Message-ID: <5325eli$9710312236@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Mark Bastable" Subject: Alphabet Stories: H - Requested Repost Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <878342710.27933.1.nnrp-05.9e982592@news.demon.co.uk> Hotel ----- I was working in Southern Germany, in a University town called Freiburg, which nestles in the middle of the Black Forest. It's Germany as Disney envisaged it - all cobblestone streets, oompah bands and wonky little houses. I was living at a hotel called The Black Lion - and over the four months I'd been there, I'd pretty much got to know all the staff. I'd fallen into the habit of taking a drink late at night with the restaurant workers. They'd close up at midnight, and we'd gather at the bar, knock off some beers and Schnapps, shoot the bilingual breeze. I was generally three-parts drunk by the time we started these sessions, but that's about what Continentals expect of the English. I was getting pretty friendly with the manageress, Greta. She was tall, broad-shouldered; wore black, winged glasses. Her hair was deepest brown and wavy. When she was working, she kept it pinned up, complementing the uniform of white blouse, long black skirt, unremarkable shoes. But after hours, curls cascaded over her shoulders, way down her back. She had a fondness for tan leather trousers and simple t-shirts, set off by pointy little ankle-boots. When I say I was getting friendly with her, that's about all it was. There was undoubtedly a flirtatious frisson, but not enough to justify a straight-out pass - and that was fine by me. There was a waitress - about seventeen, blonde, so slight she was barely a handful - who was giving me serious come-on. The only reason I hadn't acted upon it was that she was so young. I mean, I have moral scruples to consider. Moreover, by the time she was ready to get blatant, it was usually gone-three in the morning and I was totally incapable. I also have performance standards to maintain. It might have gone on like this for the whole of my time in Germany - many units consumed, nothing ever consummated - had I not bumped into Greta one Saturday in the town square. We smiled, helloed and ended up going for lunch. I looked at her as I followed her to a tucked-away table in some woody, dark cafe. She was wearing a black miniskirt, dark tights - I tried to believe they were stockings - and a short fur jacket. Pretty good, I thought - and made better by the knee-length leather boots. As she took her seat, she shucked the jacket to reveal a cerise blouse that she must have picked up in a sale. There was no other excuse for spending money on clothing that was so obviously two sizes too small. This may seem unlikely, but I had never before really thought about Greta in terms of her individual body parts. She'd always just been this woman I flirted with. Now, however, in that blouse, a couple of her body parts pretty much stood up and demanded individual attention. She had a cleavage that was like standing on the lip of the Grand Canyon. I felt quite dizzy. I was glad I was sober. I'm not sure how the conversation got around to bondage. With a certain kind of German woman, these things tend to just slip in. Greta, it turned out, metronomed between dom and sub. 'A little of S and a little of M,' was how she phrased it. We talked awhile, and I tried to look knowledgeable about her area of sexual interest - but frankly, outside of the slap'n'tickle of garden-variety horseplay, I've not ever got involved in sub-dom stuff. Still, I bluffed it pretty cool until we started talking about the people at the hotel. "Beatta," Greta said in accented English, her eyes shining, "you know? The tiny blonde girl, vid so small tits? She I can maybe want very bad." I was a little taken aback, but covered it with a weak joke. "Excuse me, fraulein!" I protested, in mock-British shock, "You are speaking of the woman I intend to marry!" She laughed it off. "Nein, you make a joke, ja?" Not stupid, then. "Vith her, I make a big sado play. I make her bend over, and I feel to her cunt. She has a... rasiert.. in English?" "Shaven," I told her. "Ja, exactly. A shaven cunt, I hope. Or perhaps I will myself shaven her little pussy." You'll understand that it was impossible for me not to picture this. And, having pictured it, it was impossible for me not to order more port, as there was no chance of me standing up to leave. The liqueurs worked a treat - we both became increasingly indiscreet. "And, so, umm, what would you want to do with me?" I asked, flushed with alcohol and imagination. She regarded me with her head on one side, her unruly locks falling over the hand she held against her temple. The tip of her cigarette flared unnoticed in the brown curls, and the smell of burnt hair was trippy, intoxicating. "I see you now in your clothes for the weekend," she mused, eyes unfocussed. "But I like when you come to the hotel after you are in your office. When you wear your Englisher suit, vid your tie, it is so... So 'papa'. You know?" I knew. But acting dumb seemed the best bet. "No - sorry. Not with you, old love." She pulled herself ramrod straight - an upright, shoulders-back gesture. "So like a father, like