Hot Sheets (27 page)

"OK, I've
called this staff meeting because things have gone too far," Mike
began as the colonel staggered out of the hotel. "I want changes,
big changes. Paul, you'll stop drinking from now on, Trudie,
you'll..."

"Mike, go and
have a rest," Dave suggested again, watching his boss wringing his
hands in his nervous despair.

"I don't want
a bloody rest!"

"Therapy,
that's what you need. What do you find therapeutic?"

"Therapeutic?"

"He's right,
mate," Trudie rejoined. "You're becoming a psychological wreck,
Mike. Take an hour or two off and do something relaxing."

"Such as?"

"Well, you
could always whip the policewoman. Get it off your chest by
thrashing her bum."

"Yes, that's a
good idea," Mike smiled. "Can I trust you lot to make sure that
things run smoothly while I administer the buttock whipping?"

"No problem!"
Dave laughed. "The place is empty, the bride and groom have
buggered off, the guests have fled, Miss Chaste and the colonel
aren't here - so there's fuck-all to do, isn't there?"

"Fuck all? And
why not! You two come up in a while and give me a hand with the
policewoman," Mike grinned, his dark eyes darting between the
pretty waitresses. "She could probably do with some lesbian
experience. A good lesbian fanny licking will sort her out."

"OK," Goldie
smiled, licking her full red lips at the thought of tasting Wendy
Widegroin's succulent pussy lips. "We'll be up in a few
minutes."

Taking the lift, Mike thought about his staff. They weren't
too bad, he reflected - they could be a lot worse! Excluding Paul,
that was. It was futile to believe that he could order Paul to stop
drinking, just like that. And as for the waitresses... A
psychological wreck, he mused.
Perhaps
Trudie's right
. No, he was all right, it
was the others, as always. Banged up in the loony bin, Miss Chaste
wouldn't cause any more problems. The colonel... he was OK - an old
fart, but bearable.
I suppose I shouldn't
have been rude to the old git
.

Entering room
sixty-nine, he grinned to see Wendy's swollen pussy lips blatantly
displayed between her shapely thighs. "How are you getting on?" he
asked her, stroking her smooth, rounded bottom orbs.

"How am I
getting on? What sort of question is that?" she snorted, gazing up
at him from between her shapely legs.

"I don't know,
a normal question, I suppose."

"Well, I'll
tell you how I'm getting on! I ache all over, I need the loo,
I..."

"And I need
therapy, Wendy."

"You're
telling me you do! Therapy? You need psychiatric help!"

"We're all
mad, to a greater or lesser degree."

"Yes, and
you're..."

"Ever had your
bum thrashed?"

"Thrashed? No,
or course I haven't!"

"My staff have
suggested that I give you a good thrashing to get things off my
chest. It's a psychological approach designed to ease my tension,
you see."

"You dare to
touch me and I'll..."

"Don't start
arsing on again, Wendy! I'm already close to the edge, you'll send
me over the thin line if you're not careful!"

"If you thrash
me..."

"Talking of
thin lines, let's give you some nice, pink weals!"

"If
you..."

"Sorry, I'm
not listening."

Grabbing the
cat of nine tails, Mike stood behind his prisoner's projected
buttocks, grinning wickedly as she continued with her pathetically
futile protests. The thrashing was indeed going to be therapeutic!
Fired by the fucking meddling establishment - the tax man, VAT man,
fire man, the environmental health bastards, weights and measures
and last, but by no means least, Inspector Dickwipe, he now sought
total sexual perversity.

And why not? he reasoned. Corruption was rife within the
establishment - MPs wielding their power with illicit sexual
conquests, priests wielding their cassocked cocks with
parishioner's wives and angel-faced choirboys, doctors wielding
their own sensitive probes instead of stethoscopes...
If you can't beat them, join
them
.

He'd beat the
WPC's naked buttocks and then join in with the corruption by
becoming sexually corrupt in the extreme! Wendy's bottom hole was
eminently inviting, he observed as she struggled to escape. Apart
from his solid penis, he'd slip a candle up her bum to humiliate
and degrade her. A screwdriver handle, a broom handle, his fingers,
a cucumber, a wine bottle... whatever he could get his hands on,
he'd shove up her arse!

