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He knocks twice, then twice again and declaims, "Good morning. Room service!" just as she learned during her half-day training for this job.
She's learned to say "yes," "right away," "sure," and "no problem," followed by "sir" or "ma'am," and she's mastered the art of being unfailingly friendly and polite even when she doesn't know exactly what a guest really wants from her.

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

Her work 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. Other times it's so expensive that guests are so entitled to feel like snobs that they take everyone and everything for granted, and never say "thank you."
The pay is decent, the benefits are fair, and there's always enough to do. The bad days here usually consist of cleaning a guest's toilet with bad aim and attending another meeting about why labor unions are literally the antichrist. That's about it.

The guests, for all intents and purposes, are "creative people." This was a highlight of the job interview.

After three years of working here, she is still surprised at how liberal "regular people" are with their personal lives when they are 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 medications and dirty items for the cleaning staff to find. No one would leave these things in their home should other people arrive. In one hotel all bets seemed to be off.

But the "creative people" are surprisingly relaxed with other aspects of their lives as well.

In addition to stripping beds of sheets and pillowcases with very obvious stains created by bodily fluids, she regularly collects underwear, sex toys and accessories scattered around the rooms and seemingly draped over furniture. She has removed the handcuffs dangling from the bedposts - once she even had to cut them off with a bolt cutter - she has closed and stowed in the shelves erotic books and magazines that lay open on the nightstands, and she has tossed countless used condoms and suspiciously damp paper towels into the wastebaskets. The large flat-screen televisions in the upper suites were tuned to porn and sassy movies dozens of times when she entered.

Sometimes she thinks some people are using her to find their evidence. They often seem to intentionally leave reminders of their sexual adventures behind before leaving the rooms, and then put a "Room Service Required" sign on the door handle.
An invitation to the cleaning staff - like her - to come in, rummage through their detritus, and live vicariously through them.

She tries not to do that, tries to be impersonal, detached and unaffected, and does her job like a robot would. She tells herself that the things she cleans are just those "things," and that it is irrelevant how they have been used before. She doesn't want to give the guests the satisfaction of knowing that they've managed to tease her stimuli a little. She remembers the naughty little girls at her first job at the convenience store, buying condoms and cucumbers, or trying to buy condoms but then changing their minds and buying bags and rubber bands instead. He never wanted to give people the satisfaction then, and he doesn't even plan to start now.

She imagines the hotel's "Creative Guests" enjoying their breakfasts and lunches at the restaurant on the second floor and exchanging little private glances, mischievous because they know that, at that very moment, a stranger - her - is sifting through their things and piecing together the events of last night, like some sort of reluctant detective.

Especially when the display in the room is particularly elaborate: colorful, floppy dildos shaped like tentacles dangling from the shower walls, or a full bondage setup made of almost comically thick iron chains, or leather leashes curled over the nightstand and two large bowls next to it in a hotel where dogs aren't allowed. She looks around furtively for hidden cameras and strives to keep a very serious face.

Sometimes she imagines guests watching her on small screens in adjacent rooms, waiting for her to enter their traps.

She imagines them caught up in lust as they watch her try on the toys, clothes and accessories offered, because some of them are positioned and displayed almost as if they were offerings to her.

So, imagine entering those traps and what would happen
immediately afterwards.

As she loosens the ropes from the bedposts, she imagines herself still lying on the bed, arms outstretched, sliding her hands through the little rings-just for a second-just to see how it feels. She squeezes them tight until they grip her wrists.

They are much tighter than she had expected. Panic takes over.

She squirms. The knee-length skirt of her uniform - of a cleaning lady - rises up to her thighs.
She imagines the creative guests coming back and finding her there, catching her in the act. Ready to exploit her self-inflicted impotence.

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

Just for a moment, to feel beautiful and sexy for an hour or two. Being without panties makes things so much better and worse.

The mental movie continues with guests coming through the door and catching her staring in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, her crotch obscenely framed and emphasized by all that lace and silk ruffles surrounding it.

Every now and then she thinks back to that very realistic suction cup dildo she found attached to the bottom of the shower stall.
That thing makes her want to get down on all fours. Once bent all the way forward, she takes it in her mouth, all the way down her throat.
Her ass turns its gaze in the air, ready to receive.

Her mouth slides over the toy, her lips tracing the fictitious veins and ridges, until the bulbous tip touches the back of her throat, increasing her retching.
While this is happening, she tries to reach the shower floor with the tip of her nose.

