Hellacious Hospitality Ch. 01

Forward from the author -

Hi all! Long-time reader, first-time contributor here. Like I'm sure it's been with a lot of you, I've had a lot of extra time to myself amidst this whole worldwide pandemic business, which has given me a lot of opportunity to read and binge. Tucking into some really great, long-form stories really dusted off the cobwebs in the 'ole noggin, and really made me want to commit to finally putting some long-gestating ideas down to paper -or type, as the case may be.

Grand, epic tales of sorcery and romance have long been taking up residence in this scattered brain of mine, and I finally had enough inspiration to let some of them out.

This is not that story at all.

All the inspiration in the world doesn't make up for lack of writing ability, and brainstorming does not equate to a completed work. I found myself woefully under-equipped to do my grand vision any sense of justice.

So back to basics. This was meant to be a simpler tale, just a chance for characters to live and breathe at their own pace and for me to practice getting into their headspace, to get into what made them tick. That exercise eventually blossomed into its own thing, taking on a life and scope all on its own, and that's what I present you now.

I hope you all enjoy. That's all an author can hope for.

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TGIF? A lie the workaday folk placate their monotonous lives with. Benson Lachlan often found himself scoffing at that supposedly celebratory platitude. Most frequently while nursing his head from the unpleasant aftereffects of the three to four lagers he had been forced to drown himself in. Well, perhaps not "forced", per se, but societal pressure to maintain and climb the hierarchies of the work-life construct rarely offered him the opportunity to opt out.

These weekly Friday night pub outings were not Benson's idea of a good time. Perhaps if he were out on the prowl for pretty young girls, he might have had a better disposition. But instead, these nights were spent amongst the dusty old men from the office, as they traded disgusting war tales of their own lecherous conquests. Always the same tales on repeat, of glory days long since spent. Meanwhile, the prime days of his youth were being squandered, politely nodding with a fake grin plastered to his face, non-listening to the umpteenth alcohol-slurred retelling of "The wonderful things Sally Hendrikson could do with her tongue" of some bygone year, decades before he was even a twinkle in his father's eyes.

A young man in his late twenties, he felt no comradeship with these piggish men thirty to forty years his senior. He learned quickly, however, that putting in the effort to appear as one of "the boys" made the rest of his job far easier.

Being the "antisocial loner", as his probationary evaluation had put it, had its way of rendering him practically invisible in terms of advancing his career. Participating in these weekly booze-filled gatherings had done wonders for his work process, but the utter banality of it all was leaving him exhausted.

Some sports game was playing on the many TV screens that littered the pub's walls, but Benson tuned it out with all the other noise that was currently irritating him. He leapt up to cheer whenever he noticed one of his coworkers do the same, but he'd be hard-pressed to recall what game was even being played when it came to standing around the coffee machine on Monday, let alone what team was playing. Thankfully it never came up, but he always dreaded the moment it would.

Benson was not a poor drunk, but imbibing often left him swimming in his own head space, where bitter, unwanted thoughts often bubbled their way to the surface.

The young man groaned as he teetered off his bar stool. Two hours and change was long enough to preserve the facade, he decided. He made a grand gesture of waving goodbye and saying his farewells for another week to his work colleagues, too big and too friendly for what he actually thought of them, but without the act, then the entire night's charade would have been rendered moot. The inebriated stumble towards the front door, on the other hand, was genuine.

Venturing out into the rain-soaked downtown streets, he shielded his eyes from the glaring headlights of passing cars, while he fumbled to pop his umbrella. As he made to cross the street, a car squealed past, its blaring horn startling Benson and causing him to careen back into the damp brick wall of the pub. He watched with mouth agape as the black umbrella was ripped from his hand, landing on the street only to be pulverized by the oncoming rush of traffic.

Christ. What sober part remained of Benson's booze-addled brain chastised himself for not checking his directions like a goddamned five year-old. A brief string of profanity punctuated the night air, probably directed at him, but he couldn't understand a word of it over the deafening pounding in his ears. He clutched at his chest to find his heart beating a mile-a-minute. He paused to reclaim all the air that had escaped his lungs in shock, and slumped further back against the wall.

