Here they are. The 15 occupants who each want the last room in your motel. Look them over. Top to bottom. Then place the vote, or hand the key, to the one you think deserving of that corner spot with the window overlooking Highway 5. Poll's open until Friday. Please tell your friends, your neighbors, the pretty lady next to you on the metro, the cute guy who just sent you a drink...to stop by and vote.
Entry #1: Dark with Want
I wish I’d fucked him. There was just that hotel room, just that one night, the fragments of which are all I have left. His white shirt, the dim walls, the curtains that hung gauzy over the window and paled as the sun came up. The way his hair stuck up, the way he kissed me.
The jittery night where we surged and receded, kissing and collapsing. Nothing since then has been as tender. No one has touched me so lightly.
I wish I’d have felt him come inside me - taken away a piece of his ecstasy, his sperm, something sweet and pungent and most of all human, something that smelt of shit or tears and that proved he was dying, just like the rest of us. I wish he’d had a chance to fail, to leave me furious, agitated, disappointed. I wish he’d given me a rash, the clap, some nasty memento – something that might have burned my fingers and warned me off.
If he had, I might not have this locked room in my heart, aching with possibility, empty with hope, dark with want.
And I might not retreat to that room, over and over, with the framed tulip pictures and the view of the brick wall. I might not be caught there still, curled up with him, not sleeping, with the last few shadows fading around where we lie in a mess of sheets, my heart racing, praying and wishing and hoping, willing the sun not to rise.
Entry #2: Roadside Blues
I dug my hand in deeply; fingers searching for a condom in my handbag. I finally gave up and turned it upside down; letting the contents spill out across the faded, red brocade bedspread. The roadside motel postcards I’d collected over the years scattered this way and that. They were puzzle pieces of my vagabond life. I grazed my fingers across the postcards, remembering each motel vividly:
Saguaro Motel: He was a bow-legged trucker with a stocky build. He had thick, short fingers just like his cock. He tasted like cheap whiskey and he smelled of dirt roads, greasy food and despair. He fucked me hard. He was like a caged animal and when came he yelped quick and fierce like wild dog.
Sunrise Motel: Blueberry pancakes and hot coffee at the motel’s diner. He was passing through for business. I was having breakfast for dinner. He wanted desert. He had light skin and soft, fragile hair that puddled on his chest. His cock was long, slender and he fucked me from behind. He pulled my hair and slapped my ass – I cried out as my orgasm ripped through me.
The screeching sound of the shower dial pulled me back. My eyes spotted the red and gold foil rapper of the lost condom. I brushed everything back into my handbag and then stretched my naked body out across the bed - breathing, waiting, and hoping that he’d be my next one-way ticket to somewhere other than here.
Entry #3: Somewhere Only We Know
You felt cheap, you said. You felt bad that I would have to spend money to be with you. That's why you gave me no encouragement when I asked for a sign for me to turn around and drive to the nearest sleazy motel.
I understand. I can respect that.
I know that we’ll go to your place, lie on your bed, slip a DVD into your computer, then not bother watching it. We'll be together tonight.
The walls are paper thin. We want to be discreet. We could wait for another time, when the roommate’s not home. But there are the neighbours. It's never really private. But motels…motels mean no one cares.
Motels mean when you kiss me, nipping at my lips, I can moan out my passion. I can hear the echo of your thighs slapping off mine, the crack of your palm dealing out punishment to my trembling cheeks. I’ll be able to shriek, scream as your tongue laps at my wetness. When your fingers slowly penetrate me, I won’t have to bite down on a pillow.
I can tear down the walls when I feel the tension of you between my thighs.
And when you fuck me, I can pant and wail. When you fuck my ass again, I can let you know exactly how good it feels. I can hear you call me yours when you come inside me. When I come, I can sigh your name, melting into you.
I don't want us to have to hold back.
Let's go...somewhere only we know.
Entry #4: STORY REMOVED AT AUTHOR'S REQUEST
Entry #5: Cats and Dogs
The rain, the rain, it fell so hard. We drove the car through a puddle that turned out to be a lake. Deep. We waded out of the stalled vehicle and looked at each other through the downpour. Hot rain plastered my hair to my face, my shirt to my breasts. I could feel him staring, running his eyes over my hardened nipples. His arm muscles shone with water.
