Hot Sheets

by Ray Gordon

  Speculating how the priest was faring with Mrs Squeezeasy, Mike decided he'd allow Harold Gloom to visit room sixty-nine and enjoy the waitresses' bodies. Feeling sorry for the poor man, he'd endeavour to make his stay at the hotel the best week of his sad life. Knob sucking, cunt and arse fucking... you're in for a swell time, Harold, old mate.

  Turning his thoughts to Elizabeth, Mike reckoned she'd be in her room, sleeping like a princess after her incredible sexual ordeal. He'd give her another bloody good arse screwing before she booked out. It's the least I can do, he thought, his penis stiffening at the prospect of shafting her tight anal sheath again.

  "Ah, Miss Chaste, how are you feeling after your terrible ordeal?" he enquired as the frail woman staggered out of the bar. "Are you terribly traumatised?"

  "I was, but I think I'm all right now. It was the shock, you see. I've never seen..."

  "Yes, I understand. I rang the TV station and bollocked... complained about the way TV's going downhill. Good grief, what are things coming to in this country?"

  "I don't know, Mr Hunt - I really don't know! I blame the atom bomb, it's affected the weather, you know."

  "I blame the fucking... I mean, I blame the government - fascist bastards!"

  "Oh, Mr Hunt, your language!"

  "Sorry, a Freudian slip."

  "By the way, a friend of mine was coming to have lunch with me but she hasn't turned up. She should have been here long ago but..."

  "A friend? Does she have a Zimmer frame?"

  "Yes, have you seen her?"

  "Er... no, no I haven't seen anyone with a Zimmer frame in bloody years! Sorry."

  "Will you show her to my room when she arrives?"

  "Yes, of course, Miss Chaste."

  "Thank you. I'd better go and lie down, my blood pressure's up and my heart's palpitating."

  So's my cock.

  Flopping into his chair and lolling over the reception desk, Mike realized that Miss Chaste's friend would tell her about the incident in the hall. There was always trouble at Stokepot Towers, he reflected sadly. I suppose it was my fault. As for the priest, he'd charge him double for the blow job. I just want to admire the beauty of the naked female form, my arse! Wondering whether the Holy Willie would become a regular patron of room sixty-nine and bring fellow priests along, Mike looked up to see the old bag with the Zimmer frame emerge from the lift.

  "I'm looking for Miss Chaste," she warbled, making her way towards the desk. "Oh, it's you! Never have I heard such disgusting language in my life! Where's the manager? I'm going to see to it that you're dismissed!"

  "Get out of here, you old hag!" Mike yelled. "And don't fucking well come back!"

  "I want to see the manager!"

  "You'll see my cock in a minute! And my balls!"

  "Oh, my goodness! What sort of hotel is this?"

  "It's not a hotel, it's a fucking brothel full of naked tarts with wet cunts!"

  "Oh, my goodness! Never have I..."

  "Unless you want me to have a wank and spunk all over your face, you'd better shoot!"

  Sighing as the disgusted woman hobbled out of the building, threatening to report him to the police, Mike wondered what sort of trouble was waiting around the next corner. Christ, what the hell have I done to deserve life's spew?

  "Ah, Father Hardick!" he smiled as the rubicund cleric staggered out of the lift. "Everything come off all right? Excuse the pun."

  "Yes, yes, perfect! God, she's a right little... I mean, everything's fine. How much do I owe you?"

  "Did you just look at the naked female form or were you goaded by Satan to commit a vile and lewd sexual act?"

  "Goodness me no! I... I only looked at the woman."

  "She didn't do anything to you, then?"

  "Oh, no! As God is my witness, I just sat down and admired her beautiful naked female form."

  "That'll be sixty pounds, please, Father."

  "Oh, that's rather a lot of money, isn't it?"

  "Considering what a good time you had, it's a very fair price."

  "All I did was look at her!"

  "A very fair price, indeed. Especially as she sucked you off and swallowed your holy spunk! And think yourself lucky that your only witness was Lucifer. Jesus Christ, you could have been fucking well struck down!"

  "Oh, yes, well... there you are," the flustered man grinned sheepishly, opening his wallet and passing over the notes. "I'll call again, if I may."

