Hot Sheets (2 page)

"What name is
it?" he asked the woman despairingly, eyeing her sensuously
billowing blouse. Miss Breast? Miss Spunknipple? Miss
Cunt-Frigger?

"Christina."

"Christina
what?" God, some people can be so bloody difficult!

"Christina..."

"Christina
Christina? That's unusual. Was your mother dyslexic?"

"No, my
name's..."

"I do
apologise for the complexity of the register, Christina Christina.
I don't know why they make them so difficult to fill in. I mean,
look at it, it's so confusing - name, date, room number... good
grief, it's enough to tax the brain of a tax man! I blame Her
Majesty's Stationery Office."

"One's
Christian name is Elizabeth - Elizabeth Christina."

"Oh, I see. At
last, we're getting somewhere! Is one's title Ms, Miss, Mr, or
Mrs?"

"Mr?"

"Well, you
never know these days. So, what's your title?"

"I'd rather
not say."

"Look, can we
try and work together rather than against each other? I can't
possibly fill the register in unless..."

"Well, if you
promise to keep it to yourself."

"Keep it to
myself? Is it a secret?"

"Princess -
Princess Christina."

Visibly
stunned, Mike stood open-mouthed for several seconds, gazing in
disbelief at the young woman. Holding his head as he realized how
discourteous he'd been, he leaned on the desk to steady his
trembling body. Trying to utter words of greetings to his royal
guest, he finally drew a deep breath.

"Holy ball
bags! Er... Princess?" he gasped, bowing before the shocked woman.
"Welcome to my humble hotel, Your Royalness! What an honour, Your
Most Highly Esteemed Imperialness!"

"Thank
you."

"I'm so sorry
if I appeared to be rude, it's just that I'm used to dealing with
commoners, you see. Damned riff-raff, uncouth bloody yobbos,
peasants, lager louts, the impudent masses..."

"That's quite
all right."

"Common as
muck, some of the types we get staying here. If I had my way, I'd
have the plebs roughed up and fucking shot! Sorry, I mean..."

"Yes, quite.
Er..."

"Paul!" Mike
yelled at the top of his voice, making his bewildered guest jump
with fright as the alcohol-reeking barman staggered across the
foyer. "Sorry, Your Eminence, I didn't mean to startle you. Paul,
you alcoholic hermaphrodite! Come here!"

"Is there a
fire?" the dazed young man slurred, turning on his heels and
heading towards the desk, his bloodshot eyes focused on the young
woman's slender legs.

"No, just a
minor incident in the kitchen. This is Her Royalness, Princess
Christina."

"Prickness
Pisstina, right you are," Paul mumbled dismissively, brushing his
tousled brown hair away from his eyes. "The vodka's out and we're
low on gin."

"You're
supposed to bow!" Mike whispered angrily through gritted teeth.

"What?"

"Lean forward,
man!"

"Lean..."

"God, give me
bloody strength! Oh, er... I'm sorry, Your Majesticness. Paul,
would you show Her Royal Nobleness to room thirty-six, please?"

"Womb
flirty-sex," Paul drooled, almost falling over as he grabbed the
royal suitcase and staggered into the lift. "This way,
Pisstina."

What the
hell's a princess doing here? Mike mused, his eyes following her
shapely calves, her knee-length skirt elegantly outlining the
gentle curves of her rounded buttocks as she glided into the lift.
Christ, royalty at Stokepot bloody Towers! Wonder if she fucks?

Straightening
his black velvet jacket and adjusting his tie, Mike rubbed his
chin. There had to be a way to bring in some real money, he
reflected, flicking through a dozen or so brown envelopes strewn
across the desk. There was little point in owning a hotel simply to
have the debts piling up and the place crumbling around him. "Huh,
real money!" he grunted, brushing flecks of dust off his lapels.
Dream on, Mike!

"Ah, Goldie,
you horny little tart!" he scowled as a petite blonde emerged from
the bar, her French maid outfit three sizes too small, her pert
breasts threatening to burst the buttons. "Where the hell have you
been?"

"In the bar,"
Goldie smiled, her blue eyes shining innocently. "And I'm not a
tart."

"In the bar?
Christ, you're supposed to be in the bloody dining room! Have you
no idea what your duties are?" Apart from opening your legs on
demand?

