The first thing you should know is that my English isn't that good. It's much better now, after a long arduous period of reading the same old "English for Dummies" book I found in one of the rooms inside a waste basket but, back then, I could barely make myself understood when I was forced to actually speak with the tourists and couldn't just nod my way through every situation. Anyway, the language barrier shouldn't keep me from telling you the story more or less the way it happened.
It wasn't the first time I had done something of the kind. The first was that fat German doctor who stayed in the hotel for some lecture about skin disease taking place in the smallest of our two conference rooms. He had asked for a late night snack and, being on duty that particular night, it was up to me to take it. I knocked on the door, balancing the tray perfectly in one hand (I was always excellent at that) and heard him say something in German. I knocked again. He said something in German again. It sounded like the same thing but louder. It didn't take long to work out that if I knocked a third time I would get more of the same so I decided to risk it and open the door. The worse thing that could happen was not getting a tip and, after all, I had his food.
The first thing I thought of was putting down the tray on a table in the little foyer the room had and leaving, then taking the stairs instead of the elevator so I would have more time to erase that sight from my mind.
He was lying on his bed, stomach down and ass up. The ass was definitely up because I could see it clearly as soon as I entered the room. Two twin mountains of pale flabbiness so wide that they almost made the room look smaller (even if it wasn't one of our bigger rooms; conference people always get the cheaper deals).
As I was making my strategic retreat out, he said something in German again. I turned back and saw him looking at me and waving one half pink, half white arm at me, beckoning me to come in. I did. He pointed at the door and said something else. I closed it. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. The way the pink and the white struggled in his arm was intriguing. No. "Struggled" is not the right word. I told you my English wasn't good enough. The pink and the white had struggled years ago but, after a long period of hostilities and hundreds of casualties, had signed a peace treaty and settled a border that satisfied both parts. It was placed two or three fingers above the elbow.
The next moments were spent with me trying to figure out what the hell was going on and him continuing to speak (always in German) while, at the same time, taking his broad hands to his shoulders and squeezing the fat with his chubby fingers. Then he said the first word I could understand. Massage. That was it. He wanted a massage. And, apparently, he wanted me to give him one.
I had heard stories about that sort of thing told by other people who worked there. Apparently it was common procedure for hotel staff in the region to give the customers some "extras." An "extra" was something not included in the pricelist. Though it still had a price, of course. And it wasn't at all cheap (at least for our standards; for them it was just some innocent fun at a very affordable price). This went on with both the male and female staff and in high class, luxury hotels as well as in the cheaper places (ours was mid-range). The only difference was that, the pricier the hotel, the more a client would have to pay for the "extras" even if the quality of the service was exactly the same. Usual hotel procedure.
How the guests knew about it was beyond me. Apparently, the entire region had a reputation for being both a sunny beach paradise and a colossal brothel. The local tourism board knew this was how it worked, never encouraged it officially, of course, but didn't do anything to change things. It was good for business and nobody complained. They just failed to include it in their marketing campaign. A billboard saying "VISIT US! SUNNY BEACHES AND THE BEST EROTIC BACKRUBS MONEY CAN BUY!" placed strategically on the side of German, Dutch or British roads would destroy all the ambiance of sophistication everybody liked to pretend we had.
That's exactly how I like to remember it. An erotic backrub. I will spare you the details because I don't like to remember it and to tell you this I have remembered enough. Let's just say that I did what he expected, he never got off his stomach, I kept massaging his disgusting greasy back and that colossal ass while he reached one hand under him and moaned and groaned for some very short minutes, he let his face sink into the pillow and pointed to some bills rolled up in an ashtray. I had done good, apparently.
This, as I told you before, was the first time. There were lots of others after this one. Luckily for me, it was also the first and last male guest I had to provide "extras" to. I am not sure I would be able to go any further in that department and I was positive I didn't feel like repeating the experience.
So when that old American woman in room 16-A (one of the best and most expensive rooms we had) asked for a Caesar's Salad twenty minutes after she had gone up from the dining room I knew what to expect. And the fact that she was wearing the hotel's bathrobe and sitting on her bed looking at me with a wicked, depraved expression didn't surprise me at all. I placed the salad next to the flat screen TV (she never even touched it and I doubt she did when I left) and went straight to business. I was experienced enough in "extras" to know exactly what to do. I stood in front of her and asked in my poor English: "What else please?" She wet her lips and got her hand over my cock and balls, checking them for size. Apparently she was pleased because a huge smile appeared on her face as she untied the knot that kept the robe in place and presented me with a pair of tits that, for her age, weren't bad at all.
Even if I keep mentioning her age, don't think that she was some old wreck. She wasn't. She was probably in her late forties, didn't have what I would call an attractive face and didn't look like she ever did but she wasn't a scare. The thing is I was a lot younger at the time and so she almost seemed like something dug up from an excavation site to my eyes fresh out of adolescence. With time, I stopped thinking like that.
The woman got up, keeping the bathrobe open as it was, and went to the door, locking it. She then got back to where I was standing and started to remove my clothes. First she undid my belt and unbuttoned the pants, letting them drop to the ankles. Then it was time to take care of the shirt buttons, which she did with considerable skill. The shoes and socks next. Off with what was left of the pants and shirt and then she kneeled in front of me, looked up, smiled eagerly, and pulled my shorts down all the way. My cock jumped up like a switchblade knife and, if she hadn't moved her head slightly back, it could have taken one of her eyes out. At least, that's how I like to remember it. Like I said, I wasn't overly amazed by the quality of her merchandise but, being young and quite fit, I could squeeze an impressive erection out of anything, at any time and with virtually no stimulation. That is also gone. Unfortunately.
Her hand grabbed my cock and she rubbed it up and down a couple of times very slowly. Then she took it all the way down to my balls, squeezing the cock hard like she was trying to peel it. It started to hurt and I placed my hand over hers to relieve the pressure. She smiled again. More wickedly than before. Maybe she was into pain and that kind of stuff. I wasn't.
Back on her feet, she went around the bed and sat down on a small couch next to the window, pointing a finger with a long nail in the direction of the bed and saying something I didn't get but could guess. She sat down on the couch and I laid down on the bed. Her legs went on the arm supports of the couch and I was able to see her cunt wide open and realise at the same time she wasn't a real blonde. She started to caress the few scattered hairs she had down there and nodded in my direction, giving me that wicked smile once more. I grabbed my cock and started rubbing it, synchronized with her own movements. Her hand was now below the small patch of hair and was rubbing the two middle fingers in her right hand slightly over the clit with a circular motion.
"Close your eyes," she said and I did as I was told. I didn't want to give a bad name to the region in what concerned hotel customer care.
"Now think about me," she added.
There was really no point in thinking about her if she was standing right there next to me. So I thought about the young American girl in room 25-C and continued wanking, feeling how unfair it was that the young, beautiful ones never asked for extras.
"Good boy," I heard her saying, "you're a very good boy. I want to see you come. Come for me."
