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Tyler pulls me away from the banquet hall by grabbing me by the lapel of my blazer and dragging me toward the elevator bank. I ask him where we’re going and he tells me to shut up.
In the elevator, I tell Tyler that they’re about to start serving the second course. I tell him they’re going to notice we’re gone. He tells me they aren’t going to notice shit, that we’re two faceless nobodies, the other waiters don’t know who we are and the people sitting at the tables definitely don’t know who we are. We could drop dead right now and the only reason anyone would care is because we’d be an obstacle in the elevator. I tell him his logic is deeply comforting. He keeps pressing the button for the fifth floor.
When the elevator opens, there’s no one in the hallway. Just the intricate pattern of the carpet and the humming of the lamp lights on the walls. Tyler leads in silence, expecting me to obediently follow, which I do. He stops outside a door labeled 516 and pulls a keycard out of his pocket.
Where’d you get that? I ask.
“Shut up,” he tells me, swiping the card and unlocking the door. He steps inside and I follow suit.
The room is dark, all the lights switched off, the curtains drawn. When the door falls shut behind me, there’s no light except for the tiny sliver that shines in from the hallway, under the door. I don’t spend long pondering this because Tyler is grabbing the lapels of my blazer again and pushing me back against the door and kissing me on the mouth.
I sigh, pulling him closer to me and kissing him back. If this is what he pulled me away to do, I’m not going to complain. I’d rather have Tyler’s tongue in my mouth than be doting on some fucker who makes half my salary in an hour.
Tyler unbuttons my blazer and puts his hands on my waist, my hips, the small of my back. He can’t keep them still. I’m trying to keep up, trying to figure out where to put my hands, when he suddenly diverts and palms my cock through my slacks. I’m already half hard, and I let a quiet little moan slip into his mouth. He laughs, pulling away from me completely, leaving me dazed, propped up against the hotel door for support.
He turns the light on and I blink. It’s immediately very obvious that this isn’t an unoccupied room. The bed has been slept in, the wardrobe door left ajar, evening gowns hanging from the hooks, a bag open on the suitcase stand. I peel myself off the door, slowly stepping further inside.
Who’s room is this? I ask.
Tyler is rooting through the suitcase, taking no precaution to make it look like the contents haven’t been disturbed. “That bitch in the red dress, kept sending back her martinis cause they weren’t right,” he says idly. “She hands me back the fourth one and tilts it toward me, half the shit spills everywhere. Doesn’t even try to pretend it was an accident, just goes back to the conversation. So then I have to bend down and pick up olives and shit off the floor and what else do I find down there?”
He raises his hand, the keycard between his fingers. He wiggles it, a devious smile on his face. “I was already gonna spit in every martini I brought to her,” he continues, lowering his hand and continuing to riffle. “I was even thinking, you know what? This lady is something else, they’re doing the cream of mushroom soup tonight, I’ll give her a treat. But even that didn’t feel like enough. But this.”
He turns away from the suitcase abruptly, stepping closer to me, getting right up in my face. He’s smiling, his eyes shining. He holds the keycard up, taping it lightly against my cheek. “I have ambitions,” he says, before turning away.
I watch as he takes all the evening gowns out of the wardrobe, still on the hangers, and tosses them onto the bed. “I have plans for you,” Tyler says, arranging the dresses so they’re not all on top of each other, so they spread out and cover most of the surface area of the bed. “But I need props. So for right now just stand there and look pretty.”
Okay, I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. It’s a joke, he was making a joke, but I can’t really control the way I react when he compliments me. He glances up at me over the bed, notices the blush on my face, and laughs. He abandons his project with the dresses and crosses the room, grabbing me, this time by my hips, and kissing me again. It barely lasts long enough for me to start enjoying it before he pulls away. He reaches into the pocket of my slacks and takes out a cigarette. I can’t remember if I put that there or he did. Either way, he reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a lighter, lights it, and takes a drag.
He turns back to the suitcase, holding the cigarette between his lips and using both hands to root through this woman’s clothes. I watch, idly, as the fabrics turn against his fingers, the blacks and the reds, the satins and the lace.
I ask, What if she comes back?
“It’s an eight course meal, she’ll be down there for hours,” Tyler says. He sounds completely confident, but even so I turn away, back to the door, to latch it. Tyler berates me as I do it, reminds me she doesn't even have her keycard, but it’s easy to get replacements at the front desk.