Clearly, the beers had hit him hard, harder than usual. He gave a forlorn glance across the street. Just three blocks down, and the bus stop was right there to take him to the sheltered safety of home. But that entailed crossing some of the busiest downtown streets, and after his near brush with death, the thought was starting to cause his rattled brain a panic attack. Instead, he slowly rose to his feet and just started walking.

Benson wasn't even quite sure where he was headed at this point. Just that he wanted to be nowhere near that pub -- near that street corner. He steadied himself with a hand trailing the walls and storefronts and fences along the way, and just kept moving for as long as his wobbly feet would carry him.

He often paused, to briefly wonder why the few people he encountered on the sidewalk seemed to give him a wide berth. Eventually, a glimpse of his reflection in a darkened store window told him all he needed to know. With the rain plastering his hair into thick, greasy-looking strands on his head, his trench coat soaked, and his drunken gait, he was looking rather worse for wear. As he walked more, he watched with detached fascination as he saw the lips of his glassy doppelganger move, only now realizing that he had been muttering and cursing unconsciously to himself. Run from me! I'm a goddamned lunatic!

Benson couldn't help but crack a smirk at the absurdity of that thought, and he soon found himself clutching his sides to suppress a fit of manic laughter. When that didn't work, he quickly dipped into the nearest alleyway he could find, and just cackled madly. And then came the screaming. And then every pent up emotion built up over the course of this one inane night and probably more aside just escaping his mouth as anguished sound all at once. Eventually, the outburst devolved to a ragged, wheezing sort of giggle while he repeatedly pounded his disturbed head against the wall.

Nobody paid him much heed, just another screaming alley drunkard after a bad Friday-night binge.

The catharsis of that outburst had a sobering effect, at least enough for Benson to want to take stock of his surroundings as he caught his breath again. He peeked out of the alley, first left to find a sleazy porn shop -- scantily-clad and amazingly endowed mannequin brazenly displayed in the window, with flashing neon lights advertising "XXX", "Girls!", etc. gaudily -- and a run-down looking bowling alley to his right -- complete with cracked glass on its door and an only half-functioning neon marquee also advertising "Girls!", so probably with a smutty theater room as well.

Great, his alcohol-fueled walkabout had landed him somewhere in the grungy part of the city.

Benson suddenly became acutely aware of his fatigue after the whole night's ordeal, and resolved to find a place to crash for the night. He was apprehensive about the accommodations he'd be able to find in the part of town, but at this point, any place with a roof and a bed was preferable to passing out here in this dingy alley between a porno shop and a porno theater. Home seemed so far away, the bus schedules and routes in this part of town unfamiliar.

With that thought, Benson noticed a blinking red light at the edge of his vision, radiating off the wall to his right. He turned, first to the wall, and then following the source of the reflection, slowly cast his gaze deeper into the alleyway, to find a large flashing arrow marquee advertising "Hotel" that beckoned to him.

Something about the sheer coincidence of this discovery set off huge red warning flags in Benson's mind, but his fatigued body's urge to fall into a bed and just pass out overrode that. His wearied legs cautiously carried him towards the beacon, until he found himself staring at a pair of slab metal doors. The kind of metal doors one would expect to find in an industrial alley. Not the doors of a hospitality establishment. Against all better judgment, Benson's hand found a door handle, and pulled.

What met Benson's eyes was not what he expected. Bright white lights filled his vision, as he found himself in a vestibule that could have belonged to any four-star hotel. Plush, clean, red carpeting cushioned his steps, rather than the worn, dirt-caked rugs of a cheap motel. Spotless frosted-glass doors with polished brass hardware atop a short flight of polished marble stairs invited him further, towards presumably the establishment's lobby.

Benson had to confirm that his drunken eyes hadn't played tricks on him, as he turned back to reassess that, yes, there were in fact a pair of ugly slab doors more fit for a loading bay than a grand hotel entrance there. The utter incongruity of the space was uncanny.

