Chapter 2: Champagne and Scandal at The Ritz
The alley grit ground beneath her ruined heels, a satisfying percussion against the dull throb in her ankles. Nel stood at the curb, the violet silk of her dress clinging to her legs in the evening damp. The street was quiet, suburban. A minivan rolled past, its interior a cozy tableau of child seats and grocery bags, a life she’d lived and summarily shelved. She felt a thousand years old and sixteen simultaneously, her heart hammering against her ribs not from exertion, but from pure, undiluted possibility.
She needed to move. The geyser diversion had a lifespan. She walked, the dress whispering its secret of the torn hem with every step. Two blocks down, she found a bus stop. The digital display said the next bus to downtown was in twelve minutes. She sat on the bench, the cold plastic seeping through the silk. A young man in headphones glanced at her—the elegant dress, the wild silver hair, the scuffed shoes—and quickly looked away, unwilling to decipher the contradiction.
The bus arrived with a hydraulic sigh. She boarded, dipping her chin in a regal nod to the driver, and flashed the stolen key card. He stared at it, then at her.
“Ma’am, that’s not a transit pass.”
“It’s a pass to a better mood,” she said, her voice cutting through the bus’s stale warmth. “And I suggest you honor it before I describe the microbial ecosystem growing in your ventilation system to your supervisor.” She raised one eyebrow, the storm in her eyes glinting under the fluorescent light.
He paled, much like the kitchen boy had. “Just… take a seat, please.”
She did, choosing a window spot near the back. The city lights began to thicken outside the glass, painting the gathering dark in streaks of gold and sodium orange. The aches in her body faded, replaced by a thrilling, nervous energy. She was a phantom, a splash of improbable color in the transit system’s gray stream.
Twenty minutes later, she stepped off at the heart of the financial district. Towers of glass and steel pierced the bruised twilight sky. And there, glowing like a warm jewel, was the Ritz-Carlton.
She crossed the plaza, her posture straight, the torn hem be damned. The revolving doors accepted her, whispering her into another world. The lobby was a cathedral of wealth, a symphony of hushed tones. The air was cool and scented with white orchid and polished marble. A chandelier, a frozen explosion of crystal, dripped light onto plush velvet sofas where people sat speaking in the discreet murmurs of serious money.
Her boots, scuffed with alley filth and Maplewood’s gravel, made a faint, gritty sound on the immaculate floor. Heads turned. A woman in a cream suit paused mid-sentence, her eyes tracking Nel’s journey from door to concierge desk. Nel met her gaze and smiled, a wide, unabashed flash of teeth. The woman looked hastily away.
The concierge was a man in his fifties with the composed elegance of a retired spy. His name tag read ‘Julian.’ His eyes performed a rapid, professional assessment: the exquisite but dated cut of the dress, the quality of the silk, the defiant hair, the damaged shoes. His expression remained a mask of polite inquiry.
“Good evening, madam. May I assist you with your luggage?”
Nel placed her palms flat on the cool marble of the desk. She leaned in slightly. “Darling, I have just escaped a hostile takeover. My luggage is being liquidated. All I have is what you see and a profound thirst.” She reached into the small beaded clutch she’d snatched on her way out—it contained her late husband’s Black AMEX, a tube of red lipstick, and the stolen key card. She slid the black card across the marble. It made a sound like a challenge.
Julian’s mask didn’t slip, but his pupils dilated just a fraction. “I see. A suite, perhaps?”
“A corner suite. The one with the view that makes you question all your life choices. And I’ll need a bottle of Veuve Clicquot sent up immediately. Not your house label. The proper stuff. And a steak. Rare. With fries. And…” She paused, her gaze drifting across the lobby where a silver-haired man in a Brioni suit was lighting a cigar with a click of a discreet platinum lighter. She looked back at Julian, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “The telephone number for your most discreet male escort service.”
The silence that followed was not absolute. A champagne flute clinked somewhere. A woman’s laugh tinkled like broken glass. But around the concierge desk, the air thickened. Julian’s composure underwent a microscopic earthquake. A muscle twitched near his jawline. He blinked, slowly.
“I… madam, the hotel cannot officially endorse or provide…”
“Julian,” she said, his name a gentle bullet. “I am not asking for an endorsement. I am asking for a number. The kind you give to the Saudi prince in the penthouse when he’s bored with the stock market. You have it. I know you have it. My AMEX just told me you have it.” She tapped the black card. “The suite, the champagne, the steak, the number. This is not a negotiation. It is a statement of intent.”
