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Confessions from a Hotel
Timothy Lea
Ice-cream, donkeys, and all those lovely bikinis - oh I do like to be beside the seaside!Available for the first time in eBook, the classic sex comedy from the 70s.Timmy and Sidney are running a sea-side hotel.But their guests are having a few, erm, unusual problems: one lovely lady needs a little help on her wedding night; another bunch are rugby widows, keen to ‘try’ it on with just about everyone. And what about the Pendulum Society, the genteel swingers society?Can Timmy keep this hospitality business up?Also Available in the Confessions… series:CONFESSIONS OF A WINDOW CLEANERCONFESSIONS OF A LONG DISTANCE LORRY DRIVERCONFESSIONS OF A TRAVELLING SALESMAN
Confessions from a Hotel
BY TIMOTHY LEA
Contents
Title Page (#u31549ac6-dd2d-5b2a-ae10-ce9a4d0afe84)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Also available in the CONFESSIONS series
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Timothy Lea & Rosie Dixon
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE (#uf8682f0b-f7a4-5e55-929a-1dfec116ab11)
I don’t know how you would handle four weeks on a tramp steamer with a couple of nymphomaniacs, but I was right knackered at the end of it, I can tell you. The second mate was carried off the boat on a stretcher, and he managed to barricade himself in his cabin after the first week. By the cringe, it was a voyage and a half. Now I know what they mean when they say ‘see Naples and die’. Nat and Nan found me skulking in an empty lifeboat the night before we docked and I nearly kicked the bucket with my first glimpse of Mount Vesuvius. Talk about insatiable–I can now, because I looked it up in the dictionary–if those two birds were rabbits it would not have needed myxomatosis to kill off half the male bunny population. I am not unpartial to a bit of the other but–blimey! There is a limit. After the first couple of hours it is becoming more a penance than a penis, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, for the sake of those of you who missed my capers as a Holiday Host with Funfrall Enterprises, I had better explain what I am on about. My period of service on an island off the Costa Brava had come to an end for a number of reasons–not the least of them being that my Dad had burned down the camp. Accidentally, of course. Everything Dad does is an accident, which accounts for how I happen to be about to write this. Anyway, that is another story and I would be the last person to put anybody off their cornflakes by telling it.
My presence on the boat with Nat and Nan–my pen starts shaking uncontrollably every time I write their names–is occasioned by me being left to clear up after the blaze. Once I have sifted all the dentures out of the ashes and paid off the local labour, I am expected to make my way home on a battered tramp steamer calling at every port in the Mediterranean. I would not normally be the first person to start whining about such treatment, were it not for the presence of the deadly duo already alluded to. Also, another lively bird called Carmen who fortunately gets homesick after a couple of days and dives overboard to join a passing fishing boat. Nat and Nan have the same attitude towards sex as those small birds that eat ten times their own weight every day, only in their case, forget small birds and substitute bleeding great vultures. Not that they are unattractive, oh, dear me, no. They are beautiful girls and living tributes to the efficacy of National Health Milk and free dental care. The only trouble is that they do have this disconcerting habit of tearing the trousers off every bloke they meet. And on a few thousand square feet of tramp steamer it gets so it is not worth putting your trousers on again. Your turn is going to come up in another few minutes, buster, so lie back and enjoy it.
Luckily, I have had experience of these girls (I laugh hollowly as I write that) and for the first few days I manage to keep out of the way while the crew run amok. By the end of the first week they are running a mile. Every time the Terrible Twins come round a corner, the sleek smiles slide off their greasy faces faster than blobs of fat off a hot plate. By the end of the second week they are threatening mutiny and by the end of the third week they have twice tried to abandon ship in a lifeboat. One bloke dives overboard the minute we get into the Bay of Naples. How he finds the strength to reach shore, I will never know.
My attempts to avoid being pressed into service–a not altogether happy, but very accurate description of what takes place–founder on my natural desire for food. I am intercepted on a sneaky trip to the galley and from that moment on I am making progress towards a frayed tonk like every other male on board.
By the time we get to Liverpool I never want to see another woman as long as I live–or at least two weeks–and the crew have burned all their pin-ups. The captain has not been seen for four days. Every time anybody taps on the door of his cabin a feeble voice keeps repeating–‘Don’t let them get me. Remember the RNVR.’ The poor basket has obviously gone round the twist.
