Hotel Amour

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It was Janet’s idea.

“What harm can it do to look around?” she said.


Janet was an inveterate surfer. And you did not have to surf very much to find all kinds of things out there that would have horrified Janet’s mother, for one.

We had both been brought up in the sheltered cocoon of the ‘typical American family’, Yes, including church on Sunday. We were not into drugs, booze, high-jinks of any sort, hell, we did not even screw until we’d been going out for three years, and even then we used a condom. Model students, we graduated from High School, then from College, and we both held down uninspiring, but solid jobs. Janet was a librarian. She had always loved books. I am an accountant. With prospects, I was given to understand. Hang around and you’ll one day be a partner. That kind of thing.

We married young, and we were happy. Well, sort of happy. I guess we both felt we were missing out on something, or had missed out on something. Perhaps this is true of all couples who were High-School sweethearts, who had never strayed from the straight and narrow, never played the field, never experienced the highs and lows of the ‘singles game’. What you have, you do not value. What you have not, this you come to yearn for.

It began quite innocuously. Well, relatively innocuously. I arrived home one evening in a foul mood. My boss had ‘ripped me a new one’ and it was not my fault. It was his mistake, not mine, and he did not have the balls to come clean. So, you will understand, when I put my key in the latch and entered home and hearth, I was looking for a scotch and water, or two, some TLC, and a ball-game to occupy my mind. I was not looking for what I received.

“Look at me,” Janet had said, in a playful tone. “D’you see something different?”

In the process of pouring my own scotch and water, I glanced across.

“Different? What do you mean?”

“Well, just different.”

I looked then, and I did not see anything different. She stood in the center of our living room dressed in blouse and skirt and, true, her feet were bare, but this was not different. She often walked around bare-footed. I’d warned her about it. You never knew. But she did it anyway. Liked the feel of the pile, she said. Cosy, intimate. I turned back to the cabinet to finish preparing my drink.

“Look now,” she said.

Wearily, I turned my head. And, Yes! That was different.

She had raised her skirt above her waist. Beneath she wore nothing. No panties. Janet had been blessed with long legs and a firm torso. The good Lord had also granted her her fair share of pubic hair. Which was now absent. Her pubis was as naked as on the day she was born.

“Notice now?” she said, coquettishly.

“Hell, Janet!” was the best I could manage. What was I supposed to do? Fall on her and fuck her on the spot?

Apparently, Yes!

“God! You’re impossible.”

She ran upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom.

Later, much later, I wormed it out of her. She had read it on a website. ’36 things you can do to please your husband.’ Number 5: ‘Shave your pubes.’ Number 7: ‘Try a day without panties.’

She was as horny as a rampant rabbit, and though we did eventually make love, it obviously was not the way she had envisioned it. As usual, I came too soon, and she was too inhibited to allow me to get her off, even if I had known how. Maybe she got herself off, in the bathroom, behind a locked door.

“Let’s face it, Ron,” she said next day, “Our sex life sucks.”

Usually I looked around the paper when Janet spoke to me at the breakfast table, but this time I put it down. I stared. This was not language Janet used. ‘Sex life sucks?’ Where the hell? Of course, I knew. The web. Where else? ‘What to do if your sex life sucks’ was probably one of the top entries Google generated if you typed in ‘sex+life+improve’ and let it loose.

“What do you mean, our sex-life sucks,” I said indignantly. “We have a perfectly normal, healthy sex life.”

Whereas the ‘normal’ bit may well have been true, the ‘healthy’ was a bit of a stretch. In fact, if the truth be told, we did not have much of a sex life at all. Mind you, I say in self defense, not having sex that often is not necessarily unhealthy.

“Well, whether you’re right or wrong, Ron,” she replied, “it still sucks. There must be more than this.”

“Look, Janet,” I said, adopting the condescending tone that she detested, that I knew she detested, but that I could not prevent myself from adopting, “if you are mad at me about last night, I understand. I’m sorry at my lack of response. I was in the wrong frame of mind. You just picked a very bad night. I explained that to you.”

“All right. I accept that my timing was off. How was I to know? You come home in this mood, you come home in that mood. What is it that I can do that turns you on? Hell, for that matter, what turns you on, period!”