“Ah!” Tyler says, like he’s made some kind of discovery. I turn back around just in time for him to throw something at me, a tiny black piece of fabric. I catch it and hold it up: a pair of lacey, women's underwear.
Tyler comes over to the bathroom and turns the light on and lets out a low whistle. “Look at that collection,” he says, so I lean in to look through the doorway. There’s half a dozen perfumes sitting on the counter, different shapes and sizes with decorative caps. We both stare for a moment, before Tyler takes a drag and says, “I’m gonna piss in one of them.”
I thought you already did that, I say. Tyler gets bored of his guerilla warfare tactics fast.
“No, I just pretended to,” Tyler says. “I left a note. Said I pissed in one of them, so she destroyed all of them, and my piss was in none of them. But now I don’t think I’m gonna leave a note.”
I hum. I hold up the panties and ask, So what am I supposed to do with these?
“Wear them,” Tyler says, short and clipped, like the answer was obvious and I asked a stupid question.
My mouth goes dry. What?
“Get undressed,” Tyler says, slowly, like he’s explaining it to an idiot, “and put them on. Go wait for me by the bed.” He waves his hand like he’s shooing me away, and my face burns. When I don’t move right away, he takes another drag and says, “Just go. Be a good boy. Good boys get rewards.”
His words tie an immediate knot of arousal in my stomach, and he smiles because he can tell. I turn away without saying anything, and as I go he swats my ass and laughs at the way I startle. It’s no longer just my face that’s burning, it’s my whole body, though it’s hard to tell whether arousal or mortification is the dominant emotion.
I shrug my blazer off and lay it on the little bench that sits at the foot of the bed. I hold the panties up, examining them, like looking at them long enough will explain anything. I drop them onto the edge of the bed. I take off my tie. My shoes. My button up.
“Look at this,” Tyler says, coming out of the bathroom with a little wooden box in one hand, the cigarette pressed between his lips. He stands next to me and opens the lid, revealing a tiny treasure trove, what must be dozens of twinkling diamonds, silver jewelry. Tyler reaches into the collection and pulls out a sparkling, dangly earring. He holds it up next to my head and says, “If only your ears were pierced.”
I swat his hand away, annoyed, and he laughs, snaking around me and dropping the box down on the nightstand. He puts his cigarette out in it like it’s an ashtray and disappears back into the bathroom.
I pick the panties back up. I turn them over in my hand. I can hear Tyler pissing in the bathroom. I undo my belt and slide it off, undo the button of my slacks and pull them down, stepping out of them.
“Hey,” Tyler says, startling me. He holds a bottle of perfume up to my nose. “Smell this.”
Tyler! I exclaim in disgust, pushing it away.
“I didn’t piss in this one!” he snaps, defensive. He holds it back up. “Smell.”
I sniff the nozzle. Lavender, very subtle lavender, with almost a hint of citrus. It smells nice, I tell him. Not worth five hundred dollars, but nice.
“You think I could make that a soap?” he asks.
I stare at him. Sure, I say.
He sniffs the perfume again, then sprays some onto his wrist and puts the cap back on the bottle. He goes back into the bathroom.
I take my undershirt off. Then my boxers. For a brief moment I am standing naked in this woman’s hotel room, this bitch who makes a hobby out of treating faceless waiters like shit, and then I am putting on her underwear. I can see myself in the mirror that hangs on the interior door of the wardrobe, the black lace contrasting against my pale skin, my dick barely confined by the fabric.
Tyler whistles, and I can feel myself blush all the way down my neck. I look back at him; he’s leaning against the doorjamb of the bathroom door, looking me up and down like he wants to devour me. My cock twitches. I look down at the floor.
“Don’t you look pretty?” he asks, and I can hear him walking up behind me, and then he’s pressing himself against me, I can feel him breathing on the back of my neck. It gives me goosebumps.
This isn’t funny, Tyler, I tell him, embarrassed.
“No, it’s not,” he says in a low voice, his lips ghosting against my skin. He reaches around and lays his hand across my dick, just barely running his fingers over the fabric. I shiver. “It’s sexy,” he tells me, and then I’m being pulled back and pushed onto the bed, onto the spread of evening gowns he laid out, and I’m starting to get a better grasp of his intentions.
