Hot Sheets (26 page)

"Mr Gloom, the
police are here, so I suggest you move out now - this minute,
even."

"This minute,
even? I can't do that!" the wimp whispered. "Not until..."

"Your wife's
calling the FBI in."

"The FBI?"

"Yes, so you'd
better make yourself scarce. The last thing I want is machine
gun-wielding yankees crawling all over the place."

"OK, I'll
leave tonight, under cover of the dark. Have you seen her
lover?"

"No, I've not
set eyes on him since you arrived."

"He's lurking,
I can feel it."

"You'd better
get back to your room."

"All right,
I'll see you tonight, before I leave."

Shaking his
head as the goosepecked man crept across the foyer into the lift,
Mike checked the monitor. The bride was on her hands and knees, her
head resting on the bed, the best man's solid cock driving deep
into her anal orifice. With the hotel full of guests, people
wandering back and forth between the bar and the dining room, the
WPC bending over the padded bar, Dickwipe poking his nose in and
anal sex going on in room eleven, he was going to have to be extra
vigilant!

Pondering on
the situation as he watched the best man grab the bride's hips and
crudely screw her bottom-hole, he looked up and sighed as Belinda
breezed in through the main doors. It was time she moved out, too,
he reflected, eyeing her short skirt. But not before he'd given her
one up her bum!

"Ah, Mike,"
she smiled. "I'm going to pack now."

"You're going
so soon?"

"Yes, I have
to. I was wondering whether you'd like to..."

"Er, yes, of
course!" he beamed presumptively, leaping up from the chair.

"Just let me
pack and I'll be with you."

"We'll go down
to my flat and..."

"Oh, yes, I've
not seen your flat. I'll be down shortly."

And up shortly - right up your arse
.

Belinda had never had her anal canal shafted, sperm pumped
deep into her bowels, Mike reflected.
Strange how wives don't go in for bondage, anal fucking and
whipping
. Grinning, he pictured his ex-wife
tied over the padded bar with the waitresses lapping up her sex
cream as it oozed from her hot vaginal orifice. That was one way to
ensure that she'd never return to the hotel.
I'll give her the thrashing of her life before she
leaves
.

"Ah, Inspector
Prick... Dickwipe, did you check your lady friend's room?" Mike
asked, about to enter the dining room.

"Yes, I did.
It's most peculiar, Mr Hunt."

"The room's
peculiar? What do you mean, exactly?"

"The situation
is peculiar. I'd arranged to meet her here and..."

"She's not
your bit on the side, is she?"

"She happens
to be a... yes, well, I'll not go into that."

"You should
spare a thought for your poor cheated wife."

"My wife has
not been cheated. As I was saying, the situation is peculiar. Mr
Gloom still hasn't made an appearance. And as for the matter of the
allegation... I don't like it, Mr Hunt - I don't like it one little
bit."

"No, I don't
suppose you do. Well, if that's all, I have things to do,
Inspector."

"Yes, that is
all - for the time being. Don't leave town, Mr Hunt. Good day to
you."

"Good day,
Inspector."

Popping his
head round the dining room door as the pest left, Mike was pleased
to see the guests laughing and joking, and enjoying the buffet. At
least there appeared to be no problems with the reception, he
thought thankfully. The guests would soon return to the bar and
spend a fortune on booze, pumping up his takings nicely. With
Dickwipe out of the way, Widegroin trussed, the reception going
well... nothing could go wrong - could it?

Expletives resounding round the foyer, Mike turned on his
heels to see the groom staring in horror at the TV monitor.
Jeez, he's seen his fucking wife getting
fucked!

"Where's the
camera?" the young man stormed, grabbing Mike's lapels and shaking
him violently. "Where's the fucking camera?"

"Er... please,
you're ruining my velvet jacket!"

"I'll ruin
your fucking hotel in a minute!"

"I bought this
from Marks and Spencer, I'll have you know!"

"Where's the
camera?"

"Upstairs, room eleven."
So much for
the reception going well
.

Pushing Mike
aside, the groom flung his jacket off and rolled his shirt sleeves
up as he leapt up the stairs. Mike cringed. This was going to be a
total disaster! What better way to begin married life than to
discover your wife being arse-knobbed by your best man? Raising his
eyes to the ceiling as Mrs Gloom waddled towards him, he felt he
couldn't take much more in the way of problems. He hadn't been paid
for the wedding reception yet, and it didn't look as if he would
be!