He held her gaze for a long, thrilling moment. The storm in her eyes dared him to refuse. To judge. He saw the mischief, the intelligence, the absolute lack of apology. He saw, perhaps, a kindred spirit in the art of subverting expectation.
Without a word, he turned to his computer. His fingers flew over the keys. He produced a key card of his own, platinum. “The Astor Suite. Top floor, northwest corner. The champagne and your meal will be up within twenty minutes.” He scribbled a number on a crisp, thick card. Not the hotel’s stationery. A plain, unmarked card. He slid it across the desk, covering it with the platinum key. His voice was barely a whisper. “Ask for Leo. Tell him Julian from the Ritz sent you. He will… understand discretion.”
She took the card and the key, her fingers brushing his. “Thank you, Julian. You’ve just made an old woman very, very happy.”
“The pleasure,” he said, the ghost of a real smile touching his lips, “is entirely ours, Mrs…?”
“Sweeten,” she said. “Eleanor Sweeten. But my friends call me Nel.” She turned, the platinum key feeling heavier and more powerful than the one she’d stolen.
She crossed the lobby again, aware of every glance. She didn’t hurry. She savored the weight of the looks, the whispered speculation. Let them wonder. Let them be scandalized. In the elevator, mirrored walls reflected a woman in a torn, beautiful dress, her hair a silver crown, her eyes alive with victorious light. She looked exactly like who she was: a runaway, a rogue, a revolution.
The suite took her breath away. It was all soft gray and cream, with vast windows presenting the city like a sprawling electronic jewel box. The champagne arrived in a silver bucket before she’d even finished exploring. The cork popped with a sound like liberation. She poured a glass, the bubbles frenetic against the crystal.
She stood at the window, sipping, the city’s pulse a silent vibration through the glass. She thought of Harold, probably being interrogated by a flustered Jessica about plumbing hallucinations. She thought of Sheila Bronson, discovering her key card missing. A slow, deep satisfaction warmed her from the inside, rivaling the champagne.
The steak arrived, smelling of garlic and seared perfection. The fries were skinny and salted just right. She ate standing at the window, using her fingers for the fries, a faint smear of meat juice on the silk of her dress. It felt glorious.
After, she picked up the room phone, then put it down. She pulled the plain card from her clutch. She stared at the number. Asking for the number had been an act of defiance, a reclaiming of a territory society told her she was too old to occupy. Actually calling it was… something else. A line not just crossed, but erased.
Her hand didn’t shake. She dialed.
Two rings. A smooth, calm voice answered. “Leo.”
“Julian from the Ritz sent me,” she said, her voice calm, matching his.
A pause. “I see. And what are you looking for this evening?”
Nel looked at her reflection in the dark window. A silhouette of silver and defiance against the city’s glow. She wasn’t looking for what he thought. She was looking for conversation. For wit. For someone to see the person she was, not the patient she was supposed to be. For proof that the world still held interesting things for her.
"To get fucked black and blue, Leo," she said with a chuckle, "It's been a while so feel free to bring a friend or two to help you if you like. Compensation is of course, guaranteed... provided I can neither walk nor remember my name by the time you leave."
The line hummed with silence for a beat too long. “I see,” Leo said, his voice now carrying a faint, professional intrigue. “A specific aesthetic. I’ll see what I can arrange.” The call ended with a soft click.
Nel placed the receiver back in its cradle. The silence of the suite rushed in, vast and expensive. She took another gulp of champagne, the bubbles now feeling sharp in her throat. What had she just done? A giddy laugh escaped her, echoing off the high ceilings. It was equal parts terror and exhilaration, a cocktail more potent than any champagne.
She wandered to the bedroom, her scuffed boots sinking into the pile of the cream carpet. Kicking off her boots, she stripped off the violet dress, its torn hem a final sigh. The silk puddled on the floor like a discarded skin. She stood naked for a moment in the cool, conditioned air, looking at her body in the full-length mirror—the map of her years, the silver trails of motherhood, the wrinkles of life lived and the conspicuous sag of her once proud breasts. She didn’t look away.
