Hot Sheets (3 page)

"Why, what
have we done?"

"Sinned, I
suppose. Christ, a chance would be a fine thing! I thought Jesus
had been punished for our sins? How come we're still being punished
if he... anyway, your punishment is to act as lady-in-waiting to
Princess Christina."

"Princess..."

"We can't talk
here, not outside Her Grace's room - it's unprofessional. Come down
to reception and I'll fuck you... I mean, I'll explain."

Following the
morose girl downstairs, Mike wondered whether to alert a national
newspaper as to the princess's stay at his hotel. I could do with
some publicity, he mused, imagining Stokepot Towers pictured on the
front page. Room thirty-six, the Royal Suite! Might even get a
mention on TV. Leaning on the reception desk, his thoughts returned
to Trudie, her pert breasts straining her blouse, her nipples
clearly outlined by the tight material as she hooked her long black
hair behind her ears.

"We've had
some interesting people stay at Stokepot Towers over the years,
Trudie, and we now have a princess as an honoured guest."

"What, a
real
princess?" she gasped in surprise.

"Yes, Princess
Christina."

"Staying in
this dump?"

"Trudie, this
is not a dump! OK, the place needs some money spending on it to
bring it up to a half-star rating, but it's a fine seaside hotel -
the best in Splash Bay."

"It's the
pits!"

"Would you
rather I thrash your bare bottom with a cane now or later?"

"Ooh, now,
please!"

"You'll have
to wait, I can't do everything at once. How's your fanny, nice and
juicy?"

"As always! By
the way, I see you're in the local paper."

"I am not in
the local bloody paper, Trudie!"

"It looks like
you."

"I don't care
if it looks like... what's that white stuff dripping onto the
carpet between your feet?"

"Oh! Er... I
must have forgotten to slip my panties on!" Trudie giggled.

"Trudie, we
have royalty staying here, you can't go around without knickers!
Imagine the maids at Buck House going around knickerless and
dripping girl-come and spunk all over the carpets. What ever would
the queen say?"

"I forgot to
put them on."

"Of course she
wouldn't say... you know damned well that you didn't forget to put
them on."

"I don't like
wearing panties in the summer, Mike - they make me hot, wet and
sticky."

And tasty
. "All right, but make sure
Her Elegance doesn't see your fanny. Bloody hell, look at the mess!
Wipe yourself with a tissue or something. Right, I'd better ring
the princess and see whether she requires a
lady-in-waiting."

"Of course she
doesn't require a lady-in-waiting. She's probably come here for a
quiet break, to get away from the humdrum of a royal life. Leave
her in peace."

"Yes, I
suppose you're right."

The sound of
smashing plates emanating from the kitchen, Mike cringed, holding
his hand to his lined forehead. Everything that could go wrong at
Stokepot Towers always did go wrong! he reflected, shaking his head
gloomily as another loud crash reverberated around the foyer.

"Holy spunk
bags! What the hell... Trudie, you'd better give Dave a hand," he
sighed. "At this rate, the mutinous bastards won't get breakfast
until bloody lunch time!"

"Mutinous
bastards?"

"Good
morning!" the postman grinned, dumping a pile of letters on the
desk as Trudie headed for the kitchen.

"Is it?" Mike
returned. "Do you mind justifying that ridiculous statement?"

"Sorry, I... I
was only being polite."

"Well,
don't!"

Opening yet
another brown envelope marked Department of Environmental Health as
the postman left, Mike flattened the six-page report out on the
desk. Extractor fan in kitchen not working. No fire blanket. No
fire extinguisher. No hand basin. Separate fridges required for
storage of meat and vegetables. Fridge door-seal faulty. Overhead
lighting inadequate. Kitchen door-closer faulty..."Fuck me, they
want all this done within a week!" he cursed, turning the page.
Glass washer in bar not working. Drinks tariff not prominently
displayed. Shelving behind bar dirty. Flooring not of the non-slip
variety. "Shit, I'd better not read anymore!"

Wandering
disconsolately into the bar, Mike pondered on money-making schemes.
He'd already increased the prices of drinks to the point of
extortion and fiddled the optics to give short measures. But he had
to do better. Nonchalantly flicking through the daily paper as he
sat at the bar, he came across an article about a middle-aged woman
whose respectable-looking guest house was a front for a brothel.
There's an idea! he thought, imagining punters paying fifty pounds
a time to visit Trudie's room.