  "Certainly, Father!" Mike beamed, stuffing the cash into his pocket. "Call any time. I also have a couple of randy teenaged girls who'll be more than willing to satisfy your rampant lust. And if you have any fellow Pecksniffers who'd enjoy our debauched services, ask them to call me."

  "Oh, I will! Right, well, goodbye."

  "Goodbye, Father. May Lucifer go with you!"

  Grabbing the ringing phone as the hypocrite hurried out of the building, Mike decided to rig up a TV monitor behind the desk so that he could keep an eye on the activities going on in the sex room. If a priest lies, then who won't?

  "Hallo, Stokepot Towers."

  "Dickwipe here, Inspector Dickwipe."

  Now what? "Hallo, Inspector."

  "I'd like you to take part in an identity parade tomorrow morning, Mr Hunt."

  "Oh! Er... I can't, I'm sorry."

  "I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Mr Hunt."

  "But there are the breakfasts, the rooms, the guests..."

  "As I said, you have no choice in the matter. We're after a local, a flasher, and the picture an artist drew of the man is remarkably like you. In fact, the likeness is incredible. No doubt you've seen the local paper."

  "No, I haven't."

  "Be at the station at ten, please."

  "Oh, yes, of course."

  "By the way, I've received information from a Miss Knickerlace concerning what she described as a sex room in your hotel."

  "A sex room, Inspector?"

  "Apparently, she was looking for one of her girls and happened to come across a room containing a range of lewd sexual equipment. She reckons that you're running a brothel, Mr Hunt."

  "She must have been mistaken. There's no sex room here, I can assure you. And as for a brothel! I can assure you that..."

  "I'm never assured, Mr Hunt. Until tomorrow."

  "Yes, until..."

  Replacing the receiver, his hands trembling, Mike knew he'd be sussed during the identity parade. Unless I had a beard, he mused. Grab one of Trudie's bags of pubic hairs and glue them all over my face. As for the sex room - it was just his luck that Knickerlace should alight on room sixty-nine as she was searching for her lost lamb. "God, help me!" he implored. "Satan, fucking help me!"

  Chapter Five

  The advert out in Wankers' Weekly, Mike was looking forward to taking bookings for the sex room. For the first time in five years things seemed to be looking up at Stokepot Towers - not least, the resident cocks! The misfit family of three had behaved themselves, so far, and Mrs Squeezeasy had reported for duty at seven that morning. Apart from masturbating yet again in the understairs cupboard with her wet panties adrift round her ankles and the vacuum cleaner handle embedded deep in her spasming sex bucket, she'd done a good job, Mike reflected. And, to his greatest relief, the identity parade had inexplicably been called off.

  The officious little prick from weights and measures hadn't made further contact. But to safeguard himself, he'd risen early and put things to rights in the bar, the optics now dispensing accurate measures and the spirits containing the correct percentage of alcohol. It was only a temporary measure, he reflected - with things soon back to normal, the punters would be ripped off, as usual.

  The only thing playing on his mind were several mysterious phone calls he'd received the previous evening concerning room sixty-nine. Obviously, word was spreading fast. What with the plumber opening his big mouth, it was only a matter of time before the wrong people started sniffing around. One caller who'd asked for details of the new venture had sounded re
markably like Inspector Dickwipe with a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth! With the advert out, keeping the clandestine business under wraps wasn't going to be easy.

  "Good day, Colonel," Mike greeted his randy resident as he returned from his afternoon constitutional.

  "Ah, Hunt, old boy! A TV behind the desk, eh?"

  "Er... no. It's security, closed circuit TV," Mike smiled, turning the monitor away from the colonel's prying eyes.

  "Got any more dirty videos, old man?"

  "Er, no, I haven't. Did you enjoy your walk?"

  "Yes, a fine day for a stroll along the prom! All the girls are out in their short skirts and skimpy tops, don't you know!"

  "I wish I had the time to take a walk, the sun always brings the little beauties out in force."

  "Damned right it does! What!"

  "You know what they say, don't cast a clout till the birds are out."

  "The birds have certainly cast theirs! Do you know, back in the summer of fifty-three, or was it fifty-two?"

  "If you'd like a scotch, Colonel, Goldie's in the bar."

