Don Baker

The naughty night clerk

CHAPTER ONE

Many people may by-pass the Barton Hotel, located just a block off posh Center Boulevard, but to me, Chris Logan, it has been home for the past three years. I have a small apartment on the second floor, furnished by the hotel, and, since I have been the night manager at the hotel for the past two years, I live a very comfortable and varied life.

At age 27, things have broken right for me. Of course, I have used ways not altogether nice to get where I am, and will use them again to further myself in the future. The Barton is only a stopping place, a place to get experience and learn the hotel business. From here, I aim for bigger and better things. But, for the time being, I am satisfied with my lot.

I was a young, but experienced, twenty-four years old when I first approached Mr. Jed Barton about a job. I had read in the paper where he was advertising for a night clerk and since I was out of a job, I decided to give it a try. I figured my chances were slight, because of my age and lack of experience, but I knew I had one thing going for me-my sex-and I knew how to use it. I kept my fingers crossed as I walked into the lobby of tile Barton that day, hoping the owner was straight and that his wife, if he was married, didn’t have much to do with his business.

At twenty-four, I was fully developed, with a thirty-seven inch bust and all the other measurements in the right dimensions. I kept my dark hair long, but not stringy, and wore clothes that, while not tight, did nothing to hide my God-given assets.

I could claim virginity only to age fourteen; from then on it had been punch and poke with many men and in many places. My last job, which I held for almost a year, came to a screeching halt when the boss’s wife caught us together in a motel room. Oh, well, on to better things.

“I would like to see the manager about your advertisement for a night clerk,” I said to the man behind the desk.

If he was the one to interview me for the job, I had it made. He couldn’t take his eyes off the cleavage in my V-neck slipover.

“That would be Mr. Barton,” he uttered, only half-looking into my eyes. "He’s the owner and the manager. Just a minute, I’ll call him.”

The clerk went to a phone situated on the counter and pushed a button.