He tosses his own blazer on the floor, and he starts to undo his tie but I reach up to stop him. You should fuck me dressed up, I tell him. He frowns at me, like this is a stupid idea, but I explain it to him. If he undresses then it’s just Tyler fucking me in her hotel room, on her bed, all over her expensive dresses that she pays someone else to clean for her. But if he keeps his uniform on, he remains the faceless waiter, fucking another faceless waiter who happens to be wearing her delicates.
Tyler is smiling at me like a wolf baring its teeth, and then he leans in and kisses me as hard as he can. I pull him down on top of me, my hand in his hair, and he straddles me, holding me down against the mattress, forcing his tongue into my mouth. I moan, welcoming the intrusion, holding him close until he pulls away and says, “You’ve been good. You know what good boys get?”
There’s no sense in hiding my desperation, the way I practically salivate over his words. My cock is hard and aching and the implied promise of attention, of a reward for good behavior, of the potential for more praise, it reduces me to a puddle underneath him. What, what do they get?
Tyler kisses me, just on the corner of my mouth, and I lean against his touch. Then he smiles and says, “They get to work a little bit harder for it.”
Tyler climbs off of me, laying back on the bed, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out another cigarette along with his lighter. He pauses as I watch him hold the cigarette between his lips, his thumb on the lighter. “Get to work,” he says.
I undo his belt, settling between his legs. The button of his slacks, the zipper, I deftly undo them as Tyler watches, lighting his cigarette and taking a drag. He puts his free hand on my head, threading his fingers through my hair, establishing a grip. I pull his cock out. I’m about to take him in my mouth, when he says, “Wait.”
I pause, looking up at him, awaiting instruction. He looks at me thoughtfully, then says, “Don’t lay flat, stay on your knees. Keep your ass in the air.”
My face burns, but I do as he asks. I feel ridiculous, pulling myself into a pose like this, but when I look back up at Tyler, he’s staring at me like this is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen. My breath catches in my throat. He smiles just slightly, the cigarette smoke framing the left side of his face. He says, “I’m gonna need a picture of that.”
Then he slaps me, very lightly, on the cheek, and says, “Back to work.”
I take him in my mouth slowly, taking care to concentrate on how I move. I don’t have the best track record when it comes to sucking dick, but I struggle to see any other way to do it. Tyler’s dick is big, and I have teeth in my mouth. There’s no room for them not to touch, but he still makes fun of me for using too much teeth, anyway. Which is why I take my time, I pay attention to how I move. Tyler’s grip on my hair tightens, he guides me where he wants me, so really the amount of teeth in my blowjob should be considered his fault. It also becomes difficult to concentrate when he starts letting out those breathy little moans, his voice shaking when he says my name.
“That’s good,” he says, and it’s almost like a whine and my whole body stutters, my breathing and my composure and my mouth around his cock, they all momentarily cease before I can remember how to function. Tyler laughs, light and breathy, almost a wheeze. He finds my reactions to his praise ridiculous, he ridicules me over it, but he still gets in moods where he indulges me. I’ll do almost anything to keep him in that mood.
“Tell you what,” Tyler says, holding me down on his dick, “if you can go thirty seconds without using any teeth, I’ll fuck you in any position you want, for as long as you want. I’ll even let you cum as many times as you want. Deal?”
Mm-hm, I say. With a cock between your teeth, you speak only in vowels.
“Good,” Tyler says. “Go.”
He’s trapped me in a very precarious position, because his dick is halfway down my throat. It’s easy to avoid using teeth when I’m only working with the tip. Less so when I can practically feel the particles of space between my teeth and the vein he likes me to pay attention to. I move slowly, trying to back off so I can be productive. There’s drool running down my chin.
Tyler pulls me off of him unexpectedly, rough, and the absence in my mouth is jarring. He tuts and says, “You lasted longer than I thought you would.” Then he cups my face, his thumb resting over my lips, and I open my mouth for him before he can even ask. He smiles, pressing his thumb into my mouth, against my tongue, toward the back of my throat. He says, “That’s okay. I don’t think you’re in the mood tonight to make the decisions. You like being told what to do.”
I nod. His thumb is still in my mouth. He presses and I gag and he laughs and then he’s pulling me into a kiss. I practically melt on top of him, clinging to him, and he wraps his arms around my waist. He’s being unreasonably sweet tonight. It’s almost alarming. I wonder if he has more planned for me.
Tyler lays me flat on my back on the bed and sits back to look at me. His hand on my leg, absentmindedly stroking my skin, he takes one more drag of the cigarette before putting it out in his jewelry box ashtray. “Look at you,” he says, taking his cock in his hand, pumping it lazily. I feel myself salivating.
