From the Night Porter's Logbook...
If those noises had been coming from Flat 83, I wouldn't have been so surprised (Irish hooker who'd been warned several times.) Or the ones who'd just moved into Flat 52 (young newlyweds, God bless 'em).
But Flat 17...
This was the golden couple. He'd made it big in textiles. She'd been a world-class model. Together, they were the toast of every dinner-party circuit. And he was currently away in Russia on a long business trip...
After a year or two as Night Porter in a luxury block, you develop an ear for different kinds of nocturnal life, even hushed voices being easy to hear in the deep silence of the small hours. You pass a certain flat twice on your rounds, and hear the same old argument repeating itself. That's alcohol. You hear totally incoherent, scrambled speech, with odd breaks. That's d**gs.
Well, Flat 17 was on d**gs tonight.
I'd noticed it with some surprise, just before going down to the courtyard to re-check the fire-escape exit, in case there were still any lowlifes who thought they could f***e the door inwards, after our new security lighting would have picked them out sharply in full view of two hundred and fifty residents.
Soon afterwards - at 02.49 precisely, as I was required to enter in the logbook - my mobile gave a particular signal that one of the smoke-alarms had gone off, and I checked the readout to see which one. It was Flat 17.
I guessed at once that it was not a real fire, probably something left on the stove too long. But I had to be sure.
As I pressed the bell in the corridor, I could hear the alarm buzzing on-and-off, quite loud, and decided to knock at the same time. Nothing happened, so I rang and knocked again.
There was a sort of shuffling noise and some whispering. Then the door opened, just a few inches. I expected to see somebody's eye giving me a cautious once-over. But there wasn't an eye to be seen, only a huge theatrical mask over the face, and some mighty strange odours coming through from the flat.
"Your smoke-alarm's gone off." I said. "I'll need to fix it before it wakes everybody up. I'm sorry, but I must ask you to let me come in now."
"Is that Cedric?" came a d**gged male voice from somewhere inside the flat.
"No, it's something to do with the alarm..." Pretty slurred speech, though.
In the confusion, I slipped into the hall and closed the door behind me. Hell's Teeth, what a scene. Four men, all wearing these big masks, and our distinguished lady-tenant with her back to me, sitting on someone's prick, while a second man stood straddling the first one, as she oralled him greedily. The other two, including the one who'd let me in, were clearly too d**gged to do anything. And all round the flat there were candles - masses of them, some smoking badly, one of them actually lying in a bowl of dried flowers, like a mini-bonfire. These arseholes were trying to put on a candlelit orgy, but they were too stoned to do it properly. No wonder the alarm had gone off.
"Come on, Cedric!" said the one who'd spoken first, his mind obviously miles away. "Here's your mask!"
Ignoring this, I took one of my many keys and switched-off the alarm, so there was relative silence for a moment.
"Here, you can't come here without your mask. Put it on now."
On a sudden mad impulse, I did as I was bid. I felt that it magically placed me off-duty.
Now it was Madam's classy voice, framing some of the foulest language on earth.
"You see, I told you. You're all chicken. Nobody dares fuck my shithole. Go on, Cedric. You did it last time. Tongue first, then prick."
My mouth went dry, as I realised she was as high as the rest of them. In my new incarnation as Cedric, I pressed her shoulders gently forward, and eased her into a prone position, while her oral partner obligingly sank down to lie on his back.
Suddenly my tongue was exploring the rear-end of a fashion-model who, not long ago, had been declared the most desirable creature on earth. The blend of her sweat and shit, spiced with a little drop of her golden pipi, was something so intoxicating that I almost blacked out. Her moaning seemed to go on forever, but I had lost all track of time, and in my mask I was no longer the Night Porter.
"Now your prick, Cedric!" she commanded.
I needed little urging, for I was stiffer than I'd been for years. Was there any lube anywhere? This might get heavy. As for the fellow screwing her from below, he must have really been feeling the pressure. We were nothing but one big fuck-sandwich. But it seemed we were long past reason and logic. As gently as I could, I eased the head of my prick into her little secret passage, trying not to hurt her. But she was hungry for more action.
"Go on, Cedric. You know I don't mind being hurt a bit."
I moved further in, hoping I wasn't tearing the fabric of her sweet anal wall and harming the sphincter.
"Go on. Come! Come now. Spunk into my shit. I want your total worship of my shit. Fuck my shit! Fuck my shit! Fuck my shit!"
And I exploded inside the world-class arse of this world-class beauty who would never realise that she had been sodomised, roughly and brutally as she had demanded, by her own Night Porter.
But how would I be able to keep a straight face next time she came through the front door in her regal manner?
If walls could speak...