by Ray Gordon
"I don't know, look in the local paper. Er, on second thoughts you'd better not."
"I don't understand it, he went out this morning for a walk on the pier and he's not come back. He missed lunch and..."
"He's probably taking a stroll along the promenade." To get away from you, you old hag. "Give it a while longer, Mrs Gloom."
"This is typical! I should never have brought him with me!"
"Surely, it's nice having your husband join you on holiday?"
"Nice? The only reason I brought him was so that I could have him done away... so that I could keep an eye on him," she barked, making for the stairs. "And another thing, the tap's dripping in our room. My husband can't sleep!"
Nor could I, next to you. "Yes, all right, Mrs Gloom, I'll get it seen to," Mike smiled patiently.
"You'd better!"
"I'll bet it's healed up."
"What's healed up?"
"Sorry, I was thinking aloud," he grinned as she climbed the stairs. Christ, she's an ugly bitch. At least she hadn't mentioned the food - yet!
Focusing on the monitor again, Mike grinned to see the young man kneeling behind Goldie's rounded buttocks, his tongue lapping the gaping pink crack between her bulging labia. Her naked body over the padded bar, her hands tied to her lower legs, her buttocks jutting, exposing her bottom-hole, the girl presented a perfect picture of voyeuristic debauchery. Definitely worth recording, Mike decided. Copies of the X-tapes would fetch at least thirty pounds each, if not more. Of course, he wouldn't tell the girls about their indecent exposure.
"What are you looking at, mate?" Trudie enquired, emerging through the main swing doors.
"At Goldie having her juicy cunt licked out by an electrician," Mike replied coolly, his eyes glued to the screen. "And don't call me mate!"
"God, you've set up a TV! That's your sex room, isn't it?" the girl asked, gazing at the screen.
"Yes, good, isn't it? Oh, post those letters, will you?"
"VAT and the revenue? You're going to pay them?"
"Yes, I am. Look, I'm trying to watch Goldie get knobbed, go and post the bloody letters and leave me in peace."
"You are a sad pervert, Mike," Trudie giggled, watching the young man stab his bulbous knob between Goldie's splayed buttocks. "It's a shame there's no sound."
"There is, it's turned down. The camera has an audio socket as well as video."
"Turn it up; I want to hear Goldie..."
"Go and post the bloody letters!"
"OK, mate."
"And don't call me..."
"Sorry."
Concentrating on the debauched sex scene as Trudie scurried off with the mail, Mike sighed to see Miss Chaste making her way gingerly down the stairs. There was no bloody peace for the bloody wicked! he thought as she hobbled up to the desk. The colonel staggering out of the bar and demanding a large scotch, he switched the monitor off and followed the old lech back into the bar.
"There you are, Colonel!" he growled, placing a glass of scotch on the counter. "Is there anything else, or may I get on?"
"No, I only wanted another scotch, old boy."
"Right, I'll be in reception if you need me," Mike sighed, returning to the desk. "Now, Miss Chaste, what can I do for you?" Give you a good arse fucking?
"Ah, Mr Hunt, I've been looking for you."
"Well, here I am, in all my glory."
"I couldn't find you anywhere."
"I tend to be elusive at times."
"I looked everywhere."
"You've found me now, Miss Chaste."
"Have I? Oh, yes, of course I have. Now I've forgotten why I wanted to see you."
"Never mind, go back to your room and have a lie down." Try holding your breath for half-an-hour.
"I wonder why I wanted to see you?" the old lady muttered as she wandered off towards the lift.
"I really have no idea, Miss Chaste."
Now, perhaps I can watch the sex show in peace, Mike thought as he was about to switch the monitor on. "Christ, Dave, what the hell do you want?" he yelled as the chef shouted something from around the kitchen door.
"There's no hot water, Mike."
"What's the matter with you? Of course there's hot water! It's on twenty-four hours a day!"
"Well, it must be the twenty-fifth hour because it's stone cold."
"Bloody hell, I'm trying to..."
"Cold as a stoned turkey."
"All right, I'll go down and check the boiler."
