Les Autres Ch. 02

When Stella and Greta walked into the Wheeler Hotel's lobby at half-past eight that night, twenty-eight-year-old Bill Yates was already thinking about how he would occupy himself after work. The night shift desk clerk was scheduled to relieve him at nine, leaving him ample time to pop next door, either to the Town, or the Bijou Theater, for a late movie. Or, he might just linger in the hotel bar and have a drink, or a few.

Looking up from his ledger, as a beautiful blonde girl, and her frumpy presumed mother, approached the front desk in matching costumes, Yates asked himself, "Hello... what's THIS?" He licked his lips while he appraised Greta, in isolation from Stella. The barmaid outfit was so much better filled out by the tall teen's voluptuous figure.

While she registered, he glanced down at his Leica IIIa camera, in its pigskin case on the shelf below the counter. "THAT'S the ticket, Billy-boy," he told himself, smirking while a plan formed in his head on the fly. Out loud, he said, "I've got the PERFECT room for you, Miss." He reached into a cubbyhole and retrieved a key. "Room 32: Third floor, back alley windows, end of the hall... away from the world and quiet as a library." Cagily advancing his strategy, he suggested, "It's WARM tonight. Leave your windows open... you'll catch a nice breeze off the river." Then, arching his eyebrows, Bill inquired, "No bags, Miss?"

Greta shook her head, but Stella answered for her, "They'll arrive later... Don't you worry about THAT." She used a sharp warning tone lest the impudent young man got the wrong idea about the situation.

"Of course, of course," Yates had replied, quickly obsequious. When the women crossed the lobby to the elevator, he had closely studied Greta's rear in motion. Now off-duty, with the older woman long gone and his camera unpacked and ready, he lurked on the fire escape landing while Greta closed her door on the exiting Cookie. His cock swelled with anticipation as he peered through the gap at the window shade's bottom while she opened and removed the black velvet cinch overlaying her forest green jumper.

Crouched below the brick window sill, Bill hooked an invisibly thin wire through a prepared pinhole in the paper window shade. Carefully, he pulled the shade, widening his surreptitious view angle without exposing himself to discovery. Greta stepped from the door and pushed her dirndl's shoulder straps over her deltoids. First the left and then the right. She was so lost in her thoughts that she moved with unintentionally sensual slowness.

"Yes! Do it!" Yates silently cheered as the green cotton dress slithered over Greta's hips and settled on the floor. She stood still for a moment; a virginal vision in her white peasant blouse and ruffled white petticoat. Stepping out of the fallen garment, Greta turned and stooped. Her ass wiggled wonderfully as she naturally schussed and picked up her dress. Bill quickly snapped a picture of her prominent snowy haunches and then returned to his surveillance.

Greta peeled off her blouse and petticoat, then folded them, along with the dirndle, into a neat pile on the double bedstead. Yates rubbed his erection through his linen slacks as he stared slack-jawed at her cotton bra band stretching across her mid-back and at her sheer white rayon panty briefs, clinging tightly to her full round bottom. "Oh, PLEASE! More!" He begged her telepathically. His prick pulsed in his cupped palm and his ears burned.

Greta opened her trunk and foraged until she found her iridescent gold lamé kimono-style silk robe. She had been so envious when her father had presented a similar dressing gown, with a scarlet-and-black rampant dragon pattern, to her mother, immediately upon his return from a six-month sea voyage, that she wept for joy when he surprised her with her own robe, which he had kept hidden from her until her fifteenth birthday. The azure, silver, green and white peacock on her kimono's back virtually flew as Greta shook the silk out of the trunk and swept into it.

Outside, Bill Yates gasped audibly when Greta whirled around the room, dancing with an invisible partner and flashing her lingerie-clad beauty within the colorful open tent. He dared not risk another photo. Instead he memorized the peri before him in minutest detail. Bending forward at the waist, she gave him a direct full-frontal view of her pendant supported breasts as she pulled off her sturdy black oxfords and white anklet socks. Then, turning abruptly, she left his sight.

Greta stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door open, and turned on the shower. After hanging her gown on a door hook, she removed her bra and panties, climbed into the huge claw-foot tub and drew the rubber curtain. Hearing nothing but spraying water, she was unaware of Yates stealthily creeping through the window into Room 32. Boldly, he advanced to the bed and lifted her folded uniform parts to his face. His boner hurt as Greta's honey-and-spice tulip perfume filled his nose and mind.

Quickly, Bill slipped into the already steamy bathroom. He unbuckled and dropped his trousers and shorts while he focused his imagination on the nude statuesque blonde goddess unseen behind the opaque shower curtain. Picking her panties and bra up from the toilet lid with his left hand, he curled his right fist around his throbbing hard-on and inhaled the remnant sex-scents in her underwear. With his temples pounding, Yates began slowly stroking himself.

On the other side of the thin rubber divide, Greta Van Der Molen's thoughts fled the angry scene at The Shillelagh. The stinging hot spray on her breasts stimulated happier sensations. She plucked her rabbit-pink nipples until they stood stiff against her glistening bumpy areolae. She sucked in a sharp short breaths as her pussy reveled in the electric jolts her pinches prompted.

Sliding her left hand flat across her tummy, Greta browsed her fingers through her golden pubes. Suddenly Jock McGuinness' craggy face came to her mind and she smiled, recalling their impromptu and delightful midnight romp in his warehouse offices. Greta clenched her ass and arched her back, forcing her fingers deep into her needy pussy and thinking of Jock's feasting mouth.

She plunged her digits into her tunnel, then slowly pulled back and slid them to the top of her slice. Stabbing her clit, while remembering Jock latching on, she groaned loudly and lunged against herself again. Coming, she screeched, "Nyyyaaah! Mijn God! Ik kom ... voor JOU, aardige man!" She flooded his imaginary jowls as the shower drenched her upraised tits and healed her soul with its heat.

In the bathroom proper, Bill Yates was delirious with the exciting peril of whacking off while his victim was obviously masturbating in the shower, blissfully ignorant of his presence three feet away. He sucked furiously on the damp stained salty crotch of Greta's panties. There was a hint of urine, which drove him mad. His hand flashed on his prick and his balls tightened. Stifling a growl, he nearly swallowed the rayon ball in his mouth as he blew his nut.

His semen shot high and fell back onto his hand, the bath mat and the tiled floor. He did not care. He pumped himself with abandon until his spurting essence declined into bubbling leaking gobs and then died away. His chest heaved as he worked feverishly to stuff his still tumescent penis back into his trousers. When he was dressed again, he silently unrolled several sheets of toilet paper, blotted up his spilled cum and shoved the mess into his pants pocket.

Reluctantly, Yates spat out Greta's panties and tossed them back onto the toilet lid with her bra. Unconcerned by their saliva-soaked condition, he jubilantly crowed to himself, "Let HER figure out how they got so fucking wet!" Satisfied beyond his wildest imaginings, Bill hurried from the bathroom, out the window and back to his own two-room rented flop, over the Rexall store, four blocks off, at Central Avenue.