Room Service

She knocks twice, then twice again and calls out "Hello, room service!" just like she has learnt during her half-day of training for this job. She has learnt to say "yes", "right away", "of course" and "not a problem", followed by "sir" or "ma'am", and she has mastered the art of being unfailingly friendly and polite even when she doesn't know exactly what a guest really wants from her.

Luckily, body language is pretty much universal. It helps a lot.

Her job is simple but satisfying. This hotel is in the sweet spot between being too big and too small, between being too busy and being deserted, between being so cheap that it attracts slobs and encourages vandalism, and so expensive that the guests are entitled snobs who take everyone and everything for granted and never honestly say 'thank you'. The pay is decent, the benefits are fair, and there is always enough to do. Bad days here usually consist of cleaning the toilet of a guest with bad aim and sitting through yet another meeting on why worker's unions are the literal antichrist. That is all.

The guests, for all intents and purposes, are 'normal people'. That was a selling point at the job interview.

After three years of working here, she is still surprised at how liberal the 'normal people' are with their personal lives when in a hotel. Most guests leave their wallets and passports, their work-related things - documents, important-looking lanyards, filofaxes, business cards, electronic devices and so on - their toiletries and medication, and their dirty unmentionables for housekeeping staff to find. No one would leave these things out at their own home when other people came over. At a hotel all bets seemed to be off.

But the 'normal people' are surprisingly lax with the other facets of their lives as well.

Aside from stripping bed sheets and pillow cases with very obvious stains created by bodily fluids, she regularly picks up racy underwear, sex toys and accessories strewn across the rooms and ostentatiously draped over furniture. She has taken off handcuffs dangling from bed posts - once she even had to cut them down with a wire cutter - closed and re-shelved erotic books and magazines that lay open on bedside tables, and has thrown untold numbers of used condoms and suspiciously damp paper towels into the waste bins. The large flat-screen televisions in the upper suites have been tuned to porn and saucy movies dozens of times when she came in.

Sometimes she thinks some people mean for her - or someone - to find their evidence. It often feels like they intentionally leave the mementos of their sexual adventures before they leave the rooms, and then put the 'room service required'-sign onto the door handle as a beacon. An invitation to the cleaning staff like her, to come in, rifle through their debris, and live vicariously through them.

And she does. She tries not to, tries to be impersonal, aloof and unaffected and do her job like a robot would. She tells herself that the things she cleans up are just that - things - and that it is irrelevant how they have previously been put to use. She doesn't want to give the guests the satisfaction of knowing that they succeeded in stirring her up a little. It is reminiscent of the naughty teenagers at her first job at the supermarket, who would buy condoms and cucumbers, or try to buy condoms but then 'change their minds' and purchase zip-loc bags and rubber bands instead. She never wanted to give people the satisfaction then and she doesn't plan on starting now, either.

She imagines The Normal Hotel Guests enjoying their breakfasts and lunches at the restaurant on the first floor and shooting each other private, wicked little glances because they know that, right at that moment, some stranger - she - is sifting through their things and reconstructing the events of last night, like some sort of unwilling detective.

Especially when the display in the room is particularly elaborate - colorful, floppy dildos that are shaped like tentacles dangling from the shower walls, or a complete bondage setup made of almost comically thick iron chains, or leather leashes curled on top of the bedside table and two large feeding bowls next to it in a hotel where dogs are not allowed - she furtively glances around for hidden cameras and strives to keep a very straight face.

She sometimes imagines the guests watching her on little screens in adjacent rooms, lying in wait for her to walk into their traps.

She imagines them hoping she would try out the offered toys and clothes and accessories - because some of them are placed and showcased like offerings to her.

Then, she imagines herself walking into those traps, and what would happen after.

As she untangles ropes from the bedposts, she imagines herself lying down on the bed instead, spread-eagled, slipping her hands through the little loops - just for a second, just to see how it feels - and pulling them tight until they close around her wrists.

They are much tighter than she had bargained for. Sweaty panic sets in.