She was old, not dead. Stepping into the bathroom, she had a long, hot shower to sluice away the stink of Maplewood. After which, she reapplied her makeup. She ran her fingers over the plush robe hanging on the wall but left it there, deciding to instead let Leo, and anyone else he brought to do the deed, see what they were getting into from the outset with nothing hidden.
Stepping naked back into the main room, she finished the champagne and ordered another bottle from room service, her voice steady. She dimmed the lights with a touch of a panel, leaving the cityscape as the main illumination. The steak tray was gone, whisked away by silent, efficient hands. She was alone with the ticking clock of her own audacity.
A knock came just after the new champagne arrived. It wasn’t the gentle tap of room service. It was firm, assertive. Three precise raps. Nel’s heart, which had settled, gave a hard knock against her ribs. She padded to the door, tightened the robe’s belt, and looked through the peephole.
Two men stood there, Both of them in their early 20s she guessed. One was taller, with close-cropped blond hair and a black turtleneck under a tailored wool coat. The other was shorter with dark curls and the lean, coiled build of a rock climber. He wore a simple denim jacket and looked vaguely amused. They didn’t look like any escort service stereotype she’d ever imagined.
She opened the door. The taller man gave a slight, courteous nod and gave her aged, nude figure the once-over of a professional. “Eleanor? I’m Leo.” His voice was the one from the phone, smooth and measured. He gestured to the younger man. “This is Ravi. You did request… reinforcement?"
Nel stared at them, feeling suddenly ridiculous standing there in the doorway naked. The city lights glinted off Leo’s watch. Ravi’s eyes, dark and curious, swept past her into the lavish suite, then back to her face, registering neither shock nor judgment, just a mild, professional assessment. The silence in the corridor was a tangible thing, thick with the hum of distant elevators and her own rushing blood.
“Reinforcement,” she finally said, the word dry in her throat. She cleared it. “Right. Well, let's not just dally in the hallway. Come in gentlemen.” She turned, leaving the door open, and walked to the window, presenting them with her bare backside—a move of sheer bravado.
She heard the soft click of the door closing. The quality of the room’s silence changed, charged now with a foreign presence. Boots on carpet, a coat being shifted. She didn’t turn.
“You’re older than we expected,” Leo said. His voice wasn’t unkind, just observational.
“And you’re as young as I'd hoped,” Nel smiled back, finally facing them. They stood near the sofa, two stark figures in the soft gloom. "Champagne?"
Ravi cracked a smile, quick and genuine. “Why not.”
Leo poured three glasses, the bubbles fizzing audibly in the quiet room. He handed one to Ravi, then brought one to Nel by the window. She accepted it, her fingers brushing his. His hand was cool, dry.
“To unexpected evenings,” Leo said, his glass raised.
“To not being in a retirement home,” Nel replied, clinking hers against his. She took a long sip, her eyes holding his over the rim. The champagne was crisp, devastatingly expensive. It tasted like freedom and poor decisions. She didn’t look away. “So. Do you boys do this often? Rescue geriatric runaways from the thrilling grip of bingo night?”
Ravi snorted into his glass, a quick, surprised sound. He recovered, taking a sip. “Our clientele is usually… different.”
“Younger?” Nel asked.
“Less likely to answer the door naked,” Leo clarified, his voice flat but a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“A waste of good hotel robes, I think,” Nel said, turning to lean against the window frame. The cool glass against her bare back was a shock. The city’s grid of lights spread behind her like a fallen constellation. She felt utterly exposed and completely in control. “And it saves time. Lets you know exactly what you’re working with.”
Ravi wandered over to the sofa, sinking into its plush depth. He looked around the suite, then back at her. “Julian said you were a character. He undersold it.”
“Julian has a vested interest in plausible deniability.” She finished her glass, the emptiness of it sudden. “So. The fee. How does that work? Upfront? Afterwards? Should I fetch my card?”
Leo placed his own barely-touched glass on the sideboard. He unbuttoned his wool coat, moving with a deliberate, economical grace. “The fee is secondary. We need to understand what you want.”
“I was rather explicit on the phone.”
“You were,” Leo agreed gently. He folded his coat over a chair. “But having met you in person, I just wanted to make sure you weren't performing in the moment... for shock value."
"Nope," replied Nel resolutely. "Black and Blue and no memory of my name!"
The words hung in the air between them, stark and undiluted. Leo studied her face, the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the defiant set of her jaw beneath the soft wrinkles. He saw no performance, only a flat, exhausted honesty.
