Locked Out!

The names, characters, places and events in this story are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. All characters are over the age of 18. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Thank for reading and I hope you liked this tale. Please do leave a comment as I read all of them and take them all onboard.

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LOCKED OUT!

It was every woman's worst nightmare and Phoebe Bristow was living it. She was standing in a hotel corridor at three a.m., locked out of her room. And totally naked. She looked up and down the corridor and was relieved that nobody was in sight but that didn't alter the fact that she hadn't a stitch on. She looked down at her hand, hoping to see her keycard materialize there but her hand stayed empty.

She pushed against the door, hoping and praying that the latch had not properly closed but the door was firm as a rock. With mounting desperation, she put her shoulder to it and shoved with all her might but she might as well have tried to move a mountain. She was stuck. Totally stuck out here. Her eyes welled up with tears at her predicament but she blinked them back. She wasn't gonna cry. That was just what a weak woman would do and she wasn't weak.

She thought back to earlier in the evening. She and her new boss, Mr. Lambrecks, had checked in that morning and then made several prearranged sales calls which had gone well. They worked for a Cincinnati company selling scientific and technical equipment, mostly to hospitals and pharmaceutical organizations around the Mid West. The profits were decent but not extravagant and their firm had a good, established reputation which really helped. It also helped that Mr. Lambrecks was brilliant at his job. He was affable, friendly, able to make small talk and put potential clients at their ease but he also had a mastery of technical and specialized detail when the questions started. Being the company's best sales rep, he had been assigned Phoebe to train up.

To celebrate their success, they had dinner on Mr. Lambrecks' expanse account in the hotel's restaurant. And a few glasses of fine Cabernet Sauvignon to go with it. Followed by a single glass of Armagnac which he had insisted she try at the end of the meal. "It's not like we're driving anywhere, tonight," he had said with a grin. Although over the DUI limit, she wasn't drunk but was slightly relaxed when she headed to her room where she had a bottle of water from the minibar to stave off dehydration. After that busy day and then a full meal with alcohol, she was glad to strip off, wash off her make-up and get into bed and luxuriate between the freshly laundered cotton sheets. Like Marilyn Monroe, she only wore perfume to bed.

And so the inevitable happened. She woke up at three desperate to pee. Her head slightly fuzzy, dazed and a little confused and in an unfamiliar room she had opened the wrong door. To the dimly lit corridor and not the bathroom. She realized her error an instant later but by then it was too late. The door had already closed behind her with a click that spelled doom.

She wanted to scream but that would be the worst thing in the world. She pushed again at the door but it was still immovable. The only thing she had in her favor was that it was three in the morning so it was the quietest time for the hotel. There wouldn't be many people wandering about, neither staff nor guests, at this godforsaken hour of the morning. All she had to do was go down to the lobby, explain her situation and then somebody would let her back into her room. All very easy, except for her state of nudity. She breathed deeply several times, trying to calm her racing heart-rate.

She couldn't stay here much longer as somebody might come along. Blinking back a few more tears, she looked up and down the corridor again and at the lines of closed doors behind which people were sleeping peacefully. She briefly considered knocking at random on a door, hoping a woman would answer who would take pity on her and lend her a coat or even a large towel. Anything to hide her modesty. But what if a man answered? Or worse a group of horny young men who might drag her into their room and do things to her? Or they'd take a video and upload it onto some porn site? If she took them to court, their lawyers would just put their stories together and say some naked, drunk woman knocked at their door demanding a gang-bang. She'd never live it down. No. Far better to get to the lobby.

With one hand thrown over her boobs and another over her privates, she walked slightly crouched over to the bank of elevators. The corridor seemed to be about a mile long with the elevators so far away. It was carpeted with thick blue carpeting with the hotel chain's logo in the weave. The walls were a pale blue with white doors evenly spaced and occasionally a piece of abstract art to break up the uniformity.

