J Long - Motel peeper

Wednesday scooted off Emory's lap.

Emory nearly slipped off the bar stool. He was exhausted. Every bone in his body, including the one that had been pulverized by Wednesday's cunt, felt just like rubber.

Emory scrabbled around on the floor, found his dentures first, his hearing aid second. Now he felt whole again – able to speak and able to listen.

He did not like what he was hearing.

"All right, fuck-face," Wednesday said scornfully. "You got one hour to get it back up. 'Cause we're going down to the Sleepwell Motel and you're going to ream the shit out of my ass."

Emory wanted to say no, wanted to wag his head.

But Wednesday had a good grip on his ear – the one minus heating aid – and was puffing him out the door of the Yahoo Bar.

Hiram Shingles had a unique way of taking notes far his fixture fuck-books.

Whereas, most writers jot down notes using pencil and paper, Hiram had a miniature typewriter and rolls of paper.

The miniature typewriter had all the letters of the alphabet and a couple of extras – frivolous things like periods and commas. The typewriter was made by Mattel and could be purchased at most big toy stores like Safeway for $10.95; then, when the kids would pound the shit out of the cheapo typewriters using a hammer in order to learn the alphabet, their mothers (who were usually on welfare) would turn them over to Baptist churches who would in turn fix them up for their white elephant sales.

Hiram had bought his little Mattel jobbie from a white elephant sale at Reverend Manly's Baptist church.

He had also purchased some unusual paper to type his fuck-book stories on. Most people would call it butcher paper. Other people simply thought that the long roll of paper was toilet paper that only giants like Paul Bunyan and. Goliath could have used. But, since Hiram was no giant, being that he was a mere six-foot, eight-inch average sized man with a twelve-inch cock, he used the butcher paper for typing paper.

With much practice and experience, Hiram had learned to saw through the butcher paper roll so that it was divided into twelve, twelve-inch rolls – just perfect far his purposes.

And, since the twelve-inch rolls of ex-butcher paper could be hung like toilet paper or window shades, it was very easy to feed it into his Mattel typewriter and never have to stop to change sheets of typing paper.

Hiram, in many ways, was ingenious.

And it was his ingenuity that led him to create other space-saving and time-saving devices when he wrote fuck-books.

One was the little railroad track that ran the length of the Sleepwell Motel. Of course, no one knew about the railroad track, nor did they know about the little sled with little rubber sheds that rode up the track.

The reason why no one knew about the intricate system of transportation was because Hiram had rigged up a long tunnel that was secreted behind the false paneling of every room in the Sleepwell Motel.

Thus, like the legless man who begs, borrows and steals in the streets of Tijuana, or like Steve McQueen heading down the tunnel in The Great Escape, Hiram scooted hither and thither, up and down the long narrow enclosure.

And, since every room had a replica of Whistler's Mother located above the bed and, since no one knew that those eyes an Whistler's Mother were not hers and, since everyone was too busy fucking and sucking to hear the muffled rat-a-tat-tat of a Mattel typewriter and, since Hiram Shingles was a fucked-up asshole who fucked his daughter whenever he could and who had fucked his dead wife using an eight-foot two-by-four for a dildo – well, the Sleepwell Motel was no different than your fanciest Holiday Inn or Sheraton Motel.

Now, Hiram was peering into room seven watching Emory get ready to put his cock into Wednesday's hungry ass.

Quickly Hiram rolled in the start of the butcher-paper roll and started rat-a-tat-tatting, composing the ass-fucking scene of The Secretary's Brown Pubes.

The older man of the two persons, both of human extraction, gasped with admiration and beholden breath as he watched her asshole move of its own accord.

Tuesday, too, she gasped admiringly. For using eyes that had long ago become accustomed to the lampshade, she could barely make out the shadow of the other person's cock as it went on the wall because of the harsh light behind it.

It was a big cock.

The older man approached with his ordinary cock between his legs. Breathily, he mentioned: "I am going to put it in your derriere."

"Thank you," whispered the secretary with the brown pubes that gleamed ever so haughtily in the lampshade.

"You will not be hurt when I do it?" voiced the man who was alder than the other person.

The other person, who was the girl, was surprised at such tenderness that the older person had mentioned in such a casual mode of voice. She swallowed as if there was lots of spit in her mouth and she had to swipe at it with her tongue before she could make worn for words: "Only if you think it will not hurt me very much."

Her asshole, which was half in the light and half in the darkness because the window shades were laying extravagantly on the windowsill, looked pretty. The hole of the butt was shaped like something round. And it drew the older one's attention like a magnet that is dragged over the dirt when someone's collecting rusty pennies at the beach during sunny daylight.

Her asshole did not smell wretched at all.

"Oh hurry," wailed the hysterical woman with the pretty asshole in her butt.

"Haste will make waste," wisdomed the older man gleefully, curling his lips adroitly in a smile that bespoke of mirth.

She toothed smilingly at his ordinary pun. "Ha. Fine."

He, too, caught the plague of her laughter and threw it back at her face in a voice made raucous by the fact that her asshole was so very near, and he suspected that she was really of an urge to want to be taken right there where the shit comes out of.

Walking on two knees toward her pretty asshole, he bent his hands into a grip shape and surrounded his cock to aim it darkly at the bursting asshole kneeling before him.

The brown-pubed girl was taken asunder by his adroit manipulation of gripping his cock and moving it through the lips of her asshole before he dared to sneak it in slyly and make it fit length-wise into the bottom of her rectum.

"Aaaaahihiiwwwwwww. It hurts so good," whispered the woman's voice as she used her asshole's muscles to make her rosette into the shape of a doughnut that had been left too long in the sun.

"I am deeper than I ever went in," the older man said, using words of great excitation.

Then through and under went the long stem of his flowery-headed penile.

Her asshole cringed prettily, and like a hand that had been made into a plastic glove, pressure was applied that became indescribable to the lanky expression on the man's face with the cock.

"Oh hurry. I need to have more and more of your sensuous penile in my bowels. Oh. It does hurt, but not so much that I'll scream. Aaaaaaanuneeeeee."

That was said by the woman whose asshole, pretty though it may seem, was being treated as brutally as when the slave masters would shove shovels into the nigger slaves black assholes and make them pick cotton under duress.

The man's balls, which lay beneath and hanging like ripe figs with follicles around them, spanked into the woman's outstretched pussy whose hole had looked roundish and ripe to fuck and could be consumed at any whim that the man had.

The brown-haired vixen, down there, looked askance while she screamed, in a voice so heavy with words that she sounded like a drunk Dictaphone: "Oh."

Hurrying, the man tried to slow down his urges. Especially the ones that came near his balls as they fucked her split crotch right in the middle.