Hot Sheets

by Ray Gordon

  "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.

  "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!"