Hot Sheets

by Ray Gordon

  He'd phoned Paul's room several times but there'd been no answer from the drunkard. Wondering whether the barman had gone out, or was lying dead on the floor, he grabbed the phone and tried yet again, swearing to sack him unless he shaped up.

  "Paul, you lazy, fucking, alcoholic sexual deviant!" he yelled as the young man grunted something unintelligible down the phone. "Get your fucking arse down here within two minutes or I'll cut your balls off and have Dave poach them and serve them on flame-grilled toast for my ex-wife's breakfast!"

  "What? Er... that's no way to speak to a valued member of your staff!"

  "I wouldn't dream of speaking to a valued member of my staff like that! Get your fucking arse down here now!"

  Slamming the phone down, Mike made his plans of commercial debauchery. Another wooden frame, another TV camera, another... "Christ, there's a lot to do!" he groaned despairingly.

  "Mike, there's no hot water!" Dave called, peering round the kitchen door.

  "Fucking plumber, I'll have his ball bag for the next Burns' night haggis!"

  "Oh, we won't be using a condom instead of sheep-gut this year, then?"

  "I'll use your scrotum unless you sort the bloody kitchen out! It'll be ode to the chef's bollock bag!"

  "Sounds mighty painful!"

  "It will be, believe me! Right, I'd better ring that incompetent, spunk-bubble of a mother-fucking, arse-licking plumber!"

  "Oh, Mr Hunt!" Miss Chaste gasped as she emerged from the lift. "Goodness me, my mother would turn in her grave if she heard..."

  "Get into the dining room and don't hover around out here or you'll be turning in your grave sooner than you expected!" Mike ordered the horrified woman.

  "Oh, but..."

  "I'll confiscate your pension book and cash your premium bonds!" he threatened as she scurried into the dining room.

  "Oh, dear, another rule?"

  "Yes, another rule." Actually, that's not a bad idea.

  Ringing the plumber, Mike ordered him to be at the hotel within half-an-hour or he'd tear his balls off and stuff them up his drain pipe. "You'll get free fucks all right, mate - free fucks up your arse with a fucking great length of fifteen mill' copper pipe!"

  "Oh, well, put like that... I'm pretty well booked up for today, but I might be able to call round later if..."

  "Are you married?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "What would your wife say if she knew that you'd fucked one of my waitresses?"

  "I'll be there in a jiffy."

  "Damn right you will!"

  Replacing the receiver, Mike turned the monitor on and flicked the switch through the bathroom cameras. Frowning at the picture of Harold Gloom wanking in the bath with a pair of red silk knickers tied around the base of his cock, he squeezed his eyes shut and switched the monitor off. Poor old Harold, he commiserated. Fancy having to resort to wanking. Suddenly having an idea as Paul mooched down the stairs, he grinned wickedly.

  "Paul, I've got it!" he exclaimed excitedly. "We could hire out battery operated vaginas."

  "What?" the dazed barman asked, rubbing his bloodshot eyes and brushing his unruly hair back as he staggered towards the desk. "Hire out what?"

  "Electric fannies, I've seen them advertised in magazines. We could hire them out to the male guests. Fit them in the rooms, to the walls, so that all the guests have to do is stand there and shove their cocks into the vaginas and come off. A coin slot, three pounds a spunk, what do you think?"

  "Yes, I suppose so. What was the urgency to see me?"

  "Get up to the fourth floor and convert another two rooms into sex chambers. I want the job finished by this afternoon."

  "Now?"

  "Yes, bloody now!"

  "I'm supposed to be a barman, not a bloody builder!"

  "You'll be unemployed unless you get going."

  "All right, but I'll need a kick start first."

  "You'll have a kick start in a minute - my foot up your arse!"

  "Yes, yes all right!" Paul groaned, staggering towards the stairs. "Bloody slave driver!"

  Cringing as Mrs Gloom came crashing out of the lift, her bouncing bosom straining her blouse, Mike knew what to expect. She wouldn't complain about the food, not now that her husband had disappeared. Food was hardly a priority over what she believed to be her husband's timely demise! One thing was for sure, she was in for one hell of a shock when poor old Harold finally emerged unscathed!