“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping its professional veneer. “Then we should establish a safe word.”
Nel waved a hand, the gesture dismissing decades of caution. “Safe words are for people who plan on staying in control. I don’t. The only word you’ll hear from me is ‘more.’” She glanced at Ravi, who was watching with quiet, analytical interest. “So, are you the reinforcement?”
Ravi shrugged, a fluid roll of his shoulders. “I suppose so.” He finished his champagne. “I'll be taking over for Leo once he's... depleted himself to give him a chance to recuperate and then when I've done the same, he'll continue again. That way there are no gaps between for you. Sound good?"
Nel's heart fluttered anxiously. Well, they'd thought of everything. "Sounds like just what the doctor ordered," she said with a mischievous grin. "Shall we begin, gentlemen?"
Ravi pushed himself off the sofa. “So. How do you want to start?”
Nel’s bravado, a suit of armor forged over sixty-four years, suddenly felt like cheap tin. The reality of two young, strange men in her luxurious room was a cold splash. She was naked. She was old. The champagne turned acidic in her stomach. This was the precipice. Jumping was one thing. The falling was another.
“you two are the pros,” she heard herself say. Her voice was smaller. “You're in charge.”
You’re in charge. The words sounded hollow in the vast suite. Leo nodded, once. He didn’t smile. This was work now. He stood up, stripped and stepped closer. Absently, Nel noted that he was very well endowed in the penis department. Long, uncircumcised and thick as a baby's arm.
He didn’t touch her. Not yet. He circled her slowly, his bare feet silent on the carpet. His gaze was a physical pressure, tracing the sway of her breasts, the silver trail of hair between her thighs, the faint age spots on her shoulders. Nel held still, the city’s chill at her back, the heat of his appraisal on her front. Her breath felt shallow.
“On the bed,” Leo said. His voice held no tenderness. It was instruction.
She turned and walked the few steps to the vast mattress, the cool linens kissing her knees as she climbed on. She moved to the center and lay back, the duvet whispering. The ceiling was a vague shadow. Ravi remained near the sofa, a dark silhouette, watching.
Leo joined her on the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. He knelt between her spread legs. He still didn’t touch her. “You said no control,” he stated.
“I did.”
“Then this isn’t about your pleasure,” he said. “It’s about your use.”
The words landed, cold and sharp. They stripped the last pretense of romance from the room. This was the contract. “Yes,” she breathed.
His hand, when it finally made contact, wasn’t gentle. He palmed her breast, his thumb scraping roughly over her nipple. She gasped. It wasn’t pain, not yet, but the sheer assertion of it, the clinical ownership in his touch, made her stomach clench. He pinched the nipple, hard, twisting slowly. A bright, shocking sting lanced through her. She arched off the bed, a choked sound escaping her throat.
“Quiet,” he said, his voice low. He moved to the other breast, repeating the motion. His other hand slid down her belly, fingers pushing through her pubic hair. He didn’t explore. He pushed two fingers inside her without preamble.
She was dry. The intrusion burned. She bit down on a yelp, her hands fisting in the sheets. He worked his fingers, a brutal, rhythmic pumping, his face impassive. “You’ll get wet,” he said, as if commenting on the weather. “Or you’ll tear. Your choice.”
Tears pricked her eyes from the raw friction. This was what she’d asked for. This was the distance, the objectification, the proof she was just a body. He scissored his fingers, stretching her. The burn began to mix with a dull, unwanted throb of arousal. Her own body’s betrayal was the deepest humiliation. A slickness seeped, easing his movement.
He withdrew his fingers, glistening. He wiped them on her inner thigh. Then he positioned himself, the blunt, heavy head of his cock pressing against her. He didn’t ask. He didn’t guide. He pushed.
Nel saw white. A ragged cry was torn from her as he breached her, a thick, relentless invasion that filled her to bursting. He was too big. It had been years. She felt stretched to the point of splitting, a raw, burning fullness that obliterated thought. He sank deeper, a slow, excruciating inch at a time, until his hips were flush against her.
He stopped, buried inside her. She panted, trembling, her eyes squeezed shut. The pain was a live wire, sizzling through her core.
“Look at me,” Leo commanded.
She forced her eyes open. His face was above hers, composed, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. He held her gaze as he began to move.