Anyone walking in would see her big round buttocks, her maid uniform stretched over them, and the gusset of her delicate white cotton panties with a small wet spot that would grow out of all proportion and grow darker.

Of course, all of these things are only projected in her head. She would never do that and, perhaps, never could.

He loves and hates his job in equal measure.

The group of two men and two women turn the corner and pass by her and her cleaning cart in the hallway.
She meets their eyes and in turn gives them a polite smile and a "Hello, good afternoon," and they return it.

She is struck by the beauty of the brunette, with the long neck, walking in front. Her lipstick is shiny and so red that it looks like fresh blood dripping from her sumptuous mouth. Her green-eyed gaze seems to pierce something inside her. Her gait is that of a cat, a sure and graceful step on black heels.

The other woman is small and delicate in comparison - but no less striking - with almond-shaped eyes and hair so black it almost looks blue, braided all the way down her back. She clings to the other woman's elbow and leans over her with a dreamy look on her face. They must be best friends, she thinks.

The two men walking behind are both taller than the women. One of them is as wide as a rugby player, the other of average build. Both have an aura of total self-confidence and grace. The larger one has his hand around the brunette's arm, but it's not clear if he's leading her or being led.

She watches the group fade into a room down the hall, a room she had skipped during her rounds because of the sign with "Please Do Not Disturb" dangling from the doorknob.

Immediately, her imagination opens like a flower in spring.

Two men, two women. So many possibilities.

"Perhaps they are merely discussing frivolities," he tries to convince himself. But a calm, sly voice picks up where the thought left off.
So, each man chooses a woman for himself and holds her close from behind while making 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's just the opposite.
The women have chosen a man and ordered him to get on his knees so they can mount their faces like a knight on horseback would.

He suppresses a shudder.

Perhaps the two women and the two men are involved in an endurance contest. Whoever gets their partner to orgasm first by any means necessary will win a date with the winner of the other couple's team, while the losers stand by and watch.

He sucks in his lip, inhales, and tries to focus on his work. He quickly goes through a couple of unspectacular rooms, changing sheets on sheets and towels. He cleans showers, mirrors and toilets and fills the mini-fridges next to the bed with new bottles of water. All the while, though, her mind goes back to the group. She wonders what might be going on in that room down the hall.

However, she can't even decide what she would like to see happen. Too many possibilities.

Turning the corner, she sees the "room service required" sign on the door to suite 206. He performs the appropriate steps: knock, call, slowly open the door, and call again. There is no answer, but there is a sound. TV? He opens the door just enough to enter the suite.

It's one of the most spacious on this floor, with a large bathroom just to the right of the front door, the 30 sq. ft. sleeping area flooded with natural light through panoramic windows, furnished with a queen-size bed, a closet, a large desk, chairs, a sitting area, and a 60-inch television and entertainment screen.

The screen is the first thing he sees. A flash of red like fresh blood draws his gaze like a magnet.

There is a super close-up of a beautiful face. Her makeup is now almost ruined, mascara smudged around her green eyes and running in rivulets down her cheeks. Lipstick smudged all around her cheeks and chin. Her skin is sweaty and blotchy, her hair tousled, snot and tears glistening on her upper lip. However, her eyes, larger than life on the high-definition screen, focus on the camera. They are bright and alert and full of fire.

And they look up at their only viewer: Her.

Her whole body turns cold and hot all over.
Red lips are stretched over the veined flesh of a hard penis that slides in and out of her mouth, making her choke every so often. Hands are buried in her hair and clenched around her head, forcing her back and forth, back and forth.
Fingers latch onto the sides of her mouth to keep it open even more for the big cock.
The woman, with these red lips, moans. Her teary eyes roll up to reveal the white in ecstasy. The people around her all moan together.
Two men and a woman, taunt her as they stroke her head and slap her cheeks. "What a good girl. What a beautiful cock eater!."

It is only then that she blinks and realizes that she was not alone in that room. And therefore, she was by no means the only viewer.
One of the voices isn't coming from the TV at all, but from a man in a chair right in front of the screen.
He is naked, tied to his chair. His arms pulled up behind the backrest and tied to a leather collar around his neck, which forces him to sit very straight and with his chest out.

Involuntarily she moves closer to him to get a better look at him, and make sense of that unusual sight.

The collar is made of thick, sturdy leather, with silver rings hanging from it. A ring gag holds his mouth wide open and drips drool down his chin and runs down his chest. A pair of nipple clamps quivers on his pecs. A small silver chain connects the clamps to the round piercing that adorns the tip of his penis.

