Hot Sheets

by Ray Gordon

  "I'm sorry, I have no idea. You've probably misplaced them, try the filing cabinet. Look under B for bollocks or F for fuck or... oh, he's hung up!" Banging the phone down, Mike turned to face the delectable young waitress.

  Adjusting her apparel, Goldie did her best to evade Mike's accusing stare. Why the poor girl worked for him, he had no idea. She rarely got paid, the working hours were totally illegal and she was forever being yelled at. She was a good fuck, though!

  "Goldie, where the hell's Trudie?" Mike asked placidly, suddenly feeling sorry for her.

  "It's her day off, she's in bed."

  "Shit!" he stormed, the forced calm giving way to fury. "Look, Dave's fucked the bacon again so get your arse into the dining room and serve the coffee."

  "Fucked the bacon? That's strange, he usually fucks the liver. After a few seconds in the microwave he says it feels just like the real..."

  "I'm not interested in his peculiar masturbatory habits. Tell the punters there's been a minor incident in the kitchen but everything's under control."

  "OK. By the way, there's no loo roll in the second floor toilet, the bulb's gone in the third floor bathroom, the cold tap won't turn off in room fifteen, the catch is broken on the wardrobe in room ten, the window's smashed on the top floor landing, the light switch in the ground floor..."

  "Have you quite finished, Goldie?"

  "No, I haven't. The light switch..."

  "Unless you shut up, I'll twist your nipples off! Talking of sex, whatever you do, keep away from room thirty-six - that's the princess's room."

  "Princess?"

  "Yes, Princess Christina. We're going up in the world, Goldie! I might consider changing the name of the hotel to Stokepot Regis Towers."

  "Why?"

  "Stop scratching your tits! Because Regis means... it doesn't matter. When you see Trudie, tell her that she must not pluck the princess's pubic hairs off the sheets. If she does, then I'll pluck her pubes out with a pair of rusty tweezers."

  "Oh, you know about that?"

  "Yes, I do! What the hell does she do with the guests' pubic hairs, anyway?"

  "She fills little bags with them, like lavender bags, and keeps them under her pillow."

  "My God, she needs help!"

  "No, she doesn't - she's quite capable of collecting..."

  "Psychiatric help, I mean!"

  "Oh, right. What do I call the princess?"

  "Well, you could call her knob sucker or cunt face or fanny licker or..."

  "All right, there's no need to be sarcastic, Mike! You know what I meant!"

  "Your Royalness, I think - yes, Your Royalness. And curtsy whenever you see her. That rule only applies if you're wearing panties."

  "Right, I'll go and serve coffee."

  "Good, and please don't bend over in front of Colonel Buckshot. You know what he's like when he sees your naked buttocks first thing in the morning. Christ, he'll be chasing after you all day and then we'll have to call the doctor out again!"

  Shaking his head despairingly as the girl slipped into the dining room, Mike checked his functions diary. "Ah, the wedding reception on Saturday," he grinned, rubbing his hands together. "Some poor cunt losing his freedom - his life!" Flopping into his chair, he sighed, wondering whether things at his hotel would ever run smoothly. Just one day without a hitch would make all the difference, he mused. Is that too much to ask? It seemed that it was.

  "All under control, Mike!" Dave called cheerfully, his grinning face peering round the kitchen door.

  "What is?"

  "The breakfasts."

  "Under control? Under bloody control? The day the breakfasts are under control will be the day a netball team queue up to suck my knob!"

  "Eggs..."

  "Suck my eggs?"

  "No, I'm talking about breakfast - boiled eggs, toast, orange juice and coffee."

  "I hope you've diluted the orange juice, and I don't mean pissing in it."

  "Yes, water and juice - fifty-fifty."

  "That's too strong, make it sixty-forty. What do you think this is, a bloody soup kitchen? We're not here to give food and drink away! After breakfast, I'll talk to you about the food for the wedding reception on Saturday."

  "Right you are."

  "And if room thirty-six orders tea or coffee, use the bone china and a silver tray."

  "Will do. Mike, I've been thinking - if the world population is just over five billion, then there are roughly two billion fannies floating around."

  "What about it?"

  "All joined together, there must be hundreds of miles of wet, juicy fanny!"

  "So?"

