12 Months of Kink

“Are you certain you wish to go ahead with this?” She asked, her gaze still fixed on the dimly lit world outside. 

Daemon—seated opposite her amidst a pile of soft cushions—brushed his fingers across the pommel of Dark Sister and smirked. “I am very certain,” he told her. “Tonight, I will call you mistress. Tonight, I will submit to your whims. You and I will indulge in pleasures spoken of only in whispers. That was the bargain we struck when I lost that wager.”

Laena turned to look at him. “And I know precisely how this night will end.” She grinned and dropped the curtain. The air grew warm within, but not uncomfortably so. “You will lie a ruin at my feet, Daemon Targaryen.”

“Oho!” Daemon gleefully cried. “It appears my lady possesses a wicked tongue.” He slumped back and stretched out his legs, utterly at ease with himself. “Pray tell me, my sweet. Will you be gentle with me tonight?”   

“That will depend,” Laena responded, “on the manner in which you conduct yourself.” She startled when the palanquin stopped and lurched as it was set down. “We are here.”

One of the guards standing sentry beside the open gates shouted out an order, and a handful of slaves hurried forth from the shadows, barefoot and garbed in simple, sleeveless, rough-spun robes cinched at the waist with dark leather belts and at the throat with heavy collars. They threw back the curtains, and one offered his hand to help Laena out into the open. His collar—she discovered—was stiff, twisted bands of burnished copper and iron, and upon his bronze cheek, tattooed in pale pink ink, was a sprig of Siren’s Bells, the symbol of the pleasure house he served and a blossom found only on the island Lys was built on. Daemon followed her, his body tingling with anticipation. Tonight promised a change for him and his wife both. He could not wait to revel in what all that change would bring.

Another slave pulled open the door of the pleasure house itself, and a warm, orange-yellow glow flowed out, illuminating the shapes of the revellers within. The proprietress, a tall, regal woman with golden hair touched with strands of frost, glided gracefully out of the open doorway, her arms outstretched to welcome them.

“Greetings,” she said warmly. “I am Linaera Volliris, the owner of this establishment. How may I be of service to you both?”

Daemon turned to Laena and gestured for her, the winner of their wager, to speak.

“I am to be mistress to my lord husband tonight,” Laena blurted, a touch of heat blooming in her cheeks. Then she remembered who and what she was, composed herself, and with more steel in her voice, added, “And my lord husband is to be bound and suspended. We have heard hushed tales of others indulging in this act for their pleasure, and we desire to experience it for ourselves.”

“I know precisely of what you speak.” Linaera beamed, her mind busily working on what had to be done to make the night a success for her newest patrons. “And I must say you were wise to come here. My lord,” she continued, addressing Daemon, “would you and your lady object to my attendants helping you out of your clothes and into your restraints? Preparations for the diversion you both seek require skilled hands; it should never be attempted by novices such as yourselves.”

Daemon exchanged a look with Laena. He had no objection to others helping him, but Laena had to give her answer first—she was not only his wife but also the one in command of him this night. Every single aspect hinged on her approval, and her approval alone.

“I do not object,” she said without hesitation.

“I do not object either,” Daemon said also.

Linaera clapped her hands together and called out two names. A pair of comely young men—fair-haired, violet-eyed pillow slaves who were lithe of body and bound to lifelong servitude just as much as the slaves dressed in brown—answered her summons, arrayed for the night in breeches of pale pink satin and collars that were a match for those worn by the common house-slaves. They bowed deeply, and when they straightened themselves, they turned to Linaera, awaiting her instructions.

“Take this lord to the Crimson Room,” she commanded, “and restrain him to the beam. He is to be suspended, feet in the air.”

“Yes, mistress,” the taller pillow-slave said. “My lord? If you would come with us?”

Daemon followed eagerly, grinning when he glanced back over his shoulder and Laena winked at him.

When he stepped over the lip of the entryway into the passageway within, he was overcome by all of what he heard and saw. The Siren’s Bell was unlike the pleasure houses of Flea Bottom—at least, it was unlike those frequented by Daemon and the Gold Cloaks he held in high regard. Everything looked new and pretty and clean, and the air smelt faintly of some costly spice Daemon could not name. Still, he breathed it in and welcomed the sense of wellbeing it brought with it.