  "Have you seen my husband?" she asked irritably as she approached the desk, her lips pursed in anger.

  "Yes, I met him when you first arrived, Mrs Gloom."

  "I mean today!"

  "Oh, no, I haven't. Where is he?"

  "If I knew where he was I wouldn't be asking you, would I? Call the police! It's just not good enough, he went out for a walk yesterday morning and I haven't seen him since! Er... have you heard the local news today?"

  "No, why?"

  "I just wondered whether anything had been washed up on the beach."

  "Such as?"

  "Well, driftwood, bottles, dead bodies... I mean, bits and pieces. Things that the cruel sea has spat out after chewing the meat."

  "Not as far as I know, Mrs Gloom. Why don't you leave it a while longer? Perhaps your husband went to a nightclub or..."

  "Of course he didn't go to a nightclub! The Gulf Stream doesn't affect this coast, does it?"

  "Er, no, I don't think so."

  "The North Atlantic Drift?"

  "No, why do you ask?"

  "No reason. Call the police this instant!"

  "As you wish, Mrs Gloom - as you wish."

  Inspector Dickwipe wasn't too concerned about Harold Gloom's disappearance, although he said he'd drop in on his wife for a description, if not a photograph, of her missing spouse. Mike realized that he'd be deep in the shit once it came to light that he'd been hiding the intended murder victim, but he had to go through the motions. If he'd not called the police, then Mrs Gloom would. But he'd worm his way out of it somehow. Where was the ugly hag's lover hiding? he wondered. And who was the assassin? Shit, it might be someone staying here - the old bag's lover, even!

  Sitting in the bar after lunch knocking back a double vodka, Mike contemplated the day so far. The morning had gone surprisingly well, the glass washer and new fridges being installed after a row with the delivery man over the lack of cash payment. Promising to forward the money, Mike had no intention of paying - by way of cash, anyway!

  Paul had worked non-stop on the fourth floor, downing a bottle of vodka in the process. Trudie and Goldie had just about recovered from their hard night of rampant debauchery, their sex slits inflamed, their bottom-holes sore - but still usable. Unfortunately, there'd been another worrying phone call concerning the clandestine business, but he'd eventually get to the bottom of the mysterious calls, Mike reflected optimistically.

  What with the revenue and the VAT man temporarily silenced, the only outstanding problem was the right little bastard Gill. No doubt he'd show his ugly face and his measuring pot before long! But if room sixty-nine was as financially successful as last night's sex, there'd be no need for a licensed bar, and that would put Gill's nose right out of joint!

  Having booked another two room sixty-nine punters for that evening, Mike rubbed his hands together, putting the problems to the back of his mind. Nancy Brown and Cecilia Squeezeasy would help the waitresses satisfy the sex-starved clients while he counted out the money and recorded the sordid show on video tape. The only foreseeable problem would be keeping Belinda at bay. If she were to wander up to the fourth floor and discover... Contemplating the potentially horrendous situation, and the puzzling phone calls, Mike realized that if there was only private access to the top floor, no one would stumble across his sex dens - inadvertently or otherwise.

  Rip out the staircase to the top floor and extend the ceiling to cover the hole, he mused. Pondering on the idea of fitting a key switch to the lift for private access to the fourth floor, Mike poured himself another d
ouble vodka. No one would ever know there was a fourth floor, he thought - they'd all assume the third floor to be the top floor. And should Dickwipe start nosing around, he'd find nothing and believe Knickerlace to be mentally deranged for suggesting that there was a sex room in the hotel.

  "Ah, Paul," Mike smiled as the young barman appeared. "I've just had a bloody marvellous, fucking brilliant idea."

  "Mike, I forgot to tell you, there was a man in reception earlier asking questions about room sixty-nine."

  "Who was he, a would-be client?"

  "I don't know. He had a suit on, he looked professional. He didn't want a room, he just asked whether we have a room sixty-nine or not."

  "Ball bags! What did you say?"

  "I said we hadn't."

  "Good. Look, we're going to have to be bloody careful, Paul. I don't want the plebs prying, asking awkward questions."

  "He might have been a cop."

