sex toys, no hidden kinky objects waiting for her pleasure. Ella had checked. (Of course, there had been no bible in the drawers, either. Ella had laughed at the thought of finding one.) The room failed to give off any hint of bawdiness or sex. Even the full-sized bed didn’t look particularly welcoming. The sheets and blankets had been folded down for her, but their color matched the walls almost exactly, dull and bland.
In fact, if she had to use one word to describe the room, it would have been boring. The whole place looked rather bleak in the artificial light. While she knew it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, down here, it may as well have been three o’clock in the morning. Looking at the bed reminded her how tired she was.
But she couldn’t rest, not yet. She had to stay alert. She was there with a purpose in mind: she had a job to do.
Ella put her small suitcase on the bed, unzipped it, and carefully removed the laptop packed safely inside. Then she began to pull out all the cords and plugs she would need to get the computer to work.
First day at the Hotel Bentmoore. Time to get to work.
They had made her wait in a narrow empty corridor on a hard wooden chair for over two hours. There had been no secretary sitting at a desk nearby, no visible sign of any other people; just the muted sounds coming from the lobby, on the other side of the corridor.
Every so often, a woman would walk down the dim corridor and ask Ella if she was okay. The woman was tall, lanky, and gorgeous; just the kind of woman Ella expected to find working at the Hotel Bentmoore. She wondered perversely if the woman was one of the famed mistresses of the hotel, there to have freaky sex with countless men.
In response to the question, Ella would always say yes, she was fine, thank you for asking…but her answers were beginning to sound more and more sarcastic.
Ella dared not inquire how much longer her wait would be. The woman would surely remind her she was there of her own volition, and free to leave at any time. Ella was the one pressing for this meeting, not the other way around.
After two and a half hours, the woman came her way again, but this time she had a smile on her face.
“Mr. Bentmoore will see you now,” she said. “You may knock and go in.”
Ella’s expression grew nervous as she rose from her chair and stretched a bit on her feet. Then she stepped toward the door. She had to pee, but she would hold it. She was not going to lose this opportunity.
She knocked twice on the door, and heard a male voice say something from the other side. Ella opened the door, took a breath, and walked through.
A middle-aged man, one who looked old enough to be Ella’s father, sat behind a large, majestic, and beautifully carved desk. His hair was laced heavily with grey, and laugh lines bordered his eyes and mouth.
“Close the door and have a seat,” he said.
Ella obeyed without a word, taking a seat directly across the desk. At least this chair was plush and wide, with padded armrests; much more comfortable than the seat she had been occupying for the last two and a half hours.
Ella was surprised to see there was another man in the room, standing to the right of the man behind the desk. He looked very old—not just by his face, although that was pronounced enough—but by his bearing. What little hair he had left on his head was shiny silver, but trimmed impeccably. His arms hung down at his sides, and he stood stock-still inside his classic three-piece suit of dark grey. The man was old, but not withered. He was aged like fine wine.
He was not smiling, but not frowning, either; Ella realized she could not detect any emotion on the man’s face at all, except, perhaps, a touch of curiosity. But his eyes…his eyes revealed his insight, years of knowledge and experience, wisdom gleaned from things he had learned in his many travels. Ella wondered what paths he had walked in life to look upon her with eyes like that.
The man sitting behind the desk cleared his throat. “Now, Miss….”
“Peterson. Ella Peterson.”
“Yes, Miss Peterson. I understand from your letter, you would like to work at the Hotel Bentmoore.”
“Yes Sir,” Ella said. She has no idea why she was calling him “Sir,” but as soon as she said it, she knew it was the right thing to do. The man looked surprised, but pleased by her answer. “I would very much like to work at your hotel.”
Mr. Bentmoore scanned her face, taking in her appearance. Ella knew he would approve of what he saw: with her light blonde hair, startling blue eyes, her pert nose, fat pink lips, and rounded breasts, Ella had been told many times she was a strikingly attractive woman. She worked out to keep her body sleek and toned, and had learned over the years how to hold herself with dignified grace no matter the company she was in.
But Mr. Bentmoore served her with cool, detached appraisal. “Can you tell me why you want to work here, Miss Peterson? And what makes you think you’d be a good fit for us? You’ve never even been to our hotel before—I believe this is the first time you’ve ever set foot inside.”