  "Well, it's not fair - I only want a few inches. Well, ten inches."

  "There must be hundreds of miles of cock, too! Christ, your mind's akin to a bloody sewer!"

  "You can talk!"

  "Yes, well... miles of fanny or not, I have things to do."

  Deciding to check up on his royal guest, Mike closed the diary and climbed the threadbare carpeted stairs to the third floor. Looking up and down the corridor, checking that the coast was clear, he crept up to room thirty-six, grinning as he knelt on the floor. Ah, exquisite! he observed, spying through the keyhole at the princess as she tugged her skirt down her long legs and slipped the matching jacket off her shoulders.

  Removing her blouse, she turned to face the door, affording Mike a perfect view of her smooth stomach, her bulging, blue silk panties. His penis stiffening as she unclipped her delicate bra and tossed it onto the bed, he gazed appreciatively at her majestic mammary spheres, crowned with the finest brown gems. Waiting in anticipation for a sighting of her stately sex slit, he leaped to his feet as someone came bounding down the stairs from the fourth floor.

  "Ah, Trudie!" he greeted the dark-haired beauty.

  "Hallo, mate!" she trilled, her black microskirt revealing the small indentations at the tops of her inner thighs. "What are you doing skulking around here?"

  "Er... I was just... it's my hotel so I'll skulk where I like! And don't call me mate! Where are you off to?"

  "I'm going into town," the hussy replied, opening her white blouse and popping her naked breasts out. "I do wish my tits would get bigger!" she sighed, cupping her firm mammary globes in her palms. "I've been doing the exercises and sucking my nipples regularly but..."

  "Put them away, girl!" Mike gasped, eyeing her succulent milk teats. "Fuck me, this is a hotel not a fucking brothel!"

  "Sorry, mate. D' you want anything from town?" Trudie asked, buttoning her blouse.

  "Yes, half-a-dozen naked girls, a twenty-five-year-old nymphomaniac with a shaved cunt, a bottle of fanny juice..."

  "Seriously, Mike!" the girl snapped, her dark bedroom eyes sparkling alluringly.

  "Er... change of plan, I'm afraid. You're not going into town, you're working."

  "But it's my day off!"

  "Sorry, it can't be helped. Put it down to one of life's little shits."

  "But..."

  "Think of it as part of life's shagged out tapestry."

  "But I have to go to the bank and..."

  "Life's stenching shitbag. Do you know why we're here, Trudie?"

  "Er... to serve the breakfasts, to do the rooms..."

  "No, do you know why God put us here?"

  "To run the hotel?"

  "Oh, is that it? Do you mean to say that the only reason we're here is to run this fucking hotel?"

  "Well, I can't think of anything else."

  "My God, you live and learn, don't you? There's the whole world, the entire fucking universe with its solar systems, planets and moons, black holes, anti-matter, the mysteries of... and we're here to run this hotel? I reckon God put us here as a punishment."

  "Why, what have we done?"

  "Sinned, I suppose. Christ, a chance would be a fine thing! I thought Jesus had been punished for our sins? How come we're still being punished if he... anyway, your punishment is to act as lady-in-waiting to Princess Christina."

  "Princess...
"

  "We can't talk here, not outside Her Grace's room - it's unprofessional. Come down to reception and I'll fuck you... I mean, I'll explain."

  Following the morose girl downstairs, Mike wondered whether to alert a national newspaper as to the princess's stay at his hotel. I could do with some publicity, he mused, imagining Stokepot Towers pictured on the front page. Room thirty-six, the Royal Suite! Might even get a mention on TV. Leaning on the reception desk, his thoughts returned to Trudie, her pert breasts straining her blouse, her nipples clearly outlined by the tight material as she hooked her long black hair behind her ears.

  "We've had some interesting people stay at Stokepot Towers over the years, Trudie, and we now have a princess as an honoured guest."

  "What, a real princess?" she gasped in surprise.

  "Yes, Princess Christina."

  "Staying in this dump?"

  "Trudie, this is not a dump! OK, the place needs some money spending on it to bring it up to a half-star rating, but it's a fine seaside hotel - the best in Splash Bay."

  "It's the pits!"

  "Would you rather I thrash your bare bottom with a cane now or later?"

  "Ooh, now, please!"

