'I'm yours, make me yours,' I wheeze, my head banging against the soft padded headboard, my legs slicing the air, and then I come hard, very hard, so that the phrase 'like a steam train' rushes to mind, all steaming and whistling and roaring into the tunnel.
He throws back his head and shouts, 'Oh, yes, that's it,' and pulls out, but I don't think he has come yet, and one glimpse of his resolutely erect prick proves me right.
'We need virgin blood,' he says, somewhat alarmingly, but instead of ripping my flesh, he reaches over to the fruit bowl, picks out a handful of strawberries and proceeds to mash them into my well-used pussy. Their coldness makes me try to shimmy up the bed, but I am at the top already, and he steadies me with a hand on my stomach, continuing to pulp the juicy fruit against my clitoris and up into the stretched hole behind.
'Oh, that feels . . . kind of . . . nice,' I say, fearing all the same for the bright white sheets. We'll have to bung something to the laundry people.
'Your virginal bleeding feels nice? That's novel. That's not what most of the wenches say,' he tells me, still in character. 'Look how you're staining the sheets. Did that hurt, little bride? Was I too rough? Did I stretch you too far?'
He is smearing the strawberry mess all over, inside and out, using his fingers as fruit paintbrushes.
'You have ruined me,' I reply, jittering when he puts his mouth to my succulent core and begins to lick.
'I like you like this,' he murmurs. 'Fruity.'
Again he reaches for the basket, plucks some black grapes, bites into them and places the halves on my nipples. Pretty soon my abdomen is purple with blueberry stains, my thighs sticky with peach juice. Strawberry and raspberry mash is on both sets of lips and a banana sticks rudely out of my cunt. He eats the banana, as far as he can get, lapping up juices on the way, then his tongue and teeth work at getting inside to consume the remaining half. Once he has retrieved it, he gives it to me to eat – it has a unique flavour – and kneels up between my legs, looking me over.
'That's what I call a fruit salad,' he says with relish. 'Just needs a bit of cream.'
Although my mouth is crammed with banana à la jus de Sophie, he manages to stuff his cock in there as well, mixing and coating it with the munched-up pulp, pumping with his fist at the root. When I swallow the banana, he pulls out with a moan, points at my grapey, berry-smeared tits and shoots, topping them with his own brand of creamy drizzle, which he then rubs in with the palms of his hands, mingling fruit and semen until my breasts and stomach and most of my mound are covered with the mess.
'God, we need your camera,' he pants. 'You are the most obscene thing I've ever seen. I want to fuck you all over again.'
'Mmm, maybe later.' I yawn. 'How about a bath? A hot tub. I know how much you like those.'
'OK. Shall we take the champagne in with us?'
'I think it's practically compulsory to.'
He frowns down at his shirt, once white, now blue, purple, red and pink in an interesting tie-dye effect.
'I'll just go and get it running.'
The bath is enormous, a luxurious corner spa with shelving and bubbles. He has emptied all the creams and unguents and emollients in at the same time, so it brims with scented foam, not so much cleansing us as sheening our skin with the veneer of luxury.
I rest back against his chest, sipping at champagne, occasionally clinking his glass. 'I could get used to this.' I stretch like a cat, feeling the bubbles burst off my outstretched legs.
'You could,' he says. 'But I don't think this suite is often empty. It's booked up most of the year.'
'I'm not surprised. It's heavenly.'
Framed sketches on the walls, the towels and flannels folded into origami shapes, tiles that glitter with tiny jewel pinpoints. Mirrors so shiny that you can imagine stepping into their reverse-world with a shiver-shimmer. And everywhere the smell of money, that expensive aromatic fusion that convinces you you are cocooned from the dirt and danger of life.
He takes the champagne flute from me, places them both on the shelf behind us. 'I don't want you drinking it all now,' he says. 'There are all sorts of interesting things you can do with champagne.'
'Well, I know that. I've used more complimentary hotel champagne in non-traditional ways than you could even imagine.'
'You are underestimating my imagination. You need to stop doing that.'
We are still chuckling at each other when our lips bump together and our mouths open greedily. We slide down the seat, scrabbling and slithering all over each other until we slip off into the whirling vortex, drowning in our mutual absorption.
Our heads, conjoined, break the surface of the water from time to time while our limbs thrash and splash like half an octopus.
'Look, you're going to wear me out and I'm not even started yet,' he protests, shaking out his sleek wet hair so that droplets shower me. 'I'm going to get you clean before you start getting dirty again.'
He scoots over to the edge of the tub with me under one arm and retrieves a small bottle of luxe brand shampoo, which soon enough is lathered into my hair by his strong fingers. My scalp and my neck and shoulders are given a workout that leaves them free and floaty, ready to lie down and let the bubbles take me to sleep.
'No, no,' he reproves when I lay my soapy head back against his chest and shut my eyes. 'Get that backscrubber off the side.'