J Long - Motel peeper

Hiram Shingles watched Wednesday Mallory getting ass-fucked for the fourth night in a row. He liked to watch Wednesday get ass-fucked; because ass-fucking was considered so perverted in the town of Tweedy, just as it was considered blase in Des Moines, and passable in Tucumcari and recreation in Sun City.

Yessireee, watching Wednesday Mallory getting ass-fucked was something special.

For one thing, Wednesday Mallory, like her asshole, was very sexy. She was one of the sexiest chicks in Tweedy. Everyone knew she reeked of sex because almost everyone in Tweedy had a nose and it was so easy to know when Wednesday had just passed them by on the streets or when she had been loitering on the corner of Baptist Avenue and Lutheran Boulevard because of the perfume she wore, if perfume can be worn, that is.

Nevertheless, the perfume she wore was something called Loins. Which came in a prick-shaped decanter bottle and had a spray attachment on the end. So that with one pinch of the testicle-like bulb, Wednesday could dab Loins behind her ears, on the pulsing parts of her neck, around the nipples, in the navel, on the clit, behind the knees and between the toes – just about any place that pulsated with passion on a woman's body, which usually was everywhere except the pupils.

But perfume was not the only device that Wednesday used to lure men into thinking she was an easy and cheap fuck.

For one thing she dressed differently than most secretaries in Tweedy.

She liked green, as in money, and her favorite dress was some green jobbie that clung to her tits and navel and loins like sticky cellophane.

The dress was short – at both ends.

The neckline ended at her navel. And the hem ended just a micrometer below her cunt-hair. The dress was not intended for church socials or for Halloween, or for nuns who wore drip-dry, lightweight summer habits. No, the dress was intended only for hot-cunt girls like Wednesday. In that sense, she was no different than the girls who work behind the counters at Longs, or the Avon lady, or the typical, average American housewife.

Of course, Wednesday filled out the dress a lot better than most women. Because her tits were a hefty size forty. And her waist was a nifty twenty. And her hips, if measured from the top of the asscrack all the way around and back to the top of the asscrack, were a sensuous thirty-six.

Thus, there was a lot of hot flesh to be packed into her favorite green dress. And not any old woman could have been packed into it as well as Wednesday Mallory. Like Sophia Loren might have fit into the bust part, but her ass would probably have split the dress up the crotch – which would then make the dress no different than some of those crotch-revealing costumes Sophia wore in those fucked-up grade-B movies starring Alan Ladd and Don Ameche.

Yeah, Wednesday Mallory was a sexy chick. And, shit, that was only the body so far. Her face was something else entirely.

From top to bottom, or, in the case of faces, from scalp to chin, Wednesday had a very sensuous face. Of course, her face was helped considerably by a homosexual, former interior decorator named Max Factor who, before he became a leading cosmetics manufacturer, was a walnut crusher for M amp; M.

Wednesday's eyes were like dewdrops. Her cheeks were bowls of cherries. Her nose could smell things. Her mouth had teeth. And her chin dimpled whenever she smiled at men's crotches.

Not a very good description of a sensuous face, but in this case, it's a lot better than a description like: Her eyes were like Eddie Cantor's when he was jacking off over a photo of Mae West. Or: Her lips were made for cocksucking first, eating second, and conversation third.

In any case, Wednesday Mallory was a beautiful woman who liked to have her asshole fucked every once in a while.

Tonight was one of those once in a whiles. Wednesday had gotten a case of hot asshole while she was at work. She had been sitting behind her receptionist desk with her legs parted and her dress was up to her hips and she was taking a good look at her asshole.

Wednesday did not have to bend over to see her asshole. She didn't have to bend over in a shitting position because she had her compact mirror in her hand and it was down between her legs.

The mirror had given her a startling insight into herself. Of her true needs and ambitions in life.

At first, she had not thought that it could help at all. She had been so pessimistic on other occasions when she would spy on her asshole. But now she was sure of it. Now, there could be no denying the evidence that crushed walnut oil was better than Preparation H and K-Y and Vaseline for getting rid of an asshole's aches and pains.

Wednesday wanted to jump up and scream to the world: "Look at my asshole! Look at it! No more hemorrhoids! God! Aren't I lucky!"

But there had been no one else in the office to share her shale's enthusiasm.

But later on, someone else shared her enthusiasm. Someone named Emory Willets, whose wife Elsie was going through the change of life and had become extremely overbearing and bitchy. Especially when they fucked. Like Elsie wanted to do weird things.

Weird things like wanting Big Jess to fuck her until eternity passed. Of course, Big Jess wouldn't have minded, but since he had a brain about as big as an orange, and he ate oats for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and he neighed instead of talked, it was only natural to assume that a stud horse like Big Jess wouldn't have minded fucking Elsie Willets.

But Emory had minded.

He had minded so much that he had gotten pissed. So pissed that he had gone out to the fucking barn with a shotgun, intending to shoot Big Jess between the eyes before the animal had a chance to call him a cuckold.

Emory's aim was off. He got him between the balls. Probably because when he had raised the shotgun to his shoulder, it had gotten snagged on his hearing aid. Consequently Emory now had a gelding instead of a stud horse.

So that was why Emory Willets was so fucking sad when Wednesday Mallory sidled up to him in the Yahoo Bar and Grill.

Yeah, Emory had looked pretty fucking sad for about ten minutes. But it was pretty fucking hard to remain sad when he had an erection that threatened to make a shithole of a mess in his best pair of coveralls, the ones that didn't have cow turd pasted to his left knee patch.

For Wednesday, Emory was pretty easy pickings. Shit, any man would have been pretty easy pickings for her. She got straight to the point – she grabbed his cock and said in a warbly voice: "My asshole's okay now. So, come on, baby, let's fuck!"

At first, Emory nearly lost his dentures, then he lost his fucking mind. No one had ever came up to him – at beast not while he was having a Blatz and thinking sadly about how he had made a neuter of his favorite draft animal – and said: "My asshole's okay."

Emory gulped his drink, didn't know what to make of Wednesday's asshole statement. But what he made of the situation so far was real fearful. He looked into the mirror over the bar, tried to see if that perfumy woman was serious.

God! Was she serious or was she serious?

Shit, does Santa drive a sleigh?

Emory swallowed nervously. Turned up his hearing aid. "Huh? Did you say somethin' 'bout yer… uh, yer…"

"Look, cock-face," Wednesday said, putting emphasis on the word cock-face by squeezing tightly on Emory's prick. "I said my asshole's clean as a whistle, and I need a fucking there. Let's get the fuck out of hen."

Emory looked in every direction except Wednesday's face. God, weren't people in the Yahoo Bar and Grill looking at them?

No, they were too busy playing checkers and pinochle or the juice box to care about a hot-used bitch like Wednesday Mallory making a play for an old fart like Emory.