"OK, Wendy,
here it comes!" he chuckled, raising the leather tails above his
head. "The first few lashes will be for that meddling bastard,
Inspector Prickwipe!"

"No, please!
Please don't whip me!"

"Ah, there's
nothing I like better than a female begging for mercy! The more you
beg, the more you'll get!"

"You'll go to
prison for this!"

"This is
nothing, believe me! After the thrashing, I'm going to force my
fist up your tight bum!"

"God, no!"

"Satan,
yes!"

Bringing the
tails down across the defenceless woman's tensed buttocks, Mike
delighted in her screams and threats. Again, he lashed her taut
bottom orbs, creating thin weals across her pale skin. "Long live
therapy!" he cried, repeatedly thrashing her quivering arse cheeks.
"Fuck me, I feel better already!"

"You'll pay
for this!" she sobbed as the tails struck her again.

"No, I won't -
the best things in life are free!"

The leather
tails cracking loudly across Wendy's reddening buttocks, Mike lost
himself in his perversity, his thirst for revenge against the
establishment. Two lashes for Dickwipe's meddling, another two for
the tax man, three for the right little bastard, two for the mental
health cunts...

"God, am I
enjoying this!" he chuckled, gazing at the woman's burning anal
spheres. "I'm going to thrash you until I cream my pants!"

"Mike!" Dave
yelled as he burst into the room. "Mike, there are six coppers in
reception!"

"Satan bloody
Christ!" Mike gasped, dropping the whip. "What the hell do they
want? I suppose that's a daft question."

"They want
their WPC back. They look pretty mean, if you ask me."

"Mean?"

"They've got
shooters."

"Guns?"

"I knew they'd
rescue me!" Wendy cried triumphantly, her crimson buttocks
twitching their delight.

"They won't
rescue anyone!" Mike leered, slapping her anal globes with the palm
of his hand.

"Argh!
Ouch!"

"The best
man's here, too," Dave enlightened his boss.

"Shit, what
shall I do?"

"God knows!
You're doomed, if you ask me."

"I'll dive out
of the window, take my life."

"You can't do
that! It's suicide, Mike!"

"Is it? Oh,
yes, so it is. OK, I'll go into hiding. Get rid of them, tell them
that I met with an accident."

"OK, if you
say so."

"I do!"

Slumping against the wall as Dave dashed off, Mike slid to the
floor, his head resting on his knees.
Doomed!
Sighing, he contemplated the
word.
Doomed! I'm doomed! I'm bloody well
doomed!

Apart from
Cecilia masturbating in the cupboard, so far it had been a
relatively quiet Sunday morning at Stokepot Towers. The previous
night had gone well, once Dave had convinced the gang of cops that
Wendy Widegroin had checked out. But they'd be back, Mike was sure
of that. Dickwipe wouldn't rest until he'd found his bounteous WPC
and had Mike banged up.

The estranged
groom had grabbed Dave by the throat and threatened to tear Mike's
head off, although Dave didn't know why. It didn't make sense -
after all, it was the bride and the best man who'd had it off in
room eleven, not Mike! But the groom, it transpired during the
shouting and scuffling, had been unhappy about the hidden video
camera. Dave had finally managed to reason with him, pointing out
that the camera was the least of his problems.

Cecilia and
the waitresses had done well, satisfying the male clients and
earning Mike another four hundred pounds. The punters hadn't stayed
the night - the girls had seen to it that they were shagged out by
midnight! Of course, they'd kept well away from WPC Widegroin,
who'd been gagged in the original room sixty-nine.

Again, Nancy
had been left out of the sexual activities. She'd complained
bitterly to Mike, but he'd not wanted her fucked by what he looked
upon as common riffraff. "A classy cunt," he'd adjudicated as she'd
lifted her skirt and shown him her ravenous, dripping sex crack.
"Classy cunts are for classy punters."

The truth was
that he wanted to keep her for himself. But he knew the time would
come when she'd demand to work with the girls. He'd given her
another fifty pounds, but she'd made it blatantly clear that it was
hard sex she wanted, more than hard cash. Feasting his eyes on her
sad drooping inner petals, he'd promised her that he'd satisfy her
feminine needs at his earliest opportunity.

The cash
rolling in, Miss Chaste banged up in the loony bin, the colonel
having taken cover in his room, the only immediate problem was
Belinda. In her wisdom, the bitch had decided to stay on for a
while longer, much to Mike's annoyance.

