Hot Sheets (13 page)

"Oh! I have
never known such..."

"Paul! Paul,
you alcoholic, knob-sucking spunk bubble of a cunt licker!" Mike
stormed, rattling the door handle.

"Oh, my
goodness! I'll call the police!" the old bat cried. "I'll have you
arrested!"

"Get out of
here before I twist your clitoris off, you senile, bearded old hag!
Paul, unless you open this fucking door this instant I'll tear your
cock off and shove it right up your fucking arsehole!"

"What is it?"
the startled young man asked, opening the door as the befuddled old
woman hobbled on down the hall.

"That's what
it is!" Mike fumed, crashing into the room and pointing to the
television picture of Mrs Squeezeasy sucking the priest's knob.
"It's one thing hiding a camera in room sixty-nine, but you're
pumping the pictures round the fucking hotel! The colonel and Miss
Chaste were watching it in the bar!"

"Oh, shit!
I've crossed my wires somewhere!" Paul gasped. "Sorry, Mike."

"You will be!
God, it's probably on every TV in the building! I ought to tear
your balls off and shove them down your throat!"

"I'll sort it
out, don't worry."

"I wanted a
camera in room eleven, Paul."

"Yes, OK.
Christ, I'd better have a drink!"

"You just
dare!"

Back behind
reception, Mike rubbed his forehead, wondering what else could go
wrong. It was lucky Miss Chaste hadn't had a heart attack, he
reflected. On the other hand... As for Colonel Buckshot, he'd
probably spend the rest of the week in a state of rampant sexual
arousal, chasing the young waitresses all over the hotel!

"Good
afternoon, Stokepot Towers," he said wearily, answering the
phone.

"Oh, hi," a
young man replied. "I hear you've got a randy little tart for
sale."

"A randy
little tart? Who is this?"

"I'm an
electrician - my mate told me that you've got a bird tied up and
you sell her for sex."

"Is your mate
a plumber?"

"Yes, that's
right, squire."

"I'll tear his
bloody plumbing out, the big-mouthed lout!"

"Well, have
you got a bird or not?"

"Yes, but we
only cater for discerning businessmen, not vulgar tradesmen."

"Oh, that's
not what my mate said."

"I don't care
what your mate said. We only cater for professional people -
priests, solicitors, MPs and the like."

"I lied, I'm
not an electrician, I'm a... I'm a doctor."

"Why lie?"

"I didn't want
to reveal my profession. I'll give you a ring when I'm able to make
it, guv."

"All right,
but it'll cost you fifty pounds for half-an-hour."

"Blimey!
That's a bit much for a bit of cunt, isn't it?"

"Life's a bit
much! Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it.
You'll be hearing from me."

Banging the phone down, Mike decided to strangle the plumber
if he ran into him.
Big-mouthed
bastard
. But the new business venture was
off the ground, he mused as Goldie came down the stairs clutching a
pile of dirty sheets.
Better tell her that
she's going to get fucked again, I suppose
.

"Ah, Goldie,
you're going to be fucked by an electrician."

"I am not!"
the petite blonde returned, scowling at Mike.

"He's going to
ring, so don't go taking any days off. In fact, all days off are
cancelled as from now."

"I am not
going to be fucked by an electrician! As it is, I've been fucked by
a bloody plumber!"

"Actually,
he's a doctor."

"Who, the
plumber?"

"No, the
electrician."

"I don't care
if he's the Prime Minister, I am not..."

"You're
dismissed, sacked, fired!"

"OK, I'll let
him fuck me."

"What was your
previous employment?"

"What?"

"If I'm to
interview you for the job of waitress at Stokepot Towers, I have to
know about your previous employment."

"I work
here."

"You did, but
I've just sacked you. So, you'd like to work here as a waitress,
would you? Tell me, miss, why are you attracted to waitressing?
What is it about the job that makes you think...?"

"What are you
talking about? I'm going to take these sheets downstairs, I'll see
you later."

"Don't you
want the job? Oh, well, I'll just have to advertise for a waitress
to replace you."

"Mike, shut
up!"

"Oh,
sorry."

Money, money, money!
Mike chuckled
inwardly as Goldie grouched off. Turning to face a middle-aged
couple as they walked through the main door with a teenaged boy, he
frowned. Slapping the slight man around the head as he dumped
several suitcases on the floor, the plump, headscarfed woman
obviously wore the trousers! Cowering as his wife wagged a
threatening finger at him, he offered Mike a weak smile.

"The family of
three?" Mike ventured.

"Yes, we're a
family of three!" the woman replied irritably. "What about it?"

"No, I mean,
are you the family of three?"

"The family of
three? What are you talking about? What's the matter with you?"

"What he
means, dear, is..." the timid man began.

"Shut up,
Harold!" the woman snapped, pushing him aside. "We've booked one
double room and one single."

"Yes, right. Mr and Mrs Gloom, isn't it?"
Mr Gloom and Mrs Doom!

"That's right.
Where's the complaints book?"

"Er... we
don't have a complaints book."

"Why not?"

"Well, no
one's ever complained."

"I always
complain!"

"I'm sure
you'll have no need to complain about your stay at Stokepot Towers,
madam," Mike assured her.

"Of course
I'll have need to complain! What's the matter with the
weather?"

"The
weather?"

"It's dull,
overcast. What sort of town is this? I want sunshine!"

"I can't help
that!"

"Why, are you
completely incompetent?"

"No, it's just
that..."

"Ah, you,
girl!" the battleaxe called as Trudie minced into the foyer. "Take
our cases and show us to our room! And smarten yourself up - you
look as if you've been dragged through a hedge!"

"Rooms
eighteen and nineteen," Mike sighed, taking the keys from a hook
and passing them to Trudie.

Watching the
family bundle into the lift, Mike knew the old hag was going to be
nothing but trouble. They'd booked in for a week, he reflected. No
doubt a week of hell! Deciding to instruct the chef to poison her,
he wondered whether her downtrodden husband would enjoy an hour or
so in room sixty-nine. The poor sod could probably do with a damn
good fuck, he thought, imagining his wife allowing him to taste the
missionary position twice a year.

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!"