There were Myrish carpets everywhere he looked, muffling everyone’s footsteps. An inner courtyard, unheard of even in the richest of pleasure houses on the Street of Silk, graced the centre of the receiving hall, its plants and flowering bushes exposed to the night sky and its low fountain bubbling away merrily, creating a rhythm of its own. Little tables stood in nooks and crannies, their dark, polished surfaces filled with gilded pitchers filled with wine and bowls full of figs and wild berries and sweetmeats of strange shapes and hues. To rouse one's blood during acts of play, Daemon thought, picking one of them up. It looked innocuous to his eyes, and it would not be needed tonight; not by him in any event. When the pillow-slaves called to him, he returned the sweet to its former place and picked up his feet, taking care to skirt around groupings of two and three and more engaged in various trysts.

Daelos, as the taller pillow-slave was named, stopped before an oaken door dotted with golden studs. He pushed it open to reveal an airy room lit by many candles. They burnt away in tall, thin stands, their light revealing the large and inviting bed backed up against the wall, a pair of matched chairs before a blazing hearth, and an antechamber hidden behind a drape of sheer damask. Daemon pushed it aside and was the first to go inside.

The antechamber, he discovered, was deceptively large. Much like the chamber beyond, it was fashioned from brick painted a deep red, the colour of power and passion and lust and vitality. But it was bare save for a handful of beeswax candles, a single heavy beam running across the ceiling, and several lengths of thick silken rope that hung from it. Some of them dropped almost to the ground. Some of them were tied to rings at the base of shorter ropes. And each of them served a particular purpose. Daelos stepped in behind Daemon and reached around his shoulders to unfasten his cloak. His fellow pillow-slave, Vyran, walked around Daemon to help him rid himself of his gloves and doublet and tunic, breeches and sword belt, small clothes and boots and hose. Their hands were deft and quick, and cool and soothing to the touch. Each item of clothing was carefully folded and taken back outside to be set down at the foot of the bed, and they were taken out wordlessly. The slaves never spoke—and they would not have unless spoken to, or the occasion specifically called for it. Now was not the occasion for speech, so they held their tongues and went about their business without uttering a word.

But they were skilled; Daemon could not deny that. They carefully bound his arms above him, then his legs, one at a time. Daelos supported him while Vyran went about his task until finally, the young slave placed a thick velvet cushion against Daemon’s abdomen. Daemon suspected the cushion was for his protection and not just for his comfort, for he did not feel any rope cut into his flesh as they were wound around his waist and made to bear the chief of his weight. He was suspended horizontally midair, his arms outstretched behind him and his legs partly folded back at the knees. Each of his limbs—just like his torso—was secured to ropes fastened to the rings above them, and the feeling of weightlessness was something Daemon could not describe. It was frightening, truly. He was unclad and vulnerable and utterly exposed to the whims and cruelties of another. Yet he felt a growing sense of pride in his own strength also, for his body bore the rigours of being upheld in such an unnatural position without much discomfort or pain. Then the joy of such a discovery was quickly forgotten. The drape to the antechamber was drawn back, and Laena padded in, barefoot and unadorned, a slender riding crop in her left hand.

Daelos helped her out of her cloak, and soon, a figure dressed in muslin the colour of sea green was revealed.  The fabric was sheer—doing nothing to conceal the body that was honed and hardened by years of mounting and dismounting the largest and most feared dragon alive, devoid of sleeves, and the bodice—such as it was—was slashed in front almost to the wearer’s belly in a deep vee, its edges lined with delicate silver Myrish lace. Daelos and Vyran then bowed once more, their tasks completed for the moment, and took their leave. They spoke for the first time in a while, promising to remain just outside the room’s door should their aid be needed again.

Laena waited until the door was shut behind them before turning to face her husband. A light flashed in her deep brown eyes, one that Daemon managed to see before he dropped his head. His wife was thoroughly enjoying the sight of him naked and restrained. That she was thoroughly enjoying the sight of him naked and restrained pleased him to no end.

Laena circled Daemon, tickling his sides with her crop as she did so and making him shudder. “And here he is,” she began, pausing by his hip, “the infamous Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince and son of House Targaryen, bound and helpless before me. How does it feel, husband mine, to be immobile and at the mercy of another’s whims?”

