The Hotel Summers (Patreon)

“Scott, it’s my birthday,” Emma whined without quite whining. “You promised we’d do something fun. Remember what we did for your birthday? You had all of me, Scott, and Psylocke besides.”

“You enjoyed that too,” Scott argued. “Almost more than I did.”

“It’s not as if I’m asking you to share me with another man, which would be fair. Just a spot of fun. Come on, Scott, don’t you want to be a good sport?”

“Letting you brainwash me is being a good sport?”

“Brainwashing!” Emma rolled her eyes. “That’s a pejorative term, Scott, and below you. I’ll simply be cloning my consciousness into your mind, just as we did with the Shadow King, which you didn’t mind at all.”

“That was different,” Scott paced, like he could outrun Emma’s sexual greed if only he covered enough distance. Even if the smallness of the room had him repeating himself, back and forth, back and forth… “The only way to stop Shadow King was to put a formidable psychic presence into someone else’s mind to counter him. He would’ve been able to telepathically overwhelm anyone without your years of experience. And still, I hated to ask it of someone. Putting anyone in the head of an X-Man, even you…”

“And I’m sure all would be equally hesitant over Jean,” Emma pouted. “Jubilee’s fine. The Professor checked her out. My imprint is fading from her mind like a dream upon waking. And really, I should be the aggrieved party here. Imagine, my precious experience copied into that little tart’s mind like the answers to a high school quiz…”

“If you hate the idea so much, why do you want to do it again?”

“Because imagine it, Scott! I won’t have to just… get an aftertaste of your feelings, which you have let me experience before, mind you. I’ll be in the driver’s seat. Able to know what it’s like to have that magnificent body at my command.” Emma quickly had an afterthought. “And you’ll enjoy yourself too, Scott. While my mental clone is in charge, you’ll be experiencing the grandest wet dream your subconscious could ever hope to conjure up. Imagine every idle fantasy you’ve had ever, brought to life with my skill and craftsmanship. You won’t want to wake up.”

“Yes. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“It’s only a vacation, Scott, I have no intention of putting down roots. I’m rather fond of my own body, as you may have noticed.”

“Then what do you want with mine?” Scott scoffed as something occurred to him. “Another round with Betsy? Are you going to show me what I should’ve done with her?”

“Scott, you’re being defensive. I have no complaints about your cocksmanship. I simply want to take you for a test drive. And it’s not just anyone I wish to be this intimate with. Well, there was that time for Bobby—I do think I might’ve gone overboard getting him in touch with his feminine side—and then there was Ms. Munroe, of course—you’re more on par with her than him, mind.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“Oh, Scott, how long have we known each other? What do you think I would do, with a second me, in your body?”

Scott cracked a grin. Oh yes. Now it made sense. “You’re literally going to fuck yourself.”

“After taking a long bath, mind. But yes. Would you do any less were you to find yourself in my body?”

Scott well-earned his reputation for humorlessness for passing up the chance to point out how many times he had found himself in Emma’s body. “I’ll take your word for how good I look. But I think I’m incompatible with this particular fetish.”

“Shame. I do love you, Scott, but, given the chance, who could be a better sexual encounter than, well, me? And let’s not pretend masturbation is an adequate substitute. There’s a reason you’re at my beck and call and not that of your own right hand.”

“Jesus, Emma…”

“I won’t bribe you, Scott. But given the chance you’ll emerge from your subconscious with a new kink you’d like to try out, wouldn’t you like me to be amenable to it? The way a happy birthday girl would be?”

“I’m very satisfied with our sex life as is, Emma.” And Scott smiled as though he’d paid her a compliment.

Emma smiled back at him. “Give me what I want or you won’t be.”

“That’s playing dirty.”

“If you don’t want dirty, what are you doing cohabitating with the White Queen?”

Scott sighed. When Emma started talking in the third person, he knew it was time to concede.

“It would serve you right if my fetish ended up being you wearing a color other than white.”

***

I know that I have a reputation for self-control, although personally I find that somewhat funny. In reality, I consider myself quite excessive. I train to the limit. I push myself to the extreme. I demand of myself everything I ask of my teammates and more.

Other men have mind palaces. I have something on par with the psychic landscape of actual high-level telepaths—the Professor, Jean, Betsy.

My eyes are my curse. My mind is my power. And I keep it honed to a razor’s edge, defended as securely as a bank vault. People have compromised me mentally before and I won’t have it.

So I meditate. I concentrate. I shore up my defenses in idle moments, moments of stillness, moments of myself. I burn through my peace to forge the armor I’ll need when my mind, my body, my people are under attack.

So I don’t just have a mind palace. I have a grand hotel. Turn-of-the-century Art Deco—even a man like me can’t be all function. And given the life I lead and the shades of red that make up my literal worldview… I like my thoughts to be as beautiful as possible.

No wonder I think of Emma so often. As terrifying as she can be, she’s as gorgeous as any apex predator.

Usually I have to focus on the grand hotel, though. After I let Emma in, I couldn’t get out of it without taking some very intense emergency measures.

Try to picture a woman in your head. Every detail, every smell, the way she sounds, the way she blinks, every possible facet of her being. You can’t do it. Your concentration cannot be that total. As exciting as fantasies are, there’s a reason people want to live them instead of just dreaming them.

Only now I am living them. Like some ironic punishment, I’m finally condemned to know my own mind.

Call it irony—I guess I’m the last to know. Because I’m something of a ladies man and it’s only now, looking at all the beauties that I’ve slept with or desired, that I realize I’m hardly the ascetic I’m reputed to be.

And, just like Emma, I have a taste for forbidden fruit.

My first stop is Rogue. She’s dressed to the same Great Gatsby effect as the others in my fantasy—I guess when so many women dress so skimpily around me, you can’t help but long for some class to go with the curves.

Of course, the male id still has its way. She’s wearing a bellhop uniform, but it’s quite abbreviated, cutting off at her thighs and showing the stockings that darken her pale flesh all the way to her pumps. A nifty little cap contains her striped hair and her buttoned uniform is so tight that the real Rogue would be complaining about how hard it is to breathe, but this creature of daydreams granted unexpected life can only think to serve. She welcomes me into her elevator with a brazen smile.

“Going down, sugah?” Of course, even here she has her accent. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t have a thing for that accent. “Can I take your baggage?”

“Yes, I have a pretty heavy load,” I tell her. “There’s a dollar in it for you if you can take it all.”

Her eyes light up, but I know it’s not the tip that has her so excited. At least, not the tip in my pocket.

This Rogue is as eager to be touched as I know the real thing would be.

“Anything for our best customer, Mr. Summers,” she drawls. “I’m here to take you from the very top to all the way down. No one’s better with a shaft than me.”

Still at the rigid attention of a Maître d', she keeps one hand behind her back and moves the other expertly. Closing the accordion gate, then setting the deadman switch to up, then unzipping my fly.

She pulls out my cock and begins working it with her white-gloved hand. It doesn’t take long before that glove is anything but pristine. I felt like I could go up to my floor without any elevator at all, it felt that good to streak the white linen with precum.