Hotel Sanctum X

My first ever fictional short story

This piece was inspired by a prompt for The Top Ten Stories by Timothy J. Sabo and is part of a series of fictional pieces which aims to explore some current social issues. This one focuses on the prompt: “The Incessant Lying”

Tom’s reptilian brain took over. Fight or flight hormones flooded his system. There was nowhere to run to.

Seventeen days earlier

Call it serendipity, call it what you will, but Tom wasn’t going to waste any time worrying about semantics. He was calling it Lucky, and he deserved it. He had been having a bad time of it lately and this was just what he needed.

He had spotted the advert on a flyer in the coffee shop. It wasn’t a place he had been to before — but a large white van had pulled out just as he was approaching and it had left a huge space that he could manoeuvre into without the need to engage in any awkward parallel parking. He had taken it as a sign, just the excuse he needed with his brain and body crying out for caffeine. Tom had overslept AGAIN that morning and left home without his usual espresso hit. Sod it. The detour may make him a few minutes late for work but he had underestimated his need for caffeine.

The single flyer was by the till, and it caught his eye: WANTED: single men to enjoy a weekend at a new dating hotel — all expenses paid in return for writing a review at the end of your stay.

He called the number at the bottom of the flyer using hands free as he finished the drive to work. A faceless male voice asked him a few questions and he got a text later that day to confirm that he had won a slot and they would be in touch soon with the location of Hotel Sanctum X

Two weeks later on a Friday evening, his son Joshua safely with his ex-wife for the weekend, Tom reveled in the knowledge that he had a whole weekend off duty. A whole weekend for himself, with the added possibility of hooking up with a hot single woman. He tried not to get his hopes up, but couldn’t stop himself from feeling some anticipatory excitement.

The little blue dot on Google maps showed him he was in the correct location. Hotel Sanctum X. Mindful of the need to be writing a good review of the place in return for his weekend, maybe even a sinful weekend, he noticed that the entrance was not exactly welcoming — no reception room that he could locate: just an opening into a large space with giant screens more reminiscent of a small shopping center or industrial building that had been hastily partitioned.

Tom noticed that one end was a mirrored bar but before he could take in any more of the surroundings, he was pounced on by a guide wearing what looked to be a replica of Prince’s outfit from the Official Purple Rain video. He was escorted up the central staircase to a galleried landing with rooms branching off on all sides, and shown to Room 39 where he was faced with the biggest bed he had ever seen — easily enough for four people. He tried to escort his mind away from the idea that was hovering and threatening to embarrass him in front of the Purple Guide — the idea that he may be tantalizingly close to fulfilling his fantasy of a threesome. Or foursome. “Think of cold showers or pink elephants”, he instructed himself, as he realized he was getting an erection just from being in the room. What the entrance lacked was more than made up for here. The room delivered and shed light on the X in Sanctum X. Decorated with erotica as its central theme, there were photos of naked women, phallic lights, and a basket of sex toys by the bed; red and gold was in abundance. “Opulent”, he thought. “Opulent and erotic. That is how I’ll describe it.”

In the bathroom he almost concussed himself on a chandelier that looked as if it were made entirely of gold plated bananas. The vibe was spa-like with fluffy towels, a walk-in rainfall shower and an illuminated shelf displaying a colorful array of different lubes and massage oils. Definitely an X-rated room. Tom was suitably impressed and more than a little aroused.

The Purple Guide advised that he make himself comfortable but to be downstairs in the main hall for drinks at 7pm.

Alone, Tom delighted in exploring the room further and located the mini-bar chock full of champagne, chocolate dipped strawberries and some risqué looking jelly babies.

Showered, shaved and trailing the subtle scent of the expensive designer aftershave that he had found among the bathroom goodies, Tom went downstairs to find that the main hall had been transformed. The lighting was dim, the screens were all showing eye-catching stills from pornographic movies, the bar was ambiently aglow with every possible alcoholic beverage on offer; what had been bare floorspace was now filled with plush overlapping rugs, intimate velvet seating areas broken up by low candlelit tables; the music was sexy. He took all this in with one wide-eyed glance, but what held his attention, what really took his breath away, was the realization that the room was filled with beautiful people and they were predominantly female. Everyone present looked as if they had stepped out of a glamorous other world. He felt as if he had stepped into a film set that had been perfectly arranged and choreographed to delight all of the senses.

He was glad he had bought his best outfit with him, and hoped that his Balmain jeans, Loewe T-shirt, Tom Ford sneakers and the ridiculously expensive Brioni jacket he had bought with his last bonus would pass muster among the assembled glitterati.

He soon stopped worrying. In no time at all, a tall striking, drop dead gorgeous redhead who reminded him of Stephanie, a girl he worked with and idolized, brought him a glass of champagne and introduced herself as Amber. It was unlike any event Tom had ever been to, or heard about. It was the kind of singles event a man could only dream of: outnumbered by gorgeously sexy women, and one of them was making it clear she was willing and ready to get to know him. Intimately. The atmosphere was one of possibilities; it reeked of no holds barred sensuality. It was sex on a stick, and Tom was ready and willing.

He started to get light-headed and switched from champagne to a flinty Pouilly-Fume which complemented the exquisitely presented nibbles that were proffered on silver platters by waiters who all looked as if they were wearing suits one size too small, their muscles prominent under the thin fabric. It was all very sexy.

Tom met Jack, another winner of the free weekend pass at the bar. “Is this for real?” he asked. “Do you think someone has hired these women to give us a good time so we write fantastic reviews?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” smirked Jack. “Skyla is a dream come true and she has been whispering in my ear what she wants me to do to her later. That girl is graphic. Don’t question it mate.”