“Yes, Sir, that’s true,” Ella admitted. “But your hotel’s reputation precedes you. I believe I’m the kind of girl you’re looking for, the kind this place needs.”
His eyebrows went up. “Oh, really? And what kind of girl is that, Miss Peterson? Who, exactly, do you think we’re looking for?”
Ella had prepared for this question. “Someone fun, someone creative, someone who can show a man a good time in bed, and someone who can keep her mouth shut.”
“I see,” Mr. Bentmoore murmured. “And you think you are this kind of woman? The kind who can show a man a good time in bed?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” Ella was proud of the way she managed to say it with a straight face. She had been practicing in front of a mirror.
But Ella saw that the man standing by the window was frowning now, and divulging a new emotion: doubt. Ella decided to take the offensive.
She looked directly at the strange little man and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
He gave her a look of surprise. “My name is Mr. Trowlege, miss.”
“Mr. Trowlege,” Ella said, “it is nice to meet you.”
“It is nice to meet you too, miss.”
Ella smiled, feeling like she had managed to throw off the seasoned steward and regain the upper hand.
Mr. Bentmoore turned around to pass a look to his associate, Mr. Trowlege. Then he peered at Ella from across his desk.
“Tell me, Miss Peterson, do you always introduce yourself in such an aggressive way to every person you see?”
“Uh, no Sir,” Ella said, caught off guard. “I wasn’t trying to be aggressive. I just thought introducing myself would be the right thing to do.”
“Why? To be polite? Or to try to give us the impression you have some power here, despite the fact that you are the one sitting on that side of the desk, and we are the ones on this side?”
“Sir, I didn’t think of it like that…I don’t know what you’re talking about…I’m sorry….” Ella could feel her face getting red as she stammered. The situation had changed so drastically…had she just blown the entire interview?
“There is no need to apologize,” Mr. Bentmoore said, surprising her once again. “Asserting yourself is often a good thing, and sometimes, even necessary. It is good to have confidence in yourself, so long as that confidence doesn’t spill into arrogance. Don’t you agree?”
“No Sir. I mean yes Sir. I mean…thank you, Sir.” Ella snapped her mouth shut.
“Tell me, Miss Peterson, have you ever been spanked?”
Ella gaped at him in surprise by the sudden question. Then she closed her mouth, recovering quickly.
“I have,” she said.
“With what?”
“With my boyfriend’s hand.”
“What else?”
“What else?” Ella repeated, caught off guard. “What else would he have used?”
“Mmm.” Mr. Bentmoore leaned back into his chair, and Ella realized she had blundered again somehow.
“It felt really good,” she added quickly, “I enjoyed it a lot.” That part was true enough. The spankings had been amazing, just like the sex. But when he had started getting into tying her up with rope, Ella had made excuses to put an end to that relationship, not because she didn’t like the rope, but because she liked it too much. It scared her, the way she felt being that vulnerable to another human being.
Of course, that had been a long time ago. When she had finally felt ready to open herself up to another man, it had ended with disaster. Ella’s experiences in romance had taught her a harsh lesson: never reveal yourself completely to anyone.
Mr. Bentmoore sighed. “Let me show you something, Miss Peterson,” he said.
He pulled open his desk drawer. Very carefully, with both hands, he brought out something to the top of his desk, and lay it down slowly.
“Do you know what this is, Miss Peterson?”
“It’s a flogger,” Ella whispered, looking down at it. She had seen pictures of floggers on the Internet, but had never seen one close up. Now, looking down at the beautifully braided and polished leather flogger in front of her, she couldn’t tear her eyes away. It looked like a piece of fine art, not like a weapon of sexual hedonism.
Without her realizing it, Mr. Bentmoore was studying her expression. “Would you like to know what it feels like?”
“What?” Ella’s eyes snapped up. Both Mr. Bentmoore and Mr. Trowlege were looking at her intently. “What do you mean?”
“I could show you what it feels like to be flogged. All you have to do is come around here and bend over my desk. You don’t even have to raise your skirt, I can flog you over it. Just to give you a taste of it, you understand.”
