MR. SINCLAIRE RAPPED THREE TIMES on the heavy oak door before turning the gold polished knob and swinging it open. Peeking his head around the door, he saw Mr. Bentmoore sitting at his desk, motioning for him to come in; he entered the room just enough to shut the door closed behind him with a muted click. Then he quietly walked over to one of the plush armchairs facing Mr. Bentmoore’s stately desk, had a seat, and waited for the older man to finish his conversation.
Mr. Bentmoore was on the phone, but it was clear he was trying valiantly to end the call. Mr. Sinclaire listened to him say “okay” four times and “that’s fine” at least as many before his boss was finally able to slip in a quick goodbye and disengage from the phone. As Mr. Bentmoore hung up, he sighed.
“One of the things you need to know about being married, Sinclaire, is that you don’t just marry your wife. You marry her whole family, too,” he said. “Remember that, should you ever contemplate getting married.”
“I don’t think that’s ever going to happen, Mr. Bentmoore,” Mr. Sinclaire said, grinning wryly.
“Probably not,” Mr. Bentmoore agreed. “But you never know. You might just meet the right woman someday.”
“I’m sure I’ve met several of them. Dozens, in fact. That’s the problem: there are so many ‘right women’ out there.”
“I see your point,” Mr. Bentmoore said, looking wistful. “Although I’m surprised you call that a problem.”
“Well.”
Both men laughed, but Mr. Bentmoore’s laughter sounded a little too forced, and went on a little too long. Mr. Sinclaire eyed him suspiciously as Mr. Bentmoore’s laughter finally began to die down.
“Did you ask me here to discuss a new guest, Sir?” Mr. Sinclaire asked. He had assumed that was the reason he’d been called into the older man’s office. Now he wasn’t so sure. This didn’t feel like a routine summons anymore.
Hosts of the Hotel Bentmoore were usually given as much notice as possible when one of their guests had scheduled a visit. If the guest was someone new to the hotel, the host would also be given all the information necessary for the visit to go well: what the guest wanted, what she expected, and what she hoped to get out of her visit. If the guest requested something specific or unique, Mr. Bentmoore would often hand-pick one of his Masters to take care of her, to make sure all of her needs were met. Each Master had different talents, a different bag of tricks, to pleasure the most reticent of guests.
Mr. Sinclaire was a charmer, but he was also a Master Sadist. Given enough time, he could seduce consent out of the most nervous of subs and bottoms, and get them to try his own harsh brand of sadism. Of course, he always respected their rules of consent, and never fully lost control over any scene in which he was responsible. But he enjoyed watching the women under his control quiver in pain, struggle in their bonds as they fought against the torment he lavished onto them. He loved to hear them scream, knowing they were reveling in their torture as much as he was. He was never as happy as when he had a woman strapped down on his table, pouring sweat, and screaming as he whipped, spanked, paddled, or otherwise abused her soft, sensitized flesh.
“No, this is not about a new guest, Sinclaire,” Mr. Bentmoore said. “You and I are due for a talk.”
Mr. Sinclaire grew wary. “Why, Mr. Bentmoore?”
“Another one of your guests has asked to try a different host for her next visit. Ms., um–” he scanned his desk until he found the right paperwork– “Ms. Barr. She has requested Mr. Pierce for her next visit. She also said if he’s not available, she’s willing to try someone else, someone new.”
“Alice has requested Pierce? That’s…fine,” Mr. Sinclaire said, recovering quickly. “I’m sure Pierce will get a kick out of her, and she’ll enjoy getting a taste of him and his techniques. I’ll give him a rundown of her basic likes and boundaries, so he doesn’t go in blind.”
“That would be good,” Mr. Bentmoore said. “But you’re not surprised by her request? You’re not upset?”
“Why would I be upset? It’s the policy of the hotel to encourage our guests to try different hosts. Isn’t that what Alice is doing?”
“Yes, but she’s been a regular of yours for a long time now. Our lady guests usually try out different hosts until they find the one they feel most comfortable with, and then they stick with him. You just ended your visit with Ms. Barr yesterday. Did she say anything to you about trying out a new host on her next visit?”
“No…maybe she did. I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember? Now that’s a little surprising,” Mr. Bentmoore said, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t you think that’s something a Master of the Hotel Bentmoore should remember, his guest talking to him about visiting with a different host? If she did bring it up, you should have been ready to give her the names of good candidates, and advice on who to try first.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Sir.” Sinclaire sighed and rubbed his legs. “I guess I just wasn’t giving it the attention it deserved.”
“You weren’t giving her the attention she deserved. And I don’t think Ms. Barr is the only guest you’ve been neglecting.” Mr. Bentmoore leaned forward to rest his arms on his desk. “I’ve been going over your files, Sinclaire. In the last few months, more than a few of your guests have requested a different host to serve them on their next visit. Some of these guests have been your regulars for years. They’re bailing on you.”
Mr. Sinclaire met his boss’s look head on, but said nothing, making it clear he would not argue with Mr. Bentmoore’s statement, as shameful as it was. When faced with the truth, he would not deny it. After a moment, Mr. Bentmoore sighed.
“One of your other guests–a Ms. Meldony. I spoke to her briefly on the phone today. I asked her point-blank why she requested a different host when she’s been a regular of yours for so long. She told me on her last visit, you took care of her needs, but that you–and I quote– “did not seem all together there.” She said you were distracted, like you had a lot on your mind. She even said she hopes there’s nothing wrong going on with you. So I need to ask you: what exactly is going on with you, Sinclaire?”
