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.
"More."
"My balls," groaned the septuagenarian who was almost too old to count, "are making a mess of you down there. Does it hurt as much as I think it hurts when a man has his prick in a woman's heinie? Or does it feel good, like when you have been drinking all day and you finally get to brush your teeth?"
The woman's face puzzled. He was so erotic. Never had she heard words like what he had said being used before. She nodded with her head to express the thankfulness that she felt in her rectal passage which was filled to what seemed like up to her neck with a big wiener.
Smiling, her lips curling, first one, then the other, the man knew his words had gotten the best of her and she was ready to do more than anything he could have wanted, even if he were to ask her to eat his human droppings off a butter dish.
Again, a woman had been conquered and made very desirable by a cock that had a mind of its own power.
Jizzum was what appeared on the end of his wiener, even though his eyes, heavy with lust dust, were closed and he could not make out what was truly happening to the end of his vanquishing prick.
Her asshole felt it though.
And, the woman knew that what she was experiencing was the happiest degradation so far in her life.
Her asshole gave up.
And the man knew that he was the best fucker by far because of the way she told him with urging-type words that excited his toes.
"Oh. You are, by far, the best."
The words seemed to ricochet off the floors of the room, and her mind was absorbed with a climax that filled her cam with the sounds that her voice made, as well as what was coming out of her asshole in torrents and in big syllables.
The man's jizzum was white and heavy. But it felt good.
The woman's asshole remained pretty as if it were meant to be that way even if she were to die and be left on a coroner's table for three years because of an assistant forgetting about the beautiful brown-pubed secretary's dead corpse.
Then the man said: "I'm overcome by come!"
And the woman smiled at that because she knew then that the man who was in her rear end, near her droppings, was very witty for coming up with such a hilarious wit.
Then the man said: "The end's near."
And like a cloud of busy bees that hovers over the nest after working so hard to gather honey from flowers, euphonium settled over the woman's brows and she again acknowledged with a nodding grin about how lucky she was to have her new asshole abused by such a kind old cock.
Finally, his cock, without thinking, burst like radiant firecrackers and cherry bombs. And his hairy-laden balls, without any mental reservation, deep within his legs, fired salvo after sputtery salvo of what might be called by men as man-juice deep into the woman's ass-twat.
Pleasure made the woman's lips peel back like tadpoles.
He did smile, too. For knowing that he was the best of the asshole-men made him feel like a God that women would worship and crave askance for whenever they were near Him.
Hiram gasped. He couldn't believe that he had written four pages of erotic prose in a matter of minutes. Or was it seconds? Who knew? Who cared?
Hiram look down at his Mattel, noticed that the letter F was bent and the letter U was out of alignment, and the letter C was not clearly legible, and the letter K looked more like an L instead of the last letter of the word fuck.
"Aw fuck!" Hiram said in an annoyed whisper.
It would mean another day at the toy store getting his fucking machine repaired.
And another day lost would mean that he would miss out on Tuesday's fuck scene that took place in room two of the Sleepwell Motel – the scene where Prudence Meeker jacked off on her Tupperware rolling pin.
Shit! Piss! Cock! Fuck! Ass-twat!
Boy! Was Hiram pissed. He was pissed because one of the fucking wheels had come off his little wagon that he used to scoot up and down the narrow, cloistered hallway.
Double shit! Double piss! Double ass-twat! Grumbling to himself, Hiram grabbed the tongue of the wagon and started back to the receptionist desk at the front, office.
Clackety-clack. Clackety-clack. Clackety-clack.