Ella gazed at the flogger. Mr. Bentmoore’s offer hung in the air. She wondered if this was some kind of test, a sort of entrance exam: if she agreed to be flogged, her score would go up. If she refused, she might very well fail.
Ella rose from her chair. “I would like that, thank you,” she said.
“Very good,” Mr. Bentmoore replied, rising as well. “Just come around the other side here…and lean down.”
Ella walked around the desk and put both her palms flat down, keeping her head up and her eyes straight ahead. She did not want to look at either of these men in the face. She had known, when she had thought up this crazy plan of hers, that she would have to endure some amount of sadomasochism. The Hotel Bentmoore had a reputation for being the sort of place where people could go to indulge in that kind of thing. But she had not thought for one moment she would have to face it at the interview!
She could take it; she could handle some pain. How much, exactly, she wasn’t sure. But if things got out of control, if it became too difficult, she could always quit. Until then, she would pretend to enjoy it.
She would pretend to enjoy everything they did to her, everything they put her through, and meanwhile, she would document it all. It couldn’t be that hard to fake sexual pleasure, could it? Women faked it all the time.
And really, when it came right down to it, did it matter if she enjoyed it or not? Would they care? Ella thought not. All these men cared about was getting their rocks off.
She leaned over and thrust her ass back, adopting what she hoped looked like a wanton pose, and spread her legs as wide as her dress would allow.
Mr. Bentmoore took his place by her side, holding the heavy flogger in his hand. “I’ll start out slow, and increase the strength as I go,” he said, his voice light. “We can stop at any time, whenever you wish. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” Ella said, understanding full well. By agreeing to this humiliating spectacle, she had passed the first test. Now it would be a test of endurance.
“Let’s begin then. Relax your back, Miss Peterson.”
Ella took a deep breath and relaxed. A second later, she felt the strands of the flogger brush across her lower back.
“How was that?”
“Fine,” Ella said, confused by the question. She had barely felt it; the hit she had been bracing for had felt more like a caress.
“Good. Then I’ll keep going. Remember, you can stop me at any time.”
Mr. Bentmoore did not wait for her to answer, but began to flog her once more, with gentle, easy strokes.
Ella was surprised by the sensations the flogger wrought. It prickled some, but not much; and after every hit, a warmth would spread across her skin where the flogger had hit, radiating from her back all the way down to her toes. Mr. Bentmoore was focusing primarily on her lower back, but now and then, he would swat her bottom, too.
Ella began to relax her whole body, feeling languid and pampered. This didn’t feel like a beating; this felt like a massage. She was supposed to be afraid of this? She could handle this no problem.
“It’s going to get harder now, Miss Peterson,” Mr. Bentmoore warned her.
Ella answered by dipping her head further down, locking her elbows in, and closing her eyes.
True to his word, the hits began to come harder and faster, with more force, and more bite. The strands of leather began to feel like tiny needles stinging her skin, but only briefly, only long enough to make her cringe and gasp. Once impact had been made, lines of tingling warmth would flow.
Slowly, the swats built up in intensity, and migrated down until Mr. Bentmoore was putting all his focus on Ella’s bottom. Her muscles trembled, and her shoulders shuddered with each hit. The pain had built up so gradually, now that it was blooming inside her head and clouding all her thoughts, Ella could not think clearly…and she had not noticed the effect it was having on her.
Mr. Bentmoore hit her with a particularly vicious swat, right under her left buttock, and Ella’s whole body stiffened. She lifted her head up and let out a short, mournful cry.
She began to twist her head to the side, undulating her hips, waving her waist like a belly dancer. But as she began to let herself go, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Mr. Trowlege.
He was staring at her in rapt attention. He was finding this entertaining, she realized. No: he was finding her entertaining. Ella quickly saw herself through his eyes, what she must look like, and her whole body froze up.
“Stop!” she yelled. She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Bentmoore before he could swing the flogger again. “Please stop.”
Immediately, Mr. Bentmoore lowered the flogger to his side. “Did it start to hurt too much?” He whispered.
“No,” she shook her head. “No, it didn’t hurt too much.”
“Then what was it? Why did you ask me to stop?”
“I just…I just wanted you to.” She looked directly into his eyes, daring him to argue with her.
He did not. “Interesting,” came his bland reply. “How do you feel?”