“You heard her. I took care of her needs.”
“Yes, but you weren’t giving her all your focus as you should have been, and she could tell the difference. So where is your head these days, if it’s not centered on your guests?”
“Nowhere, Mr. Bentmoore. I guess I’ve just been off my game lately.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” This time, it was Mr. Sinclaire’s turn to sigh. His eyes looked around the room, not really seeing anything. “I guess I haven’t been giving it my best effort.”
“No. You haven’t. But I think I know why, because I know when it started.” Mr. Bentmoore opened a desk drawer and pulled out a thin blue file. He plopped it on his desk. “Five months ago. With Samantha.”
Mr. Sinclaire didn’t even have to ask which Samantha Mr. Bentmoore was talking about; he knew. It was the same Samantha he had been thinking about everyday for the last five months, since the moment she had walked out of the hotel, and out of his life.
“Now, Sir, you know I’m not going to compare one guest to another, or make a woman feel guilty about what she is or isn’t willing to do–”
“I know you’d never make a woman feel guilty, Sinclaire. That’s not the point I’m trying to make. And that’s not what these other guests are saying, either.” He paused, and Mr. Sinclaire braced himself for what he knew was coming. “But compare them to Samantha? At least, in your head? Yes. Yes, I think you are doing that. I think you’ve lost focus because, deep down, you’re busy wishing all of them were her.”
Mr. Sinclaire rose from his chair and walked to the large square window behind Mr. Bentmoore’s desk. He took a minute to admire the view of stretched, open rocky desert on the other side of the glass.
“I don’t mean to compare all of them to her,” Sinclaire said quietly. “I try not to.”
“But you can’t stop yourself, can you?” Mr. Bentmoore answered. “That woman made quite the impression on you.”
“Yes.” Mr. Sinclaire turned around to look at his boss. “You haven’t heard anything from her, have you?”
“No. I haven’t.” Mr. Bentmoore sounded sad. Mr. Sinclaire turned back around to gaze out the window once more.
Five months ago, Samantha had shown up at the Hotel Bentmoore with her so-called “Dom” in tow. Mr. Sinclaire had quickly surmised that her boyfriend, Paul, was no Dom, but an abuser. Samantha was only taking the abuse because, as a freshly self-realized masochist, she thought that kind of behavior was what she could expect.
But when Paul had lost control in front of Mr. Sinclaire, taking his scene with Samantha to a dangerous place, things had come to a head. Mr. Sinclaire had quickly stopped the scene by knocking Paul unconscious; then he’d gone ahead and shared two days with Samantha by himself, teaching her what masochism was really all about, and bringing her to new heights of pain and pleasure.
Those scenes with her had been the most amazing, most poignant scenes Mr. Sinclaire had ever had with any guest, any woman. He couldn’t get them out of his mind. He couldn’t get Samantha out of his mind.
Samantha had promised him she would visit him again, and soon. But it had been five months, and no one had heard from her. Mr. Sinclaire was beginning to realize they might not ever hear from her again.
“I can’t have you visiting with your other guests while you’re obsessing over this woman, Sinclaire. It’s not fair to them, and frankly, it’s not fair to you.”
Mr. Sinclaire took a moment to digest this. He sat back down in his chair. “Are you firing me, Sir?”
“No,” Mr. Bentmoore shook his head. But he wouldn’t meet Mr. Sinclaire’s eyes. “I don’t want you to look at it that way. I’m putting you on sabbatical. You need a vacation Sinclaire, a break from this non-stop fuck-fest. You need to get back into real life for a while. Believe me, I know what it’s like.”
Mr. Sinclaire smiled, albeit ruefully. “Most men would consider this non-stop fuck-fest a fantasy life.”
“Yes, but we know better, don’t we? We put so much of ourselves into taking care of the women who come here needing help, needing our services, we forget to take care of our own needs after a while. You need to rejoin society, be free of all these commitments, and help yourself to what you want.”
Mr. Sinclaire shook his head. He said softly, “I don’t know if I even remember what I want.”
Mr. Bentmoore raised his brows. “Well then, you should put some thought into that, too.” He opened up the thin blue folder, lifted up the top paper, and handed it to Mr. Sinclaire. “Here. I’m giving this to you as your friend, not as your boss.”
Mr. Sinclaire took the paper and looked it over. “This is Samantha’s personal information,” he breathed. “Why would you give this to me?”
“So you can go find the girl and have your shot with her. Maybe you’ll see her again and realize you’ve found the right one. Or maybe once you see her again, you’ll realize she’s not all you remember her to be.”
“I doubt that, Mr. Bentmoore.”
“I don’t know, Sinclaire. But I do know you won’t get over this preoccupation of yours until you find out. So go, live your own life for a while, away from all these women falling at your feet. Find the woman of your dreams, take your shot with her. And if you ever decide you’re ready to come back, we’ll be here.”
Mr. Sinclaire took in the news without a word. Slowly, he folded the piece of paper with Samantha’s information on it, put it safely into his wallet, and stood up. He put his palm out to shake Mr. Bentmoore’s hand across the desk.
“Thank you, Mr. Bentmoore,” he said. “Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Sinclaire,” Mr. Bentmoore replied, shaking his hand. Then he stood up too, came around his desk, and gave Mr. Sinclaire a quick man-hug. “I should call you Brian now. No reason to stand on ceremony anymore.”
Brian smiled. “But I still feel like I should call you Mr. Bentmoore.”
“That’s good,” the older man replied. “That’s good.”