  "God, I hope not! That bollock-face Dickwipe's already suspicious. The last thing I need is a raid! OK, rip out the staircase to the top floor and extend the ceiling with plasterboard to cover the hole."

  "I can't do that, it would take me days!"

  "The money's rolling in, so get a builder to help you. On second thoughts, offer him dirty, rampant sex instead of cash. I want a good job done, artexed properly so there are no signs of there ever having been a staircase. Are you able to fit a switch in the lift so the only way to access the top floor is by using a key?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose so. But it'll be pretty obvious that there's a fourth floor because the lift buttons show it."

  "Yes, you're right. OK, nip along to the Salt Spray Hotel, they've only got three floors. Rip the panel out of the bastards' lift and fit it to ours."

  "That'll put their lift out of operation, Mike!"

  "That's their bloody problem, not mine! I don't want other people's problems to become mine, go and do it now."

  "If you say so."

  "I do! And while you're there, see if you can nick some ashtrays and pint glasses, we're getting low. I want this work done ASAP. There's no one staying on the top floor so now's the time to rip the staircase out and fix the lift. How are you getting on with the sex rooms?"

  "All done, although I've had to share the handcuffs and stuff between the rooms. There's not really enough to go round."

  "OK, I'll order some more equipment from a seedy, back-street sex shop. Cameras, Paul - we'll need cameras in the new rooms."

  "Christ, I can't nick any more! That bloody store detective's already suspicious, I'll be banged up!"

  "Of course you won't! What's the matter with you, where's your spunk? Go and do it now, I want them working by this evening. If the store detective gives you problems, give him a good going over, he probably deserves roughing up anyway. And ring a builder before you go - a builder, not a cowboy."

  Wandering contemplatively across the bar and gazing out of the window as Paul shot off, Mike wondered where Nancy had got to. Again, he thought that she was too good to be fucked by common tradesmen. One of the sex rooms should be equipped to cater for professional, classy clients, he decided. Classy clients will demand classy cunts.

  There were cunts and cunts, he pondered. They were all more or less the same - hot, wet and tight - but their owners were completely different. Posh, common... each cunt had to be classified by its owner's status - poor cunt! Nancy's cunt was one of the lucky ones, having such a fine owner - and Elizabeth's was just about the luckiest of them all - a royal cunt! I suppose cocks are the same, he contemplated, turning as Belinda breezed into the bar.

  "Hi!" she smiled, sliding her rounded buttocks onto a barstool. "I thought I'd find you in here."

  Here we go again. "Oh, and why's that?" Mike asked, refilling his glass with a large vodka.

  "Because you were always attracted to shabby bars."

  "I own the hotel, Belinda, and at the moment I have to man the shabby bar, OK?"

  "Any old excuse for your alcoholism!" she sneered. "I've met your waitresses, by the way. Or, should I say, pathetic excuses for waitresses."

  "Oh, have you?"

  "Yes, just as I'd expected - common strumpets! I don't know why you're always fascinated by the lower classes, Mike. You could have done so well had you had finesse, style, a little refinement."

  "I had a princess staying earlier this week, I'll have you know - Princess Christina."

  "Really? She'd obviously made a mistake and come to the wrong hotel. I doubt that she'll be back again!"

  "She's booked two weeks in the autumn, as it happens."

  "That tie doesn't go at all, and it looks as if you've slept in your shirt! Still, you never did have taste or dress sense, did you?"

  "According to you, I didn't."

  "I hope the evening meal is going to be edible. If breakfast is anything to go by, I think I'll give dinner a miss! I've had far better food in a transport café."

  "Do you often frequent transport cafés on your travels, Belinda?"

  "Hi, Mike!" Nancy beamed, putting in an appearance.

  "Oh, Nancy, how are you?" Mike grinned, watching his ex-wife out of the corner of his eye. "This is Belinda - Belinda, meet Nancy."

  "Hallo, Nancy," Belinda droned drearily, flashing Mike a scowl. "Are you staying here?"

  "Actually, I..."

  "Nancy works for me," Mike interrupted, wondering how to fire Belinda's jealousy. "She lives in."

  "You live here? Oh, you poor thing!"

  "I rather like living..."

  "On the streets, were you?"

  "No, I..."