vith rules you have in your head." She tapped her temple. "Like you will think, Who is this naughty girl in the restaurant? Like, So vhat shall I do vith this so naughty girl?" I can be really dense when it matters. "And what will I do with this naughty girl?" I asked, innocently. She grinned and took a drag on her cigarette, eyeing me through blown smoke. "I think you will hold me here" - she tapped her lap - "and spank me at mein arsch. I think that is good for me, ja, if I am a so naughty girl?" I grinned. "Betcha arsch," I agreed. Three nights later, I got back to the hotel late, having worked past eleven. I went straight to the bar without changing and caught the restaurant staff coming off their shift. Musta been the suit. The blonde, Beatta, was all over me like spring sunshine. Greta, at the other end of the bar, was jigging about, catching the action. I've seen less involved spectators at a Cup Final. The conversation with Beatta was sloshing along like a flood-tide; we covered various prurient subjects, including S&M, on which I now considered myself an authority. Though lubriciously intrigued by the principle, Beatta appeared dubious about the actual prospect - but I decided to push my luck. With one hand stroking her thigh beneath her skirt, I daringly suggested that she went to the restroom and took her panties off. She shot out of the seat as if it were alight, and scurried off down the corridor. Greta filled Beatta's empty bar-stool so quickly that it looked like a computer-morph. "So," she asked eagerly, "we have some fun together with Beatta, ja? You say to her we maybe go together to her room, all the three?" I considered. "She's just a kid, Greta," I sighed. "It's not fair." "No, no," Greta insisted, shaking her dark curls. "She will like when I lick her little cunt. She doesn't know this, but she will like it." I shrugged, unconvinced. "And for you," Greta continued, coaxingly, "you will have then two girls who lick your cock. Ja? You like that when two girls will lick your big cock and fuck you with their two wet pussies. I think you will like that." She rubbed the front of my pinstripe trousers as she said this, which I felt was a little unsporting. However, I am an Englishman, and I hardened, amongst other things, my resolve. "No - sorry. Can't do it to the poor girl." I adjusted my tie, pulling it hard into my collar, and stood up, gazing down into Greta's depthless cleavage. "Still, we could, uh, slip away upstairs, just you and I. Because, frankly, your suggestion was extraordinarily naughty, and - ahem - it seems to me that you should be made to see that." Christ, she was lovely naked. As I tied her to the bed, a silk neck-tie on each limb, I could barely keep my eyes on the knots. Her nipples stood hard out from her ripe tits, reaching for the ceiling like mad exotic buds seeking the sun. Her stomach was a flat plain of muscle, giving way to a thick tropical rainforest of damp hair, alive with saturation and blossoming pink. In the sand-white of her face, her eyes filled with promising glisten, like oases. I shifted a chair that was hard by the bed, so that I could stand with my crotch above her face. Still in my pin-striped three-piece, I unzipped, and fished out my cock. In such a situation, I think you will forgive me a certain forwardness. "Not bad, eh?" I suggested, bouncing my erection of the bridge of her nose. "Not." Bounce. "Too." Bounce. "Shabby." She was dribbling from every available porthole. She was biting the air and her hips were fucking a vacuum. She was thrumming between her fixed joints like a cello string. "Give it to me! Give me cock! Fuck in my cunt! Fuck it in my mouth!" she screeched. Then she went through it again in German. With a certain amount of contortion, I pushed the faithful servant back into the underpants, and rezipped. "Patience," I told Greta, as I left, "is a virtue." Beatta was waiting in her room, as arranged, fully-dressed, including panties, and bent over an armchair. We fucked quick and hard, all popping buttons and cotton tugged aside. She shrieked and laughed and gasped as I shot my load deep into her tight snatch. Still flushed and sweaty, still giggly and loose, we stumbled arm-in-arm back to my room. Greta, spread-eagled, was agog with fury and moisture as we burst through the door. Though not fluent in the Teutonic tongue, I couldn't but apprehend her displeasure. Beatta bounded onto the bed, a gangly gazelle, and placed a foot on either side of Greta's head. As Greta stared up, Beatta carefully, gleefully, deliberately pulled her panties to one side of her cunt. I knelt by the bedhead, and watched a large gobbet of my cum ooze like magic from Beatta's slit, and hang, and stretch and, finally, drop silent onto the bound woman's chin. I glanced sidelong at Greta, who was sizzling with outrage and frustration. "Beautiful, huh?" I asked her. And then, nodding towards Beatta's suppurating gash, I added, "And - whaddya know? - shaven too." As I write this, it's five in the morning and Beatta is asleep in her bed behind me. I must remember to set the clock and go and untie Greta before the maid comes in at noon. I really must. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /