There was no answer, and the switchboard operator advised her that the occupant of room 1457 was out light now but was due back shortly after one-thirty. Well, she thought, I'll just dress neat – but sexy – and see if that's enough to turn on Mr. Hagen. Or McHagen. If he craved anything else, he could tell her face to face, and she'd do her best to deliver within the restrictions. Pam went in to shower, douche, and get herself fixed up.
She was just going out the door when the phone rang. "Oh, darling," she said happily, forgetting all about Mr. Hagen and his needs. It was Kerry.
"Well," he said, and she could detect the pride in his voice. "You may be talking to the new assistant supervisor. It's not sewed up yet, but we've been talking each other round in circles all morning, and it looks good. Brass from the main office, hon." He laughed. "We're invited to a party this evening, about nine at the Murdocks'. Wait till you see the brass who came to check me out, kid. You wouldn't believe who – oh. Mr. Murdock wants me. I've gotta run. Hey, it looks good, babe, really good. See you when I get home." He smacked a kiss into the phone and Pam could almost taste that kiss on her lips. Mmmmm, wasn't that great? Kerry deserved a promotion and she'd keep her fingers crossed for him all afternoon. And a party tonight? Did she have anything fit to wear? Well, she thought, if I don't, then I'll just buy something on my way home. Pam smiled and went out to her car. Forty-five minutes later, at eight before two, she was locking the door in the underground parking garage at the Hartford House.
It was two sharp when she stepped out of the elevator, according to the clock in the hotel hallway, and she stepped briskly toward the door she was looking for. 1457. Pam nodded, then tapped on the door. She was dressed properly, she thought, to meet a new customer for the first time. Poor boy cap with long dark hair falling from it around her face, midi-length coat, sweater, fashionable wool skirt, and low-heeled shoes.
She tapped again, and a distant, rather reedy voice from inside the room called, "Come in. It's not locked."
Pam opened the door and went into the sitting room portion of the suite. Small couch, chairs writing table, television set. The bedroom door was closed but she could hear sounds from beyond it, and there was a cigarette smell in the air. On the writing table was a bottle of Irish whisky, with glasses and soda. Pam sat down on the couch, crossing her long legs, not bothering to pull down the risen hem of her skirt.
"I'm Patricia Wright," she said. "You called me this morning. I tried to get in touch with you after I got your message but you were out. You mentioned Mr. Pendexter when you called my service, and that was an excellent reference. Oh, I couldn't get it straight from the service – the girl who took the message is a functional illiterate, I believe – is your name Mr. Hagen or McHagen?"
The bedroom door opened and so did Pam's mouth. "Neither," said the woman standing in the doorway. "It's Ms. Hagen."
Apparently it was. Pam tried to collect her thoughts as the woman strolled into the sitting room, but the only thing that passed through her mind was that Charlotte must have written Mr. instead of Ms. or Mrs. Or did that matter?
"There must be a mistake," Pam said finally.
"No." The woman shook her head almost unconsciously. "I called you. Jack Pendexter is a good friend of mine, and he recommended you in the highest terms. Sit down, please." And she came closer. Not knowing why she did it, Pam sat down again.
"I don't understand. What you want with me, I mean."
The woman laughed. "The same thing anyone wants when they book you, darling. Well, maybe not the same thing, but…" She slanted her head and looked at Pam through heavy-lidded eyes, almond-shaped, a deep sparkling green. Pam felt uncomfortable under that stare and a soft red blush began to spread across her face. "I think you'll do nicely," Ms. Hagen announced, planting her fists on her hipbones and straightening up.
She was attractive, in an almost careless way. An inch or two above average height, perhaps, but not as tail as Pamela. Her hair was russet-colored and swept lazily around her strong face. If faces meant anything, she was obviously a woman of will power and determination. The set of her chin, the firmness of her nose and cheeks, the confidence that smiled from her lips. She wore a jacket, slacks, and white blouse with a large scarf tied at her neck and, though the clothes fit her loosely, it was impossible not to imagine that tile rest of her body was as firm and confident as her face. Pam's flush deepened. For the first time in her new hobby, Pam Wilson was at a loss. She wasn't sure what to say or to think.
Ms. Hagen removed her jacket and Pam noticed the high thrust of the woman's nearest tit where the silk blouse clung and molded. "A drink?" Ms. Hagen asked, walking toward the table. Pam shook her head, then nodded. Ms. Hagen poured out two stiff jolts of Jameson's, added soda. "Sorry, there doesn't seem to be any ice."
Pam took her drink and sipped at it. When she raised her eyes Ms. Hagen was still there, only a few feet away, staring at her. Eyes like a cat, she thought, a prowling, hungry cat. Does that make me the mouse?
"Thank you for the drink," Pam said, "but I think I ought to be going…"
Ms. Hagen caught her hand, held it in a surprisingly strong, deceptively warm grip. "No, don't leave. Please don't." She put down her glass and glided close, so close that her body moved into place only inches from Pam. If I breathe, Pam thought, our tits are going to bump together.
"You're lovely," Ms. Hagen said softly, purring the words up into Pam's face, breathing out the scent of Irish whisky too. "Jack told me you were absolutely beautiful, with the softest warmest body he'd ever been next to, and that you were hell between the sheets. Show me, Patricia. Here, let me…" And with that she put her hands firmly upon Pam's tits, and there's no need to worry about the effect of breathing. Pam moaned, lifting up onto tiptoes as the woman's hands closed upon her swelling tits and she felt her nipples erect suddenly, savagely, against the fabric of her sweater.
"Oh, God," Ms. Hagen panted, "oh, dear God." She leaned closer then, her lips puckering, and she planted her mouth on Pam's bare neck, pushing aside a fall of almost-black hair to get at the skin. And when she took hold, she was like a leech, her mouth affixing itself, sucking, nibbling, her hands flexing on Pam's tits as the nipples just kept getting bigger and harder inside the sweater, bigger and harder, throbbing as they swelled, heating, bunting, burning…
Pam staggered, murmuring, "No, no," and then she was being guided backwards, Ms. Hagen prodding with her body, and almost before she knew it the couch sprang up to catch her and they were both on the small couch, half sitting, half lying down, and her sweater was being lifted by hot, eager hands.