The track may have been slippery. Ernie's dong slid into it. His body twisted-he nearly fell out-he pressed forward. Beth scissored her legs around him for anchorage. Their bellies plopped together with a wet, smacking sound. He boffed her.
With a good fuck under his belt, Ernie strode about cockily. “Any more cunts need a treatment?” he asked, trying to leer like a cad. Luckily, Debbie was safely tucked away on the back seat of the jalopy.
I put my clothes on. Ernie wouldn't miss me. He was boyishly jabbing his prong between Beth's tits, revolving the boobs counterclockwise. That could keep a kid quiet for hours.
I drew Matt aside the kitchen quarters. “Gimmee the car keys, Matt, I'll be going.” The bearded man wistfully contemplated the belt on his discarded chinos.
“C'n I wham him a few times, Doug? I won't hurt 'im.”
“Sure. Beat the ass off him. Feed him plenty of booze. Let him fuck till he's dry, even if you hafta go down on him. Anything-as long as he stays till tomorrow night. I'll bring the car back as early as I can.”
Matt tossed me the car keys. “I dunno what you're doin', but good luck, kid.”
I jumped in the car before I remembered the little girl on the back seat. My plans didn't include five year old charmers-yet. I carried her back to the cabin.
No one was aware of my entrance. Ernie and Beth were doing what they liked best. Matt stood over them, belt in hand. They looked set for twenty-four hours.
I sped back toward Prescott.
V
In the morning, presumably, Ernie was still in the cabin licking his wounds, or perhaps licking Beth Coogan. That might be okay for Master Ernie, but it was bad for the Iowan Hotel. No bellhop.
With a crisp “Good morning” flung toward the cashier's desk, I presented myself before the desk clerk-manager.
“I have a message from Ernie.”
It took the bastard just five seconds to read the scrawled sheet of ruled paper. Plus another three seconds to give vent to a suspicious, “Hmmmph!” Motherfucker! I'd sweated over that forgery for at least an hour.
Dear Sir:
I'm sick and can't come to work this week. Mr. Trent has lots of hotel experience and he is willing to take over for me. Please give him a chance.
Please hold my job open. I need the money to support my mother.
Yours truly, Ernest Jenkins.
“Strange, most strange,” the manager commented. Strange? The grammar? What did the prick expect from a bellboy?
It wasn't the grammar. “Most strange,” the old fart repeated. “Ernie Jenkins is an orphan. However! If Jenkins is incapacitated, we'll be needing a new bellboy.”
Admiring his choice of words, I glanced at my watch. Yes, young Jenkins should be goddamned incapacitated by now.
“It's quite unusual to hire a guest, s-” He hesitated over the “sir", and changed it to “Trent", I explained that I was no longer a guest. His manner altered as managers' manners always alter. “In that case, Trent, it's after nine. You should be wearing your uniform if you're on duty.” He turned toward the cashier's desk. “Miss Grant, please take Trent to the basement. He'll be working in Jenkins' place for a day or so.”
“Yes, Mr. Norvin.”
Carla led me down uncarpeted stairs to the basement.
“This is Ernie's locker; I guess you'll be using it.” She produced a brass key from a jangling key-ring.
“You're very efficient, Miss Grant.”
Her black eyes had no expression. Or was she smiling under those silky lashes? “I hope you're efficient, too. Those cuspidors are to be polished. Then, you'll get the stains out of this throw rug. When you hear the bell, of course, you run up to the lobby. That'll be Mr. Norvin summoning you. I take it you know how to handle an arriving guest.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“That's all then.”
“Except-Mr. Norvin said something about a uniform.”
“Of course. You'll find Jenkins' uniform in his locker. It should fit you nicely.”
Was this frigid cunt implying that Pimples and I had the same build! I'd show her! I opened the locker, took out the buff-colored bellboy uniform. Paying no attention to the cashier, I unfastened my pants and dropped them. I'd show her! I glanced up, just in time to see Carla's retreating bottom, halfway up the stairs to the lobby.
As I expected, Ernie's uniform was a couple of sizes too small for me. Tight around the crotch. I took off the pants, then slipped off my underpants before putting on the uniform. Better. My equipment was fully outlined by the material. The uniform pants were like a showcase, and I was the merchandise. True, I intended to peddle Matt's prong to horny hotel guests. But in every business you need a lure, right?
Business was stinko that morning. I polished cuspidors. I rubbed stains out of the throw rug. Toward noon, I escorted a guest up to his room. A salesman. I lugged up three bulging suitcases. He flipped me a quarter.
After lunch, I had real luck. I hopped for a couple from Philly. Then anteed up thirty cents.
In the afternoon, I dozed over the cuspidors. Novin's belly woke me.
“Miss Barrow is in four-o-eight, boy.”
“Yes, sir. This way, Miss Barrow.”
Miss Barrow was a chick about 30 wearing a mannish suit and sun glasses. Mannish. She had dyke written all over her in Gothic letters. Gray eyes, tight lips, no nonsense. In the elevator, I considered. My plans could be flexible. In a pinch I could peddle Beth Coogan.
The pinch never materialized.
In Room 408 I did the bellboy pitch. Luggage on luggage rack, blinds up and down, light on in the bathroom. Miss Barrow fished in her bag for a pourboire. That took a lot of fishing, because she wasn't looking at her bag. She was staring at my bag-I mean, my basket.
If every mannish suit meant Lez, tailors would go out of business, I realized, belatedly.
“I hope you'll enjoy your stay in Prescott,” I said, in my most ingratiating he-man voice.
Conversation was a mistake. Miss Barrow's eyes veered up from my crotch. “I didn't come here for pleasure,” she stated, crisply. “I have certain business to accomplish.”
Yeah? Well, I had certain business to accomplish, too. There was no reason why it couldn't be mingled with pleasure.
“Please excuse me, Miss Barrow. Would you mind very much if I use the bathroom? I gotta go bad.”
Without waiting for an answer, I sauntered into the crapper. Leaving the door open, I pissed into the bowl. Making as much noise as possible. She didn't come in to see how I was doing. Should I walk out bare ass? Or would that be too blatant? I covered up and stepped back into the bedroom.
Miss Barrow had exchanged her sun glasses for a pair of specs. Big gray eyes blinked behind them. “You have a spot on your trousers,” she observed.
There was a round, wet spot front and center. “I musta pi-uh-got water on 'em. Gee, the boys are gonna kid the life outta me if they see that. If I could only slip 'em off for a minute till the spot dries.”
She seemed to turn paler, then her skin flushed. The rosy touch of color on her cheeks was becoming. She looked suddenly younger. But she sounded older. Like a spinster schoolmarm directing one of her charges. “Go back in the bathroom. I'm sure the spot will dry quickly. I wouldn't want anyone to poke fun at you.” Sarcastic.
I stomped back to the crapper, peeled the pissy pants off, and draped a towel around my middle. When did that cunt last see a stud with his pants down?
“Thank you, ma'am. Sorry to be a nuisance. Please excuse my appearance.” I hitched up the towel slightly. “See, I'm not wearing underpants. I-”
Miss Barrow said nothing. She didn't seem to be listening. She wasn't even looking. I stumbled a step toward her and deliberately dropped the frigging towel. My prick didn't hang bashfully. It zoomed out to meet her. Erect, rigid, demanding. Because I knew I was going to fuck her.