Hotel Pavane: The Blue Orchid Program
I.A. The Ivory Desk
Mme. Clarisse Brionne d'Longville Arisette, an elegant and dignified French woman of a certain age, waiting anxiously for a clerk to appear at the special Ivory Desk of the notorious Hotel Pavane to check her in, so that she may quickly disappear into the safety of her room before she is spotted and—even worse--recognized.
Her nervousness is very uncharacteristic but quite understandable. Because for a woman of her status and reputation to be caught registering at this mecca of sin, hedonism, and salacious depravity would spell immediate scandal and disgrace, crushing humiliation, shame, and swift and utter ruin.
And though the lobby is large and dimly lit and not very busy this time of day, and though the Ivory Desk is deliberately set back and in the shadows to provide an extra layer of privacy for guests just such as Clarissa. Who desire it, it's not hard to see that her fears of being conspicuously noticeable are justified. In a hotel lobby full of various characters on the make, she just doesn't quite fit in.
It's not her age, for the hotel has more than its share of mature and beautiful woman, there to perhaps find a new husband or lover or boytoy to take home with them, or maybe just seeking a night or two's lewd and lascivious entertainment of the sort they cannot find at home.
It's not really her clothes either, which, though no doubt shorter and tighter and more revealing than would be appropriate at any other, more respectable venue that catered to a similar upper-class type of customer, are still exquisite and unmistakably made of the finest materials by the finest designers.
No. Rather it's the character of the woman herself that sets her apart: alert, regal, and elegant, and showing a proud and classic beauty that time had barely touched, because it was the type of beauty that came quite clearly from within. There was a purity, grace, and nobility in her face that even this current mask of nervous uncertainty could not dim; a beauty that was even reflected in the way her body maintained its elegant dignity despite the short black skirt that ended well above her knees, and the gauzy, plunging black blouse with red and pink roses that did little to conceal the daringly erotic lace merry widow corset beneath.
She was a woman of presence, and it was the clash between that elegant presence and the open carnality of her outfit advertising a body for sale that set her so apart from her surroundings. Here in the lobby at 4 o'clock on a gray and drizzly early-spring afternoon, her beauty shone out like a marble bust of a goddess in a slime pit.
For this is the Hotel Pavane, and for all its sumptuous, slightly seedy grandeur and comfortably worn elegance, it's best known as central Europe's premier sexual hotel and resort, where everything and anything is available, from an afternoon's dalliance, to an extended, multi-week soaking in a marinade of debauchery extreme. It's the destination of choice for those who desire discretion and anonymity for their affairs, and for those seeking the illicit, the perverse, the excessive, the exceptional, and the eccentric.
Lucien had assured her that this outfit would help her blend in far better than her usual choice of designer fashion, but the ensemble leaves little doubt that its intention is (1) entirely flirtatious, its purpose to make her sexually attractive to men (&/or women: we must forget that this is the Hotel Pavane), and (2) that it succeeds wildly in its intentions. There's something about seeing this grand, dignified diva dressed to attract that's terribly erotic, for it's clear that her very dignity is on the line and being offered as part of the terms of engagement, and it's a good thing that guests at the hotel avoid eye contact in public spaces, simply by custom. A good thing because Claire feels just like a whore, and part of her excitement is caused by her unexpexted discovery that the feeling rather excites her.
Of course the choice of clothing was not hers to make. In fact, registering at the Hotel Pavane was not entirely her choice either, but one she agreed to in order to please her lover, Lucien D'Avoleo, who would be joining her shortly. Once Lucien arrived, as she understood it, all further choices would be taken out of her hands for the duration of their stay. She was putting herself entirely under Lucien's control.
And yet with all the things Claire found to worry about, this arrangement with Lucien was one of the least pressing. For 23 years, Claire had endured a loveless and emotionally barren marriage to her ambitious and neglectful financier husband Roger Arisette, who, it soon became obvious, had married her only for her family's money and business connections. She'd quickly given him two children, and then made the considerable sacrifice of staying married to him all this time, playing the exemplary wife and helpmate, hostessing his dinners and soirees, mingling with the other wives at the clubs, climbing the social ladder. All because people of her position just did not divorce. She knew her duty.
Then, just when Claire had decided she couldn't stand another year of this, Roger died. A suicide: a bullet through the head when his mistress had deserted him in Monaco, where'd gone alone to meet her. (Despicable cad though he was, Roger was not so
infra dig
as to take his mistress to the Hotel Pavane, a place too interested in fucking to have much patience with upper-class snobbery.)
A mere six weeks ago it was too, though it seemed like an eternity now. It was weeks before it had sunk in.
Roger was dead, and Claire was free.
