J Long - Motel peeper

Prudence did it again, did that shameful thing that only women can do when their assholes are full of hot prick. She pretended that his cock was a turd so she had to shit it out – naturally. Prudence did not think of it in such terms. She thought of it simply as the act of practicing defecation.

So, she practiced defecation again.

"Jesus! Oh shit! Your asshole feels tighter than a virgin lamb!"

Reverend Manly couldn't believe it – virgin lamb? Those boys, those wonderful boys from his parish, they didn't go 'round ruining virgin lambs… did they? Impossible, nobody fucked sheep. Men weren't satyrs. Satyrs simply didn't exist – except as figments of a perverted man's imagination or as logos, or trademarks, for publishers of hard-con books.

"Christ!" Harvey moaned, wiping his jizzy cock all over Prudence's sheepish face. "This sure 'n Hell beats fucking chickens and mules!"

Ferris pulled his cock out of Prudence's ass.

Ffffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Jesus, Miss Meeker, your asshole's 'bout as good as Elsa Manly's. Only hers is lots looser."

Reverend Manly stopped beating his prick.

After all, he was a man… wasn't he? And, being a married man and a father of three boys and one idiot, he had just heard about his wife's asshole being looser than a virgin lamb's. Anger, pure and unabashed, made the hairs of his asshole stand on end… or stand out… or just plain outstanding.

No! No! No!

Fffffaaaarrrrtttt.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Holy shit!" Harvey said. "If you thought her asshole was better than Mrs. Manly's, I say Miss Meeker's got a deeper throat than the reverend's wife!"

Deeper throat! Looser ass! Virgin lambs!

Now the hairs on Reverend Manly's asshole curled with spite and hatred. And as the hairs of his asshole curled with spite and hatred, his cock shriveled as he thought about his wife practicing defecation whilst a cock was in it and allowing her pig-lips to be tainted by a man's seed.

No! No! No!

Untrue!

Unreal!

The reverend's fists became balls of steel – and if that bit of imagery sounds unrealistic, then you can sympathize with the reverend as he crashed through the plate-glass doors of the library screaming: "Untrue! Untrue! Liars all!"

It was a new type of stethoscope.

There was a headband and there was what looked like an oval mirror sticking out of the forehead of the headband. With such a device, many gynecologists can place their new-fangled stethoscope on the bellies of pregnant ladies while their antiseptic hands played with their fat titties and their fat pussy-lips.

Such a stethoscope was on Hiram Shingles' head.

He had come by the stethoscope when he used to work at Tweedy Good Samaritan Hospital for veterans and mothers who were expecting two things: a little baby, and a fun time in the stirrups while a Welbyian-like man probed their pussy to make sure they had a hole in it.

Oh, the hospital had been fun to work around.

Or, at least it had been fun for Hiram.

And, although his main task was to change the bed pans, he found out that it was more fun to change out of his male flume outfit and don the garb of a gynecologist.

It was easy fooling the hospital staff into thinking that he had just graduated from MIT as a brain surgeon. Because life is like Lincoln had said: You can fool all the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time. And, since everybody who lived in. Tweedy was a fool – it was simply a case of being duped all the time. It was fun fooling the hospital staff. And it was double fun fooling the patients in the women's ward – those in the maternity wards and women patients who had inadvertently become victims of rape.

Hiram smiled when he recalled those days of being addressed as Dr. Shingles, as he paced up and down the hospital hallways with a somber look on his face, a clipboard under his arm and plastic gloves under the other.

Sometimes, he even got to see babies being born. And seeing babies being born simply reinforced the common fallacy perpetuated mostly by men with big cocks that women could take big pricks up their cunts because no prick was ever going to be bigger than a baby's head. Or some such bullshit.

One time, Hiram had even performed a D amp; C. But such, an operation would take too many gruesome pages to describe. Suffice it to say that the patient didn't die of a hemorrhaging cunt. She died because the spoon was too big for her asshole.

But, anyway, that was how Hiram acquired a brand-new stethoscope.

And it was a good thing that he had five-fingered the stethoscope because he was leaning his head against the wall of roam nine of the Sleepwell Motel, trying to make out what the people were doing on the other side of the wall.

And, with his forehead pressing the stethoscope against the plaster, that left his hands free to do one of two things: jack off or write chapter seven of The Secretary's Brown Pubes.

Naturally, being ingenious, Hiram had done both. Not at the same time, of course. He had jacked off first, and now he regretted that he had jacked off first because there was white goo all over his Mattel typewriter and many of the letters were obscured by the mayonnaise-like substance.

"Shit," he muttered, his neck aching with the strain of putting enough pressure on the stethoscope. He tried his best to wriggle around on the movable sled, but the fucking wagon kept moving back and forth, and the stethoscope was making all kinds of scraping noises against the plaster wall, and the scraping noises sounded like the volcanic rumblings of Vesuvius in his ears, and everything was just getting all fucked up.

Naturally, Hiram hated room nine.

He hated room nine because it was his daughter's room.

And he doubly hated room nine because Rebecca hated to have a painting of Whistler's Mother put into her room because she thought that the fucking old lady looked like her dead aunt – the aunt on her mother's side who had been given a heart attack by God and who had been found rocking with the wind as she slowly turned to stone.

So, that was the start of Hiram's problem.

That and having a typewriter covered with jizz. And having a stethoscope that blasted earthquakey sounds into his ears.

And sitting yoga-fashion on a moving vehicle with a crummy typewriter on his lap and his head in an awkward position.

"Aw, fucking assholes!"

Then, besides regretting the fact that he had come all over his typewriter, Hiram suddenly regretted screaming out his frustrations.

"Aw, fucking assholes!"

"Hey, who said that?"

"What?"

"Who called us fucking assholes?"

"Nobody called us fucking assholes, Mr. Collier. Now, come on, you're gonna lose your hard-on."

"I just know I heard somebody call us fucking assholes, Rebecca."

"Look, you fucking asshole, nobody called us fucking assholes. Christ, Mr. Collier, you're losing your hard-on."

"Goddamn, but I always get the willies when somebody calls me an asshole. Don't you ever get uptight, Rebecca, when somebody calls you an asshole?"

"No shit, Mr. Collier. Look at your prick – it ain't worth a cocksucking damn! And after all the trouble I went to get your prick…"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. And I 'preciate you blowing me for an hour. But, fuck-shit, nobody's gonna call me a fucking asshole without a fight."

"Look, don't worry about it, Mr. Collier. Here. I'll blow you again, and that'll help you forget about being a fucking asshole."

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

"Jesus Christ! Boy, that pisses me off! I think your father ought to make these walls soundproof."

"Um-hmmmmm."

"Shit, I'm so pissed off I don't know if I can get it up."

"Um-hmmmmmm."

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.