She stares at it. It's inevitable.

His cock isn't very long, but the bulky jewelry, shape, and movement make it impossible to look away. In this position, sitting with her thighs wide open, the man's cock reminds her of a water faucet. It is curved not toward her torso but forward, the heavy, bulbous, bejeweled glans almost falling back down. Fat drops of clear pre-seminal fluid seep from the slit like drops of water from a leaky faucet, onto the piercing and drip onto the leather seat of the chair. The angry-looking organ jumps and jerks wildly, rattling the delicate chain leading to the nipple clamps, pulling at them, no doubt making things more uncomfortable with each movement.

Suddenly, the man realizes he has company. He moans loudly, pathetically, and tries in vain to say something around the contraption in his jaws. He pulls on the three pairs of cuffs - two at his ankles, two around his knees, and the two that hold his hands behind his back so uncomfortably straight and taut. So tight that the entire chair creaks.

She gasps when she notices the same blood red color again, this time on his slightly hairy chest. Some of the letters are stained with sweat and saliva, but the message is still legible. It's also simple and clear.Accompanied by a perfect imprint of curled lips just above the right nipple and an arrow pointing downward at the man's groin.

Again, his eyes can't help but follow. His gaze drops once more.
Feeling the weight and touch of her gaze, the man shifts in his seat, meowing, and she realizes there is some sort of toy wedged between his testicles. A vibrating one, judging by the low humming noise emanating from it. She imagines that the part that pushes his balls is just one component of a larger device, the other part leading in.

The man moans and pulls so furiously on his bound limbs that the entire chair moves forward on the carpet, to the TV screen, where one of the men moans like a wild animal and presses the tip of his cock against the woman's face and ejaculates onto her cheeks, mouth and nose, smearing her lips and chin. "Don't you dare erase that," warns a deep voice from behind the camera, and the woman obediently and impatiently nods her head, which is interrupted by someone grabbing her hair and violently yanking her backwards 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 entire image. Naked, sweaty flesh. Pale, creamy limbs. A man grabs the woman's ankle and spreads her legs so that her shaved pussy is in plain view. It is swollen and soaking wet and glistening.

Clutching her cleaning uniform that suddenly feels too tight and too hot, she squeezes her thighs together and feels her own pussy cry a confused and overwhelmed drop of arousal into her panties.

The man in the chair tries to articulate again, but he doesn't stand a chance against that sort of captivity. His cock jerks obscenely, comically, and another drop of preejaculate seeps from its tip, slides down the piercing, and forms a thin thread that trembles as it reaches the seat of the chair. The man throws his head back and shakes his hips once, swinging his penis, rattling and clenching the chain, but quickly returns to looking at the screen as if he doesn't want to miss a second of what is happening in the other room.

This man imagines, perhaps, that the woman being dominated by the other three might be his girlfriend, or his fiancée, or his wife, his other three former lovers. Or his lovers? Are they teaching him a lesson? The woman? Both men? Or has she given herself freely, for her own enjoyment, because she likes to be tormented and torment her current lover in return? Or did he cheat on her because he likes to see her like this, abused and used? Do they both like being helpless? Do they have a standing agreement to come to this hotel and inflict it on themselves and each other? Bha!

The fact is that the man's eyes are fixed on the pussy of the red-lipped woman. The camera zooms in on where the members of two people disappear into her slippery hole and pump in and out of it.

Notice the redness of the fire creeping into her hole. The woman looks fulfilled. The images, which the screen gives to the two viewers, do not deceive.

The need to do as she is told, to kneel between the open legs of those anonymous men and take those phalluses in her mouth: smell them, taste them, feel their texture and size, feel them move against her tongue, lick that wetness and make everything clean is even more urgent than it was with that dildo in the shower, the cleaning woman thought. In fact, that was fiction. Here we are in the real.
In fact, her breathing freezes, and as if she can hear it even over the moans from the TV, the man gives her a feverish look, noting how her thighs are clenched together and how her nipples are turgid enough to create an outline through her starched bra and work uniform.

Only with infinite self-discipline does she manage to look away from her gaze and her crotch, and away from the TV screen where one of the men has attached his mouth to her pussy, his shoulders and arms tight around her top.

"I need to clean up," she reports to the man tied up like a salami. With a deep breath, she turns to the bed and strips off the sheets, pillowcases, and sheets. Her hands move as if automatic. Her thoughts run, elsewhere. Away from that projection on the screen present in that room.