“Most refreshing,” Daemon cackled, his fears over being bound and restrained giving way to his humour. Feeling mischievous, he added, “Though I confess, I am rather surprised. I never took you for one to command another.”

“You question my ability to command?” Laena arched a brow. “Me? The woman who claimed Vhagar while still a child?”

“Indeed I am,” Daemon taunted in jest. “What do you intend to do about it?”

Laena raised her arm and brought down her riding crop on the side of Daemon’s arse with a sharp pop. He jerked and cried out from the impact and from the sting that followed. “Too much?” She purred, dragging her plaything back and forth across his trembling thigh.

“Tisn’t enough,” Daemon countered, hoping to goad Laena on. He enjoyed being struck; he truly did, but still, he felt like it was not enough. “Come, come, my love, I thought you could do better. You can do better, yes?”

His wife narrowed her eyes, amused rather than wroth, and rose to the occasion. She struck him on the side of his arse again. And again. Bruises bloomed to life, splotches of crimson against alabaster white. A fourth strike flowed forth, quick and harsh, inflaming the giver as much as it did the receiver. Daemon let out a moan as pain mingled with red-hot pleasure, and a warm, heavy feeling bloomed deep within his chest. It spread through every part of him, making him forget all else. No word could describe this feeling he felt, not even those devised by the finest poet to be found. Still, he latched onto it, and when Laena struck him a fifth time, he let himself drown in the maelstrom that this feeling swelled into.

“Mocking me,” Laena remarked, “does not become you.” She ambled around Daemon until she reached his other side, her crop still in her grip. “Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

Laena cracked her riding crop across his thigh this time, causing another bruise to bloom in its wake. “Yes, what?”

“Yes,” Daemon murmured, yielding for the present. “Mistress.”

“Much better.” Laena moved to the front of her husband and lifted his chin with a curled index finger so she could look at him, eye to eye. “I had my doubts when Linaera presented me with a chest of playthings to choose from, but I am now glad she did so. This,” she said, lifting the crop for Daemon to see, “proved to be of much use.”

Daemon laughed softly. “Perhaps it is something you and I could bring into our marriage bed, mistress.”

“How well you learn,” Laena cooed. She let go of him and walked slowly around him, admiring the shape of his body, the contrast of bruise and rope against his skin, and the faint flush of pink in his cheeks. “And you are right. We should bring this into our marriage bed. It would serve us both well.”

She halted by his hip once more and ran the flat of her free hand over the curve of his buttocks. Daemon shivered, and when he did so, Laena did as well. Having power over another in any shape or form was something she only envisioned while taking to the skies on Vhagar’s back. This, however, was a wholly different sort of power. Daemon placed himself in her hands. She could break him, body and perhaps mind both, and yet, he trusted her still. The notion that he, a man who answered to no one beside himself, could easily do so with her and her alone, humbled her. But Daemon would not see that. Not tonight, at least. For tonight, she ruled him, and not he her.

Daemon closed his eyes when she braced her clenched hand against the small of his back and reached between his thighs with her other hand to grasp his cock. He surrendered completely, his every thought slipping out of his mind like water through a sieve when his wife began to stroke. He felt the knuckles that pressed down on him, the rope that embraced him instead of simply chafing against him, and the slender, practised fingers that effortlessly glided up and down, as if they were smoothing over velvet. Every sensation that hammered at him was amplified, and when he cried out his pleasure, Laena felt more than a simple flash of pride. She was doing this to him. She was commanding him and pleasing him and taking him to his release. The knowledge that she was doing so filled her with a sense of command she did not think she possessed.

“Will you finish if I command you to?” She husked, eager to see if Daemon would yield to her in this aspect also. He had done so for everything else.

Daemon writhed against his restraints, so desperate was he to finish. “Yes, mistress. Please, mistress.”

“Then finish.” Laena took Daemon to the brink and beyond it, her breath hitching when he called out her name and emptied himself of his spend after her saying he should do so. She then stepped back, drinking in the vision before her: Daemon quivering from the aftermath of his release, the rapid rise and fall of his chest with each of his ragged breaths, and the body that bore the marks of her ministrations. She dropped her crop and clapped her hands together, a signal for Daelos and Vyran to enter.

“Release my husband,” she said when they appeared, “and bring us refreshments. After we are finished,” she uttered after a moment’s reflection—more for Daemon’s benefit than the slaves’—“he is to receive his reward.”

