J Long - Motel peeper

"Aaaaiiiieeee! Siiinnnnn!"

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Then it was all over. Except the part where Hiram pulls his cock out of Rebecca's mouth and wipes his jizz-drenched cock on her blindfold; but such descriptions are usually considered superfluous anyway.

Then it was all finished. Except for the part where Rebecca becomes so hot to fuck now because of her first taste of siiiiinnnnnn; but why go on when there are plenty of other chapters about Rebecca getting fucking.

Then there was no more to be heard or seen. Except for the part where semen still dripped from Rebecca's smiling, fast-moving, cocksucking mouth. And except for the part when Hiram fads because eating pussy always gave him gas. But such descriptions are pretty fucking inane and pretty fucking distasteful.

Now, for sure, it was all over… except for the part where Hiram gets dressed and goes back to working on the flophouse that he was building for all the wetbacks he used for hired hands.

The Sleepwell Motel was originally a shanty, a single row of clapboard bungalows that housed approximately eighty-five Mexicans and their insignificant families.

Lots of fucking went on in that migrant workers' camp. Probably because they were Catholics. Also because they were being paid seventy-five cents an hour to hoe the weeds from the rutabaga patch, and they could not afford the luxuries of such birth-control devices as jack-off kits, or rubbers made out of Tupperware.

Being peasants, they practiced a crude form of birth control. Oral sex. But, since man cannot breed by mouth alone; the Mexies were forced to indulge in regular fucking – sometimes it was even with their own spouse.

The women, because they did not practice birth control, got pregnant lots of times. But, because they had skillful hands, they made neat little designs with coat hangers and many of them soon became unpregnant.

First as a migrant-workers' camp, then a whorehouse, than a motel for fellow Tweedyans to fuck and suck in because they didn't like to fuck and suck in the back seats of cars and they didn't believe in civilized things like wife-swapping or orgies.

But Hiram Shingles, the owner of the Sleepwell Motel, also used the premises for a different purpose.

The Sleepwell provided him with nightly entertainment.

It also gave him a source of income in two ways. One source for making bucks was charging ten dollars an hour for nooners. That was a very economical daytime rate for people who liked to eat cocks and cunts for lunch instead of Big Macs.

The evening rate, though, was a little steep. For a one-night stand and clean sheets, the going rate was twelve dollars and twenty-two cents. The twenty-two cents being the tip for the maid/gardener/owner – one Hiram Shingles.

For a two-night stay, Hiram supplied his fuck-weary travelers with a bed along with the sheets, two downy pillows minus those tags that say: Do Not Remove, and a bathroom.

Thus, those were the normal rates far people who fucked and sucked on the sly. For people who did not want other people to know that they were fucking and sucking their wife or sister or mother; even though their own wife, or own sister or own mother was usually two doors down from them getting it on with their best friend, or man's best friend, or if they were dateless, with a dildo or rubber doll – they were also very cheap rates.

That was one source of income for Hiram Shingles.

The other source of income also had to do with the above-mentioned source of income.

Hiram used the Sleepwell Motel as background material for books that he wrote. A certain type of book.

Because Hiram was a writer. A special type of writer.

Oh, his work wasn't going to win any Pulitzer Prize, unless they planned to give Pulitzer Prizes to authors who wrote stories about cocks and cunts and tits and cuts instead of about cowboys and Indians or homosexual detectives.

Hiram was, to put it simply, a fuck-book writer.

He wrote about everyday people whose only interest in life was getting fucked or sucked. Just like the people who stayed in the Sleepwell Motel. Just like the people who read fuck books.

Hiram knew the reason why he wrote fuck books. And it wasn't for the money – even though fuck-book publishers were paying damn fine rates these days to writers of Hiram's skill and talent.

Hiram wrote fuck books because he knew his work was good, because he knew that he could express things about people and situations as on one else could. In that sense, he was very egotistical. Which made him very dangerous because egotism and assholeism are not conducive to having a nice personality.

Hiram was now working on his fourteenth fuck book – this one he had tentatively titled: The Secretary's Brown Pubes. And he was on chapter three of the book; or, in other words, he was about three quarters of the way done because Hiram wrote long chapters. He liked to see lots of words in the first three chapters to get the readers' interest stimulated. Chapters four through twelve would have less words because Hiram knew that he would have to end the book sometime.

The theme of The Secretary's Brown Pubes was intriguing. It was the story of a girl named Tuesday Salary who worked as a secretary for the VFW, and who made lots of money moonlighting as a whore who specialized in asshole-fucking.

And, speaking of asshole-fucking, that's exactly what Hiram was watching now. Watching with intent eyes, watching with the eyes of a very observant fuck-book writer.

Of course, his eyes were not so obvious as to be seen.

Because they were bidden behind a painting – a cheap copy of Whistler's Mother.

And the painting was located in an ideal location in room seven of the Sleepwell Motel. It was directly over the bed. Where all the action was taking place.

Naturally, the real action had taken place a long time ago – like about two hours ago when Wednesday Mallory had picked up Emory Willets in the Yahoo Bar.

She had finally managed to coax him to fuck her whoooopppeee hole with his hum dinger. And Wednesday had been shocked when the old geezer had pulled her out of his bar chair and tried to asshole-fuck her while she sat on his lap.

That really shocked the people in the Yahoo Bar.

Because it was not an ordinary, everyday thing that happens in most bars. In some ways it looked very perverted – to see an old fart like Emory Willets yank out his twelve-inch, average-sized prick in public view and try and ram it into Wednesday's asshole without taking off her miniskirt.

Wednesday had screamed bloody murder. "You fucking asshole! Not here! No! Not here!"

But Emory was too full of Blatz and his cock was too full of blood and his mind was too full of cornholing the first piece of whoopee in twenty-two years that there was no way to stop him now.

Wednesday couldn't believe Emory's strength. For an old hog-farmer, he still had plenty of muscle, and naturally, plenty of cock. Wednesday writhed, couldn't believe that Emory would dare fuck her ass in public.

But as she writhed, her miniskirt crawled past her hips. And since she only wore Loins on her crotch, she was very defenseless against Emory's big prick that was jabbing here, there and everywhere, trying to find that elusive whooopppeeee hole.

Then it happened.

Right there in the Yahoo Bar.

"Aaaaiiiiiieeeeee! You mother fucking hog-fucker! Not in here!"

Emory struggled, his hips were jabbing up, his cock was straining at the bit, his hearing aid had fallen off and his dentures had already bitten somebody's feet because they were on the floor instead of in the roof of his mouth.

But did Emory give a shit?

Fuck no!

Would you worry about your hearing aid and smelly old dentures when a hot piece of whoooopppeee was wriggling right in front of you?