  "Is she? By gad, now there's a little beauty! She can serve me any time, what!" the old boy grinned as he headed for the bar. "Or was it fifty-four?"

  Adjusting the monitor, Mike admired the sex room, imagining Mrs Squeezeasy tethered to the frame, her naked buttocks repeatedly lashed with the cat of nine tails. The colour picture was perfect, depicting every detail, and he couldn't wait for the next sordid performance to commence. Pressing a button on the monitor, the picture changing to room eleven he rubbed his hands together gleefully, imagining the yoga girls slipping into their leotards that evening, their toned breasts and erectile nipples captured for posterity. Cheers, Paul.

  "Ah, Goldie, my horny little hussy," he grinned as the girl wandered out of the bar, tossing her curtain of blonde tresses over her shoulder. "The electrician... I mean, the doctor rang earlier - he's on his way here to fuck you."

  "Mike, I do wish you wouldn't look upon my fanny as a commodity!" she complained. "I'm a person, not an object to be sold and fucked."

  "Yes, and a lovely person you are. But we need money, Goldie, and you have the goods, your cunny, to bring us money. Look at it this way, what is your cunt, exactly?"

  "What is it? Well, it's my cunt, isn't it?"

  "Look at it objectively, it's just a wet hole with sort of half-moon-shaped fleshy bits around the entrance. Think of being fucked simply as having a man use your cunt to wank in."

  "Oh, thanks a lot! So my cunt's just a wanking pot, is it?"

  "Basically, yes - and your mouth."

  "Mike!"

  "Sorry. Anyway, let's not waste time discussing your cunt, let's put it to good use and earn some money. God made man, women make money - or something like that. Talking of cunts, I miss Elizabeth."

  "Yes, according to Trudie, she was a bit of all right."

  "She was more than a bit of all right!"

  "I never did get to... by the way, that Gloom woman's been moaning. She's demanding a reduction because she reckons the food's so bad she can't eat it."

  "Christ, I thought it was too good to last!" Mike sighed, switching the monitor back to the sex room. "I ought to shove a rolling pin up her arse! All right, I'll speak to the miserable old cow later. You'd better go to room sixty-nine and prepare yourself."

  "Who's going to man the bar?"

  "I'll keep an eye on it, you go and get ready."

  "What, strip off?"

  "Yes, ready for the... the doctor."

  "I want decent money for this, Mike. I'm not going to be fucked and forced to have a multiple orgasm for a mere pittance!"

  "Yes, yes all right! Go and get ready, he'll be here soon."

  "I suppose you're going to watch me being fucked on that TV?"

  "Damn right I am! I do wish those girls had left some dirty knickers behind."

  "So do I! Er... right, I'll see you later."

  Wondering whether to connect a video recorder to the closed circuit TV system and sell tapes of Goldie's obscene sexual encounters, Mike reclined in his chair. What with the punters' cash and money from the dirty video tapes he'd be on a nice little earner! he mused, gazing at Goldie on the screen as she walked into room sixty-nine. Adjusting the brightness as she unbuttoned her blouse and poked her tongue out in the direction of the hidden camera, he smiled. Cheeky little bitch. I'll fuck her for her insubordination.

  Slipping the garment off her shoulders, revealing her braless mammary spheres, her elongated milk buds, she had a beautiful body, he observed - a sperm-spinning, money-making body! Gazing at her pert breasts as she turned side-on to the camera and tossed her hair over her shoulder, Mike sensed his penis stiffen as he imagined sucking on her brown milk teats. Women were lucky, he reflected. Not only did they have pussies, but also tits to bring them pleasure. Nothing's fair.

  "Ah, Paul!" Mike grinned as the barman tumbled down the stairs into the foyer. "If you're sober enough, go and nick a few more cameras from the supermarket. I want hidden cameras in the bathrooms, wired up to this monitor."

  "God, my head!" the young man groaned, gazing at Goldie on the screen as she tugged her skirt down her long naked legs, exposing her knickerless girl slit to the camera. "Christ, I had a hell of a lunchtime session! I'm absolutely fucking pissed!"

  "Can't you do something about your drink problem? You're no use to me if you're permanently pissed out of your head!"

  "Sorry, it was my upbringing, the orphanage - I turned to drink."