He didn’t fuck her. He worked her. His thrusts were long, deep, and punishingly steady, each one grinding the base of his cock against her clit with a brutal, impersonal efficiency. The initial sharp pain blurred into a deep, aching soreness, a rhythm of violation that shook the bed. Each impact jarred her bones. Her breasts jostled. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of skin, his controlled grunts, her own shallow, hitched breathing.
“You take it well,” he muttered, his voice strained with effort. “For an old cunt.”
The filthy word, in that detached tone, sent a perverse thrill through her. Yes. She was an old cunt. Being used. She let her head loll to the side, her eyes landing on Ravi. He had taken a seat in an armchair, one ankle resting on his knee. He was sipping champagne, watching with detached interest, like a man at a mildly engaging play.
The disconnection was complete. She floated outside herself, watching this weathered body being hammered by a beautiful stranger. The burning friction began to spark something else, a low, shameful heat building beneath the ache. Her body clenched around him, a traitorous spasm.
Leo felt it. His rhythm stuttered. A grim smile touched his lips. “There it is,” he breathed. He angled his hips, driving harder, deeper, now targeting something that made her vision blur. The pain and the gathering pleasure fused into a single, intolerable sensation. She couldn’t breathe. She was a vessel, being filled to the brim.
His control began to fray. His thrusts became erratic, harder. A groan was ripped from him. “Fuck,” he hissed. He pistoned into her, his body slamming against hers, the bedframe knocking the wall with a rhythmic thud. He was chasing his finish, using her to get there. The selfishness of it was strangely clarifying.
With a final, deep grind and a choked cry, he came. She felt the hot, pulsing release flood inside her, a foreign intimacy. He collapsed on her for a second, his weight crushing, before rolling off. He lay beside her, chest heaving.
The room rushed back in. The sound of traffic, thirty floors down. The smell of sex and champagne. The wet, throbbing emptiness between her legs. She felt utterly wrecked.
Before she could gather a thought, a shadow fell over her. Ravi. He placed his champagne glass on the nightstand. He unbuckled his jeans, pushing them and his boxers down in one motion. He was already hard. His cock was different—shorter, thicker, curved.
“My turn,” he said, his voice lighter than Leo’s, almost cheerful. He didn’t wait for her body to adjust. He climbed onto the bed, Leo’s cum slicking his way as he pushed into her.
The fullness was different, a blunt, stretching pressure. He set a faster pace immediately, a hard, shallow pounding that jolted her up the bed. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into soft flesh, holding her in place for his assault. He fucked with a casual vigor, humming a tuneless snippet of a song under his breath.
“Tight little senior citizen,” Ravi grunted, a laugh in his voice. He leaned down, his breath hot on her ear. “Bet you never got split like this at the bingo hall, did you, grandma?”
The derogatory endearment, so casually cruel, unlocked something. A dam broke inside Nel. Not pleasure, not pain, but a raw, roaring catharsis. She wasn’t a grandmother. She wasn’t a patient. She was a wet, used hole, and the freedom in that was absolute.
“Harder,” she snarled, the word gritty and true. “Is that all you’ve got, you little shit?”
Ravi laughed, genuinely surprised. “Fuck yeah,” he said, and obliged. His pace became frantic, sloppy, his balls slapping against her. He was young, and he didn’t last. With a series of sharp, breathy curses, he came, shuddering, his release mixing with Leo’s inside her.
He pulled out, slick and glistening. He patted her thigh, twice, like patting a good dog. “Not bad,” he said, puffing for air.
Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breathing. Nel stared at the ceiling, her body a map of new aches. She felt emptied. Scoured out. Leo shifted on the bed beside her. After a minute, she felt his hand on her belly, fingers tracing through the mess there. He was hard again.
“Reinforcement,” he said quietly, and moved over her once more.
The second round was slower, denser. The pain was a deep, familiar bruise. The pleasure was a distant rumor. She accepted him, her body yielding with a plasticity that felt ancient. She floated in a space beyond thought, where the only truths were the weight of a man, the smell of spent sex, and the distant glow of a city that didn’t know her name.
The third and fourth rounds were pure sensation. Pleasure, pain, stretching burning.
On the fifth round, Leo rolled her over and forced his enormous cock into her anus. Not gently, no lubrication, just the application of raw force that made Nel howl and see spots.