Feeling suddenly safer about his whereabouts, he practically raced up the steps, as the doors before him opened with ease into the grand lobby beyond. The space seemed impossibly large -- wasn't there a bowling alley/theater right next door? He didn't feel like his jaunt down the alleyway was nearly long enough to accommodate. But this space was twenty feet wide, and it looked a good fifty yards to reach the concierge desk at the far end of the room. Narrow water features babbled along either wall of the lobby space, bouncing entrancing light patterns against the softly lit walls that soothed his spirits.

As Benson made his way across the space, he marveled slightly at a large marble seating fixture in the middle of the room, a modern-looking circular piece with a large planter in the middle filled with all manner of unidentifiable-to-him tropical plants. As he walked past, he swore something moved amidst all that foliage. Did it house exotic animals as well?

Halfway to the reception desk now and he was now having second thoughts. His initial reaction before entering this hotel was that it was some seedy establishment that would see him drugged and robbed and discarded in some dumpster before the sun rose. But upon witnessing the serene opulence before him, he now wondered if they would even admit him. Could he even pay enough to stay the night in the lap of such luxury?

By the time he finally reached the concierge service, his uninhibited imagination had began to get the better of him, and he was a ball of frazzled nerves. He blurted out a barely coherent, "Look-I'm-really-tired-and-would-like-a-room-for-tonight-and-geez-look-at-me-I'm-a-sopping-wet-mess-and-I-can't-afford-it-here-and-I'm-really-sorry-have-a-goodni--" before he had even managed to look at the receptionist, whereupon all sound suddenly caught in his throat and he just stood silently, stupidly agape.

Because seated at the desk before him was the most stunningly beautiful girl that Benson had ever laid eyes on in his young life.

Big doe eyes behind stylish thin-rimmed glasses quietly regarded Benson with a firm but gentle gaze, and glossy, pouty lips curled into a mirthful, friendly smirk as she carefully regarded every single word of his verbal diarrhea.

Rather than even attempt to address the million-and-one thoughts that had just poured from his mouth all at once, the first words out of the receptionist's mouth were, "Oh my, sir, you certainly look like you've been through the wringer tonight! Let me fetch you a towel!". God, even her voice was sunshine and butterflies and warm honey.

In a flash, the girl ducked down out of sight behind her oversized desk. He caught a glimpse of a lavender-violet ponytail with hot pink tip fly up as she vanished. Strangely lax appearance standards for such a posh looking place. The girl popped up again just as quick, and produced a pristine white towel.

Suddenly cognizant of too much eye contact as she offered the towel, he quickly averted his gaze, first noticing how loose strands of lavender-violet hair playfully framed her delicate almond-shaped face with perfect porcelain skin, and then followed her outstretched arm to dainty, exquisitely manicured fingers capped with glossy amethyst nails, finally plucking the softest towel he'd ever held from their grasp. He noticed the sleeve of her blazer, a showy-looking garment that seemed more appropriate for a Vegas bar girl than a receptionist at a high-class hotel. Decorated with panels in deep purple and magenta, it complemented, without matching, her vibrant hair colors. So maybe a theme? He noted, somewhat uselessly. Wait, what color were her eyes again?

He toweled off his sopping hair and dripping face, and upon lowering the cloth found her staring right back at him with a patient, pleasant smile.

"Much better, sir! Now let's see about getting you a room for tonight, shall we?", she chirped, while clapping her hands together decisively, joyously. She took the soaking wet towel back from him, smoothly slinging it into some unseen receptacle, never breaking eye contact.

"W-wait just a minute here! I don't... I could never..." Benson tripped over his own tongue.

"Nonsense, sir! This is a house of service and you, my good sir, look in dire need of just that! I can have you checked into a cozy room, no problem!" She beamed proudly. Another dazzling smile.

"No, really, I don't think I can afford to stay here, and really, you've done enough for me already, with the towel, and..."

Disregarding his protestations entirely, she continued on as if he'd said nothing, face now lit up by the glow of a computer monitor.. "Alright sir, I have a vacancy in room..." she quickly typed something on her keyboard, "...364. We're almost all set here. I just need a name, and a photo ID to verify against, and we'll have you off to a good night's sleep in no time!" She cheerily explained. She looked back up at him, expectantly, still smiling serenely.

Benson's shoulders slumped slightly, realizing this girl wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. Fuck it, deal with the consequences in the morning, sober and rested. "Benson Lachlan", he said reluctantly, while clumsily fishing his driver's license from his wallet.