"You told me
to excavate the bar whenever the fire bells..."

"Evacuate, not
excavate! Jesus Christ, where the hell were you educated, in a
psychiatric ward for criminal lunatics? Anyway, that only applies
when the bar's open. You can't evacuate an empty bar, you silly
girl, it's physically impossible."

"Well, I
thought it best to check. Have you seen the local paper?"

"Fuck me, as
if I've got the time or the inclination to read that subhuman
drivel!"

"The police
are after a man who's been exposing himself. One young woman he
flashed his cock at is an artist. She's drawn a sketch of him, the
picture's in the paper." She paused, scrutinizing Mike. "He's about
forty with dark hair, just like you."

"Me?"

"Yes, the
likeness is incredible."

"Yes, well...
we're not here to discuss the banal contents of the local paper!"
Mike stormed, grabbing the ringing phone. "Good morning, Stokepot
Towers."

"Mr Hunt?" a
man asked.

"Yes,
yes!"

"I'm calling
about your VAT returns."

"What about
them?"

"I haven't got
them."

"Is that my
problem?"

"Well, yes it
is."

"Look, I'm
having enough difficulty trying to run my hotel, I can't run your
office as well! Call some temporary staff in from an agency."

"I'm not
asking you to run my office, Mr Hunt, I'm asking you where your VAT
returns are."

"I'm sorry, I
have no idea. You've probably misplaced them, try the filing
cabinet. Look under B for bollocks or F for fuck or... oh, he's
hung up!" Banging the phone down, Mike turned to face the
delectable young waitress.

Adjusting her
apparel, Goldie did her best to evade Mike's accusing stare. Why
the poor girl worked for him, he had no idea. She rarely got paid,
the working hours were totally illegal and she was forever being
yelled at. She was a good fuck, though!

"Goldie, where
the hell's Trudie?" Mike asked placidly, suddenly feeling sorry for
her.

"It's her day
off, she's in bed."

"Shit!" he
stormed, the forced calm giving way to fury. "Look, Dave's fucked
the bacon again so get your arse into the dining room and serve the
coffee."

"Fucked the
bacon? That's strange, he usually fucks the liver. After a few
seconds in the microwave he says it feels just like the
real..."

"I'm not
interested in his peculiar masturbatory habits. Tell the punters
there's been a minor incident in the kitchen but everything's under
control."

"OK. By the
way, there's no loo roll in the second floor toilet, the bulb's
gone in the third floor bathroom, the cold tap won't turn off in
room fifteen, the catch is broken on the wardrobe in room ten, the
window's smashed on the top floor landing, the light switch in the
ground floor..."

"Have you
quite finished, Goldie?"

"No, I
haven't. The light switch..."

"Unless you
shut up, I'll twist your nipples off! Talking of sex, whatever you
do, keep away from room thirty-six - that's the princess's
room."

"Princess?"

"Yes, Princess
Christina. We're going up in the world, Goldie! I might consider
changing the name of the hotel to Stokepot Regis Towers."

"Why?"

"Stop
scratching your tits! Because Regis means... it doesn't matter.
When you see Trudie, tell her that she must not pluck the
princess's pubic hairs off the sheets. If she does, then I'll pluck
her pubes out with a pair of rusty tweezers."

"Oh, you know
about that?"

"Yes, I do!
What the hell does she do with the guests' pubic hairs,
anyway?"

"She fills
little bags with them, like lavender bags, and keeps them under her
pillow."

"My God, she
needs help!"

"No, she
doesn't - she's quite capable of collecting..."

"Psychiatric
help, I mean!"

"Oh, right.
What do I call the princess?"

"Well, you
could call her knob sucker or cunt face or fanny licker or..."

"All right,
there's no need to be sarcastic, Mike! You know what I meant!"

"Your
Royalness, I think - yes, Your Royalness. And curtsy whenever you
see her. That rule only applies if you're wearing panties."

"Right, I'll
go and serve coffee."

"Good, and
please don't bend over in front of Colonel Buckshot. You know what
he's like when he sees your naked buttocks first thing in the
morning. Christ, he'll be chasing after you all day and then we'll
have to call the doctor out again!"