On Vyran’s urging, Daemon took deep breaths to steady himself as the slaves went about freeing him from his silken bonds. His body felt sore, and his thoughts were muddled. Coming back to his present reality felt slow and jarring and more than a little disappointing. Still, he returned to himself, and when the slaves withdrew to bring in food and drink, he looked at his wife, his pleasure renewing at the sight of her proud and satisfied with what she had done.  

“Do you truly intend to reward me, mistress?”

“Indeed I do,” she told him. “You did very well, husband. And I intend to reward you handsomely for your efforts.”

“Lady Eunomia,” Apollo began, addressing the goddess who appeared before him clad in green and a crown of flowers always in bloom. “I wish to present Hyacinthus Amyclae of Laconia. He is my honoured guest. He is also my companion. My father has finally granted me leave to bring him here. Will you grant him leave to visit the uppermost floors of our home?”

Hyacinthus was loyal to a fault. Apollo had seen it for himself when he peered into his heart. Still, the appeal to his father and the request for entry were as ancient as they were necessary. Zeus did not just allow any mortal into the gods’ immediate and most private spheres—not unless he considered them to be exceptionally worthy. And he bestowed upon the Hôrai—sisters who could see into the hearts of all, mortal and immortal alike—the power to grant and deny entry into the innermost sanctums of wherever the divine lived on his behalf. The gods and goddesses possessed more than their fair share of vices and follies, and they had more than their fair share of rivals and enemies. If Eunomia discovered even a sliver of treachery or underhandedness, she could refuse to grant Hyacinthus entry. If she did, Apollo would have to heed her and take Hyacinthus to another room, one that was nowhere near as lavish or as comfortable as his own. Or he would have to take Hyacinthus and go elsewhere altogether. Or he would have to finish things with Hyacinthus instead. Apollo hoped such would not be the case.

“Hyacinthus,” Eunomia said, tasting the sound of the mortal’s name. “The mortal athlete of growing repute.” She circled him while Apollo took a step back, peering into the mortal’s heart without invitation or a second thought. What she discovered pleased her. “Your father was correct to let your mortal come here, my lord,” she uttered, nodding in approval. “He is as utterly devoted to you as he is skilled and handsome. And he can be trusted to guard all our secrets. He may go with you to your chambers.” 

“My thanks,” Apollo returned, slipping Hyacinthus’ arm around his. 

They strolled toward the elevators, taking their time as they did so. Hyacinthus looked about him and marvelled at what he saw. The muses lounged about on plush chairs and reclining benches in the lobby, dressed in otherworldly finery and sipping wine or writing poetry or paying court to some fortunate companion who had captured their attention. Their gleaming hair stood out against walls stained a deep shade of red, and the ends of their skirts pooled against a floor made of polished black marble veined in white. Small flowering plants sprouted here and there out of exposed patches of earth in the flower, their blooms giving out a subtle and pleasing scent. Hyacinthus took in a deep breath of this scent and sighed in contentment. The smell from the flowers did more to put him at ease than all of his merrymaking did. 

He said, “I half-expect a peacock with glittering feathers to appear out of one corner and then run off to another corner after startling everyone.” 

Apollo laughed. “The peacocks prefer my stepmother’s company, my love,” he said, opening the elevator doors with just a thought. “You will not find them here.” 

He pulled Hyacinthus to him as soon as they stepped inside, backing him up against the wall and kissing him hard on the mouth the moment the doors closed behind them. Hyacinthus gasped from the initial shock. Then he closed his eyes and surrendered, his hands slipping around Apollo’s waist to clutch desperately at his broad back. 

It all felt different now that they were within the confines of what Apollo called home. Before, they had to be careful. Apollo could not bring Hyacinthus to the Mount Olympus until his father approved of the mortal and said yes. Hyacinthus could not always bring Apollo into his home, for he lived at home with his mother, father, and little sister. When he was not living with them, he was sharing rooms and apartments with other teammates. Hyacinthus did not want the others to see him with Apollo. Oh, the gods moved freely among mortals now just as they did many an age ago, but still, he did not want to risk discovery. He did not want the others to think Apollo favoured him unfairly in any way. He did not want others to trouble him for favours on their behalf; that could only lead to trouble for both him and Apollo. It was hard work, keeping their relationship in the shadows, but they managed. Whenever Apollo sought Hyacinthus, he came in secret, and he came in the guise of a man with a fair face that would easily disappear in a sea of many. Now, he could be as free with Hyacinthus as Hyacinthus could be free with him. He poured fire into his kiss, pushing his tongue between parted lips and flicking it against the tip of Hyacinthus’ own. Hyacinthus moaned softly, his body trembling when Apollo ground against him. 