"Ah, Paul!" he
said, looking up from the paper as the barman lurched through the
doorway and fell head first over an armchair.

"Oh, fuck!"
Paul groaned, climbing to his feet and righting the chair. "God, my
head! I see you're in the local paper."

"I am not in
the local fucking paper!"

"It looks like
you."

"I don't care
who it looks like, it's not me! Where's that miserable fucking
bastard of a cleaner?"

"You sacked
him."

"Oh, so I did.
I've advertised for a replacement but there hasn't been any
response. The unemployed lazy bastards don't want to work. It's the
fucking government's fault."

"They reckon
the flasher hangs around girls' schools."

"Fucking
welfarist bastards!"

"He wanks to
shock them."

"We could do
with a revolution."

"He spunks in
front of them to provoke a sexual response."

"I'm not
interested, Paul!"

"What were you
doing outside the girls' school in Brook Lane the other day?"

"I... I
wasn't."

"I saw you. I
drove past and saw you sitting in your car looking through a pair
of binoculars."

"Er... I
was... listen, I'm going to make some changes to the bar."

"Changes? What
sort of changes?"

"Money-making
changes. Put up a notice - twenty-five percent off all
spirits."

"Twenty-five
percent off?" Paul echoed, surprised.

"Yes, that way
I'll only have to buy half the amount of spirits to make the same
profit."

"I don't get
it."

"For arguments
sake, say I'm paying fifty pence for a bottle of vodka and selling
it for a pound - making fifty pence profit. Watered down, half and
half, I'm paying twenty-five pence for a bottle and selling it at
the discounted price of seventy-five pence, still making fifty
pence profit but only having to buy half the amount."

"Er... yes,
right."

"The punters
will think they're on to a good thing, they'll drink more and I'll
earn more."

"I don't quite
follow."

"You don't
have a brain for business, Paul - you lack drive. OK, water the
spirits down and put a notice up and then go up to the top floor
and clear out room forty-two. Take all the furniture out except the
double bed and dump it in the junk room."

"Why?"

"Because that
room is going to earn me some real money. Oh, and renumber the
door. Let me see - yes, room sixty-nine."

"Sixty-nine?
What are you up to, Mike?"

"You'll see.
Why do you keep scratching your cock, have you got something in
your eye?"

"I'm not
scratching it. I've put an elastic band round my dick to keep my
foreskin back."

"An elastic
band?"

"Yes, with my
foreskin held back, my knob rubs against my boxer shorts as I move
about and..."

"Where on
earth did you get that idea from?"

"I read about
it in a men's mag - it's a neat little trick."

"Yes, I might
try... right, I'd better have a quick wank. No, I'll do that later.
Sort the spirits out and put a notice up."

"We're out of
vodka, low on gin, and..."

"Yes, yes all
right! I'll deal with it later. I'm going to check up on Dave."

Entering the
kitchen, Mike gasped to discover Trudie bending over the sink
clinging to the taps, her miniskirt up over her back, her taut
buttocks projecting as Dave's solid cock shafted her wet pussy.
Holding the girl's hips, ramming his swollen knob in and out of her
tight vagina, the young chef grimaced.

"Coming!" he
cried, pumping his sex-sauce into the waitress's cavern. "God, I'm
coming! Ah, you've got a tight few inches!"

"I can feel
your sperm!" Trudie breathed excitedly. "Oh, oh! Don't stop!"

"Bloody hell,
you're a good fuck!"

"You're not so
bad either! God, it's beautiful! Do my bum next! Really give it to
me! Fuck my bum rotten!"

"Yes, later!
Ah, ah, God!"

His penis
stiffening as he leaned on the door frame observing the lewd
spectacle, Mike grinned, imagining Trudie's curvaceous, naked body
tied to the bed in room sixty-nine - her legs splayed, her pussy
crack gaping. Fifty quid a go? he contemplated as Dave slipped his
cunny-wet cock out of the girl's vagina and massaged his knob,
splattering the last of his delicacy over her taut buttocks.
Whipping, bondage, lesbian shows... money! This was the best idea
he'd ever had, Mike reflected, his eyes following Dave's spunk
missile as it flew through the air.