She would writhe around, the knee-length skirt of her cleaners' uniform riding up on her thighs. She imagines the guests coming back and finding her there, catching her in the act, pleased that she took the bait, ready to exploit her self-inflicted helplessness.

As she drapes the delicate thong, garters, garter belt and silk stockings over the back of a chair in order to vacuum the floor, she imagines herself stepping out of her sensible work shoes, panty hose and panties and putting the lingerie on instead. Leaving out the panties, of course.

Just for a moment, to feel beautiful and sexy for a while. Being pantyless only makes it that much better, and worse.

The guests would come through the door and catch her as she stared at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, her crotch obscenely framed and emphasized by all that lace trim and the silky frills around it.

Every so often, she thinks back to that very realistic suction cup dildo she had found stuck fast to the bottom of the shower cubicle. It had almost had her on all fours, bending over all the way, taking the phallus into her mouth and throat while her ass would stick up in the air.

Her mouth slides down on the toy, her lips tracing the veins and ridges, until the bulbous tip nudges the back of her throat. She would gag and choke a little - and try again, try to reach the shower floor with the tip of her nose.

Whoever would have come in would have seen her big, round buttocks, her maid uniform straining over it, and between them the gusset of her sensible white cotton panties with a little wet spot on it that would grow and get darker.

Of course, all of these things are just in her head. She never would and never could.

She loves and hates her job in equal measure.

***

The group made of two men and two women comes around the corner and passes by her and her cleaning trolley on the corridor. She meets their eyes in turn and gives them a polite smile and a "hello, good afternoon", and they give it back.

She is struck by the beauty of the brunette with the high ponytail who is walking in front. Her lipstick is glossy and so red it looks like fresh blood dripping from her sumptuous mouth. Her green-eyed gaze seems to pierce through something within her. Her gait is that of a cat, a sure-footed, graceful strut on black heels.

The other woman is small and delicate in comparison but not any less striking, with almond eyes and hair so black it is almost blue, braided all the way down her back. She is holding on to the other woman's elbow and leaning into her with a dreamy look on her face. They must be best friends, she thinks.

The two men who walk behind are both taller than the women. One of them is broad like a rugby player, the other lither. Both of them have an aura of utter self-confidence and easy grace. The bigger one has his hand around the brunette's upper arm, but it is unclear whether he his leading her or being led.

She watches the group as it vanishes into a room at the far end of the corridor, a room she had skipped on her rounds due to the 'please don't disturb' door hanger dangling from the doorknob.

Immediately, her imagination opens like a flower.

Two men, two women. So many possibilities.

Maybe they just talk, she thinks to herself, but a quiet, sly voice picks up where the thought left off - at first and then each man picks one woman for himself and holds her in a tight embrace from behind as he makes her watch what the other couple is doing on that big, white bed - he makes her watch and doesn't allow her to touch herself-

Or maybe it is exactly the other way around. The women have picked a man and ordered him to his knees - lower - lower, so that they can mount their faces like a rider might mount a horse.

She suppresses a shiver.

Or maybe the two women and the two men are in a contest of endurance. Whoever makes their same sex partner orgasm first, by whichever means necessary, will win a tryst with the winner of the opposite sex team, while the losers will have to watch.

She sucks her lip into her mouth, inhales and tries to focus on work. She quickly goes through a couple of unspectacular rooms, changes sheets, linens and towels, cleans showers, mirrors and toilets and tops up the bedside mini-fridges with new bottles of water. All the while, her mind flits back to the group, though. She wonders what might be happening in that room at the end of the corridor.

They are not just talking.

She cannot even decide what she would like was happening instead, though. Too many possibilities.

Going around the corner, she spots the 'room service required' sign on the door of suite 317. She goes through the appropriate steps - knocking, calling out, opening the door slowly and calling out again. There is no answer, but there is a sound. The TV? She opens the door far enough to enter the suite.