She'd played the grieving widow masterfully. In all her years of marriage she'd been tasked with handling the social side of Roger's business affairs--arranging dinners and fetes, organizing charity events and the like—and that had made her an expert in matters of etiquette and social propriety, and in 23 years of repressing her own needs and sacrificing her life for Roger's she'd also become quite an expert actress: but at a price. She found that now, when at last she was free, she'd somehow lost her real self. The woman she'd always thought she was inside—passionate, sensual, alive and caring—had disappeared.
With Roger gone, Claire was free to live her own life at last. And yet, she soon found she had no idea of how to begin. 23 years without sex, without any meaningful exchange of affection, had made her a virgin again. And worse, had made her an old virgin, her best years behind her, her body growing lax, her hair grown white, her feelings either dead or inaccessible, her future grim. Her heavy socializing had left her with a mask for a personality, a mask as an identity.
And then had come Lucien, like a miracle, like no one she had ever known. He opened her. He opened her like you might open an old chest, ignoring the creaking hinges and the dust, opened her and let the light in, and revived the light that still smoldered within. It was Lucien who taught her the wonders of her reborn sexuality and convinced her it was the key to a new life, a new way of being and feeling.
It was Lucien's plan that she be here now at the Pavane, Lucien's conviction that her path to renewal ran through the garden of sex, and Lucien's belief that Claire was a passionate woman at heart, and that only by rediscovering that passion and embracing it could she ever hope to break free of the old Claire and forge a new identity and a new life.
It was Lucien's plan to accomplish Claire's transformation during a week's stay at the Hotel Pavane, and the special program he had designed for her there.
A rebirth, she hopes. A metamorphosis. But is it really possible? Will opening herself to this new sexuality really change the rest of her life as well? Her personality, her way of interacting with others?
The Ivory Desk might have been designed for discretion and privacy, but that doesn't stop a middle-aged man in a beautiful Italian suit from strolling over. The Ivory Desk is set up much like teller's stations in a bank, separated to insure privacy, but there's no doubt why he's there. A Russian, Claire thinks, or Bulgarian or some other Slavic type. A gangster. A criminal.
He stares openly at Claire, his eyes sliding over her from ankles to forehead, so slowly and with such obvious intent that his eyes seem to incite an instinctive cringing in her blood where ever they touch her. It's more a sensation of fear than anything remotely resembling desire, and she studiously ignores him as a younger woman suddenly joins him, pulling sullenly at his arm to make him leave, and the Russian lets himself be led away by his young bimbo.
Claire represses a shudder. There's an old-fashioned silver call bell on the counter, and she's been weighing the rewards of using it against the risks of drawing further attention to herself, but with that experience of the Russian's interest, she no longer hesitates. Lucien had told her that he'd already pre-registered her so that all she'd have to do was initial some forms and that would be it.
She rings the bell.
IB. Registration
At last a neat-looking Nordic blonde in hotel livery appears and introduces herself as Leonora. She brightly asks how she might be of service.
Claire reaches in her bag and takes out the pastel blue envelope embossed with a large orchid. As soon as Leonora sees It, she snaps to attention.
"Welcome to the Hotel Pavane, Mademoiselle," she gushes while showing just the right amount of professional reserve. She takes Claire's papers and begins typing into the computer; stamps some sheets and holds some back, then folds the papers and puts them back into the envelope and slides a the envelope a sheet of paper over to Claire.
"Sign here with your guest name, please?"
Claire signs the registration with the false but legally binding name supplied to her by the hotel—"Mlle Ona Bleu"--puts down the pen, and steps back.
There. It is done. Come what may, the deed is done. A bit of her nervousness seems to dissipate. The knot in her stomach loosens just a bit.
"Very good, Mademoiselle. May I welcome you to the Hotel Pavane and wish you a most pleasant stay! All is in order for your lodgings. Now I just have to go over some aspects of your program. You've selected the Blue Orchid program, and we just want to make sure there are no misunderstandings. Would you please be so kind as to step into this room?"
Leonora steps back and opens a door in the wood paneled wall that had been totally undetectable from the Ivory Desk.
Claire bristles. She'd assumed her signature was all that was necessary, and she doesn't like being ordered around by underlings, especially in this rather suggestive outfit. "Is this really necessary? I was told that my agent had already seen to all the details precisely so I wouldn't be bothered with them. I'm in a bit of a hurry to get to my room."
"Indeed he has, Madame. Everything's just as it should be for your stay, but you've signed up for a program too, specifically a Blue Orchid program, and rules are that all Orchid programs require participants to confirm on a face-to-face basis. It's for your own protection and won't take but a moment."