Gazing at the ageing Potterton in the basement, Mike sighed. Repeatedly pressing a button, trying to ignite the pilot light, he kicked the beast in sheer exasperation. "Fucking thing!" he cursed, laying into it again. "It's as old as the arc!" Fiddling with the wiring, he knew he wouldn't be able to get the damn thing going. He'd have to call the Gas Board out - but there was no way he was going to pay for the repair. Not with cash, anyway!
"Mike, are you down there?" Dave called from the top of the basement steps.
"Jesus Christ, where do you think I am, Timbuktu? You know damn well that I'm down here! What do you want?"
"The fire inspector's here to see you!"
God, help me. "OK, I'm coming up!"
Bounding up the steps, Mike realized that he'd forgotten about the fire inspection. This was the last thing he needed! he thought, trying to compose himself as he strode across the foyer to greet the inspector. He'd have to spend a small fortune to bring the place up to standard. There again, Goldie's cunt would pay.
"Ah, Mr Hunt, it's fire inspection day!" the uniformed inspector grinned excitedly, his buttons highly polished, his immaculate boots shining like mirrors as he stood to attention.
"Really?" Mike grunted. I wish all these officious little bastards would fuck off.
"Shall we begin in the kitchen?"
"Yes, if we have to."
"You don't seem too keen, Mr Hunt."
"Oh, I'm absolutely bloody delighted! I've been looking forward to this for bloody weeks!"
"Don't you want your fire certificate renewed?"
"No, not really."
"You'll be closed down."
"Good, that would solve a multitude of problems. Come on, this way."
"Were you in the local paper recently?"
"Yes. Shall we get on?"
Watching the fire inspector shake his head disapprovingly as he gazed around the kitchen, Mike thought about Goldie, the lewd sex show he was missing. She'd be writhing in orgasm by now, the electrician thrusting his tool into her rectal sheath, pumping his spunk deep into her hot bowels. In future, Mike ruminated, he'd have to install the monitor in his basement flat and pretend to be out if he was to enjoy the sex sessions uninterrupted.
"Not very good, Mr Hunt!" the inspector sighed, breaking his reverie. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! No fire blanket and no extinguisher."
Raising his eyes to the ceiling as the man checked the door closer, Mike tried to think what to say. "The fire blanket's in the wash," he finally ventured.
"In the wash? You can't wash fire blankets!"
"Oh, my mistake. I'll have to get a new one, won't I?"
"Yes, you will if you want your certificate renewed. Why is there no extinguisher? Is that in the wash, too?"
"It's being cleaned."
"Being cleaned? In event of fire, the extinguisher wouldn't be any use if it wasn't here, no matter how sparkling."
"No, I suppose not."
"The door closer isn't working properly. I'm sorry but you'll not get your..."
"Yes, yes, I know. Look, I'll leave you to it. Just tell me what needs doing and I'll sort it out," Mike muttered, leaving the kitchen.
Back at the desk, he switched the monitor on to see Goldie and the young man dressing. Shit! Because of all the interruptions I've fucking well missed the fucking, he cursed silently. "Christ, now what?" he exclaimed, grabbing the ringing phone. "Good afternoon, Stokepot Towers."
"Hallo, I saw your advert in Wankers' Weekly. Can you give me a few details, plea
se?"
"Certainly, sir. Your stay will include an evening meal served by two naked nymphomaniac waitresses, followed by a night of rampant sex."
"Are they in to anal sex?"
"They're in to anything and everything."
"Knob sucking?"
"Yes."
"Tit caning?"
"Tit caning?"
"I like thrashing women's tits with a cane."
"Yes, they'll enjoy that. We have a sex room with a fine range of equipment including canes and whips, vibrators, a spanking frame, leather straps, nipple clamps, handcuffs..."
"It sounds good to me. What's the cost?"
"Two hundred pounds inclusive - cash, that is."
"Right, I'm in the area tomorrow."
"Friday night, yes that's fine."
"The name's... the name's Smith."
"All right, Mr Smith, I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening."
"OK, about six."
"That's fine. Oh, by the way, we're on the sea front opposite the pier."
"OK, I'll see you tomorrow."
"It'll be your pleasure, sir!"