Suddenly, bridging the gap between us and kissing him seemed far more important that the fact that I hardly knew him. We’d picked each other up fifty miles back, and I already knew his middle name and that he liked his candy red hot ;)
A thousand tapping fingers, in my hair, down my back. Warm rain on my face as he bent me back over the hood, face in my breasts, hand up my skirt. His fingers explored me, I was wet on the inside, wet on the out. He pushed up my skirt so I could feel the rain running into me, his fingers sucking in and out. I scrabbled at his buckle, freed him and let the rain wash his cock, watched it run in rivulets from his navel, sliding down that sweet line of hair.
The water, our nakedness, the flooded road – I was washed clean. He washed me too, licking the water that pelted us along with my wetness, tonguing my clit ‘til I screamed, hands clenched in his wet hair. Water ran down the valley of his spine, muscles rigid as he pushed his cock into my hot tightness. And our cries were drowned in the deluge.
We walked, a couple miles, soaked and sated. But we did it all again in the hot motel shower, then tangled in clean sheets and finally slept, strangers, angels. Cleansed.
Entry #6: Take the Money and Run
Greg turns blue, pink, then blue again.
“Come on, baby. All I want’s a cheeseburger.”
He kisses collar bone, tit, nipple. All the while his sneaky fingers wedge between my legs rub the seam of my pussy. “Soon. They’re still looking for us, Tess. We’re big news. Just a few more days.”
My stomach rumbles and I’m torn between my hunger and how good it feels. That thing he’s doing between my legs. My eyes shoot to the blue duffel in the corner. “Just one? One little-ass cheeseburger?” But even as I whine, I let my legs fall open. Let his probing digits slide into my wet, slick heat.
“Soon.” He kisses my belly button. A cop siren sounds and we both still. It fades off and he sighs. His tongue, his lips, latching onto my clit. I arch up. Spread for him.
“I’m wasting away, Gregory.” Even my poutiness has a breathless fuck-me quality.
“I know. I’ll use these as leverage when I fuck you.” He grins, his face awash in neon pink from the shitty motel sign. His big palms settle over my jutting hipbones.
“So...no cheeseburger?”
“When we’re not so hot, I’ll buy you a fucking burger joint.”
His cock slips home and I lose my will. Legs around him, I fuck him back. When I come my stomach growls.
“One more day of Saltines.”
“Then a burger?”
“Anything you want.”
“Another orgasm.”
“Coming right up.” He delivers. In spades.
It’s no burger, but it’ll do.
Entry #7: Wireless-less
They promised me wireless, and all I got was a breakfast of something that they call "bagels" that I call "ring-shaped rolls." Bagels are boiled, dammit. And I need my wireless. And now it’s fuckin’ snowing.
“I can let you use the computer in the office,” the night clerk says when I ask for the umpteenth time today if they’ve figured out how to make the wireless work.
I roll her offer around in my head. You see, I need my wireless because I need to look at radiant women masturbating. What, you thought I needed it for work? Fuck you—I’m on vacation.
The sites are bookmarked on my laptop, but, don’t worry, I can find them again. And I’m thinking that the night clerk would have to leave me alone in the office, so she could stay at the counter. Oh, but wait—there’s a “please ring for service” setup. Fuck, so she’s thinking she’ll stay in the office and do the goddam filing while I access my e-mail and check the sports or whatever she thinks I’m going to be doing instead of looking at all that raw, orgasmic beauty.
She blinks, and it draws my attention. There’s a tiger in her eyes. Damn, so maybe she’s *hoping* I’m going to surf porn. Maybe she’ll lean over my shoulder and say, “No ... go to *this* site,” and she’ll show me what she likes. What she wants.
She’s smiling, hungry for my answer. It’s snowing really hard.
Entry #8: The Perfect Pick-Me-Up
I wanted to drive straight through, but after fourteen hours I needed to rest. I was disappointed. It was only eight-thirty when I pulled into the parking lot of the slightly run-down motel, but my tired eyes refused to focus properly any longer.
"How long do you want?", the motel clerk asked gruffly when I approached.
"Just one night.", I replied.
"A whole night?", he muttered, producing a large orange keyring even before I answered affirmatively. My road-weary mind didn't grasp the significance of his question.
Shortly thereafter, I laid down in my room and began fading into slumber. Then I heard it, a man moaning loudly in the next room. Between moans, I could sometimes hear slurping. Oh Great! I thought, I'm in a suck-and-fuck. And sure enough, when the sounds of sucking subsided the sounds of fucking began. The man's moans became grunts and his companion took up the moaning. The woman's voice was an intoxicating blend of satisfaction and longing. Soon, my annoyance faded and my cock stiffened. As I listened, my own desire increased with the rising intensity next door. When she screamed in climax my own arousal had swelled to where I was no longer content to just listen. I needed to feel and taste, to see and smell, but mostly I wanted to moan.