Which left me somewhat at a loss for words. In fact, what Janet had done the previous casino şirketleri evening would normally turn me on. Like hell. Well, it would have turned me on if a woman had done it who was not my wife. Somehow, the act had clashed with the image I had of my wife, that had grown over the years, and was not compatible with a raised skirt, no panties and a shaven pubis.

“God, you’re so inhibited, it’s pathetic,” she said, when I did not answer.

“And you?”

“At least I tried. I spent the whole day in that library smoothing down my skirt, terrified that someone would ask for a book on the upper shelves and I would have to go fetch the ladder.”

“Let’s face it, Ron,” she said, over my silence. “We need therapy.”


“Yes, that’s what I said. Therapy. We need to improve our sex life. There has to be more than this.”

Over my humming and ha-ing, she continued,

“What harm can it do to look around?”

I didn’t tell Ron. It had anyway become a habit, not telling him things. Probably he did not tell me things either. Maybe he jacked off as often as I did. Which had been not often, but became a daily occurrence when I gave up underwear. I made sure they did not notice at the library, but underneath my prim skirt and blouse was nothing. No panties, no bra. My breasts were small and I could get away with a stiff blouse, and even if my nipples were erect most of the day, anyone noticing would think they was the points of my bra. No-one would dream that Ms Janet Ryder, librarian, went about her day minus underwear, and fantasizing about every man who crossed her path. Well, the presentable ones. And I went up the ladder often, making no attempt to hide anything. Goddam them all! Friggin’ gentlemen! Not a single one was man enough to take a peek. Not when I was looking, that is.

I got home so horny, I stripped naked, lay down on the bed and frigged myself to as many orgasms as I could manage before Ron arrived from the office. One, two three — no matter how many, it was not enough.

It’s all very well for Maureen Dowd and her ‘Are men necessary?’ She’s no doubt had her share. Maybe once you’ve had your share, men are no longer necessary. But I had not had my share. I needed a man. And Ron was not cutting it.

I contemplated an affair, but there were two problems. Researches on the web were universally negative on affairs. Not recommended. Risk too high. Even without kids. Affairs ended badly for all parties, and if for only one party, then the woman. A man could screw around with impunity. Cavalier. In the genes. But when a woman screwed around, she was a whore. This was one problem. The second was availability. To have an affair you needed someone to have the affair with. Negative. The only males obviously available – and they regularly made it clear they were available — were married to one friend or another. Several had appeal, but I could not imagine having sex with the husband of a friend, no matter what the circumstances.

So there I was, stuck in a stale marriage with a guy who was indisputably nice, but equally indisputably unadventurous, especially in bed. He tried. I’ll give him that. After the ‘incident’ he did his best to ‘make it right’. Only, his best was not good enough. Because he did not know enough. ‘Fifteen things to do to satisfy your wife.’ I read it a dozen times. I even contemplated e-mailing it to him, anonymously of course. But nice girls don’t do that. And I was a nice girl, wasn’t I. Anyway, he would know.

He’d been as negative about therapy as he was about anything. It was the word. ‘Therapy’. It sounded as if something was wrong and needed correction. Well it did, didn’t it? Maybe there was another way. A way that did not imply ‘correction’, rather ’embellishment’.

Inexorably, my search turned to ‘Swinger’ sites. ‘Invigorate your sex life’. Hell, there were millions of them. How many were scams, how many, if any, genuine. That was the trouble with the web. You never knew where you were at. I persevered. And finally I stuck oil. Exploratory mails were exchanged. Every query was answered satisfactorily. There was no hype, no pressure. ‘Hotel Amour’ was ideally positioned. Neither therapy nor ‘swinger group’. The hotel catered to every couple. Perfect.

All I needed was a strategy. To convince Ron. I had an idea. Surely, I was not the only woman in this predicament. Ergo, if the people in this ‘Hotel’ were who they said they were, they would know. How to bring a reluctant husband around. Hell, if they didn’t know, who would?

I knew she was up to something. I decided to take the bull by the horns. Better choose the moment myself that have her catch me again in a bad mood. We were relaxing after a pleasant dinner a deux. Half a bottle of Zinfandel — well, if you insist, three quarters – had me nice and mellow. The cognac was icing on the cake.

“OK. Let’s have it.”


“Come on. Don’t be coy. You’ve been itching to tell me something for days. I can see it casino firmaları written all over you.”

