Suck
When I got this ticket in the post I couldn't believe it. All expenses paid ten-day trip to this exclusive resort, deep in the forests of Scotland, in the Cairngorms. I can't wait! To have nearly a fortnight all to myself, to relax and get away from my shitty job and my shitty life. My name is Alfred, though most people call me Alfie. I'm in my early thirties, single, and stuck in the glamorous life of issuing rental cars to tourists. Day in, day out, it's the same thing. "Here's your keys, Sir." "Would you like additional insurance, Ma'am?" "What do you mean, your terrier shat all over the passenger seat?" "No, Sir, British roadways aren't backwards. We simply drive on the correct side of the road." Idiots. They're all idiots. And now, for ten glorious days, I can be free of them.
On the big day, the 5am train I catch from Paddington takes about six and a half hours to reach Perth, getting me there right smack in the middle of lunch time. Being both starving and skint, I decide to just eat a Yorkie and a pack of Wotsits, and it's just as well. There's a driver waiting for me with my name on a card - Alfred Fletcher. I feel proper posh as I'm ushered along to a gleaming black Beamer, and I sit in the back while the driver takes care of my suitcase. I didn't bring all that much. It's summer, right? So even in Scotland I'm not going to need a great deal of cold-weather clothing, am I?
Even though I shaved this morning, the fuzz of brown stubble is visible now on my jaw. I'd run out of razors if I tried to keep on top of it religiously, so I just try to tame it into a five-o-clock shadow as well as I can, and wear my equally brown hair just a touch long to keep it all in proportion. Otherwise I'm nothing terribly special. I'm neither fat nor skinny, but I'm healthy and standing tall at a good six foot four. Really, I'm just a South Ken lad who doesn't smoke or drink all that hard, and keeps himself in good order. I'd considered getting a tattoo when I was younger, but I decided it was a bit chavvy and would hurt my job prospects. Maybe I should have got one, or done anything that would have kept me away from Enterprise rent-a-car. Clean, polite, and with a supernatural propensity for allowing others to take the piss. That's Alfred Fletcher.
The driver takes us north up the A9 and the scenery is lovely. Grassy hills and fields on the left and the beginnings of the Cairngorms national park on the right. At one point we turn right onto a B road, and though I try to follow along on my smartphone, the signal out here is next to nothing. It's frustrating, but I decide to save the battery and wait. Around two we finally arrive at a lodge that looks like a small castle having an identity crisis. The stonework is understated to keep it from standing out, and the woods and lawn are left to look a little wild all around. Maybe it's for privacy.
The driver takes out my bags, turns the car around, and heads back down the lane. I begin to feel the lack of a proper lunch as I lug my suitcase and rucksack up to the front door and ring to be let in. One of the staff is there soon enough, and after checking out my paperwork I'm ushered upstairs to my room, and to my great relief a cold lunch is waiting for me there. A mini-bar is set by a small writing table, and set on the surface are a few plates, napkins, silverware, glasses, and a note telling me to help myself. While starting in on a green apple, I crouch by the mini-bar and look in. Not ten minutes later I'm sitting at the table where the wrappers of two sandwiches, an apple core, an empty bag of crisps, and an empty can of Pepsi stand testament to my gluttony.
I clear that all away and tidy up, and then prepare to take a shower. My room, I should note, is quite pleasant. Wooden paneling lifts up from the floor halfway to the ceiling, where cream-colored painted plaster takes over. The light fixtures cast a soft glow on the wooden furniture - the writing desk, as I've mentioned, my bed (a luxurious four-poster affair), and a wardrobe for my clothes. The bathroom is bright and clean, with both a shower and bath. Looking under the sink out of curiosity, I notice a few extra boxes of tissues. Well, I might be single, but at least my socks will last a little longer.
Just when I start pulling my clothes off for a shower, I hear a knock at my door. "Fuck's sake" I murmur as I tug on my sweater again, and I try to get over the momentary disappointment of being denied a hot shower as I open the door to see a petite blond woman looking up at me, startled. Worrying that I'd pulled the door open too brusquely, I clear my throat and quickly say "Sorry, miss."
"You're the gentleman who won the contest. Alfred Fletcher?" she asks timidly, her large, gray eyes looking into mine as her accent just slips a lyrical quality into her words.
"I... yes, that's me. Call me Alfie. D'you wanna come in?"
She nods and I stand back politely, keeping the door open for her as she steps into my room. Glancing at me, she then looks pointedly at the door, and so I close it. Once it's closed she breathes out softly. At first glance she seems like just another one of the staff, wearing their dark gray uniform jacket and skirt. "I'm sorry to trouble you. I just had to tell you. To... advise you."
Now I'm completely confused. "Advise me? How?"
The woman looks at the door again, her lips pressed together and her neck working as she swallows. Something has got her wound up. "Don't let her kiss you" she finally manages to say, her cheeks flushing hotly. "I have to go."
I'd like to stop her and demand that she explain herself. I'd like to insist that she tell me what's going on, and who this other woman is. But all I do is hold the door open for her like a muppet as she slips out of my room and back down the hallway. It takes me perhaps ten seconds to realize that she never even told me her name, but when I step out into the hallway myself she's gone. While I'm standing there, trying to make sense of things, another staff member walks up and cordially asks if I'd like to take tea at four today with my hostess. I nod and accept the invitation.
My hostess. That's right. The competition for the ticket for this holiday was put forth by some wealthy heiress who owns this estate and several more in Scotland. It wasn't much of a competition really. All I'd had to do was fill out an online form describing myself a little. I'd assumed it was for some television show, following around a regular bloke as he experiences the 'bonny blue hills' or whatever. But I haven't seen one hint of production here. No cameras, no gear, nothing. This just seems like a hotel.
In the hour between my visit with the mysterious blond and tea with my benefactor, I take a shower and have a wank. I've got a surplus of tissues, so why not? Without bothering to pull out my laptop or phone as there doesn't seem to be any means to connect to the web, I simply lie in bed and think about the woman who'd nervously tried to warn me. She trembled, and I can only imagine how reactive her body would be if I were to sit her in a chair and kneel between her legs to lick her and taste her. Does she shave down there? She probably does. She was a gorgeous little elfin thing. Maybe she'd cum on my tongue, maybe not, but she'd be aching for it when I picked her up and laid her down on the writing table, fucking her senseless as the wood squeaks in complaint.
Thinking about how tight she probably is sends me over the edge, my spunk shooting onto my stomach thickly. Luckily I won't be too on edge now, just in case the hostess actually does try to kiss me. If that's who the blond girl meant. I clean up and get dressed, and there's a knock at my door with yet another member of the staff waiting to escort me to my hostess's suite.
This unassuming manor home almost seems like a castle, just a more modern version. Still, this environment is a hundred times more luxurious than my own small flat, so whoever owns all this definitely has the wealth to keep it looking perfect and welcoming. A pair of doors are opened, and I'm directed into a large drawing room. The ceiling is nearly twenty feet from the floor, with stout rafters running through the shadows overhead. Wooden paneling lines the walls, and there are paintings of landscapes here and there, with frames that look well cared for. It's summer, so the dark fireplace doesn't seem out of keeping with the rest of the décor. But I find it odd that large black out curtains are pulled across the windows, leaving the light sconces on the walls and lamp on the desk to illuminate this large, somewhat cavernous and spooky space.
