Checking into a hotel room is not just one set of feelings for me; it’s many different feelings, depending on the circumstances. I’m going to explore those feelings here for Kink Of The Week.
There’s been the business hotels, those back in the day when I had a proper job with a big company, and business class travel and nice hotels were the norm. They’d be samishly luxurious: a bit bland, a bit could-be anywhere (is this Hyatt in Abu Dhabi or in Jakarta?) These hotels came with a sense of guilt that I should be cushioned in all that monotone luxury, while my wife was at home, trying to wall-paper the dining room while looking after two under-5s. However, I’d still check in in the marble lobby of those hotels with a feeling that I’d somehow arrived; “I must be doing well or I wouldn’t be here!” I was a bit of a dick in those days.
There’s been the holiday hotels. Sadly, these have often been disappointing; there was always something that made me realise that they’d paid a lot of money for the brochure photography. Or perhaps it was a sense of regret that I couldn’t afford to take the family to the same places I visited with the job, the sense of being successful dissipating as I surveyed the tired looking decor and the cheap furniture. I checked into these hotels with low expectations, nervously wondering if I had let the family down.
There’s the hotel I stay in now; the routine, once-a-fortnight trip to the Premier Inn near the office. Here I check in with weary familiarity, wishing I was somewhere else, anywhere else. This is always the low point of my working life.
But what about those other hotels; the ones that feature in my blog, the hotels I checked into for no other reason than to seek hedonistic pain or pleasure? Those were the best of hotel check-ins. I’d check in hours early, just so I could shower, get used to the feel of the room and enjoy the mounting sense of anticipation before my company arrived. I might prepare the space a bit, perhaps order some champagne in an ice bucket.
If it was to be a BDSM based session where I was to be in control, I’d run through the scene in my head: “We’ll drink champagne and kiss here; I’ll bend her over that desk; is this a bed that I can tie her to? Where shall I put the rope and the flogger where she can’t see it but I can reach it easily?” under these circumstances, the blandest of hotel rooms would become an exciting place, redolent with possibility and promise.
If, on the other hand, she was to be in charge, then all I could do was to prepare myself, try and empty my mind so I would be able to process the extreme sensations that were heading my way. For a while, I had a fetish for wordless beatings. For these sessions, I would leave a key for the Mistress in reception, lay myself over pillows on the bed and put on a blindfold, listening to my own breathing and the traffic outside while I waited for her to walk in and hurt me. Laying, sightless, on the hotel bed, I would become acutely conscious of the space around me, my position in the room, the feel of the clean, fresh smelling sheets on my naked skin.
In this position, I could feel completely at one with the hotel room, even though I had only just checked in and however bland the room might be.
The hotel room was a scene, which the Mistress had been invited to enter, and, lying on the bed with a blindfold over my eyes, I was part of that scene.
More kinky stuff in hotel bedrooms here:
