Inspired by the picture "Always Swim With A Friend," by Don't Fap Girl
Picture and Artist can be found on Hentai Foundry
Thanks to Yorkie Chai for the edit
Jaime Calderon's time in the hotel industry had spanned twenty years. He took great pride in his work. Jaime's career started as a lobby boy and, over the years, rose through the ranks to the current position of hotel manager. He'd seen it all, done it all, and dealt with just about every flavor of guest to come through the doors of La Casa Javier hotel; in his two decades of working for this great institution, nothing, absolutely nothing, in his entire experience, ever prepared him for the shrieking harpy, currently spewing streams of profanities nearing Homeric proportions, accompanied by flecks of saliva, approximately five centimeters from his face.
Her name was Susan Langdon. The reason for her ire was, among others, a late masseur.
"Ten minutes! Ten fucking minutes! I was on my bed for ten fucking minutes! You nearly made me miss my exfoliation!"
"I made her . . .?"
Jaime would snort in contempt if not for the rules of customer service. Instead he focused on a bland smile, letting the abuse wash over him, and going to his happy place.
Futbol, that's what I should have done. Luis, he went into Futbol. Look what happened to him. Shrieking fans hurling insults, yeah, but he's fucking rich and swimming in pussy. Yeah, Futbol . . . I should've gone into Futbol.
Jaime became aware, gradually, of a silence in the lobby. He blinked, realizing the harpy had stopped.
Or she's catching her breath for the next round.
The gringa glared at the unfortunate manager; she was red-faced, flaring nostrils, tense muscles, and heavy breathing all. She looked clownish. Jaime suppressed, with a Herculean amount of will, the urge to laugh.
"Well?!"
A less professional man would snark, "Well what?" Jaime, well-trained in de-escalation and guest service replied, "I am extremely sorry Senora Langdon for the poor service. I must assure you it shall never happen again. If I may, I can offer you free sessions at our spa, plus an 80% discount on your next stay." An extremely generous offer, given the tardiness was minor and rare on the part of the masseur.
"Not good enough. I want him fired," the harpy sniffed.
"
Ay Madre Dios!
I'm sorry Senora Langdon, the decision to dismiss the masseur is the responsibility of another party. He is under contract from a different company. You have the option of filing a complaint I can pass to human resources, and they may pass it on to the company,
where they'll chuck it in the trash because they're not stupid enough to fire a good masseur over this mierda.
"
Susan Langdon glared at this little brown spi . . . Mexican. She placed her hands on her sculpted thighs, light blue eyes incandescent on her tanning booth brown face. "What-is-your-name?" she hissed through gritted teeth. "How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice."
Reasonable and calm, offering generous compensation and a clear explanation of the policy?
"Jaime Calderon, Senora."
"Well Jaime. Look around and take a good long one, because I will have you fired and out of the building by the end of the hour," Susan Langdon turned with a swish of her Malibu hips and stalked away.
Jaime sighed, not from fear or worry, but with relief at the temporary reprieve from this "gringa bitch". He knew his job was secure. Susan Langdon's husband might co-own the hotel but he was a reasonable man, and the decision to fire a manager had to come from the board.
"How does a man like John Langdon marry that?" Jaime wondered. Langdon's wealth testified to his smart decisions but this one . . . "And we're stuck with her for the next week," he sighed. Ah well, he had other duties to attend.
Susan Langdon raged and fumed in her hotel room. John (her husband!) refused to do anything about firing that wet . . . man.
"He's a twenty year employee with an impeccable record, Honey," he said with more than a trace of annoyance. "I'm not going to terminate a manager over a late masseur."
"He spoke to me in an impertinent tone."
"Everyone 'speaks to you in an impertinent tone' Honey. The gardener, the maid, the butler, the delivery boy . . . You want me to fire everyone who tries to reason with you? You're there for a week. Relax, swim, walk or hike. Let the photo scandal blow over and don't abuse the staff. Can you do it for me just this once?"
Susan frowned at her husband's pleading face on the phone. He was twenty years older than her thirty-five but looked seventy. She noted, vaguely, he looked much younger ten years ago, when they first met. He'd aged considerably since; she wondered why. No matter; she wasn't going to receive satisfaction today. "Grrr!"
John sighed at the last sight of his wife's disgruntled face blinking temporarily out of existence. He rubbed his temples, wondering for the umpteenth time why he married that. Sure, her performance in bed was great but . . . "Nothing ever, ever satisfies that woman."