It is one of the more spacious ones on this floor, with a large bathroom just to the right of the front door, the sleeping quarters measuring 30 square meters, flooded with daylight through panoramic windows, furnished with a king-sized bed, a closet, a large desk, chairs, a little lounge, and a 60 inch television and entertainment screen.

The screen is the first thing she sees. A flash of red like fresh blood pulls her gaze like a magnet.

It's a super close-up of a beautiful face. The make-up is almost ruined now, the mascara smudged around her green cat eyes and running in rivulets down her cheeks, the lipstick smeared all around her cheeks and chin. Her skin is sweaty and blotchy, her hair a tangled mess, snot and tears glisten on her upper lip. Still, her eyes, larger than life on the high definition screen, focus on the camera. They are bright and alert and full of fire.

And full of lust so hot it's blistering.

And looking straight at her spectator.

At her.

Her whole body goes cold and hot all over.

Red lips are stretched over the veined flesh of a hard penis that shuttles in and out of her mouth, causing her to gag and choke every now and then. Hands are buried in her hair and clamped around her head, forcing her forward and back, forward and back. Fingers hook into the sides of her mouth to hold it open even wider for the big cock.

The red-lipped woman groans and her watering eyes roll up and back in ecstasy. The people around her moan along with her, two men and one woman, and coo and taunt her as they pet her head and slap her cheeks. "What a good girl. Such a good little cocksleeve."

It is only then that she blinks and realizes that one of the voices does not come from the TV at all, but from a man on a chair right in front of the screen. An audience of one in a home cinema.

He is naked, tied to his seat, his arms pulled up behind the back rest and tethered to a leather collar around his neck, which forces him to sit up very straight and with his chest pushed out.

Involuntarily, she inches forward, closer to him and the TV, to see him better and make sense of the sight.

The collar is made of thick, sturdy leather, with silver rings dangling from it. A ring gag keeps his mouth wide open and causes drool to drip down his chin and run down his chest. A pair of nipple clamps quiver upon his pecs. A small silver chain connects the clamps to the round piercing adorning the tip of his penis.

She stares. It is inevitable.

His cock his not very long, but the bulky jewelry and shape and movement make it impossible to look away from it. In this position, seated with his thighs spread wide, the man's cock reminds her of a water tap. It is curved not towards his torso but forward, the heavy, bulbous, bejeweled glans almost drooping down. Fat drops of clear pre-cum seep from the slit like water droplets from a leaky faucet, onto the piercing, and drip onto the chair's leather seat. The angry-looking organ jumps and jerks wildly, jangling the delicate chain that leads to the nipple clamps, pulling at them, doubtlessly making things more uncomfortable with every movement.

Abruptly, the man notices he has company. He groans loudly, pathetically, and tries in vain to say something around the contraption between his jaws. He tugs on his three pairs of cuffs - two on his ankles, two around his knees, and the two that keep his hands behind his back and his back so uncomfortably straight and strained - so hard that the whole chair creaks.

She gasps as she notices the same blood red color again, across his slightly hairy chest this time. Some letters are smeared by sweat and saliva, but the message is still readable. It is also simple and clear.

Clean this, accompanied by a perfect imprint of puckered lips right above his right nipple, and an arrow pointing down at the man's crotch.

Again, her eyes cannot help but follow. Her gaze drops down yet again.

Feeling the weight and touch of her gaze, the man shifts around on the seat, mewling, and she realizes that there is some sort of toy lodged between his testicles. A vibrating one, judging by the low hum emanating from it. She imagines that the part pushing his balls is only one component of a bigger device, its other part leading into-

The man whines and tugs so furiously on his bindings that the whole chair scoots forward on the carpet, toward the TV screen.

One of the men is groaning like a wild animal and pressing the tip of his cock against the woman's face and ejaculates over her cheeks, mouth and nose, smearing his spend on her lips and chin. "Don't you dare wipe that off," a deep voice warns from behind the camera, and the woman gives an eager, obedient nod which is interrupted by someone grabbing her hair and violently yanking her backward until she is sprawled on the floor. The other woman with the exotic features pushes her shoulders down and straddles her face. The camera zooms out to capture the whole picture. Bare, sweaty flesh. Pale, creamy limbs. A man grabs the woman's ankle and spreads her legs so that her shaved pussy is on full display. It is swollen and ruby red and so sopping wet it glistens.