Tyler leans forward, traces his finger along the edge of the panties, then up to where the fabric stretches around my balls, the hard shaft of my cock. The head is peaking out of the hem, flushed and weeping precum and begging for attention. Tyler says, “I need a picture of that, too.”
Tyler likes taking polaroids in the middle of sex. He did this constantly with Marla, and he does it with me now, too. He keeps the stacks in separate drawers in his room. I don’t entirely understand it; if he wants photos of me sucking him off or fucking him so he can get off to them, he could just come knock on the door to my room and ask me to do it for him for real. But I don’t mind the copious evidence of our sex life. Proof that Tyler wants me.
Tyler circles his finger around the tip of my dick, barely touching the skin, and I shudder, my hips shifting forward, desperate for friction. Tyler says, “We should make a sex tape.”
Okay, I agree. I ask if we can shoot it on film, knowing this is not at all plausible, and he gives me a puzzled look. I explain it’s so he can splice frames from his own sex tape into movies.
He smiles. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asks, leaning closer to my face. “You’d like everyone to see how you act like my desperate whore?”
I’m not acting, I tell him.
“Good answer,” he tells me. “You want everyone to see how you belong to me?”
My head spins. He’s doing this on purpose, telling me everything I want to hear. I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard in my life. I ask him, Why are you being so nice to me?
Tyler pauses, looking up at me, suddenly serious. He says, “The way those fuckers treat you down there, like you’re invisible, like you don’t matter.” He takes me by my jaw. “I’m the only one who ever gets to treat you like that. I decide when and where.” He pulls me closer. “You like it when I treat you like a sex doll. Like you’re just some glorified fleshlight I can smack around. You get off on it. That’s good, because I’m not always gonna treat you like you matter.” He reaches into the panties and wraps his fingers around my cock, and I can’t stop myself from writhing, from moaning his name. He says, “But tonight I want you to feel good. Do you feel good?”
Yes, I tell him desperately. Yes, yes.
“Good,” Tyler says, stroking me slowly. He looks me up and down and says, “We need to film a sex tape. I’ll put a frame of it in every movie I get my hands on. I’ll put a frame in every scene. Fuck, I’ll just play it. Show everyone how beautiful you are for me.”
I jerk into his touch, desperate for more, for him to keep talking. There’s tears streaming down my face. Tyler says, “You’ve been so good for me. Such a good boy. You know what good boys get?”
What? I ask. I don’t have the bandwidth to consider how pathetic I sound, the way I’m gagging for it. What, what do they get? What do good boys get?
Tyler smiles. “Good boys get fucked on their hands and knees.” He reaches into his pocket yet again and pulls out a tiny foil packet. “And they even get to use lube.”
Tyler used to carry around condoms wherever he went. Now I’m the only person he has sex with, and I don’t ask him to use a condom. The lube is a nice gesture, though. It’s nice to know he thinks about me.
He flips me over on my hands and knees, so I’m splayed on top of this woman’s evening gowns, one limb over each of them, like those idiots who take photos at the Four Corners. Tyler slaps my ass and chuckles at the way it makes me jump, then he’s pulling the panties down just enough so he can start working me open. My vocabulary has been reduced entirely to whimpers, the only words I can remember how to say are please and Tyler.
He’s behind me rambling, like he’s trying to compile every compliment he ever means to give me into one sentence, all while his fingers press against my prostate. I’ve never been this happy, this euphoric, this aroused. Tyler usually balances the praise with the degradation, only because degradation alone doesn’t keep me in the mood, but tonight the only thing on his mind appears to be how good I am. Good at taking his cock, good at looking pretty for him. If he never acts this way again— which he probably won’t— I’ll be grateful it happened once.
When Tyler decides I’m ready, he guides himself into me and I grab one of the pillows, burying my face in it to muffle the moan I let out. I keep myself there, nearly suffocating as he begins to move, every exhale paired with a moan.
Tyler stops. He runs his fingers through my hair and pulls my head up, out of the pillow, and I gasp. “What are you doing?” he asks. “Why are you trying to be quiet?”
We’re in a hotel room, Tyler, I tell him. This isn’t Paper Street. There are people in the other rooms. Someone will file a noise complaint.
“So?” Tyler asks.
It’s not our room! I insist. If she gets a noise complaint, she might press the issue. She might notice that someone fucked with her things. She’ll go to the front desk, they’ll look at the cameras, they’ll see us coming and going from her room.
