J Long - Motel peeper

"I tell you, Rebecca, if any cocksucking chick in town can give me a hard-on, it's you. Christ, I think it's getting a little hard already."

"Um-hmmmmm."

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

"Jesus! I can feel something tingly in my balls! Come on, Rebecca, give my balls a couple of licks, too, okay?"

Sluuuurrrrpppp. Sluuuurrrrpppp. Sluuuurrrrpppp.

"Aaaaaaahhhhhh, sheeeeeiiiittttt!"

"Um – hmmmmmmmmmm!"

"And my asshole! Come on, Rebecca, tongue the old brownie. That always gets the cock good and hard."

"Hm-mmmmmmm."

Slurp.

"Jesus, Rebecca, you can do better than that – Christ! You act like you don't dig tonguing my asshole."

"Hm-hmmmmm."

"Hey, don't worry 'bout it. Lots of cocksuckers don't like to tongue a guy's asshole 'cause they think the guy never washes there. But don't you worry none, Rebecca, my asshole's clean as a whistle."

"Hmmm?"

"Come on, Rebecca! I said my asshole's really clean. Just tongue it a few times, and if you taste anything funny, why you just forget about licking my brownie."

"Um-hmmmmm."

Slurp. Slurp.

"More! Oh God, Rebecca! More! See what it does to my prick! See my prick!"

"Um – mmmmmm."

"Please suck my asshole! Oh God! Please!"

"Hm – mmmmmmm!"

"You cheap slut! I paid you good money for a sucking! Now suck my asshole or I'll tell your pa about what you do for a living!"

Silence.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

"Ah, that's better, Rebecca. Ooooohhh, right there, baby! Ummmmmm! Stick it in there real far, baby! Come on, the old asshole's clean as a whistler, remember?"

Slurp! Slurp! Slurp!

"Yahoooo! Oh Jesus! My cock's so fucking hard! Do you see it! Do you see what's coming out of it!"

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Slurp! Slurp! Slurp!

Writhe. Writhe. Writhe.

"Goddamn! I can't hold it back! It's going to be coming out! Oh Jesus! Here it comes! Loooookkkkk oooouuuutttt!"

Fffffaaaaarrrrrtttt!

Hiram wrote the scene like he heard it.

What he didn't like about the scene was that he didn't need an ass-tonguing scene right now. There wasn't a place for an ass-tonguing scene in The Secretary's Brown Pubes.

Goddamn shit! Nothing was going right. Now, he'd have to worry about his fuck-book publisher jumping all over his ass because he had introduced an ass-tonguing scene where there should have been a sixty-nine scene.

How fucked up could life be?

It was a perplexing question for Hiram. And it frustrated him that there were no viable answers. Unless… unless… of course! That's it!

He had brains… didn't he? He had skill… didn't he? He could write… couldn't he?

Yes! Yes! Yes! – those were very viable answers to all three questions.

Hiram was confident now that with a few changes of anatomical parts he could change the ass-sucking scene to one where Ferris Collier became a butch lesbian and his daughter Rebecca was Tuesday Salary. And the scene would take place just before Tuesday met nun Nancy who was getting whipped and lashed in chapter twelve of The Secretary's Brown Pubes.

Naturally, everything fit perfectly – what genius.

Now, Hiram was ready to write.

He leaned forward gingerly, placed the stethoscope against the plaster wall. Bent over and placed his fingers on the keyboard. Listened very carefully, then began self-dictation as he heard the first sounds coming from room nine.

The first sound he heard was a long, drawn-out fart.

The fart shinned Hiram. It had stunned him because it had sounded as if somebody were squatting on a microphone and was cutting the old cheddar.

The roar was deafening in his ears. Then his sense cleared abruptly. And when his senses cleared abruptly, he was stymied by another puzzling situation – how to spell, that God-awful sound so that his fuck-book readers would know that one of the lesbian fuck-book characters had cut a fart.

He typed: Poooooooooooot.

Looked at it for several seconds, decided against poooooooooooot because it didn't have a farty ring to it.

He typed: Gaaaaaassssss!

Looked at it for several seconds, then decided that gaaaaaaaaaassssssssss would never sound like fffffffffaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrtttttttt.

Hiram was getting pissed. He cursed. Very softly this time. But he was rip-roaring mad inside, though outwardly he looked like a normal everyday fuck-book writer sitting yoga-fashion on a four-wheeled sled with a sonar device attached to his sweatband.

"Goddamnit!" he cursed quietly. There just wasn't any way to describe, using words, of course, a person slicing the old swiss.

Hiram tried phonetics, put his lips on his sweaty, hairy arm, as it he were going to cannibalize his own flesh, then blew as hard as he could. Fffffaaaarrrrtttt!

Jesus! That's how a fart sounded! So why was it so difficult to spell out.

He mouth-farted on his arm again.

Faaaaaarrrrrrtttttt!

That one was even better.

Fffffffaaaaaarrrrrrtttttt.

Christ, Hiram was really getting the hang of it now. All it took was plenty of practice and he could imitate an asshole pretty good. He practiced some more.

Fffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.

"Did you say something, Rebecca?"

"Hm-umm."

"Jesus, I thought I heard a… er, you know, somebody gassing. Are you sure it wasn't you?"

Fffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.

"See! See! I told you I heard somebody farting. Somebody's farting in the next room!"

"Um-hmmmm."

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

"Goddamn, Rebecca, I'm fifty-five years of age. You can't expect an old man like me to get it up again. So don't even try – besides, I can't get it up when I hear somebody fading in the next room." Ffffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

"Please… tee-hee, tee-hee. Don't do that! Stop, Rebecca! My cock's just too ticklish right now! Please! Oh God! Tee-hee… tee-hee."

"Hm-ummmm."

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

Fffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.

The lesbian was known as Butch Collier. She ate assholes like dessert. She was eating the asshole nearest her lips now like a piece of cake that's given to a Korean orphan.

But the person who owned the asshole was none other than Tuesday Salary. Nobody before her had ever touched a tongue to her whooooppeeee hole. Not even her own self. It was a frightening experience full of apprehensive moments of time where every second filled the minutes with distasteful fear.

Tuesday tried to halt the proceedings of the tongue in her asshole because a familiar ache was happening down there where her thighs joined her upper torso – somewhere near her behind and inside her. It was not completely unfamiliar to her because she had the feeling many times in her life as a secretary when she had sat beneath her desk and had prayed to the Lord Almighty that nobody with good ears could hear what she was about to do with her asshole.

Gas came out of her butt.

And it created a sound like this: Fffffaaaaarrrrrttttt.

The other butch girl did not mind in the least, for she had done that inexcusable thing many times herself even though the smell could have rotted off the flesh of a bull in heat. She was too extremely excited to care about it as her tongue wagged away the gas once or twice before entrancing back into the portal where the stinky gas had exited so abruptly.

"Excuse me," moaned the brown-pubed secretary with a little grin on her lips that the other girl could not possibly have known existed because of the position she was in.

Then they climaxed very quickly against each other. Spending out their juices in torrents that fall like that picture of the little girl walking with an umbrella as salt poured on her scalp which was on a Morton's salt jar.

"Your honey-hole does a tongue wonders," mumbled the shorter of the two homosexuals. "Does mine taste the same as yours does to me?"