Motel Maid

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To tell you the truth, she wasn’t much to look at. But then, neither am I.

Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t scream and run away ugly, she just wasn’t the kind you would look at twice. Or even once. That’s the way it is with motel maids, few actually look at them.

I was stuck in a motel in South Carolina after my car broke down on the Interstate. BMW parts for older models are scarce and expensive, and I had to wait while the part came in from some place far away. Probably Tibet. It was hot and humid, being the middle of August, but fortunately I didn’t have any other place I had to be. And I really like my car.

On the plus side, it was a pretty nice motel. It was not the kind where all the rooms are off a long, indoor corridor, or an outside entrance where all the rooms are lined up like books on a shelf. This motel was more like condominiums, with separate buildings, each having four units each, two downstairs and two upstairs. As with good motels, they offer a full, hot breakfast. There are some nice restaurants near by for other meals. They have an exercise room and a five stroke pool. A five stroke pool is one where I can go from one end to the other in five swim strokes. That’s fairly big because I’m a strong swimmer. I need to exercise because without it I would get huge. I enjoy eating too much and I have to burn off the calories as often as I can.

Back to the story. The first time I saw her she was coming out of the office building as I came in to register. She was wearing a black dress and tying on a white apron. I smiled and said hello. She looked surprised, but she said hello back.

“Excuse me, miss,” I said, “is this a nice place to stay?”

“Yes sah, dis is a real nice place.”

“Are there rooms with kitchenettes?”

“Yes sah, dar is some real nice rooms.”

“And is there high speed internet?” My computer is my office. I can work from anywhere as long as I have at least a DSL line.

“Oh yas sah,” she said with a grin, “we gots all dat stuff.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. What’s your name? I would like to commend you to the manager.”

“Tank, yo, sah. Yo don’ havta do dat, sah.”

“I insist.”

“Ma name’s Milly, sah”

All I remember seeing was a middle aged black woman, somewhat full figured.

I went in and rented an efficiency. While I was filling out the paperwork, I filled out a commendation for Milly. I handed my Visa card, my registration paper and the commendation to the desk attendant, a young girl (young being, maybe early twenties) with a name tag that said “Jennifer“ on it. Perhaps I should say, young woman, but to me, early twenties means she is still a girl.

“You’re in room 511, Mr. Thompson. It’s the building just on the other side of the pool. Parking is in the back. Have a nice stay.”

“Thompson is my first name. Please be sure the manager gets that recommendation,” I said as I put my Visa card back into my wallet and put the magnetic key into my shirt pocket.

“The owner is the manager, sir,” Jennifer said pointing to a sign that stated –

This Inn is proudly owned and operated by Miss M. Washington.

The next time I saw Milly she was cleaning my room. I was coming back from the exercise room, hot and sweaty. It was only 9:30 and I didn’t expect the staff until after noon. The cart was outside the room, but the door was closed, so I thought she either hadn’t started or was finished. The magnetic card easily opened the door and as I entered I saw her bent over the bed. She straightened up, startled, as was I.

“Oh,” I said, “ thought you were done. Will you be much longer?”

“Only ‘bout ten minits, sah,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll come back.”

As I grabbed my book I noticed that I hadn’t left her a tip. I dropped a five dollar bill on the desk and left. Every day after that I was sure to leave a five dollar tip.

I sat by the pool for fifteen or twenty minutes reading my book. I did not think about her.

Two days later I was in the guest laundry folding my clothes. Whoever had used the dryer before me hadn’t taken everything because I found a pair of size six maroon bikini panties in my dried clothes. I was holding them up, thinking lustful thoughts about their owner when the maid walked by.

“I don’ know, sah,” she said with a chuckle, “dem don’ look like yo’ size.”

“Of course not, they’re much too small,” I joked back. “I need a much larger size. These are so tiny they must have shrunk in the dryer.”

“I’ll git yo’ a largah size, if yo’ want, sah. I got some in mah room.”

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