"Listen to
me!" Mrs Gloom shrieked, slamming her clenched fists on her bovine
hips. "I want to know where my husband is!"

"Er... I
believe your lover pushed him off the end of the pier," Mike
ventured, going for broke.

"What? My
lover... what are you on about?"

"Your
so-called son, he pushed Harold off the end of the pier."

"Harold fell
off the pier, he wasn't pushed!"

"How do you
know that?"

"Oh! I..."

"Shall I call
the police?"

"Er... no, no
it's all right. I... I was mistaken. I saw Harold this morning,
he's fine."

"Oh, good, I'm
so pleased."

"Yes, well,
I'm going out for a while."

Good, and don't come back
.

Watching the
woman stomp out through the swing doors, Mike held his head,
imagining trout fishing, relaxing beneath the summer sun with
dragonflies hovering over the crystal clear water, the scent of
wild flowers filling his nostrils. But that was another world, a
world far removed from the unnatural reality of Stokepot
Towers.

Wouldn't mind
a quick wank, he thought, recalling Wendy Widegroin's luscious
pussy lips bulging between her smooth thighs. Turn the hotel into a
brothel? The idea was very appealing but there were too many
problems, too many inquisitive people nosing around. The day would
come, though, he was sure - the day when the problematic guests and
residents were no more.

The bride fleeing downstairs in all her naked glory, Mike
focused on her inflamed, sperm-dripping vaginal slit.
Good grief, I'm surrounded by wet
cunts
. Her succulent brown nipples erect,
suckable, she was an extremely attractive young woman - albeit,
hysterical!

"Call the
police!" she shrieked as she approached the desk and grabbed Mike's
lapels. "He's going to murder him!"

"Who's going
to murder..."

"John's going
to murder Ian!"

"Why?"

"Because he
caught him..."

"Ah, crime of
passion," Mike smiled. "Don't worry, with a sympathetic judge,
he'll get off."

"He's going to
strangle him! You must..." Her words tailing off as the mumbling
wedding guests gathered round, eyeing her naked body, she folded
her arms across her flushed, tell-tale breasts. "My clothes!" she
gasped, looking at her horrified audience.

"Might I
suggest that you go back to the room and dress?" Mike ventured as
the best man came tumbling down the stairs, in his un-best.

The leaking bride streaking out into the street through the
swing doors, Mike squeezed himself up against the wall as the
guests stampeded after her. Cringing as the groom leapt from the
top of the stairs and swung from the chandelier, ripping it out of
the ceiling and landing on top of the best man in a shower of
plaster, he shook his head despairingly.
All I need now is for the boiler to explode. Better not speak
too soon!

"By gad!" the
colonel gasped as he emerged from the bar, his waxed moustache
twitching as he gazed at the wrestling men. "What the devil's going
on, old boy?"

"Nothing
unusual, Colonel. Just a normal day in the colourful life of
Stokepot Towers. You should be used to it by now - Christ knows, I
am!" Mike sighed, reinstating himself behind the desk and taking
his girlie mag from the shelf.

"Aren't you
going to stop them?"

"No, I've lost
all interest. I don't give a damn, a toss, a monkey's, a
fuck..."

"They'll smash
the place to pieces!" the colonel exclaimed, backing away as the
groom began taking light bulbs from the chandelier and throwing
them at the naked best man.

"Why don't you
have another large scotch, Colonel?"

"Yes, yes I
think I will!"

"Christ, what
the hell..." Dave breathed as he opened the kitchen door, ducking
as a bulb hit the wall above his head and exploded. "Mike, what's
happening?"

"I really have
no idea. Something to do with a dispute over a woman's wet cunt, I
believe. Do you know what I'd really like?" he asked as the groom
chased his best man out into the street. "I'd like to be buried
beneath a pile of naked schoolgirls. Imagine it, Dave - entrenched
by firm titties and wet slits."

"I think
you've gone over the edge, Mike. There's a very thin line between
sanity and insanity. Why don't you go and have a lie down, give
your brain a rest?"

