“Dorothy Grant?”
“No, sir. Her name is Carla.”
The silvery blonde was Carla. Carla Grant. We have a date, you and me, Carla. I hafta do something about those eyes. Make em glitter. When I get around to it. Business first.
My preliminary business had been accomplished within three minutes of registering. I'd found out there were plenty of transients at the Iowan. Plenty of potential customers. And only one bellhop. Tomorrow or the day after, there'd be a new one. Doug Trent, at your service, sir or madam.
I spent the evening casing the joint, checking up on arrivals as if I held stock in the corporation. Business was fair at the Iowan. Four guests checked in while I sat in the lobby between 7:00 and 9:00 that evening. Plus motel arrivals.
Later I wasted another half hour roaming the corridor. There was one possibility. A middle-aged snatch who glanced at me three times between inserting her key in the door and opening it. Cordial glances. I could have started a beautiful friendship, but decided to wait until I had status. Until I was employed by the hotel.
On a limited budget, night life in Prescott was limited. Out of one bar, into another. Beer chased down by more beer. I don't object to listening to a bartender's troubles. But when troubles revolve around the price of corn, brother!
Back to the hotel. The lobby was shut up for the night, the clerk was dozing in a wing chair. Twelve-fifty rooms didn't run to air conditioning. I peeled down fast and stood under a cool shower. When I came out, the air in the room felt stifling. That fucking Ernie hadn't opened the window before adjusting the blinds. I flung open the window. A sultry breeze blew in. The view was sultrier.
A kindly architect had designed the Iowan roughly el-shaped. Standing at my window, I could see clearly into the room at the tail end of the el's downstroke. I guess that room wasn't air conditioned either. A guy stood at the window, like me, only he had his shorts on. Just in time, before I turned aside, he moved back. He was an ugly son-of-a-bitch, a shrimp with carroty red hair. But he had something I didn't have-company.
A girl was lounging on a chair about a yard or so away from the window: a redhead. I could see through the open slats of the Venetians. Wavy auburn hair falling in sleek folds to her shoulders. My view was foreshortened, but I could guess what she was doing: rolling down her nylons.
Abruptly she got to her feet. I could see clearly at crotch level, and her crotch was covered by a silk slip. There were hands on the slip. His and hers. Hey! How many hands do you need to take a slip off? Four. Four did it. I saw pink panties and wicked white thighs.
Then my view was obstructed. Fucking shrimp again. Standing at the window to pull down his Jockeys. What was he, anyway? One of those goddamned exhibitionists you hear about? Bare ass, he plunked himself down in the chair. Where was the girl? Dancing for him in the far corner of the room? Washing her twat in the crapper? No, she was back in my line of vision. Shrimp was drawing her to him. On his lap. Not on his lap, across his lap.
Standing on tiptoe, peering down, I could see the part of her body that wasn't stretched across the shrimp's lap, brushing against his naked cock. Her head hung down, the auburn hair like a concealing curtain. Her hair didn't hide her tits, however. If she had worn a bra, she'd discarded it. Her knockers were nude, nipples pointing downward. Two fine, fat tits hanging untended. The shrimp's energies were expended elsewhere.
I could see the seat of the chair perfectly. Now I could see her seat. The shrimp had stripped off her panties, revealing her lush, rounded bottom. That guy had no appreciation for a juicy, female posterior. Instead of tonguing it or fucking it, he was giving it a rhythmic whacking. She must have been a very naughty girl.
My eyes swiveled from her ass to her tits as he spanked her. A guy can get cross-eyed that way. Tits can bounce clear off a girl's chest that way. With each blow on her rump, her boobies bounced upward and downward. I couldn't see her lips, but her titties were talking. You could hear them say, 'More, please,” as they bounced upward.
He kept whamming her steadily. I could hear the slap of his palm-or maybe that was the slap of my own fingers on my whang. I could hear the redhead climaxing. That must have been pure imagination. The night air was quiet, ominously silent.
In the silence, the girl suddenly slipped off her boy friend's lap. End of Act One. Act Two commenced without intermission. She was on her knees, back to me. She was pulling on the shrimp's buzzer, drawing it to her. So she could suck it. It had to be that-so she could suck it. If you don't screw them instantly after you spank them, girls insist on going down on you. As, no doubt, you know.
I ached to give the redhead my joint to chew on. If she'd only turn so I could see better. I was rubbing away furiously, but an unobstructed view of her mouth would give my hand fresh impetus. Just as I silently pleaded for more cooperation, Shrimpo cooperated. Pressing forward to give her another inch, his body curved slightly and the cocksucking lady curved along with it. Now I could see his prick pumping in and out in fuck tempo. I could see her eyes shining with lust, her lips sucking in the flesh of the peter.
She was a lovely cocksucker. He didn't have to force her head down when he unloaded. She kept nibbling, swallowing automatically, bravely smiling. I applauded by offering a liquid tribute. My gism didn't fly across the courtyard to tickle her tonsils. It's that fucking law of gravity. My gism descended. Down to fertilize the wisteria. Wisteria require fertilization. I didn't just jack off, I did my bit for fucking Mother Nature.
IV
I should have told Matt to meet me at night. When he picked me up in the morning, I had only three things to tell him. “Gimme a loan. Come back tonight. Warn Beth to expect company-with pimples.”
Matt was a real buddy. Unflinching, he forked over two creased ten spots. I don't think there was much more where that came from. “I'll meet you here at eight, okay?” He added one last wistful query. “Beth's company-think I c'n BEAT 'im, Doug?”
Sure he could beat him. No contest. But I'd hate to see a clean-living kid like Ernie under the lash, getting soaked with Matt's spilled gism.
I loafed around town, ogling the hotel cashier at odd moments. Waiting for night time. Actually, I was waiting for the end of Ernie's tour of duty.
At six o'clock promptly, my prey left the hotel, dressed in street clothes. Ernie thought his day's work had ended. Unaware that his frigging career as bellhop had evaporated. Exit Ernie Pimples. Enter Handsome Doug Trent, at your service.
“Hey, Ernie!”
He recognized me. The free-spoken hotel guest. A tentative blush suffused his features.
“Gee, you sure steered me wrong, kid. I sorta got the impression there was nothing doing in Prescott. An' right away who did I meet but the sweetest cunt in the country!”
My arms described unlikely curves. Ernie got the picture.
“Beth's one girl who needs steady screwing. I don't know what she's gonna do when I leave here. Shame to think of that gorgeous pussy going to waste.”
Ernie summoned up his pimply courage. “I'd sure like to meet her!”
“Gee, I don't know, kid. Ever fuck pussy?”
I read his negative in the dejected slant of his head. Ernie looked up suddenly, “Never have. But a guy's gotta start some time.”
“Hmmm. Howdja like to start tonight? Can you get away?”
“Sure, mister. I live with my uncle. I can get away any time. Will she really let me-?”
“She'll let you.” I arranged to meet Ernie at eight, on the corner where Matt would pick me up.
Two hours to kill. I stepped in to tell the desk clerk I'd be staying another day. The cashier's cage was deserted, but Carla Grant walked through the lobby toward the exit. She must have just come out of the powder room. Her red lips had that fresh lipstick gleam. Her nylons had the precise fit of the well-adjusted garter belt. Her mini showed plenty of nylons. Her silver-blonde hair sparkled like sunlight on water. Her eyes remained frosty.