Replacing the receiver, Mike jotted the man's name down in his diary. This was the beginning, he mused - the beginning of the end of his financial problems! But he still wasn't sure what to do should any more punters want to book in at the same time. Think big and you'll be big, he contemplated, watching Mrs Squeezeasy arriving through the swing doors as the phone rang. One sex room isn't enough.
"Good afternoon, Stokepot Towers," he said, pressing the receiver to his ear.
"I saw your advert - any chance of fitting me in tonight?"
"Yes, of course, sir. You'll enjoy a fine evening meal served by naked waitresses, and a night of rampant sex. We charge two hundred pounds, cash."
"That's fine. Is it all right if I bring my wife? She comes everywhere with me, you see."
I'll bet she does. "Well, yes, I suppose so."
"Good - my name's Smith, we'll be there around seven o'clock."
"OK, Mr Smith. We're on the sea front opposite the pier."
"Fine, I'll see you later."
He wants to bring his wife?
Looking up as Mrs Squeezeasy stood before the desk brushing her golden locks away from her pretty face, Mike cast his eyes over the swell of her firm breasts. "Things are looking good, Cecilia!" he grinned excitedly. "Er... what are you doing here?"
"I want to work for you, Mike," she replied, licking her succulent red lips.
"You do work for me."
"I've seen your advert. I'd like to become one of your call girls."
"You've seen the advert?"
"Yes, I take Wankers' Weekly. I mean, I don't take it, my husband used to have it delivered. I haven't cancelled the order because I... I forgot."
"You did pretty well with the priest, so I see no reason why you can't work in room sixty-nine."
"Good, I hoped you'd say that! When shall I start?"
"This evening - be here at six. Wear something stunning, revealing, really sexy. Dress as if you were a common slut of a dirty, filthy little tart."
"Oh, yes, I will! The money will certainly come in useful. Er... how much will I get?"
"I don't know yet, I haven't worked out the girls' cut. It'll certainly be worth your while, though."
"I've always wanted to work in prostitution."
"Have you?"
"It's the excitement, the danger - the sex. My mother was a prostitute."
"Was she?"
"Yes, she did very well, earned a fortune."
"Didn't your father mind?"
"No, not at all. He was one of her best clients! Oh, I feel wet and horny just thinking about it! Oh dear, I need the cupboard - I think I'm going to come!"
"Save it for later. Oh, there is one thing, I'd like you to shave your pubic hairs off. I want to give the punters a choice, cater for all tastes."
"Oh! I'll enjoy doing that!"
Yes, I'm sure you will. "Good, until this evening, Cecilia."
"Yes, until this evening."
It was all too easy, Mike thought, watching the delectable Cecilia Squeezeasy breeze off to prepare for her new calling as the fire inspector emerged from the kitchen and climbed the stairs. Why weren't things going wrong as usual? There was no doubt that he wouldn't have his fire certificate renewed, but the new business venture was taking off like a rocket. It was if it were meant to be, he reflected happily. The lucrative room sixty-nine was definitely meant to be! And annoyances such as the Glooms and Miss Chaste were soon to be history.
Deciding to convert a couple more fourth-floor rooms into sex dens, Mike realized that keeping his clandestine activities secret from the guests and residents was imperative. If the cat slipped out of the bag, or the pussy out of the cock, there'd be an uprising - mutiny, even! All he needed was the colonel poking his nose around the fourth floor searching for Trudie's hot pussy hole to slip his wick into! Not to mention Inspector Dickwipe.
Trudie, as yet, hadn't experienced the delights of room sixty-nine, Mike reflected. Goldie's naked body had paid for the plumbing and earned fifty pounds from the electrician, Cecilia had milked the priest, but Trudie hadn't contributed a penny. I'll soon change that, Mike decided, imagining the dark-haired beauty handcuffed to the frame, her legs splayed wide, a solid penis shafting her tight sex hole.
"Mr Hunt," Harold Gloom whispered, edging his way along the wall to the desk.
"Oh, Mr Gloom, your wife was looking for you."
"I'm not surprised!"
"That reminds me, I haven't seen your son since you arrived, is he not well?"
"He's not my son, he's my wife's lover."