He had lost count of the house staff who left because of her, and hiring new staff was near impossible because of her reputation. "And I can't divorce her." Sure, she'd signed the pre-nup but Susan was poor then, and he was rich. Now, she was rich and he was . . . less rich, and more exposed. "I get out of this one, no more trophy wives," he sighed. Especially gold diggers with business sense.
"I wonder if I can take care of her like Larry with his wife," he thought heading to the door. "I need to find a better hitman or I'll end up in jail . . . like Larry."
****
"Goddammit!" Susan fumed. "If he weren't rich . . . well, richer."
Susan, in regards to wealth, was at a stage where her assets surpassed her husband's, but she still needed him for certain financial reasons. "He's still useful, but just a couple more years . . ."
Right now, Susan was hiding from the paparazzi at this low-class hotel. The reason was one of those typical nude photo scandals: easily dismissed these days, so many starlets do 'em, but her companion was the wife of a prominent politico, in an election year, and the photos were courtesy of the woman's bratty fratboy nephew. "Little pervert fuck!" Susan snorted. It wasn't anything ,really. Just two nude women rubbing suntan oil on each other, but the photos were viral within the hour, pundits and paparazzi were pouncing, and everyone ran for the hills.
So John had packed his wife on the Learjet and flown her to the most remote and obscure hotel in his chain.
"Just a week Honey," he soothed over her curses, "the scandal should blow over by then."
On the flight Susan vomited a continuous stream of invectives, curses, whines, and complaints aimed at anyone and everyone within her line of sight. The Learjet landed, got her off the plane, threw her luggage on the tarmac, and took off without refueling or filing a flight plan.
The taxi started off at a leisurely thirty, but was going a hundred ten by the time the driver screeched to a halt in front of the hotel. He ran to the trunk, threw out her luggage, and peeled rubber without taking the fare.
The bellboys and concierge were next. Between the invectives, insults, tantrums, comments on looks, anatomy, man-hood, etc, and failure to tip, it could be accurately stated, by the time of the tardy masseur, Susan Langdon was the single most hated guest in La Casa Javier's history, and that included the Leona Helmsley two week nightmare of '89 and the Pablo Escobar three day blowout of '87.
Susan opted against a poolside sunbath. The hotel had few guests this time of year, but the prospect of getting hit on displayed a probability of eight. She didn't feel like playing around just yet. "Besides, paparazzi might be lurking."
Susan was best described as an easy-on-the-eyes milf with the instincts of a great white shark. She managed to maintain her former exotic dancer's body through a strict regimen of diet and intense exercise.
Her discipline and predatory instincts, combined with white-hot sexuality, landed her a big whale in John Langdon, real estate magnate. They also allowed her to build successful businesses of her own, which included a major cosmetics enterprise, using John's money of course. She was even able to pay John back on his investment. As his fortunes waned and hers waxed, Susan gained the upper hand in the marriage.
While Susan mused upon the changed fortunes of her ten year marriage, she pondered how to wring as much "fun", if she could call it that, from her temporary exile as possible.
She swept her gaze around the lobby; nothing but a few couples, too old and fat for her taste, and a hapless bellhop who, on seeing her, made a desperate attempt to exit.
"You! Boy!"
The bellhop squeaked in dismay, turned and stuttered, "S-S-Si s-s-senora? How may I assist you?"
"Si-Si-Si sen-sen-senora?" she mimicked. "Moron, where's a place I can get some action?"
The hapless bellhop, naive in some respects, was taught to know the local distractions for the convenience of the guests. Unfortunately, Susan asked at the wrong time.
"M-m-most of the bars don't open until the night, senora, and the local beach bar is closed indefinitely. The owner's sister is ill."
"You think I give a fuck? I want some action and I want it now, or it's your ass. Where is it shit-for-brains."
"You . . . gulp! You could try the cove," he squeaked.
"The cove?"
"S-s-si, a lot of the locals go there to sunbathe. Some don't wear clothes. It's kind of secluded."
Susan scowled. There might be someone to play with, but he could easily just be some wrinkled old retiree, and she already had one at home.
Well, not wrinkled or retired but still old.
She considered the bellhop.
Young and cute enough, probably a virgin, but I'm not in the mood for Mexican right now.
"So, directions." It wasn't a question.
"South, down the beach, past the wharf. Um, ten minutes walk?"
Susan dismissed him with a contemptuous sniff and left. She didn't thank him. Susan never thanked. She demanded; they gave. That was all.
Raphael watched the beautiful but mean "gringa bitch" walk away, wondering what he'd just done. He'd sent her to The Cove . . . at this time of year. Most of the locals stayed away until later in the summer. He had to tell Senor Calderon.
"You sent her there?! The Cove?! At this time of year?!"
