**As always, no one in this story is younger than eighteen. Another reminder, the Incest Hotel stories are all essentially self-contained, you don't have to have read any of the others for this one to make sense.**
1
It had been remarked upon many times down the years that if you wanted to know what kind of hotel the Copeland Grand was, the first clue was in the name. From the day it opened its doors, it was an establishment that prided itself on quality, luxury and service. It really was
grand
in every way imaginable. Obsessive care and attention had been paid to its construction and outfitting. The decoration, the furnishings; everything was
top notch.
That devotion was maintained scrupulously down the decades. Over the years, millions of dollars had been spent on maintenance and improvements. The best quality furniture, wallpaper, art, carpeting was acquired and installed. Not a penny was spared. Every owner who had enjoyed the honour and privilege of running the hotel shared in that ethos and intent.
To put it simply, they believed in nothing but the best.
Nowhere was that more true than in the South Wing of the hotel. Every room there was beautifully appointed, with sumptuous beds, incredibly comfortable furniture and the most up-to-date fixtures and fittings. The top floor played host to the ultimate in excess and decadence. These were pretty much the finest examples of accommodation the Copeland Grand could provide.
Room 401 was just about the most exclusive, most luxurious dwelling in the entire hotel. It was pretty obvious that whoever could afford to stay here was
rich
. Really fucking rich. Obscenely so. To stay here, you had to be shitting money. It wasn't a hotel
room
for starters. It was a giant
suite.
It was made up of several rooms, a couple of bedrooms, bathrooms and a living area.
Sitting on a very comfortable chair in that living area was a young man called Peter Harcourt. He was sat silently, barely moving. He looked calm, collected and contained. His heartbeat was steady and low, his breathing was similarly sedate. His face was passive and seemingly untroubled. He was waiting for something - someone - but he was confident their arrival was imminent.
Peter - no one ever dared call him
Pete
- was excited,
very
excited, but you wouldn't know that from his demeanour. He just sitting there and continued to wait. He didn't even bother tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. He waited until there was a knock on his door. He got up and strode towards the hallway that led off from the living area. He reached the entrance to the hotel suite and looked through the spy-hole. Seeing what he expected to see, he unlocked and opened the door.
Stood in front of him were two women. Both were casually dressed. Both had red hair. And both were, despite their lack of makeup or glamorous clothing, quite, quite beautiful. One of them looked a little older than the other, and she smiled a dazzling smile.
"Mr Harcourt?" She asked.
"Yes," he replied, in a noncommittal sort of way.
"We're from the agency. May we come in?"
"Yes."
He stepped back and let the two women into the room, then he closed the door behind him. The first one, the older one who had done all the talking, kissed him softly on the cheek. Peter seemed a little flustered by this, but recovered his
sangfroid
quickly enough.
"I'm Rose," the older woman said.
"And I'm Ashleigh...call me Ash," said the younger woman, opening her mouth for the first time. She too offered a demure kiss on the cheek.
He led them into the living area and offered them a drink. They accepted and he poured them both a scotch. All three of them sat down, Peter in the chair he had been previously occupying, the two women on a long couch that was positioned opposite.
Both women were strikingly attractive, even in their relatively mundane mode. Each of them were wearing jogging pants and t-shirts, their hair up in matching ponytails. The older woman's hair was a rich dark red, perhaps out of a bottle. The younger woman's hair was lighter in tone, but with distinct echoes of ginger. Peter examined them carefully, his eyes roaming without restraint. He liked what he saw, he was excited by the ample possibilities that presented themselves.
"Your names?" He asked, "Those are your real names?"
"Yes," Rose replied, "usually, in our line of work, we adopt fake names,
pseudonyms,
I suppose. But, bearing in mind the nature of our relationship and your very specific requirements, it seemed appropriate we would use our real names. You paid quite the premium for this indulgence."
"Hopefully, it will be money well spent."
"Oh it will be, let me assure you of that. Speaking of money...?"
"Ah yes, your
donation.
"
Peter stood up and walked to a desk situated near one of the windows. He opened a drawer and took out an envelope. A rather thick envelope by the looks of it. He returned to the two women and handed it over to Rose.
"Here it is, as agreed," he stated, "there is another envelope in that drawer; a tip, assuming your work is
satisfactory
."
"We've never had any complaints."
"I don't doubt it. Why do you still insist on cash, by the way? Surely, in this day and age, money can be transferred online so much more easily."
"You would have to ask my employers. They insist upon it. It's probably a tax thing, I don't know. Easier to keep things secret. I mean, after all, what we're doing is still
illegal.
Even in this day and age."
"True, true."
"Especially what
we
are doing," she said, looking at the younger woman.
Rose opened the envelope and carefully counted the contents. Then she placed it inside a large bag she was carrying. Ashleigh had a similar one. After that was done, she pulled out a cardboard folder and placed it on the coffee table in front of her.
"So, I imagine you have a few questions for us?" Rose said.
"Yes," he replied, "what's your surname?"
"Tremain."
"How old are you?" He said, looking at Rose.
"38."
He turned to Ashleigh, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
"22," she replied.
He turned back to Rose, eyebrow still raised.