"Whoa!" his breath left his body for the third time that night, as the girl practically pounced from her seat to snatch his ID from him in the exact moment he had pulled it free from its leather-bound confines. She leaned precariously far over the edge of her desk, supporting herself with only one arm propped at its edge, while she held his card aloft in her free hand to one of the overhead lamps to get a better look. In doing so, she also arched her back in the most carelessly erotic way, thrusting out a pair of amazingly perky D-cup breasts in his direction.

Benson swallowed audibly as this vixen presented herself to him, seemingly oblivious to her own charms. He realized that his prior "Vegas girl" impression may have been more on-the-money than he was previously aware. Behind the counter and all business, she seemed prim and professional. But now, he was being given the privilege of seeing her in her full glory. What he thought was a blazer was more like a cropped bolero jacket - a pair of sleeves joined by a folded collar and not much else. Up top, she wore only a deep violet tube bra otherwise. Strapless, styled to look like a low-cut blouse cropped right beneath her bust line, with only a single button between the valley of her impressive breasts to hold it in place. There wasn't a stitch of clothing between that and a matching deep purple micro skirt, showing off most of her rib cage and the entire expanse of her toned, flat belly, that adjoined wide, round hips. A small sky-blue pennant tie hung from her collar, only calling more attention to the generous valley of her pale white cleavage and marvelous, gravity-defying bosoms.

This time, Benson was quite certain that he had been staring much too long, but the girl, if she noticed, didn't seem perturbed in the least. Her next action instead made it even more difficult to draw breath, as she suddenly leaned in extra close to him. He wasn't quite sure what to say, as she approached almost as if to kiss him, only for her attention to wander elsewhere to squint intensely at his stubble or forehead wrinkles, lips now pursed in an expression of thoughtful appraisal, taking occasional glances back to the card she still held in her hand. His photo ID was taken years ago, when he was still clean-shaven and fresh-faced. Had work life really taken that much of a toll on him? Her hair brushed against his nose. God, she smelled good. Lavender? Lilac? Benson wasn't good with flowers, but she smelled of them. Like fresh-picked, wind-kissed wildflowers, and not that artificial bottled stuff.

Time seem to slow to a crawl as she hovered tantalizingly within his personal space. And then abruptly, the moment passed, and it was all business mode again. At some point in the interaction, she had somehow also produced a business card, which she laid squarely atop his license as she returned it to him. Benson subconsciously slipped it into his wallet along with his own card.

"Alright Mr. Lachlan. Benson. Ben?" She probed slightly with that last one, gauging for a reaction with a mischievously quirked eyebrow, while delicately readjusting the glasses on her face with a single finger.

Benson felt his heart skip a beat. Nobody had ever called him "Ben" since his ex-girlfriend (a mutual separation when their career paths inevitably diverged. It was a college thing), but this honey-voiced temptress made it sound right again.

"Uh, Ben is fine", he managed to croak out.

"Alright Ben, we're all good to go! Let me just get your key". She got up from her desk chair and did a graceful heel pivot, with a sassy little cock of her hip that called extra attention to her heavenly posterior. Benson had to slap a hand over his mouth to avoid making an embarrassing sound. Good lord, just as perfect from the back as the front.

Her uniform, if it could be called such, was practically backless aside from the narrow band of her bra, revealing another expanse of flawless alabaster skin, with finely sculpted back muscles, and her skirt was cut so low that he could even see the dimples above her buttocks. She bent over at the waist to grab something on a low shelf, presenting him a view of a perfect bubble-butt clad in the shortest, tightest skirt he'd seen any girl dare to wear. No panty line!? She giddily shuffled from side-to-side in her 6-inch magenta stiletto heels as she searched for whatever it was she was looking for, causing that perfect ass to sway and jiggle seductively atop a fantastic pair of lean, shapely legs clad in sheer, dark stockings.

"Aha!", she exclaimed happily. Benson swore he caught a knowing sidelong glance and a playful smirk pass his way, before she span fully around with another precision-executed heel pivot, all bubbly smile again. She held triumphantly aloft an ornate iron key.