One of my favorite things about staying in a hotel is the maid service. I can’t tell you how luxurious it is to know that I won’t have to pick up after myself, won’t be required to fold the towels and place them on the rack when I’m through. My girlfriend, however, cannot get the hang of hotel life. She actually cleans our room before the maid arrives.
“I don’t want her to think we’re slobs,” she says.
“That’s her job,” I tell her.
“To think we’re slobs?” (An intentional misread. I want to smack her for it.)
“To clean up,” I say through clenched teeth.
Amber shrugs, then makes the bed. When she’s finished, she writes a note to the maid, places it with a five dollar bill on the dresser, and gets ready to go. I watch her but don’t say anything. There’s no point.
When we return from sightseeing, our maid has left us a note of her own. It says, “Thank you very much for the tip. You don’t need to make the bed since I change the sheets every day.” She’s signed it Bella. I show the note to Amber who announces in her haughtiest tone that she doesn’t care. She’ll make the bed anyway.
The next day, it’s raining and we stay in. Part of our vacation is just relaxing, which means we don’t have to sightsee each and every day. Part of my vacation, that is. Amber takes her camera, in the rain, and leaves. I snooze until the maid knocks on the door, then I stumble to the latch and open it. In the hallway, stands Bella. She’s a pert and perfectly adorable blonde with short curly hair and clear, blue eyes. She takes one look at me and says, “You’re not the one making the bed each day, are you?”
I shake my head and invite her in. Something in my look must let her know what I want, and she obliges. She’s easy in my arms, a sweet 115 pounder with lithe, athletic body. I kiss her mouth, then her freckled cheeks, then nibble on her earlobes. I move her with me into the bathroom and we take a shower together, getting warm and wet and soapy. Laughing as we dry each other off.
We leave the towels in a soggy heap on the floor and make it halfway to the bed before I grab her and throw her down on the plush, crimson carpeting that Amber has picked lint off on her hands and knees. I climb on top of Bella in a still-damp sixty-nine. She knows how to use her tongue, probes me expertly with it while stroking my ass and lower back, rubbing in small circles, dragging her nails against my skin.
I follow her lead, running my short nails the length of her inner thighs while keeping my mouth busy on her cunt. I like the way she tastes, clean from the shower, of course, but musky beneath it. Earthy and real and delicious to my taste buds. Her fragrance is rich and heady and entirely unlike the antiseptic flavor of Amber’s well-douched vagina. Amber doesn’t really like it when we 69. She can eat me for hours, but she doesn’t like me to go down on her.
I lap now at Bella with no thought of what she’s doing to my own cunt. I am lost within the walls of her pussy, drinking each drop of her nectar. Finally, I pull away from her, lying flat on the floor between her legs. and concentrate totally on giving her pleasure. She wraps her thighs around me and lets me work, whispering what she wants, how she likes it.
“Harder,” when she needs that, “faster, ohhh, please, faster,” and I make those spiraling little circles as quickly as I can until she presses her hips forward and drenches my lips with the juices of her climax. The taste is pure sweetness.
By the time Amber arrives, Bella and I are on our third beer. Amber doesn’t know what to make of the scene, so I tell her. “You’re doing Bella’s job. Cleaning. Folding. Running around. I invited her to do yours… kick back, relax, make love.”
Amber leaves with her very neatly folded suitcase. Bella and I have another beer, then climb beneath the tightly, tucked sheets.