Shaking his
head despairingly as the girl slipped into the dining room, Mike
checked his functions diary. "Ah, the wedding reception on
Saturday," he grinned, rubbing his hands together. "Some poor cunt
losing his freedom - his life!" Flopping into his chair, he sighed,
wondering whether things at his hotel would ever run smoothly. Just
one day without a hitch would make all the difference, he mused. Is
that too much to ask? It seemed that it was.

"All under
control, Mike!" Dave called cheerfully, his grinning face peering
round the kitchen door.

"What is?"

"The
breakfasts."

"Under
control? Under bloody control? The day the breakfasts are under
control will be the day a netball team queue up to suck my
knob!"

"Eggs..."

"Suck my
eggs?"

"No, I'm
talking about breakfast - boiled eggs, toast, orange juice and
coffee."

"I hope you've
diluted the orange juice, and I don't mean pissing in it."

"Yes, water
and juice - fifty-fifty."

"That's too
strong, make it sixty-forty. What do you think this is, a bloody
soup kitchen? We're not here to give food and drink away! After
breakfast, I'll talk to you about the food for the wedding
reception on Saturday."

"Right you
are."

"And if room
thirty-six orders tea or coffee, use the bone china and a silver
tray."

"Will do.
Mike, I've been thinking - if the world population is just over
five billion, then there are roughly two billion fannies floating
around."

"What about
it?"

"All joined
together, there must be hundreds of miles of wet, juicy fanny!"

"So?"

"Well, it's
not fair - I only want a few inches. Well, ten inches."

"There must be
hundreds of miles of cock, too! Christ, your mind's akin to a
bloody sewer!"

"You can
talk!"

"Yes, well...
miles of fanny or not, I have things to do."

Deciding to
check up on his royal guest, Mike closed the diary and climbed the
threadbare carpeted stairs to the third floor. Looking up and down
the corridor, checking that the coast was clear, he crept up to
room thirty-six, grinning as he knelt on the floor. Ah, exquisite!
he observed, spying through the keyhole at the princess as she
tugged her skirt down her long legs and slipped the matching jacket
off her shoulders.

Removing her
blouse, she turned to face the door, affording Mike a perfect view
of her smooth stomach, her bulging, blue silk panties. His penis
stiffening as she unclipped her delicate bra and tossed it onto the
bed, he gazed appreciatively at her majestic mammary spheres,
crowned with the finest brown gems. Waiting in anticipation for a
sighting of her stately sex slit, he leaped to his feet as someone
came bounding down the stairs from the fourth floor.

"Ah, Trudie!"
he greeted the dark-haired beauty.

"Hallo, mate!"
she trilled, her black microskirt revealing the small indentations
at the tops of her inner thighs. "What are you doing skulking
around here?"

"Er... I was
just... it's my hotel so I'll skulk where I like! And don't call me
mate! Where are you off to?"

"I'm going
into town," the hussy replied, opening her white blouse and popping
her naked breasts out. "I do wish my tits would get bigger!" she
sighed, cupping her firm mammary globes in her palms. "I've been
doing the exercises and sucking my nipples regularly but..."

"Put them
away, girl!" Mike gasped, eyeing her succulent milk teats. "Fuck
me, this is a hotel not a fucking brothel!"

"Sorry, mate.
D' you want anything from town?" Trudie asked, buttoning her
blouse.

"Yes,
half-a-dozen naked girls, a twenty-five-year-old nymphomaniac with
a shaved cunt, a bottle of fanny juice..."

"Seriously,
Mike!" the girl snapped, her dark bedroom eyes sparkling
alluringly.

"Er... change
of plan, I'm afraid. You're not going into town, you're
working."

"But it's my
day off!"

"Sorry, it
can't be helped. Put it down to one of life's little shits."

"But..."

"Think of it
as part of life's shagged out tapestry."

"But I have to
go to the bank and..."

"Life's
stenching shitbag. Do you know why we're here, Trudie?"

"Er... to
serve the breakfasts, to do the rooms..."

"No, do you
know why God put us here?"

"To run the
hotel?"

"Oh, is that
it? Do you mean to say that the only reason we're here is to run
this fucking hotel?"

"Well, I can't
think of anything else."

"My God, you
live and learn, don't you? There's the whole world, the entire
fucking universe with its solar systems, planets and moons, black
holes, anti-matter, the mysteries of... and we're here to run this
hotel? I reckon God put us here as a punishment."