"I've got it!"
he cried, as if just discovering his first clitoris. "I've fucking
sussed it!"

"Ah! Er...
Mike!" Dave grinned sheepishly, hurriedly concealing his wet penis
and zipping his trousers. "I've done the breakfasts."

"That's not
all you've done by the look of it! Dripping piss flaps, this is a
kitchen, not a knocking shop! You've obviously had no kitchen
training - didn't your mother teach you anything?"

"Only the
things that matter in life, such as smoking, drinking and
masturbating. Cocks, that's all she ever went on about - until she
was shot."

"We were
just..." Trudie began, dabbing sperm from her taut buttocks with a
clean tea towel.

"Christ knows
what the health people would say!" Mike sighed.

"What have you
got?" Dave asked.

"A brilliant
idea! A fucking marvellous, incredibly ingenious, fantastic plan to
make some real money - weekend breaks for discerning
businessmen."

"Weekend
breaks?" Trudie echoed, adjusting her miniskirt. "Oh! I'm dripping
all over the floor!"

"Wipe it up,
girl!" Mike yelled. "Not with the bloody tea towel! Jesus
Christ!"

"Sorry."

"The idea's
brilliant! Bondage, whipping, lesbian shows..."

"Mike, what
are you talking about?" Dave asked, snatching the tea towel from
Trudie and wiping the knives and forks.

"Dirty
weekends. We'll advertise in men's mags - kinky weekend
breaks."

"And who's
going to service these discerning businessmen?" Trudie asked
suspiciously.

"Er... well,
you and Goldie."

"I'm not here
to be fucked, mate!" the girl returned indignantly.

"You could
have fooled me! And don't call me mate. What do you think your
cunt's for, sitting on?"

"No,
but..."

"We all
survive by selling something, Trudie, and you'll survive by selling
your cunt."

"You'll
survive by selling my cunt, you mean!"

"Christ, it
doesn't matter who sells your cunt, think of the money we'll make!
It's only a wet hole, after all."

"It's my
prized possession!"

"Stop arsing
on about your cunt! OK, the package will consist of an evening meal
on Saturday, served by naked waitresses with candles stuffed up
their fannies and chains clamped to their nipples, followed by a
night of rampant filth. After a traditional Sunday breakfast of
fanny-warmed sausages and..."

"What would
Miss Chaste say if I served her with a candle stuffed up my fanny
and chains clamped to my nipples?" Trudie frowned. "And as for
Colonel Buckshot..."

"No, no we'll
keep the guests and residents out of the way - gag them and tie
them up in the understairs cupboard for the weekend. Two hundred
pounds all in - what a nice little earner! And tax free! God, at
long last I'm going to be free of financial worries."

"You'll have
the bloody law onto you!" Dave laughed, wiping the plates with the
sperm-drenched tea towel.

"I've already
got the entire fucking establishment onto me simply because I'm
trying to survive. I'm only trying to run my own business and I'm
constantly fined for it! VAT, Inland Revenue, business tax...
fucking thieving bastards! OK, I'll need handcuffs, a whip..."

"I've got a
whip," Trudie grinned sheepishly, scooping sperm out of her sex
crack with her slender fingers.

"Oh, good!
Er... a whip? How come you've got a whip?"

"I... I can't
remember. I must have found it somewhere."

"Well, that's
a start. I'll have to get hold of some leather straps, dildos,
KY-gel, vibrators, nipple clamps, butt plugs..."

"I've got all
that stuff in my room."

"Trudie! My
God, you're a horny..."

"Goldie and
I... well, we have lots of sex equipment," she mumbled, sucking her
wet fingers.

"Excellent!
So, you're all for the idea?"

"Only if you
pay me properly, mate."

"Of course I
will. Five percent."

"What did you
say?"

"It'll pay the
rent. And don't call me mate! Right, I'm going to place the
adverts. I'll talk to you about the wedding reception food later,
Dave."

Grinning as
Mike left the kitchen, Trudie opened the fridge and grabbed a
cucumber. Passing the fruity phallus to the chef, she hoisted her
skirt up and leaned over the sink. "Well?" she giggled. "How about
giving my bum a cucumber sandwich?"