In the early hours of the morning, Tom found himself remembering the conversation. Whatever Skyla had whispered in Jack’s ear was going to be tame compared to what he and Amber had just done. She had taught him moves that were probably banned by all the major religions. She had taken control and single-handedly surpassed all his fantasies. His ideas of a threesome seemed banal by comparison and he couldn’t believe his luck.

He was dreamily aware that he needed to find out more about Amber, whilst secretly sure that it wouldn’t matter what he found out: his imagination ran from introducing her to his friends to meeting her family, and it ran all the way through to marriage and maybe a sibling for his son Joshua. “What has she done to me?”

The rational part of him knew it was too early to talk about love, but that did not stop him from thinking about it. “Besotted” was the word that popped into his brain just before he fell asleep. “I’m besotted.”

When he woke to find that Amber had gone, he felt more than disappointed. But he consoled himself with the thought that he would find her over breakfast and they could begin to get to know each other better. He realized he didn’t even know her last name or what she did for a living.

If he was disappointed when he woke, he was distraught when he went downstairs to find that there was no sign that last night had ever taken place. Gone were the screens, the rugs, the furniture, the bar. More obviously missing were all the people. The space was back to looking almost industrial in its minimalism. The Purple Guide appeared from behind a well camouflaged door to deliver the bad news: “Unfortunately Sir, we have had a setback with the Fire Department. We have to ask all the guests to leave but we shall be in touch when we have everything in place to launch the opening and shall be pleased to have you attend again. As it is, we have to close now, but we hope that this will not affect your review.”

“Where is everyone?” Tom’s voice was cracking with anxiety. “I need to see Amber.”

“Don’t worry, Sir. If you would be kind enough to leave me your contact details, I shall make sure they get to the right person. We have everybody’s records and I am sure Amber will be in touch.”

Tom filled in the form with his details and trudged back to his room to pack his things and take one last glance at the room which he knew he would never forget. “I wonder if they will let us come back here on our first anniversary”, thought Tom. “Hotel Sanctum X. Number 39 can be our special lucky number.”

As if the DJ was psychic, “I Feel Good” came on the radio as Tom drove home. He cranked up the volume and sang along with James Brown feeling more alive than he had in months.

The police car in his rearview mirror panicked him for a moment. Was he speeding? Phew — he wasn’t. He slowed down to give the cop car space to get by easily. Tom was confused when they signaled for him to pull in. Maybe he had a busted light at the back.

What the heck was going on? They had GUNS! Terrified now, heart racing, Tom did as they instructed and got out of the car while they frisked him, cuffed him and put him in the back seat of their vehicle. His questions remained unanswered. “What am I being arrested for? You’ve got the wrong person? I’m Tom Gibson — I’ve got ID”

His breathing slowly returned to normal. Frontal cortex took over and he soothed himself. This was a mistake. It must be. It would all get sorted out.

The mystery continued when the hour-long journey in the police car ended at a razor-wire protected compound. He was no closer to working out why he had been picked up, and his protestations fell on deaf ears as he was stripped of all his possessions and escorted to a cell.

Tom’s knowledge of prisons was limited to watching The Shawshank Redemption. Three times. He had no sooner breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t sharing the space with a razor-blade wielding thug when he heard the bolts sliding and realized he was not, after all, going to be alone with the myriad number of questions whirling around his brain. Why hadn’t they charged him? Why had they refused him his phone call?

Into the cell came a disheveled looking and clearly distressed young man, who waited for the guard’s steps to recede down the corridor before speaking.

“You’ve got to help me,” said the young man. “What are you in for?”

“I’ll be out soon,” said Tom. “I must look like someone else. I haven’t done anything. I’m the most law abiding person I know.”

“Thank God,” he replied. “When you get out you’ve got to get a message to my wife. They won’t let me contact anyone. You’ve got to tell her I’m here and get her to contact Amnesty International.”

The young man, Chris, explained that he had been arrested and charged under the Terrorism Act and had just been before a judge in a closed court and was due to be transferred to a maximum security jail.

“What the fuck did you do?” asked Tom

“That’s the thing,” said Chris. “I haven’t done anything. I’m a journalist and I have been working on a story about the Government. They’re just making sure they shut me up. I think they are just going to make me disappear.”

“They can’t do that” said Tom. “You have rights”.

Chris wasn’t listening, focused only on getting his story across to Tom, as if he thought the guards may realize their mistake and separate them at any moment. Talking quickly he continued: “I had a source. He told me about a top level meeting between the Government, Law Enforcement and the Judiciary. The Government have decided the crime figures need adjusting. They want to make it look as if they are improving their capture rates for serious crimes and they’re setting up honeytraps to catch a load of criminals. They are going to entrap them and fast-track them into prison without proper trials. It’s all corrupt. The whole fucking thing is illegal. They are lying. Lies upon lies. I wish I’d never got involved in the story.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to sort it out” said Tom, trying to suppress his growing disquiet that he may be sharing a cell with a delusional madman.

The story seemed far-fetched and, if they were really out to silence Chris, surely they wouldn’t have put them in a cell with someone else who could spread the story far and wide.

“They must have been following me and realized I was a threat. I was just getting close to proving it; I had a tip-off about a fake hotel they set up to lure a load of rapists to.”

Tom was just trying to decide whether it would be politically incorrect of him to voice the nagging thought that, if the story was true, maybe it wasn’t SO bad if the scheme would take rapists off the street, when Chris said something that caused Tom’s heart rate to slow.

“Hotel Sanctum X. I nearly made it there in time to get some hard evidence and prove the whole lying charade.”

Tom’s reptilian brain took over. Fight or flight hormones flooded his system. There was nowhere to run to.

( Enjoyed this? The “clap” button below awaits you. Want to know a secret? You can press it up to 50 times if you want to give a standing ovation!)

©Annie Trevaskis 2022. All Rights Reserved