"Bloody hell! You mean to say that... Christ, he's your wife's lover?"
"Yes, it's a long story. She plans to have me done away with."
"Done away with?"
"She's arranged to have me killed during our stay here - murdered, even."
"Murdered, even? Fuck me, I can't have murder committed at Stokepot Towers! Think of the damaging publicity! The place will be swarming with the police and press, not to mention undertakers!"
"Think of my untimely demise! Don't worry, I'm not to be murdered in your hotel. I overheard my wife talking on the phone before we came away. I'm to fall off the end of the pier, accidentally when the tide's in. I can't swim so..."
"You mean, someone's going to push you off the edge of the pier?"
"Yes, that's why I've been in hiding. She's insured me up to the hilt."
"I find all this very difficult to believe, Mr Gloom."
"It's true! I honestly believe that she's the Devil's mother. Is there another room I could stay in? For the time being, I want her to think that I've been swept away by the cruel and unforgiving sea. Washed out with the tide and..."
"Yes, here's the key to room eight. Ring reception if you want anything."
"Thanks. You haven't seen me, OK?"
"If you say so, Mr Gloom."
"I don't suppose you have any arsenic knocking around?"
"Knocking around?"
"Kicking about."
"No, I'm afraid not."
"It was just a wicked thought."
Wondering whether the man was a complete nutter, Mike sat at the desk recalling Mrs Gloom's words. Has he met with a timely accident? "Christ, he might not be mad after all," he breathed. No doubt the evil bitch would wait a while longer and then alert the police as to her husband's disappearance, believing that the assassin had done the job. Within a few days, there'd be a full-scale police hunt for the man!
"Ah, Paul, you've got the cameras?" Mike asked the young man as he staggered through the main doors with a bulging carrier bag.
"I'm afraid I could only get hold of three. The store detective nearly had me by the balls! I think he recognized me because I'm often in there."
"Don't worry about that bastard. If he becomes a problem, I'll have him done over. OK, get the cameras fixed up in the bathrooms as quickly a
s you can. Make sure they're well hidden, I don't want to get myself banged up for being a sad voyeur."
"But you are a sad..."
"That's beside the point. OK, fit the cameras and..."
"You want the cable from each camera run into reception, do you?"
"Yes, so I can switch from room to room."
"I thought you wanted a monitor in your flat?"
"It would be better, but I have to spend most of my time up here dealing with the fucking plebs. I also want a video recorder installed on the shelf beneath the desk, can you manage that?"
"Yes, of course."
"Our first punter arrives at seven. Tell Trudie and Goldie to be naked in the dining room by seven with clamps and chains fixed to their nipples and candles stuffed up their fannies."
"Chains fixed to their nipples and candles stuffed up... yes, right. OK, I'll get to work."
"Keep everyone in the bar until the punter's had his meal and gone upstairs. I don't want the colonel or Miss Chaste nosing about - and stay off the vodka!"
As Paul lugged the carrier bag upstairs, Mike rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Impatient as he was, he wanted everything up and running as soon as possible - the cameras, the video recorder, and a couple more fourth-floor rooms converted into sex dens. He'd also need another girl or two if he were to cater for several men simultaneously. I could always advertise, he thought as Dave peered round the kitchen door.
"What's happening about the hot water?" he asked.
"Not a lot, the boiler's fucked. You'll have to use the kettle."
"Oh, great! By the way, the new cooker's brilliant, but there's nothing to cook. I've got to start the evening meals soon so what do you recommend?"
"Is there no dog food left?"
"No, 'fraid not."
"Shit, I'll have to get some more. I'll get some cat food, too - it'll make a fine base for a curry."
"Christ, you'll kill the punters!"
"That's the general idea! OK, cancel the dinners. I've got a room sixty-niner arriving at seven so I want the dining room clear of prying guests and nosy residents."
"They'll have to eat, Mike!"
"Christ, they're a bloody nuisance! All right, take twenty quid out of the till and buy some fish and chips - cheap fish, huss or some such crap. And get a nice piece of steak for our first client. I want to give him a really good meal with fresh veg and a choice of wines. Hopefully, if things go according to plan, he'll be a regular punter."