"Oh fuck, you taste so fucking good," he hears hearing from the screen he's denied looking at.
He cleans the small desk and both nightstands with jerky movements.
A popping sound. A shrill groan. "Again. Harder." A slap, wet.
As fast as he can, he slides into the bathroom and gathers the towels. Through the open door, she can still hear everything.

"Ah yes, eat that pussy, bitch! "

The man in the chair makes a long, moaning sound.
He replaces the shampoo bottles with full ones. His fingers tremble slightly.

Is he, perhaps, having an orgasm?

More voices. A high-pitched, whining curse from the black-haired woman.
She closes her eyes and tries to shake her head from this maelstrom of lust and perversion, and the sudden urge to clean this and clean that.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, please, please, please ...!"
He hears her that voice of import and enjoyment. It snakes under her hot skin as she escapes, clutching used towels.

She closes the door behind her as she walks out into the hallway. The solid wood keeps all the noise inside the room.

In the silence, she breathes.

"Creative people will be the death of me!"

She has never finished a bathroom, or the rest of a floor, faster than that day.
She has never been more haunted by the soft bronze color of the "Please Do Not Disturb" sign that seems to wink at her from the doorknob all the way down the hall.

All the while, she can feel the soggy fabric of her panties rubbing against her swollen lips.

These he doesn't wipe off.

***

Two days pass, meaningless.

The nights between them are something else entirely. She feels restless. Her routine is affected by something that seems to move and float inside her whenever her mind is not fully awake and occupied.

Once or twice, in the privacy of her single bed, she has tried to take things into her own hands, but even at home, a good ninety minutes by public transportation from room 206 and the room down the hall,the group of five - three men, two women - who occupy these rooms and have not yet checked out, she does not want to give them the satisfaction.

The things she saw did not concern her at all. The five regular people didn't even know her name, they didn't care which of the three dozen cleaning ladies would walk through the door. The performance was meant to humiliate that man, with the piercing, strapped to a chair. Not to gratify him.

Still, the buzz in her blood doesn't completely subside, and neither do the echoes, or the ideas that run through her brain like soap bubbles that burst from time to time, or split into two smaller bubbles, and four and eight.

Two days later she's on the same floor again. It's been his routine for almost three years. There is no good reason to disturb the routine she and her colleagues established so long ago.

Yet her knees tremble as she pushes her cart full of towels and soap bottles through the elevator's opening doors. She sighs with both relief and disappointment when the hallway is deserted and there is not a single burgundy red "room service required" sign nor the brown "Please do not disturb" ones.

As he finishes the room, the door to 206 opens and four people come out.

The two men. The one built like a rugby player, with - now he knows - a tongue like a whip and enough strength and grip in his upper arm to restrain a wiggling woman as he feasts on her vulva.
The other not very tall, but more agile, with - now he knows - a long, thick, veiny cock that spurts sticky white cum all over women's faces.
Women, small and delicate on the outside, but fierce, violently demanding lovers on the inside.
And another man walking among them. He knows his chest is a little hairy and the head of his cock is adorned with a silver ring, and he moans like a woman when he's desperate and like an animal when he orgasms.

His mouth becomes so dry that the gentle "Hello, good afternoon" comes out as a croak.

The lone woman in the group of four gives her a long, knowing look as they pass by her and her cart. That look alone is enough to make her belly do funny things and the sweat turns hot and cold all over her body.
The woman's grip on the new man's arm - loving and clinging at the same time - and the way she rests her cheek against his shoulder as they walk, do the rest.

An agreement? Or blackmail? She can't tell which story is more enticing than that group of actors and viewers.

She cares for the five hotel guests as if they were her departing lovers. Even many minutes after the door to the room down the hall closes, she is still there, the skin under her ponytail, the hollows of her arms and lower back drenched in the sweat of fear and anticipation. Her hands cling to the handlebars of her cart like a lifeline.

One room. A suite is all he can clear before the curiosity is too much to bear for another second.
Fumbling to find the keycard for all access that dangles in his lanyard, he slides it onto the 206 panel and slips into the room.

Here comes the frustrated, animalistic howl of a woman strapped to a chair in front of a large television: a ball gag wedged between her teeth and stretching her blood-red lips. Her legs are spread apart by straps around her ankles and knees. An achingly empty, weeping pussy lined with clothespins, a vibrating toy buried in her ass stifles the soft click of the door closing.

"Good morning. Room service," he announces. Then he slowly approaches the woman.
 


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