“Fine.” Ella straightened up to her full height and smoothed down her dress, trying to sound blasé. “I feel fine.”
She felt far from fine, but she would bite her teeth through her lip before admitting it to this man. Dear God, she had been enjoying the flogging! She had barely caught herself in time before getting lost completely in the pleasure of it. What kind of allure did this man have?
She could think about that later. Right now, she had to get her head back in the game.
“Are you sure you’re fine?” Mr. Bentmoore asked her, clearly concerned. “Can we get you a cup of water?”
“No, thank you. I’ll just have a seat,” she replied, grabbing onto the chair.
The deed was easier said than done. Even through her skirt, her bottom ached and burned.
“Well, Miss Peterson, let’s get back down to business then,” Mr. Bentmoore said, reclaiming his own seat and acting as if they had not just been in the throes of a lewd scene, completely improper for any job interview, and filled with a power Ella could not understand. “You say you are the kind of girl we are looking for, but I think you are mistaken. We usually hire women who are experienced, who are known in our general community, or at least, come with references.”
“I have references. If you had looked at my résumé, you would have noticed I have lots of references. My college professors, work colleagues—”
“Those are not the kinds of references I’m referring to,” Mr. Bentmoore cut in, stifling a smile. “I’m talking about references in the kink community. Someone who has an established reputation.”
“Oh,” Ella said, deflated and thinking to herself: there really was something called a kink community? It wasn’t all made up? “What I lack in experience, I make up for in determination. You’ll see, Mr. Bentmoore. I can be whoever you need me to be. I’m very good at adapting to new situations, I think I’ve proven that.”
“Yes, you have,” he had to agree. “You might be able to handle the things we throw at you.” He smiled at his own pun. “But I’m not sure—”
“It’s because I introduced myself to Mr. Trowlege before, isn’t it?” Ella pursed her lips. “I tried to assert myself. You didn’t like that. You don’t like it when women speak when they’re not supposed to, do you, Mr. Bentmoore?”
“Now hold on there, young lady,” Mr. Bentmoore said, raising his brows and frowning. “As I told you before, what you did was completely acceptable. There is nothing wrong with having some self-confidence.”
“But not showing it off, not without permission. Right?”
“That would definitely be true in certain circumstances,” he said, holding back another lecherous grin. “But not this one. This is just an interview.”
“Ha! You bent me over your desk and beat me with that, that….”
“Flogger?”
“Flogger, and you call this just an interview?”
Now Mr. Bentmoore looked angry. “I did not bend you over my desk, as you so elegantly put it, Miss Peterson. You did that all on your own. You were free to refuse.”
“Ah. I see. As if it wouldn’t have mattered if I had refused. As if you wouldn’t have ended the interview right then. You men never take responsibility for your own actions, do you? No matter what happens, it’s always the woman’s fault for getting herself into these things.”
“Miss Peterson, I suggest you watch your tone.” Mr. Bentmoore’s eyes took on a hard gleam, and his lips pressed together. Ella knew she had crossed the line.
She had ruined everything.
“You’re right, Mr. Bentmoore, I’m not the right girl for this place,” she said rising from her chair, trying to stop the moisture pooling in her eyes. “I’m clearly too confident for my own good. You need a girl who knows when to shut up and do as she’s told, someone who has a reputation for that sort of thing. I’m sorry I came here with the wrong impression.”
“Miss Peterson—”
“Thank you for the lesson with the flogger, Sir. It’s not one I’ll soon forget. I’ll show myself out.”
“Miss Peterson, stop right there!” Mr. Bentmoore’s booming voice halted Ella in her tracks. Slowly, she turned around. Mr. Bentmoore looked at her sharply. “Do you have any understanding of what you came here asking for, young lady? Do you realize what kind of place this is? The services we provide?”
“You provide sex, pleasure…indulgence in its most basic, physical form.”
“Not only, Miss Peterson. Not only.” He shook his head. “You should have done a better job doing your homework about us before you got here. Or maybe…maybe you did just enough.”
At that point, Ella felt like crying. She was done trying to figure out the man’s riddles. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Bentmoore. Have a good afternoon.”
This time, when she made her way to the door, Mr. Bentmoore didn’t try to stop her, and Ella closed the door softly behind her.