Phoebe gasped and almost pissed herself with fear as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. There was somebody there in the corridor -- on her left! She hunched over, making herself as small as possible before breathing out with relief. It was only a mirror in a gilt frame. She looked up and straightened up. She saw a young woman of twenty-two, standing 5' 4" now she was barefoot, with a fashionably short bob haircut with contrasting undercut sections dyed with contrasting shades of blond, enhancing her femininity. A pretty heart-shaped face with neatly shaped eyebrows, brown eyes, a pert nose over full lips.

Lower down she had perky C-cup breasts, tipped with dark pink nipples, which were one of her better assets she had to admit. She had worn a fairly low-cut dress earlier, business-like, nothing too tarty, and she knew her girls had drawn the buyers' eyes earlier in the day. Her waist was trim and her hips swelled out nicely. Despite everything, she was glad that she had waxed 'down there' the previous day as she wouldn't want anyone to think she was some tramp who didn't take care of herself. She wasn't too pleased with her ass (despite her gym membership there was a bit of hard to shift cellulite there and on her upper thighs) but you can't have everything she thought. And she wished her legs were longer but they weren't too bad. However, she wished it wasn't all out on show for anyone to see if they happened by.

Now her heart-rate was more or less back to normal, she carried on padding down the corridor until she stood by the elevators. She put out a hand to press the button but paused. Elevators have CCTV cameras monitoring them, don't they? She didn't want some bored security guard reviewing the CCTV footage -- and then downloading it for him and his friends to perv over later. She would take the stairs -- or even better any fire escape.

Wait! Hotels usually have store rooms where the chamber maids store towels and sheets to make up the rooms. If she could find that room, she could wrap herself up in something before heading down to the lobby. She smiled to herself. Always a solution to any crisis. Phoebe turned around and headed back down the corridor looking for a door with no room number. That would be the linen closet. Near the mirror which had startled her earlier, she found it. Breathing a sigh of relief, she pushed on the door. She suppressed a cry of frustration as the door was locked. She should have expected that. Otherwise guests would just steal the linen. She thumped the door in anger and calmed herself.

She padded along the thick-pile carpet until she came to an illuminated fire exit sign over double doors with wired glass panels set in them. The stairs down. Her room was on the fourth floor, the lobby was on the first. So only about eight flights of stairs down and then she would be there. Okay, she breathed deeply and started down the stairs. They were cement, painted gray. At the first return, she peered around the corner to make sure the next flight was deserted before descending. The air was cooler on the stairwell and her skin puckered up with goosebumps, even her waxed pubic area. She was aware her nips were sticking out like hat-pegs but was it only the chill air doing that or was her situation making her a tiny bit aroused?

The stairwell was empty and now she was down on the third. The cooler air made her realize that she still needed to pee and if she didn't go soon, there would be a puddle on the cement. She remembered there were restrooms on the third floor so she pushed open the fire-doors and again peered up and down the corridor which was also carpeted in blue. The restrooms were opposite so she darted across the passage, her boobs and ass shaking as she did so.

She noticed that the restroom door had been wedged open so she hurried through and noticed that the floor had been mopped clean, the mirrors polished and that all the stalls were free. It smelled of pine disinfectant. Phoebe dived into the first cubicle and shut the door. She lowered the toilet lid and lowered her ass. A moment later, she was luxuriating in the feeling as her pee drained out, splashing into the water like a mini Niagara. She sighed with relief as she momentarily forgot her problems. Eventually, her flow slowed and then stopped as the last few drops dripped into the pan. Then she felt a nervous pressure in her bowels. Shifting position slightly, she farted. Loudly. It echoed around the otherwise silent, tiled room. She farted again, even louder, a trombone blast of sound. What was she doing, drawing attention to herself by making these loud, disgusting noises? Anyone could hear her and maybe look at her as she left the restroom.

She reached out a hand to grab some toilet tissue so she could wipe herself. A bright idea struck her. After wiping, she could wrap herself in toilet tissue before going to the lobby. Sure, she'd look silly, like an Egyptian mummy or something, but better looking silly than showing up at the lobby desk completely nude. But where was the toilet tissue? She looked at the holder. It was completely empty. Not even a scrap of paper. What were people expected to wipe themselves with, she wondered. Phoebe reached out to flush but paused, her finger hovering over the button. Flushing would make such a noise. She hesitated and then left it.

