My Hotel Got Cancelled

Fuck Off

I don’t mind travelling. It gives me a chance to escape this domestic prison and find new writing material.

I was supposed to stay at this hotel called The Langham, but I rocked up there, and they told me that they’d double-booked my damn room. And I figured it’s just like an airline where they bump you up to first class.

“So what do I get?” I asked. “The penthouse?”

“You don’t understand, Mr Bird,” said the lady. “The whole hotel is booked out. This is one of our busiest weekends.”

She went on to tell me there was some damn festival on and blah blah blah. I honestly don’t give a fuck about culture and all that. I just wanted somewhere to get my head down. I was knackered from the flight, and I just fancied somewhere to wash the sweat off my dick, drink a cold one and have a good wank.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

That’s how it is these days. There’s no customer service anymore. At one time, the manager of that hotel would have let me sleep on his fucking couch. But not anymore. They’re just sorry.

I hit the bar in the foyer, where some good-looking sixty-year-old cunt was singing slow jazz.

I winked at her as I went in, and she smiled. I wondered if I might fuck her later until I remembered I didn’t even have a fucking room.

I ordered a glass of single malt and their strongest IPA, which, as it turned out, was 5.2% alcohol. That used to be strong, but now it’s cat piss. The bar manager said there were too many fights, so they had to stop serving the true IPAs. People are fucking pussies when it comes to beer.

I downed the whiskey in one, and the barman gave me this look as if to say it’s blasphemous to drink good Scotch like that.

“Who are you? Fucking Harvey Spectre?” I said. He shook his head and turned away.

Asshole.

I sat and listened to the jazz for a bit. At the end, she said Thank you and goodnight. And I realised it was fucking twelve-thirty, and I still didn’t have a place to stay.

Everyone clapped a bit, and she came over, stood at the bar, and ordered a martini.

“You’re a great singer,” I said without looking at her.

“Thanks, honey,” she said. She was like one of those old, dirty singers from the thirties. She had swagger—and trauma, too—plenty of that. I could smell it on her.

Up close, she looked slightly younger. Maybe she was in her late forties — I don’t know. I’m fucking terrible with ages. But I asked her to join me, and she drank four martinis in the hour before one-thirty, and she started slurring her words.

“I need to get home,” she said, holding onto the bar. Then she grabbed my thigh. “You look like a resourceful young man. Would you like to join me?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “What’s your address?”

She gave it to me, and I put it into Uber.

Five minutes later, we were standing outside, and I chucked my luggage into the back of the car.

I got in the back beside her, and the driver pulled off.

She didn’t waste any time. We were too strapped in to kiss or anything, but she straight up took my hand, put it down the front of her knickers and pushed my fingers right into her.

“Finger me,” she whispered. “I’ll stimulate my clitoris.”

“Fine,” I said, feeling like we'd just done some kind of business deal.

So I rammed two fingers into her while she took care of her clit.

After a few seconds, her pussy started making sloshing sounds, and she fucking came right there on the back seat.

And I’ve known some women who can cum silently by themselves. But not when I fuck them. Even the silent types scream when I make them cum.

Usually.

I guess my heart’s not in it tonight. I need to lie down.

The driver knew what was happening. If he couldn’t hear it, he could smell it at least. Her pussy was intense. I didn’t mind it at all. But maybe that driver did, since he probably had to get the strong cunt smell out of his car before his next client.

The car pulled up outside the address, and I pulled my luggage up her driveway while helping her get up to the house.

She stumbled through the front door, and I wondered how the fuck she got that drunk off four martinis. Or was it five?

Her bedroom was on the right as we went in.

I was barely through the door when she pulled off her dress and climbed into bed.

“Hello?” I said. “Hello?”

But the bitch had passed out. I know it because she started snoring like a fucking rhino.

I found my way into the lounge room and got a spare blanket and a pillow out of my case. I always travel with my own pillows. Sleeping on hotel pillows gives me those neck headaches.

I lay on the couch. I wanted to have a wank, but it’s always problematic on someone’s couch since I cum a lot. I’d have fucking destroyed that couch with my spunk.

Besides, I was fucking tired.

I lay on my side and passed out.

When I opened my eyes, the light was blinding me through the window, and the television was on.

It was some horseshit morning breakfast show talking about — I don’t know, something.

I leaned up on one elbow, rubbed my eyes and looked around.

That’s when I noticed the man sitting opposite in the chair— and the pistol resting in his hand.

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked. Morning manners aren’t top of my CV.

“I’m the husband,” he said in some dark Irish accent.

I nodded.

“Any chance of some cornflakes?” I said, without taking my eye off the pistol.

“Did you fuck her?”

I pushed myself up and rested my feet on the floor.

“Nope. She passed out.”

He nodded.

“But did you intend to fuck her?”

I paused, then nodded.

“I appreciate your honesty,” he said. “And now, I’m gonna need you to go in there and finish the job.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you heard me. She’s still asleep in there. Go ahead, wake her up and fuck her.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“I will if you don’t go fuck my wife right now.”

“Are you going to watch?”

Fuck knows. I look up from my desk at the neighbour, Mrs Flapsberry, who is wearing her orange Thursday bra. Usually, I’d spy on her and have a wank since my wife is at work, but today I just can’t. For the third time this week, I’ve written myself into a fucking threesome. And it’s not with some youthful clueless bronzed coked up fucks on a yacht. It’s with a fat sixty-year-old Irish cuckold and his morning-breath jazz singer wife.

I have to fix this. How can I get out of it? Do I grab the fucking gun? Do I offer him cash? Do I—

Wait. Mrs Flapsberry is hanging out the washing now. Her jugs wobble like twin coffee panacottas when she does that.

Maybe I will have that wank after all.

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