Our new guests signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Jonathon K. Rawlings, of Baltimore. Between the “M” of “Mr.” and the “s” of “Rawlings,” they grumbled six distinct times, separately and in unison. Their car had broken down-the hotel looked so gloomy-Prescott looked so dowdy-Mrs. Rawlings' furs felt oppressive-Mr. Rawlings' breakfast hadn't agreed with him.
Despite all the grumbling, they made an attractive couple. Rawlings was tall and trim, the distinguished tycoon type, about 30. His wife appeared to be several years younger. Having discarded her oppressive furs, she was a disturbing study in black and white. White linen sheath, black accessories, jet hair, very fair skin, heavily made up. The crimson slash of her mouth provided a touch of color. It was something to get disturbed about. I bet her lipstick tasted cool and pleasantly unwholesome.
In the elevator, Mr. Rawlings advised me, “Never go on business trips, son. One goddamned bore from Maryland to Kansas.”
Mrs. R. pursed her lips and murmured, “We're in Iowa.”
Her husband merely snorted, “Iowa,” as lesser mortals would intone Iowa-Schmiowa. Then we were on the sixth floor, and I conducted them to the Crystal Suite.
More grumbling, and a furtive look around for crystal-of which I couldn't see any either. I got them set. Mr. R. fished in his pocket. Mrs. R. disappeared into the bedroom.
“If there's anything else, please ring, sir.”
“Yeah, I'll do that.” Mr. R. produced a moderate bankroll and peeled off a fiver, which is pretty good peelings from a comparatively thin wad. “Doesn't that girdle bother you?”
“Girdle? Oh, you mean my pants? They're kinda tight. I'm built big.”
“Yeah? Let's see it.”
Gee, I didn't figure him for a fruit. A five-dollar tip earns a guy the right to a little cooperation. I unzippered and pulled out my poke. With a glance toward the bedroom, I held it up for him.
“I hand ten inches erected,” I exaggerated. “Wanna measure? G'head, you c'n suck it.”
Instead of moaning and panting and grabbing and sliding, Jonathon Rawlings threw back his head and shouted with laughter. Still laughing, he bellowed, “Margo, come here for a minute.”
Margo Rawlings drifted out of the bedroom like a black-and-white widow spider.
“He says I can suck on it!” The tycoon in pin-stripe seersucker was assailed by a fresh burst of laughter.
Margo gazed at my uncovered rod without smiling. “Jon, you're embarrassing the boy. Stop it.” She turned to me. “Don't think he wouldn't love to do it. Too bad with a weapon like that you don't like girls.”
“Who sez I don't like girls!”
I advanced on the lady, schlang swinging. Abruptly, it stopped swinging and started standing, as it often does when approaching ladies. The sight of an upright dong coming toward her didn't faze Mrs. Rawlings. In fact, I caught her winking. I wheeled around to face Jonathon. He winked twice as broadly. They were exchanging a fucking husband and wife wink, a signal. Triumphantly.
“Hey, what is this? Which one of you gets it?” Not sure of my ground, I must have sounded surly.
Jonathon was smoothly unctuous. “Does it make any difference? You're in good hands, son. Experts.”
He swooped down suddenly, planting his lips over the head of my whacker. Geez, I'm as broadminded as the next guy. Broader! But swinging on a joint in your wife's presence! Without asking permission! Well, I had sorta given permission without his asking. But geez!
As suddenly as he had swooped down, Jon straightened up, wiping his mouth delicately.
“I'm overdue at Farm Industries. Give her a good fuck, son. I'll see you tonight. Bye, Margo.” He kissed her hungrily, started for the door, and turned back. “What's your name, son?”
“Doug.”
He grasped the prong that had been in his mouth thirty seconds before. “Margo, meet Doug. I leave you in good hands.” Her hand replaced his on my peter, and I didn't hear him go out.
“Jon's a good cocksucker,” his wife said, affectionately. “But if he goes down on you, see that he swallows it. He has a nasty habit of spitting out gism.”
I promised to remain on the alert.
“I'm glad you didn't come in his mouth,” Margo murmured, still clutching my ramrod. “How long would I have had to wait?”
“No more'n fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes! I could never hold out that long.” She lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties. “I'm dripping.”
Goddamn it; she was spewing!
“Shall we remove non-essentials?”
Garters off, her nylons remained smoothly in place over slim thighs. “Elasticized,” Margo said, and demonstrated by snapping the elastic at the tops of her stockings. I tried it. Damn right! Elasticized. So were my fingers. They stretched from her thighs to her twat, inside it, deep inside it. Everything was elasticized-including the quim in question. Pulling hard, I managed to extract my finger. Pushing hard, I inserted a 9-inch substitute.
It was a fast fuck. Brutal pounding to stoke the coke into the furnace before we exploded, taking the bed along with us. After a gallop, you want to lie down in the pasture and chew on a blade of grass or a handful of titty.
Margo said, rather unsympathetically, “Run along, dear, and bellhop.”
“Can't I stay awhile?”
“No. I have things to do. I'll have to take a nap and make myself pretty.”
The only answer to that of course is, “You couldn't be prettier than you are now.”
Margo smiled mysteriously. “Thank you, darling. Please go now. Pretty as I am, I have to prepare for tonight. You, me, and Jonathon.”
I bowed to the inevitable and hitched my pants up.
“Dear,” Margo suggested, as I bowed myself out of the suite, “try to get a little rest before evening.”
I got plenty of rest. Automatically I performed my bellhop chores. At dinnertime, I wolfed down a hearty meal. The diner menu was short on oysters. I settled for a big plate of Yellowstones. Clams-steak-lime pie-coffee. I left the diner ready to tackle anything. Especially a nap. Sneaking back to my home away from the cabin, I made myself comfortable in Room 314. Strip-quick nap-shower. Since this was a formal social occasion, instead of putting on my uniform I wore chinos over Jockeys.
To shave or not to shave? My cheeks felt sorta bristly. Fuck it! A hint of male whisker would do Margo a world of good after life with her sleek, cocksucking hubby. It might even appeal to Jonathon. Cocksuckers like to think they're going down on brutes.
When party time arrived, I knocked at the door of the Crystal Suite. The Rawlings made me feel like a bellboy from Prescott. Unshaven, in chinos, while they basked in the splendor of impeccable evening dress. On the coffee table, there was a huge bucket with the largest frigging bottle of champagne nestled on the ice cubes. Professional curiosity made me inquire, “Howdya get the ice an' stuff up here?” I knew they hadn't called for the bellboy.
“I brought it myself,” the tycoon admitted, shyly. “We wanted to surprise you.”
Gee, I found that touching. It almost made up for their fucking chutzpah, expecting my services for a lousy finif.
Jonathon opened the bottle and did the honors. Good stuff, that champagne. Two glasses would mellow a militant. While I downed the second glassful, Jonathon took out his bankroll. “What do you get for an evening, Doug?” he inquired, politely.
Mellowed, I muttered, “I don't get anything.”
“Spoken like an officer and gentleman! Will this do?”
“Gee!” I exclaimed, like a bellboy. I hadn't seen a picture of Ben Franklin for a long time. That's why Jon's wad looked sorta puny. Underneath the hundred he gave me, there was another one and another. How many hundreds can a guy carry these days?
“Gee, I couldn't take a hundred dollars,” I said, casually slipping the bill in my pocket.
“You'll earn it,” Jon assured me. “Get those clothes off!”