As I locked my door behind me, I was happy for the early hour and the packed club I had passed a short distance away.
Entry #9: Rubber on Paper
Manny Cruz is sweating. His hand is India ink on the white marble counter. A damp pool of it. I look up at him, sternly, through black-framed cat-eyes.
There is a rustle of yellow chiffon against calf as I reach for my stamp. I press wet rubber to paper and mark the due date. My recommendation. I know what he’ll ask next.
“English lessons?” His accent is molasses and honey.
I nod, then whisper, “Tomorrow. Sweet Coconut.”
It’s tacky and so outrageous that it’s discreet -- the Sweet Coconut. All burnt-orange bed spreads and Pine-Sol twang, a couple of haggard old palm trees in front.
We shower. Manny feels me up slowly, eyes closed, trembling. I press the small yellow soap between his cheeks, across his chest, under his balls. He is taught and smooth and hard. I tell him no. Not yet.
I open a hamper, hand him a crustless egg salad sandwich, mix a couple of rum & cokes. The boy can’t learn on an empty stomach.
“Now,” I say, climbing onto the bed in a black babydoll and Cinderella Lucite pumps. “Read.” He cracks the spine. Dirty words leap from the pages. A month from now he’ll understand them -- after I untangle his tongue and smooth out his diction.
He reads slowly, his twisted words like tantra music. I moan corrections, touch myself to show him. His heavy, dark cock swells against his belly. I take it, spread my lips, lower myself onto him, and the words come tumbling out.
Entry #10: Thru-Hike
I sat there, flipping through my book, and listening to her moan. After we had gotten back from the hike, she claimed the only thing she wanted to do was take a shower. She had noticed upon check in, that this cheap motel still furnished a shower massager. That was 20 minutes ago.
At first, just a few stray sounds escaped the steamy bathroom. The walls were thin and I could tell she was trying to be quiet at first. But, that was 10 minutes ago. Now, reading was impossible as the sounds of her pleasure were echoing off the tile. She wasn’t holding back anymore. I could hear the water pounding, doing little to mask her moans and squeals.
I couldn’t sit still, so I opened the door. A little at first, but then I pushed it further. If she noticed, she didn’t let on. I could still see most of her through the clear glass. Her back was to me, but the snaking neck of the massager told me exactly where all that glorious water pressure was going. Her head was thrown back and I watched as she brought a hand up to tweak her own nipple. My cock was straining against my pants but I just stood there.
Then, I heard it. The sound. My favorite sound in the whole world. She shook against the waves of her orgasm and soon the massager hit the porcelain. It was then she noticed the cool air from the open door and turned to me.
“Feel better?”
“Much.”
Entry #11: Converging
A luxury hotel, room service, masseuse, the best of everything. It’s the logical choice.
***
The ubiquitous Travelodges that dotted the West were more suited to my budget back in college. A pop machine and a Denny’s nearby.
Halfway between Cal State Fullerton to home in Great Falls the image of “Sleepy Bear” drew me from my interstate haze to a clean, basic room. The journey was too long for one sitting.
“Hi, I’m Tina.” She looked like a Tina, auburn hair, bright blue eyes, moon glow skin. We converged on opposite journeys.
“Our cars look cute together.”
I looked at her ratty MG sidled to my meticulous ’67 Chevy. “Cute.” We stood side by side at the rail overlooking the parking lot. Her bra grazed my arm. My heart throbbed and I swallowed hard.
We talked into the night. Touches punctuated our words.
Strip poker without the cards. Blouse for Shirt, Jeans for skirt. She took me inside her. I rocked until the curtains glowed to remind me I had another nine hours to drive. I lingered anyway, until her soft face contorted and her pussy grabbed me hard. The first orgasm I’d felt from a woman.
Beautiful.
***
“Where are we going?” She sweeps her gray tinted auburn locks.
She spots the old motel locked in time and leans toward me. The Braille of her bra presses my arm. My heart throbs.
Our thirty-fifth anniversary.
Tina tilts her head. “Sleepy Bear never looked so good.”
Entry #12: Ring Bell for Service
"Dammit, I wanted to fuck you in that tent," you complain, grabbing me with one hand while the other rings the bell. You're dripping rainwater all over me, but it doesn't matter. We're both drenched.
