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?
Fuck no!
Shit, Emory was just like any other seventy-nine-year-old man hadn't fucked a piece of ass in God knows how long.
But where the fuck was that whooopppeee?
Emory thrust again, and his cock-head rubbed against something wet and squishy.
"No! Not there! Not in here!"
Emory drooled. Wednesday was like a tiger in his lap. Jesus! She was acting like site didn't want no cock in her whooopppeee at all.
"You fucking cock! That's my – oh no! That's my – please! Don't put it in there! Not there!"
Emory was trying to read Wednesday's lips. Probably because his fucking hearing aid was bouncing against the bar stool. But he did manage to catch some of the words she said. Words like cock. And fucking. Because those words were so easy to pronounce.
So, Emory deduced that Wednesday wanted to get her ass fucked by his cock. And his cock also deduced the same thing. Because whatever he was entering was really warm and really meaty and really quite tight.
"Don't! You fucking old fart! Don't! Not there, please! I can't fuck you there! I'm on the fucking rag! You motherfucker – Goddamn! You're killing me! My Tampax! Oh stilt! You broody motherfucker!"
Emory was drooling as bad as a rabid dog now. His cock had gotten a real good toe-hold in what he thought was her asshole. Shit, he just knew it had to be her asshole because the fucking thing was so excruciatingly tight and uncomfortable.
Emory gasped. He had never fucked anything as tight as this. And he could tell that Wednesday really wanted it because her asshole was as hot and as wet – well, shit, to put it plainly, her asshole was as hot as her cunt.
People in the Yahoo Bar were really freaked out.
Some were down right disgusted with the idea of an old fart trying to make it with a young chick like Wednesday. And they left. Well, not really they – but she left. She being Ms. Bea Javier, a French woman who taught English at Tweedy Junior High.
But the other assholes stayed. Because they liked to watch people fucking and sucking – which made them no different than the neighborhood rapist, or pimp pastor, or the homosexual butcher.
Sure, it had been a shock at first. But people like to get shocked. People like Caryl Chessman are always giving people the shock of a lifetime. That's why people go around rat-fucking other people – because the rat-fuckees appreciate being rat-fucked as much as the rat-fuckers enjoy doing the rat-fucking, which is why fraternity boys go to football games and expose their cocks – so that pantyless cheerleaders will pretend to be shocked by the way their dates behave.
And everybody knows that those same cheerleaders are shocking the shit out of the boys because they're doing their yahoo cheers in either crotchless underwear or going pantyless.
So, the girls rat-fuck slyly, the boys rat-fuck grossly – what the fuck difference does it make?
Thus the attitude that most of the people at the Yahoo Bar and when they watched Emory Willets trying to butt-fuck Wednesday Mallory at the bar – what the fuck difference does it make?
Of course, the one who really gave a shit was Wednesday.
But she didn't count because she was just another dumb-ass broad who had teased one cock too many. Another typical attitude that sluts don't have any right to have.
So, everybody was having fun.
And the person having the most fun was Emory Willets. Old cock-face was having a fucking ball. Of course, he was thinking that his prick was belly-deep in Wednesday's asshole. And, of course, he was thinking about how lucky he was that he was the only one sitting at the bar tonight.
"You asshole! Oh! My cunt! My bloody cunt!"
Wednesday was helpless now. There was nothing she could do – except enjoy getting fuck by a two-inch Tampax and a foot-long cock.
Thus, she enjoyed her discomfiture – people in the bar could tell that she was liking it because her arms were wrapped around Emory's sweaty neck and her thighs were like tentacles around Emory's ass.
She was digging it for sure.
"You motherfucker! Oooooohhhhh! That hurts so good! Harder! Oh baby – Emory! Shove it in! Give me your prick! Jesus! You're in my fucking womb!"
Emory tried to read her lips – but it was hard because so much ecstasy was pouring into his cock. So much ecstasy was surrounding his prick. And he taught he was coming already because his fucking crotch was a wet as a swamp.
Slush! Slush! Slush!
Everybody in the Yahoo Bar was getting hard-ons. Except for the girls, of course, but even they were getting little hard-ons. Like in their tits and in their clits.
Rrrrrriiiiippppppp!
Emory couldn't believe his eyes!
Wednesday's tits were now out in the open, decently exposed. And her nipples, too, showed how hard-ons can be passed from person to person, can be contagious like syphilis or hoof-and-mouth.
Emory grunted, then he couldn't grunt any more because his mouth was full of hot tit. He had never had so much hot tit in his mouth before. Oh, not that Elsie had a bad set of tits – it's just that hers were so saggy and wrinkly and they were very cold on winter nights because she was sixty-eight and her tits had varicosed so much that it looked like a breast surgeon had transplanted her thighs to her chest.
But what Emory was gobbling now sure didn't have varicose veins. No siiiirrrreeee. This was prime meat, the best of the breast, chicken of the Gods, hamburger delight.
Emory munched, and hunched, and bunched his ass muscles as well as he could so he could fuck deep and hard in Wednesday's whoooopppeee hole.
"Ooooooohhhhh! Jesus! Give me cock! I need it! Oh shit! My womb! You're in my womb! Oh, it hurts so gooooood! More! More! More! Suck my tits! Eat 'em, Emory!"
Emory ate 'em all right. Shit, her fucking nipple was down to his throat and his gums were gnawing on the fatty part of the big fat tits.
Then Emory felt a slow, creepy-crawly feeling in his asshole. The kind of feeling people get when they sit on electric erasers. Because there was a buzzing sensation, and the buzzing sensation was invading his white-haired balls.
Emory was coming!
Oh, Lordy! Lordy! Lordy!
The sensation felt so beautiful. His cock-head was starting to buzz now – twitching like an electric eraser.
And, since most cunts are as sensitive as a woman's emotions, Wednesday couldn't help but feel his cock twitch and squirm deep in her pussy.
Thus, a chain reaction was started. Climax after climax rippled through Wednesday's pussy.
And Emory could feel those climaxes all around his cock. And, since cocks are insensitive to whatever they're fucking, be it doughnuts or dogs, the only thing his prick could do was toot jism, spew cum, release semen.
"I'm shooooootttttiiiiinnnnngggg! My skidddddooooooo's shooooottttttinnnnngggg!"
"Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! I can feel it! Jesus Christ! You're in my womb! Hurt me so gooooood! Hurts so gooooood! Goooooood, so hurt! Hurt good so!"
Emory's asshole caved in as his balls contracted and his cock spewed forth what seemed like gallons of cum which, in reality, was only three quarts of hot jizz.
Wednesday loved hot jizz. Just like any other girl. But she especially liked it now because the Tampax was in her womb sopping up whatever juices poured out and Emory's cock, which was up to her uterus shooting hot wads of semen deep into the soaked Tampax.
Than Emory's cock wilted, and he sighed, then nearly died when Wednesday grabbed his ears hard.
"You motherfucking hot-fucker! You just shot into my cunt!"
"Huh?"
"You mother fucking hog-fucker! You just shot into my cunt!"
Emory was very embarrassed – embarrassed because he couldn't tell the difference between a cunt and an asshole, though anatomically speaking, there really isn't much of a difference.
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.