Mr. Bentmoore and Mr. Trowlege both stared at the door.
“Did you notice?” Mr. Bentmoore asked his long-time friend.
“Yes,” Mr. Trowlege replied. There was a long pause. “Will you help her?”
“I believe I will,” came Mr. Bentmoore’s answer. “But I’ll let her keep up the ruse as long she chooses.” He smiled wickedly. “It will make things more interesting.”
By the time Ella got home, she felt spent, dejected, and crestfallen. She had put all her hopes on this one prospect, this one opportunity. Now what was she going to do?
As she put her purse down, her phone began to vibrate inside. Ella pulled out the phone and glanced at the screen: she saw she had missed three calls.
“Hello?”
“Miss Peterson, you are not an easy person to reach,” Mr. Bentmoore’s voice came through. He was more than a little annoyed.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Ella said, scowling as the words came out of her mouth. Why was she still calling the man Sir? “I didn’t hear my phone ring. It was on vibrate.”
“Do you understand, if we agree to hire you, what this job will include?” He asked without preamble. “You will have to be trained. You will be paid for your time, of course, but the training period will be rigorous, strict, and very demanding, both mentally and physically. Frankly, not many women are able to get through it.”
“I will,” Ella stated. “I know I can.”
“We shall see, Miss Peterson. If you are serious about taking on this job, you will have to pack up your things and have someone else watch your house for a while. We have facilities here for our trainees; until we’re done with you, you will not be allowed to leave the hotel at any time, not without permission.”
“I understand,” Ella breathed.
“Do you,” Mr. Bentmoore said, giving Ella the impression he was shaking his head. “One more thing. You will have to go through a detailed medical checkup. We don’t allow any STDs here, Miss Peterson. You don’t have any, do you?”
“No, Sir.”
“When was the last time you got tested?”
She swallowed. “About six months ago, Sir. But I haven’t had any sex since then.”
His voice grew softer. “I understand.” Ire built in Ella’s chest at his patronizing tone, but she said nothing. “You’ll be tested again; many doctors don’t bother doing a full panel. What about birth control?”
“I’m on the pill.”
“Good. I’m going to give you the number of one of our doctors. Make an appointment. As soon as he clears you, we’ll let you know when you should come back to start your training…assuming you still want the job.”
“Oh yes, Sir,” Ella said. “Yes, I do.”
“Very well then. Oh, and one more thing, Miss Peterson: from this moment on, you’re not allowed to have sex with anyone, and I do mean anyone. Understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then I’m sure we’ll see you again soon. And welcome to the Hotel Bentmoore, Miss Peterson.”
He hung up, and the line went dead. Ella stared at her phone for a moment, a little bit shocked by what had just happened. Then she whooped with joy.
That had been two weeks ago. Ella had survived through the invasive medical checkup, answering all the doctor’s questions, enduring the gynecological exam, and giving enough blood to feed a hungry vampire. Then she received the call.
“Pack your things, Miss Peterson,” the female voice on the other end said. “It’s time to start your training at the Hotel Bentmoore. You do have someone ready to watch your house, feed the pets?”
Ella smiled. “I have someone to watch my place,” she said, “and I don’t have any pets.”
“Good then. We’ll be expecting you soon.”
The car ride to the hotel had been long and hot. The air conditioning in Ella’s car had given out weeks before, but she had no money to fix it. By the time she got to the hotel, Ella was sweaty, tired, and needed a nice hot shower…but she was excited, too.
Ella was an investigative reporter, a newly self-employed freelance journalist, one who had yet to make a name for herself in the industry. She had been trying to find jobs here and there, struggling to make ends meet, but all that was about to come to an end.
She was going to blow the top off this despicable place. She was going to tell the world everything that went on inside the secretive, perverse, and sordid Hotel Bentmoore.
After that, her troubles would be over.
But first, she had to plug in her computer.
Ella looked around the walls of the room, and realized for the first time that there were no outlets.
Panicking, she ran around the room, checking all the walls. There were no outlets to be found, not even in the bathroom. Once her computer ran out of power, it would be nothing but a paperweight.
Thank God, she had prepared for this scenario. Ella had brought a few brand new notebooks with her, fresh and ready to go, along with an array of pens and pencils.
