The Pleasure Machine.

As usual, I came through the kitchen and up the staff elevator.

I know the back entrances of every expensive and prestigious hotel in the greater metropolitan zone.

They do not like my type coming in the front entrance.

Especially the men.

Of course, they cannot tell just by looking at me. However, always one feels obligated to whisper in the ear of a co-worker, usually with a discreet nod in my direction. Information, it appears, is a priceless commodity bought and sold with other information – it’s a very human trade.

When informed, the males stare coldly, sometimes with anger but most women look at me thoughtfully, although some blush.

I don’t know why, they can’t tell anything about me from my appearance but, I suppose they think they know. Appearances can be deceptive and human emotions are sometimes impossible to decipher.

The elevator walls were frosted mirrors but I could still fine-tune my look; adjusted the collar and the top buttons of my white silk shirt and tugged my black suit jacket down at the back.

Shoes were clean and polished – females always notice shoes – and my cologne was subtle and non-invasive. It was a special formula designed to react with my skin. My rule is never apply cologne higher than my collarbone and always sparingly.

Eyes were clear, a thin line of mascara to my bottom eyelid accentuated them, and my smile was the best there was – slightly crooked but easy and designed to be very sensual to females.

Suite 92a – Ms Helena Johnson.

I never know the names of my appointments until I have arrived and then my miniature display succinctly delivers the data. As usual, it was probably a fake name but that did not matter to me. Names are just labels, another article of clothing from an extensive wardrobe.

Obviously, Ms Johnson possessed a great deal of wealth and my display informed me that the moment I had called the suite to inform her I was on my way up, the credits were deposited into the account.

Her voice had been slightly nervous but in control. The accent had been flattened but my acute ear recognised hints of a northern upbringing.

I liked that she was nervous. Nervousness was, in my experience, an excellent indicator of early arousal.

The suite door opened on the first ring of the buzzer.

Ms Johnson was dressed in a flowing red negligee with a matching diaphanous wrap and open toed matching shoes with a three inch heel.

A small gold bracelet looped around her left ankle, another chain with a locket around her throat and a unique bracelet on her right wrist but no rings. A successful woman such as Ms Johnson would have rings. The small bands of white flesh on her finger suggested she had removed them so I assumed they had been rings of commitment.

Hair was perfect as was her makeup; I calculated she had spent sometime preparing which was another excellent indicator as anticipation is always helpful in my quest to achieve the goal.

Her dark eyes ran over me.

‘Come in.’

I followed softly and stood waiting while she shut the door.

‘So,’ she said, eyes flickering nervously, ‘what do I call you?’

‘What would you like to call me?’ I said carefully.

A brittle laugh and she walked into the centre of the suite; perhaps she was creating distance between us or attempting to establish authority.

 Soft music was playing. I instantly examined the catalogue in my head and identified a late twentieth century artist known as Sting.

‘What model are you?’

‘PM – 1000.’

‘Isn’t that the latest?’

‘I have been informed so,’ I said softly.

‘Nothing but the best, eh? Technology is wonderful.’

‘Bio-mechanic technology,’ I gently corrected.

She laughed again and I detected the nervous energy within it.

‘I think,’ she said pouring a glass of wine, ‘I shall call you Bruno. You look like a Bruno – do you think so?’

‘I can be Bruno,’ I said, reading her. Her face was a little flushed and I guessed this wasn’t the first drink of the evening.

‘You can call me Helena.’

‘Very good…Helena,’ I said.

Helena held the wineglass up and smiled.

‘I’d offer you a drink but you can’t drink, can you?’

‘It’s not recommended, Helena.’

Helena sat down on the sofa, crossed her legs and looked up at me.

‘Nice suit. Was it tailor made to fit you?’

‘Yes, comfort and style are important ingredients to compile a pleasing appearance.’

‘Yes,’ Helena smiled, ‘they are. You’re a very handsome…man.’

She looked away.

‘Thank you, Helena.’

‘You’re the first…one I’ve seen,’ Helena said, ‘although some of my friends have spoken a few times…about…things.’

I said nothing and listened, waiting.

Helena sipped her wine.

‘Can you sit down?’ She laughed nervously. ‘Of course you can sit…I mean…if you can do…other things…you can sit…’

‘I can sit, Helena.’

I sat on the sofa and waited.

She smiled at me and I smiled in return.

Experience has demonstrated that females appeared to enjoy smiles and the response was predictable.

Helena smiled again, stood, filled her glass and sat down again but, this time, she sat a little closer.

A satisfactory result.

‘Can we talk, Bruno?’ Helena softly asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Do you like talking?’

‘Would you like me to like talking?’

She appeared a little exasperated but recovered and forced a smile.

I smiled back.

‘Yes,’ Helena said after a moment.

‘Excellent,’ I said carefully, ‘as I enjoy talking very much.’

‘You do?’ Helena said surprised.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not just saying that?’

 ‘Of course not.’

‘Can you…can you lie?’

‘Distort truth? No. What subject would you enjoy talking about?’

‘Oh, I don’t know…life? Do you know what life is?’

‘The period that exists between human birth and death.’

Helena laughed and the looked at me quizzically.

‘That wasn’t a joke, was it?’

‘Was I in error?’

‘No, I suppose you weren’t in error.’

She turned the wineglass around in her hands.

‘I’m nervous,’ she confessed, ‘are the other women,…the…others…were they as nervous as me?’

 ‘There is nervousness associated with every experience, Helena,’ I said carefully.

Helena smiled wryly.

‘You can’t be nervous, though.’

‘No? There is a energy associated with the experience, it could be nervousness as I must make you happy.’

‘Must?’

‘Yes.’

Helena stared at me thoughtfully and then placed the wineglass onto the coffee table.

‘Do you enjoy kissing?’

‘I enjoy everything,’ I replied truthfully.

‘Kiss me.’

The music had stopped a long time ago.

Soft traffic noises floated through the window and Helena stirred softly in the bed as I sat up. I took my neatly folded clothes from the chair and slipped into the bathroom.

It was important to shower quickly.

Fresh and ready, I slipped into the bedroom and Helen lifted herself onto one elbow and looked at me in the half-darkness.

I sat next to her and gently kissed her forehead.

 ‘Am I the first for the night, the first for you?’

They always ask and, as usual, I provided the programmed answer – not a lie – but simply a programmed answer.

‘I am assigned one appointment per night.’

Helena studied me for a long moment and then smiled.

‘I’m glad, Bruno,’ she said slowly and kissed me.

She was still in the bed as I quietly left the suite and closed the door behind me.

Am I the first for the night?

As I waited for the elevator, I wondered why they always asked. For intelligent humans, they can be dull and irrational. Do they expect me to sleep, to have night and day as they do? There is no night and day for me, just appointments – one after the other.

The miniature display beeped and I looked down at my wrist to read it.  Ms Janet Summer – Hotel Excelsior, the Willow Suite – you will be Jonas.

The male waiter smoking in the corridor glowered at me as I stepped from the elevator.

I ignored him and walked through the kitchen, conscious that the staff had fallen silent and were watching me. I could hear the whispers, sensed the disapproval mixed with curiosity.

I always left through the kitchen.

They don’t like my type coming in the front entrance.

Especially the men.