I heft it in my palm; it is solid varnished wood with decent bristles, not the unforgiving plasticky variety. 'Go on then, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours,' I offer, handing it over to him.
He makes me bend with my palms flat on the shelf-seat while he runs the tickly bristles along my spine and then in circles from my shoulders downwards, sending vibrations through my pores. The pattern of soapy waves and circles gradually covers my back until it drifts over my coccyx and meets the crack of my bottom. The bristles cover the shiny wet globes, gently at first then more firmly, brushing with serious intent. I am grateful for the moisturising property of the soap, without which the sensation might become unpleasantly raw. As it is, I am on a tantalising precipice: pleasure if I step back, pain if I jump.
He scrapes along the underside of my buttocks, an exquisitely tender spot, and I moan and bend at the knees, but my attempt to elude the brush results only in a sudden and almost overwhelming crack of the wooden side against the rounds of my bottom. Not only is the bathbrush heavy and wooden, but my wetness accentuates the sharp pain of its contact.
'Ouch! What was that for?'
'Don't move.'
My thighs, back and inner, are scrubbed pink before his job is done, then he turns me round and puts two blobs of foamy bubble on each side of my collarbone, watching as they ski down the slopes of my breasts, blowing at them to increase their velocity. Once they settle on my nipples, he massages them in, then lathers my stomach, then the suds drift lower until I have a mock-pubic triangle of frothy whiteness which is used to clean and refresh the unclean parts of me.
His attentions end with his mouth on my fresh and fragrant nether regions. He breathes in long and deep, his nose buried down there, then he tastes the difference, running his tongue slowly between my lips, sucking at my clit, then kissing it and standing back up.
'My turn then,' he reminds me, and I wash him from head to toe, missing out nothing, not a crease, not a hidden hollow, even introducing a soapy finger to his arse, which makes him yell and buck off me as quickly as he can.
'That stings, you bitch!' he gasps, looking around for the retributive bathbrush, but I have put it beyond his reach and he has no recourse but to trust me to complete the task.
'This won't,' I promise, and my creamy hands soap his perineum, moving forwards, lathering up his scrotum, then manipulating his cock into life with a slippery hand job. I soap it then rinse it, then pull back the foreskin and clean the tip with my tongue.
'The champagne!' he suggests eagerly, so I take a mouthful then lower myself again over the sweet-smelling head of his prick, swirling the drink around it.
'Ooooh, that's nice,' he confirms, leaning back to grip the side of the bath with both hands. I bend lower, swallow more, breathe him in and try to place the scent. Almond blossom? Japonica? Sandalwood? All three? The steely apple tang of the champagne mixes with the slight bitterness of the cleansers, all heated up by his wanton animal warmth. Hot champagne, soap and erect cock. I wonder what name he'd give that on his cocktail menu.
When I begin to speed up a little, he slows me down, then stops me with a hand at the top of my head.
'Not yet. Don't want to peak too soon,' he says. 'Let's get out. I haven't finished with you yet.'
The towels are three times as fluffy as anything you might own yourself, huge and fat and yet also absorbent so that we are dry again in a jiffy.
He finds a scented body oil somewhere amongst the gigantic hamper of products and covers me in it, starting with my toes and ending with my neck, calling at all points north, south, east and west, so that my body has a slippery veneer by the time he has finished. He holds me against him and dabs two oily fingers between the cheeks of my bum, slipping them swiftly and shockingly into my ring before I can stop him.
'Revenge,' he breathes darkly in my ear, and I have to submit to having my arse fingered until he is satisfied I have paid the price of my folly. 'Right then,' he says, once my passage is fully oiled, 'Let's get some air.'
He pulls on the complimentary bathrobe, but when I reach for mine he shakes his head and takes my wrist, pulling me out through the suite to the balcony doors.
'I'm naked!' I object. Luckily it is a sunny day, but it's still January and the temperature is not far above freezing.
'I won't let you die of exposure,' he promises, pulling open the doors and standing with me in the frame, looking out over the city from the twenty-first floor. Only this floor and the penthouse above have balconies, and there are few other buildings in the vicinity high enough for us to be seen from. All the same, someone in the financial district a mile across town might have an interesting floorshow for his lunch break. Hopefully none of the traffic report 'copters or planes heading for the docklands airport will pass this way. Or would that be so bad? Would that, actually, be a little bit thrilling?
I allow his knee to nudge me out on to the freezing tiles. Instantly, my nipples are stiff and painful and I cross my arms over them, hugging them warm.
'Go and lean over the balcony,' he says.
'It's cold.'
'You'll soon warm up. Go and lean over.'
My breasts are pushed up against the cold chrome handrail; I crane my neck and look over and down at the tiny insect people dotting around far below. I wonder if any of them will look up and notice my bare shoulders and wet, icy hair.
'Baby, it's cold outside,' says Lloyd, and he isn't exaggerating. He stands behind me, pressing me into the fine metallic mesh, causing indented patterns to begin forming on my knees and stomach. I am grateful for the warmth of his bulk at my rear and the scant coverage of his robe. He braces his arms around my waist and claims me in a fierce bear hug that squeezes the breath from me.
'Need warming up?' he whispers into my numbing ear.
'Just a bit,' is my testy reply.
'Hold tight; might be a bumpy ride.' He lifts me a little, so I have to grab on to the lower rail of the balcony with my feet, slipping my toes between it and the embossed metal rectangle that preserves my fictitious modesty. Now if I stand straight the mob below can theoretically see my tits waving cheerfully down at them, though I crouch enough to hide them. The crouching bends me at the waist, so my bottom rubs against my lover's crotch. I am dangling my arms over the balcony, hanging on tight, my chin level with the handrail, waiting for Lloyd to start giving me the public fucking I expect, when he completely unbalances me by taking one arm away from my waist, parting my rear cheeks swiftly and efficiently and commencing a firm annexation of my bum.
'Hey . . . what?' I exclaim, feeling him glide in easily, thanks to the oil he liberally applied earlier on, quarter way, half way, all the way up. Oh glory. I am standing outside, naked on a hotel balcony in January with a man's cock buried deep in my arse. Of all the things I've done . . . this might be my favourite. Maybe not the January part.