"Yes, I might
just do that. I don't suppose you've got any cannabis?"

"Er... no, not
exactly."

"It was just a
thought. Girls pressed against my naked body, hard tits rubbing all
over me, mouths nibbling, tongues..."

"Have a rest,
Mike, it'll do you good."

Grabbing the
ringing phone, Mike pressed the receiver to his ear, praying that
this wasn't going to be another horrendous problem. "Good
afternoon, Stokepot Lunatic Asylum."

"Is that you,
Mr Hunt?" Miss Chaste asked, her voice shaky.

"No, this is
the Pope's orgasming penis speaking."

"The Pope's...
I wanted Stokepot Towers, not the Vatican."

"Sorry, wrong
number. Replace the receiver and try again. Thank you for wasting
your money by using British Telecom."

"You sound
awfully like Mr Hunt."

"Of course
it's me, Miss Chaste! Where the hell are you?"

"I don't
know."

"You don't
know? What are you talking about? Jesus Christ, we all know where
we are! Well, most of us do."

"I should know
where I am, but I don't know where I am because I'm lost."

"Lost? Bloody
hell!"

"What shall I
do?"

Commit suicide?
"Get a taxi and ask
for the hotel."

"I can't see
any taxis, Mr Hunt."

"You won't
find a taxi in the phone box! Go outside and..."

"I can see a
field. Oh, and lots of trees and flowers."

"Aren't you in
town?"

"No, I'm in a
country lane, miles from anywhere. I went for a walk and I... I
can't remember what happened after that. It's strange, isn't
it?"

"Yes,
very!"

"Oh, the grand
old Duke of York, he had ten thousand..."

"Miss Chaste,
may I ask why you're singing?"

"I like
singing. Ring-a-ring of roses..."

"Get a grip on
yourself, woman!"

"Is mummy
there?"

"Mummy? Fuck
me, she's a goner! What's your phone number?"

"My phone
number? We haven't got a phone, daddy doesn't like telephones."

Hanging up, Mike held his aching head. The foyer looked as if
a bomb had hit it, he observed, ordering Dave to clear up the
smashed chandelier.
This bloody place will
be the death of me!
Ringing the dial-back
number, he wrote down Miss Chaste's number and called the police
station.

"Inspector
Dickwipe speaking."

"You got back
to the station in remarkably good time, Inspector!"

"I'm highly
efficient, Mr Hunt. What is it you want?"

"Miss Chaste,
a resident of mine, has wandered off and got lost. She called me
from a phone box, the number's 885367 - she's gone off her rocker,
by the sound of it."

"OK, I'll have
the phone box located and we'll pick her up. By the way, Mr Hunt,
we've just received a call concerning a woman seen running out of
your hotel completely naked. I don't suppose you know anything
about that?"

"No, I don't.
Christ, what the hell would I know about naked women?"

"Quite a lot,
from what I've heard!"

"Yes, well...
when you find Miss Chaste, please, don't bring her back here."

"Where else
can we take her?"

"To the
fucking loony bin!"

"You're not
allowed to swear over the phone, Mr Hunt."

"I'll do more
than fucking swear if you bring that old bat back here!"

Banging the
phone down as Goldie and Trudie emerged from the dining room, Mike
rose to his feet. "OK, staff meeting!" he bellowed. "Someone go and
kick Paul in the bollocks and then bring him here!"

"A staff
meeting?" Dave echoed, sweeping up the broken glass.

"Yes, a
meeting of the staff - comprehend?"

"By Jove!" the
colonel bellowed as he staggered out of the bar.

"Ah, Colonel!"
Mike growled. "Leave the hotel, please!"

"Leave? Where
shall I go?"

"Anywhere,
just get out!"

"Oh, right -
if you say so, old man."

"I do!"

"May I come
back for dinner?"

"I doubt that
there'll be any dinner!"

Watching
Trudie drag Paul into the foyer, Mike scrutinised his staff.
Goldie's blonde hair looked as if it had been brushed with a yard
broom while Trudie's black microskirt was covered with white stains
- spunk stains! Paul, with his bloodshot eyes and designer stubble,
needed a damned good arse kicking! And Dave... he supposed Dave had
been doing pretty well of late. But the time had come for major
changes.