  "Why, what happened?"

  "There was this woman there... she used to whip me with a tree branch until I spunked. Sex mad, she was! She forced me to lick her pussy out and fuck her six times a day. It drove me to drink."

  "There's nothing wrong with..."

  "She was eighty-five."

  "Argh!"

  "Exactly! Talking of drink..."

  "No, Paul!"

  "OK, I'll go and borrow a few cameras."

  Noticing the report from the Department of Environmental Health lying on the desk, Mike decided that the time had come to do something about it. Deal with all the problems, he mused, sifting through a pile of income tax demands. Get all these communist bastards off my back so I can get on with making some real money behind their backs.

  Ringing his bank manager, he attempted to arrange a loan. "I'll put my waitresses up as collateral," he told the groaning manager. "They've got to be worth a few grand."

  "I can't take girls as collateral, Mike!"

  "Why not? They've got nice pussies, they must be worth buckets of cash. You could sell them on the black market for..."

  "Get real, Mike! As it is, you're into us for twenty grand!"

  "Just another ten thousand, Kev, that's all I ask," Mike wheedled. "I'm about to earn a small fortune, you'll have the whole lot back later this year."

  "A small fortune?"

  "Yes, trust me."

  "Trust you? Christ, I'd rather trust a gay pervert with my cock than trust you!"

  "You can fuck both my waitresses if you lend me the money."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really."

  "Every week?"

  "Twice every week. And the cleaning woman."

  "OK, you're on. I'll arrange it today."

  "Thanks, Kev, you're a mate!"

  "I'm a bloody fool! See you."

  Ringing a local electrical wholesaler, he ordered two new fridges and a glass washer for the bar. "I also need an industrial extractor fan and some decent overhead lighting for the kitchen," he added.

  "How are you going to pay for this lot?" the man asked.

  "I'm a monied man, I'll have you know! I'll pay by cash."

  "OK, the earliest we can deliver is tomorrow morning."

  "Good. Oh, I don't suppose you sell vibrators?"

  "Vibrators?"

  "Yes, you know, body massagers."

  "Yes, we do."

  "Great, I'll take two, please."

  "Right you are."


  "Thanks!" Mike grinned, banging the phone down.

  Writing a cheque to the Inland Revenue, he knew that room sixty-nine was his last chance to save the hotel. The sex room was his salvation! The money from the bank would keep him going until his little earner had become a thriving business, and then he'd be more than self sufficient! Better pay the VAT man, he decided, writing another cheque.

  "What ya, mate." Mike looked up to see a good-looking young man grinning over the desk.

  "What ya, mate? Where were you thrown up, in the gutter?"

  "Do what, guv?"

  "You're not a lager lout, are you?"

  "Only when I'm pissed."

  "My God, you'd never make royalty. Look, I'm busy, what do you want?"

  "I've come to see the bird."

  "Come to see the bird?" Mike echoed, placing the cheques into prepaid envelopes. "What do you think this is, an aviary?"

  "No, the featherless type. You know, a bird, a tart, a chick."

  "Good God, have you no etiquette?"

  "Do what, squire?"

  "Etiquette, have you no... never mind. Bloody philistine!"

  "I rang about shagging the bird."

  "Shagging the... oh, you're the... the supposed doctor."

  "Am I? Oh, yes, that's right."

  "OK, take the lift to the fourth floor and walk straight down the hall to room sixty-nine. Money up front, please."

  "Yes, right," the lusty youth grinned, pulling a wad of notes from his jeans. "There you go, guv, fifty smackers."

  "Thank you. Enjoy your half-hour stay, sir!" Mike beamed, stuffing the notes into his pocket.

  "I will, mate - I bleedin' will!"

  Sitting eagerly at the desk as the young man entered the lift, his eyes transfixed to the monitor, Mike grunted with annoyance as Mrs Gloom stormed down the stairs. God, now what?

  "I've lost my husband!" the ugly grouch complained.

  "Lost him? Is he dead?"

  "Huh, I wish! Er... what do you know about that?"

  "About what?"

  "Has he... has he met with a timely accident?"

  "No, not as far as I know, Mrs Gloom. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason, no reason at all. The sea... is it high tide?"