Chapter 6

Before jumping in the car for the drive to the hotel I dress hurriedly, this time in baggy shorts and a loose shirt in the hope of keeping cool driving in the middle of the day. The heat also means I can justify shades and a hat, but I decide to skip the bra and panties to give me the option of teasing my bell boy on the ride home. I look around the apartment and tidy up the obviously-kinky things - the paddle, the dog tail and collar. The shackles.

Once in the car I make a quick pit stop at a pet store and pick up a cat collar - the kind for outdoor cats with a bell on it. I bury it in my purse and floor it down the freeway to the hotel. I spot my bell boy in the parking lot, waiting nervously in the shade of a large oak tree on the side most distant from the entrance. He looks quite a bit younger than I remember, now he’s in cargo shorts and a t-shirt rather than his hotel uniform. I consider turning around, but decide that between the texts confirming he’s 18 and the fact that I’m female the chances of any serious trouble are slim. Besides, I can think of a few rather inventive ways to make sure he keeps quiet. I pull up to the tree:

“Hi, I’m Miss Santos. Hop in”

“H-hi” he gets in the passenger seat

“You gonna tell me your name, or shall I just call you ‘bell boy’?”

He grins nervously. He reeks of Ax, like he just doused himself with half a can. A shower when we get in, I think.

“James Cooper. James. My friends call me Jimmy”

“Well, Jimmy, you ready to go?”

He nods slightly hesitantly. We drive in silence for about 10 minutes until we hit the freeway. I notice him trying to be surreptitious in his glances down my shirt, and decide to distract him before he makes a mess of his shorts.

“So, Jimmy, you still in school?”

“Er, yeah”

“Where?”

“Rosa Parks, ah shit, no ... er Jefferson Memorial”

I know enough about the local school district to be aware that Jefferson is the nearest high school, which almost certainly means Rosa Parks is a junior high. Which means my estimate of 17 was off by quite some margin.

“How long you been working at the hotel?”

“Ah ... quite a while. My folks own it so I been helping out since I was a kid”

“You must have seen some stuff doing room service.”

He looks over at me

“Yeah ... I ... what were you doing with that man?” he blurts out

“Some men get off on being tied up, beaten and called names. Some women get off on doing it to them”

“And you’re one of them?”

“Nah, not really. Well, maybe a bit. Depends on the person. Why, d’you fancy it yourself?”

He goes beet red and his eyes go big as golf balls.

“N ... no thank you ma’am” slipping into his bell boy manners. It’s all I can do to keep from laughing.