  "You'll have to wait, I can't do everything at once. How's your fanny, nice and juicy?"

  "As always! By the way, I see you're in the local paper."

  "I am not in the local bloody paper, Trudie!"

  "It looks like you."

  "I don't care if it looks like... what's that white stuff dripping onto the carpet between your feet?"

  "Oh! Er... I must have forgotten to slip my panties on!" Trudie giggled.

  "Trudie, we have royalty staying here, you can't go around without knickers! Imagine the maids at Buck House going around knickerless and dripping girl-come and spunk all over the carpets. What ever would the queen say?"

  "I forgot to put them on."

  "Of course she wouldn't say... you know damned well that you didn't forget to put them on."

  "I don't like wearing panties in the summer, Mike - they make me hot, wet and sticky."

  And tasty. "All right, but make sure Her Elegance doesn't see your fanny. Bloody hell, look at the mess! Wipe yourself with a tissue or something. Right, I'd better ring the princess and see whether she requires a lady-in-waiting."

  "Of course she doesn't require a lady-in-waiting. She's probably come here for a quiet break, to get away from the humdrum of a royal life. Leave her in peace."

  "Yes, I suppose you're right."

  The sound of smashing plates emanating from the kitchen, Mike cringed, holding his hand to his lined forehead. Everything that could go wrong at Stokepot Towers always did go wrong! he reflected, shaking his head gloomily as another loud crash reverberated around the foyer.

  "Holy spunk bags! What the hell... Trudie, you'd better give Dave a hand," he sighed. "At this rate, the mutinous bastards won't get breakfast until bloody lunch time!"

  "Mutinous bastards?"

  "Good morning!" the postman grinned, dumping a pile of letters on the desk as Trudie headed for the kitchen.

  "Is it?" Mike returned. "Do you mind justifying that ridiculous statement?"

  "Sorry, I... I was only being polite."

  "Well, don't!"

  Opening yet another brown envelope marked Department of Environmental Health as the postman left, Mike flattened the six-page report out on the desk. Extractor fan in kitchen not working. No fire blanket. No fire extinguisher. No hand basin. Separate fridges required for storage of meat and vegetables. Fridge door-seal faulty. Overhead lighting inadequate. Kitchen door-closer faulty..."Fuck me, they want all this done within a week!" he cursed, turning the page. Glass washer in bar not working. Drinks tariff not prominently displayed. Shelving behind bar dirty. Flooring not of the non-slip variety. "Shit, I'd better not read anymore!"

  Wandering disconsolately into the bar, Mike pondered on money-making schemes. He'd already increased the prices of drinks to the point of extortion and fiddled the optics to give short measures. But he had to do better. Nonchalantly flicking through the daily paper as he sat at the bar, he came across an article about a middle-aged woman whose respectable-looking guest house was a front for a brothel. There's an idea! he thought, imagining punters paying fifty pounds a time to visit Trudie's room.

  "Ah, Paul!" he said, looking up from the paper as the barman lurched through the doorway and fell head first over an armchair.

  "Oh, fuck!" Paul groaned, climbing to his feet and righting the chair. "God, my head! I see you're in the local paper."

  "I am not in the local fucking paper!"

  "It looks like you."

  "I don't care who it looks like, it's not me! Where's that miserable fucking bastard of a cleaner?"

  "You sacked him."

  "Oh, so I did. I've advertised for a replacement but there hasn't been any response. The unemployed lazy bastards don't want to work. It's the fucking government's fault."

  "They reckon the flasher hangs around girls' schools."

  "Fucking welfarist bastards!"

  "He wanks to shock them."

  "We could do with a revolution."

  "He spunks in front of them to provoke a sexual response."

  "I'm not interested, Paul!"

  "What were you doing outside the girls' school in Brook Lane the other day?"

  "I... I wasn't."

  "I saw you. I drove past and saw you sitting in your car looking through a pair of binoculars."

  "Er... I was... listen, I'm going to make some changes to the bar."

  "Changes? What sort of changes?"

  "Money-making changes. Put up a notice - twenty-five percent off all spirits."

  "Twenty-five percent off?" Paul echoed, surprised.

  "Yes, that way I'll only have to buy half the amount of spirits to make the same profit."

  "I don't get it."