"Well, now you get to fuck me in a sleazy motel," I say. You grope my ass through my pajamas, soaked from our dash from the campsite to the car, then shove me toward the check-in counter, pinning me against it. Your hands continue their assault. You know that being manhandled like this makes me hot.
"Quit it!" I hiss, anticipating company, but you keep going. You kick at my foot, knocking me off balance, and I widen my stance to compensate. You take the opportunity to slip a hand between my legs and I stifle a gasp. You twist one nipple through wet fabric until I groan, "Stop."
But my back's arching and you know I'm close. You spin me around and wrap your lips around the other nipple, then push pajamas aside and slide a finger into me, my moans suddenly loud in the empty room as I start to come. You thrust again, again, propelling me higher - another finger, deeper, faster - until my cries turn into a wail. You urge me on, making me come harder...
Then there's a movement in my peripheral vision and I realize the room wasn't empty at all. I look and there's the clerk, watching, rapt. And that makes me come the hardest of all.
Entry #13: Maid to Order
The pungent smell of sex always hung in the air. Sometimes it curled up soft and sweet. Other times it hit me hard and fast just like I imagined the lovers who occupied the rooms must’ve devoured each other.
You’d think I was immune after all the hotels I’ve worked in, and all the rooms I’ve cleaned. Just go about my business vacuuming and leaving fresh linens, but not me. Knowing what I’d find on the other side of those locked doors only stirred the desire. Strangers' dirty little secrets left behind like a forbidden gift.
Room 204 of the Sahara Motel just outside of town was where I finally gave in to the overwhelming urges that had embraced me from day one. The male occupant winked at me in passing when he arrived with this female guest.
Opening their room, I couldn’t deny the ache between my legs any more than I could my fascination with their tangled sheets and the power of raw sex.
Ignoring my duties, I sat in the oversized chair under the window, undid my pants and slid my hand inside my panties. With the man’s face firmly planted in my mind, I leaned back and closed my eyes. The wet heat soaked my fingers as I slid one, then two inside. I imagined the different ways he’d fucked her. It didn’t take long for my much needed release.
I ran into them again around the corner and I gave him a wink this time.
Entry #14: Novelty
A key. The desk clerk-manager-owner of the little motel handed me the key to the room I’d just signed for and everything changed. A real brass key hanging from a key ring with Soft Peaks Motel rm 7 pressed into the cheap plastic tag. This was not a hotel: sanitized and electronic with indistinguishable magnetized keycards for entry. The brightly lit Ramada’s, glossy and civilized, were brushed from my mind like leaves in a windstorm. I could feel my skin flushed pink and warmth gathering between my legs as I considered the possibilities. This was no longer just a stop-over on the way home for Thanksgiving break- Josh sitting in his Grand Prix outside was no longer just the guy with a car in Algebra 202, going my way.
“There are no two-bed rooms,” I said brightly, and tossed him the room key with a grin as he opened the trunk. I watched the light in his eyes change as he looked at the shiny brass key. I watched the shape of his fly change as he read my expression.
I felt the sound of the key sliding into the lock- like running my studded vibrator slowly over my clit.
“So,” he said after dropping our bags in a corner by the door, “how would you like to be fucked?”
“Hard, fast, and again, “I replied, stripping off my top as I sat on the bed.
The deadbolt slid home with a satisfying chunk.
Entry #15: Hole in the Wall
Sunday night, it was late, we were both tired of driving. The fog had been dense along the highway. Now we hit town looking for someplace to get off the road to rest … or not. Tom had tried to sound harsh telling me to stop as I’d let my hand stray over the gear shift to his thigh, but I could tell he liked it. Up ahead there was a hazy glow.
MOTEL. We pulled in, rented a $19 room.
We opened the door and could hardly believe our eyes. What had happened here? Crooked lampshade, obvious stains on the rug, torn upholstered chair and there in the wall over the bed was a hole in the drywall, six inches in diameter. Tom and I looked at each other, laughed and he said, “well, as long as we’re being classy we might as well do it right.” He fell back on the bed, folded his arms under his head and said “show me what cha got.” Then he giggled. Yeah, he giggled and I stripped.
With the television tuned loudly to the local cable access channel – some help us pray for our school administrators wacko group – we fucked like our souls depended on it. As we were flipping over so that he was on top, one of the bed legs collapsed and Tom’s head smacked into the wall and left another hole. Yeah, wonder what happened here.
Are you breathing as hard as I am?
Have you made your decision?
Why not read them one more time just to be sure?
XXX,
Alison
1 comments:
Holy, let's check into a motel tonight...hot. These all so good, At. Can I vote more than once?
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