She unlocked and stepped out of her cubicle and checked the next. Also empty. Then the one after that. Also empty. Where was all the toilet tissue? Then she realized that the cleaner had probably removed all the old rolls to replace them with full ones ready for tomorrow. There was nothing here for them. Giving her hands a quick wash, she wiped them dry on her thighs before stepping out again.

Immediately, she stepped back into the restroom, her heart thumping in her chest. Out in the corridor was a couple snogging before their room door. They were really into each other, sucking face, him with his hand up her skirt prospecting for gold. For a moment, Phoebe thought about hurrying over. One was a woman and surely she would lend her something to wear for a few minutes. But a man was with her and she didn't want him seeing her. He looked a bit too rough and ready, a bit too blue collar. A moment later, she heard him say, "Let's get in." and he slipped his key card into the slot and, with a click, the door opened and they disappeared from view leaving only a hint of her cheap perfume in the corridor. She heard a slap and a female squeal of pleasure. But now the way was clear. Once again, she slipped out of the restroom, crossed the corridor, and back down the stairwell to the second floor. Only one more to go. One hand on the wooden rail, she tiptoed down.

Once again, she ducked back behind the return before peeking out, hoping that she hadn't been spotted. Perspiration broke out on her forehead, between her boobs and slickly between her legs. A man, a security guard, stepped out of the second floor doors, looked around briefly giving the stairwell a quick visual inspection before turning around and heading back. From her quick glimpse, the man was middle-aged, balding and wore a badly fitting dark blue uniform. Phoebe breathed a sigh of relief and headed back down to the first floor but aware that she was slightly lubricated between her legs, whether with nervous sweat or her own secretions she wasn't sure. Pushing open the door, a short passageway led her to the brightly lit lobby.

The reception area was large with black leather sofas scattered around the sides. Tall picture windows faced the street and potted palms softened some of the hard edges. Over to her left was the marbled reception desk with a couple of computer monitors standing on it. Phoebe craned her neck around the corner and saw that the entire lobby was empty and only one receptionist stood behind the desk.

"Thank you," Phoebe whispered as the assistant was a young woman, her blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Concealing her essentials with her hands, Phoebe stepped out of her hiding place and crossed the tiled floor to the desk. Barefoot, her approach was nearly silent and she was almost there before the woman noticed and looked up, her eyes wide.

"I've locked myself out," she said quietly, her voice little more than a whisper.

Then horror struck. The revolving doors to the street swung into motion and a lean young man pushed into the lobby. Phoebe gave a little scream as she was standing there in the middle of the huge, well lit room, completely exposed, her ass on full view. She shrunk back. The man was dressed in brightly colored Lycra with a cycle helmet on his head. He carried a slim gray packet.

"Package for Mr. Sharma," the man said as he crossed to the desk, his cleats clattering over the tiles. He glanced at the package. "Room 661. The office said it was urgent." He had an educated voice and, other circumstances; she would have liked to get to know him. But not now!

"That's right, he said it was vitally important and he said to call him the moment it arrived." With that the woman lifted the desk phone to dial room 661.

As she did, the courier looked at Phoebe and grinned. He had perfectly white teeth.

"You look like you need some clothes shipping to you," he said.

Phoebe squealed and scooted over backwards to the nearest couch and sat, hunched forward. Now tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision.

"Please," she said to the receptionist. "I've got nothing on, help me please."

The woman frowned and Phoebe saw she had a severe face.

"The manager gave me strict instructions to call Mr. Sharma the instant this arrived. I'll come to you next so don't get your panties in a bunch, miss."

"Not that you're wearing panties," the courier laughed. "Can't stop, got several more drop-offs but thanks for the show, miss. Nobody's gonna believe me when I tell them -- you don't mind?" With that, he took out his phone and snapped off a few pics of the pale woman cowering on a black couch before pushing back out into the night. Now tears were flowing down Phoebe's cheeks.