When we get to Scouseland and can actually see the Liver Building the crew fall on their knees like pilgrims getting their first eyeful of Mecca. There is hardly an Englishman amongst them but they all know that this is where the girls get off. The expression of unspeakable joy on their faces as we go down the gangplank is something I will always remember.
My own feelings are typical of those of any son of Albion returning to the land of his birth–bitter disappointment. When I was on the Isla de Amor I could not wait to feel the native sod under my feet but now as I see some of the native sods in person I wish I was back in the land of the antique plumbing. At least there was sunshine there and I could not understand the newspaper headlines. My tan has been fading since the Bay of Biscay and Mum and Dad and Scraggs Lane seem about as tempting as two weeks in a leper colony.
But that is not my immediate problem. Having seen Nat and Nan closing fast with a group of unsuspecting dockers, I have legged it off in the opposite direction and made my way swiftly to Lime Street station. This being the point of departure for The Smoke, and the bosom of my family. It is mid-morning and British Rail’s excellent inter-city service is decidedly under-patronised. I buy a copy of a book called John Adam–Samurai, which looks as if it has a few juicy moments, and settle down to a couple of hours of peace and quiet. Outside the compartment the sun is breaking through and my spirits begin to lift. Maybe dear old England is not so bad after all.
‘Ah, so there you are! Creeping off without saying goodbye. That wasn’t very kind to your little playmates, was it?’
‘Decidedly unkind, I should say. Not the sort of behaviour Uncle Giles would like, eh Sis?’
Yes, folks; it is Nat and Nan, the girls who gave up the idea of group marriage because they could not find a group large enough. I should mention that the Uncle Giles they refer to is Sir Giles Slattery, Chairman of Funfrall Enterprises, the grave concern that is employing me–and hopefully paying me some much needed moola for my heroic efforts during the last few weeks.
‘After all, we’ve been through,’ says Nat reproachfully.
‘Speak for yourself,’ I snarl. ‘Now for God’s sake leave me alone. You lay one finger on me and I’ll pull the communication cord.’
‘It won’t do any good, darling. The train isn’t moving yet. I’m very disappointed in you, Timmy. I thought we had a chance of liberating you but you’re still very uptight, aren’t you?’ That is another thing about these nutty birds. They believe that if everybody sublimated their aggressions in sexual activity there would be no more wars. That is their excuse, anyway.
‘Take your hand out of my trousers,’ I say. ‘Uptight? After what I’ve had to endure in the last four weeks? I’m slacker than a four-inch nut on a toothpick.’ Nat draws away from me reproachfully and the train jerks into motion.
‘I was hoping we were going to be able to put in a glowing report about you to Uncle Gilesy,’ she says. ‘But if you persist in continuing to be a reactionary slave to bourgeois convention…’ She shakes her head sadly.
‘What do you mean?’ I say nervously.
‘I mean, Timmykins, we may have to tell Nunky that you were very naughty on the boat. That you forced us to cohabit with the crew.’
‘Forced! Those poor bastards are paddling that boat out to sea with their bare hands in order to get away from you.’
‘They did have problems,’ says Nat sadly.
‘They did have. But they don’t any longer. When are you two birds going to wise up to the fact that everybody doesn’t want to get laid all the time?’
‘We could say he confessed to burning down the camp,’ says Nan.
‘Hey, wait a minute!’
‘That’s a good idea. Uncle Gilesy won’t like that, will he?’
‘Timmy will go to prison for arson. Poor Timmy.’
‘You do that and I’ll–’ I rack my brains for something I will do.
‘You’ll do what?’ says Nan. ‘There’s nothing you can tell Uncle Giles about us that he doesn’t know already.’
‘On the other hand, we might suggest some form of bonus as being in order. Nunky is very hot on rewarding loyal staff.’
‘And I’m just very hot,’ says Nat, beginning to pull down the blinds.
‘Just for Auld Lang Syne,’ says Nan, as she starts to undo my shirt buttons. ‘We may never see each other again.’
‘You’re dead right there,’ I say. ‘Once this bleeding thing stops, you’ll need running shoes to keep up with me.’
‘He’s beautiful when he’s mad, isn’t he?’ says Nat.
‘Beautiful. Come on, give us a little kiss.’
Outside the landscape is flashing past at about eighty miles an hour, otherwise I might try to throw myself through the window.