“I never knew a god could be so impatient,” he teased when Apollo drew back long enough to let him breathe. “Are you that desperate to get me into your bed?” 

“Just eager.” Apollo grinned, his eyes shifting from the pale blue he put on when concealing himself to the gleaming white light, a visible sign of his divinity. He took Hyacinthus’ hand into his when the elevator pinged softly and the doors slid open. “We have waited so long for this. Now come. My chambers are here.” 

The entire floor belonged to just three gods: Apollo, Hermes, and Artemis, Apollo’s twin. Hermes was away on an errand on behalf of their shared father, Apollo explained as he led Hyacinthus to his rooms, and Artemis was away on the hunt. They would not be seen or heard from for days. There would be no one to hear them or disturb them. They could be as loud as they wished. No one would be troubled by what they did. 

The gilded oaken doors to Apollo’s chambers swung open, and Hyacinthus found himself ushered past the receiving room and into a parlour larger than most apartments he had seen. The walls were the same deep red as the walls of the lobby beneath them, and the floor was tiled with the same black marble. Swans crafted from gold sat atop chests and countertops, their wings unfurled as if they were about to take flight. Sprigs of white larkspur stood up straight in clear crystal vases set atop the burnished surfaces of little side tables. A magnificent lyre carved from a single block of dark wood stood atop the mantel of the mock fireplace. There were lamps throwing out dull golden light everywhere. 

“Come,” Apollo urged, tugging at Hyacinthus’ arm. 

They walked out of the parlour and into the little corridor beyond it. Hyacinthus picked up his feet, anticipation surging thick and fast through his veins. He was in what Apollo considered his own private sanctuary. He committed all that he saw to memory. 

By the time they reached Apollo’s bedroom, the air around them had been crackling with electricity. Apollo went in first—Hyacinthus followed. The doors closed on their own, and the men divested themselves of their clothes. Apollo undressed quickly, tugging down his slacks and briefs and tossing them onto the pile of shirts and shoes and socks and jackets that had formed on the floor. Hyacinthus was barely given time to undress. Apollo was on him the moment he straightened himself, his smooth fawn skin exposed to the cold air. The god scooped him up and carried him to bed, and Hyacinthus responded by throwing his arms around his neck. 

The bed Hyacinthus was laid on was the largest he had ever seen, a veritable sea of silk that was uncommonly soft. He moved further up and settled his head amidst the plump pillows, his limbs prickling with goosebumps the instant the weight of the mattress shifted, and Apollo slipped in beside him. He did not say a word; rather, he laced his fingers around Hyacinthus’ breath and let his gaze drift down the expanse of Hyacinthus’ body. He drank in the way Hyacinthus’ chest rose and fell with each breath he took, and how the trail of hair as dark as soot ran down from his navel to the apex of his thighs. His gaze lingered on the erection already forming between them, then it drifted back up again. Hyacinthus was looking right back at him, his amber eyes locked onto Apollo’s. He wondered how this night would go and what they would do. They had done it before, but their encounters had been too few, too quiet, and very, very rushed. Tonight, there would be no rushing, no quiet kisses or stifled moans. There was nothing and no one to hinder them. 

Apollo took the initiative, moving over Hyacinthus before he could even think. “No,” he murmured, brushing away the hand that drifted up his thigh. “Let me.” 

Hyacinthus let his body go completely lax when Apollo dipped his head, letting out a soft whimper when the god pressed lingering kisses against his forehead, his cheeks, and the tip of his nose. Apollo sought his mouth next, then the soft flesh of his throat and the crook of his neck, taking him apart inch by delicious inch with his lips and his teeth and his tongue. Hyacinthus arched his back and let out a whine. When he attempted to curl his fingers around Apollo’s sandy-blonde hair, he found himself being denied yet again. 

“No,” Apollo commanded, though not ungently. “Let me tend to you.” 

Hyacinthus nodded and obeyed. He gripped at the sheet beneath him, his nails digging into the fabric when Apollo brushed his tongue over his nipple and lightly tugged at it between his teeth. His legs spread apart, and when Apollo’s belly rubbed against his length, he jolted, electrified. When it happened a second time, he loosened his tongue and moaned deeply. Apollo stopped what he was doing to look up and smile. 

“Enjoying yourself, my love?” He asked, turning his attention to the other nipple. 

“I am,” Hyacinthus breathed. He was fairly certain his fingers were tearing into the sheets now. Each sensation that tore through him was more powerful than the one before it. He loved it. “Gods, how you know your way with me.” 

Apollo looked at him and smirked. “You know how much I love to please.” 

He kissed his way lower, and lower, leaving a damp, heated trail in his wake. He kissed the insides of Hyacinthus’ thighs, the nearly flat plane of his belly, and the tip of his cock, tasting the beads that had gathered at the slit. When he got off the bed, ever so reluctantly of course, Hyacinthus reached behind him for a pillow. He slid it beneath his ass while Apollo crossed to the bedside cupboard. It was well-stocked with everything he could want or need for them both, but for now, he pulled out the bottle of lube he had procured just for tonight, leaving aside other protection. Such was not needed. Hyacinthus arched a quizzical brow after catching a glimpse of the contents the top drawer held. 

“Are they meant for other companions as well?” 

“These are only for you,” Apollo whispered, getting back into bed and kneeling between Hyacinthus’ spread legs. He flipped up the tab of the bottle and emptied a generous handful onto his fingers and the flat of his palm. “Do not fret, Hyacinthus. I belong to you now, and no other.” 

Hyacinthus managed a smile, and on Apollo’s request, lifted his legs and bent his knees toward his chest. His eyes fluttered closed when a finger breached him, cool and slick and oh-so-familiar. A second finger breached him, and then a third. They slid in and out of him in a thrusting motion, and the friction they caused each time they curved upward and struck that sweet spot within him roused him in ways that he could put into words. When Apollo withdrew his hand and gripped his thighs after having prepared himself, Hyacinthus let out a sound of gratitude. He knew what was to come next. 

To Apollo, such a sound was like music to his ears. He slid in slowly as he always did, and when he sank deep, he took a moment to keep still. He did it to savour the warmth of Hyacinthus’ body, the raggedness of his breath, and the frantic beating of his heart. Then, when Hyacinthus uttered a barely audible ‘please’, he began to move, pulling back his hips and pushing back in a gentle, languid pace. 

It was easy to lose himself in Hyacinthus then. And it was easy to lose himself to his own baser urges. He sped up, delighting in the cries he incited each time he went a little faster and plunged a little deeper. When he released Hyacinthus’ thighs to brace his hands by Hyacinthus’ shoulders, trembling hands alighted on his sides, startling him. 

“Please,” Hyacinthus pleaded. “I just want to touch you.” 

Apollo did not deny him a third time. He went even harder and faster, paying no heed to the nails that dug into his skin or the shaking of the bed. Jolts of pleasure shot through him, the kind that grew stronger and stronger until they became overwhelming. When he could not hold back anymore, he called out Hyacinthus' name and allowed himself to unravel, his entire body trembling violently when he came. But he did not stop there. He reached down between them to take Hyacinthus in hand. Three quick strokes were all it took. Hyacinthus grunted and orgasmed, his body writhing and shuddering as new sensations erupted and pounded at him at a frantic speed. Warmth spurted down onto his belly, and Apollo's name blew past his bruised lips. Apollo collapsed against him, not caring about the mess that smeared all over his stomach. He gathered Hyacinthus into his embrace, showering him with sweet kisses. When his body finally stopped shaking, he pulled out and rolled onto his back, his chest still heaving from the aftermath of his release. 

Hyacinthus rolled onto his side, resting his head on Apollo’s chest when the god drew him close. “You did very well, beloved,” Apollo said, caressing Hyacinthus’ cheek. “Are you tired? Did I hurt you? Did I go too far?” 

“I am not tired,” Hyacinthus replied softly. “And you did not hurt me. You did not go too far. I enjoyed every moment of us together.” 

Apollo beamed. “Then I am glad.” He shifted a little to make Hyacinthus more comfortable. “Let us get some rest. I will show you around the hotel after that.”