"So, Sunday
morning breakfast!" he grinned as he wandered into the kitchen.

"All under
control," Dave smiled, prodding the sizzling bacon with a fork.

"I wish you'd
stop saying that," Mike complained, grimacing as he gazed at a
plate of phlegm-covered fried eggs. "Saying that things are all
under control is likely to provoke a psychic response, and
everything will go wrong."

"A psychic
response, my knob!" Dave chuckled, stirring a pan of baked beans.
"Did you give your ex-wife a good fucking?"

"No, I didn't
get round to it. After you'd sent the cops packing, I allowed
Widegroin to go to the loo and take a bath before tying her to the
bed in sixty-nine. I waited until the punters had gone up to the
top floor, and then I locked myself in my flat. I thought it best
to stay in hiding, particularly as Mrs Gloom was wandering about. I
wonder whether Harold left?"

"No, he's
still holed-up in room eight. I took him his breakfast
earlier."

"He is a git!
I told him to get out!"

"What are you
going to do about Belinda?"

"I'll probably
give her a good anal rodding later. I might as well fuck
Widegroin's bum, too. It would be a shame to let a damned good arse
go to waste. OK, so what's on the agenda?"

"After I've
done the breakfasts, I have the rest of the day off."

"The rest of
the day off? Have you suffered a brain seizure?"

"Don't say
you've forgotten, Mike! Goldie's taking over in the kitchen."

"Oh, shit, so
she is! OK, let me think about the immediate problems. There's the
King of Skythuania, my ex-wife - and the pig of a policewoman, of
course!"

"You'll have
to let her go. I mean, you can't..."

"Let her go?
Christ, I'd be shooting myself in my knob if I did that! Unless I
can think of a better idea, I might be forced to resort to
homicide."

"Blimey!"

"Fuck me, I've
got it! Widegroin hasn't met you, has she, Dave?"

"Er, no, I
don't think so."

"OK, I'll
finish the breakfasts. Go to sixty-nine and make out that you're an
undercover cop come to rescue her."

"What's my
name?"

"What?"

"Detective
Inspector what?"

"Christ, I
don't know! DI Cunt, if you like. Tell Widegroin that she's going
to be done for prostitution. That's it, make out that you're from
Scotland Yard. Don't tell her that you're going to rescue her. Say
that you're going to arrest her along with the girls."

"It all sounds
rather..."

"Play it by
ear. Frighten her, Dave. Say that there's a big undercover
operation and you reckon she's a prostitute - Operation
Shagnasty."

"Shagnasty?
OK, I'll give it a try."

"Good, do it
now."

Entering the
lift, Dave pondered on Mike's idea. Even if Wendy believed his
story, what was the point? he wondered. Dickwipe would vouch for
her, she'd be well aware of that. Play it by ear, he mused.
Creeping into room sixty-nine, he gazed at the WPC, her naked body
tied to the bed, her firm breasts and long nipples pointing to the
ceiling, her vaginal crack gaping, inviting a darting tongue - a
solid penis!

"Don't make a
sound," he whispered as he approached the bed and removed the gag
from the prisoner's pretty mouth. Gazing at her pinken, inner sex
lips, his penis stiffened, bulging his trousers. "I'm Detective
Inspector Mann, Danger Mann. I'm from the Yard, Scotland Yard," he
announced authoritatively.

"Oh, thank
God!" she sighed. "Thank God for that!"

"Why thank
God?"

"Because I'll
be out of here soon."

"No, you've
got it all wrong. I'm going to arrest you, along with the others,
for prostitution."

"What? But I'm
a policewoman!" she gasped.

"Pull the
other one, love!"

"Ring Pox
Green station and ask for Inspector Dickwipe, he'll tell you."

"Ah, Dickwipe!
He's already been arrested for aiding and abetting prostitutes,
pimp that he is."

"Arrested?
You're not a policeman, show me your ID. What sort of name is
Danger Mann, anyway?"

"It's my name
and I'm very proud of it. I have my mother to thank for it."
Hauling his stiff penis out, Dave grinned. "There's my ID!"

"That's
doesn't identify you!" the distraught beauty shrieked, eyeing his
purple knob as he pulled his foreskin back.