  "For arguments sake, say I'm paying fifty pence for a bottle of vodka and selling it for a pound - making fifty pence profit. Watered down, half and half, I'm paying twenty-five pence for a bottle and selling it at the discounted price of seventy-five pence, still making fifty pence profit but only having to buy half the amount."

  "Er... yes, right."

  "The punters will think they're on to a good thing, they'll drink more and I'll earn more."

  "I don't quite follow."

  "You don't have a brain for business, Paul - you lack drive. OK, water the spirits down and put a notice up and then go up to the top floor and clear out room forty-two. Take all the furniture out except the double bed and dump it in the junk room."

  "Why?"

  "Because that room is going to earn me some real money. Oh, and renumber the door. Let me see - yes, room sixty-nine."

  "Sixty-nine? What are you up to, Mike?"

  "You'll see. Why do you keep scratching your cock, have you got something in your eye?"

  "I'm not scratching it. I've put an elastic band round my dick to keep my foreskin back."

  "An elastic band?"

  "Yes, with my foreskin held back, my knob rubs against my boxer shorts as I move about and..."

  "Where on earth did you get that idea from?"

  "I read about it in a men's mag - it's a neat little trick."

  "Yes, I might try... right, I'd better have a quick wank. No, I'll do that later. Sort the spirits out and put a notice up."

  "We're out of vodka, low on gin, and..."

  "Yes, yes all right! I'll deal with it later. I'm going to check up on Dave."

  Entering the kitchen, Mike gasped to discover Trudie bending over the sink clinging to the taps, her miniskirt up over her back, her taut buttocks projecting as Dave's solid cock shafted her wet pussy. Holding the girl's hips, ramming his swollen knob in and out of her tight vagina, the young chef grimaced.

  "Coming!" he cried, pumping his sex-sauce into the waitress's cavern. "God, I'm coming! Ah, you've got a tight few inches!"

  "I can feel your sperm!" Trudie breath
ed excitedly. "Oh, oh! Don't stop!"

  "Bloody hell, you're a good fuck!"

  "You're not so bad either! God, it's beautiful! Do my bum next! Really give it to me! Fuck my bum rotten!"

  "Yes, later! Ah, ah, God!"

  His penis stiffening as he leaned on the door frame observing the lewd spectacle, Mike grinned, imagining Trudie's curvaceous, naked body tied to the bed in room sixty-nine - her legs splayed, her pussy crack gaping. Fifty quid a go? he contemplated as Dave slipped his cunny-wet cock out of the girl's vagina and massaged his knob, splattering the last of his delicacy over her taut buttocks. Whipping, bondage, lesbian shows... money! This was the best idea he'd ever had, Mike reflected, his eyes following Dave's spunk missile as it flew through the air.

  "I've got it!" he cried, as if just discovering his first clitoris. "I've fucking sussed it!"

  "Ah! Er... Mike!" Dave grinned sheepishly, hurriedly concealing his wet penis and zipping his trousers. "I've done the breakfasts."

  "That's not all you've done by the look of it! Dripping piss flaps, this is a kitchen, not a knocking shop! You've obviously had no kitchen training - didn't your mother teach you anything?"

  "Only the things that matter in life, such as smoking, drinking and masturbating. Cocks, that's all she ever went on about - until she was shot."

  "We were just..." Trudie began, dabbing sperm from her taut buttocks with a clean tea towel.

  "Christ knows what the health people would say!" Mike sighed.

  "What have you got?" Dave asked.

  "A brilliant idea! A fucking marvellous, incredibly ingenious, fantastic plan to make some real money - weekend breaks for discerning businessmen."

  "Weekend breaks?" Trudie echoed, adjusting her miniskirt. "Oh! I'm dripping all over the floor!"

  "Wipe it up, girl!" Mike yelled. "Not with the bloody tea towel! Jesus Christ!"

  "Sorry."

  "The idea's brilliant! Bondage, whipping, lesbian shows..."

  "Mike, what are you talking about?" Dave asked, snatching the tea towel from Trudie and wiping the knives and forks.

  "Dirty weekends. We'll advertise in men's mags - kinky weekend breaks."

  "And who's going to service these discerning businessmen?" Trudie asked suspiciously.

  "Er... well, you and Goldie."

  "I'm not here to be fucked, mate!" the girl returned indignantly.