The receptionist put down the phone and looked at Phoebe who stood and walked over, still trying to hide her stiff nipples and damp vulva. She stood directly before the desk which at least blocked her pussy from view. The woman's name badge said that she was called Irena.

"I locked myself out," muttered Phoebe.

"Which room are you staying in?"

"424," she muttered again, looking down at the marble top and not at the receptionist.

"Name?"

"Phoebe Bristow."

"Have you any ID?"

Phoebe looked up. "I've got nothing on! Of course I haven't any ID on me. It's all in my room."

"Don't get snippy with me, miss. And yours isn't the name on the booking."

Phoebe glared and then realized. Of course, the room would be booked in either Mr. Lambrecks' name or the company's.

"Look if you let me borrow a master key card, I can let myself in. I'll bring it straight back. Or you could come with me. I could describe the contents of the room -- there's a black purse on the dressing table and a Bulova watch on the nightstand..."

"No. And I'm not allowed to leave my desk," snapped Irena.

"Look, could you at least get me something to wear -- a jacket or even a tablecloth I can wrap round me?" pleaded Phoebe.

"As I told you, I cannot leave my post," Irena said with a frown. "For all I know, you could be a call girl going to rob a client." With that, the woman lifted the phone and spoke again, "Kevin, there's a naked woman out here. She's not on my picture list of known prostitutes but it's out of date. Could you come down? Thanks."

"I'm not a hooker -- I've locked myself out!" she cried out. Anger flared through her at the thought she had been mistaken for a prostitute.

"So you say," Irena thought for a moment. "Is there somebody here who could vouch for you?"

A wave of relief washed over Phoebe. "Yes, Mr. Lambrecks. Room 511."

Once again Irena lifted the phone and dialed 511. The phone rang for a while and Irena was about to replace it when it was picked up. They spoke for a while as Irena explained the situation.

"Could you come down to verify her, sir?" Irena finished. "Thank you." She put the phone down.

"Call him back. Tell him to bring something to wear with him," begged Phoebe.

Before Irena could do so, Phoebe heard the revolving doors going round again. She turned and gasped in horror as a middle-aged couple staggered through the door, laughing and giggling and clutching several helium balloons. The platinum-blond woman was wearing a tight white top and leopard print leggings which showed every bulge while he had on a blue polo shirt and gray pants. Both had several gold chains and both looked worse for wear.

They stopped in amazement at the naked woman standing at the desk.

"Who are you? The stripper?" they called out. "You look like you went to a better party than we did."

With that they burst into gales of laughter. Both took out their phones and snapped several shots of Phoebe's ass and tits as they came up to the desk. "Nobody's going to believe this back home," the woman said.

"Could we have an alarm call for seven, room 520?" the man said to Irena. "Otherwise we'll never get up." They laughed again before the woman dragged her leering husband away over to the elevators.

Phoebe felt like crying and went and sat back down on the leather sofa. This was too much.

"Please call 511 again," she begged the receptionist.

"I just did. There's no reply so he must be on his way down," Irena said with a sniff and turned back to the monitor. There would be no further help from that quarter.

Phoebe glanced up as she heard the elevator door slide open. Three men stepped out and the party couple got in, the man with a last look round hoping to catch one final glimpse of flesh. The first was a short South Asian gentleman in a white shirt and black pants. He walked straight to the desk, trying not to focus on the surprising scene before him although Phoebe noticed he took several surreptitious glances in her direction. The second was the scruffy middle-aged security guard, Kevin; the other her boss, Mr. Lambrecks in a sweater thrown over pajama bottoms. She breathed a sigh of relief. Soon this nightmare would be over.

"Is this the naked lady you called about?" Kevin asked Irena. Obviously not the sharpest knife in the box. How many naked women were lounging about the lobby? Only one, and that was her, she thought with a touch of ire.

"Yes," Irena snapped.

"Dunno if she's one of the local hookers. Can't really see her face properly with her head down like that.

"Can you verify her identity, Mr. Lambrecks?" Irena asked.

"I didn't put my contacts back in," Mr. Lambrecks said as he peered short-sightedly at the figure before him.