“That obvious, eh?”


“Well, you know we agreed a couple of weeks ago that I would look around, you know..”

“Correction. You agreed. I don’t recall agreeing to anything.”

“I just said there was no harm in looking around, that’s all. I thought you were fine with that.”

“Acquiescence, my dear. Passive, not active. Anyway, you were going to ‘look around’ whatever I said, so let’s have it. What have you come up with?”

“Well… It’s a hotel.”


“A hotel? Does it have a name.”


“Hotel Amour.:

“Ha! I knew there’d be a catch. Love Hotel, indeed. And what would be the unique attraction of this particular establishment, I wonder.”

“Ron, stop being .. well, you know what you are being.”

She was right. I did. She constantly accused me of being negative, not always unfairly.

“OK. Ron will sit quietly while you explain to him what is special about your Love Hotel.”

“It’s designed for people like us. Ordinary couples who just want .. well .. to add a bit of spice to their lives. Different atmosphere, sort of thing.”

I sipped my cognac, listening conscientiously.

“I researched it very thoroughly, Ron, and it’s absolutely legitimate. It’s run by a couple who wanted to add some spice to their own lives, but did not know how. Just like us. So they started Hotel Amour. Apparently it’s been a roaring success.”

I held my peace. I must have been feeling really mellow.

“Just a night in a hotel — or a weekend. They have special weekend deals, arrive Friday, leave Sunday.”

“And in between?”

“Whatever you like. If you want, it’s a weekend in the country. You can walk, drive to a lake, swim ….”


“No or. If that’s all you want to do, that’s what you do. But… If you want, if you’re in the mood, there are other possibilities. On a strictly voluntary basis, Ron.”

“What sort of possibilities? If you mean porn, hell, you can get that at the Holiday Inn down the road.”

“No porn. That’s strictly forbidden. They have regular tv in all the rooms. That’s it.”

“So? If not porn, then what?”

“Well, like, if you feel like some company….”

“Aha! Group sex!”

“Well, Yes! But only if you want it. They have all the facilities of a regular hotel,” she hurried on, “a restaurant, a bar. Absolutely normal. And then they have other rooms. Very discrete.”

“I’ll bet!”

“Honestly, Ron. You are such a damn stuff shirt. It’s perfect for us. But forget I mentioned it. If you’re going to be this damn negative, it wouldn’t be worth the effort.”

This focused my attention somewhat. I was being negative. For one thing, the thought that our sex life needed ‘spicing up’ was, well, mildly insulting. I have a normal male ego. It does not like being pricked by the thought that one’s wife does not think one is cutting it in bed. Still, I had to admit she had a point. The attempt to be ‘upwardly mobile’ was absorbing. It consumed more of me, possibly, than was healthy. Perhaps a weekend away from it all was not such a bad idea, even at such a place as the Hotel Amour.

Besides, the thought of ‘group sex’ was not of itself unappealing. Hell, I’m a regular guy. Of course, it would depend on the girls. Right?

“It’s your first time here, isn’t it?” Penelope said. Penelope was the female half of the couple that ran Hotel Amour.

Unwittingly, I straightened my skirt, suddenly self-conscious. To be honest, my vagina had started to juice up so much during the drive I was terrified my skirt was stained.

“Yes,” we said in nervous unison.

“Well, let me explain the house rules,” Penelope continued. She was middle-aged and comforting in appearance, if not downright dowdy. I had expected neither this, nor the pronounced English accent. I had picked up the accent in our calls, but, live, it sounded much more — well, prudish. I felt deflated.

“First of all, I want to assure you that there are no professionals at our hotel. Gentlemen will sometimes try to slip them in, but I can smell a professional the moment she comes through the door and, believe me, she turns around and marches right back out again.”

“So, please be assured that we cater only to regular couples, just like yourselves. Couples who wish to enjoy their own company, and each other’s, if they will, exactly as they choose. Everything emanates from our guests and everything that happens involves free will by all parties at all times. There is no coercion, there is no titillation – you will find your room tastefully decorated, as is proper for a couple, but there are no ceiling mirrors, or other exotic furnishings or devices and the tv is tuned to the regular satellite channels and only to these channels. There are no ‘special channels’, if you understand what I mean. Pornographic movies, you know,” she continued in the manner of a schoolmarm,

“are güvenilir casino designed solely with men in mind. For women they turn off, not on.”