  "No doubt the DSS is paying for you out of my income tax."

  "I pay my own way, thank you!" Nancy returned. "Mike, I was wondering about this evening. What time do you want me to start and where... where will I be working, exactly?"

  "Er... I'll speak to you about it later, Nancy. Be available from around six o'clock and I'll show you where you're needed."

  "OK. I must go home to collect a few things. Bye, Belinda, it was nice meeting you."

  "Likewise, I'm sure."

  Watching Nancy leave the bar, her short skirt displaying her long curvaceous legs, her shapely thighs, Mike knew that Belinda was seething with jealousy. She shouldn't have been jealous six years after the divorce, but that was Belinda for you! Of course, now that he was a free man, she had absolutely no say, no control, over him, and he decided to play on his freedom - beginning with another drink!

  "She's a lovely woman," he smiled, pressing his glass to the vodka optic.

  "You drink too much!" Belinda snapped, shifting uneasily on the stool as her anger rose. "What sort of work does she do?"

  "Nancy? Oh, she does this and that. She earns me about eight-hundred a week, which isn't bad."

  "Eight hundred pounds a week? How much do you pay her?"

  "Her room and board, and some pocket money. Well, I'd better get on," he grinned as Cecilia peered round the doorway to say goodbye. "See you later!" Mike called. "No doubt I'll see you later, too, Belinda."

  "Who was that tart?"

  "Tart? Oh, that's Cecilia - she works for me, too. She's another lovely woman. I'm surrounded by lovely women, it seems! Well, until later," Mike grinned, leaving his ex-wife to simmer in her resentment.

  Installed at the reception desk, he contemplated the wedding reception the following afternoon. He still hadn't spoken to Dave about the food, and time was fast running out. Making a rough list, he jotted down the minimum amount of supplies for forty he reckoned he could get away with - naturally, all past their sell-by date!

  Hammering emanating from the basement, he was about to go and kick the plumber in the bollocks when a strikingly attractive woman in her late twenties materialized through the main entrance. A turn-up for the books. Mike smiled, scrutinizing the young woman's firm breasts ballooning her tightly fitting blouse. Her long nipples torpedoing the cream silk material, she obviously wasn't wearing a bra, he observed. This little beauty deserves a damned g
ood fuck, he surmised, admiring her long golden locks cascading over her shoulders as she approached the desk.

  "May I help you?" he asked as he stood up, focusing on her slender fingers and wondering whether or not she masturbated.

  "Yes, I'd like a single room, please."

  "Certainly, Miss..."

  "Miss Widegroin, Wendy Widegroin."

  Wendy Widelegs! "Will you be staying long?"

  "Er... as long as it takes," she replied hesitantly. "I mean..."

  "As long as it takes?" What, to bring yourself off?

  "About a week, I think."

  You need a vibrator! "Room four, up the stairs and along the hall," Mike smiled, passing her a key. "Do you have any luggage?"

  "Er... no, it's coming later."

  So am I! "Right, I'll have it sent up to your room. Would you like tea or coffee?" Or a quick anal fuck to settle you in?

  "Nothing, thanks. Oh, is there a phone in the room?"

  "Yes, there is."

  "It's a private line, is it? I mean, I don't want people listening in."

  "Er... a private line, yes."

  "Good. I'll go to my room and wait for my luggage."

  More money, Mike gloated as he watched the delectable young woman climb the stairs. Filling in the register, a wave of elation rolled over him. The future looked brighter than ever now that the cash was coming in and he was taking plenty of bookings for room sixty-nine. The future was brilliant!

  "Mr Hunt?" a man in blue overalls asked as he approached the desk.

  "Yes, how can I help you?"

  "Electricity Board, I've come to cut your supply off."

  "Cut my supply off?"

  "Pull your fuse."

  "I'll pull your bloody fuse in a minute!"

  "You haven't paid your bill for the last... you were in the local paper, weren't you?"

  "Don't ask! What's the matter with you? You can't cut my supply off, think of the residents and guests! You'll be denying them tea and coffee."

  "I can't help that, mate. I'm only following orders, doing my job."

  "Well, don't! And don't call me mate. Take a day off, go wild for a change and forget about your job."