They might be able to stop her from documenting anything digitally, but they couldn’t stop the handwritten word!
Ella packed all her computer things back into her bag, feeling smug and self-confident. They hadn’t managed to outwit her, but the game was definitely on, and she would have to stay on her toes. With no computer at her disposal, she had limited ways of contacting the outside world. In fact….
Ella picked up her cell phone and stared at the screen, eyeing the empty space in the corner that was usually filled with a tiny row of bars. Dread skipped merrily up her spine. She pressed in some buttons, trying to check her email, waited for the screen to refresh, and got—
Nothing. She had no reception.
A thought popped into her head: Of course I have no reception. I’m underground. And then another thought emerged: I am officially cut off from the outside world.
Fear reared its ugly head, but she tamped it down. She would not be cowered! They could force her into isolation, try to wear out her resolve, but she would not give up. She had more strength than that. And really, when it came right down to it, there was a limit to what they could do to her. If she insisted they let her leave, well then, they would have to let her go. They couldn’t exactly tie her up and keep her there against her will, could they?
Could they?
Ella ran to the door and studied the knob. It had no lock at all—not on the inside, but not on the outside, either. She could not lock them out…and they could not lock her in. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Then she thought: there was probably not much time before someone would be knocking on her door, asking for her presence. After that long drive, she felt like a sweaty, dirty, thirsty wreck. She had to clean herself up…but she took a few minutes to open up one of the new notebooks, grab a pencil, and quickly jot down some of her initial first impressions of the furtive Hotel Bentmoore. Only then did she brush her teeth, fix her hair, apply a fresh coat of lipstick, and dab on some perfume.
She heard the knock at the door just as she was fixing her pantyhose. Ella opened it, and was somehow not surprised to see Mr. Trowlege standing before her, the same bland expression plastered over his face.
“Mr. Bentmoore would like to see you,” he announced.
“Hold on, let me just grab my purse.”
“What for?”
Realizing the man had a point—there was nothing in there she would need, not her wallet, and certainly not her cellphone—Ella shrugged, and stepped into the hallway. Then she gazed at the door, and gave Mr. Trowlege a questioning look.
“No one will enter your room,” he said, reading her expression. “Your things are completely safe.”
Ella frowned. She hated the idea anyone could come into her room at any time. But she didn’t think it would be wise to complain.
“Please, Mr. Trowlege,” she said. “Lead the way.”
He looked at her for another brief moment, then began to stride down the hallway. Ella followed behind, breathing hard, trying to prepare herself for what was to come.
Mr. Trowlege led her to a difference set of elevator doors this time. These doors were well hidden: built into an enclave and painted exactly the same shade as the walls, they disappeared almost completely.
Mr. Trowlege held the elevator door open as Ella walked through. Then he pressed a button as the doors closed, and the elevator ascended.
The two people inside stood in silence, facing the mirrored doors. Ella didn’t bother asking any questions; she had a feeling Mr. Trowlege would only tell her to wait, and ask her questions to Mr. Bentmoore.
As the doors opened, she stepped out, and saw with shock that were back inside Mr. Bentmoore’s private office. Mr. Bentmoore was sitting at his desk, just as he had been the last time she had seen him, looking fresh and composed.
“You have your own private elevator?” She asked him before she could stop herself.
“Of course,” Mr. Bentmoore replied.
“Of course,” Ella repeated softly. It made sense. If her room was on the same floor as the famed “activity rooms,” then Mr. Bentmoore would want his own private way down. He probably used that elevator often, she thought, to sneak away and play with his female staff. Maybe he didn’t fool around with the mistresses; maybe he fooled around with the men, the ones the hotel called the “hosts.”
During her research of the Hotel Bentmoore, Ella had learned that Mr. Bentmoore was a married man, and had been since the re-opening of the hotel, when it had turned into the place it was now. But that didn’t necessarily mean only women appealed to him, and it certainly didn’t mean he was monogamous.
In fact, based on the elevator alone, it was now obvious to Ella he was not. Her opinion of him slipped down a few notches.
From across the room, another man stepped forward, and Ella’s eyes widened at the sight of him. Tall, thin, and graceful, wearing a clean-cut black suit and crisp yellow shirt, he looked like he had just walked out of a model’s photo shoot. Ella was truck by his limber physique, narrow shoulders, and tight hips. His hair was a rich brown, and matched his eyes almost exactly. He looked very young, like a boy fresh out of the schoolroom. There was also an innocent air about him; a playful smile curved up his delicate lips.
