No Tipping Allowed
MGW

There was a knock on the door to my room. Assuming that it was a bellman with the extra towels, I called out that I would be there in a minute. My wife, teenage daughter, and I were staying at a famous island hotel on the Great Lakes that was open only in the summer months. It was a grand Victorian monstrosity, pompous, a bit tired and certainly overpriced. You may have seen it in that time travel movie with the actor that had the accident with the horse. All accommodations were "price fixed"—room, meals and service included in the exorbitant daily rate for a tiny room without air conditioning. No cars or other motor vehicles are allowed on the island. Consequently, there are only seven things to do: eat, drink, shop, golf, bike, ride horses and fuck. My wife and daughter had gone into the town to ride. They were horse people. Me? I could take or leave the nags. Knowing them, I was on my own for the rest of the day. I’d thought I’d do some golfing a little later, but only if a better option didn’t present itself

I opened the door and was confronted by a tall, ebony young man with lean, sharp features and close cropped hair. I judged him to be about six-three. He wore a white, tailored, short-sleeve shirt that exposed corded forearms. A pile of four towels was balanced on one of them. I looked him up and down carefully. He had a runner’s build—an Olympic runner. His chest was mature, but not highly developed. Still, it stretched the thin shirt slightly and the positions of the nipples beneath were obvious. The chest tapered slightly to a waist that hardly flared at all when it reached the hips. The thin black pants were also severely tailored and hugged his hips. In front, they bulged provocatively.

"Heah are de towels, Mistuh Baker," he announced. Like most of the seasonal staff, he was from Jamaica, legally hired on a special seasonal visa. It was a pretty good gig, I guess, because the same people were said to come back year after year. Whenever possible, the management tried to have the same bellman service a given room throughout the week. I had taken special notice of this particular stud when we arrived. His name, he had announced then, was Thomas.

"Thank you, Thomas," I acknowledged. "Put them in the bathroom, please." I took a deep whiff as he passed by, unable to tell whether the cheap scent was shaving cream or body lotion. Whichever, it didn’t completely mask the fact that the man hadn’t showered in a few days. My cock stirred with the flash of pheromones. I closed the room door then followed him toward the bathroom, standing in the doorway while he arranged the towels on the racks. He picked up the wet towels from the floor, the ones I hadn’t actually used but mussed up to give me an excuse to call for more. As he turned to leave, he found me blocking the bathroom doorway. We faced each other awkwardly. I stared directly into his brown eyes and he instinctively glanced away. I pulled a fifty-dollar bill out to him and offered it to him.

His eyes went wide at the size of the bill, but he said stalwartly, "It ain’t necessary, Mr. Baker. Dere ain’t no tipping heah." I said nothing but pushed the bill a few inches closer to him. "I could get fired, mon," he whispered huskily. I