Clutching at her housekeeping uniform that suddenly feels too tight and too warm, she presses her thighs together and feels her own cunt weeping a droplet of confused, overwhelmed arousal into her panties.

The man in the chair tries to articulate again, but she has no chance against the ring gag. His cock jerks obscenely, comically, and another drop of pre-ejaculate seeps out of his tip, slides down the piercing and forms a thin thread that quivers as it reaches for the seat of the chair. The man throws his head back and jerks his hips once, causing his penis to bob, the chain to jangle and tighten, but quickly looks back to the screen as though he does not want to miss a second of what is happening in the room down the hall.

She imagines the woman being dominated by the three others may be his girlfriend, or his fiancée, or his wife, the three others her former lovers. Or his lovers? Are they teaching him a lesson? Or her? Or both? Or has she given herself freely, for her own amusement, because she likes to be tormented and torment her current paramour in return? Or maybe he has given her away because he likes seeing her like this, manhandled and used? Do they both enjoy being helpless? Do they have a standing agreement to come to this hotel and inflict this on themselves and on each other?

The man's eyes are fixed on the red-lipped woman's pussy. The camera zooms in on where two people's index fingers vanish into her slick hole and pump in and out of it.

She notices the flush that creeps up his chest and straining, collared neck and into his face. Clean this, the lipstick words read, crimson on red.

The need to do as she is told, to kneel between this anonymous man's spread legs and take that phallus into her mouth - smell it, taste it, feel its texture and size, feel it move against her tongue, lap that moisture up and make it all clean - is even more urgent than it was with that dildo in the shower. Her breath hitches, and as if he could hear it even over the moaning and groaning from the TV, the man throws a feverish glance over to her, no doubt taking in how her thighs are clamped together and how her nipples are turgid enough to create an outline through both her sensible bra and her starched work uniform.

Only with endless self-discipline does she manage to tear her gaze away from his gaze and his crotch, and turn away from the TV screen where one of the men has attached his mouth to the woman's pussy, his shoulders and arms clamped around her upper thighs to keep her still even as she writhes madly under his assault.

Clean. I need to clean. With a deep breath, she turns toward the bed and strips the linens, pillow cases and sheet. Her hands move as if automatic. Her thoughts are racing, elsewhere.

"Oh fuck, you taste so fucking good."

She wipes down the little desk and both night stands with jerky movements.

"Slap it." A smacking sound. A shrieking moan. "Again. Harder." A wet slap.

As quickly as she can, she slips into the bathroom and collects the towels. Through the open door, she can still hear everything.

"Ah, yes! Eat that pussy, bitch!"

The man on the chair gives a long whining, groaning sound.

Is he—

She replaces the little shampoo bottles with full ones. Her fingers are shaking ever so slightly.

Is he having an orgasm?

A high-pitched, moaning curse from the black-haired woman.

Is she?

She closes her eyes and tries to shake her head free from this maelstrom of lust and perversion, and from the sudden surging need to clean this, clean this-

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, please, please, please-!" follows her and snakes underneath her hot skin as she flees, clutching used towels to her body.

She pulls the door shut behind her as she steps out into the corridor. The solid wood keeps all the noises inside the room.

In the silence, she breathes.

Normal people will be the death of me.

She has never finished a bathroom, nor the rest of a floor, more quickly than that day.

She has never been haunted more by the muted bronze color of the 'Please do not disturb' door hanger that seems to wink at her from the handle of the door all the way at the end of the corridor.

All the while, she can feel the soaked fabric of her panties chafing against her swollen lips.

She does not clean this, either.

***

Two days pass, unremarkably.

The nights between them are another matter entirely. She feels restless. Her routine is shot by something that seems to move and surge inside of her whenever her mind is not entirely awake and occupied.