“You can’t let hypotheticals run your life, man,” he says. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t call me man when he’s balls deep inside of me, but I’m certainly not in a position to be making requests, not after the generous treatment I’ve already received. “Stop living your life for a future that might not exist. Live your life for now. How do you feel now?”
He punctuates this by moving his hips, his cock pressing right against my prostate. I moan, fighting the urge to press my face back into the pillow. I can’t see Tyler, but I’m sure he’s smiling. He asks, “How do you want it? Rough?”
I always want it rough, I tell him. He chuckles, and then he’s holding me by the hips hard enough to bruise. The pace he sets is brutal, has me making noise like I’m a fucking pornstar. We really should make a sex tape. Born to perform.
The headboard is hitting the wall. That never happens at home because neither one of us has a headboard. I try to ignore it, ignore the fact that whoever is in the room on the other side of the wall knows exactly what we’re doing. Wouldn’t I want that? Wouldn’t I want the idiots staying in room 515 to know I’m getting fucked by Tyler Durden? I want everyone in the world to know that.
Tyler is still rambling, which is only adding to my quickly mounting climax. “Love the way you take my cock,” he says, his voice breathy and strung out. “Perfect. Fuck. You’re mine. No one else gets this. You take it so good. So good. Love you. You’re perfect. So fucking good for me.”
One of these things is not like the other. His declaration does not go unnoticed by me, it’s not the first time he’s ever said such a thing, it’s not like I don’t know. I can’t acknowledge it, however, because my brain is short circuiting. All that’s left to process information is the pleasure center, all I can remember how to do is moan Tyler’s name and beg for more.
I tell him I’m close, that I’m gonna cum, barely choking the words out coherently, and he says, “God, you’re easy,” and wraps his fingers around my cock. It barely takes a handful of strokes combined with the pace of his thrusts before I’m cumming all over this woman’s evening gowns, green and golden fabric dripping with my ejaculate, my head hung, moaning like a whore.
Tyler fucks me through it, and I start babbling, begging him to keep going, to fuck me until he cums inside me. I feel delirious, like I’ve taken too high a dose of something. Toxic levels of exposure to Tyler’s affection. I tell him to treat me like the fucking cream of mushroom soup and he laughs, wheezing, leaning over me, and I’m laughing, too, until he’s moving again and then I’m just whimpering.
My orgasm is over with, so Tyler uses me for his own pleasure, a feeling that makes my entire body radiate with heat, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. I press my face back against the pillow, only because I can’t keep holding myself up. I’m getting tears all over the pillowcase, imagining the bruises that will be left behind on my hips, the way it’ll ache when I inevitably have to walk back downstairs and resume my shift. When he finishes, he moans my name and cums inside me and says, once more, for the road, “Good boy.”
Tyler pulls out and climbs off of me, tucking himself back into his slacks and redoing the fly, fastening his belt. He readjusts the panties so I’m wearing them properly again, then he grabs the jewelry box from the nightstand. He fishes out the cigarette butts, does nothing about the ashes, snaps the lid shut and returns it to the bathroom. He flushes the butts and turns the bathroom light off.
“Up,” he instructs me, so I peel myself off the bed and stand. Tyler uses a wad of toilet paper to wipe my cum off the dresses, but he doesn’t do a very good job. It doesn’t seem like he intended to. He tosses the crumpled wad to me and I barely catch it. “Clean up. Get dressed,” he tells me. I watch him grab the dresses and hang them back in the wardrobe, fumbling to wipe what’s left of my cum off my stomach.
Leaving no trace? I ask, perplexed by his logic.
He shrugs. “Not enough for her to jump to conclusions, at least.” He says. I start to take the underwear off, but he holds his hand out and says, “Leave them.”
What? I ask.
“Keep them on for the rest of your shift,” Tyler says.
I can’t do that, I tell him.
“Why not?” he asks. “You just got fucked in them. I’d like them to make a reappearance.”
She’s going to notice they’re gone, I insist.
He waves me off. “She’ll think she forgot to pack them. By the time she gets home, it won’t matter anymore.” He steps closer to me, laying a hand over my hip. “And when we get home, I’m going to pull them to the side like this…” He demonstrates. “And you’re going to ride me until you can’t hold yourself up.”
I shiver. I can do that now, I point out.
He lets go of the fabric and swats me on the hip, his mind already made up. “Get dressed.”