Sitting in the hotel lobby, sipping at a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, I am surprised to realize I am nervous. It is not the surroundings. The palm trees, the art deco styling, and the luxurious leather couches are familiar to me, not just at this hotel but from all those palaces around the world that for the last eighty or so years have effortlessly remained havens of sophistication and calm. And the service is as it should be -- pleasant, respectful, but avoiding the rigid stiffness that you might expect in such a venerable location.
Indeed my waitress is a sweet French thing, tall, blonde, and in other circumstances I might consider starting the long languorous process of her possible seduction.
But not today. Today there is something else on my mind. Something that makes me unaccustomedly tense.
I am meeting Ellie here.
Don't get me wrong, I expect her to turn up. Our brief time together so far has been so delicious and intense that I am confident my young lover is hungry for more.
No, it is the extent to which Ellie will comply with my instructions that has me on edge. Partly, I wonder if my innocent little nineteen year old will be able to go through with it, or whether it will all seem too ridiculous. I wouldn't blame her.
Then, frankly, there is the reaction she will create as she walks in the room. I am not normally one to give a stuff about what other people think -- just try me -- but there is something about what Ellie and I are attempting that seems quite shockingly at odds with the very essence of the Palm Room.
But then again, I think of those photos from the 'Twenties and 'Thirties. The debs and the flappers in their short little frilly numbers. They were decadent times, weren't they, coke and cocktails and all that jazz? What might have happened in this very room? I close my eyes briefly and picture a couple of hot young things, high and wild and the moment takes them, they are off to a dark corner, hands groping under those teasing hemlines, mouths on roughly exposed titties, fingers slipping under silken underwear as they finger each other's pussies to a frantic orgasm.
And I realize that money and depravity have walked hand in hand since time immemorial, that they are, in fact, "tres sympathique", as my waitress might say. That businessman over there, does he get hot every time the waitress bends over, his cock stirring at the sight of her curves pressing against her simple black uniform? Has he carelessly left the keys to his Ferrari on the table, almost literally dangling the prospect of his wealth and power in front of her, in the hope that when her shift is over she will join him in his room, strip for him, and kneel naked on his bed as he mounts and fucks her whatever way he wants?
And the elegant lady over there, sipping iced water. So smartly dressed, so sophisticated. While her husband is away on yet another business trip, does she occupy her time with the hired hands, insatiable for the sensation of their rough young cocks filling her every hole?
I feel giddy, intoxicated; and then Ellie walks into the room.
All eyes are drawn to her. Of course they are. For while Ellie is nineteen and has worked fulltime as a respectable masseuse for the last couple of years, right now all five foot and a bit of her is standing in the gray uniform of one of this city's finest high schools.
She looks awfully nervous, scanning the room for me, her hands awkward by her sides, and I feel for her. No doubt she is aware of all of the attention. The businessman has forgotten the waitress, and every inch of him strains to possess this bewitching young thing, to ravage and plunder it. The elegant lady also stares openly, perhaps wondering what it would be like to enjoy the sensual pleasures of such sweet young innocence, to cup and nurse Ellie's full breasts.
But she is mine.
Ellie sees me and smiles, her relief evident. She walks towards me and now the eyes are on me. Am I her sister, or maybe, just possibly, her mother? I cut a pretty fine figure myself, and I know from long experience that when I am with my lovers in public we make an alluring and intriguing impression.
"Hello, Ellie. You look fabulous. Please sit down." It's true. Her chocolate brown hair is drawn back, as always, in a ponytail. In the past this has been for the practicalities of her work, but now, ahem, it accentuates her saucy innocence. She is wearing make-up, but subtly, in a way that would not draw censure from her teachers. The uniform she is wearing is the one that up until a couple of years ago she wore every day to school. As such it is quite sensibly cut, but anything that contains Ellie's petite but full body inevitably excites rather than disappoints. The skirt sits just at her knee, presumably where regulation stipulates. I once saw a French film called Claire's Knee ("Le Genou de Claire" in fact) which was all about a middle-aged man's obsession with a teenaged girl's knee. I look down at the finely sculpted bone and gently taut pale brown skin of Ellie's knee, and I feel like making a feature myself.
"Thank you, miss." When I first met Ellie, as her client, the "Miss" thing was a bit of a surprise. This is the twenty-first century after all, and I would expect to be called "Samantha" by a masseuse. So it jarred a little, and I couldn't quite figure it out. Now I believe that, from our very first meeting, Ellie was offering me the gentlest little coded offering of her submission.
"What would you like?"
"I've always dreamed of afternoon tea here, Miss. It just seemed, oh, the most wonderful luxurious thing. Would that be all right?"
"Of course it is." As she takes our order I see that even our waitress is intrigued by Ellie. An image of the three of us together, locked in the most wonderful tangle, Ellie and Frenchie perhaps in a clawing 69, floods briefly through me, but I put it to one side. Today is about Ellie and me.
So we sit and chat about nothing and we take our tea and gradually the interest around us dies down, although I am intrigued to see that it is the elegant lady and not the businessman who can't help but keep looking in our direction. Is it just me or are her nipples poking a little at that smart white Collezione blouse?
Then the tea is finished and the last crumb eaten. Ellie sits, a little expectant, a little nervous. Does she think that I have reserved us a room, that just upstairs awaits a whole new world of sensual depravity?
"Now," I say, standing briskly up, "it's time to go shopping."
***
In the department store we have, again, made a stir. Everyone wants to help. I am careful to ensure "our" assistant is a pretty Canadian called Amy.
I have decided that I am buying Ellie a new "outfit". This will give her plenty of opportunity for dressing and undressing, with my intimate help of course. We are in a changing room, with just enough space for me to fuss around my charge.
"Why don't you try this on first?" I say, offering Ellie a skirt. Something about her bare from the waist down appeals, and today is about satisfying my whims.
Ellie slips off her school skirt. She isn't wearing pantyhose or stockings, and so she is revealed in a simple but elegant pair of plain white cotton panties.
"They're like I used to wear at school, Miss," she whispers, clearly concerned about the possibility of being overheard by Amy. "I hope they're alright."
Ellie's legs are slim and pale tan, and there is a lovely contrast with the whiteness of her underwear. "Yes. You look fabulous. Let me help you with that skirt."
She steps in and we lift it up together, my hands brushing all the way up her legs, behind her knees, then over the soft material of Ellie's panties. As she zips it up I brush the material across the soft globes of Ellie's ass, carelessly intimate.
"That's nice," I say. "Let's try another."
When the new skirt is in place I make a comment about the lining. I kneel in front of Ellie and lift the hem up, my face now just a few inches from the crotch of her panties. Ellie stands quite still, fully aware that this is by no means all about new clothes.
"Is everything okay?" calls Amy from outside the door, and Ellie jumps.
"Oh yes," I say, bringing my mouth forward to brush my lips across Ellie's panties, feeling the spring of her pubic thatch under the thin material. "We're fine." I slide my fingers up the back of Ellie's thigh and under her panties, moving lightly across the soft flesh of her bum. Then, just as suddenly, I move away and stand up. "Now, those tops."
Ellie's skirt remains bunched around her waist -- a terribly thing to do to an expensive piece of couture, but what can you do? -- as she slips of her uniform jacket and unbuttons her white school blouse. Her bra matches her panties in its simplicity, but the sight of the roundness of her beautiful boobs is enough to transform the most practical of item. I look Ellie in the eye and without a word she knows that right now I think her the most beautiful thing alive.