“Miss Peterson, this is Mr. Lamont,” Mr. Bentmoore said, motioning the other man forward with his hand. “Should you decide you still want to continue this endeavor of yours after our talk, Mr. Lamont will be your introductory trainer. He will prepare you for the weeks ahead.”
Mr. Bentmoore’s statement raised a dozen alarm bells in Ella’s head. “Prepare me?” She asked. “And my introductory trainer? How many trainers will I have?”
“Many,” Mr. Bentmoore replied. “Let me explain. The Hotel Bentmoore upholds the highest standards in the services we provide our guests. We must therefore have equally high expectations of our own staff. Groomed appearance, physical prowess, mental self-discipline, dexterity of the body and mind—all these things are important if we are to maintain the reputation we have earned. To that end, you will also be expected to rise to our standards. We will work on your appearance, your skills…and your sexual prowess. Endurance, creativity, restraint—all these things need to be heightened and augmented—not to mention, basic knowledge and aptitude. Those need to be worked on, too. By the time we’re done with you, you will be a proficient and well-versed sexual connoisseur, worthy of calling yourself a mistress of the Hotel Bentmoore.”
Mr. Bentmoore’s words filled Ella with rancor. They are going to try to teach me how to be a well-groomed and well-trained whore, she thought. But she wisely kept her mouth shut.
“Mr. Lamont is one of our Masters,” Mr. Bentmoore continued.
“Masters?” Ella interrupted. “Masters of what?”
“Oh, you’ll find out,” Mr. Bentmoore replied, giving her a wicked smile. Ella looked at Mr. Lamont, and saw that he was smiling, too. “All our Masters have earned the title for one reason or another,” Mr. Bentmoore said. “They have a very diverse set of skills. You’ll get to know all of them in due time—should you decide to stay on and work with us. But before you agree, I need to make sure you understand the rules.”
“Rules?”
“Yes, rules. These rules are the basic tenets of our agreement, should you stay here. Rule number one: you are not allowed to go anywhere around the hotel without express permission. You will have access to the lobby floor, most of the hotel grounds, and certainly the dungeon floor, where your room is located. But you will never go anywhere you have not been granted permission, and you will never, ever, visit the private guest rooms upstairs. Those floors are off limits. You will go where you have been ordered to go, and that is all. Do you understand?”
She was under house arrest. “Yes, Sir,” Ella replied.
“Two: you will follow our orders completely, to the letter, and without exception. Since you are in the training process, it is natural for you to have many questions. My Masters will be able to answer them, or help you onto the path to find the right answers for yourself. But that does not mean you will be allowed to refuse their requests. Any act of disobedience may well be enough to get you dismissed from the hotel. Understand?”
Ella clenched her teeth together. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good. And one final thing: I don’t know if you’ve noticed it by now, but you have no reception in your room—”
“I’ve noticed.”
Mr. Bentmoore stopped and looked at her through slitted eyelids. “Do not interrupt me again, Miss Peterson.”
Ella looked down and gnashed her teeth. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
Mr. Bentmoore paused before continuing. “The reason you have no reception in your room is because we don’t want you to. Your room is your sanctuary, your safe place, where no one can bother you or distract you from what you are here to do. It is not the place for you to watch television or chat with your friends. You will go there to sleep, wash, dress, and reflect. That is all.”
When he stopped, Ella felt safe to talk. “So where do I go to use my cell phone?”
“You don’t. Cell phones are restricted inside the hotel. Anything with camera capability is not allowed. If you need to make a phone call, you can call from my office. Do you need to call anyone right now?”
“No,” Ella said before she had time to think.
“Nobody? A friend? Relative? Someone who might need to know you arrived okay?”
“No, no one.”
“Well, in that case.” Mr. Bentmoore motioned Mr. Lamont over. “I’ll let you two get acquainted. Mr. Lamont, you know what to do.”
“Yes, Mr. Bentmoore.” He gave Ella another wide smile, and this time, it was ravenous. “Come with me, Ella. We have a lot to do.”