She looked at us from one to the other. God knows what our expressions said.

“Yes, well, to continue, the grounds, unfortunately, are not extensive. There is a rock garden — it’s just rocks, actually. And there is an arbor where one may sit in the shade – though no-one ever seems to. We toyed with the idea of installing a swimming pool, but decided eventually against. You can probably imagine why we decided as we did.”

“But there are many interesting places within easy driving distance and you will find brochures in your room that provide all the information you will need. If not, then please consult a member of the hotel staff, or me. I am, of course, at your disposal at any time if you have questions. Or if not I, then my husband, James.”

‘Hotel Amour’? Penelope’s manner reminded me of a hospital matron Where was the ‘Amour’? One thing, at least. My vagina had dried up, totally.

“Now, first the main communal rooms. The restaurant, if I do say as I shouldn’t, is excellent. The chef is Swiss and the cuisine is international. I’m sure you will find many items on the menu that titillate your taste buds. The bar is well stocked and very cosy. There’s a log fire lit day and night. It’s a perfect ambience for a pleasant chat a deux, or with other guests.”

I could hear the question forming in Ron’s head. Why the hell are we paying three times the going upmarket rate for this? I turned to him, ready to frown him down if his lips started to move. I had to reserve a whole month ahead. There was a list, I was told, with priorities. Repeat business was the rule, and the more regular the customer the higher the ranking. Newcomers came last. A novel idea, I thought at the time. Quaintly un-American. Now I was wondering. Why?

“Now the peripheral communal rooms,” Penelope continued, in the same tone, as though she were referring to Ward 9. “If you look carefully, you will notice in the far corner of the bar an entrance way. It is very discrete, and protected by a curtain — those beads, you know, oriental sort of thing. We call it the ‘Green Door’. This is the entryway to the ‘peripheral communal rooms’. We say ‘Behind the Green Door’, you know..?”

She looked at us again from one to the other as though expecting recognition. I looked across at Ron and made eyes. His expression was clear. ‘Behind the Green Door’ meant nothing to either of us.

“Now behind the Green Door,” Penelope had continued, “guests are free to enjoy themselves as they see fit. The tone is set by the guests. What happens there is solely and alone the business of the people who occupy those rooms. There is, of course, hotel personnel present, and the rooms are arranged ina a certain way, but they are extremely discrete and their only purpose is to ensure that the primary rule of the establishment is adhered to – no coercion. Otherwise, guests are free to enjoy the peripheral rooms and the facilities therein in any way they choose. You may stroll through them, exploring, as it were, as observers. Or you may – well, the rooms are at the disposal of all guests, whatever their inclination. There is, as it were, something for every taste.”

Penelope looked across at us querulously.

“Do you have any questions?”

I looked at Ron and he looked at me. We shook our heads. Simultaneously.


“Ah! One other thing,” Penelope said.

“Your room — 112, as I understand, it’s on the ground floor, near where the pool would have been if we’d installed it. But of course, you don’t care about that. You have a patio room, but I should warn you that, though we take every precaution, we cannot guarantee the absolute privacy of your patio. Some people are very inventive. So if you want absolute privacy, close your patio doors, draw the curtains and make sure the door is bolted. Now…”

She glanced at us as though over a pince nez.

“You will be familiar with the usual ‘Do not disturb’ signs in hotels. Our system is a little different. Your room door has an electronic gadget sort of thing with three lights, red, amber and green. Now the reason for this is that some guests, sometimes, do not necessarily wish absolute privacy. This is a matter for the discretion of the guests. If you wish absolute privacy, bolt the door and activate the red light. It will show red in the room and…”

“You may like to make sure….” she continued, in a more intimate tone, as if she were conveying a trade secret, “..that it also lights up without. We have had the very, very occasional malfunction.”

“Now the amber and green lights signify that you do not necessarily seek absolute privacy. An amber light, for instance, suggests that your door is unbolted and that, were other guests so inclined, the door may be opened for viewing purposes, if you understand what I mean. An amber light means that other guests may enter the hallway, discretely of course, and watch. It is not an invitation to other guests to, as it were, join in. That is what the green light is for. The green light, and an unbolted door means, well, carte blanche. Come in and pile on, sort of thing!”

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