‘Somebody’s going to come,’ I gulp.
‘You never know your luck.’
‘I mean a ticket collector or somebody.’
‘Well, we’ve all got tickets, haven’t we? It just says don’t lean out of the window. And we’re not going to do it hanging out of the window, are we?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Nat thoughtfully. ‘It sounds rather fun. Supposing–’
‘No!’ I scream. ‘Oh my God. What am I going to do?’
‘We know you know the answer to that one,’ soothes Nan. ‘Remember how much fun it was on the beach?’
‘Yes. But there weren’t millions of people wandering about there.’
‘The train is empty, darling.’
‘We could go in one of the loos,’ says Nan, ‘but I hate stand-up quickies and it would be awfully cramping.’
I look at the pictures of some Scottish river on the wall and wish I could be there. The cool water closing over my head–
‘So, you’re going to say something good about me, are you?’ I say. I mean if there is going to be no escape, I might as well get the best deal I can.
‘I hope so, love-bunny,’ murmurs Nat into my half-nibbled ear. ‘Now, let’s see if you’re going to be a good boy.’
Her hand fondles the region of my thigh and finds what it is looking for. ‘Oh yes, I like that.’
‘Me too.’ Nan pops open the buttons of my jeans and slips her hand into the one-way system of my Y-fronts. ‘You shouldn’t wear these,’ she scolds. ‘You should let him breathe.’
‘He seems to be coming up for air now,’ says Nat with interest, as she starts yanking down my pants.
That’s the amazing thing about my John Thomas. It seems to lead an existence totally independent of the rest of me. My brain may be saying run for the hills but my J.T. never seems to hear it. Given the presence of a friendly lady it will lumber fitfully into an upright position and stand there waiting for the best to happen. At moments like this its touching eagerness to please is beyond price.
‘I’m on a bonus, then, am I?’
‘You should be doing this for love, not money,’ says Nat as she helps my jeans over my heels. ‘We really have failed with you, haven’t we?’
‘You’re blackmailing me, so you can’t talk.’
‘I don’t want to talk, angel. I want you to start probing me with your lovely instrument.’
‘You always go first,’ sniffs Nat.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘Alright. We’ll toss for it. Which ball have I got in my hand?’
‘The left one.’
‘You looked.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Do you mind!’ I interrupt. ‘I’m not a bloody bumper car, you know.’
‘You give a much smoother ride, don’t you Timmy?–oh look!’
She is referring to the way my J.T. leaps into the air in sympathy when one of the blinds suddenly whips up. I am more engrossed by the faces of the two old ladies who are trotting down the corridor at the time. By the cringe! There are only about half a dozen people on the train and two of them have to be passing at a moment like this. One of them turns away so fast I think her nut is going to twist off. That must be it. A quick trip to the guard and I will be spending the next four months in the chokey for indecent exposure. What a bleeding marvellous way to arrive in the old country. Sir Giles is going to be really chuffed and I can just see the welcome I will get from Mum and Dad–not that their behaviour on the Isla de Amor was anything to write to the Archbishop of Canterbury about.
‘Pull it down!’ I yelp.
‘I’m moving as fast as I can, darling.’
‘I mean the blind!’
‘Look, no panties.’
‘I did notice.’
‘Isn’t Timmy lovely, Nat?’
‘Gollumptious, Nan.’
‘He looks good enough to eat.’
‘You took the words right out of my fevered imagination.’
‘Oh no,’ I gasp as they press me down under the combined weight of their bodies.
‘For God’s sake pull down the blind.’
At last one of them reaches behind her and does as I ask and I must confess that there are worse ways to travel. With those two birds browsing over my flesh I feel like an aniseed ball that has been chucked over the wall of Battersea Dog’s Home. Two hands are better than one–and four! Well, I will let your imagination develop muscles thinking of the merry tricks we get up to in that compartment. Would you believe that one girl could hang from the rack while the other–no, it sounds too far-fetched, doesn’t it? Not the kind of thing that a couple of refined tarts who went to Cheltenham Ladies’ College would get up to. But believe me, mateys, not every bird you meet with calluses on her hand got them from digging her old man’s vegetable patch.
‘Now do it to me, Timmy. Oh, Timmy, Timmy, Timmy. That’s heaven. I’d like to have my own private chuffer train so we could do this all the time.’
